Talking to Kirk had been weirdly therapeutic, kind of like squeezing a stress relief ball even though you couldn't really get at its contents. Aside from clearing up the whole "Zachary" thing (which Sylar wasn't yet sure had been worth the risk), he hadn't been able to get anything out of Kirk – or at least, anything meaty about Spock. In fact, the kid on the bus had been a lot more forthcoming, but even if Sylar was able to track him down again, a lower-ranked soldier probably wouldn't know much more than the kid had already revealed. It looked like Sylar would just have to keep trying to get something out of the subject of his interest itself.
Which was... a drag. A real damn drag that Sylar didn't want to deal with, the way his head kept throbbing and his hands kept trembling as he trudged out of the courtyard. He still couldn't shake the echoes of that weird feeling from last night, of feeling disoriented, unstable, wrong. The more mundane pain that the bastard had left with all his cutting was acting up too, and Sylar realized as he entered the dim Sun Room that a movie hall's darkness would be a hell of a lot better for his eyes than sunlight, even with all that old-time scratchy audio. Reminded him of Dale Smithers all over again.
Not really caring about the movie itself, Sylar moved into one of the back rows, gingerly rubbing the front of his head as he made his way down the aisle. Not too far in was some blonde girl, but that was about it for this row. Hopefully she wasn't too chatt–
The movie's current scene changed to something bright, and the projection screen's glow suddenly illuminated the girl's face. Sylar froze.
Of all the days.
Sylar realized he'd unconsciously taken a step backwards. His breath had gone silent, his blood icy cold. A second passed, and then something else shot up to overtake his senses, a kind of blind, irrational rage. What the hell was he doing, trying to run from Claire Bennet? What the hell was even going through his head? Last night? Last night meant nothing. Nothing. That video feed, her voice–
Almost breathlessly, carelessly, he hissed: "Out at the movies without an escort, Claire? I'm shocked."
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Which was... a drag. A real damn drag that Sylar didn't want to deal with, the way his head kept throbbing and his hands kept trembling as he trudged out of the courtyard. He still couldn't shake the echoes of that weird feeling from last night, of feeling disoriented, unstable, wrong. The more mundane pain that the bastard had left with all his cutting was acting up too, and Sylar realized as he entered the dim Sun Room that a movie hall's darkness would be a hell of a lot better for his eyes than sunlight, even with all that old-time scratchy audio. Reminded him of Dale Smithers all over again.
Not really caring about the movie itself, Sylar moved into one of the back rows, gingerly rubbing the front of his head as he made his way down the aisle. Not too far in was some blonde girl, but that was about it for this row. Hopefully she wasn't too chatt–
The movie's current scene changed to something bright, and the projection screen's glow suddenly illuminated the girl's face. Sylar froze.
Of all the days.
Sylar realized he'd unconsciously taken a step backwards. His breath had gone silent, his blood icy cold. A second passed, and then something else shot up to overtake his senses, a kind of blind, irrational rage. What the hell was he doing, trying to run from Claire Bennet? What the hell was even going through his head? Last night? Last night meant nothing. Nothing. That video feed, her voice–
Almost breathlessly, carelessly, he hissed: "Out at the movies without an escort, Claire? I'm shocked."