The White Star City: Prologue (continuation of Empire State)
Title: The White Star City: The Sequel to Empire State.
Part: Prologue of ?
Summary: Having fled New York, Mohinder, Sylar and their companions must try to forward their plans in a new city, in a time of sweeping transition.
Rating: PG this chapter, eventual NC-17 for arty, frothy sex.
Pairings: Mylar and Plaude, so far, Petrellicest if you squint and tilt your head (hell, probably less than canon, actually), hints of one-sided Matt > Mohinder.
Other characters: Nathan, Molly, Matt, Elle, Claude, Bennet and others.
Wordcout: 3815
More warnings and notes under the cut.
Warnings for this chapter: Discussion of character death.
Eventual warnings: Oh my god, schmoop. Seriously, if you're diabetic, or if you can't take fluff, I highly recommend you turn around now, lest you fall into a coma, because ho boy, this will eventually feature fluff, sugar, fluff. Pre-Mylar (taking its sweet time as Victorian romances are wont to do), mangling Victorian history, standard AU OOCness, general flounciness of prose. Unbetaed, so I am responsible for all steam-engine-typo-gremlins. Spoilers til the end of who knows where at this point, if there are any at all, beyond the basic who's who.
AN: Okay, now I really start dicking with history- the chronology of events in this story will not exactly match the chronology of historic events that inspired them. There will also be fictionalized versions of real historic figures interacting with the characters, and in some cases, merged with them. I do not own any historical figures, nor the fictional ones. A great deal of the research into the atmosphere and the starting point for the AU setting comes from the book "The Devil in the White City” by Erick Larson.
A/N2: Just to be clear (and the fact that I'm explaining it here means it's kind of a failairous technique, but ah well), Sylar and Gabriel are not separate personalities- they're the division that Gabriel has created in himself as would-be monarch who must show no weakness and vulnerable young man. The names used switch as Mohinder observes Sylar display either vulnerability or authority. Something I'm trying, not sure if it's working.
A/N3: Dedicated to / written for speccygeekgrrl for the hope_in_sight auction.
A/N4: Only beta'd by me, all mistakes mine.
Previous chapters:
Empire State: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.
And then, there were eight.
The rendezvous was a run down cabin, further up state. Little more than a loosely nailed together pile of planks, it was warped from the humidity of being on the shore of the Hudson. After a brief flight, Nathan had done reconnaissance on the site and discovered that it was still their secret. A few, even briefer trips for Peter, and the subjects of the Archduke were reconvened, less one.
Elle Bishop was crumbled in the corner, a little pile of fabric and corn silk hair as Matt fussed over Molly, Peter fussed over Claude, and Nathan over Peter.
Mohinder and Sylar did not, at present, fuss over one another. There were uneasy glances between Sylar, seated at the rickety table at which he, Nathan and Claude tried to decide where to go next, and Mohinder, keeping close watch over Molly and Elle on a canvas cot in the corner.
Matt, usually directly involved in tactical discussions, had walked to the edge of the river with a rusty bucket he'd found outside, and when he returned, set it beside the bed and reached for Elle's feet.
"What in the hell are you doing?" Mohinder protested. "Are you trying to kill her?"
He could plainly see chunks of ice in the bucket, and Matt fixed him with a glare.
"She's going to be in a foul mood when she comes to. I'd rather not be burnt to a crisp, thanks."
"Funny how you sure it's you she's going to take it out on," Sylar said flatly. "What exactly did you do to her?"
Matt scowled defiantly.
"I did what I had to to save Molly."
Sylar stood, crossing his arms.
"So tell us, what was it you 'had to do'?" he asked. Matt didn't answer, turning instead back to the bucket, removing Elle's shoes.
"For gods' sakes, Matt-"
"Let him," Sylar cut him off. "It won't do anyone any good if she kills all of us trying to get her explanations."
Mohinder stood and stomped over to Sylar.
"I think she's earned them," he hissed quietly at Sylar, "and so have I."
Elle began to stir, groaning as her skin touched the icy water, eyes flying open.
"You!" she shouted as soon as she saw Matt. "You killed him!"
Matt snatched up Molly and moved several feet away as Elle's hands crackled. The water crackled as well and she yelped, her own power feeding back against her.
"Calm down," Sylar ordered. "Mohinder, take Molly outside."
Mohinder pointed a finger at Sylar, gritting his teeth.
"I will do no such thing," Mohinder snapped. "I'm not being sent out of the room while the bloody adults talk about serious things; I want an answer as much as anyone!"
"Christ," Claude muttered, getting up and crossing to Matt, plucking Molly from his arms. "The good lord knows I've no desire to listen to this. C'mon, poppet."
Once the door was shut, Elle spoke up.
"You stole my voice," she accused Matt. "My father was dying and I couldn't even tell him that I loved him."
"I'm sorry," Matt said. "I had to. I had to make sure that they helped Molly."
"We could've made that decision, Matt," Sylar replied in a low voice. "It wasn't yours to take from us."
There was a current of discomfort in the room- we? Us? These pronouns were never heard in the context of decisions, not when the archduke was speaking, now suddenly, the stranger he'd brought in was some percentage of a mutual 'we,' this ordinary man was influencing his decisions, and those invariably affected their lives. Only moments after nearly having been dismissed from the room, Mohinder now found every eye within it focused upon him.
“I couldn't take that chance,” Matt said, shifting his focus off Mohinder and back to Elle. “I just knew that she was hurt and that she needed help-”
“So you killed my father,” Elle sneered, “because you couldn't take the chance? What chance was that? That he wasn't as bad as she was, and that they'd decide to try to save him first?”
“You saw your father, Elle,” Matt argued. “Molly was hurt less badly, but she could be helped, he-”
Elle stood up, one foot out of the bucket.
“You don't know that!” she shrieked. Sylar raised his hand and gently pushed her back into a sitting position.
"Would you really have traded a child's life for his?" Matt tried.
"Yes!" Elle wailed, at which Matt recoiled.
"He was dead before anyone got there," Sylar said. Elle's eyes welled up with tears and she shuddered and flinched every time her emotions triggered her power and sparks cracked over her skin.
"What's wrong with you?" Mohinder snapped at both Sylar and Matt. "Elle..."
Mohinder reached for her hand, gritting his teeth against the jarring pain of the sparks.
"Mohinder, don't!" Sylar ordered, rising, only to stop in his tracks at the withering look with which he was met.
"Quiet," Mohinder snapped back. "You two have done enough!"
He turned back to Elle, who had fought her own fury to still her power so as not to hurt Mohinder.
"Matt was very frightened, and panicked, and did something he really shouldn't have. Your father didn't want you to see him like that. I'm so sorry, but... his injury was so severe that he would not have survived, no matter when we got to him and what we could've done. Things should not have happened they way did, Elle, but it would've been the same in the end."
He moved his hands to her shoulders.
"I lost my father too, Elle, years ago, and I'm so sorry."
Elle sniffled and buried her face in Mohinder's shoulder, sobbing her eyes out. Both Matt and Sylar seemed to deflate now that they were no longer defending themselves to her.
"We'll go back, when it's safe," Sylar promised quietly. "We can put up a marker for him."
Mohinder glanced at him, and Sylar raised his eyes just enough to meet his gaze; they were both so full of unasked questions, and in no position to voice them.
"Where now?" Nathan asked quietly. "I don't mean to be callous, but we need to move. Giving into grief now is dangerous."
"We need allies," Matt said.
"We haven't got any," Sylar replied. "Or rather, they're so intermixed with our foes that they're of no help to us."
"Then where?" Nathan said. "Somewhere remote?"
Mohinder snorted at this.
"Nothing is 'remote' if the Empire finds it an irritant," he replied, gently stroking Elle's hair as she continued to weep, quieter now. Mohinder reached down and took her other foot from the bucket and pushed it away, wrapping her feet in the ragged blanket at the foot of the cot as he continued to pour his sympathy into her.
"What if we left the bounds of the Empire, then?" Peter asked. "Perhaps Paris-"
"We've given up too much ground already," Nathan replied, shaking his head. "Our business is within the borders. Besides, for all the personal contempt Spain and France show for England, in the end, they know who controls the trade routes."
Sylar shook his head, rubbing his brow.
"I need something to draw with," he said, and, fulfilling his own request, pulling a charred stick from the fireplace into his hand and rising, walking to the wall with the fewest cracks. Elle sat upright, watching with the others. Mohinder was poised to ask what Sylar was about to do, but she shook her head, wiping her red eyes.
“He can't hear you,” she said, “or see you.”
Mohinder got up, approaching cautiously as Sylar began to sweep his makeshift pencil across the plaster, peering at his face. Mohinder reached out, touching Sylar's shoulder, and he did turn in the direction of the disturbance, but Mohinder recoiled. His eyes were completely white, as if with cataracts.
"Stand back," Peter warned. "Using this one can be hard on him."
Sylar turned away from Mohinder, the motions of his drawing maddened and fevered. He slashed the wood across the wall as though the makeshift implement was a blade rather than kindling. The stick eventually snapped, but Sylar continued, trying to gouge the wall with what remained, his knuckles scraping against the plaster and leaving little streaks of red.
"Enough," Mohinder said, reaching out. Sylar fell to his knees, furiously working on part of the sketch closer to the floor. Mohinder followed him down, grabbing his wrist and taking the stick from his hand.
"Enough," he repeated, more distressed as Sylar continued to reach for the wall.
"He has to come out of it on his own," Nathan said, rising to examine the drawing itself. Mohinder pulled Sylar back and away from it, the latter's hands dropping like magnets removed from metal. Matt, Nathan and Peter all stared at the intaglio-like result, trying to make sense of it. Mohinder, for his part, maneuvered Sylar up to the cot, lifting his head to rest in his lap. Sylar's moon-white eyes still twitched, still taking in a scene no one else could see as Mohinder looked down at him, stroking his face and hair as though trying to comfort him back to the here and now. At first, there was no reaction, but Sylar began to blink more rapidly, leaning toward the warmth of Mohinder's hands, then raising his own hands, blindly trying to find the face of whoever provided it. Mohinder took guided Sylar's wandering fingers to his face.
"Come back," Mohinder murmured as fingertips carefully mapped the topography of his features, the pad of a thumb resting on his lower lip as he spoke. "Look at me. Come back."
Sylar's spine snapped into a concave, his whole body seizing in Mohinder's arms, then went slack. He opened his eyes and they were once again the warm, rich color of bourbon that had struck Mohinder when they first met.
"Are you all right?" Mohinder asked him, still gently touching. Sylar's fingers wrapped around his, a flicker of gratitude in his expression. He was up quickly though, without answering, and looking at his own work.
"What the hell is that?" he muttered. Among the curves of half-constructed buildings and a horizon was an inexplicable structure like a broken sprocket, something like two-thirds of spikes protruding like spokes from a wheel, dwarfing everything around it. "What is that?"
"I think..." Nathan's eyes narrowed. "They're planning an exhibition out west.”
That made sense, Mohinder thought. First London had one, then Paris did them one better- it'd been going on like this for decades, this game of oneupsmanship between the empire and the few countries not under her thumb. There was always a fair going on somewhere in the world, and always another being planned, and another after that.
“West where?” Matt asked no one in particular.
“I left my newspaper back at our other hideout,” Nathan replied dryly. Matt peered at him, concentrating, and Nathan cringed. “Oh, I hate it when you do this.”
“Chicago,” Matt said, digging the forgotten information out of Nathan's memory. “That's Chicago.”
Nathan dragged his hand down his face.
“I knew there was a reason I'd forgotten,” he muttered. “Christ, Chicago? It's a cesspool.”
Sylar smirked, tapping the wall.
“Why Nathan, such east-coast elitism,” he grinned. “I don't know why I didn't think of it. Chicago is perfect. People disappear in Chicago all the time, and with the crowd that'll be coming in for the exhibition, the authorities will have their hands more than full.”
“It's a long way,” Mohinder said, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Can Peter make that jump? With passengers?”
“If I take Molly and Nathan first,” Peter said, nodding. Mohinder gave him a quizzical look. Molly made sense, but why Nathan? Matt shrugged and looked at Mohinder.
“Peter can always find Nathan,” he said, answering Mohinder's question. Sylar turned and scowled at Matt dangerously.
“Unless you've got a medical book in your hands, you stay the fuck out of his head!” Sylar railed, the walls shaking. Mohinder jumped, feeling telekinetic pressure against his chest, like an arm holding him back from danger.
“It's just a surface thought!” Matt protested in frustration. “It's as obvious as a smile or a frown, I'm not-”
“Just don't. Don't,” Sylar said, balling his fists. “I've got enough to worry about without you sniffing around him, without you fucking with the minds who are on our side! If I have to watch for you trying to steal him, trying to warp everything, we're all going to be killed!”
“If he doesn't-” Matt started, but Nathan spoke up:
“He's right. Matt, there's a chain of command in place. Circumventing it with your power is just the same as circumventing it with a gun, and causes more damage.”
Claude returned at that point, Molly on his shoulders. She was tired, but her eyes brighter and color better than it had been in anyone's memory.
“Hell,” Claude said as he looked at the heated expressions that Matt and Sylar leveled at one another. “I thought for certain we'd be be back after the ultimatums were over. Well, be quick about it and deal with your little fits; I'm not going back out there in that weather.”
There was silence for a moment, before Sylar said:
“No one's having a fit. We all understand one another just fine. Don't we? Matt.”
Claude sighed irritably, glaring at the space between the two of them until Matt broke the silence.
“Yes,” Matt said. “I- we understand.”
Claude huffed a sigh, setting Molly down on the floor so that she could go to Matt, but instead, she looked at Mohinder and came over to him, taking his hands and swinging them idly.
“How do you feel?” he asked her, brushing her hair off her forehead and feeling if she was feverish.
“Better,” she said, though she didn't specify better than what, exactly. He took a look at the stitches, the wound, checking for any sign of infection that he could see. There wasn't any, so far, and he stroked her hair and gave her a hug.
“I'm so glad,” he murmured, then gently nudged Molly toward Matt, and she went, glancing nervously at Elle who kept her own eyes downcast toward her lap.
"The hell have you done to the wall?" Claude muttered, examining it.
“That's the next step: Chicago,” Sylar answered, absently rubbing at the raw scrapes on his knuckles. Claude raised his eyebrows at that, giving a tilted nod.
“Makes sense, I suppose,” he agreed. “Though I don't know a soul in Chicago, m'self.”
Sylar had to admit that neither did he.
“I know a few people,” Nathan said. “Friends of our father's.”
That elicited a bitter snort from Peter.
“They'd turn all of us in in a second, Nate,” he pointed out. “Father's not around to keep everyone in line anymore.”
“We don't need to know anyone,” Sylar said impatiently. “That fair's bringing in strangers from all over the nation, looking for quick money. We won't garner any notice; not the modern aristocrats, not the thief, not even the beautiful captain.”
No one was especially confident, but no one had a better suggestion, so Peter and Nathan were given the task of scouting the outskirts of the city for a point of approach. In the meantime, Matt watched over Molly, and Claude did his best to comfort Elle, while Sylar continued examining the wall for more clues to what sort of future he'd predicted.
For his part, Mohinder wandered outside, looking over the river as snow fell into it. The silence of snow always chilled Mohinder, perhaps more so than the actual cold that brought it. Monsoons, storms, rain, wind, these things made noise, they roared in, but snow... a person could go to sleep, and then awake to find that their doors, their windows, were completely encased in the white, in the cold. He would read about it sometimes, in the papers. People on wagons, getting to those places where the trains could not go, frequently had broken axles, and in the winter, the snow would just come cover them in silence, and within that silence, death. In all the years that he'd been on this godforsaken colony, he'd never shaken his fear of that white silence.
He jumped a foot in the air when he felt someone touch his shoulder, skidding in the snow-slick grass as he landed before regaining his balance, and turning to see Sylar, wide-eyed and startled by Mohinder's reaction.
“Sorry! Sorry, Mohinder...” he said, pressing a hand against his own chest to calm his heart.
"It's fine," Mohinder said, voice rough with embarrassment at being so jumpy. "I just didn't hear you."
"Sorry," Sylar said again. "I wasn't sure where you'd gone."
Mohinder shrugged, looking back over the river.
"I wasn't needed," he said flatly. "I thought I'd get out from under foot 'til the decision was made."
Sylar took a breath, about to protest that statement, but let it go. There was no point, not then, at any rate, in trying to reassure Mohinder that he was vital. Instead, Sylar looked over the river himself.
"You did a good job," he said, "with Elle, I mean."
Mohinder turned, giving Sylar a frustrated look, indicating that Mohinder could not say the same to him. Sylar looked down a bit before facing him again.
"I know that I wasn't... I know I was unkind," he said. Mohinder shook his head, lips pressed tight before he replied.
"Was that the cruelty you spoke of?" he asked. "Was that your detachment at work?"
Sylar sighed, dragging a hand through his hair.
"Mohinder-"
"To be so horrible to a girl in mourning, to-!" Mohinder clamped his mouth shut, fists clenched.
"If I was too sympathetic, if I made her feel justified, Mohinder, she would have killed Matt,” Sylar replied. Mohinder scoffed.
"Elle would never..."
He trailed off as he saw the expression Sylar wore, grave and still as granite.
"Elle has likely killed more people than you have in your military career, Mohinder," he said softly. "Among us the only two whose hands are completely clean are Peter's and the little girl's, and I don't expect either will last forever."
Mohinder's brow knitted.
"But you're just as angry at Matt as she is," he pointed out. Sylar's expression darkened.
"That I am. Probably more so," Sylar answered. "He claims that he's loyal to our cause, but he has no patience and no faith. Whenever he thinks that I might disagree with him, he skirts mutiny. He doesn't trust me at all."
Mohinder looked at him, evenly, silently, and Sylar's heart sank.
"Neither do you, I see," he said softly.
"What would you have me to say?" Mohinder retorted. "Which you is even making the inquiry? I don't bloody trust you because I don't know which face you show is sincere and which is just for show!"
Mohinder clutched at his own hair, voice dropping to a hushed, panicky tone.
"You cut that man's skull open!" he whispered, his panic only mounting as Sylar looked hurt.
"You said he wouldn't survive; you told Elle-"
"Yes, but why? A man dying, the building coming down round our ears, and you took the time to open up his head! What the fuck did that accomplish?"
Sylar reached down, picking up a pebble from under the snow. Before Mohinder's eyes, it turned to gold.
"Oh gods..." Mohinder whispered, taking a step back and nearly losing his footing in the snow. Sylar reached out, catching him by the upper arm, throwing the nugget into the river.
"Please don't tell them," Sylar said.
"That's why Molly looked so frightened when you were with me, when she was hurt," Mohinder said, voice hoarse with horror.
"Mohinder, please," Sylar begged. "I've never had to use that terrible capacity to learn on an ally before. Without a source of income, we'd be stranded, or we'd have to steal, which isn't... it's not good for us. We shouldn't prey on the ordinary. I promise I'll explain it to them eventually; hell, I won't have a choice when they see me use Bishop's gift, but not now, Mohinder. Please."
Mohinder's shoulders slumped in resignation and despair, his arm limp in Sylar's grasp. The fire in his eyes was something between the way he behaved as archduke and the way he behaved as a courting lover. His face held both the former's conviction as well as the latter's vulnerability and fear.
"I wish I knew who you were," Mohinder groaned softly. Sylar looked pained at that, gently touching Mohinder's face.
"You will, one day," he said. "I promise you."
Mohinder reached up, took his wrist, and pulled Sylar's hand from his cheek, pushing his arm to drop it at his side.
"I wish," Mohinder replied, "that I could say that I look forward to that without reserve."
Mohinder braced himself, perhaps for Sylar's forceful wrath, perhaps for Gabriel's wrenching sorrow, but received neither as the cabin door opened.
"Oy, lovebirds," Claude said from the door frame. "The lads are back."
Mohinder stepped around Sylar and went back inside, out of the snow and the wind.
The party sat, mostly in uncomfortable silence, as Nathan detailed an abandoned barn they'd found on the outskirts of the city which would make a passable starting point. Sylar agreed, and Peter first took Nathan, his anchor, and Molly, his navigator, leaving Elle, Matt, Mohinder and Sylar to glower at one another or avoid the others' gazes, with Claude to umpire any disagreements that might ensue. Matt, Molly and Claude were taken next, leaving Mohinder and Sylar alone for just a moment. Sylar looked at him across the little room, and said softly,
"I will prove myself to you," he said. Mohinder looked up, a little startled at the sudden break in the silence. Mohinder looked back at him.
"What do you hope to prove yourself to be?" Mohinder asked in reply. Sylar considered the question.
"Worthy," Sylar answered.
Peter was back before Mohinder could ask for further clarification: Worthy of what? Worthy of the mastery of all that he seemed to so crave, worthy of Mohinder's affection? Perhaps simply worthy of all of that, and anything else he happened to fancy. Mohinder couldn't really imagine how someone would measure worthiness of something so broad, or of so many things across such a landscape.
These thoughts left his mind as he felt himself lurch, being yanked into nothing as Peter held his hand.
Part: Prologue of ?
Summary: Having fled New York, Mohinder, Sylar and their companions must try to forward their plans in a new city, in a time of sweeping transition.
Rating: PG this chapter, eventual NC-17 for arty, frothy sex.
Pairings: Mylar and Plaude, so far, Petrellicest if you squint and tilt your head (hell, probably less than canon, actually), hints of one-sided Matt > Mohinder.
Other characters: Nathan, Molly, Matt, Elle, Claude, Bennet and others.
Wordcout: 3815
More warnings and notes under the cut.
Warnings for this chapter: Discussion of character death.
Eventual warnings: Oh my god, schmoop. Seriously, if you're diabetic, or if you can't take fluff, I highly recommend you turn around now, lest you fall into a coma, because ho boy, this will eventually feature fluff, sugar, fluff. Pre-Mylar (taking its sweet time as Victorian romances are wont to do), mangling Victorian history, standard AU OOCness, general flounciness of prose. Unbetaed, so I am responsible for all steam-engine-typo-gremlins. Spoilers til the end of who knows where at this point, if there are any at all, beyond the basic who's who.
AN: Okay, now I really start dicking with history- the chronology of events in this story will not exactly match the chronology of historic events that inspired them. There will also be fictionalized versions of real historic figures interacting with the characters, and in some cases, merged with them. I do not own any historical figures, nor the fictional ones. A great deal of the research into the atmosphere and the starting point for the AU setting comes from the book "The Devil in the White City” by Erick Larson.
A/N2: Just to be clear (and the fact that I'm explaining it here means it's kind of a failairous technique, but ah well), Sylar and Gabriel are not separate personalities- they're the division that Gabriel has created in himself as would-be monarch who must show no weakness and vulnerable young man. The names used switch as Mohinder observes Sylar display either vulnerability or authority. Something I'm trying, not sure if it's working.
A/N3: Dedicated to / written for speccygeekgrrl for the hope_in_sight auction.
A/N4: Only beta'd by me, all mistakes mine.
Previous chapters:
Empire State: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.
And then, there were eight.
The rendezvous was a run down cabin, further up state. Little more than a loosely nailed together pile of planks, it was warped from the humidity of being on the shore of the Hudson. After a brief flight, Nathan had done reconnaissance on the site and discovered that it was still their secret. A few, even briefer trips for Peter, and the subjects of the Archduke were reconvened, less one.
Elle Bishop was crumbled in the corner, a little pile of fabric and corn silk hair as Matt fussed over Molly, Peter fussed over Claude, and Nathan over Peter.
Mohinder and Sylar did not, at present, fuss over one another. There were uneasy glances between Sylar, seated at the rickety table at which he, Nathan and Claude tried to decide where to go next, and Mohinder, keeping close watch over Molly and Elle on a canvas cot in the corner.
Matt, usually directly involved in tactical discussions, had walked to the edge of the river with a rusty bucket he'd found outside, and when he returned, set it beside the bed and reached for Elle's feet.
"What in the hell are you doing?" Mohinder protested. "Are you trying to kill her?"
He could plainly see chunks of ice in the bucket, and Matt fixed him with a glare.
"She's going to be in a foul mood when she comes to. I'd rather not be burnt to a crisp, thanks."
"Funny how you sure it's you she's going to take it out on," Sylar said flatly. "What exactly did you do to her?"
Matt scowled defiantly.
"I did what I had to to save Molly."
Sylar stood, crossing his arms.
"So tell us, what was it you 'had to do'?" he asked. Matt didn't answer, turning instead back to the bucket, removing Elle's shoes.
"For gods' sakes, Matt-"
"Let him," Sylar cut him off. "It won't do anyone any good if she kills all of us trying to get her explanations."
Mohinder stood and stomped over to Sylar.
"I think she's earned them," he hissed quietly at Sylar, "and so have I."
Elle began to stir, groaning as her skin touched the icy water, eyes flying open.
"You!" she shouted as soon as she saw Matt. "You killed him!"
Matt snatched up Molly and moved several feet away as Elle's hands crackled. The water crackled as well and she yelped, her own power feeding back against her.
"Calm down," Sylar ordered. "Mohinder, take Molly outside."
Mohinder pointed a finger at Sylar, gritting his teeth.
"I will do no such thing," Mohinder snapped. "I'm not being sent out of the room while the bloody adults talk about serious things; I want an answer as much as anyone!"
"Christ," Claude muttered, getting up and crossing to Matt, plucking Molly from his arms. "The good lord knows I've no desire to listen to this. C'mon, poppet."
Once the door was shut, Elle spoke up.
"You stole my voice," she accused Matt. "My father was dying and I couldn't even tell him that I loved him."
"I'm sorry," Matt said. "I had to. I had to make sure that they helped Molly."
"We could've made that decision, Matt," Sylar replied in a low voice. "It wasn't yours to take from us."
There was a current of discomfort in the room- we? Us? These pronouns were never heard in the context of decisions, not when the archduke was speaking, now suddenly, the stranger he'd brought in was some percentage of a mutual 'we,' this ordinary man was influencing his decisions, and those invariably affected their lives. Only moments after nearly having been dismissed from the room, Mohinder now found every eye within it focused upon him.
“I couldn't take that chance,” Matt said, shifting his focus off Mohinder and back to Elle. “I just knew that she was hurt and that she needed help-”
“So you killed my father,” Elle sneered, “because you couldn't take the chance? What chance was that? That he wasn't as bad as she was, and that they'd decide to try to save him first?”
“You saw your father, Elle,” Matt argued. “Molly was hurt less badly, but she could be helped, he-”
Elle stood up, one foot out of the bucket.
“You don't know that!” she shrieked. Sylar raised his hand and gently pushed her back into a sitting position.
"Would you really have traded a child's life for his?" Matt tried.
"Yes!" Elle wailed, at which Matt recoiled.
"He was dead before anyone got there," Sylar said. Elle's eyes welled up with tears and she shuddered and flinched every time her emotions triggered her power and sparks cracked over her skin.
"What's wrong with you?" Mohinder snapped at both Sylar and Matt. "Elle..."
Mohinder reached for her hand, gritting his teeth against the jarring pain of the sparks.
"Mohinder, don't!" Sylar ordered, rising, only to stop in his tracks at the withering look with which he was met.
"Quiet," Mohinder snapped back. "You two have done enough!"
He turned back to Elle, who had fought her own fury to still her power so as not to hurt Mohinder.
"Matt was very frightened, and panicked, and did something he really shouldn't have. Your father didn't want you to see him like that. I'm so sorry, but... his injury was so severe that he would not have survived, no matter when we got to him and what we could've done. Things should not have happened they way did, Elle, but it would've been the same in the end."
He moved his hands to her shoulders.
"I lost my father too, Elle, years ago, and I'm so sorry."
Elle sniffled and buried her face in Mohinder's shoulder, sobbing her eyes out. Both Matt and Sylar seemed to deflate now that they were no longer defending themselves to her.
"We'll go back, when it's safe," Sylar promised quietly. "We can put up a marker for him."
Mohinder glanced at him, and Sylar raised his eyes just enough to meet his gaze; they were both so full of unasked questions, and in no position to voice them.
"Where now?" Nathan asked quietly. "I don't mean to be callous, but we need to move. Giving into grief now is dangerous."
"We need allies," Matt said.
"We haven't got any," Sylar replied. "Or rather, they're so intermixed with our foes that they're of no help to us."
"Then where?" Nathan said. "Somewhere remote?"
Mohinder snorted at this.
"Nothing is 'remote' if the Empire finds it an irritant," he replied, gently stroking Elle's hair as she continued to weep, quieter now. Mohinder reached down and took her other foot from the bucket and pushed it away, wrapping her feet in the ragged blanket at the foot of the cot as he continued to pour his sympathy into her.
"What if we left the bounds of the Empire, then?" Peter asked. "Perhaps Paris-"
"We've given up too much ground already," Nathan replied, shaking his head. "Our business is within the borders. Besides, for all the personal contempt Spain and France show for England, in the end, they know who controls the trade routes."
Sylar shook his head, rubbing his brow.
"I need something to draw with," he said, and, fulfilling his own request, pulling a charred stick from the fireplace into his hand and rising, walking to the wall with the fewest cracks. Elle sat upright, watching with the others. Mohinder was poised to ask what Sylar was about to do, but she shook her head, wiping her red eyes.
“He can't hear you,” she said, “or see you.”
Mohinder got up, approaching cautiously as Sylar began to sweep his makeshift pencil across the plaster, peering at his face. Mohinder reached out, touching Sylar's shoulder, and he did turn in the direction of the disturbance, but Mohinder recoiled. His eyes were completely white, as if with cataracts.
"Stand back," Peter warned. "Using this one can be hard on him."
Sylar turned away from Mohinder, the motions of his drawing maddened and fevered. He slashed the wood across the wall as though the makeshift implement was a blade rather than kindling. The stick eventually snapped, but Sylar continued, trying to gouge the wall with what remained, his knuckles scraping against the plaster and leaving little streaks of red.
"Enough," Mohinder said, reaching out. Sylar fell to his knees, furiously working on part of the sketch closer to the floor. Mohinder followed him down, grabbing his wrist and taking the stick from his hand.
"Enough," he repeated, more distressed as Sylar continued to reach for the wall.
"He has to come out of it on his own," Nathan said, rising to examine the drawing itself. Mohinder pulled Sylar back and away from it, the latter's hands dropping like magnets removed from metal. Matt, Nathan and Peter all stared at the intaglio-like result, trying to make sense of it. Mohinder, for his part, maneuvered Sylar up to the cot, lifting his head to rest in his lap. Sylar's moon-white eyes still twitched, still taking in a scene no one else could see as Mohinder looked down at him, stroking his face and hair as though trying to comfort him back to the here and now. At first, there was no reaction, but Sylar began to blink more rapidly, leaning toward the warmth of Mohinder's hands, then raising his own hands, blindly trying to find the face of whoever provided it. Mohinder took guided Sylar's wandering fingers to his face.
"Come back," Mohinder murmured as fingertips carefully mapped the topography of his features, the pad of a thumb resting on his lower lip as he spoke. "Look at me. Come back."
Sylar's spine snapped into a concave, his whole body seizing in Mohinder's arms, then went slack. He opened his eyes and they were once again the warm, rich color of bourbon that had struck Mohinder when they first met.
"Are you all right?" Mohinder asked him, still gently touching. Sylar's fingers wrapped around his, a flicker of gratitude in his expression. He was up quickly though, without answering, and looking at his own work.
"What the hell is that?" he muttered. Among the curves of half-constructed buildings and a horizon was an inexplicable structure like a broken sprocket, something like two-thirds of spikes protruding like spokes from a wheel, dwarfing everything around it. "What is that?"
"I think..." Nathan's eyes narrowed. "They're planning an exhibition out west.”
That made sense, Mohinder thought. First London had one, then Paris did them one better- it'd been going on like this for decades, this game of oneupsmanship between the empire and the few countries not under her thumb. There was always a fair going on somewhere in the world, and always another being planned, and another after that.
“West where?” Matt asked no one in particular.
“I left my newspaper back at our other hideout,” Nathan replied dryly. Matt peered at him, concentrating, and Nathan cringed. “Oh, I hate it when you do this.”
“Chicago,” Matt said, digging the forgotten information out of Nathan's memory. “That's Chicago.”
Nathan dragged his hand down his face.
“I knew there was a reason I'd forgotten,” he muttered. “Christ, Chicago? It's a cesspool.”
Sylar smirked, tapping the wall.
“Why Nathan, such east-coast elitism,” he grinned. “I don't know why I didn't think of it. Chicago is perfect. People disappear in Chicago all the time, and with the crowd that'll be coming in for the exhibition, the authorities will have their hands more than full.”
“It's a long way,” Mohinder said, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Can Peter make that jump? With passengers?”
“If I take Molly and Nathan first,” Peter said, nodding. Mohinder gave him a quizzical look. Molly made sense, but why Nathan? Matt shrugged and looked at Mohinder.
“Peter can always find Nathan,” he said, answering Mohinder's question. Sylar turned and scowled at Matt dangerously.
“Unless you've got a medical book in your hands, you stay the fuck out of his head!” Sylar railed, the walls shaking. Mohinder jumped, feeling telekinetic pressure against his chest, like an arm holding him back from danger.
“It's just a surface thought!” Matt protested in frustration. “It's as obvious as a smile or a frown, I'm not-”
“Just don't. Don't,” Sylar said, balling his fists. “I've got enough to worry about without you sniffing around him, without you fucking with the minds who are on our side! If I have to watch for you trying to steal him, trying to warp everything, we're all going to be killed!”
“If he doesn't-” Matt started, but Nathan spoke up:
“He's right. Matt, there's a chain of command in place. Circumventing it with your power is just the same as circumventing it with a gun, and causes more damage.”
Claude returned at that point, Molly on his shoulders. She was tired, but her eyes brighter and color better than it had been in anyone's memory.
“Hell,” Claude said as he looked at the heated expressions that Matt and Sylar leveled at one another. “I thought for certain we'd be be back after the ultimatums were over. Well, be quick about it and deal with your little fits; I'm not going back out there in that weather.”
There was silence for a moment, before Sylar said:
“No one's having a fit. We all understand one another just fine. Don't we? Matt.”
Claude sighed irritably, glaring at the space between the two of them until Matt broke the silence.
“Yes,” Matt said. “I- we understand.”
Claude huffed a sigh, setting Molly down on the floor so that she could go to Matt, but instead, she looked at Mohinder and came over to him, taking his hands and swinging them idly.
“How do you feel?” he asked her, brushing her hair off her forehead and feeling if she was feverish.
“Better,” she said, though she didn't specify better than what, exactly. He took a look at the stitches, the wound, checking for any sign of infection that he could see. There wasn't any, so far, and he stroked her hair and gave her a hug.
“I'm so glad,” he murmured, then gently nudged Molly toward Matt, and she went, glancing nervously at Elle who kept her own eyes downcast toward her lap.
"The hell have you done to the wall?" Claude muttered, examining it.
“That's the next step: Chicago,” Sylar answered, absently rubbing at the raw scrapes on his knuckles. Claude raised his eyebrows at that, giving a tilted nod.
“Makes sense, I suppose,” he agreed. “Though I don't know a soul in Chicago, m'self.”
Sylar had to admit that neither did he.
“I know a few people,” Nathan said. “Friends of our father's.”
That elicited a bitter snort from Peter.
“They'd turn all of us in in a second, Nate,” he pointed out. “Father's not around to keep everyone in line anymore.”
“We don't need to know anyone,” Sylar said impatiently. “That fair's bringing in strangers from all over the nation, looking for quick money. We won't garner any notice; not the modern aristocrats, not the thief, not even the beautiful captain.”
No one was especially confident, but no one had a better suggestion, so Peter and Nathan were given the task of scouting the outskirts of the city for a point of approach. In the meantime, Matt watched over Molly, and Claude did his best to comfort Elle, while Sylar continued examining the wall for more clues to what sort of future he'd predicted.
For his part, Mohinder wandered outside, looking over the river as snow fell into it. The silence of snow always chilled Mohinder, perhaps more so than the actual cold that brought it. Monsoons, storms, rain, wind, these things made noise, they roared in, but snow... a person could go to sleep, and then awake to find that their doors, their windows, were completely encased in the white, in the cold. He would read about it sometimes, in the papers. People on wagons, getting to those places where the trains could not go, frequently had broken axles, and in the winter, the snow would just come cover them in silence, and within that silence, death. In all the years that he'd been on this godforsaken colony, he'd never shaken his fear of that white silence.
He jumped a foot in the air when he felt someone touch his shoulder, skidding in the snow-slick grass as he landed before regaining his balance, and turning to see Sylar, wide-eyed and startled by Mohinder's reaction.
“Sorry! Sorry, Mohinder...” he said, pressing a hand against his own chest to calm his heart.
"It's fine," Mohinder said, voice rough with embarrassment at being so jumpy. "I just didn't hear you."
"Sorry," Sylar said again. "I wasn't sure where you'd gone."
Mohinder shrugged, looking back over the river.
"I wasn't needed," he said flatly. "I thought I'd get out from under foot 'til the decision was made."
Sylar took a breath, about to protest that statement, but let it go. There was no point, not then, at any rate, in trying to reassure Mohinder that he was vital. Instead, Sylar looked over the river himself.
"You did a good job," he said, "with Elle, I mean."
Mohinder turned, giving Sylar a frustrated look, indicating that Mohinder could not say the same to him. Sylar looked down a bit before facing him again.
"I know that I wasn't... I know I was unkind," he said. Mohinder shook his head, lips pressed tight before he replied.
"Was that the cruelty you spoke of?" he asked. "Was that your detachment at work?"
Sylar sighed, dragging a hand through his hair.
"Mohinder-"
"To be so horrible to a girl in mourning, to-!" Mohinder clamped his mouth shut, fists clenched.
"If I was too sympathetic, if I made her feel justified, Mohinder, she would have killed Matt,” Sylar replied. Mohinder scoffed.
"Elle would never..."
He trailed off as he saw the expression Sylar wore, grave and still as granite.
"Elle has likely killed more people than you have in your military career, Mohinder," he said softly. "Among us the only two whose hands are completely clean are Peter's and the little girl's, and I don't expect either will last forever."
Mohinder's brow knitted.
"But you're just as angry at Matt as she is," he pointed out. Sylar's expression darkened.
"That I am. Probably more so," Sylar answered. "He claims that he's loyal to our cause, but he has no patience and no faith. Whenever he thinks that I might disagree with him, he skirts mutiny. He doesn't trust me at all."
Mohinder looked at him, evenly, silently, and Sylar's heart sank.
"Neither do you, I see," he said softly.
"What would you have me to say?" Mohinder retorted. "Which you is even making the inquiry? I don't bloody trust you because I don't know which face you show is sincere and which is just for show!"
Mohinder clutched at his own hair, voice dropping to a hushed, panicky tone.
"You cut that man's skull open!" he whispered, his panic only mounting as Sylar looked hurt.
"You said he wouldn't survive; you told Elle-"
"Yes, but why? A man dying, the building coming down round our ears, and you took the time to open up his head! What the fuck did that accomplish?"
Sylar reached down, picking up a pebble from under the snow. Before Mohinder's eyes, it turned to gold.
"Oh gods..." Mohinder whispered, taking a step back and nearly losing his footing in the snow. Sylar reached out, catching him by the upper arm, throwing the nugget into the river.
"Please don't tell them," Sylar said.
"That's why Molly looked so frightened when you were with me, when she was hurt," Mohinder said, voice hoarse with horror.
"Mohinder, please," Sylar begged. "I've never had to use that terrible capacity to learn on an ally before. Without a source of income, we'd be stranded, or we'd have to steal, which isn't... it's not good for us. We shouldn't prey on the ordinary. I promise I'll explain it to them eventually; hell, I won't have a choice when they see me use Bishop's gift, but not now, Mohinder. Please."
Mohinder's shoulders slumped in resignation and despair, his arm limp in Sylar's grasp. The fire in his eyes was something between the way he behaved as archduke and the way he behaved as a courting lover. His face held both the former's conviction as well as the latter's vulnerability and fear.
"I wish I knew who you were," Mohinder groaned softly. Sylar looked pained at that, gently touching Mohinder's face.
"You will, one day," he said. "I promise you."
Mohinder reached up, took his wrist, and pulled Sylar's hand from his cheek, pushing his arm to drop it at his side.
"I wish," Mohinder replied, "that I could say that I look forward to that without reserve."
Mohinder braced himself, perhaps for Sylar's forceful wrath, perhaps for Gabriel's wrenching sorrow, but received neither as the cabin door opened.
"Oy, lovebirds," Claude said from the door frame. "The lads are back."
Mohinder stepped around Sylar and went back inside, out of the snow and the wind.
The party sat, mostly in uncomfortable silence, as Nathan detailed an abandoned barn they'd found on the outskirts of the city which would make a passable starting point. Sylar agreed, and Peter first took Nathan, his anchor, and Molly, his navigator, leaving Elle, Matt, Mohinder and Sylar to glower at one another or avoid the others' gazes, with Claude to umpire any disagreements that might ensue. Matt, Molly and Claude were taken next, leaving Mohinder and Sylar alone for just a moment. Sylar looked at him across the little room, and said softly,
"I will prove myself to you," he said. Mohinder looked up, a little startled at the sudden break in the silence. Mohinder looked back at him.
"What do you hope to prove yourself to be?" Mohinder asked in reply. Sylar considered the question.
"Worthy," Sylar answered.
Peter was back before Mohinder could ask for further clarification: Worthy of what? Worthy of the mastery of all that he seemed to so crave, worthy of Mohinder's affection? Perhaps simply worthy of all of that, and anything else he happened to fancy. Mohinder couldn't really imagine how someone would measure worthiness of something so broad, or of so many things across such a landscape.
These thoughts left his mind as he felt himself lurch, being yanked into nothing as Peter held his hand.