outsiderslogs | intro log

intro log

who. everyone!
what. entering omega.
where. landing pads
when. today
warnings. none for now

You’re not sure how it happened.

A minute ago, you had somewhere to go, someplace to be. Maybe something important to do, or maybe you were just going out to buy groceries. Whatever it was, it doesn’t matter anymore.

You’re in some kind of transport -- a shuttle, given the turbulence and the sounds outside. You’re surrounded by strangers, some of whom might not even be the same species you are. There’s no point in asking. They don’t know how they got here either. The cockpit’s blocked off, like someone forgot to put in a door, and not even a glance at your omni-tool -- a holographic interface accessible by merely tapping the sensor on your left arm -- is any help.

You’ve only got a minute or so before the shuttle starts descending. There aren’t any windows -- this doesn’t look like a shuttle meant for long trips. When it finally touches down, the doors open automatically.

Before you are landing pads, abandoned equipment scattered about. There are other shuttles landing, and whether you like it or not, you’re going to have to get off before yours dumps you out the door. Turn around, and you’re met with a hazy skyline, only half the buildings seem to be coming from above.

Welcome to Omega.

ooc notes
You’re free to expand past the landing area, but please start all threads here. Please remember that your character will not have housing until Aria makes a post granting it; it’ll be on

outsiders and linked here when it goes up.

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[ The cloying closeness of other people was difficult to process at first. It was the first challenge that Sylar had to overcome, after all the last few people he'd come upon he'd killed without hesitation, invading the Company, killing Bob Bishop--he was ready for a fight.

He'd been teleported, there was no doubt, but Hiro was nowhere in sight. Nobody seemed remotely interested in him. These people, who sat and stood as the vehicle swayed and struggled through its descent, weren't responsible for his being here, but without proof Sylar didn't intend to let them go.

The touch down was gentle, comparative to the swaying in flight. Sylar had landed in high wind before, the plane making a sudden swing to the right, wheels skidding across the runway as it touched down; that was the kind of landing he'd been expecting. Being turned out onto the landing pad presented him with another problem, the dispersal of the people he was trying so hard to keep his eyes on. If one of them had brought him here, his chance to discover them slipped away, leaving him only with disappointment and a foreign sky. An alien sky.

This was wrong. He knew that people could travel to the future, but this was wrong, and he wasn't prepared to accept it as real quite yet.

His words were muttered under his breath, thoughtful. ]

We're all mad here.

[A werewolf would have no trouble catching a muttered comment, in most cases. At the moment, amidst the crowd around the landing platforms and airlocks and all those exciting and completely alien things, Lyall only hears it because he's standing not so far from Sylar, looking a little bit green around the gills.

Werewolves, in general, do not fly. Or float. Or leave the ground for long periods of time. It didn't bother Lyall at first, during the flight, since it wasn't really in any kind of atmosphere-- but the landing had been a bit uncomfortable. Now, easing off the transport, or whatever it is, he's glad to be on solid ground. Perhaps it's that, that brings the comment in response to Sylar's:]

It would be a bit silly to kidnap and then cart around this many madmen. Especially for no stated purpose.

[ He spoke, but to be overheard is irritating for just one briefest passing moment. Sylar's eyes flick to one side, tracking over the man who spoke.

Something about him... Perhaps it's only that he looks ill. ]

It's a quotation; Alice in Wonderland.

[ His eyes travel to the dual horizon. It's a difficult thing to get his head around--is he suspended, or is the city? Perhaps both at once. ]

It seemed appropriate.

Alice in... ah, Lewis Carroll, correct? I was unaware he had gained so much notoriety already.

[In Lyall's time, the book had only been out ten years, or so, and Lyall doesn't know it well enough to have recognized the quote. While the bit about madness still isn't particularly relevant, he can certainly make sense of the bit about their surroundings.]

Hmm, perhaps you are right about that, after all. It does seem... appropriate.

[Because he's a polite Victorian gentleman, he finally gets around to tipping his hat and introducing himself.]

Professor Randolph Lyall. How do you do.

[ Already?

Perhaps this was the time traveler he'd been looking for. The one who had taken him from his own place in the universe and teleported him here in the blink of an eye. Sylar narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to pick through what he saw--if there was an ability there, he needed to be certain. He had to be right. Then he could just kill him and take it, go back home without waiting for permission.

Nobody would miss him.

The hat tipping is a little odd, but Sylar's played the part too - it certainly seems like an act, too polite - and he just stands, passively, continuing his overview as his mind whirs through the problem of a false identity. ]

Zane Taylor. And I'm lost a long way from home--how do you think I'm feeling?

[There is an ability there, all right, but not likely one Sylar is bound to recognize. If anything, Lyall has the air about him of great age, cold nights, and distant foggy hills. He's technically undead, if you want to get right down to it. He takes in the examination with a small smile, and admits,]

Probably about as uncomfortable as I am, then. Though apparently less prone to airsickness, so perhaps a bit less.

[Lucky pup. Or mortal, whichever the young man was. He certainly didn't smell like a werewolf.]

I suppose we are both quite lost, regardless.

Ah, 'twould be a most enjoyable thing. Were madmen to simply accept their nature as such.

[The woman who slipped from the shuttle behind him was by far more irritated- both in appearance and tone- than anything at the present. Fear was not an option in the face of the unknown, after all. Such was a weakness not afforded to survivors. While muttered words of a fellow captive were not of intense interest to her, she had to confess the momentary distraction from the overwhelming press of so many was welcome. It was a focal point amid the chaos, if little else.]

Yet I must suffer their machinations still.

[ Irritated, at the very least, was a sentiment that they both shared. Sylar was irritated too. He'd been getting into his stride, a smorgasbord of abilities laid out in front of him, and Sylar fresh from stealing regeneration and feeling invulnerable for his efforts.

Unstoppable. And then he'd been here. Irritated wasn't even a good enough word for it. Furious came closer. Livid, even. ]

In my experience the people who society sees as mad are often the most sane.

[ A man who thinks he can fly. Or perhaps Sylar himself. How often had he been called mad? He offered her the slightest hint of a smile - though still not a smile - and turned his gaze away. ]

You seem to be taking this well.

Would dramatic gnashing of teeth and tearing of cloth solve this? I was not aware.

[Society had little impact on her- simply the sheer act of hubris involved in stealing one such as her away from her own plans was madness by any measure. While he turned away, her gaze turned to him, evaluating the strangely dressed man among a sea of the same.]

Yet I am not the only one to abstain from such frivolities.

Insanity is more subtle than you give it credit. It can be as simple as having the vision to imagine something others would only laugh at, like a man walking on the moon.

[ Sylar doesn't speak much to strangers, but in this situation, in this arena, there's a possibility that speaking to others might just find him a way out of this sooner. She seems collected, which puts her a mark above the rest.

It means she's paying attention, which she again proves as she calls his placidity out. ]

I'm only waiting to see where the dust settles.

[ Sark was, for all intensive purposes, unimpressed. Which was putting it just a little bit lightly, considering where he was coming from and the fact that he wasn't where he had planned on being. Not even remotely. It put a little bit of a kink in his plan and he kept fussing with what he'd still found that he had in his pocket after a moments worth of looking himself over. It was a comfort, no matter how disturbingly crude it was, and while he kept his attentions low and to himself, he still managed to watch.

There were no windows to watch outside of, and so Sark found his attention sliding towards those he shared the small compartment with. What words were being muttered, if any -- who was keeping to themselves and who was looking for comfort from others. People watching was easy when you were quiet and refused to speak out above the fold unless you truly had to. It wasn't as if it took any skill, unless you'd done it for years and then you knew that you could simply rely on your gut instinct as to what you thought people might be and who they truly were. Not that Sark cared one way or another, not at the moment, and not yet. All he cared about was how he'd gotten here and why.

Whether or not it was reality could come later, after he understood all of it. And perhaps after he figured out a way to make the most of it. But for right now, he simply had to get his bearings, stepping out carefully onto the landing pad, as if he was trying to avoid stepping into the deepest portions of a mud puddle.

Four words caught his attention though, had him lifting his head, gaze narrowing for a flash of a moment before he stood a little straighter. ]

I recommend you speak for yourself.

[ There was something incredibly familiar about the man who stepped up beside him, even though Sylar was sure that had he ever heard the voice before he would have recognised it. The face, though... He felt like he'd seen it recently. In a photograph perhaps, still and superior, placid, and when Sark stood up just a little straighter in his offense, Sylar became even more certain of it. He'd seen the face before.

Perhaps a politician or a reporter, someone whose photograph he might pass by in passing. Perhaps in the one of many photographs in Bob Bishop's office. On television, perhaps, though Sylar didn't exactly pay much attention to television; he didn't even own one.

Of all the people on the landing pad, this man, this not-stranger, was talking to him, and he decided not to believe in it as a coincidence, when it was obvious that it was anything but. ]

It just wouldn't have the same ring to it. I'm sure you understand.

[ As a result of the recognition, Sylar studied him, perhaps with more effort than he'd spared on any of the others. If there was something there, he'd see it. ]

I'm sure Carroll appreciates you keeping the authenticity of his work alive and well.

[ If Sark truly cared much about rolling his eyes, maybe he would have, but instead he glances off, as if his every look could be trademarked to mean that whoever he's speaking to just can't quite keep up. There's just no dealing with other people, not really, and the fact that he's out of his element isn't just displeasing, it's practically demeaning.

Slipping his hands insides his pockets, Sark only looks back because he's well aware that he's being stared at. Scrutinized by someone who doesn't even know him and he can't quite figure out why he's being looked at as if this other man wants to peel his skin back and look at his insides.

It's not as if he threatened his mother; there'd be a reason to look at him like that if they were in the middle of a trade off, but they aren't, and all Sark can do is tilt his head to the side slightly, staring up at the other as if he's attempting to do the very same. Or perhaps just because he doesn't know how to look at people any other way. ]

We'll just have to wait and see whether your sentiment holds true.

[ Sylar is much more used to his intense looks being met with fear and uncertainty, but what he gets from Sark isn't that at all. The stare is something of a mirror, dark and calculating, and Sylar cocks his head to one side, deciding whether calculating is a threat or an invitation.

Sark's hands are deep in his pockets, which means he's in no position to shake his hand. A little unfriendly, then again it isn't exactly warm on the landing pad. Like most docks, railway stations, airports, it seems the air is free to move around more than usual, though Sylar doesn't feel the cold quite the way he used to. ]

You're right. I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explanation for all the blue people and the upside down city. Maybe we're just on the same drugs Carroll was taking.

You don't seem that shaken by any of this.

[ Sylar was still juggling aliases in his head. When he decided on one, he'd use it, but it really depended on what would serve him best in this kind of environment. If he was expected to get a job, then perhaps a doctor. Nobody would have any proof to the contrary, and he could make a quite able neurosurgeon.

Nobody had seen deeper - literally - into the human mind than he had. ]

[ Sark is an impatient sort -- the kind of man who can't sit still unless he's got a damn good reason for it. His attention is already drifting sideways, not because the other man isn't entertaining in his own, unusual right, but because he prefers to stay two steps ahead of what he's doing. If he knows where he's going, what he intends to do when he gets there, then he's less likely to fumble his actions and appear lost.

Because he is -- lost. And he's supposed to be shaken, the other man's words dragging his attention back, his gaze jumping first, and then the turn of his head following, giving him all the more time to be assessing and choose his words, as if picking the shiniest apple from the bunch. ]

Being shaken only allows a waste of a perfectly good opportunity.

[ As if this was an opportunity. A terrible one, perhaps, but an opportunity nonetheless, simply because everything could be turned into one. It might take a little work, and of course he was more interested in finding his way home... but until then, the need to work for it set in almost immediately.

That wasn't to say he wasn't shaken. He was more than just a little bit, but Sark had been trained since late childhood to hide emotions that might effect his behavior in any way, might force his thoughts to cloud. He told himself he could be shaken at a time that wasn't quite so pertinent, but that time wasn't now. ]

And until I decide on just how much of an opportunity this might turn out to be, i'll reserve my worries for a different time. Unless you know of a reason I should be more concerned? [ He lifted an eyebrow just enough, curious but sarcastic, as if he already knew what the answer would be. ]

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