(no subject)
Strange Condition
by Harikari
-----
Part Eight
Mohinder woke to pain. His entire left side was sore, his neck was burning, and...his hip. The area just above his right hip was stinging, hurting. He groaned; opened his eyes.
Deja vu, he thought when he saw nothing but whiteness. A pillow. He was face down and in a bed, was staring into a pillow.
Being kidnapped, the drawing, Molly's voice mail message, Jake Harris appearing and attacking him... All of the memories of the last few days and nights seeped slowly to the forefront of his mind. Harris, he thought, still mostly asleep. Still dazed. His last memory was of Jake Harris and Sylar readying to fight. What happened? he wondered. And, feeling strangely anxious for the serial killer, he shifted. Moved to get up.
He pushed himself to his elbows; let out a sound that was something between a whine and a gasp when the stinging feeling near his hip became a pulling, tearing sensation. In pain and suddenly exhausted (his breathing was coming harsh and fast), he dropped back down onto the bed.
"You'll be okay," came a voice from somewhere above him. Sylar's voice. Mohinder started, attempted to roll over. But before he had managed to move the killer had a hand at the back of his head; was running fingers through his hair.
Mohinder breathed. Felt is as the hand touching his head traveled south to the back of his neck, his bare shoulders.
Bare. With a start, the geneticist realized he wasn't wearing a shirt, that the jeans he'd pulled on that morning were gone. He was on a bed - on top of its sheets and blanket - wearing only his boxers.
He jerked away from the fingers lingering on his shoulders. Managed, finally (and with considerable trouble), to roll over and face the serial killer.
"Sylar," he panted. "What happened?"
"Jake Harris," hissed the killer. "He found us."
Mohinder nodded distractedly; stared at the bandage that was covering most of his right hip. It was turning red. "What did he do?" he asked after a moment. "What happened? Did you...kill him?"
Slowly, Sylar shook his head.
Mohinder blinked. He felt tired, sluggish. "He got away?"
"Not exactly."
"Then what happened?"
The killer pursed his lips. His eyes narrowed. "You're bleeding." He dropped down onto the edge of the bed, started to reach for the now soiled bandage. Mohinder took in a shaky breath. The killer paused; hovered.
There was a stretch of silence.
"I wouldn't have gone after you," Sylar said abruptly.
"What?" asked the geneticist. The comment made no sense to his exhausted mind, had come from nowhere.
"I wouldn't have gone after you," he said again. "The drawing...I wouldn't have gone after you. I was going to let it go, let it..."
Sylar trailed off. He licked at his lips, visibly swallowed. He seemed nervous. Actually nervous.
"But you were there when I went for Harris and I..." He stopped again.
Mohinder stared; he didn't know how to react to what he was hearing, could hardly believe what he was hearing.
The larger man slid closer to his captive, leaned in. "And Kirby Plaza," he went on as his hand moved, then came to rest on the geneticist's exposed stomach (Mohinder's heart sped up at this, his breath faltered, but - afraid protesting the touch would result in a scene similar to the one that had played out when he'd found Isaac's drawing - he didn't flinch away). "I called you. You know I wasn't trying to destroy New York, Mohinder. I was trying to stop Peter from destroying New York."
The geneticist shook his head. "You were trying to kill him. To take his power."
The killer's eyes seemed suddenly darker. His expression tightened. "Peter Petrelli had no control. He nearly killed thousands upon thousands of people because of that lack of control. And yes, I did want to take his power. I have control. I know how to handle the power I collect, how to use it."
Yes, Mohinder thought. You certainly know how to use it. But he said nothing.
Again, they stared into each other's eyes.
Mohinder was the first to turn away. He shifted in an attempt to relieve the steady ache in his lower back; regretted it when the painful, pulling sensation returned with a vengeance. He tried to swallow a groan, failed.
He was exhausted, in pain, confused. He didn't understand why Sylar was talking to him like he was, what the serial killer was trying to do. Was he trying to justify all that he'd done? Was he...searching for forgiveness?
I really, really doubt it.
For a long moment the geneticist simply stared at the stretch of ceiling directly above him and breathed (he could hear his heart pounding in his ears, could feel himself bleeding - knew that the bandage he was wearing was getting soaked).
"What happened?" he asked after what seemed like a long time. "What did Harris do to me?" His eyes felt heavy. He allowed them to fall shut.
"Go to sleep, Mohinder," ordered Sylar, instead of answering.
Mohinder wanted to argue. But he was so very tired, and with his eyes closed and his breathing slow and steady the pain was less intense. Almost nonexistent.
He felt Sylar's hand - the hand that wasn't still resting on his belly - slide up his arm. Felt the weight of the other man's head come to rest on his collarbone. Felt the killer's hair tickling at his neck.
He wanted to push Sylar away.
He fell asleep.
-----
When Mohinder woke again the pain had lessened.
Slowly, he sat up. He swung his legs over the side of the bed he was on and stood. He ran slender fingers through his tangled curls and blinked; shot a look around and realized he still felt dazed, lethargic.
Perhaps Sylar gave me something, he mused. Something for the pain. Head swimming, the geneticist took in his surroundings. He was in what looked like a studio apartment - a wide open space that consisted of a large bed, an open kitchen area, and a single plush chair and sofa that were crowded next to the wall.
Sylar's apartment, he assumed. It made sense. Gabriel Gray's apartment had been compromised a while ago. And a serial killer on the run would doubtless need a base of operations, a place to rest and a place to plan.
There was an unhurried and repetitive movement to his left. The geneticist looked, saw Sylar himself sitting pretzel style on the floor. He was hunched over, his eyes were a solid pearl white, and he was drawing. Drawing. Again.
The sudden sick feeling in his stomach triumphed over the spike of curiousity that had arisen, and he very carefully didn't look at the sketch pad in his captor's lap.
Mohinder spotted a pile of clothes spread messily across the sofa; walked over and started to sort through the pile. He liberated the slacks he'd been wearing the night he'd been kidnapped and pulled them on. Then he grabbed a black t-shirt (Sylar's) and slipped that on.
Barefoot, he made his way over to the large board that dominated the otherwise unoccupied space between the kitchen and the impromptu living room. He'd spotted it as soon as he'd stood, knew exactly what it was. The board looked almost exactly like the one that his father had fashioned, the one that the geneticist himself had in his apartment, the one he'd found in Sylar's old place.
Along with a plethora of others, there was a picture of Jake Harris tacked to the board. Yes, he thought. He took in the man's features. His eyes, the shape of his face. I know who you are. He was sure he did. Almost sure.
A feeling of helplessness overtook the geneticist as he stared at the picture of Harris. He turned away.
Shoes, he thought as he spun. He swept his eyes over the rest of the room; spotted his tennis shoes on the floor near the bed. He walked over and grabbed them, began to put them on.
He pulled at his left sneaker's lace, pursed his lips and glanced at his kidnapper.
He wasn't sure what had happened after Harris' attack. He suspected that Sylar had promptly collected him (his injured ward) and escaped Harris, or that the older man had fled from the serial killer.
He supposed knowing exactly what had happened wasn't important. No. What was important was the fact that he was still alive, the fact that he had a chance now of being able to warn Molly and Niki and the others about both Sylar and Harris (warn, because with Sylar as his captor, with Jake Harris out for his blood he no longer had any illusions of rescue or a successful escape) because the serial killer was at that very moment oblivious.
Trying very hard not to think about what future scene the killer was sketching, not to worry over what had happened between said killer and Harris outside of the squat apartment complex, he finished tying his shoes. He looked around the apartment, didn't spot a phone.
Then - with one last glance at his captor - he stood, grabbed his coat from where he'd spotted it hanging on a hook in the wall (his cell phone was gone from its pocket - he'd likely lost it during Harris' attack), strode quickly passed the kitchen and pseudo living room to the door.
He opened the door and stepped outside.
-----
I slept through an entire day, was the first thought that came to Mohinder when he stepped outside.
The sky was no longer the pitch black he remembered. Instead, it was a lighter gray. But it wasn't the gray of early morning - he could clearly see that the sun wasn't coming up. It was setting.
The geneticist stared up at the sky (thick, dark and ominous clouds were again dominating the run of sky above the city - they were heavy looking, maybe ready to burst); brought his hand up to probe at the bandaged wound beneath the t-shirt he was wearing.
What happened? he wondered. How hurt was I...am I? A sharp pain assaulted him, and he stopped probing. The pain, he pondered as he recalled how dizzy and out of it he'd felt when he'd stood from Sylar's bed (he still, in fact, felt somewhat drowsy). Sylar almost definitely gave me something for the pain.
Mohinder swallowed. Thought about lifting his shirt and checking his wound for himself, quickly dismissed the idea. His wound wasn't bothering him much just then, and he had more important things to focus on. Sylar would only be oblivious for so long - he had to find a phone and make the call he'd been intending to make since he'd first been kidnapped. And he had to do it all quickly. Do it all before the serial killer discovered he was gone.
The geneticist grabbed the pair of gloves balled in his jacket's pocket and slipped them on. He shot a look around (noticed vaguely that there was no sign of the rented Kia anywhere near the building). Then he started walking.
He dodged other pedestrians as he went (a man walking his dog, the odd business person making a late trek home, some young woman who appeared to be loitering on the sidewalk). He walked quickly - didn't slow his pace until the apartment buildings around him morphed into businesses.
He stopped in front of a mini grocery store. Just outside the store's door was a phone booth sporting a single phone. The geneticist took a deep breath; strode over and picked up the phone.
He put it to his ear and sighed. It had a dial tone. It worked.
Mohinder reached into his left pocket and pulled out two quarters. He slipped the coins into the pay slot and...hesitated.
Niki's number. He didn't know Niki's home or cell number. Not by heart. But... Wait. Molly and the others had been at his apartment, had been at his place the last time he'd heard from them. He could try there.
He punched his number, listened as the dial tone turned to a ring. Continued to listen as the ring turned to a message, his own voice, telling callers to leave their name and number.
"Niki," he started once the beep signaling that the machine was recording sounded. "It's Mohinder. Don't come looking for me, Niki. It's too dangerous. I'm...it's Sylar. He's back. He isn't dead. I'm with him now. Don't come looking for me. Go back to Las Vegas and call Bennet. Find Bennet. He might know what to do." He paused, his breath coming fast. He sounded rushed and panicky and scared, he knew. But he couldn't help it, and he had to get everything out. He had to make sure that he told them everything they needed to know. "And Harris. Jake Harris, Niki. I think you might have met him already. He's dangerous, too. He's powerful. Be careful. I don't know if he'll hurt anybody else, but..."
He trailed off, took a deep breath. His hands were shaking. "Just be careful. All of you. And...Molly. Tell Molly that..." He paused. "Please tell Molly that I love her."
He pulled the phone away from his ear. And as he did he heard a voice, a young male voice (Micah, it had to be Micah) sound through the ear piece. "Wait. Mo-" said the voice, but Mohinder was already in motion. And before he could react to the voice, before he could force himself to pull the phone away from the hook and back to his ear, he'd hung up.
He stared at the phone for a long moment. Told himself that it was for the best. He'd told those he cared about all he could. He'd done what he could for them, even if all he could do wasn't really very much. He'd finally managed to warn them all about Sylar. Even about Harris.
Actually talking to them would've only made telling them everything, telling them not to try anything to save him, all the harder.
The geneticist breathed deep. Turned from the phone booth and entered the small store. The light in the store was an ugly yellowish color, made everything look strange and sallow. The place was empty except for the man behind the counter.
"Do you have a bathroom I could use?" Mohinder asked. The man frowned, but reached under the counter and brought up a key attached to an overlarge key chain.
Mohinder took the key and key chain, walked in the direction the man behind the counter had gestured at, and stepped into the small bathroom.
Slowly, he closed and locked the door behind him. Then he turned to the badly smeared mirror above the stained sink and studied his reflection.
I look horrible. His hair was a mess, he had bags under his eyes and he looked tired. Really tired.
He washed his face, rinsed his mouth, ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt at combing it. When he was finished he felt a little better. As he stepped out of the tiny bathroom and returned the key to the frowning man he decided he'd call a cab from the payphone outside. Maybe direct the cab to some anonymous hotel. That way he wouldn't be putting Molly and the others in any danger by trying to head back to his apartment building, but could still try to escape from his captor (never mind the fact that he didn't believe he'd get very far, he had to try).
He stepped out of the store - the little bell above the door dinged at his exit - and stuffed one of the mints he'd just purchased into his mouth in an attempt to eliminate the lingering cotton taste (he'd found his wallet in the back pocket of his pants where he'd left it, wondered idly if it had gone through a wash cycle). Then he put the remainder of the tin of mints away.
He stared for a moment at the lights decorating the store's windows, the wreath hanging on its door. Almost Christmas. He'd nearly forgotten.
He moved, started to turn towards the phone booth - came to an abrupt stop when he caught sight of something...different.
It was a person. Someone on the sidewalk, only a few feet away. But the someone wasn't passing by, wasn't heading into the little store or moving to use the phone. No, the someone was just standing there. Still, silent, eerie.
"Doctor," said Harris, and he stepped closer. He sounded surprised. "I didn't expect to see you here." Definitely sounded surprised. And pleased.
Mohinder started slowly backing away.
"No," ordered the older man. "Dont do that. Dont...come here."
He grabbed for the startled geneticist; caught him by the forearm and started walking. He dragged the younger man away from the store, down the sidewalk, into a desserted alley.
Harris gave a hard shove and Mohinder stumbled back a few steps. He watched as the older man bent, pulled a handgun from a holster attached to his ankle and hidden under his jeans. The man then aimed the gun square at the geneticist's head.
"Okay," he said. And he seemed strangely excited, ecstatic. "Go ahead. Call him."
Genuinely lost, Mohinder blinked. "What? Who?"
Harris frowned. "Sylar, Doctor. Call for Sylar. I know he can hear you."
How? wondered the geneticist. How does he know about Sylar's hearing? And why does he think he'll come for me?
Mohinder swallowed hard. "Mr. Harris," he started instead. "I know what you're doing. I know why you're doing it. And-"
"Oh?" Harris stepped closer. The soft light of the nearby street light half fell on him; helped to clearly illuminate the man. And, suddenly, Mohinder was sure about Harris. Did know exactly who he was. He was sure as he'd been at the moment he'd passed out. He was positive.
"You think you know why I'm doing this, Doctor Suresh?"
"Yes," answered Mohinder without hesitating. "I know who you are."
Jake Harris was silent for a moment; he stared saucer eyed at the geneticist. Then his eyes narrowed, he visibly swallowed. "Then you know that you deserve this." He waved the gun a little. "That you both deserve this."
Mohinder took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. "Mr. Harris...what happened. I didn't mean for it to happen. I know that-"
But Harris cut him off. "You can't even say it, can you? You're so fucking guilty..." He trailed off. When he spoke again his voice didn't just sound angry. It sounded dangerous. "You can't even say her name."
Mohinder met his latest captive's furious eyes, he stood a little straighter. "I'm sorry," he said, and his voice shook. "I am sorry about Dale, Mr. Harris. I'm sorry about your sister."
Dale Smither. The mechanic from Montana, the woman Sylar had taken his enhanced hearing from.
Jake Harris' mysterious quest for revenge ('you deserve this', he'd said - he kept saying), the black and white photo of the little girl and young man standing in front of a car, the serial killer's prolonged stare at that photo while standing in the hallway of the small apartment complex the night before. And the resemblance. The striking resemblance that the geneticist had noticed after being attacked. It all added up, all made since. Despite their name difference (maybe a factor of marriage, maybe something else) Jake Harris and Dale Smither were siblings.
Jake Harris was out to avenge his younger sister. Had been out to avenge her since that first evening Mohinder had shown up on his doorstep. He knew, somehow, about both Mohinder and Sylar's meeting with Dale. Knew about their involvement in her death. Her murder.
Suddenly, Harris was moving. He pushed into Mohinder's space, gun still drawn and aimed. The geneticist gasped as memory flashed in his mind (Harris rushing across the street, raising his hand, a flash of something bluish white and then pain). "Shut up, Doctor. Stop. Just do what I say. Call Sylar. I know he'll come for you. You were with him in Montana. He came after you the night you came to my house."
Mohinder's breath was coming hard and fast now. He could feel himself shaking. "He'll notice your voice. I know he will," said the older man.
But the geneticist wasn't listening; didn't hear the demand. Because he was thinking, lost in a memory. The memory of a conversation he'd had with Nathan what seemed like ages ago. A conversation about Peter Petrelli's powers.
"Peter's specific DNA allows for a blend. Like colors in a mosaic, re-sequencing itself to mimic the abilities of those around him."
"Call him," demanded Harris. The geneticist stared.
"That won't be necessary," said Sylar, stepping as if from nowhere into the dark alleyway. "I'm already here."
There was a stunned silence, just for a moment, and then Jake Harris grabbed his hostage around the shoulders and held him close. A human shield.
"He's Dale Smither's brother," Mohinder said, in a quiet voice, before either Sylar or Harris could make a threatening move.
The serial killer's eyes were narrowed slits, emotionless.
"And he..."
"I know," purred Sylar, and he grinned a malicious looking grin. "Mr. Harris here has a power. A special ability. I wasn't sure at first what it was. I couldn't figure it out." Slowly, he strolled closer. "He threw someone across a room using only his mind, he matched me blow for blow both times we met...he miraculously found us outside of that apartment building and then nicked you with a shard of ice he created." He paused, pointedly eyed the gleaming handgun. "But...you don't have my powers or Molly Walker's power, do you Harris?"
Mohinder felt his captor tense behind him. Then...
"No," answered Harris, smiling a dark half smile. "I don't have any one of those powers. Not any one. I have them all."
Nathan Petrelli had taken a guess, had tried to compare his brother's ability to something concrete. He'd been wrong. Mohinder had corrected him, told him that his brother's ability was more similar to a sponge. But what Nathan had said - the example he'd used - fit perfectly with Harris, with what he was capable of.
"Like a chameleon," Nathan had said.
Like a chameleon.
Part Nine
by Harikari
-----
Part Eight
Mohinder woke to pain. His entire left side was sore, his neck was burning, and...his hip. The area just above his right hip was stinging, hurting. He groaned; opened his eyes.
Deja vu, he thought when he saw nothing but whiteness. A pillow. He was face down and in a bed, was staring into a pillow.
Being kidnapped, the drawing, Molly's voice mail message, Jake Harris appearing and attacking him... All of the memories of the last few days and nights seeped slowly to the forefront of his mind. Harris, he thought, still mostly asleep. Still dazed. His last memory was of Jake Harris and Sylar readying to fight. What happened? he wondered. And, feeling strangely anxious for the serial killer, he shifted. Moved to get up.
He pushed himself to his elbows; let out a sound that was something between a whine and a gasp when the stinging feeling near his hip became a pulling, tearing sensation. In pain and suddenly exhausted (his breathing was coming harsh and fast), he dropped back down onto the bed.
"You'll be okay," came a voice from somewhere above him. Sylar's voice. Mohinder started, attempted to roll over. But before he had managed to move the killer had a hand at the back of his head; was running fingers through his hair.
Mohinder breathed. Felt is as the hand touching his head traveled south to the back of his neck, his bare shoulders.
Bare. With a start, the geneticist realized he wasn't wearing a shirt, that the jeans he'd pulled on that morning were gone. He was on a bed - on top of its sheets and blanket - wearing only his boxers.
He jerked away from the fingers lingering on his shoulders. Managed, finally (and with considerable trouble), to roll over and face the serial killer.
"Sylar," he panted. "What happened?"
"Jake Harris," hissed the killer. "He found us."
Mohinder nodded distractedly; stared at the bandage that was covering most of his right hip. It was turning red. "What did he do?" he asked after a moment. "What happened? Did you...kill him?"
Slowly, Sylar shook his head.
Mohinder blinked. He felt tired, sluggish. "He got away?"
"Not exactly."
"Then what happened?"
The killer pursed his lips. His eyes narrowed. "You're bleeding." He dropped down onto the edge of the bed, started to reach for the now soiled bandage. Mohinder took in a shaky breath. The killer paused; hovered.
There was a stretch of silence.
"I wouldn't have gone after you," Sylar said abruptly.
"What?" asked the geneticist. The comment made no sense to his exhausted mind, had come from nowhere.
"I wouldn't have gone after you," he said again. "The drawing...I wouldn't have gone after you. I was going to let it go, let it..."
Sylar trailed off. He licked at his lips, visibly swallowed. He seemed nervous. Actually nervous.
"But you were there when I went for Harris and I..." He stopped again.
Mohinder stared; he didn't know how to react to what he was hearing, could hardly believe what he was hearing.
The larger man slid closer to his captive, leaned in. "And Kirby Plaza," he went on as his hand moved, then came to rest on the geneticist's exposed stomach (Mohinder's heart sped up at this, his breath faltered, but - afraid protesting the touch would result in a scene similar to the one that had played out when he'd found Isaac's drawing - he didn't flinch away). "I called you. You know I wasn't trying to destroy New York, Mohinder. I was trying to stop Peter from destroying New York."
The geneticist shook his head. "You were trying to kill him. To take his power."
The killer's eyes seemed suddenly darker. His expression tightened. "Peter Petrelli had no control. He nearly killed thousands upon thousands of people because of that lack of control. And yes, I did want to take his power. I have control. I know how to handle the power I collect, how to use it."
Yes, Mohinder thought. You certainly know how to use it. But he said nothing.
Again, they stared into each other's eyes.
Mohinder was the first to turn away. He shifted in an attempt to relieve the steady ache in his lower back; regretted it when the painful, pulling sensation returned with a vengeance. He tried to swallow a groan, failed.
He was exhausted, in pain, confused. He didn't understand why Sylar was talking to him like he was, what the serial killer was trying to do. Was he trying to justify all that he'd done? Was he...searching for forgiveness?
I really, really doubt it.
For a long moment the geneticist simply stared at the stretch of ceiling directly above him and breathed (he could hear his heart pounding in his ears, could feel himself bleeding - knew that the bandage he was wearing was getting soaked).
"What happened?" he asked after what seemed like a long time. "What did Harris do to me?" His eyes felt heavy. He allowed them to fall shut.
"Go to sleep, Mohinder," ordered Sylar, instead of answering.
Mohinder wanted to argue. But he was so very tired, and with his eyes closed and his breathing slow and steady the pain was less intense. Almost nonexistent.
He felt Sylar's hand - the hand that wasn't still resting on his belly - slide up his arm. Felt the weight of the other man's head come to rest on his collarbone. Felt the killer's hair tickling at his neck.
He wanted to push Sylar away.
He fell asleep.
-----
When Mohinder woke again the pain had lessened.
Slowly, he sat up. He swung his legs over the side of the bed he was on and stood. He ran slender fingers through his tangled curls and blinked; shot a look around and realized he still felt dazed, lethargic.
Perhaps Sylar gave me something, he mused. Something for the pain. Head swimming, the geneticist took in his surroundings. He was in what looked like a studio apartment - a wide open space that consisted of a large bed, an open kitchen area, and a single plush chair and sofa that were crowded next to the wall.
Sylar's apartment, he assumed. It made sense. Gabriel Gray's apartment had been compromised a while ago. And a serial killer on the run would doubtless need a base of operations, a place to rest and a place to plan.
There was an unhurried and repetitive movement to his left. The geneticist looked, saw Sylar himself sitting pretzel style on the floor. He was hunched over, his eyes were a solid pearl white, and he was drawing. Drawing. Again.
The sudden sick feeling in his stomach triumphed over the spike of curiousity that had arisen, and he very carefully didn't look at the sketch pad in his captor's lap.
Mohinder spotted a pile of clothes spread messily across the sofa; walked over and started to sort through the pile. He liberated the slacks he'd been wearing the night he'd been kidnapped and pulled them on. Then he grabbed a black t-shirt (Sylar's) and slipped that on.
Barefoot, he made his way over to the large board that dominated the otherwise unoccupied space between the kitchen and the impromptu living room. He'd spotted it as soon as he'd stood, knew exactly what it was. The board looked almost exactly like the one that his father had fashioned, the one that the geneticist himself had in his apartment, the one he'd found in Sylar's old place.
Along with a plethora of others, there was a picture of Jake Harris tacked to the board. Yes, he thought. He took in the man's features. His eyes, the shape of his face. I know who you are. He was sure he did. Almost sure.
A feeling of helplessness overtook the geneticist as he stared at the picture of Harris. He turned away.
Shoes, he thought as he spun. He swept his eyes over the rest of the room; spotted his tennis shoes on the floor near the bed. He walked over and grabbed them, began to put them on.
He pulled at his left sneaker's lace, pursed his lips and glanced at his kidnapper.
He wasn't sure what had happened after Harris' attack. He suspected that Sylar had promptly collected him (his injured ward) and escaped Harris, or that the older man had fled from the serial killer.
He supposed knowing exactly what had happened wasn't important. No. What was important was the fact that he was still alive, the fact that he had a chance now of being able to warn Molly and Niki and the others about both Sylar and Harris (warn, because with Sylar as his captor, with Jake Harris out for his blood he no longer had any illusions of rescue or a successful escape) because the serial killer was at that very moment oblivious.
Trying very hard not to think about what future scene the killer was sketching, not to worry over what had happened between said killer and Harris outside of the squat apartment complex, he finished tying his shoes. He looked around the apartment, didn't spot a phone.
Then - with one last glance at his captor - he stood, grabbed his coat from where he'd spotted it hanging on a hook in the wall (his cell phone was gone from its pocket - he'd likely lost it during Harris' attack), strode quickly passed the kitchen and pseudo living room to the door.
He opened the door and stepped outside.
-----
I slept through an entire day, was the first thought that came to Mohinder when he stepped outside.
The sky was no longer the pitch black he remembered. Instead, it was a lighter gray. But it wasn't the gray of early morning - he could clearly see that the sun wasn't coming up. It was setting.
The geneticist stared up at the sky (thick, dark and ominous clouds were again dominating the run of sky above the city - they were heavy looking, maybe ready to burst); brought his hand up to probe at the bandaged wound beneath the t-shirt he was wearing.
What happened? he wondered. How hurt was I...am I? A sharp pain assaulted him, and he stopped probing. The pain, he pondered as he recalled how dizzy and out of it he'd felt when he'd stood from Sylar's bed (he still, in fact, felt somewhat drowsy). Sylar almost definitely gave me something for the pain.
Mohinder swallowed. Thought about lifting his shirt and checking his wound for himself, quickly dismissed the idea. His wound wasn't bothering him much just then, and he had more important things to focus on. Sylar would only be oblivious for so long - he had to find a phone and make the call he'd been intending to make since he'd first been kidnapped. And he had to do it all quickly. Do it all before the serial killer discovered he was gone.
The geneticist grabbed the pair of gloves balled in his jacket's pocket and slipped them on. He shot a look around (noticed vaguely that there was no sign of the rented Kia anywhere near the building). Then he started walking.
He dodged other pedestrians as he went (a man walking his dog, the odd business person making a late trek home, some young woman who appeared to be loitering on the sidewalk). He walked quickly - didn't slow his pace until the apartment buildings around him morphed into businesses.
He stopped in front of a mini grocery store. Just outside the store's door was a phone booth sporting a single phone. The geneticist took a deep breath; strode over and picked up the phone.
He put it to his ear and sighed. It had a dial tone. It worked.
Mohinder reached into his left pocket and pulled out two quarters. He slipped the coins into the pay slot and...hesitated.
Niki's number. He didn't know Niki's home or cell number. Not by heart. But... Wait. Molly and the others had been at his apartment, had been at his place the last time he'd heard from them. He could try there.
He punched his number, listened as the dial tone turned to a ring. Continued to listen as the ring turned to a message, his own voice, telling callers to leave their name and number.
"Niki," he started once the beep signaling that the machine was recording sounded. "It's Mohinder. Don't come looking for me, Niki. It's too dangerous. I'm...it's Sylar. He's back. He isn't dead. I'm with him now. Don't come looking for me. Go back to Las Vegas and call Bennet. Find Bennet. He might know what to do." He paused, his breath coming fast. He sounded rushed and panicky and scared, he knew. But he couldn't help it, and he had to get everything out. He had to make sure that he told them everything they needed to know. "And Harris. Jake Harris, Niki. I think you might have met him already. He's dangerous, too. He's powerful. Be careful. I don't know if he'll hurt anybody else, but..."
He trailed off, took a deep breath. His hands were shaking. "Just be careful. All of you. And...Molly. Tell Molly that..." He paused. "Please tell Molly that I love her."
He pulled the phone away from his ear. And as he did he heard a voice, a young male voice (Micah, it had to be Micah) sound through the ear piece. "Wait. Mo-" said the voice, but Mohinder was already in motion. And before he could react to the voice, before he could force himself to pull the phone away from the hook and back to his ear, he'd hung up.
He stared at the phone for a long moment. Told himself that it was for the best. He'd told those he cared about all he could. He'd done what he could for them, even if all he could do wasn't really very much. He'd finally managed to warn them all about Sylar. Even about Harris.
Actually talking to them would've only made telling them everything, telling them not to try anything to save him, all the harder.
The geneticist breathed deep. Turned from the phone booth and entered the small store. The light in the store was an ugly yellowish color, made everything look strange and sallow. The place was empty except for the man behind the counter.
"Do you have a bathroom I could use?" Mohinder asked. The man frowned, but reached under the counter and brought up a key attached to an overlarge key chain.
Mohinder took the key and key chain, walked in the direction the man behind the counter had gestured at, and stepped into the small bathroom.
Slowly, he closed and locked the door behind him. Then he turned to the badly smeared mirror above the stained sink and studied his reflection.
I look horrible. His hair was a mess, he had bags under his eyes and he looked tired. Really tired.
He washed his face, rinsed his mouth, ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt at combing it. When he was finished he felt a little better. As he stepped out of the tiny bathroom and returned the key to the frowning man he decided he'd call a cab from the payphone outside. Maybe direct the cab to some anonymous hotel. That way he wouldn't be putting Molly and the others in any danger by trying to head back to his apartment building, but could still try to escape from his captor (never mind the fact that he didn't believe he'd get very far, he had to try).
He stepped out of the store - the little bell above the door dinged at his exit - and stuffed one of the mints he'd just purchased into his mouth in an attempt to eliminate the lingering cotton taste (he'd found his wallet in the back pocket of his pants where he'd left it, wondered idly if it had gone through a wash cycle). Then he put the remainder of the tin of mints away.
He stared for a moment at the lights decorating the store's windows, the wreath hanging on its door. Almost Christmas. He'd nearly forgotten.
He moved, started to turn towards the phone booth - came to an abrupt stop when he caught sight of something...different.
It was a person. Someone on the sidewalk, only a few feet away. But the someone wasn't passing by, wasn't heading into the little store or moving to use the phone. No, the someone was just standing there. Still, silent, eerie.
"Doctor," said Harris, and he stepped closer. He sounded surprised. "I didn't expect to see you here." Definitely sounded surprised. And pleased.
Mohinder started slowly backing away.
"No," ordered the older man. "Dont do that. Dont...come here."
He grabbed for the startled geneticist; caught him by the forearm and started walking. He dragged the younger man away from the store, down the sidewalk, into a desserted alley.
Harris gave a hard shove and Mohinder stumbled back a few steps. He watched as the older man bent, pulled a handgun from a holster attached to his ankle and hidden under his jeans. The man then aimed the gun square at the geneticist's head.
"Okay," he said. And he seemed strangely excited, ecstatic. "Go ahead. Call him."
Genuinely lost, Mohinder blinked. "What? Who?"
Harris frowned. "Sylar, Doctor. Call for Sylar. I know he can hear you."
How? wondered the geneticist. How does he know about Sylar's hearing? And why does he think he'll come for me?
Mohinder swallowed hard. "Mr. Harris," he started instead. "I know what you're doing. I know why you're doing it. And-"
"Oh?" Harris stepped closer. The soft light of the nearby street light half fell on him; helped to clearly illuminate the man. And, suddenly, Mohinder was sure about Harris. Did know exactly who he was. He was sure as he'd been at the moment he'd passed out. He was positive.
"You think you know why I'm doing this, Doctor Suresh?"
"Yes," answered Mohinder without hesitating. "I know who you are."
Jake Harris was silent for a moment; he stared saucer eyed at the geneticist. Then his eyes narrowed, he visibly swallowed. "Then you know that you deserve this." He waved the gun a little. "That you both deserve this."
Mohinder took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. "Mr. Harris...what happened. I didn't mean for it to happen. I know that-"
But Harris cut him off. "You can't even say it, can you? You're so fucking guilty..." He trailed off. When he spoke again his voice didn't just sound angry. It sounded dangerous. "You can't even say her name."
Mohinder met his latest captive's furious eyes, he stood a little straighter. "I'm sorry," he said, and his voice shook. "I am sorry about Dale, Mr. Harris. I'm sorry about your sister."
Dale Smither. The mechanic from Montana, the woman Sylar had taken his enhanced hearing from.
Jake Harris' mysterious quest for revenge ('you deserve this', he'd said - he kept saying), the black and white photo of the little girl and young man standing in front of a car, the serial killer's prolonged stare at that photo while standing in the hallway of the small apartment complex the night before. And the resemblance. The striking resemblance that the geneticist had noticed after being attacked. It all added up, all made since. Despite their name difference (maybe a factor of marriage, maybe something else) Jake Harris and Dale Smither were siblings.
Jake Harris was out to avenge his younger sister. Had been out to avenge her since that first evening Mohinder had shown up on his doorstep. He knew, somehow, about both Mohinder and Sylar's meeting with Dale. Knew about their involvement in her death. Her murder.
Suddenly, Harris was moving. He pushed into Mohinder's space, gun still drawn and aimed. The geneticist gasped as memory flashed in his mind (Harris rushing across the street, raising his hand, a flash of something bluish white and then pain). "Shut up, Doctor. Stop. Just do what I say. Call Sylar. I know he'll come for you. You were with him in Montana. He came after you the night you came to my house."
Mohinder's breath was coming hard and fast now. He could feel himself shaking. "He'll notice your voice. I know he will," said the older man.
But the geneticist wasn't listening; didn't hear the demand. Because he was thinking, lost in a memory. The memory of a conversation he'd had with Nathan what seemed like ages ago. A conversation about Peter Petrelli's powers.
"Peter's specific DNA allows for a blend. Like colors in a mosaic, re-sequencing itself to mimic the abilities of those around him."
"Call him," demanded Harris. The geneticist stared.
"That won't be necessary," said Sylar, stepping as if from nowhere into the dark alleyway. "I'm already here."
There was a stunned silence, just for a moment, and then Jake Harris grabbed his hostage around the shoulders and held him close. A human shield.
"He's Dale Smither's brother," Mohinder said, in a quiet voice, before either Sylar or Harris could make a threatening move.
The serial killer's eyes were narrowed slits, emotionless.
"And he..."
"I know," purred Sylar, and he grinned a malicious looking grin. "Mr. Harris here has a power. A special ability. I wasn't sure at first what it was. I couldn't figure it out." Slowly, he strolled closer. "He threw someone across a room using only his mind, he matched me blow for blow both times we met...he miraculously found us outside of that apartment building and then nicked you with a shard of ice he created." He paused, pointedly eyed the gleaming handgun. "But...you don't have my powers or Molly Walker's power, do you Harris?"
Mohinder felt his captor tense behind him. Then...
"No," answered Harris, smiling a dark half smile. "I don't have any one of those powers. Not any one. I have them all."
Nathan Petrelli had taken a guess, had tried to compare his brother's ability to something concrete. He'd been wrong. Mohinder had corrected him, told him that his brother's ability was more similar to a sponge. But what Nathan had said - the example he'd used - fit perfectly with Harris, with what he was capable of.
"Like a chameleon," Nathan had said.
Like a chameleon.
Part Nine