(no subject)
Strange Condition
by Harikari
-----
Part Four
1614 Bloomfield Avenue was quiet and still. Mohinder was standing in the living room - his brown eyes sweeping over the worn and sagging recliner, the pea green couch, the large window (sunlight was shining through the gaps in the blinds that were covering the window, lending a comfortable glow to the otherwise dark room). The coffee table was on its side. The television had toppled over; shards of what had once been its screen littered the carpet.
"He's not here," came Sylar's voice. And then in a softer tone, "No one's here." The killer was in Harris' kitchen.
Mohinder said nothing. Despite the anxiety he'd felt (a tightness in his throat, a horrible pulling feeling in his gut) while stepping into Jake Harris' house and walking down the narrow entrance hallway that led into the sitting room he’d been fairly sure - somewhere in the back of his mind - that the serial killer was intelligent enough that he wouldn’t have marched into the house of someone he considered dangerous in quite so careless a fashion if that person had been home. Sylar had probably heard the lack of movement or a heartbeat inside of the house before they'd even parked and stepped out of the Ford.
And Harris...Jake Harris had fled. Had disappeared just as Mohinder had assumed he would. Thankfully. If Harris hadn't fled, if he'd stayed... The geneticist's mind conjured up images of a limp and bleeding Jake Harris, of Sylar leaning over the older man, of himself watching in stunned horror as Harris screamed and -
Stop, he thought. Breathed.
He took a step forward; faltered when he heard a crunch sound and felt something give under his tennis shoe. The glass from the television. He maneuvered around it, moved toward the kitchen (he could hear what sounded like the killer shutting and opening drawers and cabinets, shuffling their contents around), stopped abruptly when he caught sight of something on the floor. Something black, mirror like. It was a cell phone, his cell phone (he realized it must have fallen out of his pocket the night before when he'd been knocked unconscious). The phone was on the shag carpet next to the overturned coffee table, scattered amongst gray and black ash and pieces of what had once been an ashtray. Sunlight was reflecting off of the black plastic that was the cell phone's frame, making it shine.
Mohinder swallowed. Shot a quick, somewhat panicked look at the open air doorway that was the entrance to the kitchen. Having his cell phone would be a good thing - a very good thing. He could keep it hidden from Sylar until the opportunity arose to call someone. It would be much easier than first trying to escape his captor and then trying to contact someone. It was something that he might actually be able to pull off.
The geneticist stepped over to the mess of ash and broken pieces of ashtray; knelt. He reached for the cell phone (its screen was blank - the phone was off), shoved it into his jacket's pocket. Then he tensed to get up - paused when he spotted the edge of what looked like a rather ragged paper peaking out from under the recliner. Automatically, he reached for the paper; looked at it.
It was a photo. A black and white photo of two people - a young man and a girl standing in front of a large, somewhat old fashioned car. The man was smiling and had his arm thrown casually over the little girl's shoulders. The girl’s face was pudgy with baby fat, and it looked as if whoever had been working the camera had caught her in the middle of a laugh. Mohinder stared at the photo; wondered if the man in it was a young Jake Harris.
Maybe, he thought. The picture had been tucked under a chair in Harris' house. And the young man smiling in the photo certainly looked enough like Jake Harris' that it could be a picture of him from years before. The geneticist's eyes strayed to the little girl in the picture. Who-
"Nothing," said Sylar from somewhere close. Mohinder shot up from the floor, spun around. The serial killer was looming in the kitchen's gaping doorway; staring.
"What?" asked Mohinder, startled.
The killer didn't answer. He walked slowly over to the geneticist, gestured at the photo. "What is that?"
Mohinder looked down at the picture; shrugged. "I just...it was under the chair." And suddenly his throat felt like it might close up, was closing up. What if the man had seen him kneel? Had seen him grab the cell phone and stuff it in his pocket?
No, he thought, trying to calm himself. No, he didn't see.
Sylar took the photo from him. The serial killer stared at it with what appeared to be disinterest for a few seconds, then pushed it back into Mohinder's grasp. "There's nothing useful here," he said. "Let's go."
But the man didn't move. He just pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes to slits, stared with a frown at the furniture surrounding them.
Mohinder folded the already creased, old photo in half before shoving it into his jacket's inside pocket. "What were you hoping to find?" he pried. The killer didn't answer - but the geneticist could guess. Sylar had probably been looking to find something that would tell him where Harris had disappeared to, had perhaps even been hoping for something that would explain Harris and his ability. Something that would reveal just how in the world the older man had been able to escape, to rival the powerful killer.
"What..." Mohinder started, then trailed off. He looked again at the thrashed living room - the shattered television and the uprooted coffee table and the ash from the broken ashtray smudged into the carpet. "How did he get away from you?" Sylar turned to look at him. "You said Mr. Harris' ability isn't telekinesis. So what is it? How did he get away from you? What did he do?"
Sylar shook his head. "I don't know," he said. He looked troubled.
Mohinder blinked. "Wha-"
"I threw that bastard at the wall, I launched razor sharp shards of ice at him." The killer stopped; gazed directly into the geneticist's eyes. "But..." A pause. "It was almost like..." he trailed off. Didn't continue.
"Like what?"
Sylar shook his head again. His mouth curved into a grin. "Always the curious scientist," he said. His grin shifted to an ugly scowl. He placed one large hand on Mohinder's shoulder; slid the hand up until he was partially gripping his captive's neck. "Jake Harris doesn't matter. What Harris can do doesn't matter. I'm going to find him and I'm going to end him." The hand on the geneticist's neck tightened. Mohinder jerked away and out of reach, and the killer let him. "That's all that matters, Mohinder." He backed away, started for the door. "Come on."
Mohinder breathed.
What the serial killer claimed wasn't true. Not at all. Jake Harris and his ability did matter. Because Harris' house was where the geneticist had been when he'd discovered that the super powered serial killer many people thought dead was actually very much alive. Because Harris was an innocent man - probably a man with a family and friends - and Sylar was striving to murder him. Because Harris had gone up against Sylar and had survived. Because the man might very well be the only one (considering the fact that Peter Petrelli was missing and possibly dead) capable of stopping the killer.
He might be the only one capable of saving me.
Mohinder worked at his bottom lip with his teeth. The cell phone in his pocket felt unnaturally heavy. He took a last long look at the thrashed living room, hurried down the entrance hallway and out the front door.
Sylar was shoving one of his bags into the silver Kia Rio. The geneticist could see the rest of the man's luggage, along with the leather messenger bag Mohinder had left in the car when he'd first visited Harris, already piled on the car's back seat. "Time to change vehicles," he said. And, "You're driving." The serial killer dropped into the passenger's seat, slammed the car door.
Mohinder felt like screaming, like running, like doing anything but what his captor was telling him to do. Pick your battles.
He shot a look at the now abandoned Ford, then walked around to the Kia's driver's side and got in. "Where to?" he asked, fingers closing tight around the steering wheel. And then his thoughts turned to the vehicle's keys. Where did I put them? he wondered. Did I drop them in Harris' house or -
Sylar's wrist jerked and the car's engine came to life.
"Just...drive. I'll tell you when to stop."
The geneticist put the little silver car in 'drive', pulled away from the tan Ford and from 1614 Bloomfield Avenue.
Part Five
by Harikari
-----
Part Four
1614 Bloomfield Avenue was quiet and still. Mohinder was standing in the living room - his brown eyes sweeping over the worn and sagging recliner, the pea green couch, the large window (sunlight was shining through the gaps in the blinds that were covering the window, lending a comfortable glow to the otherwise dark room). The coffee table was on its side. The television had toppled over; shards of what had once been its screen littered the carpet.
"He's not here," came Sylar's voice. And then in a softer tone, "No one's here." The killer was in Harris' kitchen.
Mohinder said nothing. Despite the anxiety he'd felt (a tightness in his throat, a horrible pulling feeling in his gut) while stepping into Jake Harris' house and walking down the narrow entrance hallway that led into the sitting room he’d been fairly sure - somewhere in the back of his mind - that the serial killer was intelligent enough that he wouldn’t have marched into the house of someone he considered dangerous in quite so careless a fashion if that person had been home. Sylar had probably heard the lack of movement or a heartbeat inside of the house before they'd even parked and stepped out of the Ford.
And Harris...Jake Harris had fled. Had disappeared just as Mohinder had assumed he would. Thankfully. If Harris hadn't fled, if he'd stayed... The geneticist's mind conjured up images of a limp and bleeding Jake Harris, of Sylar leaning over the older man, of himself watching in stunned horror as Harris screamed and -
Stop, he thought. Breathed.
He took a step forward; faltered when he heard a crunch sound and felt something give under his tennis shoe. The glass from the television. He maneuvered around it, moved toward the kitchen (he could hear what sounded like the killer shutting and opening drawers and cabinets, shuffling their contents around), stopped abruptly when he caught sight of something on the floor. Something black, mirror like. It was a cell phone, his cell phone (he realized it must have fallen out of his pocket the night before when he'd been knocked unconscious). The phone was on the shag carpet next to the overturned coffee table, scattered amongst gray and black ash and pieces of what had once been an ashtray. Sunlight was reflecting off of the black plastic that was the cell phone's frame, making it shine.
Mohinder swallowed. Shot a quick, somewhat panicked look at the open air doorway that was the entrance to the kitchen. Having his cell phone would be a good thing - a very good thing. He could keep it hidden from Sylar until the opportunity arose to call someone. It would be much easier than first trying to escape his captor and then trying to contact someone. It was something that he might actually be able to pull off.
The geneticist stepped over to the mess of ash and broken pieces of ashtray; knelt. He reached for the cell phone (its screen was blank - the phone was off), shoved it into his jacket's pocket. Then he tensed to get up - paused when he spotted the edge of what looked like a rather ragged paper peaking out from under the recliner. Automatically, he reached for the paper; looked at it.
It was a photo. A black and white photo of two people - a young man and a girl standing in front of a large, somewhat old fashioned car. The man was smiling and had his arm thrown casually over the little girl's shoulders. The girl’s face was pudgy with baby fat, and it looked as if whoever had been working the camera had caught her in the middle of a laugh. Mohinder stared at the photo; wondered if the man in it was a young Jake Harris.
Maybe, he thought. The picture had been tucked under a chair in Harris' house. And the young man smiling in the photo certainly looked enough like Jake Harris' that it could be a picture of him from years before. The geneticist's eyes strayed to the little girl in the picture. Who-
"Nothing," said Sylar from somewhere close. Mohinder shot up from the floor, spun around. The serial killer was looming in the kitchen's gaping doorway; staring.
"What?" asked Mohinder, startled.
The killer didn't answer. He walked slowly over to the geneticist, gestured at the photo. "What is that?"
Mohinder looked down at the picture; shrugged. "I just...it was under the chair." And suddenly his throat felt like it might close up, was closing up. What if the man had seen him kneel? Had seen him grab the cell phone and stuff it in his pocket?
No, he thought, trying to calm himself. No, he didn't see.
Sylar took the photo from him. The serial killer stared at it with what appeared to be disinterest for a few seconds, then pushed it back into Mohinder's grasp. "There's nothing useful here," he said. "Let's go."
But the man didn't move. He just pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes to slits, stared with a frown at the furniture surrounding them.
Mohinder folded the already creased, old photo in half before shoving it into his jacket's inside pocket. "What were you hoping to find?" he pried. The killer didn't answer - but the geneticist could guess. Sylar had probably been looking to find something that would tell him where Harris had disappeared to, had perhaps even been hoping for something that would explain Harris and his ability. Something that would reveal just how in the world the older man had been able to escape, to rival the powerful killer.
"What..." Mohinder started, then trailed off. He looked again at the thrashed living room - the shattered television and the uprooted coffee table and the ash from the broken ashtray smudged into the carpet. "How did he get away from you?" Sylar turned to look at him. "You said Mr. Harris' ability isn't telekinesis. So what is it? How did he get away from you? What did he do?"
Sylar shook his head. "I don't know," he said. He looked troubled.
Mohinder blinked. "Wha-"
"I threw that bastard at the wall, I launched razor sharp shards of ice at him." The killer stopped; gazed directly into the geneticist's eyes. "But..." A pause. "It was almost like..." he trailed off. Didn't continue.
"Like what?"
Sylar shook his head again. His mouth curved into a grin. "Always the curious scientist," he said. His grin shifted to an ugly scowl. He placed one large hand on Mohinder's shoulder; slid the hand up until he was partially gripping his captive's neck. "Jake Harris doesn't matter. What Harris can do doesn't matter. I'm going to find him and I'm going to end him." The hand on the geneticist's neck tightened. Mohinder jerked away and out of reach, and the killer let him. "That's all that matters, Mohinder." He backed away, started for the door. "Come on."
Mohinder breathed.
What the serial killer claimed wasn't true. Not at all. Jake Harris and his ability did matter. Because Harris' house was where the geneticist had been when he'd discovered that the super powered serial killer many people thought dead was actually very much alive. Because Harris was an innocent man - probably a man with a family and friends - and Sylar was striving to murder him. Because Harris had gone up against Sylar and had survived. Because the man might very well be the only one (considering the fact that Peter Petrelli was missing and possibly dead) capable of stopping the killer.
He might be the only one capable of saving me.
Mohinder worked at his bottom lip with his teeth. The cell phone in his pocket felt unnaturally heavy. He took a last long look at the thrashed living room, hurried down the entrance hallway and out the front door.
Sylar was shoving one of his bags into the silver Kia Rio. The geneticist could see the rest of the man's luggage, along with the leather messenger bag Mohinder had left in the car when he'd first visited Harris, already piled on the car's back seat. "Time to change vehicles," he said. And, "You're driving." The serial killer dropped into the passenger's seat, slammed the car door.
Mohinder felt like screaming, like running, like doing anything but what his captor was telling him to do. Pick your battles.
He shot a look at the now abandoned Ford, then walked around to the Kia's driver's side and got in. "Where to?" he asked, fingers closing tight around the steering wheel. And then his thoughts turned to the vehicle's keys. Where did I put them? he wondered. Did I drop them in Harris' house or -
Sylar's wrist jerked and the car's engine came to life.
"Just...drive. I'll tell you when to stop."
The geneticist put the little silver car in 'drive', pulled away from the tan Ford and from 1614 Bloomfield Avenue.
Part Five