(no subject)

[watchmakers_son]

Sylar hasn't eaten anything, ordered by himself or not, since walking into Milliways a few days ago and finding it teeming with animals that didn't (tICk) quite sound like (ttticK) animals.

Sometimes, however, precaution only goes so far. Especially if it's precaution in the wrong direction.

During one particular long and barren stretch of highway in rural Ohio, Mohinder, with the passion of a true professor, spent fifteen minutes describing in a rapid-fire cadence how the cockroach was the pinnacle of the evolutionary ladder. Strangely enough, Sylar isn't deriving much comfort from that at the moment.

What he's doing instead is perching on a chair back, motionless save the wary twitching of his antennae, as he struggles to interpret his new senses.


[ooc: eep! I love you all, but please no more new threads. *drowns*]

Comments

[sanguimmuno.livejournal.com]

The chase is on then!

"Hello, small thing. It is a terrible thing that you were not made a dung beetle, perhaps we could have made acquaintances."

He'll only toy with the creature for now. He positions himself close by, at an opposite table.

[watchmakers_son]

Sylar keeps running.

What it comes down to: the cockroach evolved to be fast and hardy; to survive at any cost, not to conquer and fight.

It's following your imperative.

There's an inarticulate snarl in cockroach language, and no more, as Sylar dives for the table and starts scampering up its leg.

[sanguimmuno.livejournal.com]

"Tiny thing." Salazar won't eat it. He likes it too much now. "Come here. I want to talk to you. I promise I shan't eat you."

He even stays down on the ground! "Come to the edge, so you can see where I am."

[watchmakers_son]

Sylar doesn't answer until he's reached the tabletop. Mercifully, it's empty, and he does not become the target of any thrown shoes or utensils.

Then, in a 'voice' that is very flat: "I don't need eyes, to see you."

It doesn't hurt, certainly. But compound vision is disorienting; vibrations are far cleaner.

In a way, it's like listening to the resonant beats of a working human being.

[sanguimmuno.livejournal.com]

"Neither do I, much." The tongue does some of the work. "Might I know your name, now that I realise you aren't just a pathetic disease-ridden rodent treat?"

[watchmakers_son]

It's unmistakable, even in this body: Sylar flares his wings, and the sound he makes, while inaudible under normal circumstances, comes out as a long and angry hiss when Bar translates.

It blends almost seamlessly into his name, when he finally gives it: "Sylar."