Forward - Heroes - Mohinder/Adam; Mohinder/Sylar
Title: Forward
Pairing: Mohinder/Adam; Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 5895
Rating: R
Warning: Character death
A/N: Written for a_to_z_prompts “far-fetched” (referring to the fake-science!). Contains minor, warped spoilers for S3.
Summary: “Every day at this place he takes step after step into a morally grey world. Ethics are blurred here, strange and different.”
Sylar's body twists in burning agony. Sweat beads. Silent screams fall. Eyes - dark, wild, pleading - beg with words his proud lips can't form.
Please, they say, save me.
Mohinder holds a life in his hand, a thing as gentle and fragile as a newly emerged butterfly. He stares down at his father's killer, as blank as he is cold.
"Professor?" the doctor says - struggling, at a loss. This is uncharted territory. "Professor Suresh, what do we do? We're losing him."
Nearly paralysed in the throes of an agonising death, Sylar's eyes beg for forgiveness, for absolution, for help - and Mohinder has the luxury of withholding it.
He turns his back and walks to the door.
"Professor!" the doctor calls desperately. "What should we do?"
He doesn't allow himself to look back. "Let him die," he says, though it goes against everything he once stood for.
It's no great loss to the world, he thinks when the doors close mercifully behind him. Nobody will miss him.
*
Two months ago
"It should work," he confirms with a confident nod. "There's no real reason why it wouldn't - the science is all there."
Bob looks down at the thick pile of paper on the desk in front of him. He flicks through the pages and puffs air from his mouth: Mohinder doubts if he understands a single sentence that has been written. He'd have been as well writing in his native tongue.
"This is fantastic news," Bob says. "Really fantastic."
"A cure." Mohinder smiles. "We can help so many people - once it's safe for wide-spread use..."
Bob nods. "How long will it take you to create a usable sample? We'll target the top priority cases first, of course."
Mohinder frowns - arguing now would no doubt be fruitless. Once Bob has announced a decision it would take little short of a miracle or disaster to make him shift for Mohinder. Mohinder's position is right on the bottom rung of the Company's ladder. Not to be listened to. Not to be trusted.
"You've been taken to Level Five before, haven't you?" Bob asks. His fingers steeple in front of him.
"Level Five?" Mohinder shifts and leans forward. "No, I haven't. I've never even heard of it."
Bob hums in agreement. "It's on a 'need to know' basis. I'm sure you understand. The subject is... delicate."
Mohinder nods to show that he is listening. This entire company is founded on and build with the bricks of 'delicate' secrets. A relatively short time ago he had been committed to chipping away at those secrets until the entire company would collapse in a stagnant rush of dust and foul dirt.
"Level Five is where we keep the most dangerous individuals," Bob explains. "The utterly unique case studies."
"Adam Monroe..." Mohinder breathes. He'd heard about that man, dug up from an early grave and dragged back to his prison here. Blood like Claire Bennet's. If he hadn't escaped with Peter Petrelli then perhaps Bennet's daughter would never have become a target. Perhaps this entire mess would never have happened and Mohinder would never have found himself in this confusing situation.
"Not exactly - though he would be a good place to start."
Good as any, Mohinder supposes, though testing a prototype on him wouldn't produce any viable results. His immune system would be too strong to reasonably be able to guess at how an ordinary person would react to the injection.
"The details aren't all that important, Professor. Leave that to us: just know that you’ve succeeded in saving a lot of lives today. You should be proud."
Despite his modest smile, pride beams through him. "All in a day's work," he jokes.
"Take the rest of the day off," Bob suggests indulgently. "I'll send Elle to collect you in the morning so that we can begin."
Mohinder wishes for a little longer to prepare: Adam Monroe is not a figure that he has been keen to come into contact with. An immortal intent on destroying the rest of humankind... If he'd succeeded, they'd all be in ruins by now. Society in shatters.
Stripping him of his powers, Mohinder knows, will weaken him but not eliminate the problem - but it is certainly a start.
*
Adam Monroe sits on his bed smiling pleasantly. His eyes are an unsettling shade of blue. Old, Mohinder thinks, they're too old. Even as he thinks it he isn't entirely sure what he means - he only knows that it's true.
"Ah," Adam says when Mohinder enters the room, "you must be Bob's new whipping boy. Suresh, isn't it?"
He tries not to think of how Adam could have come into possession of his name. Unease is quick to flare on his face. The door closes behind him with a slam and a click of the lock: there are two men in here with him and Adam. Men with sharp suits, fake smiles and long-empty eyes. They will hardly speak to Mohinder at all unless prompted.
"Brought the heavies along with you," Adam notes. "Am I really that frightening?"
"Your reputation proceeds you, Mr Monroe," Mohinder says. "Bob felt the precautions were necessary."
"Bob did? And what do you think?"
Mohinder places his case on the desk at the opposite side of the room - back turned to Adam for only a moment. Nothing happens. With the hulking men standing, waiting, Adam would have been a fool to try anything. He can't have survived for so many centuries by making rash judgements and impatient moves.
Mohinder undoes the lock on his case. "I think," he says, "that I've encountered far more threatening men than you in my lifetime."
He doesn't want to think of Sylar when he's in this cell: he never wants to think of Sylar but with the man alive, at large and with his powers once more Mohinder's thoughts are constantly at siege by him. Even when Sylar is gone he still haunts him - it's endlessly frustrating.
"I find that difficult to believe," Adam says, lounging lazily on his bed. He smirks in dry amusement. "I'm the scum of the universe. Didn't you get that memo?"
Mohinder stubbornly tells himself that he is not smiling right now. He takes the needles from his case - it feels so fragile and small for such a life-changing object - and prepares it, watching Adam from the fringe of his eyes. "I'm afraid not. I seem to be rather out of the loop."
"I wonder why that would be."
"They don't like me very much here," Mohinder answers. Even though he's only playing along with Adam, the statement remains true. He will never be trusted here and he will always have to watch his own back. "I'm going to have to inject you with this, Mr Monroe."
"What is it?"
"An experimental compound." He doesn't feel good obscuring the truth - but he's a well-worn liar by this point. Adam's piercing blue eyes narrow. "It shouldn’t hurt."
Adam looks towards the impassive men that guard the doorway. "I don't suppose I have a choice about being your lab rat, do I?"
"I'm afraid not," Mohinder says. "I'm sorry." He surprises himself - the apology is sincere. Every day at this place he takes step after step into a morally grey world. Ethics are blurred here, strange and different.
Adam watches him as he approaches, warily. "You're not sure about doing this, are you Professor?"
"It doesn't matter, Mr Monroe. You won't talk me out of this."
"Oh, I know," Adam replies warmly. He holds his arm out, ready - Mohinder imagines that he can't have a clue what this will to him if it works. "I'm only hoping to make sure that you consider the consequences afterwards. Becoming the Company's golden boy... It's hardly a wise career move."
"I am not - "
"You are, Suresh. You are their plan for the future, that pretty little mind of yours." His eyes twinkle like a demented fairy's. He leans towards Mohinder, confessionally close. "So tell me - what does the future hold?"
He's closer than he should be, blurry inches away. The guards shift restlessly, uncomfortably, but Mohinder meets Adam's eyes, wields his needle and answers - "A new beginning."
The needle plunges into Adam's arm; Mohinder winces more than Adam does as he pierces the resistance of his skin. The cure plunges into his arm, a clear liquid that looks no more extraordinary than H2O. He withdraws the needle: a pin-prick of blood appears, before the tiny wound heals up completely. Mohinder sits back and waits.
"So what was that supposed to do?" Adam asks. "Testing another--" His words die mid-sentence and his hands shifts, covering the recently injected part of his arm. He swallows hard. The smug expression on his face has paled. "What was that?" he asks, more interested, more frantic, more terrified. His eyes land, wide, on the empty needle.
Mohinder doesn't want to tell him, not now, but he only pauses for a second. "A cure," he answers. "It's going to take away your ability."
"My-" Adam shakes his head. "No. No, you can't. You can't."
He breaks away to groan - growl - in pain and frustration. Mohinder hurries to his feet and gathers his case from the other side of the room while the guards stand by, neutral as ever.
"You can't do this," Adam snaps. "I won't let you."
It's too late, Mohinder thinks. He feels sorry. He doesn't want to feel like that for a killer, for someone who nearly wiped out the majority of the human race, for someone whose kill count no doubt rivals Sylar's...
He shakes his head. Adam would kill him right now given the chance - he's certain of that. "I'm sorry," he says anyway. "I'm so sorry."
Adam merely snarls, tipping sideways to lie on the bed. He breathes in short, stabbing gasps.
Mohinder stands watching, waiting. There is sweat on Adam's forehead by the time he stops writhing and gasping. It turns small patches of his blond hair into dark, matted curls. Mohinder moves back over to him. He checks his pulse with two fingers pressed against his wrist - racing - and thoughtfully frowns. "This may sting a little," he tells him. Adam groans at him but doesn't pull his arm away.
Mohinder nips his skin between finger and thumb. His nails dig grooves and a twist causes red to mark the extremely pale skin. Adam watches with him as they both wait for the marks to vanish: nothing happens, nothing at all. The indents from his nails smile maliciously at them.
More conclusively tests will need to be taken, but Mohinder's eyebrows rise. It worked. It actually worked. He could laugh and sing and applaud in delight: Adam's cold eyes force him to restrain his celebrations.
"Congratulations, Suresh," Adam says. His voice rasps, hollow and empty. "You just killed me."
Mohinder stands - he needs some distance between them - and tells himself that his hands aren't shaking. He walks for the door, needing out of there more than he needs successful results, and wilts in relief when the guards exit too and close the door firmly. It locked with a loud thud: Mohinder tries to lock away those feelings of guilt with a similarly strong bolt.
*
When he returns the following day, Adam doesn't even look at him. He is still lying on the bed in the same position that Mohinder left him in. The tests are carried out in silence and Mohinder is unbelievably relieved when he is finished and is able to escape from the choking sadness of this room.
Yet he's back the next day - more tests, more success, more silence.
It isn't until the fifth day that he enters and is subject to Adam’s piercing gaze. "Don't you have lackeys to do this kind of thing?" Adam asks. His accent is more clipped than Mohinder remembers. "Minions, perhaps. I thought that was what you evil scientists were supposed to have."
"I'm not an 'evil scientist'," Mohinder says. "My hair isn't wild enough - or white enough, for that matter."
Adam smirks. "You don't have your guards with you today, Suresh."
"I didn't think they were necessary," Mohinder responds. "Are they?"
"Probably not," Adam says. "I haven't decided yet. I ought to kill you, you know."
Mohinder nods. "That had crossed my mind," he says. "I am sorry for what I did to you. I hadn't realised that it would be so painful. I should have. Rewiring a person's DNA..." It had been foolish to think that such a process would be relatively pain free. "For what it's worth, I think the Company's made a grave error in what we did to you."
"It's not worth a great deal," Adam sniffs, but he pauses before asking, "You weren't involved in selecting me?"
"I was consulted, Mr Monroe, but not 'involved'. As a candidate for a human test subject you're far from ideal. I have no way of knowing if anyone without your ability would have been able to survive what I put you through. And, of course, the Company has lost a valuable resource. Without your blood, I shudder to think how they are going to heal any injuries their employees sustain."
His thoughts flicker uneasily to Claire Bennet - but she is an avenue that is thankfully closed to them now. Her father has made sure of that with the deal he made. She's safe.
Adam watches him curiously for a moment or two longer, before he nods and leans against the wall behind him, still sitting on his small bed. "You're a good man, Suresh," he says.
Mohinder smiles. "I'm certainly trying to be," he answers. It's just so easy to get lost along the way.
When he exits the room an hour later, Elle is waiting for him. She leans against the wall with one spiked heel resting against it. "You should be careful, Mohinder," Elle scolds." "He's playing you."
He restrains the natural urge to roll his eyes. "He is doing no such thing."
Elle looks at him sceptically. "Be careful," she repeats, "You're kind of known for being gullible. It's all that cute 'nobleness' you've got going on. Makes you want to do the right thing, even when the right thing is really the wrong thing and is really the thing that's going to screw us all over. So be careful - and don't trust him."
"Thank you for the warning," Mohinder says. "It's appreciated."
"Just trying to help." Elle pats his shoulder, winks and enters Adam's cell without breaking stride. Mad, absolutely mad. Mohinder walks towards the lift and boards it. The button for the ground floor lights up when he presses it. It's barely mid-morning and already he is so wiped out that he wants to go home.
*
He visits Adam more than is strictly necessary. He likes the sound of his voice, clipped and proper, and the anecdotes that he can tell are so unbelievable that they simply must be true. Historical figures - and Adam's opinions on them - colour his memories happily.
When he walks into his lab on a Monday morning and finds Bob waiting for him - smiling - unease prickles along the back of his neck instantly. "Good morning, Bob," he says, while wondering what on Earth he is doing here and what could have drawn forth such a smile. "Is everything alright?"
"We've got him," Bob explains, kind and fatherly. At Mohinder's frown, he elaborates, "Elle brought him in last night. Sylar."
The world drops away and Mohinder is left scrambling for a response. "I see," he murmurs eventually. It hardly seems adequate.
"As soon as you're ready, Mohinder, we'd like to use the cure on him."
"The cure?" Mohinder's surprise is all too evident. "It could kill him."
"You once tried to shoot a bullet through his skull," Bob says. His voice is too warm for the words he is uttering. "A cure gone wrong is far from something to worry about."
And he's right, Mohinder tells himself. He's right, yet something about the idea of it galls him: his science warped and twisted beyond recognition. He'd wanted to help people, not punish them.
Perhaps Sylar deserves whatever is coming to him. He killed Mohinder's father and showed no remorse. He killed his own mother with barely a second thought. He's most certainly earned whatever happens to him from this point forth.
Yet Mohinder takes his time- he doesn't rush to see him, to lord their victory over him and enjoy the rush of justice finally being served. He wastes time cleaning lab equipment and wiping down the surfaces with alcohol before he can't put it off for any longer. While the vial sits in the fridge - it needs to remain there for six hours, minimum, to allow the liquid to cool - he leaves his laboratory and asks to be accompanied to where they are currently keeping Sylar.
It is white and clean and yet the strange lighting and dark shadows allow it to seem sinister. Sylar is lying down, dressed in oddly childish white clothes, when Mohinder stands on the opposite side of the diving glass. Bruises and cuts stain his face: there is a red burn slashing over the side of his neck. His eyes thunder with a darkness that seems primal.
"Sylar," Mohinder says.
Those eyes dash towards him, cutting through the thick glass. He smirks. "Mohinder," Sylar says as he sits up, rolling his tongue over every single syllable. Mohinder has always hated the way he says his name. "Somehow I'm not surprised to see you here."
"I shouldn't be here at all. I just wanted to see it for myself - you locked up like you deserve."
"I won't be here for long," Sylar states. "They couldn't hold me last time. They won't this time either. Did they tell you what I did to your pretty little girlfriend? She visited me - just like you are now. I--"
"Don't talk about Eden," Mohinder snaps. It hurts, even now, to think of what happened to her. "I'm going to make sure you can't hurt anyone else."
"Really?" He sounds dubious, amused by his attempts.
Mohinder crouches down in front of the glass so that he is low enough to see into Sylar's dark eyes. He remembers a time when those eyes - Zane's eyes - had seemed so soft and harmless. He remembers Sylar's hands on his skin, gentle not murderous. He remembers being tricked, conned and used - and he smirks.
"I have a cure," he says, just loud enough to be heard. "One injection, Sylar. One injection and all of those powers that you stole will be gone for good. No getting them more; no taking more. You'll be just like the rest of us. Normal."
Sylar's hand slams against the thick glass that separates them. "You wouldn't dare," he snarls.
It's Mohinder's turn to smirk now. It's not an expression that he feels comfortable with, but the thudding triumph in his chest allows him to enjoy it. "We'll hand you over to the FBI. You can spend the rest of your life rotting away in a prison cell for what you've done."
"Mohinder," Sylar snaps. His hand thuds once more against the glass. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare."
"You can't stop me," Mohinder says. It's enough to make him feel giddy - high on adrenaline and power like he's free-wheeling down an unstoppable hill. "You earned this, Sylar. All those people you killed... My father. Did you really think you would get away with it? That you were untouchable?"
"If I had my powers..."
Mohinder thinks of the Haitian standing calmly outside. While the Haitian's loyalty to the Company is fluid at best, at times like this he is invaluable. "You don't, though. That's the entire point."
"Mohinder," Sylar snaps again. There's a commanding tone in his voice, the way one would address a misbehaving dog. His gazes sears into Mohinder's eyes, burning. "You're a good man, Mohinder. You won't do this - you can't. It's not the right thing to do." He pauses for a brief moment. "It's unethical."
"You wouldn't leave a loaded gun with a murderer," Mohinder says. He hopes he can makes himself believe this too: it's true, he knows this, but his conscience itches uncomfortably. "You'd remove the weapon. That's all I'll be doing."
"You're chopping off a limb because I might use it to kick somebody," Sylar counters.
"With you there is no 'might'. This is what's best for everybody - for the world at large, for god's sake."
"You don't believe that," Sylar insists. He sounds desperate now. "You can't."
"I do."
Sylar is a danger to everyone around him. This is not merely a case of vengeance and retribution. It's bigger than that.
He stands again - towering far above Sylar and looking down upon his angry face - and shivers in relief when he leaves the area, plunging outside into the relative warmth of the corridor. He chokes for air as he feels the Haitian's eyes resting upon him. The door shuts, locks, behind him.
"Mohinder," the Haitian asks. His accent pitter-patters like polite raindrops. "Is everything alright?"
Mohinder swallows. Nods. "Fine. Everything is fine." He doesn't think that is true but it doesn't matter, not really. "I need to see Bob," he says decisively.
The Haitian stands at his post and doesn't attempt to follow him as he rushes down the hallway - but his route does not take him straight to Bob's office. It leads him to another cell, just as dangerous. He types in the security code and feels the tension spring loose from his shoulders when he steps inside and closes the door tightly behind him.
"Well this is certainly unexpected," Adam comments - but he doesn't sound particularly surprised at all. Pleased, perhaps. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
"Sylar," Mohinder answers, head buzzing. "Sylar, they caught him. They..."
Adam sits up from his bed and swings his bare feet around until they touch the floor. Compared to Sylar's open menace, Adam hardly seems threatening at all. "Who's Sylar?"
"He's..." Where to start? How on Earth do you even start with this story? Mohinder wets his lips. He looks towards Adam but not at him directly. His eyes are slightly off-target. "He killed my father."
"Ah," Adam says, as if that explains a great deal more than it actually does. "Is that all?"
"'Is that-' Are you serious?"
"I only mean that the murder of one man seems a startlingly small crime for the Company to be interested in. They usually aim a little higher than that."
"He's been collecting powers," Mohinder explains, his voice bleak and dead. "He cuts the scalps from peoples' heads and - God, I don't know. I don't want to know."
"Unusual, for a scientist. I thought you people were all about the endless quest for knowledge."
"Not like this. Not with him." Mohinder shakes his head. He shudders and closes his eyes: he can see Dale's body instantly in the darkness behind his eyelids. "I knew him," he says impulsively. "He tricked me into thinking that he was someone he wasn't... We went travelling together. Only for a few days, but..."
His stupidity is almost enough to make him laugh. It seems a long time ago now. He was a lot younger then. So much has changed. So much about him has changed.
Adam watches him impassively, thoughtfully. It's impossible to tell what is going on behind those frightfully blue eyes of his: Mohinder thinks that that is yet another thing that he probably doesn't want to know.
"He 'tricked' you, you said?" Adam asks. He stands from his bed in a movement so fluid it is almost reptilian. "In my experience, people believe what they want to believe, Professor. All they need is one little push."
He walks forward - close, too close, much too close - and Mohinder retreats at exactly the same speed. This is not a large cell, however. In no time at all, his back thuds against the closed door.
"What did he push you into believing?" Adam asks, soft like a lover's caress. His hand raises and brushes as soft as his voice over the stubble on Mohinder's jaw. "Hmm?" he prompts.
"I was going to visit a man named Zane Taylor. He was on my father's list of individuals carrying the genetic marker that would give them the potential to manifest these - these abilities." Adam's fingers are skimming over his throat while his eyes watch him with horrifying intensity. Mohinder swallows. "Sylar got there first. Stole his identity. Made me believe that he was Zane.
"And then the two of you set off on the road together?" Adam checks. His fingers still stroke soft, thoughtful lines over Mohinder's neck. Any sane person would have surely pushed him away by this point. "It sounds to me as if you were rather willing to let yourself be fooled. Were you lonely, Suresh?"
Mohinder scowls. "I did not willingly believe that a serial killer was a harmless musician purely because I was 'lonely'. That's ridiculous."
"Of course it is," Adam murmurs agreeably, "but you were lonely, weren't you?"
"I-"
"And he did help?" Adam asks. Mohinder flounders, searching for an answer to him. He doesn't want to say anything at all but he fears that it is already a long lost cause. "Will you tell me how? I think I already know, but I'd like to hear it from the horse's mouth, so to speak."
"We shared a hotel room," Mohinder admits. "Twice."
"Mm," Adam hums. "You make it sound so delightfully innocent. Did he fuck you? I think he did. I think you must get off on the danger that comes with it - and I think that's why you keep visiting me. Flattering, really." His thumb drags over Mohinder's bottom lip. You need to push him away, Mohinder thinks. You need to let him know he's wrong.
He doesn't resist when Adam's thumb presses against his lower lip. His lips part, his mouth opens a bare fraction, and Adam's thumb enters his mouth. His tongue flickers over the tip and skims along the ridge of his nail: it's enough to make Adam groan, a sound that shouldn't entrance him half as much as it does.
"You come into this place every day, inviting someone to come along and corrupt you," Adam murmurs. He presses closer, his body pinning Mohinder firmly against the wall behind him. His thumb is pulled from Mohinder's mouth and he uses that hand to rest on his shoulder and hold him tightly in place. Their lips brush - not a kiss, not quite, not yet. "One of these days I'm going to have to take you up on that offer."
His hand glides down Mohinder's side until he reaches the bottom of his shirt. Greedily he slips under the material: Mohinder jerks and curses when Adam's cool fingers touch his bare skin.
"In the meantime," Adam whispers, "go. Take care of your unfinished business. Get rid of Sylar's powers; avenge your father's death. I'll still be here in the morning."
He steps back - the air rapidly rushes back into the room. Mohinder drinks it eagerly as he feels his rational mind coming to life once more. Adam smirks after him as he retreats, flooding from the room and trying to escape. With every second that passes his world turns a little more topsy-turvy. He no longer knows how to set anything right again.
He does, however, know the right place to start: Sylar.
*
Sylar looks bizarrely human, held down to the table. White straps hold him in place. They don't quite keep him still but it's close enough. Mohinder stands at the side of the room, hands neutral by his sides. The Haitian is beside him, silent and steady. He's asked Bob if someone else could perform the procedure. One injection, just one injection, but he doesn't think he could do it himself.
"Mohinder," Sylar calls, turning his head as much as he can. "Mohinder, get over here. Now." He breathes unsteadily through his nose. "Please."
He wishes he could ignore him and stay on the spot, completely unaffected by anything Sylar could say, but he steps forward as if called by a siren. In the corner of the room, the doctor endlessly rearranges items on the shelves: her version of giving them privacy.
"There must be a way you can stop this," Sylar urges when Mohinder stands by the side of the surgical table.
"There probably is," Mohinder says - thought he doubts it. The Company's decisions are far beyond his control and it's much too late now. "I don't want to."
"I won't hurt any more people," Sylar promises in a ragged whisper. "I won't do anything. I'll leave the country. You'll never have to see me again - just let me keep my powers. I need them, Mohinder. I need them."
"The rest of us manage fine without the aid of telekinesis or anything else you've got up your sleeve. What makes you so special?"
Sylar flinches from that word as if the very sound of it burns him. "Please, Mohinder," he whispers. Dry and empty. Defeated. Mohinder doesn't trust it for an instant.
He straightens up and steps away, back to his position at the side of the room: in response the weak and pleading façade that Sylar has cultivated drops. He snarls and thrashes on the table, struggling wildly like a cornered animal. The sounds are inhuman. His fists thump against the table to no avail. No escape. Mohinder's hand is trembling as he watches it but his jaw is set. He is prepared for the repercussions of his actions. The consequences.
He nods at the doctor and she moves forward, needle ready. He doesn't look as she plunges it into the soft inside of Sylar's arm, as Mohinder's cure is injected into his blood supply, as she steps back and they wait. With the Haitian nearby it will impossible to test whether it worked, Mohinder realises.
It is the erratic beeping of the monitor that attracts Mohinder's gaze first. A blip in the beating and then - faster. Faster. Ever faster. Sylar's breathing catches. He groans loudly and tries to move, tries to do anything to escape the pain shooting through his veins. Nothing. Nothing at all. No relief to be found.
The doctor surges forwards but Mohinder stays on the spot, staring blindly as Sylar's body twists in burning agony. Sweat beads. Silent screams fall. Eyes - dark, wild, pleading - beg with words his proud lips can't form.
Please, they say, save me.
Mohinder holds a life in his hand, a thing as gentle and fragile as a newly emerged butterfly. He stares down at his father's killer, as blank as he is cold.
"Professor?" the doctor says - struggling, at a loss. This is uncharted territory. "Professor Suresh, what do we do? We're losing him."
Nearly paralysed in the throes of an agonising death, Sylar's eyes beg for forgiveness, for absolution, for help - and Mohinder has the luxury of withholding it.
He turns his back and walks to the door.
"Professor!" the doctor calls desperately. "What should we do?"
He doesn't allow himself to look back. "Let him die," he says, though it goes against everything he once stood for.
It's no great loss to the world, he thinks when the doors close mercifully behind him. Nobody will miss him.
*
"I thought I'd feel... different," Mohinder admits. He stands at the opposite side of the cell from Adam, a few paces stretching between them. "He's dead. He's really dead. By all rights I should be celebrating."
"But instead?"
"Instead there's nothing," he says. "At the end of the day I went home to Matt and Molly, like I do every day. I made dinner, like I do every day. I nagged Matt for not doing the laundry, like I do every day. Nothing's different. Sylar died but nothing has changed."
Adam frowns thoughtfully but he offers no heavy pearls of wisdom. Mohinder sighs. He should get back to work - he needs to discover what went wrong with the cure to make it go so dreadfully wrong. Bob has given him mountains of paperwork - as a punishment, Mohinder thinks - to fill in about 'the incident'. The wrong dosage, Mohinder hopes, but if it's something more fundamental than that then it's right back to the drawing board.
Adam is watching him still, waiting for an explanation that Mohinder doesn't know how to give him.
"I've been waiting for this moment for so long," Mohinder says eventually. "I've imagined it, dreamed of it, ever since I first heard of my father's death. Now that it's happened, I suppose I find myself rather at a loss. Rudderless."
"Aimless."
"Exactly," Mohinder confirms. Aimless - it's something he's certain is not a good state for any scientist to find himself in - but he has discovered a cure and he has avenged his father's death. There's nothing left for him now.
"I think," Adam muses, "that what we need to do is find you an entirely new aim. Something new for you to work towards." His eyes glint with intelligent malevolence. Mohinder's certain that he should be terrified, but he blooms into it instead. "What do you say, Suresh?"
Mohinder smiles and ducks his head, looking down at his shoes for as long as it takes to collect his thoughts. "I'd say that sounds like an excellent idea, Mr Monroe."
A new beginning, he thinks. Perhaps his prediction for the future hadn't been so off-course after all.
*
As it turns out, the new aim is exactly the same as one of the old ones - more or less. Once he has released Adam it gets easier, more fluid than the plan ever was with Bennet at its helm. Bring the Company down. A simple mission statement - and it's so easy with the cure on their side.
"I'm sorry for this, Peter. Truly," Adam says when he stands over Peter's gasping body, empty needle in hand. "It had to be done."
The powers fade from Peter's body as they watch until he is no longer a threat to them: he is normal, like everybody else. Panting. "Still breathing," Adam notes. He sounds impressed. "You're getting better at this, Suresh."
Mohinder nods to accept the compliment. Practice makes perfect, or something like that. He thinks he must have the concentration about right by now. He mutters his own apologies to Peter - thinking back to their first meeting all that time ago it's difficult to understand how they could have ended up here - then he walks to Adam's side. Together they leave the household and stride on to the next part of Adam's plan. Footsteps steady, fast, confident.
There's a whole world out there waiting to be changed - and although Mohinder shivers as they step into the dawn, he can't think of anyone better suited to change it than themselves.
Pairing: Mohinder/Adam; Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 5895
Rating: R
Warning: Character death
A/N: Written for a_to_z_prompts “far-fetched” (referring to the fake-science!). Contains minor, warped spoilers for S3.
Summary: “Every day at this place he takes step after step into a morally grey world. Ethics are blurred here, strange and different.”
Sylar's body twists in burning agony. Sweat beads. Silent screams fall. Eyes - dark, wild, pleading - beg with words his proud lips can't form.
Please, they say, save me.
Mohinder holds a life in his hand, a thing as gentle and fragile as a newly emerged butterfly. He stares down at his father's killer, as blank as he is cold.
"Professor?" the doctor says - struggling, at a loss. This is uncharted territory. "Professor Suresh, what do we do? We're losing him."
Nearly paralysed in the throes of an agonising death, Sylar's eyes beg for forgiveness, for absolution, for help - and Mohinder has the luxury of withholding it.
He turns his back and walks to the door.
"Professor!" the doctor calls desperately. "What should we do?"
He doesn't allow himself to look back. "Let him die," he says, though it goes against everything he once stood for.
It's no great loss to the world, he thinks when the doors close mercifully behind him. Nobody will miss him.
*
Two months ago
"It should work," he confirms with a confident nod. "There's no real reason why it wouldn't - the science is all there."
Bob looks down at the thick pile of paper on the desk in front of him. He flicks through the pages and puffs air from his mouth: Mohinder doubts if he understands a single sentence that has been written. He'd have been as well writing in his native tongue.
"This is fantastic news," Bob says. "Really fantastic."
"A cure." Mohinder smiles. "We can help so many people - once it's safe for wide-spread use..."
Bob nods. "How long will it take you to create a usable sample? We'll target the top priority cases first, of course."
Mohinder frowns - arguing now would no doubt be fruitless. Once Bob has announced a decision it would take little short of a miracle or disaster to make him shift for Mohinder. Mohinder's position is right on the bottom rung of the Company's ladder. Not to be listened to. Not to be trusted.
"You've been taken to Level Five before, haven't you?" Bob asks. His fingers steeple in front of him.
"Level Five?" Mohinder shifts and leans forward. "No, I haven't. I've never even heard of it."
Bob hums in agreement. "It's on a 'need to know' basis. I'm sure you understand. The subject is... delicate."
Mohinder nods to show that he is listening. This entire company is founded on and build with the bricks of 'delicate' secrets. A relatively short time ago he had been committed to chipping away at those secrets until the entire company would collapse in a stagnant rush of dust and foul dirt.
"Level Five is where we keep the most dangerous individuals," Bob explains. "The utterly unique case studies."
"Adam Monroe..." Mohinder breathes. He'd heard about that man, dug up from an early grave and dragged back to his prison here. Blood like Claire Bennet's. If he hadn't escaped with Peter Petrelli then perhaps Bennet's daughter would never have become a target. Perhaps this entire mess would never have happened and Mohinder would never have found himself in this confusing situation.
"Not exactly - though he would be a good place to start."
Good as any, Mohinder supposes, though testing a prototype on him wouldn't produce any viable results. His immune system would be too strong to reasonably be able to guess at how an ordinary person would react to the injection.
"The details aren't all that important, Professor. Leave that to us: just know that you’ve succeeded in saving a lot of lives today. You should be proud."
Despite his modest smile, pride beams through him. "All in a day's work," he jokes.
"Take the rest of the day off," Bob suggests indulgently. "I'll send Elle to collect you in the morning so that we can begin."
Mohinder wishes for a little longer to prepare: Adam Monroe is not a figure that he has been keen to come into contact with. An immortal intent on destroying the rest of humankind... If he'd succeeded, they'd all be in ruins by now. Society in shatters.
Stripping him of his powers, Mohinder knows, will weaken him but not eliminate the problem - but it is certainly a start.
*
Adam Monroe sits on his bed smiling pleasantly. His eyes are an unsettling shade of blue. Old, Mohinder thinks, they're too old. Even as he thinks it he isn't entirely sure what he means - he only knows that it's true.
"Ah," Adam says when Mohinder enters the room, "you must be Bob's new whipping boy. Suresh, isn't it?"
He tries not to think of how Adam could have come into possession of his name. Unease is quick to flare on his face. The door closes behind him with a slam and a click of the lock: there are two men in here with him and Adam. Men with sharp suits, fake smiles and long-empty eyes. They will hardly speak to Mohinder at all unless prompted.
"Brought the heavies along with you," Adam notes. "Am I really that frightening?"
"Your reputation proceeds you, Mr Monroe," Mohinder says. "Bob felt the precautions were necessary."
"Bob did? And what do you think?"
Mohinder places his case on the desk at the opposite side of the room - back turned to Adam for only a moment. Nothing happens. With the hulking men standing, waiting, Adam would have been a fool to try anything. He can't have survived for so many centuries by making rash judgements and impatient moves.
Mohinder undoes the lock on his case. "I think," he says, "that I've encountered far more threatening men than you in my lifetime."
He doesn't want to think of Sylar when he's in this cell: he never wants to think of Sylar but with the man alive, at large and with his powers once more Mohinder's thoughts are constantly at siege by him. Even when Sylar is gone he still haunts him - it's endlessly frustrating.
"I find that difficult to believe," Adam says, lounging lazily on his bed. He smirks in dry amusement. "I'm the scum of the universe. Didn't you get that memo?"
Mohinder stubbornly tells himself that he is not smiling right now. He takes the needles from his case - it feels so fragile and small for such a life-changing object - and prepares it, watching Adam from the fringe of his eyes. "I'm afraid not. I seem to be rather out of the loop."
"I wonder why that would be."
"They don't like me very much here," Mohinder answers. Even though he's only playing along with Adam, the statement remains true. He will never be trusted here and he will always have to watch his own back. "I'm going to have to inject you with this, Mr Monroe."
"What is it?"
"An experimental compound." He doesn't feel good obscuring the truth - but he's a well-worn liar by this point. Adam's piercing blue eyes narrow. "It shouldn’t hurt."
Adam looks towards the impassive men that guard the doorway. "I don't suppose I have a choice about being your lab rat, do I?"
"I'm afraid not," Mohinder says. "I'm sorry." He surprises himself - the apology is sincere. Every day at this place he takes step after step into a morally grey world. Ethics are blurred here, strange and different.
Adam watches him as he approaches, warily. "You're not sure about doing this, are you Professor?"
"It doesn't matter, Mr Monroe. You won't talk me out of this."
"Oh, I know," Adam replies warmly. He holds his arm out, ready - Mohinder imagines that he can't have a clue what this will to him if it works. "I'm only hoping to make sure that you consider the consequences afterwards. Becoming the Company's golden boy... It's hardly a wise career move."
"I am not - "
"You are, Suresh. You are their plan for the future, that pretty little mind of yours." His eyes twinkle like a demented fairy's. He leans towards Mohinder, confessionally close. "So tell me - what does the future hold?"
He's closer than he should be, blurry inches away. The guards shift restlessly, uncomfortably, but Mohinder meets Adam's eyes, wields his needle and answers - "A new beginning."
The needle plunges into Adam's arm; Mohinder winces more than Adam does as he pierces the resistance of his skin. The cure plunges into his arm, a clear liquid that looks no more extraordinary than H2O. He withdraws the needle: a pin-prick of blood appears, before the tiny wound heals up completely. Mohinder sits back and waits.
"So what was that supposed to do?" Adam asks. "Testing another--" His words die mid-sentence and his hands shifts, covering the recently injected part of his arm. He swallows hard. The smug expression on his face has paled. "What was that?" he asks, more interested, more frantic, more terrified. His eyes land, wide, on the empty needle.
Mohinder doesn't want to tell him, not now, but he only pauses for a second. "A cure," he answers. "It's going to take away your ability."
"My-" Adam shakes his head. "No. No, you can't. You can't."
He breaks away to groan - growl - in pain and frustration. Mohinder hurries to his feet and gathers his case from the other side of the room while the guards stand by, neutral as ever.
"You can't do this," Adam snaps. "I won't let you."
It's too late, Mohinder thinks. He feels sorry. He doesn't want to feel like that for a killer, for someone who nearly wiped out the majority of the human race, for someone whose kill count no doubt rivals Sylar's...
He shakes his head. Adam would kill him right now given the chance - he's certain of that. "I'm sorry," he says anyway. "I'm so sorry."
Adam merely snarls, tipping sideways to lie on the bed. He breathes in short, stabbing gasps.
Mohinder stands watching, waiting. There is sweat on Adam's forehead by the time he stops writhing and gasping. It turns small patches of his blond hair into dark, matted curls. Mohinder moves back over to him. He checks his pulse with two fingers pressed against his wrist - racing - and thoughtfully frowns. "This may sting a little," he tells him. Adam groans at him but doesn't pull his arm away.
Mohinder nips his skin between finger and thumb. His nails dig grooves and a twist causes red to mark the extremely pale skin. Adam watches with him as they both wait for the marks to vanish: nothing happens, nothing at all. The indents from his nails smile maliciously at them.
More conclusively tests will need to be taken, but Mohinder's eyebrows rise. It worked. It actually worked. He could laugh and sing and applaud in delight: Adam's cold eyes force him to restrain his celebrations.
"Congratulations, Suresh," Adam says. His voice rasps, hollow and empty. "You just killed me."
Mohinder stands - he needs some distance between them - and tells himself that his hands aren't shaking. He walks for the door, needing out of there more than he needs successful results, and wilts in relief when the guards exit too and close the door firmly. It locked with a loud thud: Mohinder tries to lock away those feelings of guilt with a similarly strong bolt.
*
When he returns the following day, Adam doesn't even look at him. He is still lying on the bed in the same position that Mohinder left him in. The tests are carried out in silence and Mohinder is unbelievably relieved when he is finished and is able to escape from the choking sadness of this room.
Yet he's back the next day - more tests, more success, more silence.
It isn't until the fifth day that he enters and is subject to Adam’s piercing gaze. "Don't you have lackeys to do this kind of thing?" Adam asks. His accent is more clipped than Mohinder remembers. "Minions, perhaps. I thought that was what you evil scientists were supposed to have."
"I'm not an 'evil scientist'," Mohinder says. "My hair isn't wild enough - or white enough, for that matter."
Adam smirks. "You don't have your guards with you today, Suresh."
"I didn't think they were necessary," Mohinder responds. "Are they?"
"Probably not," Adam says. "I haven't decided yet. I ought to kill you, you know."
Mohinder nods. "That had crossed my mind," he says. "I am sorry for what I did to you. I hadn't realised that it would be so painful. I should have. Rewiring a person's DNA..." It had been foolish to think that such a process would be relatively pain free. "For what it's worth, I think the Company's made a grave error in what we did to you."
"It's not worth a great deal," Adam sniffs, but he pauses before asking, "You weren't involved in selecting me?"
"I was consulted, Mr Monroe, but not 'involved'. As a candidate for a human test subject you're far from ideal. I have no way of knowing if anyone without your ability would have been able to survive what I put you through. And, of course, the Company has lost a valuable resource. Without your blood, I shudder to think how they are going to heal any injuries their employees sustain."
His thoughts flicker uneasily to Claire Bennet - but she is an avenue that is thankfully closed to them now. Her father has made sure of that with the deal he made. She's safe.
Adam watches him curiously for a moment or two longer, before he nods and leans against the wall behind him, still sitting on his small bed. "You're a good man, Suresh," he says.
Mohinder smiles. "I'm certainly trying to be," he answers. It's just so easy to get lost along the way.
When he exits the room an hour later, Elle is waiting for him. She leans against the wall with one spiked heel resting against it. "You should be careful, Mohinder," Elle scolds." "He's playing you."
He restrains the natural urge to roll his eyes. "He is doing no such thing."
Elle looks at him sceptically. "Be careful," she repeats, "You're kind of known for being gullible. It's all that cute 'nobleness' you've got going on. Makes you want to do the right thing, even when the right thing is really the wrong thing and is really the thing that's going to screw us all over. So be careful - and don't trust him."
"Thank you for the warning," Mohinder says. "It's appreciated."
"Just trying to help." Elle pats his shoulder, winks and enters Adam's cell without breaking stride. Mad, absolutely mad. Mohinder walks towards the lift and boards it. The button for the ground floor lights up when he presses it. It's barely mid-morning and already he is so wiped out that he wants to go home.
*
He visits Adam more than is strictly necessary. He likes the sound of his voice, clipped and proper, and the anecdotes that he can tell are so unbelievable that they simply must be true. Historical figures - and Adam's opinions on them - colour his memories happily.
When he walks into his lab on a Monday morning and finds Bob waiting for him - smiling - unease prickles along the back of his neck instantly. "Good morning, Bob," he says, while wondering what on Earth he is doing here and what could have drawn forth such a smile. "Is everything alright?"
"We've got him," Bob explains, kind and fatherly. At Mohinder's frown, he elaborates, "Elle brought him in last night. Sylar."
The world drops away and Mohinder is left scrambling for a response. "I see," he murmurs eventually. It hardly seems adequate.
"As soon as you're ready, Mohinder, we'd like to use the cure on him."
"The cure?" Mohinder's surprise is all too evident. "It could kill him."
"You once tried to shoot a bullet through his skull," Bob says. His voice is too warm for the words he is uttering. "A cure gone wrong is far from something to worry about."
And he's right, Mohinder tells himself. He's right, yet something about the idea of it galls him: his science warped and twisted beyond recognition. He'd wanted to help people, not punish them.
Perhaps Sylar deserves whatever is coming to him. He killed Mohinder's father and showed no remorse. He killed his own mother with barely a second thought. He's most certainly earned whatever happens to him from this point forth.
Yet Mohinder takes his time- he doesn't rush to see him, to lord their victory over him and enjoy the rush of justice finally being served. He wastes time cleaning lab equipment and wiping down the surfaces with alcohol before he can't put it off for any longer. While the vial sits in the fridge - it needs to remain there for six hours, minimum, to allow the liquid to cool - he leaves his laboratory and asks to be accompanied to where they are currently keeping Sylar.
It is white and clean and yet the strange lighting and dark shadows allow it to seem sinister. Sylar is lying down, dressed in oddly childish white clothes, when Mohinder stands on the opposite side of the diving glass. Bruises and cuts stain his face: there is a red burn slashing over the side of his neck. His eyes thunder with a darkness that seems primal.
"Sylar," Mohinder says.
Those eyes dash towards him, cutting through the thick glass. He smirks. "Mohinder," Sylar says as he sits up, rolling his tongue over every single syllable. Mohinder has always hated the way he says his name. "Somehow I'm not surprised to see you here."
"I shouldn't be here at all. I just wanted to see it for myself - you locked up like you deserve."
"I won't be here for long," Sylar states. "They couldn't hold me last time. They won't this time either. Did they tell you what I did to your pretty little girlfriend? She visited me - just like you are now. I--"
"Don't talk about Eden," Mohinder snaps. It hurts, even now, to think of what happened to her. "I'm going to make sure you can't hurt anyone else."
"Really?" He sounds dubious, amused by his attempts.
Mohinder crouches down in front of the glass so that he is low enough to see into Sylar's dark eyes. He remembers a time when those eyes - Zane's eyes - had seemed so soft and harmless. He remembers Sylar's hands on his skin, gentle not murderous. He remembers being tricked, conned and used - and he smirks.
"I have a cure," he says, just loud enough to be heard. "One injection, Sylar. One injection and all of those powers that you stole will be gone for good. No getting them more; no taking more. You'll be just like the rest of us. Normal."
Sylar's hand slams against the thick glass that separates them. "You wouldn't dare," he snarls.
It's Mohinder's turn to smirk now. It's not an expression that he feels comfortable with, but the thudding triumph in his chest allows him to enjoy it. "We'll hand you over to the FBI. You can spend the rest of your life rotting away in a prison cell for what you've done."
"Mohinder," Sylar snaps. His hand thuds once more against the glass. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare."
"You can't stop me," Mohinder says. It's enough to make him feel giddy - high on adrenaline and power like he's free-wheeling down an unstoppable hill. "You earned this, Sylar. All those people you killed... My father. Did you really think you would get away with it? That you were untouchable?"
"If I had my powers..."
Mohinder thinks of the Haitian standing calmly outside. While the Haitian's loyalty to the Company is fluid at best, at times like this he is invaluable. "You don't, though. That's the entire point."
"Mohinder," Sylar snaps again. There's a commanding tone in his voice, the way one would address a misbehaving dog. His gazes sears into Mohinder's eyes, burning. "You're a good man, Mohinder. You won't do this - you can't. It's not the right thing to do." He pauses for a brief moment. "It's unethical."
"You wouldn't leave a loaded gun with a murderer," Mohinder says. He hopes he can makes himself believe this too: it's true, he knows this, but his conscience itches uncomfortably. "You'd remove the weapon. That's all I'll be doing."
"You're chopping off a limb because I might use it to kick somebody," Sylar counters.
"With you there is no 'might'. This is what's best for everybody - for the world at large, for god's sake."
"You don't believe that," Sylar insists. He sounds desperate now. "You can't."
"I do."
Sylar is a danger to everyone around him. This is not merely a case of vengeance and retribution. It's bigger than that.
He stands again - towering far above Sylar and looking down upon his angry face - and shivers in relief when he leaves the area, plunging outside into the relative warmth of the corridor. He chokes for air as he feels the Haitian's eyes resting upon him. The door shuts, locks, behind him.
"Mohinder," the Haitian asks. His accent pitter-patters like polite raindrops. "Is everything alright?"
Mohinder swallows. Nods. "Fine. Everything is fine." He doesn't think that is true but it doesn't matter, not really. "I need to see Bob," he says decisively.
The Haitian stands at his post and doesn't attempt to follow him as he rushes down the hallway - but his route does not take him straight to Bob's office. It leads him to another cell, just as dangerous. He types in the security code and feels the tension spring loose from his shoulders when he steps inside and closes the door tightly behind him.
"Well this is certainly unexpected," Adam comments - but he doesn't sound particularly surprised at all. Pleased, perhaps. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
"Sylar," Mohinder answers, head buzzing. "Sylar, they caught him. They..."
Adam sits up from his bed and swings his bare feet around until they touch the floor. Compared to Sylar's open menace, Adam hardly seems threatening at all. "Who's Sylar?"
"He's..." Where to start? How on Earth do you even start with this story? Mohinder wets his lips. He looks towards Adam but not at him directly. His eyes are slightly off-target. "He killed my father."
"Ah," Adam says, as if that explains a great deal more than it actually does. "Is that all?"
"'Is that-' Are you serious?"
"I only mean that the murder of one man seems a startlingly small crime for the Company to be interested in. They usually aim a little higher than that."
"He's been collecting powers," Mohinder explains, his voice bleak and dead. "He cuts the scalps from peoples' heads and - God, I don't know. I don't want to know."
"Unusual, for a scientist. I thought you people were all about the endless quest for knowledge."
"Not like this. Not with him." Mohinder shakes his head. He shudders and closes his eyes: he can see Dale's body instantly in the darkness behind his eyelids. "I knew him," he says impulsively. "He tricked me into thinking that he was someone he wasn't... We went travelling together. Only for a few days, but..."
His stupidity is almost enough to make him laugh. It seems a long time ago now. He was a lot younger then. So much has changed. So much about him has changed.
Adam watches him impassively, thoughtfully. It's impossible to tell what is going on behind those frightfully blue eyes of his: Mohinder thinks that that is yet another thing that he probably doesn't want to know.
"He 'tricked' you, you said?" Adam asks. He stands from his bed in a movement so fluid it is almost reptilian. "In my experience, people believe what they want to believe, Professor. All they need is one little push."
He walks forward - close, too close, much too close - and Mohinder retreats at exactly the same speed. This is not a large cell, however. In no time at all, his back thuds against the closed door.
"What did he push you into believing?" Adam asks, soft like a lover's caress. His hand raises and brushes as soft as his voice over the stubble on Mohinder's jaw. "Hmm?" he prompts.
"I was going to visit a man named Zane Taylor. He was on my father's list of individuals carrying the genetic marker that would give them the potential to manifest these - these abilities." Adam's fingers are skimming over his throat while his eyes watch him with horrifying intensity. Mohinder swallows. "Sylar got there first. Stole his identity. Made me believe that he was Zane.
"And then the two of you set off on the road together?" Adam checks. His fingers still stroke soft, thoughtful lines over Mohinder's neck. Any sane person would have surely pushed him away by this point. "It sounds to me as if you were rather willing to let yourself be fooled. Were you lonely, Suresh?"
Mohinder scowls. "I did not willingly believe that a serial killer was a harmless musician purely because I was 'lonely'. That's ridiculous."
"Of course it is," Adam murmurs agreeably, "but you were lonely, weren't you?"
"I-"
"And he did help?" Adam asks. Mohinder flounders, searching for an answer to him. He doesn't want to say anything at all but he fears that it is already a long lost cause. "Will you tell me how? I think I already know, but I'd like to hear it from the horse's mouth, so to speak."
"We shared a hotel room," Mohinder admits. "Twice."
"Mm," Adam hums. "You make it sound so delightfully innocent. Did he fuck you? I think he did. I think you must get off on the danger that comes with it - and I think that's why you keep visiting me. Flattering, really." His thumb drags over Mohinder's bottom lip. You need to push him away, Mohinder thinks. You need to let him know he's wrong.
He doesn't resist when Adam's thumb presses against his lower lip. His lips part, his mouth opens a bare fraction, and Adam's thumb enters his mouth. His tongue flickers over the tip and skims along the ridge of his nail: it's enough to make Adam groan, a sound that shouldn't entrance him half as much as it does.
"You come into this place every day, inviting someone to come along and corrupt you," Adam murmurs. He presses closer, his body pinning Mohinder firmly against the wall behind him. His thumb is pulled from Mohinder's mouth and he uses that hand to rest on his shoulder and hold him tightly in place. Their lips brush - not a kiss, not quite, not yet. "One of these days I'm going to have to take you up on that offer."
His hand glides down Mohinder's side until he reaches the bottom of his shirt. Greedily he slips under the material: Mohinder jerks and curses when Adam's cool fingers touch his bare skin.
"In the meantime," Adam whispers, "go. Take care of your unfinished business. Get rid of Sylar's powers; avenge your father's death. I'll still be here in the morning."
He steps back - the air rapidly rushes back into the room. Mohinder drinks it eagerly as he feels his rational mind coming to life once more. Adam smirks after him as he retreats, flooding from the room and trying to escape. With every second that passes his world turns a little more topsy-turvy. He no longer knows how to set anything right again.
He does, however, know the right place to start: Sylar.
*
Sylar looks bizarrely human, held down to the table. White straps hold him in place. They don't quite keep him still but it's close enough. Mohinder stands at the side of the room, hands neutral by his sides. The Haitian is beside him, silent and steady. He's asked Bob if someone else could perform the procedure. One injection, just one injection, but he doesn't think he could do it himself.
"Mohinder," Sylar calls, turning his head as much as he can. "Mohinder, get over here. Now." He breathes unsteadily through his nose. "Please."
He wishes he could ignore him and stay on the spot, completely unaffected by anything Sylar could say, but he steps forward as if called by a siren. In the corner of the room, the doctor endlessly rearranges items on the shelves: her version of giving them privacy.
"There must be a way you can stop this," Sylar urges when Mohinder stands by the side of the surgical table.
"There probably is," Mohinder says - thought he doubts it. The Company's decisions are far beyond his control and it's much too late now. "I don't want to."
"I won't hurt any more people," Sylar promises in a ragged whisper. "I won't do anything. I'll leave the country. You'll never have to see me again - just let me keep my powers. I need them, Mohinder. I need them."
"The rest of us manage fine without the aid of telekinesis or anything else you've got up your sleeve. What makes you so special?"
Sylar flinches from that word as if the very sound of it burns him. "Please, Mohinder," he whispers. Dry and empty. Defeated. Mohinder doesn't trust it for an instant.
He straightens up and steps away, back to his position at the side of the room: in response the weak and pleading façade that Sylar has cultivated drops. He snarls and thrashes on the table, struggling wildly like a cornered animal. The sounds are inhuman. His fists thump against the table to no avail. No escape. Mohinder's hand is trembling as he watches it but his jaw is set. He is prepared for the repercussions of his actions. The consequences.
He nods at the doctor and she moves forward, needle ready. He doesn't look as she plunges it into the soft inside of Sylar's arm, as Mohinder's cure is injected into his blood supply, as she steps back and they wait. With the Haitian nearby it will impossible to test whether it worked, Mohinder realises.
It is the erratic beeping of the monitor that attracts Mohinder's gaze first. A blip in the beating and then - faster. Faster. Ever faster. Sylar's breathing catches. He groans loudly and tries to move, tries to do anything to escape the pain shooting through his veins. Nothing. Nothing at all. No relief to be found.
The doctor surges forwards but Mohinder stays on the spot, staring blindly as Sylar's body twists in burning agony. Sweat beads. Silent screams fall. Eyes - dark, wild, pleading - beg with words his proud lips can't form.
Please, they say, save me.
Mohinder holds a life in his hand, a thing as gentle and fragile as a newly emerged butterfly. He stares down at his father's killer, as blank as he is cold.
"Professor?" the doctor says - struggling, at a loss. This is uncharted territory. "Professor Suresh, what do we do? We're losing him."
Nearly paralysed in the throes of an agonising death, Sylar's eyes beg for forgiveness, for absolution, for help - and Mohinder has the luxury of withholding it.
He turns his back and walks to the door.
"Professor!" the doctor calls desperately. "What should we do?"
He doesn't allow himself to look back. "Let him die," he says, though it goes against everything he once stood for.
It's no great loss to the world, he thinks when the doors close mercifully behind him. Nobody will miss him.
*
"I thought I'd feel... different," Mohinder admits. He stands at the opposite side of the cell from Adam, a few paces stretching between them. "He's dead. He's really dead. By all rights I should be celebrating."
"But instead?"
"Instead there's nothing," he says. "At the end of the day I went home to Matt and Molly, like I do every day. I made dinner, like I do every day. I nagged Matt for not doing the laundry, like I do every day. Nothing's different. Sylar died but nothing has changed."
Adam frowns thoughtfully but he offers no heavy pearls of wisdom. Mohinder sighs. He should get back to work - he needs to discover what went wrong with the cure to make it go so dreadfully wrong. Bob has given him mountains of paperwork - as a punishment, Mohinder thinks - to fill in about 'the incident'. The wrong dosage, Mohinder hopes, but if it's something more fundamental than that then it's right back to the drawing board.
Adam is watching him still, waiting for an explanation that Mohinder doesn't know how to give him.
"I've been waiting for this moment for so long," Mohinder says eventually. "I've imagined it, dreamed of it, ever since I first heard of my father's death. Now that it's happened, I suppose I find myself rather at a loss. Rudderless."
"Aimless."
"Exactly," Mohinder confirms. Aimless - it's something he's certain is not a good state for any scientist to find himself in - but he has discovered a cure and he has avenged his father's death. There's nothing left for him now.
"I think," Adam muses, "that what we need to do is find you an entirely new aim. Something new for you to work towards." His eyes glint with intelligent malevolence. Mohinder's certain that he should be terrified, but he blooms into it instead. "What do you say, Suresh?"
Mohinder smiles and ducks his head, looking down at his shoes for as long as it takes to collect his thoughts. "I'd say that sounds like an excellent idea, Mr Monroe."
A new beginning, he thinks. Perhaps his prediction for the future hadn't been so off-course after all.
*
As it turns out, the new aim is exactly the same as one of the old ones - more or less. Once he has released Adam it gets easier, more fluid than the plan ever was with Bennet at its helm. Bring the Company down. A simple mission statement - and it's so easy with the cure on their side.
"I'm sorry for this, Peter. Truly," Adam says when he stands over Peter's gasping body, empty needle in hand. "It had to be done."
The powers fade from Peter's body as they watch until he is no longer a threat to them: he is normal, like everybody else. Panting. "Still breathing," Adam notes. He sounds impressed. "You're getting better at this, Suresh."
Mohinder nods to accept the compliment. Practice makes perfect, or something like that. He thinks he must have the concentration about right by now. He mutters his own apologies to Peter - thinking back to their first meeting all that time ago it's difficult to understand how they could have ended up here - then he walks to Adam's side. Together they leave the household and stride on to the next part of Adam's plan. Footsteps steady, fast, confident.
There's a whole world out there waiting to be changed - and although Mohinder shivers as they step into the dawn, he can't think of anyone better suited to change it than themselves.