2010-06-28: Some Words Are Best Unspoken


Another eclipse brings with it consequences for the heroes.

"Some Words Are Best Unspoken"

June 28, 2010

Click here for montage music:

There's an eclipse in your eye where I used to shine


Victory leans back in chair and sighs heavily before pulling herself to a standing position. “Why do I always get the fun jobs…?” she murmurs sarcastically as she stops the recording of Tracy’s apartment, readying the equipment for more information.

Biting her bottom lip rather flirtatiously, she reaches for her cellphone as the evening sky begins to dim rather randomly. She shrugs a little and turns on a desk lamp as the sky continues to darken. She dials a number she knows by heart. And comes up short. “DAMMIT, Ivory! Why does it always go to voicemail?!”

Pursing her lips together the phone is clamped shut before she angrily throws it overhand against the wall. Moments later her eyebrows furrow and she sighs before shuffling towards it and reaching down to pick it up.

“All I crave is the sound of that voice…” she whispers before placing the phone on the desk again. “He’ll call back,” she states matter-of-factly to herself. Of course he’ll call back and then she’ll feel at peace, right?

Every secret untold is a planet aligned


Reaching for her camera, Laurel grabs a lense from the case and swaps it out quickly, glancing briefly up at the sky through the window in her apartment, as the sun begins to dim. Most people are told never to look at an eclipse, but most people don't have special cameras modified for taking pictures of one. Opening her window, she steps out onto the fire escape and aims her camera up at the sky, getting it centered and beginning to take shots.

Click click, click click, click click.

The shadow creeps further across, and she keeps clicking, hoping to get the perfect shot. A crash can be heard inside, and she glances away for a moment, to look into the window of her apartment. She can't help but feel a numbness in the back of her head, at the edge of senses, before she shakes it off and goes back to picture taking.

Don't need prophets or preachers to make sense of the signs

When the buried and hidden can be seen by the blind


There's something to be said about dropping a few hundred bucks on a pair of sunglasses - besides the fact that they match her bag perfectly. When the eclipse rolls around, darkening the sky, Domino di Vincenzo is enjoying a nice dinner at one of New York's many fine eateries, this one a faux-French cafe. The food is virtually untouched though, as she's spent the vast majority of her time there on the phone.

"I don't care what it takes. Pay of a judge, bribe the city council, whatever. There's no way we can get the word about this thing out unless it's the biggest sign in Times Square. I don't care how much Apple gripes…" she begins to bitch into the phone, but she's cut off. "You know what, I'll call you back," she spouts, putting her phone down and flipping her shades down off her head onto her eyes. "Wow, these meteorologists really suck," she says to the people around her, while sneaking peeks at the eclipse until it becomes dangerous.

You're right

Some words are best unspoken


A figured cloaked in eclipse darkness, peers up towards Maggie's apartment while hidden in the shadows along the alley in the street. Silently, it stays there until it reaches into its pocket and extracts a cellphone. The phone rings several times before turning to voicemail. With a voice distorted, thanks to technology, the figure speaks, "Hey. It's me. Good news. The pretty blonde? She lives in routine. At work early. At work late. Same route every day; if you wanted to run into her, I could give you the route. You'd be able to find your way…" That said the phone is clamped shut.

So right

Then it all just falls apart-

The day I break your heart

I caught my reflection


It's been months since Jo has really looked at her reflection. Many months. Pulling down on the bottoms of her eyelids she wrinkles her nose at the image staring back at her— dressed in an oversized button up shirt. Playing with the collar she pulls it upwards hiding her face from the rest of the world— that has no one else in it as she's in a bathroom.

She twists around, her back facing the mirror before she clasps her hands together and points her fingers into a gun-like shape. She twists around freakishly fast this time before holding it to the mirror. "You talkin' to me punk?! You talkin' to me?!" she threatens her reflection several times over before snickering and pretending to holster her finger gun. With a kind of cheeky grin, she pulls her hair back into a loose ponytail before glancing out the bathroom window at the darkness that is consuming the world all-too-early. Nothing like an eclipse to mess with a person's feelings of time. With a cluck of her tongue she shrugs a little and replaces the little curtain over the window again before turning back to her reflection, this time to issue it a goofy silly face that she'd given to the kids in the Amazon.

With another snicker, she lowers the collar, pinches her cheeks— making them a healthy rose colour— and finds a soft kind of smile. With a quiet murmur she virtually sings to herself, "Whatever you do, be careful, Katie~" before turning to the door and stepping out.

Maybe a person can find themselves again.

In the corner of your eye

You said don't even ask the question


"Which one of the 'stans' are we in?" Max shouts at Cody over the sharp reports of automatic gunfire. "Uzbek? Tajik? I miss Kyrgyzstan. They didn't shoot at us in Kyrgyzstan."

Grinning, he flexes his metal hand and it begins reforming into a familiar blade. Halfway through the transition, the sun seems to abruptly and completely wink out.

No longer magnetically attached, the misshapen lump of steel falls free from Max's body and plops to the ground. "Uhhhh…" he says, glancing at Cody.

It's almost like a tennis game. When one volley of gunfire comes from the other side, it's answered by the blonde at Max's side. Well, used to be blonde.

When the lump of metal lands at her feet, she looks down, only to watch as large clumps of braided hair fall heavily on top of it. For the first time since her power manifested itself, Cody is ashamed. The rifle is slung over her shoulder and she ducks down behind the stack of crates they'd been using as cover.

"Don't look at me! Don't— Just— don't look at me."

And I won't tell the lie


The day after the eclipse, Lee hops out of bed, sprightly, humming a cheerful tune. He sings in the shower. He makes himself breakfast, smacking his lips when the coffee comes out just right. "Good morning, nerd." he says to Tito brightly as he scampers down the stairs into the Lair. "What's got into you?" smirks Tito in return. Lee walks backwards towards the door, laughing, spreading his arms, his travel mug of coffee outstretched in his long-fingered hand: "Isn't the world just great?" enthuses Lee. "Isn't everything just exactly right?" He ignores Tito's answer, hits the door, spins around, sauntering on out into the warm summer morning.

When there's no accusations

There's no need for denial


Natsumi turns in her chair as she plays with the pendulum on her clear, and otherwise empty, desk. Pressing her lips together she reaches out and pushes the button to summon her latest assistant— one in a long string of ones that haven’t worked out since Roberto had her favourite commit suicide only months ago.

Riku enters the room and issues her boss a small bow before standing straight at attention. “Ms. Takahashi— did you need something?”

“Yes… I need you to do some research for me. I need… to hire an assassin. Someone that can take out those Irish fools and their ranks,” her tone is disinterested, dry, empty, even.

With a small nod, Riku asks, “Will that be everything, miss?”

Sumi nods as the lights go out on the New York skyline outside her window. “And make it as simple as you can. If we can get them all in one foul swoop that would be better. Also, send Vincenzo Salvatore a basket of some kind. With a thank you card.” She pauses and drums her fingers on the table. “And invite him for a meeting in Central Park. Please schedule that. Perhaps we can find a legitimate position for him here while he carries out his less than upstanding role.” She smiles pleasantly.

If you hadn't heard that whisper

There'd be no need to wipe tears from your eye


Sydney sits quietly on the bottom bunk in the small room Roberto has designated for therapists. She can feel the guards on the other side of the wall, just behind the door. Three of them. Important to know, not that she can do much about it. Just good to know. Most of them hopelessly devoted to Roberto. With a heavy sigh and a roll of her eyes she mumbles to herself rather than to anyone else in the room, “How do you stop someone who can control others?”

Realizing the irony of the question she clamps her eyes shut, focuses her ability, and tries to tap into the emotions of the men behind the door. Maybe, maybe she can make them feel something different about Roberto, although with the distance— and wall in between— that seems utterly impossible.

She can sense their ambition, a desperate thirst for something. With a twitch of a single eyebrow she holds onto that and presses an idea of intense fear, trying to feel it for herself and impress it upon the guards. Fear is getting harder to muster. After having been in this box for so long, fear seems distant. Feels distant.

With another twitch of her eyebrow, something happens. The ambition feels distant. And then more distant. She struggles to sense the men on the other side at all. And then the people in the room she shares are gone. Well, emotionally gone. Puzzled she tries again, but there is nothing. No one there emotionally. No sensation of others in the room. The space feels dead. Empty. She reaches under the bed and extracts the knife Laurie had given her, placing it in the waist of her skirt, the blade cool against her skin.

For the first time in a long time, Sydney’s intuition is gone.

Eyes well with tears.

Her emotions are hers alone.

And all she can feel?


You're right

Some words are best unspoken


Why would a drug deal be arranged to go down at a crowded shopping mall? Because it's crowded. Sure, there are security cameras, but they'd located a blind spot, and they'd be lost among a hundred other faces coming in and going out.

About time someone took these guys down, Matt thinks to himself, senses extended outward to their distance limits as he makes his way past cell phone kiosks and allegedly hip T-shirt shops. Every little bit. Aha, there's the elusive dealer - he just walked into one of the department stores, about five minutes away from the parking lot at the other end where his car is parked. (And the buyer is doing much the same at the other end of the mall, but he's less important.) Thanks to all the artificial lighting, there's no sign of the astronomical oddity going down outside—

—until everything suddenly goes quiet.

So right

Then it all just falls apart-


Of the many fine restaurants in city, he chose to have her meet him there. With a sneer, Vasha follows the host through the crowded room as she surveys the low lives who regularly visit the place. Even worse, those that come here as a 'treat' to themselves.

"A house of waffles," she complains as she takes her seat in the cramped yellow and brown booth. "Everyone who is anyone knows that crepes are the superior breakfast food." She garners a few raised eyebrows as she voices her complaints to absolutely no one.

Though the sky grows dark outside, the lights inside the tiny Waffle House keep her space lit.


The complaints are cut off mid thought as her head hits the table and the soft breaths of one who never sleeps stares at the back of her eyelids.

"Hey… Hey. Wake up!" Porter is at Vasha's side in a flash. He gives her a brisk shake, but receives no response. "Great," he mutters as he eyes her sleeping form. Then, resignedly, he picks her up and slings her over his shoulder.

"Nnnng," he grunts as he staggers toward the door with many curious eyes on him. Them. Whatever.

The day I break your heart

I never took no advice

Not the foolish not the wise


Some places are designed to clear heads. That’s the case here, in the evening sky, for Nathan. Up high no one is there to watch. No one is there to hear. And no one is there to judge. It’s a place to clear his head. His gaze, however, turns to the sun as the light begins to dull in the sky. Wrinkling his nose, he realizes that the light is going out, that a curtain is pulled across the sky. And then he begins to lose altitude.

“What the hell— “ he mutters to himself as he begins to sink. And then, as Nathan inhales another breath to regain altitude, darkness fills the New York City skyline.

And in that same breath?

Nathan Petrelli, the presumably dead ex-Senator, crashes to the ground.

All the truth that I needed was right there in your smile


"Gabriel~ Come on, we're going to miss all of it!" Lizzie giggles as she runs into the bridge. She's heedless to any warning signs and as the cobble stones are a bit slippery, her flats skid a few times in her excited jog.

Armed with one of the two pairs of special eclipse glasses that she'd purchased over the internet, the young blonde pauses directly in the middle of Le Pont de l'Archevch. She doesn't look up and she doesn't place her glasses on until Gabriel strides closer. Only then, because she's unable to contain her excitement, does she toss the glasses over her eyes and look up.

The sky slowly darkens as the shadow covers the sun.

When it reaches apex, a small hand reaches slips into his and squeezes.

The hunger is satiated.

Every prophecy written of what's going to be


The spotless surface of a black-tinted car window reflects the slowly moving object in front of the sun. Black on black, the reflection of the eclipse forms a ring, until the window hums and lowers. Angela Petrelli looks out from the back of the traveling town car — gliding through the streets of Manhattan — and up at the sky, holding a phone loosely to her ear. "Good…" she says into the phone — but though authoritative, the voice of the Company director is distracted. And rightly so. "…Make sure he's apprised of the situation…"

The phone lowers, and squinting to look not quite straight at the eclipse, Angela's eyes, like the sky, darken.

All beginnings and endings


Morgana makes her way though the parking garage for lunch. She's got a doctor's appointment, and afterwards she has a lead on a new victim to follow up on. She'd heard about the solar eclipse, but much like anything else in her mundane existence, it failed to get a rise out of her. She notices the light outside get darker. Walking to the edge of her level she looks up briefly and smirks at the scene before ducking back in quickly. Everyone's heard about what happens to your retinas. She shakes her head and makes her way back to the car, at first not noticing the second set of footsteps following her. For someone who preys on others, it's odd how easy it easy to in turn become the prey.

"Hey girl…" said the scraggly voiced man. "Yer lookin' good…. fer a librarian. Got any money on ya?"

Morgana just sighs and shakes her head, not afraid of the man. If he did try to attack her, she'd just rush the blood away from his head.. make him pass out. "Listen, buddy. I don't have anything for you. Get a job like every other upstanding citizen."

"Ohhhhh…" says the man.. "An uppity bitch, ain'tcha? I like takin' my time wit' yer type.." He says, as he ambles towards her, pulling out a knife.

"Sorry, man, but the only thing you're gonna get to know are the insides of your eyelids. Sleep!" She says, giving the vocal command that she uses when she works her power. Only this time, the man keeps walking. "I ain't no dog, bitch… and you ain't no hypnotist.." He chuckles as he gets closer, and the look in Morgana's eyes should look familiar.. It's the same look of terror she sees in her victims before they take their last breath……

They're about you and me


"Thank you for flying with us. I hope your stay in New York is a good one and that you will consider us again for your flying needs."
The mock cheerful tones of the woman grated somewhat on the nerves of the former Iraqi national, turned refugee. It had been months since he stepped on American soil. Though her bright tone wore on his nerves, he inclined his head to her politely. "Thank you." He offered back in a soft tone and a small, very fake smile.

Stepping into the press of people, the man moves with the flow of traffic. He goes through the motions of retrieving his bags, eyes lidded in thought as he watches the line of bag slide by. Then he finds himself stepping out of the terminal, a pair of bags in his hands. The world around him seems odd, like in a half light. As of a hand is bieng held in from of a light bulb. He can't help but glance upward, one eye squinting shut to look upward to the bright disk above.

There is no surprise or shock when he sees the eclipse happening overhead. No awe over such a rare occurance. The black spot, sliding over the sun does not make him afraid. It is just simply there to be observed.

"Yusef ibn Dib?"

The voice pulling his attention seems a touch nervous, as if the dark man attached to it is afraid of Yusef. There is a small measure of satisfaction from the Iraqi. "That would be me." His voice heavy with the accent of his homeland.

The driver standing next to a black car, wears a crisp suit. He offers Yusef a tight lipped smile, sunglasses covering up his eyes, hiding the hint of fear. "Mrs. Petrelli sent me to pick you up and offer her 'Welcome home' from your extended assignment. Said to get you wherever you need to go."

"Good." The word is clipped and harsh from Yusef. "I would like to rest before I am debriefed over matters.

"Take me home." The phrase feels so odd on his tongue. There is no home for him, not anymore. Not for years now.

You're right

Some words are best unspoken

So right

Until it all just falls apart-

The day I break your heart


Humming permeates the wide room, up to the skylight above, out to the balcony where another figure has wandered off some time ago.

The young woman sits alone without feeling so. Around her, every piece of the room — flowers in the corner, books on the shelves, the easel in front of her, the stool supporting her crossed legs in capri khakis, the paint cans orbiting her in a stunning circle of many colors — all of it hums along with her to fill it to the brim.

"Purple," hum hum, "White," hum hum hum, "Orange and blue." A paintbrush whisks across the surface, haphazardly anointing each color to the canvas while the seated artist tilts her head this way and that, squinting. Projecting an image where there is none. Ehhh… maybe it's one of those Magic Eye puzzles…

A cloak of shadows begins to menace the corner of the room, keeping the painter obliviousness until it's come to coat the art she's attempting to observe. A hand raises to her forehead, letting her glance to the skylight where neither sky nor light seem to be applicable anymore. Just darkness… and

Eyes narrowing, she reaches out for that bead of life, that constant pulse that is her safety net and feels instead the hitching, nervous catch of her breath when it isn't there. "Baby?" Nothing's there. Pushing beyond conscience and common sense, she focuses her inhales and exhales until she's at those mental blockades, breaching past carefully constructed barriers she's been drilled to keep in place — all for the loss of that one tug that isn't tugging.

Thud. A thick, wet splat surprises the woman's eyes open, alerting to a loss of sensation even closer by now. To her left, the paint can has self-destructed against the floor, spreading a mass of red in its wake. Then thud, thud, thud — cans left and right, a whole circular palette of colors descending into rainbow madness on the floor, stray splatters leaping up the stool and onto bare legs. Snap, snap, snap the connections in the woman's head correspond. She reaches, physically in her desperation, only to find that her hand remains empty even with her bidding.


She wobbles dizzily, unsure after so long of holding on what it's like to just be… unsupported. Quiet. Fingers curl emptily. Stool legs curve back and forth, adding a pitching and tossing motion to her inner nausea. With a final waver, the woman tips right backwards, landing with her own smack and that of the overturned stool in the thick of the arrayed paint.

Red, and yellow, and green, and blue, and scarlet, and black… but even as the strand of person in the circle sun of colors, she feels it. Or doesn't.

Nothing's there.

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