Day 50: Cafeteria (Brunch)

[selfrescuer.livejournal.com]

Somehow, after their talk in the chapel, Elaine felt simultaneously more accepting of and more irritated by her future husband. On the one hand, seven years had clearly been good to him. He seemed more sincere and thoughtful than he had been before his disappearance, and he had a more mature (dare she say, handsome?) look to him. On the other hand, there were clearly some things that made even time throw up its hands in vain and say, "To hell with this!" Guybrush was still inexorably prone to disastrous accidents if the story about the Pox of LeChuck was anything to go by, and he was so obviously keeping something important from her that any passing dolt in the Institute would have been able to tell. In the end, that eternal underlying sweetness of his that won out, keeping her from punching him again, at least. That was only by a hairs width, though. Her snugglecakes was going to have to stay on his best behaviour if he knew what was good for him.

She left the Mighty Pirate™ alone for the time being when the announcement of the next shift went off. He would want some time to catch up with Morgan next, presumably. As much as the woman's attitude bothered her, she was a friend of Guybrush's, as she had claimed. Elaine could be strict, but she wasn't the kind of shrewish future wife/past fiancé who would keep her man from seeing his friends. Besides, she needed some more time to catch up on the goings-on of the Institute. Patients filled the building to the brim, now, it seemed; there would be a lot to investigate.

After a few quick trips back and forth to the bulletin and a few new leads to follow up on, the governor gave in to her nurse's persistent nagging and headed to the cafeteria for brunch. After the relatively light fare of the day before, Elaine took advantage of the Institute's admittedly scrumptious offerings and loaded up a full, balanced brunchfast of eggs, sausage links, waffles, and vegetable soup. As expected, the selection of drinks did not offer either root beer or grog. Grog she could live without, at least, she thought while making a face. Eugh. For now, she settled for a tall glass of water.

Elaine settled into a seat in the cafeteria and tucked into her meal. Her eyes didn't stay on her food, though, instead gazing around restlessly; she hadn't seen LeChuck so far this morning, and god forbid he wanted to invite himself to brunch with her if he chose now to show up. A certain horribly unpleasant dinner on Mêlée Island came to mind. She was prepared to either move at the first sign of the dread pirate or signal a random stranger to sit with her before he could.

[For Dean]

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[darwinism]

Sylar didn't really like the way Grell was eyeing him, and that was saying something, considering how much he'd gotten used to the man at this point. It almost seemed like it wasn't just Sylar's good looks that were turning Grell on this time; he seemed to be focusing specifically on Sylar's bandaged head and the bruising on his neck. Sylar knew from experience what that meant.

Sylar raised his hand, rubbing gingerly at his neck to cover up the injuries and hoping that Grell hadn't caught a look at the needlemarks within the bruises. Grell wasn't an idiot; a few clues and he'd figure out that his "ally" wasn't exactly being a straight-shooter about last night, and worse, he might prod that "ally" for more information. Not that Sylar couldn't snake his way out of giving the whole truth, but he didn't really want to give any truth at all.

Speaking of which, there was a kind of edge to Grell's words when he talked about just that thing: truth. Mutual benefit. Fine, Sylar could handle that – or, at least, he could pretend it, but the question was whether or not Grell could. As he started going on about last night's date, Sylar narrowed his eyes and tried to figure out just how much of the crap he was spewing actually made sense. The office thing seemed to fit with what little Sylar had managed to see on the bulletin board, and... home? What the hell?

"Wait," Sylar said, nearly cutting Grell off at the end of his story, too intrigued to show even false courtesy. He'd unconsciously leaned forward in his chair, peering into Grell's downturned face for acknowledgment. "You ended up home? From here?"

Sylar thought about this for a second. It could definitely have all been an illusion, the same kind he'd seen from Michelle, but even if that were the case, there was an even more important piece of info that Grell had unwittingly brought up.

Sylar smirked, leaning back again slightly. "I'm surprised. I would've expected someone so... powerful to make sure they never came back here. Or do your abilities not work that way?"

Tick, tick, tick.

[deadlyjuliet.livejournal.com]

Grell's gaze apparently made Sylar a little uncomfortable, causing the death god to smile a little wider. He was trying to cover up the neck injuries for some reason. Rubbing them like he was merely uncomfortable, but in such a way as to hide them away from sight. Was Sylar being a little liar, too? What had really happened to him? Why wasn't he more beaten up if something had really attacked him? Why wasn't he dead?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Sylar leaning forward and asking him questions. It wasn't unexpected that he would be interested in that tidbit of information. That was why Grell had let it go in the first place. He needn't go into detail about exactly what sort of things he'd brought back with him now that he'd given enough to keep Sylar interested. As long as he thought the trip there was the big catch, he'd never ask about the nagging feeling Grell had in the back of his mind now. Grell could keep that secret until absolutely necessary.

Tipping back in his seat, Grell crossed his legs and made an exaggerated display of shrugging. "It wasn't quite home so why should I stay? No one was there, not a single soul-" Pardon the pun. "-and what fun is going home if no one is there? No fun at all, that's what. Why should I stay in an empty house when I could come here and keep playing with all of you delicious people?"

[darwinism]

Sylar smirked in response to Grell's answer and leaned back in his seat, as if considering. He tilted his head. "I know exactly what you mean. There are so many... possibilities here. All wrapped up in a neat little package, crammed in like sardines..."

His eyes slid slowly along the length of the room at all the warm bodies seated at the tables. How many of them were ripe for the taking, he wondered? How many of them were vulnerable even though they were so powerful? He didn't need Chandra's list in a place like this, and he really didn't need some redhead little bitch to wave off questions with overconfident bluster, but that didn't mean he didn't understand the feeling. If only Sylar could get his powers back – if only. This place was like some kind of dream buffet come to life, with all the meat farm-fresh and so quick to trust that Sylar could already taste them on the tip of his tongue. Handicapped and tortured; desperate. Perfect prey for the perfect predator.

But there was a food chain here, and Sylar had come to the sobering realization that he was no longer at the top of it. Where that put him in relation to Grell was still up in the air, but Sylar knew he'd have to stay on his toes if he didn't want to become the victim of the dangerous glint in the man's eyes. He'd last seen that kind of feral look on Tyki's face – not on the doctor's, he reminded himself. Last night had been... different; it had been for business rather than pleasure and that's why Sylar had ended up the way he had. He should have been able to figure it all out. He should have known better.

He didn't like where his thoughts were going. He focused his attention back on Grell, urging away whatever it was that had grabbed ahold of him last shift. He was the same as yesterday. Nothing had changed; he'd just been given a setback. He was already hurdling right over it, and this conversation with Grell was proving it. Nothing had changed.

Sylar calmly brought the hand at his neck back down to the table. With similar steadiness, his eyes found Grell's and his smile widened.

"If playing is what we're doing, then... what's our next game?"

[deadlyjuliet.livejournal.com]

While Sylar's eyes went around the room, Grell's never left Sylar. What a predator he was. The way he eyed the other people here, it was like a lion surveying the African plains. Everyone here was a possible prey animal and Sylar was aiming to be the alpha male. Aiming, but not quite there. Something in the way Sylar observed the room spoke of wariness and a barely visible longing for something. Grell hoped it was bloodlust, but he wasn't certain. For however long he had been watching humans - those with innocent souls and those so drenched in sin their skin almost reeked of it - he still wasn't completely accurate in reading them. That was what he liked about them, though. Humans were so unpredictable sometimes. They could be such beautiful creatures and then turn around and become worse than the Devil himself.

The people here were proving it, too. Little Brainiac 5, pushed to his utmost limits, had turned on Geoffrey and tried to kill him. Those who would save others at home were now more concerned with saving their own necks and would leave another patient behind to the mercy of the monsters that stalked these halls. The heroes were becoming villains, the villains unintentional heroes, and those who loved chaos were forming a very quiet group in the shadows. How long before Grell had his group? How long before he had a small circle that would entertain him with their bloody antics, allowing him to sit back and soak up their beautiful work? Not soon enough for his tastes, but Grell had learned patience over the ages. He knew that all good things had to be set up slowly, allowed to age in order to gain the perfect blend, the perfect harmony.

"The game is as it always has been, darling," Grell said, leaning both elbows forward on the table to set his chin in his hands with a coy smile. "I can provide you the support you need as long as you give me the entertainment I crave. You pick the victim, I'll ensure it cannot escape." Grell's eyes dropped to Sylar's hands. "You have such lovely hands... I wonder what they looked like covered in blood."