Heroes: Iteration (gen, PG)
Title: Iteration
Author: fool_of_ships
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of characters, plot, or other elements copyrighted by TPTB of Heroes.
Character(s): Sylar; hints of Sylar/Mohinder and Sylar/Maya
Summary: The future needs someone to explain what happened in the past. But it's not going to like the answer.
Spoilers: Through 2.06 "The Line"
A/N: Written for heroes_las Round 1 Challenge #4. Posted to heroes_fic. It's been Jossed but good, and I don't care. Long live AUs!
"Mr. Gray. You realize that you carry no natural immunity to this virus."
He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to answer; the loudspeaker doesn't expect it. They've been careful with him, much more than they need to be. He hasn't seen a live person since Peter Petrelli frog-marched him through the complex and sealed the cell door behind him. It was humiliating, being easily corralled by a man he'd almost taken down not five months ago; and it was odd the way Peter didn't seem to hold a grudge. Collecting him was an order to be followed, a mission to be completed, nothing more. Peter had just calmly blipped into existence beside him in the desert and brought him to this wasteland joke of a city. It was an imperfect teleport, placing them in the littered streets instead of this bunker, and it's all the chance he's had to take in his real surroundings. A pity; there are a few places he wouldn't mind visiting, now that they're gloriously empty. He's not sure he'd survive to see the real thing in his own timeline, or if would even happen. Space-time is a continuum, and without him, events could be different. Maybe he's still special after all.
"We don't want to condemn you to death," the speaker continues. He imagines the processed voice sounds like Mohinder, but that could just be delirium. Delirium, and wishful thinking. "I'm sure you're well acquainted by now with the mechanism of infection."
They've made sure of that: his faceless, nameless captors stocked the cell with reading materials and diagrams on some sort of virus. Microbiology is mostly new to him-his talents lie in...specialized physiology-but someone has been hard at work making the material easy to grasp. The virus, the one dominating the literature, is a retrovirus, capable of preying on its host to methodically dismantle its surroundings cell by cell. And the first symptom, for those lucky enough to display it, is the loss of the same abilities he's trying to get back. Only, he knows it would kill him whether or not he can throw the textbooks around the room in a mental whirlwind. And he knows, now, that a simple aerosol will start the process, but he's sure there won't be any fog hissing into the cell until he's given them what they want. "Very well acquainted, thank you for that. Will there be a quiz later?"
"Are you prepared for one?"
Well, now. That's an answer he hadn't expected. "I've always been good at pass/fail," he says, feeling the grin stretch across his face. He remembers places, dates: initial outbreak, Falls Church, Virginia, November 12, 2007. Six victims, local miscreants, all acquainted, some with criminal records. Two-week course of illness; one hundred percent fatality.
He could swear the loudspeaker sighs. "Watch the wall, Mr. Gray," it says, and the lights dim. A projector, somewhere in the ceiling, spews a candy-colored world map over one dingy cell wall, green dots glowing on the eastern seaboard. Slide by slide, dates and dots advance. December brings clusters in Texas and Russia; by January, Brazil and Australia have exploded in green light. The clock moves forward by weeks, dots melding into one another until the continents are outlined in light, a sick parody of a nighttime satellite view. And then...it goes dark. April, May, June are marked by barely a flicker. He knows it's not a cure; like today, there is simply no one left.
"Impressive," he says. "Who created it?" Because there's no way this is simple evolution. Avian flu, HIV, MRSA have all taken their time. Nature, the gears in his mind say, is not this swift.
"You're not here to find that out," says the speaker. "What we need is the vector. A...patient zero."
The gears snap into place with almost audible relief. It would be pathetic as well as familiar, this scrabbling search for a pinpoint, except that in this world, someone remembered him. Someone sent Peter back from this shithole of claustrophobia to retrieve him, of all people, to solve it. Because...he knows how things work. "And you need my help. How nice."
"With your assistance, this can all be avoided," the speaker says, and he can't help laughing. "I fail to see how this is amusing."
"You're amusing," he says. "You have me kidnapped while I'm defenseless, you lock me up with your library and a death threat, and you know full well I don't survive your perfect holocaust or you wouldn't need to steal me from the past."
"Then think of this as a chance to save yourself."
He doubts it, but he'll tell them anyway. "What you're looking for is a carrier. Someone who can infect six people at once and not die. Have you really not found that yet?" There's no answer; he imagines the computerized Mohinder glaring at him in beautiful exasperation. "Pity. I have."
"What do you-"
"She was right beside me when Peter arrived," he continues, picturing Maya asleep, reaching for him in the darkness of the stolen car. "A wonderful ability. Area of effect. Reversible death. Of course, she can't reverse it herself." One final piece. "But if she could. If someone could. If they drained off your virus along with her plague. If they could spread it as well, and the virus went along for the ride."
"You're talking about acquiring powers," says the speaker.
"Acquiring," he repeats. "Not necessarily stealing. Have you talked to Peter lately? Found out what he did on his spring break?" But he knows they won't consider it. He wouldn't either. Easier to believe Gabriel the messenger becoming the angel of death.
The speaker stays silent, and he wonders if they plan to kill him now. They might; he wouldn't blame them. Much. But it doesn't matter who the vector is. It's inevitable, sooner or later.
In the end, it's just another mutation.
Author: fool_of_ships
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of characters, plot, or other elements copyrighted by TPTB of Heroes.
Character(s): Sylar; hints of Sylar/Mohinder and Sylar/Maya
Summary: The future needs someone to explain what happened in the past. But it's not going to like the answer.
Spoilers: Through 2.06 "The Line"
A/N: Written for heroes_las Round 1 Challenge #4. Posted to heroes_fic. It's been Jossed but good, and I don't care. Long live AUs!
"Mr. Gray. You realize that you carry no natural immunity to this virus."
He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to answer; the loudspeaker doesn't expect it. They've been careful with him, much more than they need to be. He hasn't seen a live person since Peter Petrelli frog-marched him through the complex and sealed the cell door behind him. It was humiliating, being easily corralled by a man he'd almost taken down not five months ago; and it was odd the way Peter didn't seem to hold a grudge. Collecting him was an order to be followed, a mission to be completed, nothing more. Peter had just calmly blipped into existence beside him in the desert and brought him to this wasteland joke of a city. It was an imperfect teleport, placing them in the littered streets instead of this bunker, and it's all the chance he's had to take in his real surroundings. A pity; there are a few places he wouldn't mind visiting, now that they're gloriously empty. He's not sure he'd survive to see the real thing in his own timeline, or if would even happen. Space-time is a continuum, and without him, events could be different. Maybe he's still special after all.
"We don't want to condemn you to death," the speaker continues. He imagines the processed voice sounds like Mohinder, but that could just be delirium. Delirium, and wishful thinking. "I'm sure you're well acquainted by now with the mechanism of infection."
They've made sure of that: his faceless, nameless captors stocked the cell with reading materials and diagrams on some sort of virus. Microbiology is mostly new to him-his talents lie in...specialized physiology-but someone has been hard at work making the material easy to grasp. The virus, the one dominating the literature, is a retrovirus, capable of preying on its host to methodically dismantle its surroundings cell by cell. And the first symptom, for those lucky enough to display it, is the loss of the same abilities he's trying to get back. Only, he knows it would kill him whether or not he can throw the textbooks around the room in a mental whirlwind. And he knows, now, that a simple aerosol will start the process, but he's sure there won't be any fog hissing into the cell until he's given them what they want. "Very well acquainted, thank you for that. Will there be a quiz later?"
"Are you prepared for one?"
Well, now. That's an answer he hadn't expected. "I've always been good at pass/fail," he says, feeling the grin stretch across his face. He remembers places, dates: initial outbreak, Falls Church, Virginia, November 12, 2007. Six victims, local miscreants, all acquainted, some with criminal records. Two-week course of illness; one hundred percent fatality.
He could swear the loudspeaker sighs. "Watch the wall, Mr. Gray," it says, and the lights dim. A projector, somewhere in the ceiling, spews a candy-colored world map over one dingy cell wall, green dots glowing on the eastern seaboard. Slide by slide, dates and dots advance. December brings clusters in Texas and Russia; by January, Brazil and Australia have exploded in green light. The clock moves forward by weeks, dots melding into one another until the continents are outlined in light, a sick parody of a nighttime satellite view. And then...it goes dark. April, May, June are marked by barely a flicker. He knows it's not a cure; like today, there is simply no one left.
"Impressive," he says. "Who created it?" Because there's no way this is simple evolution. Avian flu, HIV, MRSA have all taken their time. Nature, the gears in his mind say, is not this swift.
"You're not here to find that out," says the speaker. "What we need is the vector. A...patient zero."
The gears snap into place with almost audible relief. It would be pathetic as well as familiar, this scrabbling search for a pinpoint, except that in this world, someone remembered him. Someone sent Peter back from this shithole of claustrophobia to retrieve him, of all people, to solve it. Because...he knows how things work. "And you need my help. How nice."
"With your assistance, this can all be avoided," the speaker says, and he can't help laughing. "I fail to see how this is amusing."
"You're amusing," he says. "You have me kidnapped while I'm defenseless, you lock me up with your library and a death threat, and you know full well I don't survive your perfect holocaust or you wouldn't need to steal me from the past."
"Then think of this as a chance to save yourself."
He doubts it, but he'll tell them anyway. "What you're looking for is a carrier. Someone who can infect six people at once and not die. Have you really not found that yet?" There's no answer; he imagines the computerized Mohinder glaring at him in beautiful exasperation. "Pity. I have."
"What do you-"
"She was right beside me when Peter arrived," he continues, picturing Maya asleep, reaching for him in the darkness of the stolen car. "A wonderful ability. Area of effect. Reversible death. Of course, she can't reverse it herself." One final piece. "But if she could. If someone could. If they drained off your virus along with her plague. If they could spread it as well, and the virus went along for the ride."
"You're talking about acquiring powers," says the speaker.
"Acquiring," he repeats. "Not necessarily stealing. Have you talked to Peter lately? Found out what he did on his spring break?" But he knows they won't consider it. He wouldn't either. Easier to believe Gabriel the messenger becoming the angel of death.
The speaker stays silent, and he wonders if they plan to kill him now. They might; he wouldn't blame them. Much. But it doesn't matter who the vector is. It's inevitable, sooner or later.
In the end, it's just another mutation.