WHO: Sylar & Elle. WHAT: Playtime. WHEN: Shortly after their conversation on the boards. WHERE: Elle's room. RATING: I doubt it'll be low. This is Sylar, guys. Not Mickey Mouse.
Elle, Elle, Elle. The name rung in his head like a bell. He had thought about her quite a bit since he had ripped into her skull; she was often the occupant of his dreams while he slept, sick as it was. Smiling, laughing, tinkering with the bolts of electricity that bounced from her fingers. Watching him. Always watching, but never quite speaking.
Now she was no longer a dream. Elle was here. Alive. Lacking in memory, but perhaps, with a little effort, he could find a way to remedy that. At least before he took her out of the picture permanently. Sylar had, after all, rid himself of her presence for a reason. He didn't need Elle back in his life again. He didn't want her anymore.
...right?
Pulling at the collar of his dark coat, Sylar moved toward the room that Elle had directed him to. He knew, well enough, that venturing here could very well be leading him directly into a potential trap. His other self, what seemed to be an older, yet severely misguided version of him, was here someplace. He obviously felt threatened by his presence and Sylar knew, better than what people probably believed, that it would be a terrible, terrible thing indeed if the two did cross paths. Fascinating, surely. But terrible still. Because they were both very powerful. Strong. Special. And if one got in the way of the other, who knew what might happen? He liked to believe that he'd come out on top, as the other him seemed a bit...well. Weak. Kind of pathetic, really. Settling down, paling up with Petrelli. Raising children? When there were so many other things that he could be doing with himself instead?
Shaking his head in a pitying manner, Sylar stepped up to the door ahead and raised a fist to knock. He could have easily broken into the room with a mere wave of his hand, but he decided that formalities were sometimes a little better used in situations like these.
He would be polite. The corner of his mouth tipped upward in amusement at the thought. At least for a little while, he mused, waiting calmly.