Everything Goes Dark 5/7
Title: Everything Goes Dark 5/7
Author: yaoi_anti_drug
Beta: Matt and Chris
Pairings: Elle/Claire, Sylar/Mohinder, hints at Nathan/Peter
Overall Pairings: Elle/Eden, Elle/Claire, Sylar/Mohinder, Peter/Sylar, Nathan/Peter, Elle/Adam, and Claire/Peter (unrequited)
Characters: Claire, Elle, Peter, Hiro, Adam, Mohinder, Parkman, Haitian, and Sylar
Genre: Drama, Angst, Dark Future Fic
Rating: R
Summary: An AU fic based on the Five Years Gone Verse
Word Count: A little over 5,350
Spoilers: Light spoilers for Volumes 1 and 2
Overall Warnings: Violence, Character Death, Sex, Incest (Graphic Only In Chapter 2), Non-Con (Only In Chapter 6)
Notes: Dedicated to slavefaith. And a big thank you to ladywilde80 for helping me with the inspiration and to Matt and Chris for giving me the courage to post! Constructive criticism is always loved and comments, even if it’s to say you hate it, are always appreciated too. Title from "Everything Goes Dark" by The Hoosiers
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, if I did, well...wouldn't Heroes be interesting?
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Everything Goes Dark 5/7:
Chapter Five:
Peter owned a couple warehouses in various parts of the United States under alias names, utilizing them to harbor all sorts of contraband - either material goods or people in need. Due to their relatively desolate locations, they were ideal for practice and shelter.
Peter chose one of the buildings he normally used to as a temporary home to function as their headquarters. They began to train straight away, not wasting a single valuable second.
Initially, it was Claire versus Hiro and Elle versus Peter. The purpose was that each person trained with someone who could heal and assist them with fixing their worst traits, eventually switching around so they could be competent at any task they might be called upon to fulfill in the future.
Claire was coached by Peter how to shoot accurately from any plausible distance as well as instructed by Hiro how to properly wield a blade. Using Peter as a target, Elle was able to improve her sharpshooting skills.
Peter also let both girls hone their hand to hand fighting on him after Elle reminded them that physical prowess would come in handy if they had the bad luck to encounter The Haitian.
When she mentioned the ex-employee of The Company Peter seemed to place just who she was talking about. Elle, intrigued, sought to inquire as to how, but he'd promptly assaulted her, avoiding interrogation as well as serving as a distraction.
At Elle's insistence, Hiro also taught her how to use a sword. Taking into account that he needed to concentrate on Claire more, he only educated her in the basics.
Claire's art needed to be close to that of a professional, as she possessed no abilities that would aid her in a fight. Regrowing skin and bone could only enable her to go so far.
Predictably, the night preceding the instigation of their plan, Claire couldn't sleep. She lay motionless in the cot she shared with Elle, eyes wide as they soaked up the darkness. She heard movement outside of the room, catching sight of a black shadow behind the pale shade that acted as their door.
Forsaken by slumber and serenity, she wished not to be alone and instead made her way out to greet the wandering apparition.
As she had speculated, her partner in insomnia was Peter. He was sitting down, two beers in his hands. She glanced at the perspiring glass marked 'Rolling Rock', smiling wryly. He shrugged in response, “I was expecting you.”
She sat down across from him and took the beer, glancing down at it solemnly, “It's not even legal for me to drink this.”
Peter arched a brow, “It's not legal for you to do a lot of things. But you do anyways. Besides, considering what we're set to carry through with tomorrow... I think you deserve a beer for your troubles.”
“I didn't say I wasn't going to drink it. I just find it ironic that I'm going to steal from the government and eventually attack a President while still being under 21. I'm becoming quite accomplished, wouldn't you agree?” She casually twisted off the cap, taking a sip. It tasted sour, old, but she savored the flavor merely for memories benefit.
Peter sat back, scar making him appear uncharacteristically brooding. She also leaned back, “How did you get that scar, if you don't mind me asking. I thought you could heal.”
Shockingly, her uncle didn't make any effort to change the subject. Furthermore, he was exceptionally candid; perhaps because it was Claire he was speaking to.
“Unless you've been living under a rock, you have been informed that the explosion was Sylar's fault. Nathan lied to clear my name. I'm the one to blame."
Acknowledging such liability was an act of courage that Peter took honor in. It was still challenging for him to vocalize the regrettable facts, but at the very least, those close to him understood his culpability.
"After the incident, I stayed close by my brother. He was the only one I trusted. And then, one day, he just changed... I didn't even need to use my powers to be sure it wasn't him. I was certain that Nathan was dead.”
Claire apprehended how he'd figured it out so quickly, but she didn't bring it up, precisely as Peter had requested. Even so, the atmosphere abruptly permeated a heavy tension.
He took another deep sip of the acidic, but rewarding, alcohol before continuing, “I confronted him. I demanded to be told who he was. He revealed himself to be Sylar. I tried to kill him, Claire, I swear I did. But that damned Haitian..."
He sighed, getting aggravated just retelling the story, "Sylar gave me this scar as a reminder not to cross him. He was going to keep me there, locked away. I realize now it was to examine the immortality I got from you. I escaped before he was able to imprison me, and kept the scar so I would never again make the mistake of letting my heart cloud my senses.”
So it had been taken as a lesson. Always be prepared for the worst. It was an excellent example of a cautionary tale in this day and age; as bitter as the lasting effect was.
“And what about you, Claire? I would have never expected you to... you know,” Peter insinuated, lip twitching into a smirk.
Claire slapped his knee playfully, “Mind out of the gutter, Peter.”
She took another gulp before setting the beer down. “I didn't either,” she said thoughtfully, “It just happened. Dad sent her to live with me. At first, she hated me. I'm still not sure why. But it doesn't matter now. Thinking back on it, I think she just wanted me to accept her. You should have seen her! She started trying to get my attention...”
She chuckled, recalling a cliché montage of all of Elle's silly endeavors.
“It was rather cute. The way she thought wearing specific clothes or using the weirdest make-up would make me like her. But let me tell you, even those tiny changes were tough for her. She's had a rough life, I'm surprised she isn't more unbalanced. She's a bit sadistic, yeah, but...”
“A bit?” Peter laughed, “No, she's really sadistic. You should have seen the look on her face when I let her electrocute me. She looked fucking ecstatic; it was sort of creepy.”
Claire smiled mischievously, “I, myself, find it to be kind of a turn on, seeing how I can spontaneously heal from anything she tries...”
“Doesn't it hurt though?”
“Well, yeah, but at the right moment, a bit of pain can be, well... awesome,” Claire responded, almost dreamily.
Peter shook his head, “I can't believe we're talking about this.”
Claire grinned, “What can I say, I'm all grown up.”
“So, you really love her then?” Peter asked, suddenly serious.
“I can honestly say that yes, I do.”
If he would have questioned her about the depth of her feelings a couple months ago, she probably would have regarded it as a gigantic joke, but her entire life had been upended in such a small allotment of time. Yes, some of the modifications to her existence had been for the worse; Nathan, the Linderman Acts; but there was also plenty to appreciate.
After all, she had gotten Elle out of the deal. As accidental as the developments had been, she was as happy as she could ever hope to be.
Claire had absolutely no doubts about what she felt for Elle, and she was positive the feelings were reciprocated. There wasn't even a contemplation of the crush she'd once nursed for Peter. That was an obvious statement of how smitten she actually was.
“Good. I'm glad you finally found someone, Claire. Just make sure you keep her close," Peter admonished, an undertone of remorse painstakingly riddled throughout his words.
“Oh, no worries there. I'm not letting her out of my sight.” Claire replied earnestly so that he would be sated. His unfortunate first-hand knowledge would not go unheeded.
She proceeded to polish off her beer, eying its empty contents. She almost asked for another, but it was not the night to get smashed.
Share-and-tell was now over and she decided to try and go to bed, so she bid Peter goodnight, leaving him to whatever a man of his utmost dolor might ponder.
She climbed back into the tepid cot. With a shiver, she wrapped her arms around Elle in a desperate attempt to steal some heat. The girl whined and curled close into her, assuring Claire that she'd made every right decision in the past few months.
------------------------
The Facility in which Mohinder conducted his experiments doubled as a Homeland Security Base. The man in charge of its operations was Matthew Parkman. He was no longer the human being Peter would have recognized. That warm hearted soul had not survived the harrowing months. He had been contorted to resemble an entity wholly new and terrifying.
The departed Matt Parkman was an upright cop whose sole sin was wanting to defend the weak and be a hero a little too much. Similar to Peter himself. He'd been blackmailed and turned by Sylar, and even with his perceptive ability, he was nowadays one of the President's most loyal lackeys; indeed bearing genuine stock in Sylar's lies.
Though the betrayal of one so akin to Peter stung deeply, if he needed to be dispatched, then so be it. This was War, and Parkman had selected his side of his own volition.
Since Parkman was a mind reader, there was a nonexistent potential of sneaking in. It came down to forcing their way in. They tried their hardest not to kill anyone if it was possible, but sometimes, it was an unavoidable casualty.
Peter and Hiro were at the vanguard while Elle and Claire served as lookouts and finished up any overlooked individuals.
Seeing as Mohinder was the only person worth a damn who could not protect himself, he was chaperoned closely by The Haitian whenever he was uncommitted.
It was valid to say that Sylar could get another, just as adept scientist, but he had, rationale unknown, taken an excessive interest in Mohinder. All Peter was certain of was that when he'd last seen the geneticist, he was being tortured by the man who presently identified himself as the President, and that if he was illuminated as to whom he was truly working for, he would never stand for it.
Breaking into the lab, Hiro immediately knocked out the Haitian with the blunt end of his sword. The action that should have been anticipated by the guardian was nonetheless sufficient. Parkman would be arriving soon, so they acted rapidly.
Oddly, the first thing Peter noticed about Mohinder was that his hair had grown out. It was much more curly and unruly, and there was a dash of stubble growing on his face from the lack of available occasions to shave. On top of that, he was exhibiting a pair of overly large glasses.
He appeared haggard and exhausted, but had the energy to instantly go on the defensive. He backed up towards his desk, searching for the gun he'd stowed there - even if he knew it would be ineffective in opposition with these people.
“Mohinder, stop. We're not going to hurt you. You know me,” Peter appealed.
Mohinder didn't particularly look scared. If anything, he was indignant. “Peter, you shouldn't be here. What do you want?”
Peter didn't hesitate, delving right into it, “Mohinder, do you know who you're being employed by?”
Mohinder didn't quite comprehend him, answering carefully, “Yes, President Petrelli. Your brother. What kind of question is that?”
Peter brightened; there was no fallacy in Suresh's voice. His assumptions had been proven correct, and therefore, all could fall cleanly into place. “It's not Nathan. It's Sylar. Think about it. You know I'm telling the truth.”
Mohinder was taking much too long to process Peter's words, and the clock was running out.
Claire, impatient, disrupted the hazardous quiet, “Please, Doctor, what you're doing here isn't right. You want to take away our abilities, turn back time on Evolution. It's wrong, and any decent man would recognize that. Sylar is an egotistical maniac who wants to be the only special person out there. Don't you think influencing the people of this country would be a great place to start? It's at least possible, isn't it?”
“Well, yes, I suppose it's possible, but it being probable is the more appropriate question...”
Elle snorted, “We don't exactly have an eternity for you to be sure. Are you going to trust us, or a man who wants you to take away millions of people's birth rights?”
“Some people are dangerous to thems-”
“Then you help them learn control!” Elle snapped, “You don't rip away a part of their DNA.”
Mohinder had dealt with this argument before. He understood that the ethics of his actions were disputable, but the bottom line always prevailed. He was a scientist. This was his job and President Petrelli, of whom he considered to be a good friend, needed his help.
He didn't condone giving this cure to the general masses, but he was also not stupid enough to think this was a perfect world. If he invented a cure, it would be used as a weapon.
If it wasn't he who discovered it, then someone else would. He refused to allow such a scenario; this was his life's work. In the end, the destiny of the cure would rest upon the shoulders of the person who held his findings.
And that was why he was doing this for a man he trusted. For Nathan.
How dare Peter just march in here and tell him that his confidence was unjustified? That all of the fealty he'd built up over these years had all been another trick perpetrated by the man he hated above all others?
The fact that Peter had no reason to lie to him lingered like a foul stench over his sense of right and wrong. Yet, Mohinder could not believe him.
“Show me proof, Peter. I need proof.”
Peter nodded, “That won't be a problem...”
Matthew Parkman would not fight four well-trained Specials, especially two who could not die, all alone. No, he would not risk losing. He'd call in Sylar.
Soon, they would have more than their fair share of evidence.
Elle was itching to tell Hiro to take Mohinder; no fuss, no muss. But Peter wanted him to witness the tangible deformation of his fidelity, even if it endangered their lives. He didn't think kidnapping Mohinder against his will was the suitable route. He had to work with them voluntarily; or their plot would unravel.
And to do that, he needed to see Sylar with his own eyes.
Claire was their unofficial sentry and it didn't take long before she spotted numerous police file in, followed by Parkman and Nathan. She retreated from the door, getting out of the way of the imminent fire, “They're here.”
Peter glanced at Mohinder “Get underneath one of the desks.”
The door was blown backwards, hitting the floor and bouncing until it smacked into its rival wall with a leaden thud. Regardless of the fact that the five of them were well out of range, shots rang out. Their adversaries must have realized that the guns would miss. The bullets were probably just for show, to boost the morale of Parkman's men.
The deafening noise ceased, the crumbling dust fading away. Sylar, still wearing Nathan's visage, neared the door, and Peter had a hand up, prepared to fight ability versus ability. Sylar was well aware of him, having looked forward to this since being informed of his presence in the building.
First and foremost, he took out the rest of them. He wanted plenty of room for the impending struggle.
Hiro, Claire, and Elle were all slammed adjacent to the wall, waiting for their turn, while Peter and Sylar had their silent battle. Staunch eyes, thin lips, and quivering hands. But Sylar currently held the leverage. He could use two of his abilities at once whereas Peter was still a novice.
Frost formed in Sylar's palm, mouth drawn into a tight smirk. The ice dissipated, never reaching its desired target as he cried out. He was vulnerable while his body regenerated the burned skin left behind by the attack.
Elle smiled victoriously. She'd had a decent portion of space to move her arm, which had sanctioned the use of her ability. Peter took advantage of the opening, flinging Sylar back, his presidential head rattling against cement.
His three captives fell. Hiro reached for his sword, Claire raised her gun, and Elle created more lightning in her hand.
Matthew Parkman and his men stormed the fray right when they saw the tides turn, their guns jammed with potent tranquilizers. Parkman aimed the first one directly at Peter, firing without hesitation. He had to go down, he was visibly the strongest as well as the unmistakable leader of this little vigilante pack.
Elle modified her onslaught, steering it at Parkman, relishing his ripe screams. She was astounded by his resistance; no matter how many volts she pounded into him, he simply refused to drop his gun. But she wasn't nearly done yet. She'd set her mind on frying him until she saw the white of his bones.
Meanwhile, Sylar had recuperated, and his sights were set on her now that the tranquilizers had successfully knocked the real Petrelli unconscious. “Elle. I've been looking for you, and you come to me? How sweet of you.”
Elle changed her aim, eyes narrowed and decisive. She heard Claire yell her name, but she brushed the concern off. She was going to kill him... He couldn't regenerate that quickly, could he? But he was... God dammit, he was!
And he was fucking enjoying it; alight with a masochistic grin on his snide lips. His cruel laughter induced shudders down her spine, but she remained unwaveringly resolute.
Claire sliced her way free of members of Parkman's Swat Team, indifferent to the tranquilizers with her name on it. Hiro had her back; she had utter conviction in him.
Her goal was to get to Elle. She had to make her stop. She observed that Parkman had a shaky mark on her, but she paid him no attention. He was down and out too soon to be relevant.
When she was so close she could feel the electric buzz of Elle's power, Hiro grabbed her arm, jerking her back, “Elle! No, let me go, Hiro, let me go!” But she was screaming at a cold and inanimate metal obstruction. Hiro had transported them back to the warehouse.
Claire froze, eyes crazed. “No...” Without giving it much thought, she turned around and furiously punched Hiro in the face. “Why the fuck did you do that?! We could have gotten her! And Peter! We just left them there... What the hell is wrong with you?!”
Although, Hiro was bleeding profusely, his hand covering his nose, he spoke prudently, “Because if we stayed there, Sylar would have captured us too." He reached for his leg and yanked out the fragment of a tranquilizer dart, teetering on his heels and defying unabated darkness.
"I could only save myself and one other. We can't get them out if we're prisoners too. I'm sorry, Claire, but I did what was necessary.”
------------------------
It was a mere glass window that separated Mohinder from Peter, but it felt more like miles. The wannabe hero was still stricken by comatose, head slipped to the side, gelled back hair in disarray. He would have appeared peaceful if it wasn't for the ugly, jutting scar sewn into his skin. The puckered flesh curdled his stomach and roused his guilt.
Mohinder had watched a multitude of evolved beings pass through these cells. They'd all faced horrific, pitiful fates. Only one man remained constant in these hollowed halls: Adam Monroe.
As if being affected by his ruminations, Monroe, sitting on a chair in his stark white cell side by side with Peter, glanced at him with his sharp, crystalline eyes. He leaned back in his chair, lips slanting to allow for a smirk, pretentious, as if he knew everything he was thinking.
Mohinder shifted his feet, unnerved even if accustomed to Monroe's formidable clairvoyance. But he had to give him respect. The man had been to Hell and back in order to gain the knowledge he held so discreetly in that calculating mind of his. He must have experienced so very much...
He had not perceived the extent of his afflictions until now. His fists curled in disgust, the image of Sylar cutting open the top Monroe's head and poking around to acquire his cherished power worming its way into his imagination.
And still, he had not been permitted to rest. He was Mohinder's test subject. It was logical, due to his ability. He had never questioned it.
He had been told that Monroe was a criminal, a habitual liar, and that he'd hurt a lot of people. He doubted if that was even true. He had undeniably been deceived for an undefined amount of time. He frankly couldn't affirm what was reality and what was fabrication.
It had been his steadfast reliance in Nathan's words that pushed him to assist in these ventures. But he had not been helping Nathan Petrelli. He'd been aiding Sylar in whatever deplorable objective he craved to reach.
Oh god... Sylar. Peter had been right. Nathan was Sylar. Nathan didn't have all of those powers; he'd beheld their might with his own astonished eyes.
He let out a trembling breath. Monroe's piercing gaze soon became too overwhelming. That man comprehended all too much, all too well.
Mohinder focused instead on the concluding denizen of the dungeon of Homeland Security.
It was difficult to ignore her. She was making quite the racket in her cell next to Peter, screaming at Sylar to show himself, to fight her fairly.
She was very energetic, but he was sure she'd wear out soon. They always did. Even the spirited ones. They'd dosed her, along with Peter, with an injection that would block their abilities for a couple hours, so blasting her way out of confinement in a fit of rage wasn't likely.
Both she and Peter had been clothed in the customary white issued outfits. From that instant on, they were a part of this facility.
As if out of a horror film, a cold chill trickled down his spine. Sylar was in the room. Mohinder hadn't heard the door, but that wasn't startling. Sylar was more than resourceful enough to go undetected if he wished to.
The President's hand draped over his shoulder and Mohinder took a step to the side, unable to look at him. All of the things he had done for Nathan - Sylar - pursued an boundless invasion of his conscience.
Sylar clucked in disappointment, “Mohinder. Don't be this way. I think you knew it was me the whole time. You just didn't want to believe it.”
Sylar was the authority at mocking him. Always using a specific voice, one that wouldn't seem like taunting to an innocent bystander, but when channeled at him caused the maximum measure of shame and hatred to ascend straight into the enclosure of his soul.
“Our goals haven't changed, Mohinder. Create a cure so we can get the dangerous people off the streets.”
“Oh, people like you?” Mohinder quipped.
Sylar smiled, laughing as if it had been an amiable joke, “No. People who kill without a purpose. People who murder only to inflict fear into people's hearts. I never did that. I always had a reason. Always. Don't you remember when I called you, before the explosion?”
He did. In fact, Mohinder recalled it all too well. Nevertheless, just because Sylar had displayed a semblance of compassion for that short-lived moment didn't mean he truly possessed any.
“I won't make the cure for you. I refuse,” Mohinder persisted.
Sylar slid in behind him, hands on both of his shoulders, retaining him firmly in place. He leaned down to Mohinder's ear, a deliberate replica of the position the scientist had once occupied. “If you don't, someone else will... and I'll be much less willing to listen to their advice on who to give it to.”
His fingers deepened their hold and Mohinder jumped, eyes closed, trying to overpower Sylar's voice with the blonde's passionate shrieks.
“And you are fully aware of what I'm capable of if you refuse." Sylar continued, "You still have family back in India, don't you? And Molly Walker in New York... I didn't take that useful ability of hers for your sake, but if you leave me, then there's no reason for me to be so frugal, now is there?”
Mohinder could sense Sylar's amused smirk as he spoke. The mere thought of it instigated vehemence to finally breach his placid exterior. He ripped himself from Sylar's grasp, facing him with all his rage gleaming outward, fists clenched and trembling, as if he aspired to take a punch.
“Don't you dare threaten me or my family!”
Oh, Sylar adored him like this. His stance screamed predator and violence, but Mohinder would never raise a hand against him. He was too afraid; Sylar could smell it on him. Irresistible.
He distinctly remembered their nights together, back when Mohinder had called him Zane Taylor. All too tender and gentle. That wasn't the way Sylar ordinarily liked things, but with him he'd made an exception. Then as Nathan, one drunken evening in the Oval Office, right on the president's desk. All exquisite ardor and inebriated, disorientated limbs, sloppy kisses; a night for his mind's record.
Mohinder had been so embarrassed, blaming the whole fiasco on the alcohol. He'd begged him not to bring it up, to forget about it. Sylar had given in to his supplication, partially on the grounds that having sex as Nathan was simply not satisfactory.
He didn't like the politicians body. The curves were too angled, he was too collected, not as feral as he would have preferred. Fortunately, however belatedly, he was no longer obligated to pretend around Mohinder. Sylar was certain he could get him wrapped around his finger once more. It would just take a nuance of coercion; a skill that Sylar prided himself in.
He could mold the scientist just the way he wanted him.
“I can do what I want, Mohinder.” The way he said his name was fashioned for yet another assault on his terse temper. Syllables smooth and sweet, as if he owned it.
Mohinder, at long last, entirely broke. His pulled his fist back and let it fly. But he should have realized... Sylar caught his wrist and shoved him harshly into the glass of Peter Petrelli's jail.
Observing his futile struggles, Sylar just couldn't resist anymore. Mohinder was so glorious when he likened an unrestrained tempest; and he didn't get the chance to see that ferocity often. He pushed his lips down onto his, free hand gripping his waist to keep him steady.
Mohinder's loose and frantic hand was responded to without much haste. What little he could do wouldn't hurt him. He slammed him further down onto the glass, all the while devouring every inch of his mouth. Mohinder bit him, undoubtedly his last defense, but Sylar didn't allow it to faze him.
He took his hand away from his hips, clasping the nuisance that was the Indian's independent fist and proceeded to sweep it, along with the other, above Mohinder's head, pressing heatedly into him; maintaining him properly transfixed and defenseless.
Telekinesis nudged between the Indian's thighs, caressing erogenous flesh, eliciting an additional muffled cry of protest; one that, of course, went disregarded.
His lips relinquished Mohinder's bucking mouth and chased an alternate endeavor, sighing avid and lecherous at his ear. His teeth snapped out to nibble on the fragile shell of the lobe, dismissing all presently audible dissent.
Adam watched from his cell, leaning into the transparent partition, a contemptuous frown accenting his cavalier face. Sylar was one hell of a manipulator, but not nearly as good as him. If he'd had the same opportunities, Adam would have that pretty geneticist eating out of his hand and begging him to fuck him; no powers required.
On the opposite end of the hall, Elle never ceased shouting, having only a sketchy view of the happenings. Judging from what she saw, she was clearly not too ecstatic about. “If you're so strong and so special, Sylar, why do you have to force him?!”
Her comment alone jolted him out of his torrid lust; enough to deflect his attentions onto a new target, ambitions turning deadly. Elle. He had almost forgotten about her...
After all, she was the actual motivation for sparing time out of his busy schedule to descend to this pleasant niche of the damned.
He released Mohinder as he made his way to Elle, standing outside looking in. “Elle... You should not have distracted me. I was going to let you live for a few more minutes.”
Elle gave a cynical smile, “I don't think it really matters, does it? You are going to kill me either way.” She was scared, genuine fear for once in her life. But she had to play it overconfident, because that was what she did to survive. She substituted her anxiety with insolence.
Her only hope was that Claire would come. She and Hiro had gotten away, and they wouldn't leave them here, unprotected and in the enemy's abode. She had faith in her lover. She was probably out there right this second, defeating guards, police, and the Haitian to get to her. She would be fine...
Yet, Elle's turbulent gut expressed otherwise.
Sylar grinned, nodding, “That's true.” He threw open the door with a flick of his finger, malevolent intentions glorifying the desire in his eyes as he confronted the girl who had helped make him who he was today.
As he did this, Mohinder was held flat against the translucent mirror of the waking Peter's cage. He felt useless, solely able to plead with the murderer using accusations of cowardice.
Elle faced her would be slayer bravely, gaze unfaltering.
“Have you ever wondered what would have happened to me had you not interfered?” Sylar monologued, “I would have remained an inconsequential watchmaker from Queens. Instead, you propelled me into a path I would have otherwise fought and denied. You helped me accept who I am. A killer with all the right reasons. A visionary, a leader... The President. I thank you for that.”
“You would have become a monster no matter what I did," Elle sneered.
“Think what you want. The truth is your precious girlfriend would still be alive had you not been so foolish. Eden, that was her name, right? She would not have died if it wasn't for you. You're telling me that you don't blame yourself?”
Elle's silence assured Sylar of her contrition.
He smirked, “I would love to have more fun with you, but I think we're long past due finishing this.” He raised his hand and Elle collided with the abrasive concrete, emitting a shocked cry.
Peter caught bits of conversation while his hearing fluctuated in and out; eventually developing adequate awareness of what was going on around him. Mohinder was pinned to the glass outside his tiny prison, yelling boldly at someone who could only be Sylar.
He heard the man beyond the thin veil of crude paint and cheap brick.
“I've been waiting a long time for this...” And Elle began to scream.
“No!” Peter was up, fists slamming into the solid barrier, just trying to get to her. He called for his powers, but there was an obvious block. Nothing... He could only stand there helplessly while his shouts were drowned out by her profound, nightmarish screams.
Chapter Six
Author: yaoi_anti_drug
Beta: Matt and Chris
Pairings: Elle/Claire, Sylar/Mohinder, hints at Nathan/Peter
Overall Pairings: Elle/Eden, Elle/Claire, Sylar/Mohinder, Peter/Sylar, Nathan/Peter, Elle/Adam, and Claire/Peter (unrequited)
Characters: Claire, Elle, Peter, Hiro, Adam, Mohinder, Parkman, Haitian, and Sylar
Genre: Drama, Angst, Dark Future Fic
Rating: R
Summary: An AU fic based on the Five Years Gone Verse
Word Count: A little over 5,350
Spoilers: Light spoilers for Volumes 1 and 2
Overall Warnings: Violence, Character Death, Sex, Incest (Graphic Only In Chapter 2), Non-Con (Only In Chapter 6)
Notes: Dedicated to slavefaith. And a big thank you to ladywilde80 for helping me with the inspiration and to Matt and Chris for giving me the courage to post! Constructive criticism is always loved and comments, even if it’s to say you hate it, are always appreciated too. Title from "Everything Goes Dark" by The Hoosiers
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, if I did, well...wouldn't Heroes be interesting?
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Everything Goes Dark 5/7:
Chapter Five:
Peter owned a couple warehouses in various parts of the United States under alias names, utilizing them to harbor all sorts of contraband - either material goods or people in need. Due to their relatively desolate locations, they were ideal for practice and shelter.
Peter chose one of the buildings he normally used to as a temporary home to function as their headquarters. They began to train straight away, not wasting a single valuable second.
Initially, it was Claire versus Hiro and Elle versus Peter. The purpose was that each person trained with someone who could heal and assist them with fixing their worst traits, eventually switching around so they could be competent at any task they might be called upon to fulfill in the future.
Claire was coached by Peter how to shoot accurately from any plausible distance as well as instructed by Hiro how to properly wield a blade. Using Peter as a target, Elle was able to improve her sharpshooting skills.
Peter also let both girls hone their hand to hand fighting on him after Elle reminded them that physical prowess would come in handy if they had the bad luck to encounter The Haitian.
When she mentioned the ex-employee of The Company Peter seemed to place just who she was talking about. Elle, intrigued, sought to inquire as to how, but he'd promptly assaulted her, avoiding interrogation as well as serving as a distraction.
At Elle's insistence, Hiro also taught her how to use a sword. Taking into account that he needed to concentrate on Claire more, he only educated her in the basics.
Claire's art needed to be close to that of a professional, as she possessed no abilities that would aid her in a fight. Regrowing skin and bone could only enable her to go so far.
Predictably, the night preceding the instigation of their plan, Claire couldn't sleep. She lay motionless in the cot she shared with Elle, eyes wide as they soaked up the darkness. She heard movement outside of the room, catching sight of a black shadow behind the pale shade that acted as their door.
Forsaken by slumber and serenity, she wished not to be alone and instead made her way out to greet the wandering apparition.
As she had speculated, her partner in insomnia was Peter. He was sitting down, two beers in his hands. She glanced at the perspiring glass marked 'Rolling Rock', smiling wryly. He shrugged in response, “I was expecting you.”
She sat down across from him and took the beer, glancing down at it solemnly, “It's not even legal for me to drink this.”
Peter arched a brow, “It's not legal for you to do a lot of things. But you do anyways. Besides, considering what we're set to carry through with tomorrow... I think you deserve a beer for your troubles.”
“I didn't say I wasn't going to drink it. I just find it ironic that I'm going to steal from the government and eventually attack a President while still being under 21. I'm becoming quite accomplished, wouldn't you agree?” She casually twisted off the cap, taking a sip. It tasted sour, old, but she savored the flavor merely for memories benefit.
Peter sat back, scar making him appear uncharacteristically brooding. She also leaned back, “How did you get that scar, if you don't mind me asking. I thought you could heal.”
Shockingly, her uncle didn't make any effort to change the subject. Furthermore, he was exceptionally candid; perhaps because it was Claire he was speaking to.
“Unless you've been living under a rock, you have been informed that the explosion was Sylar's fault. Nathan lied to clear my name. I'm the one to blame."
Acknowledging such liability was an act of courage that Peter took honor in. It was still challenging for him to vocalize the regrettable facts, but at the very least, those close to him understood his culpability.
"After the incident, I stayed close by my brother. He was the only one I trusted. And then, one day, he just changed... I didn't even need to use my powers to be sure it wasn't him. I was certain that Nathan was dead.”
Claire apprehended how he'd figured it out so quickly, but she didn't bring it up, precisely as Peter had requested. Even so, the atmosphere abruptly permeated a heavy tension.
He took another deep sip of the acidic, but rewarding, alcohol before continuing, “I confronted him. I demanded to be told who he was. He revealed himself to be Sylar. I tried to kill him, Claire, I swear I did. But that damned Haitian..."
He sighed, getting aggravated just retelling the story, "Sylar gave me this scar as a reminder not to cross him. He was going to keep me there, locked away. I realize now it was to examine the immortality I got from you. I escaped before he was able to imprison me, and kept the scar so I would never again make the mistake of letting my heart cloud my senses.”
So it had been taken as a lesson. Always be prepared for the worst. It was an excellent example of a cautionary tale in this day and age; as bitter as the lasting effect was.
“And what about you, Claire? I would have never expected you to... you know,” Peter insinuated, lip twitching into a smirk.
Claire slapped his knee playfully, “Mind out of the gutter, Peter.”
She took another gulp before setting the beer down. “I didn't either,” she said thoughtfully, “It just happened. Dad sent her to live with me. At first, she hated me. I'm still not sure why. But it doesn't matter now. Thinking back on it, I think she just wanted me to accept her. You should have seen her! She started trying to get my attention...”
She chuckled, recalling a cliché montage of all of Elle's silly endeavors.
“It was rather cute. The way she thought wearing specific clothes or using the weirdest make-up would make me like her. But let me tell you, even those tiny changes were tough for her. She's had a rough life, I'm surprised she isn't more unbalanced. She's a bit sadistic, yeah, but...”
“A bit?” Peter laughed, “No, she's really sadistic. You should have seen the look on her face when I let her electrocute me. She looked fucking ecstatic; it was sort of creepy.”
Claire smiled mischievously, “I, myself, find it to be kind of a turn on, seeing how I can spontaneously heal from anything she tries...”
“Doesn't it hurt though?”
“Well, yeah, but at the right moment, a bit of pain can be, well... awesome,” Claire responded, almost dreamily.
Peter shook his head, “I can't believe we're talking about this.”
Claire grinned, “What can I say, I'm all grown up.”
“So, you really love her then?” Peter asked, suddenly serious.
“I can honestly say that yes, I do.”
If he would have questioned her about the depth of her feelings a couple months ago, she probably would have regarded it as a gigantic joke, but her entire life had been upended in such a small allotment of time. Yes, some of the modifications to her existence had been for the worse; Nathan, the Linderman Acts; but there was also plenty to appreciate.
After all, she had gotten Elle out of the deal. As accidental as the developments had been, she was as happy as she could ever hope to be.
Claire had absolutely no doubts about what she felt for Elle, and she was positive the feelings were reciprocated. There wasn't even a contemplation of the crush she'd once nursed for Peter. That was an obvious statement of how smitten she actually was.
“Good. I'm glad you finally found someone, Claire. Just make sure you keep her close," Peter admonished, an undertone of remorse painstakingly riddled throughout his words.
“Oh, no worries there. I'm not letting her out of my sight.” Claire replied earnestly so that he would be sated. His unfortunate first-hand knowledge would not go unheeded.
She proceeded to polish off her beer, eying its empty contents. She almost asked for another, but it was not the night to get smashed.
Share-and-tell was now over and she decided to try and go to bed, so she bid Peter goodnight, leaving him to whatever a man of his utmost dolor might ponder.
She climbed back into the tepid cot. With a shiver, she wrapped her arms around Elle in a desperate attempt to steal some heat. The girl whined and curled close into her, assuring Claire that she'd made every right decision in the past few months.
------------------------
The Facility in which Mohinder conducted his experiments doubled as a Homeland Security Base. The man in charge of its operations was Matthew Parkman. He was no longer the human being Peter would have recognized. That warm hearted soul had not survived the harrowing months. He had been contorted to resemble an entity wholly new and terrifying.
The departed Matt Parkman was an upright cop whose sole sin was wanting to defend the weak and be a hero a little too much. Similar to Peter himself. He'd been blackmailed and turned by Sylar, and even with his perceptive ability, he was nowadays one of the President's most loyal lackeys; indeed bearing genuine stock in Sylar's lies.
Though the betrayal of one so akin to Peter stung deeply, if he needed to be dispatched, then so be it. This was War, and Parkman had selected his side of his own volition.
Since Parkman was a mind reader, there was a nonexistent potential of sneaking in. It came down to forcing their way in. They tried their hardest not to kill anyone if it was possible, but sometimes, it was an unavoidable casualty.
Peter and Hiro were at the vanguard while Elle and Claire served as lookouts and finished up any overlooked individuals.
Seeing as Mohinder was the only person worth a damn who could not protect himself, he was chaperoned closely by The Haitian whenever he was uncommitted.
It was valid to say that Sylar could get another, just as adept scientist, but he had, rationale unknown, taken an excessive interest in Mohinder. All Peter was certain of was that when he'd last seen the geneticist, he was being tortured by the man who presently identified himself as the President, and that if he was illuminated as to whom he was truly working for, he would never stand for it.
Breaking into the lab, Hiro immediately knocked out the Haitian with the blunt end of his sword. The action that should have been anticipated by the guardian was nonetheless sufficient. Parkman would be arriving soon, so they acted rapidly.
Oddly, the first thing Peter noticed about Mohinder was that his hair had grown out. It was much more curly and unruly, and there was a dash of stubble growing on his face from the lack of available occasions to shave. On top of that, he was exhibiting a pair of overly large glasses.
He appeared haggard and exhausted, but had the energy to instantly go on the defensive. He backed up towards his desk, searching for the gun he'd stowed there - even if he knew it would be ineffective in opposition with these people.
“Mohinder, stop. We're not going to hurt you. You know me,” Peter appealed.
Mohinder didn't particularly look scared. If anything, he was indignant. “Peter, you shouldn't be here. What do you want?”
Peter didn't hesitate, delving right into it, “Mohinder, do you know who you're being employed by?”
Mohinder didn't quite comprehend him, answering carefully, “Yes, President Petrelli. Your brother. What kind of question is that?”
Peter brightened; there was no fallacy in Suresh's voice. His assumptions had been proven correct, and therefore, all could fall cleanly into place. “It's not Nathan. It's Sylar. Think about it. You know I'm telling the truth.”
Mohinder was taking much too long to process Peter's words, and the clock was running out.
Claire, impatient, disrupted the hazardous quiet, “Please, Doctor, what you're doing here isn't right. You want to take away our abilities, turn back time on Evolution. It's wrong, and any decent man would recognize that. Sylar is an egotistical maniac who wants to be the only special person out there. Don't you think influencing the people of this country would be a great place to start? It's at least possible, isn't it?”
“Well, yes, I suppose it's possible, but it being probable is the more appropriate question...”
Elle snorted, “We don't exactly have an eternity for you to be sure. Are you going to trust us, or a man who wants you to take away millions of people's birth rights?”
“Some people are dangerous to thems-”
“Then you help them learn control!” Elle snapped, “You don't rip away a part of their DNA.”
Mohinder had dealt with this argument before. He understood that the ethics of his actions were disputable, but the bottom line always prevailed. He was a scientist. This was his job and President Petrelli, of whom he considered to be a good friend, needed his help.
He didn't condone giving this cure to the general masses, but he was also not stupid enough to think this was a perfect world. If he invented a cure, it would be used as a weapon.
If it wasn't he who discovered it, then someone else would. He refused to allow such a scenario; this was his life's work. In the end, the destiny of the cure would rest upon the shoulders of the person who held his findings.
And that was why he was doing this for a man he trusted. For Nathan.
How dare Peter just march in here and tell him that his confidence was unjustified? That all of the fealty he'd built up over these years had all been another trick perpetrated by the man he hated above all others?
The fact that Peter had no reason to lie to him lingered like a foul stench over his sense of right and wrong. Yet, Mohinder could not believe him.
“Show me proof, Peter. I need proof.”
Peter nodded, “That won't be a problem...”
Matthew Parkman would not fight four well-trained Specials, especially two who could not die, all alone. No, he would not risk losing. He'd call in Sylar.
Soon, they would have more than their fair share of evidence.
Elle was itching to tell Hiro to take Mohinder; no fuss, no muss. But Peter wanted him to witness the tangible deformation of his fidelity, even if it endangered their lives. He didn't think kidnapping Mohinder against his will was the suitable route. He had to work with them voluntarily; or their plot would unravel.
And to do that, he needed to see Sylar with his own eyes.
Claire was their unofficial sentry and it didn't take long before she spotted numerous police file in, followed by Parkman and Nathan. She retreated from the door, getting out of the way of the imminent fire, “They're here.”
Peter glanced at Mohinder “Get underneath one of the desks.”
The door was blown backwards, hitting the floor and bouncing until it smacked into its rival wall with a leaden thud. Regardless of the fact that the five of them were well out of range, shots rang out. Their adversaries must have realized that the guns would miss. The bullets were probably just for show, to boost the morale of Parkman's men.
The deafening noise ceased, the crumbling dust fading away. Sylar, still wearing Nathan's visage, neared the door, and Peter had a hand up, prepared to fight ability versus ability. Sylar was well aware of him, having looked forward to this since being informed of his presence in the building.
First and foremost, he took out the rest of them. He wanted plenty of room for the impending struggle.
Hiro, Claire, and Elle were all slammed adjacent to the wall, waiting for their turn, while Peter and Sylar had their silent battle. Staunch eyes, thin lips, and quivering hands. But Sylar currently held the leverage. He could use two of his abilities at once whereas Peter was still a novice.
Frost formed in Sylar's palm, mouth drawn into a tight smirk. The ice dissipated, never reaching its desired target as he cried out. He was vulnerable while his body regenerated the burned skin left behind by the attack.
Elle smiled victoriously. She'd had a decent portion of space to move her arm, which had sanctioned the use of her ability. Peter took advantage of the opening, flinging Sylar back, his presidential head rattling against cement.
His three captives fell. Hiro reached for his sword, Claire raised her gun, and Elle created more lightning in her hand.
Matthew Parkman and his men stormed the fray right when they saw the tides turn, their guns jammed with potent tranquilizers. Parkman aimed the first one directly at Peter, firing without hesitation. He had to go down, he was visibly the strongest as well as the unmistakable leader of this little vigilante pack.
Elle modified her onslaught, steering it at Parkman, relishing his ripe screams. She was astounded by his resistance; no matter how many volts she pounded into him, he simply refused to drop his gun. But she wasn't nearly done yet. She'd set her mind on frying him until she saw the white of his bones.
Meanwhile, Sylar had recuperated, and his sights were set on her now that the tranquilizers had successfully knocked the real Petrelli unconscious. “Elle. I've been looking for you, and you come to me? How sweet of you.”
Elle changed her aim, eyes narrowed and decisive. She heard Claire yell her name, but she brushed the concern off. She was going to kill him... He couldn't regenerate that quickly, could he? But he was... God dammit, he was!
And he was fucking enjoying it; alight with a masochistic grin on his snide lips. His cruel laughter induced shudders down her spine, but she remained unwaveringly resolute.
Claire sliced her way free of members of Parkman's Swat Team, indifferent to the tranquilizers with her name on it. Hiro had her back; she had utter conviction in him.
Her goal was to get to Elle. She had to make her stop. She observed that Parkman had a shaky mark on her, but she paid him no attention. He was down and out too soon to be relevant.
When she was so close she could feel the electric buzz of Elle's power, Hiro grabbed her arm, jerking her back, “Elle! No, let me go, Hiro, let me go!” But she was screaming at a cold and inanimate metal obstruction. Hiro had transported them back to the warehouse.
Claire froze, eyes crazed. “No...” Without giving it much thought, she turned around and furiously punched Hiro in the face. “Why the fuck did you do that?! We could have gotten her! And Peter! We just left them there... What the hell is wrong with you?!”
Although, Hiro was bleeding profusely, his hand covering his nose, he spoke prudently, “Because if we stayed there, Sylar would have captured us too." He reached for his leg and yanked out the fragment of a tranquilizer dart, teetering on his heels and defying unabated darkness.
"I could only save myself and one other. We can't get them out if we're prisoners too. I'm sorry, Claire, but I did what was necessary.”
------------------------
It was a mere glass window that separated Mohinder from Peter, but it felt more like miles. The wannabe hero was still stricken by comatose, head slipped to the side, gelled back hair in disarray. He would have appeared peaceful if it wasn't for the ugly, jutting scar sewn into his skin. The puckered flesh curdled his stomach and roused his guilt.
Mohinder had watched a multitude of evolved beings pass through these cells. They'd all faced horrific, pitiful fates. Only one man remained constant in these hollowed halls: Adam Monroe.
As if being affected by his ruminations, Monroe, sitting on a chair in his stark white cell side by side with Peter, glanced at him with his sharp, crystalline eyes. He leaned back in his chair, lips slanting to allow for a smirk, pretentious, as if he knew everything he was thinking.
Mohinder shifted his feet, unnerved even if accustomed to Monroe's formidable clairvoyance. But he had to give him respect. The man had been to Hell and back in order to gain the knowledge he held so discreetly in that calculating mind of his. He must have experienced so very much...
He had not perceived the extent of his afflictions until now. His fists curled in disgust, the image of Sylar cutting open the top Monroe's head and poking around to acquire his cherished power worming its way into his imagination.
And still, he had not been permitted to rest. He was Mohinder's test subject. It was logical, due to his ability. He had never questioned it.
He had been told that Monroe was a criminal, a habitual liar, and that he'd hurt a lot of people. He doubted if that was even true. He had undeniably been deceived for an undefined amount of time. He frankly couldn't affirm what was reality and what was fabrication.
It had been his steadfast reliance in Nathan's words that pushed him to assist in these ventures. But he had not been helping Nathan Petrelli. He'd been aiding Sylar in whatever deplorable objective he craved to reach.
Oh god... Sylar. Peter had been right. Nathan was Sylar. Nathan didn't have all of those powers; he'd beheld their might with his own astonished eyes.
He let out a trembling breath. Monroe's piercing gaze soon became too overwhelming. That man comprehended all too much, all too well.
Mohinder focused instead on the concluding denizen of the dungeon of Homeland Security.
It was difficult to ignore her. She was making quite the racket in her cell next to Peter, screaming at Sylar to show himself, to fight her fairly.
She was very energetic, but he was sure she'd wear out soon. They always did. Even the spirited ones. They'd dosed her, along with Peter, with an injection that would block their abilities for a couple hours, so blasting her way out of confinement in a fit of rage wasn't likely.
Both she and Peter had been clothed in the customary white issued outfits. From that instant on, they were a part of this facility.
As if out of a horror film, a cold chill trickled down his spine. Sylar was in the room. Mohinder hadn't heard the door, but that wasn't startling. Sylar was more than resourceful enough to go undetected if he wished to.
The President's hand draped over his shoulder and Mohinder took a step to the side, unable to look at him. All of the things he had done for Nathan - Sylar - pursued an boundless invasion of his conscience.
Sylar clucked in disappointment, “Mohinder. Don't be this way. I think you knew it was me the whole time. You just didn't want to believe it.”
Sylar was the authority at mocking him. Always using a specific voice, one that wouldn't seem like taunting to an innocent bystander, but when channeled at him caused the maximum measure of shame and hatred to ascend straight into the enclosure of his soul.
“Our goals haven't changed, Mohinder. Create a cure so we can get the dangerous people off the streets.”
“Oh, people like you?” Mohinder quipped.
Sylar smiled, laughing as if it had been an amiable joke, “No. People who kill without a purpose. People who murder only to inflict fear into people's hearts. I never did that. I always had a reason. Always. Don't you remember when I called you, before the explosion?”
He did. In fact, Mohinder recalled it all too well. Nevertheless, just because Sylar had displayed a semblance of compassion for that short-lived moment didn't mean he truly possessed any.
“I won't make the cure for you. I refuse,” Mohinder persisted.
Sylar slid in behind him, hands on both of his shoulders, retaining him firmly in place. He leaned down to Mohinder's ear, a deliberate replica of the position the scientist had once occupied. “If you don't, someone else will... and I'll be much less willing to listen to their advice on who to give it to.”
His fingers deepened their hold and Mohinder jumped, eyes closed, trying to overpower Sylar's voice with the blonde's passionate shrieks.
“And you are fully aware of what I'm capable of if you refuse." Sylar continued, "You still have family back in India, don't you? And Molly Walker in New York... I didn't take that useful ability of hers for your sake, but if you leave me, then there's no reason for me to be so frugal, now is there?”
Mohinder could sense Sylar's amused smirk as he spoke. The mere thought of it instigated vehemence to finally breach his placid exterior. He ripped himself from Sylar's grasp, facing him with all his rage gleaming outward, fists clenched and trembling, as if he aspired to take a punch.
“Don't you dare threaten me or my family!”
Oh, Sylar adored him like this. His stance screamed predator and violence, but Mohinder would never raise a hand against him. He was too afraid; Sylar could smell it on him. Irresistible.
He distinctly remembered their nights together, back when Mohinder had called him Zane Taylor. All too tender and gentle. That wasn't the way Sylar ordinarily liked things, but with him he'd made an exception. Then as Nathan, one drunken evening in the Oval Office, right on the president's desk. All exquisite ardor and inebriated, disorientated limbs, sloppy kisses; a night for his mind's record.
Mohinder had been so embarrassed, blaming the whole fiasco on the alcohol. He'd begged him not to bring it up, to forget about it. Sylar had given in to his supplication, partially on the grounds that having sex as Nathan was simply not satisfactory.
He didn't like the politicians body. The curves were too angled, he was too collected, not as feral as he would have preferred. Fortunately, however belatedly, he was no longer obligated to pretend around Mohinder. Sylar was certain he could get him wrapped around his finger once more. It would just take a nuance of coercion; a skill that Sylar prided himself in.
He could mold the scientist just the way he wanted him.
“I can do what I want, Mohinder.” The way he said his name was fashioned for yet another assault on his terse temper. Syllables smooth and sweet, as if he owned it.
Mohinder, at long last, entirely broke. His pulled his fist back and let it fly. But he should have realized... Sylar caught his wrist and shoved him harshly into the glass of Peter Petrelli's jail.
Observing his futile struggles, Sylar just couldn't resist anymore. Mohinder was so glorious when he likened an unrestrained tempest; and he didn't get the chance to see that ferocity often. He pushed his lips down onto his, free hand gripping his waist to keep him steady.
Mohinder's loose and frantic hand was responded to without much haste. What little he could do wouldn't hurt him. He slammed him further down onto the glass, all the while devouring every inch of his mouth. Mohinder bit him, undoubtedly his last defense, but Sylar didn't allow it to faze him.
He took his hand away from his hips, clasping the nuisance that was the Indian's independent fist and proceeded to sweep it, along with the other, above Mohinder's head, pressing heatedly into him; maintaining him properly transfixed and defenseless.
Telekinesis nudged between the Indian's thighs, caressing erogenous flesh, eliciting an additional muffled cry of protest; one that, of course, went disregarded.
His lips relinquished Mohinder's bucking mouth and chased an alternate endeavor, sighing avid and lecherous at his ear. His teeth snapped out to nibble on the fragile shell of the lobe, dismissing all presently audible dissent.
Adam watched from his cell, leaning into the transparent partition, a contemptuous frown accenting his cavalier face. Sylar was one hell of a manipulator, but not nearly as good as him. If he'd had the same opportunities, Adam would have that pretty geneticist eating out of his hand and begging him to fuck him; no powers required.
On the opposite end of the hall, Elle never ceased shouting, having only a sketchy view of the happenings. Judging from what she saw, she was clearly not too ecstatic about. “If you're so strong and so special, Sylar, why do you have to force him?!”
Her comment alone jolted him out of his torrid lust; enough to deflect his attentions onto a new target, ambitions turning deadly. Elle. He had almost forgotten about her...
After all, she was the actual motivation for sparing time out of his busy schedule to descend to this pleasant niche of the damned.
He released Mohinder as he made his way to Elle, standing outside looking in. “Elle... You should not have distracted me. I was going to let you live for a few more minutes.”
Elle gave a cynical smile, “I don't think it really matters, does it? You are going to kill me either way.” She was scared, genuine fear for once in her life. But she had to play it overconfident, because that was what she did to survive. She substituted her anxiety with insolence.
Her only hope was that Claire would come. She and Hiro had gotten away, and they wouldn't leave them here, unprotected and in the enemy's abode. She had faith in her lover. She was probably out there right this second, defeating guards, police, and the Haitian to get to her. She would be fine...
Yet, Elle's turbulent gut expressed otherwise.
Sylar grinned, nodding, “That's true.” He threw open the door with a flick of his finger, malevolent intentions glorifying the desire in his eyes as he confronted the girl who had helped make him who he was today.
As he did this, Mohinder was held flat against the translucent mirror of the waking Peter's cage. He felt useless, solely able to plead with the murderer using accusations of cowardice.
Elle faced her would be slayer bravely, gaze unfaltering.
“Have you ever wondered what would have happened to me had you not interfered?” Sylar monologued, “I would have remained an inconsequential watchmaker from Queens. Instead, you propelled me into a path I would have otherwise fought and denied. You helped me accept who I am. A killer with all the right reasons. A visionary, a leader... The President. I thank you for that.”
“You would have become a monster no matter what I did," Elle sneered.
“Think what you want. The truth is your precious girlfriend would still be alive had you not been so foolish. Eden, that was her name, right? She would not have died if it wasn't for you. You're telling me that you don't blame yourself?”
Elle's silence assured Sylar of her contrition.
He smirked, “I would love to have more fun with you, but I think we're long past due finishing this.” He raised his hand and Elle collided with the abrasive concrete, emitting a shocked cry.
Peter caught bits of conversation while his hearing fluctuated in and out; eventually developing adequate awareness of what was going on around him. Mohinder was pinned to the glass outside his tiny prison, yelling boldly at someone who could only be Sylar.
He heard the man beyond the thin veil of crude paint and cheap brick.
“I've been waiting a long time for this...” And Elle began to scream.
“No!” Peter was up, fists slamming into the solid barrier, just trying to get to her. He called for his powers, but there was an obvious block. Nothing... He could only stand there helplessly while his shouts were drowned out by her profound, nightmarish screams.
Chapter Six