FIC: Downpour
Title: Downpour
Characters: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: R
Word Count: 1843
Disclaimer: I don't own any aspect of Heroes or its characters
Spoilers/Warnings: spoilers for Season 2 and inspiration taken from the graphic novels, particularly "Quarantine."
Summary: In the virus future, Mohinder finds a cure while Sylar suffers from the disease.
A/N: Written for etoile_dunord for the mylar_fic exchange (hope it's post-apocalyptic enough!) and fabulously beta'd by aurilly and speccygeekgrrl. Concrit totally encouraged!
Mohinder's world had quickly become a very different place.
Once the outbreak began spreading, the government stepped in and took over Primatech and all its facilities; red tape and bureaucracy soon squeezed Mohinder out of the organization. He had been in the country for so long that he’d almost forgotten that he was an illegal immigrant, and the political zeitgeist certainly wouldn't allow him to work for a government agency. However, he'd wanted to stay, to stand his ground and help, because he knew he was the only person truly in a position to do so. He was lucky they were willing to look the other way rather than detain him, send him to a camp... who knows what else.
He'd left New York City before evacuation became mandatory. He simply began driving his taxi westward on I-80, until caught in Youngstown, Ohio, during a quarantine shutdown. The small city's population was being swiftly decimated by the virus, and a military barricade cut off all major roadways and made it impossible to leave. What was meant to be a brief stop for gas - it was difficult to find a station that was even remotely stocked, as many were fleeing by car - turned into a few nights of sleeping in his taxi before he broke into the vacant apartment building that soon became the closest thing he had to a home.
While exploring the ghost town that the city had become, Mohinder realized that the state university was only a few blocks from his Spartan new quarters. Devoid of students and staff, he found that he could pass unchecked through most of the buildings. Eventually he staked his claim in a few of the labs and started taking advantage of what had been abandoned there. It was a lonely existence in an alien landscape. Mohinder could sometimes count the days that went by without seeing another person on both hands, only running into others when scavenging the local convenience store shelves for non-perishables.
Even with his limited resources - there was almost no funding, no way to replace or refurbish his lab equipment, certainly no human assistance available to him within the quarantined area - Mohinder had finally created it: the vaccine, the cure. Since before the outbreak, he'd known his blood was an antidote to the virus. He'd tried to make them see that, to make them understand - had they only listened to him before casting him aside, they could have prevented millions of deaths. It was a travesty that left Mohinder bitter and angry as he used his limited medical knowledge to create a cure himself.
He had only a limited amount of the treatment, a suspension of various fluids and formulas in a tightly-capped test tube. He placed it carefully in the inside pocket of his jacket, afraid to leave it in the lab unattended. As he left the building he bit his lip, tasting blood as he pierced the thin, chapped skin and he considered his options. He needed to prove the efficacy of the cure before he could go take it to the higher authorities, but although thousands around him were falling ill and dying, he wondered whether he'd find a willing guinea pig from the surrounding population.
The sky had been overcast all week, and as Mohinder stepped outside, chilly drops began to fall. He'd had the foresight to carry an umbrella with him, but as he opened it the wind suddenly picked up and wrenched it sharply upwards. Mohinder managed to keep his grip on it, but the umbrella had been turned inside-out, and as he paused to fix it, the cold rain hit the back of his neck and made him shiver all the way down his spine.
It was a horrible kind of day, made even more horrible when the shadow of a familiar figure emerged from the alleyway as Mohinder hurried past. Mohinder recognized the silhouette instantly from the corner of his eye.
"Sylar," he muttered, the closest he could come to a greeting. His voice was low and husky from disuse - as were his feelings towards Sylar. At one time, Mohinder would have been moved to embrace the other man. At another, he would have wanted to hit him in the face, to rend him mercilessly with his own hands. Now, beaten down by the world falling apart around him and out of touch with humanity, even his own, the only feeling Mohinder could muster up enough to feel was annoyance. Sylar's sudden presence was no more important to him than that of an irritating insect. Mohinder took in Sylar with a sidelong glance, thinking that he even looked the part - his skin was gaunt and pale, drawn taut over the angles of his bones, lending his appearance an insectile, skeletal quality.
"We meet again, Mohinder," Sylar replied, trying to fall into step beside him. He wore a long, dark overcoat with the collar turned up, his hands shoved into his pockets. "Mind if I walk with you? I'm going your way."
"I don't think so." Mohinder growled, picking up his pace. Sylar looked sick and weak, barely able to hold himself together much less summon the strength to hurt another human being, but that didn't quell Mohinder's suspicions. Still, Sylar followed him, prompting Mohinder to glance back over his shoulder and ask, "How did you know I was here?"
"I wasn't looking for you on purpose," Sylar replied. "Coincidence, I swear. I heard you were here and I thought I'd pay you a visit." There was no trace of Sylar's usual sarcastic malice; it made Mohinder even more uneasy.
"Well you've visited, you can leave me alone now," Mohinder hissed back. Sylar was undeterred, still just a step or two behind him as the rain began to fall faster, harder, colder. "If I'm trying to fuck up my own life, I'll give you a call. Until then, I think it's best you keep your distance."
Sylar shook his head sadly. "I can't change what happened between us, Mohinder," he said. "I just wanted to see you before I... I'm... before..." Sylar's voice caught in his throat. "The virus."
"Everyone has it," Mohinder replied indifferently, wondering how he was supposed to react.
"It's taken all my powers," Sylar continued. "I can't do anything to hurt you, if that's what you're afraid of. I'm not special anymore."
"No one's special anymore," Mohinder muttered. "Everyone's too busy dying."
There was a lull in their already-stilted conversation as they crossed the street by what used to be an art museum. Both men looked upwards at the building's white marble facade, now marred by obscenities and slurs rendered in spray paint. The one door hung obliquely from its hinges while the other lay flat on the ground before the entrance. Before the quarantine had been enforced the museum had been looted mercilessly.
Mohinder continued onwards to the apartment he'd been squatting in, just as he'd squatted in the laboratories, and he wondered idly how Sylar had managed to get through the military barricade that surrounded the city limits. Obviously it existed more to fence people in than to keep others out.
"Thank God it's fatal."
Mohinder's peace - or whatever semblance of peace he had just barely attained, the rhythmic pounding of the ever-increasing rain on pavement beating all the painful thoughts from his head - was broken once again by Sylar. "I beg your pardon?" Mohinder paused, taken aback by the audacity of the statement.
"The virus - thank God it's fatal." Sylar finally caught up as Mohinder stood, mouth open a fraction, eyes widened. He stood beside him, ducking under the cheap, ratty umbrella that Mohinder held tenuously. "Mine has been a slow death, certainly, but it's no less painful that way."
"You probably have a different strain," Mohinder said matter-of-factly as he resumed walking, yanking his umbrella and exposing Sylar once again to the icy rain.
"Once I discovered my powers, after I started collecting them, it was like an addiction," Sylar said, matching Mohinder's pace as he moved. "I couldn't imagine how I lived without them. Even now, I don't know what to do with myself every day, now that they're gone."
"Read a book," Mohinder suggested sarcastically. "I have a collection of cat stories I'd be glad to lend you, provided you leave me the hell alone."
"How did you know I was feline literature enthusiast?" Sylar asked, his tone surprised and genuine. "I can't live like this anymore, Mohinder. I want to die, or else I want to... I don't know, get fixed."
"There is no getting fixed," Mohinder replied, his tone edged with aggravation. "You die, or you're cured. People aren't watches." He sighed and shoved his hand into his pocket; Sylar's sincerity baffled him. But as he let Sylar's words sink into his mind, he wondered whether he'd found a test subject.
They walked together, slowly, solemnly, and while Sylar gazed down at the ground sullenly, Mohinder's mind raced as he considered the options. He'd finally created the vaccine. It was too late for most, and as yet untested. He could offer it to Sylar, a man he considered already to be a rat. Why not use that rat in the lab? Besides that, there was a time when he'd have offered Sylar a cure without hesitation. It was a long time past, to be sure - only a brief period when Sylar had gone by "Zane" and they zig-zagged across the states searching for superpowers, a brief period when he'd been able to get over his own insecurities and prejudices in order to revel in the attention and affection of another man.
On the other hand, Mohinder was only too glad to watch Sylar suffer. There was something vindicating in witnessing one responsible for so much death and destruction become something so weak and miserable. Mohinder recounted the numerous crimes and killings attributed to Sylar, going backwards chronologically until he nearly reached Sylar's very beginning - his own father's murder. The sudden reminder of his father's brutal death at this man's hands made Mohinder's guts turn sour, and he struggled to swallow back the bile that rose up his throat.
Together they came to the entrance to the apartment building, and they stopped just outside the threshold. "We had something once," Sylar remarked, almost wistful.
"You were dishonest." Mohinder was grave; while he forced open the door with his shoulder, he handed his umbrella to Sylar, who took it and returned a small smile. "We never had anything."
It was a sudden decision, a selfish decision, a decision that Mohinder knew he'd live to regret. Just inside the doorway, there hung a mirror on the wall. The backing was corroding, giving the reflective surface a pockmarked appearance. As he looked at his own marred image in the glass, Mohinder briefly felt the twinge of a broken and contrite heart. He stopped and stepped back outside, ready with realization and remorse, but Sylar had already vanished into the downpour.
Characters: Mohinder/Sylar
Rating: R
Word Count: 1843
Disclaimer: I don't own any aspect of Heroes or its characters
Spoilers/Warnings: spoilers for Season 2 and inspiration taken from the graphic novels, particularly "Quarantine."
Summary: In the virus future, Mohinder finds a cure while Sylar suffers from the disease.
A/N: Written for etoile_dunord for the mylar_fic exchange (hope it's post-apocalyptic enough!) and fabulously beta'd by aurilly and speccygeekgrrl. Concrit totally encouraged!
Mohinder's world had quickly become a very different place.
Once the outbreak began spreading, the government stepped in and took over Primatech and all its facilities; red tape and bureaucracy soon squeezed Mohinder out of the organization. He had been in the country for so long that he’d almost forgotten that he was an illegal immigrant, and the political zeitgeist certainly wouldn't allow him to work for a government agency. However, he'd wanted to stay, to stand his ground and help, because he knew he was the only person truly in a position to do so. He was lucky they were willing to look the other way rather than detain him, send him to a camp... who knows what else.
He'd left New York City before evacuation became mandatory. He simply began driving his taxi westward on I-80, until caught in Youngstown, Ohio, during a quarantine shutdown. The small city's population was being swiftly decimated by the virus, and a military barricade cut off all major roadways and made it impossible to leave. What was meant to be a brief stop for gas - it was difficult to find a station that was even remotely stocked, as many were fleeing by car - turned into a few nights of sleeping in his taxi before he broke into the vacant apartment building that soon became the closest thing he had to a home.
While exploring the ghost town that the city had become, Mohinder realized that the state university was only a few blocks from his Spartan new quarters. Devoid of students and staff, he found that he could pass unchecked through most of the buildings. Eventually he staked his claim in a few of the labs and started taking advantage of what had been abandoned there. It was a lonely existence in an alien landscape. Mohinder could sometimes count the days that went by without seeing another person on both hands, only running into others when scavenging the local convenience store shelves for non-perishables.
Even with his limited resources - there was almost no funding, no way to replace or refurbish his lab equipment, certainly no human assistance available to him within the quarantined area - Mohinder had finally created it: the vaccine, the cure. Since before the outbreak, he'd known his blood was an antidote to the virus. He'd tried to make them see that, to make them understand - had they only listened to him before casting him aside, they could have prevented millions of deaths. It was a travesty that left Mohinder bitter and angry as he used his limited medical knowledge to create a cure himself.
He had only a limited amount of the treatment, a suspension of various fluids and formulas in a tightly-capped test tube. He placed it carefully in the inside pocket of his jacket, afraid to leave it in the lab unattended. As he left the building he bit his lip, tasting blood as he pierced the thin, chapped skin and he considered his options. He needed to prove the efficacy of the cure before he could go take it to the higher authorities, but although thousands around him were falling ill and dying, he wondered whether he'd find a willing guinea pig from the surrounding population.
The sky had been overcast all week, and as Mohinder stepped outside, chilly drops began to fall. He'd had the foresight to carry an umbrella with him, but as he opened it the wind suddenly picked up and wrenched it sharply upwards. Mohinder managed to keep his grip on it, but the umbrella had been turned inside-out, and as he paused to fix it, the cold rain hit the back of his neck and made him shiver all the way down his spine.
It was a horrible kind of day, made even more horrible when the shadow of a familiar figure emerged from the alleyway as Mohinder hurried past. Mohinder recognized the silhouette instantly from the corner of his eye.
"Sylar," he muttered, the closest he could come to a greeting. His voice was low and husky from disuse - as were his feelings towards Sylar. At one time, Mohinder would have been moved to embrace the other man. At another, he would have wanted to hit him in the face, to rend him mercilessly with his own hands. Now, beaten down by the world falling apart around him and out of touch with humanity, even his own, the only feeling Mohinder could muster up enough to feel was annoyance. Sylar's sudden presence was no more important to him than that of an irritating insect. Mohinder took in Sylar with a sidelong glance, thinking that he even looked the part - his skin was gaunt and pale, drawn taut over the angles of his bones, lending his appearance an insectile, skeletal quality.
"We meet again, Mohinder," Sylar replied, trying to fall into step beside him. He wore a long, dark overcoat with the collar turned up, his hands shoved into his pockets. "Mind if I walk with you? I'm going your way."
"I don't think so." Mohinder growled, picking up his pace. Sylar looked sick and weak, barely able to hold himself together much less summon the strength to hurt another human being, but that didn't quell Mohinder's suspicions. Still, Sylar followed him, prompting Mohinder to glance back over his shoulder and ask, "How did you know I was here?"
"I wasn't looking for you on purpose," Sylar replied. "Coincidence, I swear. I heard you were here and I thought I'd pay you a visit." There was no trace of Sylar's usual sarcastic malice; it made Mohinder even more uneasy.
"Well you've visited, you can leave me alone now," Mohinder hissed back. Sylar was undeterred, still just a step or two behind him as the rain began to fall faster, harder, colder. "If I'm trying to fuck up my own life, I'll give you a call. Until then, I think it's best you keep your distance."
Sylar shook his head sadly. "I can't change what happened between us, Mohinder," he said. "I just wanted to see you before I... I'm... before..." Sylar's voice caught in his throat. "The virus."
"Everyone has it," Mohinder replied indifferently, wondering how he was supposed to react.
"It's taken all my powers," Sylar continued. "I can't do anything to hurt you, if that's what you're afraid of. I'm not special anymore."
"No one's special anymore," Mohinder muttered. "Everyone's too busy dying."
There was a lull in their already-stilted conversation as they crossed the street by what used to be an art museum. Both men looked upwards at the building's white marble facade, now marred by obscenities and slurs rendered in spray paint. The one door hung obliquely from its hinges while the other lay flat on the ground before the entrance. Before the quarantine had been enforced the museum had been looted mercilessly.
Mohinder continued onwards to the apartment he'd been squatting in, just as he'd squatted in the laboratories, and he wondered idly how Sylar had managed to get through the military barricade that surrounded the city limits. Obviously it existed more to fence people in than to keep others out.
"Thank God it's fatal."
Mohinder's peace - or whatever semblance of peace he had just barely attained, the rhythmic pounding of the ever-increasing rain on pavement beating all the painful thoughts from his head - was broken once again by Sylar. "I beg your pardon?" Mohinder paused, taken aback by the audacity of the statement.
"The virus - thank God it's fatal." Sylar finally caught up as Mohinder stood, mouth open a fraction, eyes widened. He stood beside him, ducking under the cheap, ratty umbrella that Mohinder held tenuously. "Mine has been a slow death, certainly, but it's no less painful that way."
"You probably have a different strain," Mohinder said matter-of-factly as he resumed walking, yanking his umbrella and exposing Sylar once again to the icy rain.
"Once I discovered my powers, after I started collecting them, it was like an addiction," Sylar said, matching Mohinder's pace as he moved. "I couldn't imagine how I lived without them. Even now, I don't know what to do with myself every day, now that they're gone."
"Read a book," Mohinder suggested sarcastically. "I have a collection of cat stories I'd be glad to lend you, provided you leave me the hell alone."
"How did you know I was feline literature enthusiast?" Sylar asked, his tone surprised and genuine. "I can't live like this anymore, Mohinder. I want to die, or else I want to... I don't know, get fixed."
"There is no getting fixed," Mohinder replied, his tone edged with aggravation. "You die, or you're cured. People aren't watches." He sighed and shoved his hand into his pocket; Sylar's sincerity baffled him. But as he let Sylar's words sink into his mind, he wondered whether he'd found a test subject.
They walked together, slowly, solemnly, and while Sylar gazed down at the ground sullenly, Mohinder's mind raced as he considered the options. He'd finally created the vaccine. It was too late for most, and as yet untested. He could offer it to Sylar, a man he considered already to be a rat. Why not use that rat in the lab? Besides that, there was a time when he'd have offered Sylar a cure without hesitation. It was a long time past, to be sure - only a brief period when Sylar had gone by "Zane" and they zig-zagged across the states searching for superpowers, a brief period when he'd been able to get over his own insecurities and prejudices in order to revel in the attention and affection of another man.
On the other hand, Mohinder was only too glad to watch Sylar suffer. There was something vindicating in witnessing one responsible for so much death and destruction become something so weak and miserable. Mohinder recounted the numerous crimes and killings attributed to Sylar, going backwards chronologically until he nearly reached Sylar's very beginning - his own father's murder. The sudden reminder of his father's brutal death at this man's hands made Mohinder's guts turn sour, and he struggled to swallow back the bile that rose up his throat.
Together they came to the entrance to the apartment building, and they stopped just outside the threshold. "We had something once," Sylar remarked, almost wistful.
"You were dishonest." Mohinder was grave; while he forced open the door with his shoulder, he handed his umbrella to Sylar, who took it and returned a small smile. "We never had anything."
It was a sudden decision, a selfish decision, a decision that Mohinder knew he'd live to regret. Just inside the doorway, there hung a mirror on the wall. The backing was corroding, giving the reflective surface a pockmarked appearance. As he looked at his own marred image in the glass, Mohinder briefly felt the twinge of a broken and contrite heart. He stopped and stepped back outside, ready with realization and remorse, but Sylar had already vanished into the downpour.