Mohinder Suresh was still getting acquainted with the sights and smells of this horrid facility. He'd only just finished being processed through a couple of weeks before, and he spent most of his free time searching for someone he knew. Anyone
( ... )
The commotion certainly caught Sylar's attention. He slid the tray he'd been about to load with food back on the rack and broke from the line, moving stealthily around to get a look at the action. He could have smack his face with the sudden rush of irony when he realized the fight involved a certain geneticist who had somehow managed to get himself thrown in here! He wondered what high-minded, noble deed had earned the Indian that ticket.
Still, he wasn't the only one who'd taken notice of the fighting. There were guards moving this way. Two of them, and that was not going to do Sylar any good if they decided the geneticist was the cause of the fighting
( ... )
Mohinder had been about to land an amazingly placed hit when his world shifted. He hit the cold floor with a thud, air escaping his lungs. The next thing he felt were fists on the back of his head, and so he reached back to cover his skull with interwoven fingers, back rising and falling quickly. What the hell had happened?!
And before he could even stand, someone was holding him down. He would have assumed it was a guard, but the voice sounded familiar. Mohinder had to wait out the final sweep for mischief by disgruntled guards but when he heard the others dispersing and felt that hand leave his back, he pushed himself up quickly and spun upon the owner of that hand. "Leave me.....alone
( ... )
Sylar shot Mohinder the sort of look that usually follows a roll of the eyes, with out actually going through that motion. "You can get up now."
He stood with out offering a hand, grabbed the apple that had started the fight, polished it on his jumpsuit and took a bite from it. He seated himself on the opposite side of Mohinder's tray, waiting for the Indian to join him.
If he were honest, it was quite a relief to see some one he actually knew, too. Someone with whom he had a real connection. It just wasn't under the most ideal circumstances.
"Hey," he started to complain when Sylar took a bite of his apple. But he at least owed the man that much, today. So he took his seat without much fuss, not wanting to draw more attention to himself.
Mohinder shifted his eyes from the tray of slop to the man eating his apple and eventually pushed his tray aside.
"I don't even know what to say to you," he admitted quietly. Mohinder folded long, bony fingers on the table and took some shifty glances around the room like a cautious mouse. He was definitely much thinner than the last time he came across the killer. Food can take a back seat when ones life goes down hellish paths.
"By your face I can tell you're not staying out of trouble, like usual." There was no hint of sympathy in his tone. Sylar deserved that and more because of everything he'd done over the years. Mohinder was too tired to be any crueler, though.
"I do what I can to keep my head down, but there's no accounting for inbred idiots," he rubbed his brow gently, feeling the still-hard lump of a hematoma beneath the skin. "You'd do best not to go throwing punches, either."
He pulled the doctor's abandoned tray toward himself, picked up the fork, and poked through the selection. "This place isn't like a normal prison. Punishment works differently. They don't advertize this to the new-comers, but it's not just having privileges taken away, or getting tossed in the shu to cool your heels."
He speared a few limp, oily french fries on the fork as he spoke, chewed them quickly, and swallowed. "You also have to take into consideration the Lottery. That man?" he ticked his head toward the door the other inmate had disappeared through. "If I was quick enough, and the guards assume he started it? His name just went in again."
Leave it to Sylar to become the King of his domain, no matter what sort of prison he was thrust into.
"I see," Mohinder said with a slightly disgusted look on his face, watching the fries disappear past plump lips. How could he eat that garbage? It was probably poisoned!
"And how many times have you gone into the lottery? I'd wager a guess on several." Mohinder didn't know what he'd do if he got chosen in the lottery.
"Dozens," Sylar answered, not unproudly. "Once when they began the Games, and once again after each airing. That's nine already. Factor in escape attempts and altercations with guards and other inmates, then it goes up, nigh exponentially. Varying numbers for each death..."
He shrugged a shoulder, glancing up toward one of the cameras. "I should be able to remember the count perfectly, but they make things difficult, here." He sighed, digging in to the mushy, crinkle-cut carrots.
Mohinder was getting the idea that Sylar's time here had left him a bit...demented? Or perhaps obsessed was a better word. Then again, what didn't Sylar become obsessed with? He seemed like one for latching onto things that he could study and control and fight his way through.
They had that in common.
"And what is the prize for winning a game?" He hadn't had much time out there to watch the newspapers and study any of this, but now he wished he had at least tried. Things were always so much clearer from the outside.
"Nothing worth having," Sylar shook his head, "They make it sound like freedom, but you're basically just their pet. They'll treat you like a media darling, pretend you're a star, but it's still slavery, just like the rest of us. They make you part of their propaganda, instead of sending you into the labor force. It's all just to perpetuate the illusion that they have control.
"They'll tell you the collars come off, but it's a lie. I've watched these things, carefully. Victors aren't collared, but they're never shown outside the Arenas, using their abilities. They do something to them. You'll see. They pretty much run the old Games exclusively on the rec center TVs."
He tried his damndest not to be phased by that doom and gloom outlook. "Well. I for one am getting out of here as soon as they speak with some of my father's former colleagues," Mohinder said, ever delusional. "Before they took me I was in contact with them and they promised that they would get me out. After all, I can help with the research they're doing on ability control."
Mohinder failed to realize that he was but a blip on the radar, like the rest of these insects. You had to be someone like Sylar to mean something to the world, these days. Someone both able to be a media darling, as Sylar put it, and someone able to bide his time.
Mohinder lacked common sense, patience, and the willingness to roll over and let someone treat him like a trophy.
Sylar snorted, blowing bubbles into the barely cold milk carton from which he'd been drinking. "You'd think people like that could have kept you out of here in the first place, but have it your way.
"Anyway... Just don't go considering suicide. It's like ten entries into the Lottery. They hate people thinking they can beat the system," he cleaned up last hamburger and gravy on the plate with a bit of stale bun, popped it in his mouth and got up to return the tray.
Mohinder stood and scurried after Sylar, walking closely behind the lanky man. He told himself it was so that he could get his final point in, but really he didn't want to be alone. "I'd never take such an easy way out. You'll see. They'll pull me from this, I don't belong here."
He'd already decided that Sylar would never hear about the things he'd done in order to get his ability. Even if he was no better than these people, he could still pretend around his old enemy.
"None of us belong here. Prison, maybe, but not this," he dropped the tray off in front of a nervous looking ginger who flinched at the clatter.
"Who knows though? You're new. If you didn't do anything too bad, maybe you'll parole out into the labor force before your name goes in too many times. Who's your cell mate?" he began to wander back toward the cells. Doors were open now, for socialization. "Mine's the hick in the infirmary, well-... maybe not any more, but he used to be."
Mohinder trailed off and hunted for the man amidst the sea of socializing thugs. "...There." The Indian pointed down the row of cells to a large blond man leaning against the wall and bartering for cigarettes. "He's very German and demanded that we trade beds occasionally to throw off the guards during cell searches," Mohinder said with a roll of his eyes. "I've no idea what power he has but I'm sure it's an annoying one."
He caught himself having a normal conversation with his father's murderer and snapped right the hell out of it. "Erm...I think I'll go back to my cell and read. I would wish you luck but you don't need it, do you?"
"Not until the Lottery draw. Then we all do. By the way, I'm in three-twenty," Sylar pointed upwards, turned, and strode away. Most of the inmates moved out of his path as he walked down the row, but he weaved around a couple others without starting anything. He didn't want any trouble, not now, when he had his cell to himself. Small blessings.
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Still, he wasn't the only one who'd taken notice of the fighting. There were guards moving this way. Two of them, and that was not going to do Sylar any good if they decided the geneticist was the cause of the fighting ( ... )
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And before he could even stand, someone was holding him down. He would have assumed it was a guard, but the voice sounded familiar. Mohinder had to wait out the final sweep for mischief by disgruntled guards but when he heard the others dispersing and felt that hand leave his back, he pushed himself up quickly and spun upon the owner of that hand. "Leave me.....alone ( ... )
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He stood with out offering a hand, grabbed the apple that had started the fight, polished it on his jumpsuit and took a bite from it. He seated himself on the opposite side of Mohinder's tray, waiting for the Indian to join him.
If he were honest, it was quite a relief to see some one he actually knew, too. Someone with whom he had a real connection. It just wasn't under the most ideal circumstances.
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Mohinder shifted his eyes from the tray of slop to the man eating his apple and eventually pushed his tray aside.
"I don't even know what to say to you," he admitted quietly. Mohinder folded long, bony fingers on the table and took some shifty glances around the room like a cautious mouse. He was definitely much thinner than the last time he came across the killer. Food can take a back seat when ones life goes down hellish paths.
"By your face I can tell you're not staying out of trouble, like usual." There was no hint of sympathy in his tone. Sylar deserved that and more because of everything he'd done over the years. Mohinder was too tired to be any crueler, though.
Reply
He pulled the doctor's abandoned tray toward himself, picked up the fork, and poked through the selection. "This place isn't like a normal prison. Punishment works differently. They don't advertize this to the new-comers, but it's not just having privileges taken away, or getting tossed in the shu to cool your heels."
He speared a few limp, oily french fries on the fork as he spoke, chewed them quickly, and swallowed. "You also have to take into consideration the Lottery. That man?" he ticked his head toward the door the other inmate had disappeared through. "If I was quick enough, and the guards assume he started it? His name just went in again."
Reply
"I see," Mohinder said with a slightly disgusted look on his face, watching the fries disappear past plump lips. How could he eat that garbage? It was probably poisoned!
"And how many times have you gone into the lottery? I'd wager a guess on several." Mohinder didn't know what he'd do if he got chosen in the lottery.
Well, run for his life, for starters.
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He shrugged a shoulder, glancing up toward one of the cameras. "I should be able to remember the count perfectly, but they make things difficult, here." He sighed, digging in to the mushy, crinkle-cut carrots.
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They had that in common.
"And what is the prize for winning a game?" He hadn't had much time out there to watch the newspapers and study any of this, but now he wished he had at least tried. Things were always so much clearer from the outside.
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"They'll tell you the collars come off, but it's a lie. I've watched these things, carefully. Victors aren't collared, but they're never shown outside the Arenas, using their abilities. They do something to them. You'll see. They pretty much run the old Games exclusively on the rec center TVs."
Reply
Mohinder failed to realize that he was but a blip on the radar, like the rest of these insects. You had to be someone like Sylar to mean something to the world, these days. Someone both able to be a media darling, as Sylar put it, and someone able to bide his time.
Mohinder lacked common sense, patience, and the willingness to roll over and let someone treat him like a trophy.
Reply
"Anyway... Just don't go considering suicide. It's like ten entries into the Lottery. They hate people thinking they can beat the system," he cleaned up last hamburger and gravy on the plate with a bit of stale bun, popped it in his mouth and got up to return the tray.
Reply
He'd already decided that Sylar would never hear about the things he'd done in order to get his ability. Even if he was no better than these people, he could still pretend around his old enemy.
Reply
"Who knows though? You're new. If you didn't do anything too bad, maybe you'll parole out into the labor force before your name goes in too many times. Who's your cell mate?" he began to wander back toward the cells. Doors were open now, for socialization. "Mine's the hick in the infirmary, well-... maybe not any more, but he used to be."
Reply
Mohinder trailed off and hunted for the man amidst the sea of socializing thugs. "...There." The Indian pointed down the row of cells to a large blond man leaning against the wall and bartering for cigarettes. "He's very German and demanded that we trade beds occasionally to throw off the guards during cell searches," Mohinder said with a roll of his eyes. "I've no idea what power he has but I'm sure it's an annoying one."
He caught himself having a normal conversation with his father's murderer and snapped right the hell out of it. "Erm...I think I'll go back to my cell and read. I would wish you luck but you don't need it, do you?"
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