Certain Threats
Cowritten with my_fathers_task
The Indian man with the rather long, curly hair had been sitting in the Nexus for awhile- he merely watched everything, attentive. Occasionally, he would reach for a small pad of paper and jot things down. More than notes, though- he appears to be doodling.
There is another curly-haired Indian man watching him from across the Nexus with icy, knowing fury. He waits for a long while without making a move--he looks to be working up his nerve, or at least that's part of it, but he's waiting to see if Sylar (if it's Sylar, and he hardly doubts that it is) does anything overtly offensive. He's looking for evidence that the man might just be the harmless post-apocalypse alternate, and that's what makes him glance at the left wrist--he knows his alternate has severe scarring there. He doesn't see a scar. But he recognizes that goddamn watch, the Bulova tuning fork watch. He's being taunted with it.
Mohinder shoves his chair aside, livid, and advances on his 'alternate.' "Take the illusion off, Sylar," he hisses.
Sylar looks up at Mohinder with a fairly blank smile, but he doesn't take the illusion down. No, he'll do that when he feels like it- and for now he hasn't drawn too much attention to himself. "Don't you want to see what I've been sketching?" he asks Mohinder curiously, in his own voice. He flips the notebook back to the opening page, where eight sillhouettes stand in darkness. While he flips, an image of Matt's head lolling against a brick wall is passed. "I'm getting better at it, I think
Mohinder spares the sketchbook a passing glance, not wanting to give Sylar the satisfaction of open curiosity, even as he internally prays that's not Isaac Mendez's power in action. He's nearly incoherent with rage right now--he's completely powerless here and Sylar's not even hiding it anymore-- "What could you possibly need to do this for?" he demands, and then forces himself back from the edge so he doesn't lose it completely. Sylar would never stop laughing at him for that. "Why me? I don't have any influence that could get you anything you want. I don't have friends around here."
It's a selfish argument, one that will, at best, make Sylar move on to a potentially more disastrous illusion victim, someone like Nathan Petrelli or Noah Bennet, and Mohinder regrets the outburst when he thinks of that, but hearing his own voice from Sylar's mouth, seeing his own hands on that notebook, makes him want to scrub his skin with steel wool.
"Do you really want the answer to that, Doctor?" Sylar's still not getting up; he tilts his head towards Mohinder and grins. It's the same smile Mohinder gave him, back when he was duct-taped to that chair and Mohinder still thought he had some power of his own. "There are a few different reasons, after all. Which one would you rather hear...? That it's easiest for me? Comfortable? That I can most easily pretend to be you because I know you the best? That I'm trying to get information? That I wanted to know if I could fool you?" His eyebrow raises, and he flips through a few more notebook pages. "I don't know, Mohinder," he says, without looking up. "What do you think I'm doing here?"
"I don't know," Mohinder replies venomously. "I don't want to try to get inside your head." Because there is nothing about this that he hates more than the idea that Sylar 'knows' him better than anyone else, and not much that he's more ashamed of than the fact that Sylar could and did fool him so easily. "'Comfortable,'" he repeats bitterly. "And why is being me so comfortable, Sylar? I thought you were so proud of yourself for stealing all those abilities that you had to come crawling to me and begging me to give back. Don't tell me you're having second thoughts. Why /is/ it so comfortable taking on the illusion of someone who hasn't got a single ability of his own?" It would be so nice to be able to say 'who's never killed anyone.' But they both know that isn't true now. Technicalities don't matter.
Sylar finally stops looking through his notepad and smiles up at Mohinder, black eyes meeting each other. "Careful, Mohinder, you're sounding a little hysterical." Of course, it's Sylar's version that seems to be just a little too manic for his own good, the features just a little overmuch. He seems to notice this himself and finally lets the illusion slide, shifting back into the tall, lean frame and the pale face with strong features. He's smiling, smug as ever. "Maybe I was just curious."
Mohinder snaps his mouth shut, humiliated. If only he hadn't let Sylar have the cure, Mohinder could punch that smirk off his face right now, he thinks. It's still probably not true. Sylar in his ordinary form is bigger than him, and probably stronger, and even without his powers, his reflexes are impressive. But that doesn't mean Mohinder can't fondly entertain the fantasy. "Curious about what?" he snaps. "About what it's like not to have people think you're an inhuman monster? You can still have that as long as you don't talk to anyone who actually knows you."
"Now, now," Sylar says, his lips twisting into a mock-hurt expression. "Is that any way to talk about the savior of our universe?" He laughs- even he knows how ridiculous that sounds. He will, however, be rubbing that in. "Besides, if I was merely curious about that, I could've just made myself actually look like Zane Taylor." He stretches his arms out and yawns a bit, and now he definitely is lounging in the chair he was previously just sitting in. He sighs a bit. "I don't suppose you'll tell me any more about the Company now, eh? I was hoping to hear about how moral and upright it was again."
Mohinder snorts with utter contempt. "You wouldn't have been able to do anything with the universe without me." It helps a little bit to keep reminding himself of this. He still hates himself for curing Sylar no matter what eventual beneficial effect it might have on the universe at large. "Nobody ever said the Company was moral or upright. But no, I'm not going to tell you anything more. It's none of your damned business." He can't let Sylar know how urgent the need to eliminate the virus is. The bluff that Mohinder might reinfect him with it is the only semblance of a weapon that he has, pathetic as it is.
The glint of laughter seems to drop out of Sylar's eyes, even though nothing about his expression changes. "Is the Company really trying to eliminate this virus, Mohinder? They did infect me, after all, and-" He tilts his head and a humorless smile appears on his lips. He seems like he's waiting for something. "I don't think they intended to test cures on me."
"No." That much he's certain of. But he doesn't feel guilty about this part. He can honestly say he had nothing at all to do with it, and he likes that. "I assume they expected you to die in quarantine, wherever they had you, to prevent the risk of contagion." He pauses. "It might not have been strictly ethical, but I can't say it was a bad idea." Yes, he can. It was a terrible idea, and he's furious at them for being so careless with the disease, but Sylar can't know that.
"Oh, becuase I'd only escaped from them once? I see." Sylar shakes his head, looking pleased. If that was true, then Candice had been meant as a sacrifice to him, anyway. Funny how that worked out. He finally stands, rolling his head around on his shoulders and stretching his neck out. "You can't honestly tell me you agree with what they're doing."
"I don't know or care how you escaped. And I'm not going to stroke your ego by hand-wringing about how they underestimated you, sorry to disappoint." Mohinder ordinarily hates that he has to tilt his head back to look Sylar in the eye; it makes him feel short and insignificant, but in this case it's better than if Sylar had kept the illusion on and made them the same height. "And I'm not up for a debate about morals, either. You might as well just get it over with and give me the line about how I'm no better than you, or that we're so alike, or whatever you had planned for this time." It doesn't really bother him any less, but at least he's grown more accustomed to hearing it, and can affect an air of bored nonconcern.
Sylar leans to one side for a moment, staring at Mohinder discerningly. "I think you know that well enough," he says. "To be honest, I didn't actually have anything planned. You came to me, remember? What was it you wanted?"
Outdone yet again. Mohinder flushes darkly with anger. "I came to tell you to stop imitating me in the Nexus," he says. "My threat still stands, Sylar. You know what I can do." He even wonders, for a brief moment, if he wouldn't really re-infect Sylar if he could. Just for a second.
"So you're willing to risk an outbreak if I continue to annoy you?" Sylar's not sure about this- which is why his face is blank now, the smile gone.
"There are strains that are highly contagious, most of which I've destroyed, and strains that don't appear to spread at all without great effort," Mohinder lies. "There's one that would eliminate your abilities in a matter of hours. After that, it wouldn't be difficult to quarantine you again. Lock you in the sterile Company basement, sedate you, check in on you through a glass window every couple of hours until you're dead." Talking like a real Company man makes him feel queasy--it frightens him a bit, how fluidly the words just pour out. "There'd be extra security, of course. Third time's the charm, isn't it?"
Sylar narrows his eyes, finally annoyed. "Of course," he says, still staring into Mohinder's eyes, trying to decide whether he'd really be willing to go that far. ...well, he had joined the company, hadn't he? "I hope you enjoy watching it all fall down around you, then. You'll have front row seats." He's not backing down, but the statement isn't amplified by anything- no fancy telekinesis, no displays of power. Just him and Mohinder, and the promise.
"Don't be so sure of yourself." Because it's not fair for Sylar to be if Mohinder can't. He doesn't feel sure; he feels dirty, like even bluffing about this is crossing a line. Slipping on the illusion of the determined Company zealot feels like smearing gritty black oil over himself that won't easily wash off, because he doesn't know how close or far the illusion really is from the truth. But Sylar seems unsettled. And Mohinder thinks that makes the filthy, uneasy feeling of the lie worth it. He's already been violated by Sylar's illusion power; what's a little more?
That makes him laugh, a low chuckle that still somehow lacks the usual malice. Sylar's confidence has been, at times, all he had. He's happy that's not the case right now. He just stares at Mohinder, daring him to say anything else.
Mohinder will just be glad to get out of this situation with the bluff and some of his dignity intact, exactly as things generally tend to end between these two. He gives Sylar a defiant, ice-cold glare in return, and turns his back to leave.
The Indian man with the rather long, curly hair had been sitting in the Nexus for awhile- he merely watched everything, attentive. Occasionally, he would reach for a small pad of paper and jot things down. More than notes, though- he appears to be doodling.
There is another curly-haired Indian man watching him from across the Nexus with icy, knowing fury. He waits for a long while without making a move--he looks to be working up his nerve, or at least that's part of it, but he's waiting to see if Sylar (if it's Sylar, and he hardly doubts that it is) does anything overtly offensive. He's looking for evidence that the man might just be the harmless post-apocalypse alternate, and that's what makes him glance at the left wrist--he knows his alternate has severe scarring there. He doesn't see a scar. But he recognizes that goddamn watch, the Bulova tuning fork watch. He's being taunted with it.
Mohinder shoves his chair aside, livid, and advances on his 'alternate.' "Take the illusion off, Sylar," he hisses.
Sylar looks up at Mohinder with a fairly blank smile, but he doesn't take the illusion down. No, he'll do that when he feels like it- and for now he hasn't drawn too much attention to himself. "Don't you want to see what I've been sketching?" he asks Mohinder curiously, in his own voice. He flips the notebook back to the opening page, where eight sillhouettes stand in darkness. While he flips, an image of Matt's head lolling against a brick wall is passed. "I'm getting better at it, I think
Mohinder spares the sketchbook a passing glance, not wanting to give Sylar the satisfaction of open curiosity, even as he internally prays that's not Isaac Mendez's power in action. He's nearly incoherent with rage right now--he's completely powerless here and Sylar's not even hiding it anymore-- "What could you possibly need to do this for?" he demands, and then forces himself back from the edge so he doesn't lose it completely. Sylar would never stop laughing at him for that. "Why me? I don't have any influence that could get you anything you want. I don't have friends around here."
It's a selfish argument, one that will, at best, make Sylar move on to a potentially more disastrous illusion victim, someone like Nathan Petrelli or Noah Bennet, and Mohinder regrets the outburst when he thinks of that, but hearing his own voice from Sylar's mouth, seeing his own hands on that notebook, makes him want to scrub his skin with steel wool.
"Do you really want the answer to that, Doctor?" Sylar's still not getting up; he tilts his head towards Mohinder and grins. It's the same smile Mohinder gave him, back when he was duct-taped to that chair and Mohinder still thought he had some power of his own. "There are a few different reasons, after all. Which one would you rather hear...? That it's easiest for me? Comfortable? That I can most easily pretend to be you because I know you the best? That I'm trying to get information? That I wanted to know if I could fool you?" His eyebrow raises, and he flips through a few more notebook pages. "I don't know, Mohinder," he says, without looking up. "What do you think I'm doing here?"
"I don't know," Mohinder replies venomously. "I don't want to try to get inside your head." Because there is nothing about this that he hates more than the idea that Sylar 'knows' him better than anyone else, and not much that he's more ashamed of than the fact that Sylar could and did fool him so easily. "'Comfortable,'" he repeats bitterly. "And why is being me so comfortable, Sylar? I thought you were so proud of yourself for stealing all those abilities that you had to come crawling to me and begging me to give back. Don't tell me you're having second thoughts. Why /is/ it so comfortable taking on the illusion of someone who hasn't got a single ability of his own?" It would be so nice to be able to say 'who's never killed anyone.' But they both know that isn't true now. Technicalities don't matter.
Sylar finally stops looking through his notepad and smiles up at Mohinder, black eyes meeting each other. "Careful, Mohinder, you're sounding a little hysterical." Of course, it's Sylar's version that seems to be just a little too manic for his own good, the features just a little overmuch. He seems to notice this himself and finally lets the illusion slide, shifting back into the tall, lean frame and the pale face with strong features. He's smiling, smug as ever. "Maybe I was just curious."
Mohinder snaps his mouth shut, humiliated. If only he hadn't let Sylar have the cure, Mohinder could punch that smirk off his face right now, he thinks. It's still probably not true. Sylar in his ordinary form is bigger than him, and probably stronger, and even without his powers, his reflexes are impressive. But that doesn't mean Mohinder can't fondly entertain the fantasy. "Curious about what?" he snaps. "About what it's like not to have people think you're an inhuman monster? You can still have that as long as you don't talk to anyone who actually knows you."
"Now, now," Sylar says, his lips twisting into a mock-hurt expression. "Is that any way to talk about the savior of our universe?" He laughs- even he knows how ridiculous that sounds. He will, however, be rubbing that in. "Besides, if I was merely curious about that, I could've just made myself actually look like Zane Taylor." He stretches his arms out and yawns a bit, and now he definitely is lounging in the chair he was previously just sitting in. He sighs a bit. "I don't suppose you'll tell me any more about the Company now, eh? I was hoping to hear about how moral and upright it was again."
Mohinder snorts with utter contempt. "You wouldn't have been able to do anything with the universe without me." It helps a little bit to keep reminding himself of this. He still hates himself for curing Sylar no matter what eventual beneficial effect it might have on the universe at large. "Nobody ever said the Company was moral or upright. But no, I'm not going to tell you anything more. It's none of your damned business." He can't let Sylar know how urgent the need to eliminate the virus is. The bluff that Mohinder might reinfect him with it is the only semblance of a weapon that he has, pathetic as it is.
The glint of laughter seems to drop out of Sylar's eyes, even though nothing about his expression changes. "Is the Company really trying to eliminate this virus, Mohinder? They did infect me, after all, and-" He tilts his head and a humorless smile appears on his lips. He seems like he's waiting for something. "I don't think they intended to test cures on me."
"No." That much he's certain of. But he doesn't feel guilty about this part. He can honestly say he had nothing at all to do with it, and he likes that. "I assume they expected you to die in quarantine, wherever they had you, to prevent the risk of contagion." He pauses. "It might not have been strictly ethical, but I can't say it was a bad idea." Yes, he can. It was a terrible idea, and he's furious at them for being so careless with the disease, but Sylar can't know that.
"Oh, becuase I'd only escaped from them once? I see." Sylar shakes his head, looking pleased. If that was true, then Candice had been meant as a sacrifice to him, anyway. Funny how that worked out. He finally stands, rolling his head around on his shoulders and stretching his neck out. "You can't honestly tell me you agree with what they're doing."
"I don't know or care how you escaped. And I'm not going to stroke your ego by hand-wringing about how they underestimated you, sorry to disappoint." Mohinder ordinarily hates that he has to tilt his head back to look Sylar in the eye; it makes him feel short and insignificant, but in this case it's better than if Sylar had kept the illusion on and made them the same height. "And I'm not up for a debate about morals, either. You might as well just get it over with and give me the line about how I'm no better than you, or that we're so alike, or whatever you had planned for this time." It doesn't really bother him any less, but at least he's grown more accustomed to hearing it, and can affect an air of bored nonconcern.
Sylar leans to one side for a moment, staring at Mohinder discerningly. "I think you know that well enough," he says. "To be honest, I didn't actually have anything planned. You came to me, remember? What was it you wanted?"
Outdone yet again. Mohinder flushes darkly with anger. "I came to tell you to stop imitating me in the Nexus," he says. "My threat still stands, Sylar. You know what I can do." He even wonders, for a brief moment, if he wouldn't really re-infect Sylar if he could. Just for a second.
"So you're willing to risk an outbreak if I continue to annoy you?" Sylar's not sure about this- which is why his face is blank now, the smile gone.
"There are strains that are highly contagious, most of which I've destroyed, and strains that don't appear to spread at all without great effort," Mohinder lies. "There's one that would eliminate your abilities in a matter of hours. After that, it wouldn't be difficult to quarantine you again. Lock you in the sterile Company basement, sedate you, check in on you through a glass window every couple of hours until you're dead." Talking like a real Company man makes him feel queasy--it frightens him a bit, how fluidly the words just pour out. "There'd be extra security, of course. Third time's the charm, isn't it?"
Sylar narrows his eyes, finally annoyed. "Of course," he says, still staring into Mohinder's eyes, trying to decide whether he'd really be willing to go that far. ...well, he had joined the company, hadn't he? "I hope you enjoy watching it all fall down around you, then. You'll have front row seats." He's not backing down, but the statement isn't amplified by anything- no fancy telekinesis, no displays of power. Just him and Mohinder, and the promise.
"Don't be so sure of yourself." Because it's not fair for Sylar to be if Mohinder can't. He doesn't feel sure; he feels dirty, like even bluffing about this is crossing a line. Slipping on the illusion of the determined Company zealot feels like smearing gritty black oil over himself that won't easily wash off, because he doesn't know how close or far the illusion really is from the truth. But Sylar seems unsettled. And Mohinder thinks that makes the filthy, uneasy feeling of the lie worth it. He's already been violated by Sylar's illusion power; what's a little more?
That makes him laugh, a low chuckle that still somehow lacks the usual malice. Sylar's confidence has been, at times, all he had. He's happy that's not the case right now. He just stares at Mohinder, daring him to say anything else.
Mohinder will just be glad to get out of this situation with the bluff and some of his dignity intact, exactly as things generally tend to end between these two. He gives Sylar a defiant, ice-cold glare in return, and turns his back to leave.