All our greatest killers were industrious.

[stolen_pride]

To suggest that Sylar was unhappy in his new circumstances would be a vast understatement. It was self-preservation only that had kept his wits about him, although when he found himself safely beyond the reach of prying eyes, he allowed himself the indulgence of a moment's rage, for fear that like a kettle, he would boil over if not permitted to

Comments

[somethingcruel]

Someone had shown Johnny some sort of "crash room" where you were supposed to sleep, but he wasn't having any of that - he'd slept down on the beach. In all his clothes, or most of them. It was too fucking hot here for a sweater and trousers but he was going to pretend he was in jolly old England as long as he could.

Now he was sitting up smoking a cigarette (he knew he probably needed to ration them, but he really fucking needed one) and gave a sour glance at the man in shorts down on the beach. An American, probably. Brits didn't like to show their pasty legs. "Having a happy little holiday, aren't you? You one of the natives, then?"

[stolen_pride]

"No," Sylar replied, a beat too fast for politeness. Catching himself, he offered a smile, so natural you would never have known it wasn't genuine. "I've only been here a week, so I'd hardly call myself a native. Everyone keeps saying that there's no way back, but I'm still in that first, naive stage, I guess, because I'm still hoping."

It was all just drivel, really, designed to pass as banter, but the truth of it tasted bitter.

[somethingcruel]

"You starting to think there's something they're not telling us?" Johnny said, jabbing his cigarette in the man's direction for emphasis. "They could just get on a fucking boat and leave, right? But no, everyone's settled in all nice and cozy and complacent like they're going to be here forever and then they tell us we can't leave, there's no way, don't even bother. But I don't believe a fucking word of it, do you? Something's rotten here, I can smell it. It's like some sort of fucking cult, isn't it? Everyone all smiling and idyllic. It's a bunch of bloody bollocks, that's what it is."

[stolen_pride]

It was difficult to not grimace, and only by the slimmest of margins did Sylar manage it, as this man was suddenly reminding him of the ranting homeless that skulked around the subway and on street corners, waving dirty, hand-written signs proclaiming the End was Near! and Repent! Of course, the trouble here was that although the man's appearance and presentation of ideas left something to be desired, there was a kernel of truth beneath it that stoked Sylar's already palpable frustration.

"I heard someone tried building a boat, tried leaving that way, but it didn't end well," he replied, slow, like he was rolling the words around in his mouth and tasting them. "But I haven't seen a single boat since I got here."

[agentscarn]

Michael found that he tanned really, really well. This probably had something to do with the fact that he'd gotten in primo tanning practicito while livin' la vida loca with Jan in Ja-mai-ca, mon. Or maybe it was just his natural HEAT. Oh, that Birdcage movie was FANTASTIC. He made a mental note to tell Dwight to locate a copy, whistling some Sister Sledge as he walked along the shore of the beach. The Hawaiian shirt he'd gotten that morning from the clothes box swung merrily from his hand. The sun was hot against his bare shoulders, but Michael didn't mind at all. He was baking and would be lovely, lovely brown sugar by the time high tide rolled in.

[stolen_pride]

The trouble with finding yourself in circumstances such as Sylar is presently in is that talking to people is generally required if you're going to manipulate them, and as a general rule, Sylar could do without talking to most everyone. He's sick of acting the pretty part, sick of smiling, sick of explaining who he is (not), where he's from. As if it makes any difference.

So it was that when he spied the guy bopping his way down the shore, he offered a smile, in spite of wanting to cringe at the tinny, whistled rendition of 'We Are Family.'

[agentscarn]

Ah, ha! Company. Better yet, an audience.

Michael winningly picked up the tempo on Ye Olde Sister Sledge, finishing it off with much bravado and a brilliant wave at the man on the beach.

"Hello there! Having a bit of beach blanket bingo?" he asked, the question puncutated with a guffaw. No blankets or bingo in sight, and boy did this guy look like he might be a stiff!

[stolen_pride]

Wanting to strangle someone this early in the conversation is not a good sign, not even for Sylar, but he affected an amiable sort of smile, and when he laughed, he thought it sounded convincing.

"No blankets here," he replied, neglecting to add that if there had been, he might have just smothered this idiot with it.

[darklydex]

I've been tracking him for some time. Out of boredom, mostly, and a desire to see what sort of person leaves a wake of damaged foliage more suited to a brontosaurus than a human's fragile footsteps. I'm also eager to find out if he's suffering any ailments beyond the obvious jungle fever. Ailments like a heartbeat. Or oxygen flow. You'd be surprised by how much exsanguination can do for both.

I'm not sure what I expect to find, but it isn't a young man in cut-offs. "Hello."

[stolen_pride]

There was something odd about the way this guy had approached, the way that one word sounds, almost as if there was the slightest hint of familiarity beneath, although it was difficult to tell. For his part, Sylar smiles easily in return and gives him a nod in acknowledgment.

"Hello," he answered, and canted his head, allowing the tiniest bit of expectation to creep into his expression. "Nice day today."

[darklydex]

I'm tempted to inquire as to what it is that makes him think so, but I'm startled out of my musings by a chuckle, dark and low, just beneath the threshold of hearing. Curiouser and curiouser.

"It is," I reply, purposefully, stupefyingly dull. I'm only Dexter, after all. Friendly, average, safe. "Catching some sun?"

[likes_to_bite]

Sunny drove up alongside the stomping man in her Big Wheel, Fairy close behind. She did a u-turn and stopped hard in front of him. She gazed up, up, up...

"Hi," she announced loudly.

[stolen_pride]

Sylar had never been allowed a Big Wheel, and when he looked down to the little girl, the first reaction he had was a stab of irrational envy.

"Hi," he answered in return, and if his smile seemed easier and more genuine than normal, it was because it was. She was just a kid, after all. The realization that there was a HUGE FUCKING SNAKE accompanying her corrected him on that assessment, however, and in spite of himself, he took a step back.

[likes_to_bite]

Fairy hovered behind Sunny, calmly watchful. Sunny blinked, her gaze never faltering. "Ogre?" she inquired.