action!

[makes_you_tick]

This is a general action post for Gabriel Sylar. Feel free to set up any reasonable scenario- probably the best is to meet him at his shop, Sylar Timepiece Restoration and Repair. He's there Monday through Friday, 9am to 5pm. If you'd like to set up anything unusual, feel free to PM me.

Comments

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[justdoingmyjob.livejournal.com]

To say nothing is going right would not be true, but to say things are going 'right' feels like a lie as well. Peter has felt this way for too long about most of the happenings in his life for quite some time, and it is only poetic irony that the window of his life opened when he became somebody--or so he thought. It has not been so very long since first threatening to make a splatter of bone and blood on the pavement below a New York skyscraper, not so long since his brother told him he loved him and flew away to God only knew what, not so long since everything he knew disappeared and came tearing back with the grace of a homicide. It has not been so long since the loss of his abilities and the return of a father he never really knew...not so long since the brother who told him he loved him betrayed every single one of them, donned the suit, tie, and smile with a secret the shape and temperature of a gun inside a man's mouth. No, it has not been so long.

And yet it has been forever.

Sometimes Peter thinks it must be the most tiring nightmare he's ever endured, but then he remembers he isn't sleeping--can't sleep--and he remembers then that as ugly as this reality has become it is still his--still theirs. Claire. Matt Parkman. Hiro Nakamura. Mohinder.

Mom.

This is not just one person's problem, but it has the same feeling of a crime scene where the blood is on everyone--even the prosecutors--and no one is certain anymore where it came from originally.

It is with this lack of knowing he approaches the timepiece shop, recently reopened--though he wasn't here for the original opening--not that he cares. A while ago Claire came to him, fearful of a dream--something he is all too familiar with being. In one way or another, dreams are just less cohesive versions of the things we already know, and that is what is most frightening about them. It really could happen.

The question remaining, however obvious, is how?

Bringing a hand tentatively to the side of his face, pausing outside the door, he swallows a sigh.

He was wearing your face.

How, indeed.

He isn't sure what he expects to know, expects to learn and it makes him a little nauseous to confront this man who has scarred his niece beyond a certain degree of repair, who has killed so many for extension of his own power...and who, most terrifying of all, most unsettling, became a good man in one version of a future now gone. It is in Peter's nature to want to believe the best of even the worst, but it makes him feel a traitor of sorts to wonder if this Sylar--this Gabriel Gray-- could not also become that sort of man. Should he even be given the chance? And whose place is it to decide that? Is it anyone's? Probably not.

One more deep breath and he holds it, telling himself he came here for something, not nothing, and nothing is what he will leave with if he does not actually go in. So he does just that--goes in, door swinging too silently shut behind him.

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

Gabriel Sylar is looking very un-Sylar-like in his polished grey suit, so many lenses attached to his glasses that one wonders how he might see at all through them. He staring intently at a watch, pointing a finger towards it. Telekinesis is a lot more accurate, a lot smoother than even his steady hands.

There's a bell on the door, and he says, "Welcome to my shop- hold on just a second, and I'll be right with you." As one more gear is snapped into place, he smiles. It's not like any of the smiles Peter has seen in the past, the ones tainted with the joy of destruction. It's just a happy smile.

He looks up then, and immediately takes his glasses off. He blinks, surprised, then stands. He wasn't expecting this. "Peter," he says, nearly at a loss for words. "Hello again. What-" His brow knits, and a little caution appears on his face. "What can I do for you?"

[e]vil angel bury the coat of arms

[justdoingmyjob.livejournal.com]

Odd how that voice stirs so many things, so many immediate reactions, impulses from one person, odd and yet completely expected, and Peter keeps his face a careful form of neutrality--or he tries. The truth is his eyes will almost always give him away, but he might be fortunate in that there are so many feelings involved that the look gets convoluted, the way weather masses together to make it rain and the sun shine and wind stir and stillness ache all at the same time.

Above all other things, it is the smile that throws him off the most, the worst and he swallows something empty and sharp down the length of his throat before replying.

"I need to talk to you," obviously, he almost rolls his own eyes at himself, and hurries on, "Do you have," he stops short of 'time' and says instead, "...are you available right now?" It is perhaps unexpected to offer such courtesy and yet it is not so much courtesy as strategy, diplomacy. In this place the rules are not the same, and neither is the game, so they all must make adjustments here and there. This might be neither here nor there, but that's out of their hands, collectively speaking.

And can anyone really help who he or she is? It's a question that will probably plague humans until the day they die out as a whole...supposing that day ever comes. They are a tenacious sort--troublesomely so.

your train of thought will be altered so if you must falter be wise;

[stacked]

Faith takes a bite of her chicken, then shakes her head. For all Angel and Wes have dire predictions about her... being with Gabe, they're disgustingly domestic. He made chicken. And for fuck's sake, Faith is eating her freaking vegetables for him. She's sitting at the goddamn table, eating dinner he cooked for her. Yeah, the guy's no good, all right. Wes and Angel can shove it.

"The kid's sleeping it off some more. Probably gonna go party it up later, even if it's just to keep her ass outta trouble." Faith washes down a bite of something... green, whatever it is, with a huge sip of Coke. "Whatever shit's going down, not like she's gonna spill to me. Best I can do is play along, scare off anyone who tries to pull shit."

Another bite of chicken. "You gonna come with?"

your train of thought will be altered so if you must falter be wise;

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

Sylar's been frowning faintly since near the end of his cooking, when he went to check the Network. Sometime it just ruins your day. He's eating heartily, though- he always cooks for six when it's him and Faith eating. They never seem to have trouble packing it down.

He'd been wondering about Blair, and he nods at the invitation. Partying isn't usually his thing, but he might as well try something new, especially with the latest development. It's probably a good thing he can't get drunk, not really.

"I'll come with you. Don't think I'll be too much of a bad influence?" he asks, smirking at her. Here, with the nerdy glasses and the hoodie, he doesn't figure he looks too scary. He shovels some broccoli in his mouth.

your train of thought will be altered so if you must falter be wise;

[stacked]

Faith noticed the frown, but if Sylar wants to talk he'll talk. She's not very good at pushing in a way that doesn't seem confrontational; it's easier to invite him out, provide distractions. And she's eating, shoveling down half of the massive quantities Gabe never has to be reminded to make.

"Good deal. She's got a wicked tailspin going. Second pair of eyes could help." She grins, a little wickedly. "And I'm gonna make you dance."

The subtext that dancing equals having sex with clothes on in this situation should be painfully obvious.

She waves off his last remark, taking in his clothes and laughing. "Oh, hell yeah. Next thing you know, she'll be talking in the library. Real badass vibe you got going here."

Not that Faith's much tougher looking, herself; baggy sweats and the Sox sweater she bought with her first payout from Brooks. God only fucking knows how the hell that showed up in the City, but Faith's not looking too hard.

say i don't need you but it's always gonna come right back;

[stacked]

Faith is holding her side and grimacing by the time she gets to the apartment, and she leans her forehead against the door for a moment, ignoring the pain from her battered face, hoping the coolness will seep into her bones. After a long moment, she sighs, fishes her keys out of her pocket and opens the door, dropping her bag on the floor with a loud thump and rolling her shoulders, trying unsuccessfully to ease the tension in them.

"Honey, I'm home," she mutters, catching a glimpse of her face in a window as she heads into the kitchen for some more ice. Ten miles of bad road might as well be the sweetest compliment she ever received right now. It takes a lot to make a Slayer look like this, as Sylar knows. It's obvious that Faith went down, and went down hard.

She has to cling a little to the handles of the fridge before she opens it, knees going unsteady, forgoing grabbing the ice for a moment in favor of just standing in front of the blast of cold.

say i don't need you but it's always gonna come right back;

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

Sylar comes in from 'their' bedroom to see the mess that is Faith standing in front of fridge. He rushes forward a few steps. "Faith- oh. Here, sit down, please? I'll get you some ice."

He knows where it came from- he'd been watching Faith's post closely, and he saw her get into it with Illyria. Now he's thinking he should've followed her. She wouldn't have cared for it, but he could've stopped at least some of that.

cut!

[sleepyseer.livejournal.com]

Soon after talking with Gabriel over the Network, Morgana found herself strolling down to his shop. Unemployed as she was, she had nothing better to do with her time. And she had enjoyed talking to him. He was a sweet, charming man, and she was genuinely curious about these "timepieces." She could hardly imagine a device small enough that you could carry it in your pocket. But there were many things in the City that, before coming here, she never would have imagined.

She stepped inside the shop and looked around, her eyes wide with wonder. Entranced, she didn't even think to call out for him or otherwise indicate her presence.

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

Sylar hears her step inside, but he's busy oiling a watch for someone. It's the sort of routine maintenance he doesn't get the chance to do much anymore- most people aren't here long enough to really need such a thing. He finishes, and then looks up.

He's sitting a workbench near the back of the shop. The front is full of display cases, each one holding a wide array of clocks, watches, and even a few fancy-looking bracelets. The more delicate ones tended to have precious and semi-precious stones glittering on them.

Sylar smiles and stands, which is likely going to make him fairly noticeable considering how tall he is. He's taken to wearing a lot of pin-stripes lately, snappy suits in black and grey. He gives the woman a smile as he walks towards the front of the shop. "Welcome. You wouldn't happen to be Morgana, would you?"

from the door comes satan's daughter and it only goes to show

[stacked]

The brick of the alley wall crumbles a little under Faith's fists as she slams Sylar up against them, laughing breathlessly. "Did you see his face?" It's nearly a delighted crow, belying her tight (vicious) grip on his shirt.

Grasping his chin, she turns his head to the side, inspecting the long-- smooth, if covered in drying blood-- line of his throat. "He thought he had you, there." Subtext: you stupid dick, I thought he had you. "Man, the look on his face when midnight hit..." She's nearly vibrating with tension again, but not the anger and angst of earlier, just the keyed up excitement after a good fight.

from the door comes satan's daughter and it only goes to show

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

Sylar is laughing, pleased with himself. "I wanted him to know how little it did, you know. He could kill me a million times over and it wouldn't even break my concentration." That's his way of saying there wasn't anything to worry about.

He's not even thinking about it anymore, just enjoying being the one with the power. It'd been so long since he'd been able to display it, and especially against someone he hated so personally. He hadn't felt this good since he stood on rooftops and practiced Ted's unfortunate ability, the power of the very sun inside his hand. "I really wish I had him longer, my imagination was clearly more vivid than his..."

can't sleep with a man who dims my sight

[stacked]

She shouldn't be doing this. Yeah, she knows he's out, but giving the guy who wants to kick your ass a Christmas present seems fucking stupid. Even for her.

Still, glancing around to make sure nobody's around to see, Faith steps towards thei-- Sylar's door, package in hand. She's had it ready for a month, seems a waste to just trash it. Anyway, they're good knives, no point in not dropping them off.

They're barely even wrapped and there's no card, but even Faith can't delude herself Sylar won't know who they're from. For a moment, her hand drifts down to the key in her pocket before dropping the box and beating a hasty retreat downstairs.

[ ooc: RANDOM DELIVERY ACTION I really should have put this in the cell post but I wanted to do it here. ]

but listen i decided to stop him and erase the record of your face

[adamantined]

It's early enough that Claire has her hair shoved underneath a hat to hide the tangles and wavy lines no brush can straighten out by itself, Mr. Muggles' leash gripped lightly in one hand and the other occupied with her cell phone, scrolling through and deleting old text messages, checking the time, doing anything and everything to help wake her up. There's something to be said for living outside of a legitimate bedtime schedule for once in her life, mainly that her hours are made later in every sense of the word, though that doesn't stop the little fuzzball at Claire's ankles from adopting his own schedule and forcing her to run by it.

All these distractions and her own lack of alertness stack up against her as she waits for the elevator to come back down from one of the upper floors, and so Claire isn't paying attention at all when those doors ding open and a few people clamber off, shuffling out of the way as Claire's dog sniffs at their shoes and pant legs.

but listen i decided to stop him and erase the record of your face

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

Sylar is headed for his shop, wearing a tailored suit (he started with those while he was working for Blair) and generally very well cleaned up. He likes to look decent while he's working and he's long since given up on cardigans and sweater vests.

He notices the dog long before Claire, as it comes to up to sniff at him. He smiles at it, as he honestly does like dogs, although he does remember the last time he saw this breed. That's what makes him stop as he reaches down to pet it, and it's then he sees who's holding the leash.

Sylar's very good at slipping away unnoticed, but it's a busy day and there are too many people surrounding him. He barely manages to keep from getting pushed into Claire entirely. He's long since learned not to say anything to her (neither 'excuse me' or 'sorry' would go over terribly well), but he does give her a vaguely apologetic look before trying to find some means of getting out of her way.

[citadelspirit.livejournal.com]

[A little wooden box shows up on Sylar's doorstep. It's about five-by-five-by-two inches, and it doesn't rattle when shaken. There's no label on it except the words "Gabriel Sylar" on the front.]

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

Sylar doesn't notice the box when he first returns from days out on the mountain. It's only when he returns from the shower with the intention of eating the entire contents of the fridge that he sees the box.

He frowns at it for a moment, then opens it with telekinesis. After the last few days, he's not trusting much of anything.

action!

[reroutedbrain.livejournal.com]

[Have a pair of tiny hands banging on Sylar's door. SHODAN's voice is completely replaced by this high-pitched eight-year-old shout:]

GABRIEEEEEEL!

[Bang bang bang go the fists...and then there's a click, a hiss, and the smell of burning wood.]

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

[Gabriel had been looking at one of his little mechanical creatures from his last curse, when he heard the banging. He's about to go open it when he hears that his.]

Hey, I'm here! No need to break down the door!

[He opens it with telekinesis, because he's not entirely sure he wants to be near that hissing noise.]

[ooc: Apologies for slowness/lameness- I've been at a convention all weekend and am going back for part of today. I love backtagging though, if that's okay!]

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

He'd considered messaging Peter Petrelli first, or calling his phone. Unfortunately, that increased the likelihood that he wouldn't get the chance to talk to him face-to-face, and Sylar practically needed that. Just one last time. He felt he earned it.

He shoved the fortune in his pocket and started following Peter in earnest once he got a couple blocks from the hospital. He'd try to catch him in a quiet spot, but since he wasn't hiding anymore- well, it was entirely possible Peter would notice him before then.

[justdoingmyjob.livejournal.com]

Walking from the hospital after a strange hold-over shift where he had--as often he did--filled in for someone who had left the City so reliably without warning, Peter sighed. The fortune cookies curse had pointedly missed him, which he wasn't sure was good or bad but had decided to believe it was neither. A curse was a curse was a curse, and maybe he should just not give it more thought than that. Lately he knew he had fallen into something of a routine again but he didn't see any problem with that overall. People had to get by. Making an effort at a life here seemed better than the alternative.

This walk home he couldn't shake a weird notion that he was being followed however, which in this City could be chalked up to straight and plain paranoia but somehow he had a feeling he was right. It wasn't everyday Peter Petrelli found himself beleaguered by imagined followers really, so it was easy to conclude that he might actually be onto something.

Pausing near a narrow alley, he sighed. Well. It wasn't the brightest idea he had had in ages but if anyone wanted to talk to him without being in the open, he would give them that chance. With Claire's ability he had virtually lost all fear of physical endangerment, which wasn't the same thing as being downright careless, but as he walked down the thin dead-end, he sighed, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Some part of him had an idea of who it might be but he didn't care to acknowledge that until it was made a truth.

[coffeenspeed.livejournal.com]

From the moment Anthony wakes up he can't find a place for himself. The curse was harmless, and yet it managed to shook him to his core. The day before he and Gabriel agreed to meet again, maybe talk about what happened and exactly how awkward it's going to be.

Anthony just wants to make sure they're still friends. After all, friendships ended for lesser reasons...

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

Sylar spent most of yesterday going through motions and not actually paying attention to what he was doing. He thought a lot about what happened without coming to any real conclusions. Well, he did conclude that someone should firebomb the deity office, but if he did it, it probably wouldn't help anything. That was a fairly unsatisfying conclusion.

So he heads to the warehouse with his hands in his pockets, not entirely sure where to start. He just knows he can't lose Anthony as a friend. He needs it.

He comes in and looks around. "Hello?" he asks, far more cautiously than usual.

now the strangers have caught on, and they're riding in the backseat

[adamantined]

She's not paying attention. It seems a strange thing for her, to be wholly unobservant within her own building, but with Sylar gone from the place long enough for her to adjust to the degree of comfort afforded by absence, Claire has found less of a reason to not look up from the Network on her way into the elevators. Her head down, eyes scanning lines of text and fingers pulling aside audio posts for later listening, she can see more of her shoes than she can of the doors when they slide closed in front of her. What little left on either side of her there is becomes obscured by the fall of her hair, giving her a yellow wash of tunnel vision that pinpoints on something amusing she manages to stumble across on her second scroll.

She's not paying attention, not looking up when the doors slide open again and she automatically shifts closer to the number panel to exert some degree of possessive control over the elevator. She was here first, and she is going to make sure that the buttons continue working properly, even if she is moving out of the way just a bit to ensure whoever it is that is sharing the carriage with her is able to make his or her selection. It's not until she looks up from the screen in her hand that she regrets getting into the elevator at all, every hair, bone, muscle, and vein in her body instantly going still. Except for her eyes, which widen and then narrow, indicative of her reluctance to both stay and run.

now the strangers have caught on, and they're riding in the backseat

[makes-you-tick.livejournal.com]

He'd been understandably paranoid while heading into this building. Unfortunately, he couldn't find anyone available to deliver the timepiece he'd finished- no one he trusted to actually deliver it anyway- and so he had to take it himself. If he hadn't spent most of the night up finishing the piece, he might have taken the stairs, and he considered it anyway. But he ended up taking the elevator.

That wasn't his mistake. He'd been careful then. No, it was afterward, when the package had been delivered, that he'd automatically stepped back into the elevator, rearranging the money and the papers. He hadn't noticed who it was that had stepped on until the door closed, when he finally caught the flash of blond hair.

He thought if he stayed still and quiet, maybe she'd continue not to notice, but that apparently that wasn't the case. He thought about trying to explain, but it would just come off as an excuse. So instead, he just took a step back. They'd be on the first floor soon anyway, and then far apart from each other--

Of course that's when the elevator stops in between floors. Sylar's shoulders slump and he leans his head back against the elevator wall.