Mismanagement and Grief
More Heroes fiction. This may be interpreted either as a sequel to “ Ten Minutes” or a stand-alone. It’s a missing scene from Volume Three, Chapter Seven: Eris Quod Sum, because the Sylar/Mohinder interaction in that episode went by much too fast.
Title: Mismanagement and Grief
Pairing: Sylar/Mohinder, Heroes
Rating: R for language and adult themes.
Spoilers: Through 3-07: "Eris Quod Sum".
Word Count: 4000
If he focused on the formula, everything would be okay. If he could clear his head and stare at the figures until he discovered where he went wrong, if he could sift through the chaos until everything fell into place, he could fix this. But first he needed to filter out the thousand other thoughts filling his brain with static. He needed to stop thinking about the contempt in Maya’s voice when she called him a monster, about the persistent itch between his shoulder blades where even now the scales were spreading across his back. He needed to stop thinking about the way Peter Petrelli begged him not to inject him, about the split, puffy skin across his knuckles where he’d smashed his fist into Sylar’s face, over and over again.
Most of all, he needed to stop thinking about Sylar.
Mohinder rubbed his temples and tried to plan his next step. He could prepare a fresh blood sample and see how much his cell structure had changed since the last test. Maybe he’d find new signs of destabilization that would help pinpoint where his research had gone astray.
Maybe he could stand up, walk out the door, and go somewhere far, far away from Pinehearst and Arthur Petrelli and Sylar.
The door to the laboratory opened. Mohinder looked up.
“Since when do you have powers?” Sylar stood in the doorway and smirked at him. Dressed head to toe in black, unruffled, arrogant. Powerful beyond comprehension.
Mohinder remained seated at his worktable. After the briefest glance at Sylar, he returned his attention to his notes in a calculated display of indifference. His new employer would no doubt object if Mohinder got into another scuffle with his son, so it was best to let Sylar know all attempts at provocation would be ignored. “Since when are you a Petrelli?”
“Since birth, apparently.” Sylar walked toward him and stopped beside his desk. He placed a hand on the back of Mohinder’s chair. Mohinder felt a tightening in his gut. “I bet you’ve been sitting here worrying about what that means for you. You’re working for my father. And right now he’s trying hard to make his prodigal son happy.” Sylar leaned closer to Mohinder. “Maybe he’ll give me his pet scientist as a early Christmas present.”
Mohinder looked at him. Sylar’s face, as far as he could tell, bore no telltale traces of their earlier skirmish. That was strange and more than a little galling: he’d punched him as hard as he could, repeatedly. “Get out.”
“No. We’re going to have a talk.” Sylar tossed a folder onto the worktable. Mohinder glanced at it and saw his own name printed on the tab. “After your impromptu display of acrobatics, I took a look at my father’s file on you. It says you injected yourself with his formula.”
“Not his formula. My own variation.”
“An untested and unstable variation. One which you had no idea would work.” Sylar leaned back against the worktable and folded his arms across his chest. He looked down at Mohinder. “Not your best move, was it? Because it didn’t work. You screwed it up. You got the formula wrong, and now it’s transforming you. You’re becoming… erratic. Volatile.” A quick smile, mocking and bemused. “A menace to society.”
“And that’s why I’m here correcting my mistakes,” Mohinder said. “If you’ve come to tell me things I already know, I’d rather get back to my work.”
“Your file says your laboratory was filled with cocoons. Frankly, Mohinder, that’s a little gross,” Sylar said. “Rumor has it you’re also growing scales.”
Mohinder didn’t respond. He glanced down to make sure his arms were covered by his shirt sleeves. Sylar caught the look. His smile widened.
“Let me see,” he said. He reached for Mohinder’s sleeve.
Mohinder jerked his arm away and got to his feet in one swift motion. He swirled to face Sylar. His chair toppled back and clattered against the concrete floor. Sylar looked startled; Mohinder realized his heightened reflexes had kicked in, and his movements had been too fast for Sylar to follow. “I don’t care who your father is, Sylar. If you touch me, I’ll kill you.”
Sylar snorted. “No, you won’t. Super bug-man powers or not, you’re not in my league.” He looked at Mohinder, appraising. “You’ve had your reckless moments, but you’ve never been stupid. Why’d you inject yourself?”
“The formula needed to be tested,” Mohinder said. Sylar continued to examine him, his expression openly curious. Mohinder wasn’t sure why, but he had a hard time meeting his stare. He focused on his worktable, on his pile of notebooks containing all his calculations. His dangerously flawed calculations. “I was as good a subject as any.”
“Don’t try to pass this off as necessary scientific research. Testing it on yourself was an act of desperation, not curiosity. I want to know what made you so desperate,” Sylar said. “What drove you to it? Why were willing to risk your life for the chance of gaining powers?”
Now Mohinder could look at him. “You of all people dare to ask me that?” he asked. “What have you done for your own powers, Sylar? How many people have you murdered just to gain more abilities? For good or for ill, injecting myself was my decision to make. The only risk was to myself.”
“You think Maya would agree with that?”
Mohinder froze. “Don’t talk about her,” he said. “After all you did to her, don’t even mention her name.”
“How about Peter Petrelli, then? Am I allowed to mention him?” Sylar asked. “You tried to use him as a lab rat against his will. You were going to inject him with the same crap that’s done you so much damage. What about those people in cocoons in your lab? You really think you’re the only one you’ve endangered?”
“The formula probably wouldn’t have hurt Peter,” Mohinder said. “His father--your father--wouldn’t have let any harm come to him. I needed test subjects. A lot depends upon this formula.” It sounded feeble, and something inside him winced to hear himself put forth such a flawed argument, but he couldn’t stop himself. He shook his head. “I didn’t mean to hurt Maya. Or Peter. It just seemed…”
“It just seemed like a good idea at the time?” Sylar nodded. “It seemed so clear in the moment, didn’t it? Maya gets in your way, maybe tries to prevent you from doing your research, so you have to remove her. You need a live subject to test the formula, and there’s stupid little Peter, so perfect for your purposes, and after all, you’re doing something important, aren’t you? Sometimes other people can be so… insignificant.”
“No. Nobody’s insignificant. That’s not it at all.”
“Isn’t it? Isn’t that exactly what you were thinking?” Sylar’s eyes were bright and shiny. “Because I’ve had variations on that thought thousands of times. That’s what my ability does to me. That’s how it makes me think. That’s what yours is doing as well.”
Mohinder held up a finger. “Don’t try to compare us. Don’t you dare. Don’t excuse what you’ve done by blaming it on your powers. You and I are not the same.”
Sylar laughed. “No, of course not. For one thing, I don’t have scales. I’ve never built a cocoon in my life, nor do I especially want to. But you’re fast closing the gap between us, Mohinder.”
“I’m not a murderer,” Mohinder said. “You’re a psychopath and a pestilence, and you deserve to die. You want to know why I used myself as a test subject? To stop you, that’s why. That’s entirely why. If I’d had these abilities from the start, I would have stopped you ages ago. You wouldn’t have been able to hurt all those people.”
“Ah.” Sylar pursed his lips and observed him. “Well, that’s mighty heroic and noble of you to take it upon yourself to be my judge and executioner, but when you say ‘people’, you’re really talking about yourself, aren’t you? What you mean to say is, if you’d had powers, I wouldn’t have been able to hurt you.”
“And what if it is? You’ve done me plenty of harm. You murdered my father,” Mohinder said. “You tortured me for his research so you could kill more innocent people. You kidnapped me and threatened Molly and shot Maya to force me to help you.”
Sylar nodded. “You’re right. I did all those things. But you left something off your list of my sins.” He prowled toward him. Mohinder had to resist the urge to back away.
“I befriended you. I was kind to you. I laughed at your jokes and won your trust. And it worked better than I could have possibly imagined,” Sylar said. “Because you fell for me. I don’t know if it was love, or just a silly puppy dog crush, but you smiled your pretty smile and looked at me with big shiny eyes, like I was the greatest thing to ever come into your dreary little life. You adored me, and I manipulated you, and that’s why you want your revenge.” He laughed. “Hell hath no fury like Mohinder scorned.”
Mohinder remained silent. Sylar took another step closer. “You know my major regret in this? That you figured out who I was before I got you in bed. I can only imagine what your reaction would have been when you finally learned the truth. I’m sure it would have been entertaining.”
Mohinder waited for a moment. When he finally spoke, his tone was as frosty as he could make it. “Are you finished?”
Sylar shrugged. “For now.”
“Then shut up and listen,” Mohinder said. “I intend to kill you. I intend to avenge my father and everyone else you’ve murdered. If damaging myself is the only way I can become strong enough to defeat you, then so be it.”
“Then let’s get to it. Let’s fight it out,” Sylar said. “Or we could skip the slap and tickle, and go straight to the part where we fuck like minks. Because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it? That’s at the heart of our twisted kinship.”
“I’d rather just fight, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” Sylar stepped back and spread his arms wide. “Give it your best shot.”
His best, only chance to defeat Sylar was to strike first and strike fast. Sylar still hadn’t grasped the extent of Mohinder’s new abilities; he needed to make the first blows count, before Sylar figured out how to counteract his heightened reflexes, his speed, his agility.
In one clean, continuous movement, Mohinder hopped up onto the worktable and flipped into the air over Sylar’s head. He landed behind him before Sylar was aware he’d begun moving. He picked up the toppled chair and swung it in a wide arc. It hit Sylar in the back with a satisfying thunk.
Sylar fell forward across the worktable. Mohinder pounced on him, but Sylar swirled around and repelled him with a telekinetic burst.
Mohinder flew back. He flipped into a backwards somersault and hit the far wall feet first. He bent his knees and propelled himself forward, switching directions with ease and making a graceful arc down to a perfect landing. Sylar shot a burst of… something… from his hands in Mohinder’s general direction, but Mohinder was already sailing in the air, leaping toward a high spot on the wall. The white burst--ice, he now saw--struck the wall several feet beneath him. That was good; his wrist still had mild frostbite from where Niki--Tracy--had used her own icy powers against him.
He scrambled up the wall. He let himself dangle from the ceiling for just a moment, then launched himself backward through the air, angling himself to land right behind Sylar. Adrenaline surged; muscles bunched and retracted. This felt so right, so glorious, so empowering. How had he ever survived without these abilities? The scales, the unstable behavior, the bursts of irritability, all that was a small cost in exchange for all this. This was what he was meant to do with his life. He was a hero from a sacred tale, mighty Krishna slaying Shishupala, passing divine and terrible judgment on his enemy.
He froze in midair, anchored in place by Sylar’s telekinetic force. On the floor beneath him, Sylar winked at him. He gestured with his arm, and Mohinder crashed to the concrete. He couldn’t get his arms and legs down fast enough to break his fall, and his chest took the brunt of the impact. Needles of fire spread through his ribcage.
He tried to spring back up to his feet, but he was stuck in place by invisible hands. The hands flipped him onto his back.
Sylar strolled over to him. “If this is your idea of foreplay, I bet you’re a tiger in the sack.” He straddled him, then knelt over him. “Are you ready to behave yourself?” he asked.
Sylar released his telekinetic hold, and that was unfathomably careless of him, because that meant all Mohinder needed to do was bring one arm up and, with the aid of his abilities, drive his open palm up and under Sylar’s chin with more speed and force than was, technically, humanly possible.
A crack, shockingly loud in the cavernous room.
Sylar reeled backwards, then toppled off of him. Mohinder scrambled to his knees and looked at him. Sightless eyes, his neck at an impossible angle… Sylar was dead. He’d killed Sylar.
He needed to get out of there. This was Arthur Petrelli’s building, he’d killed Arthur Petrelli’s son, and there’d be hell to pay. He needed to move as fast as he could. He could savor his victory later.
He remained on his knees and stared at Sylar’s corpse. A full minute passed. Then another.
Vacant eyes blinked once. Mohinder was so shocked he almost shrieked. From Sylar’s limp form, an arm lifted and waved in his direction. Before Mohinder could react, an unseen force hurled him across the room.
A thousand points of pain exploded where his shoulder hit the wall. He slid down to the floor.
Sylar got to his feet. His neck looked a little wrong, a little lopsided, but he made some small adjustment to it with his hands, and then it was fine. He paused, as though he was making some kind of internal diagnostic check, then made a big show of brushing himself off, his eyes locked with Mohinder’s. He sauntered over to him. Mohinder, with great effort, managed to raise himself to his knees.
Sylar smiled. “You fight dirty, Mohinder. I’m shocked.”
Mohinder clutched his shoulder. It hurt to breathe; he’d probably cracked some ribs during his earlier impact with the floor. It took him a minute before he could speak. “Healing. That’s Claire Bennet’s power.”
“Mine, now.”
“You killed her,” Mohinder said. Claire, the blonde kid with the big smile and the super-charged blood. Her death would have shattered Noah Bennet.
“No. Well, technically, yes, but she recovered,” Sylar said. He shrugged. “I mean, that’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it? She’s fine. Just like me.”
Mohinder didn’t have time to feel relieved about that before Sylar crouched down beside him. Mohinder tried to move away, but his body wasn’t obeying him. Impossible to tell if Sylar was using his powers against him, or if his muscles were jelly from being tossed around so much.
“Here’s a fun thought. Now that you have powers, I actually have a use for you,” Sylar said. He raised a hand and pointed a finger at Mohinder. It was a gesture he’d seen him make before, right before he’d sliced open the top of Peter’s head.
Sylar smiled. “But I’m not sure I’d like how I’d look with scales.” He flicked his fingers at Mohinder. Mohinder reeled back, slammed against the wall by a telekinetic blow, then slumped to the ground. He tried to sit up, but couldn’t quite figure out how to coordinate the appropriate muscle groups. In the end, he settled for half-lying, half-slouching against the wall.
Sylar knelt at his side. “Speaking of which, let’s take a look.” He reached out toward the collar of Mohinder’s shirt. Mohinder caught his hand, but Sylar shook off his grip. He tugged his shirt off his shoulder.
Mohinder still couldn’t look at his scales without feeling a twist of revulsion. He closed his eyes when Sylar prodded at them. “They’re not very attractive,” Sylar said. “Are they spreading?”
Mohinder kept silent. Sylar snorted. “Pity. Your face was always one of my favorite things about you.” He moved his hand to cup Mohinder’s cheek. His hand was large and rough, but his touch was light. “I’ll hate seeing it ruined by this nasty crud.”
Mohinder pulled away. “Don’t touch me.”
“I could kill you a dozen different ways right now. I could incinerate you. Or crush you, or freeze you.” Sylar placed his hand flat against Mohinder’s sternum, on the bare skin above the neckline of his shirt. “I could melt you.”
“Then do it. Get it over with.”
“No. Our story doesn’t end that way.” Sylar sat back on his heels and looked at him. “You can’t kill me. Accept that. Find another purpose in life, because this one will only cause you grief.”
Sylar sat down on the floor a few inches away from Mohinder and leaned his back against the wall. He smoothed out his coat and drew his long legs up to his chest. Mohinder looked at him warily.
“How did it feel to kill me? When you saw me lying there, dead by your hand, what flashed through your head? Was it everything you hoped for?”
“I felt… vindicated,” Mohinder said.
Sylar raised his eyebrows. “I saw your face. Vindication looks suspiciously close to devastation. You looked like you were going to throw up, or burst into tears, or both.” He tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling. When he returned his attention to Mohinder, his expression was grave. “Don’t become like me. You don’t have the stomach for it.”
“I don’t want to. I don’t want to be you,” Mohinder said. “But I keep…” His throat tightened. He stopped, inhaled, tried again. “I keep messing up. Ever since I came to this country, everything I’ve done has ended in catastrophe. I’ve trusted the wrong people. I’ve made bad decisions. I’ve done so much harm.” He took a deep breath. It was shaky. “When I try to fix things, I end up compounding my errors. And now… I don’t know if this can be fixed.”
His vision blurred. No. No, he was not going to give Sylar the triumph of seeing him in tears. He looked straight ahead and swallowed hard.
Sylar stared at him, not saying anything. He shifted nearer, closing the space between them. Mohinder froze. “Don’t.”
“No. It’s okay.” Sylar rearranged himself so his shoulder was braced against Mohinder’s. He tugged gently on his arm to help him sit up straighter. For a moment, Mohinder thought he was going to put his arm around him, and that would probably make him sob like a child. But Sylar seemed content to stay where he was, with only their shoulders touching.
They were silent for a long time. Finally, Mohinder spoke. “Peter Petrelli. You came here to rescue him, didn’t you? Why?”
Sylar shrugged. “Chalk it up to brotherly love.”
Mohinder snorted. “Spare me. Last year you sliced open Peter’s head in my living room, remember?”
Sylar grinned. “Yeah. Good times.” He shifted his position so he was no longer sitting on the hem of his coat, then settled in next to Mohinder again. “There’s something in the wind. Change is coming. Stealing powers doesn’t hold the same appeal. Maybe it’s time for me to find a new hobby.”
“Such as?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe my future is here at Pinehearst with my father, maybe not.” He looked at Mohinder. “Maybe it’s with you.”
“Don’t look to me for salvation, Sylar. I have none to offer you.”
Sylar was quiet. Then: “Back in your lab, after I forced you to give me the cure to the virus, I was going to let you go. You and Maya and Molly. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“Do you know why?”
“Your actions are unfathomable to me, Sylar. I don’t pretend to understand what motivates you. I suppose because it amused you to let us live.”
“No. No, that’s not it.”
“Then why?”
Sylar looked like he was about to answer, then he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He was quiet. “I won’t promise I’ll never hurt you again.”
“I wouldn’t believe you if you did.” Mohinder thought for a moment. “Your father is a bad man, isn’t he?”
Sylar glanced at him. “What makes you say that?”
“Because I’m working for him.” Mohinder shrugged. “If my recent employment history is anything to go by, anyone who hires me must be evil.”
Sylar chuckled. “Hard to argue with that logic.” He considered. “From the little I’ve seen, I would guess he’s very bad.”
“What does he want with the formula? Once I correct all the errors, what’s he going to do with it?”
“I don’t know. Nothing good, I’m sure,” Sylar said. “He probably doesn’t have anything good planned for you once you’ve given him what he wants, either.
“No. I imagine not.” Mohinder exhaled. “I should leave this place. Destroy the formula and run.”
“No. Stay. Find out what his plan is. Get the formula right and heal yourself,” Sylar said. “I’ll protect you from my father.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“I wasn’t offering. I was telling you what I’m going to do.”
There was Sylar the faceless boogeyman, and there was the man he’d known for a few giddy days as Zane Taylor, and somewhere between the two was the figure who sat next to him, staring at him as though he was fighting the urge to lop off the top of his head, or possibly the urge to bury his nose in his hair. Both thoughts were equally unsettling.
He started to tremble, a delayed physical reaction to the accumulated stress and fear of the day’s events. He crossed his arms over his chest and drew up his knees, curling in to himself. Sylar glanced at him, then slipped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer against him. Mohinder stiffened, then rested his cheek against the rough wool of Sylar’s coat. It smelled of danger and disaster, like smoke and ozone.
“I don’t trust you,” Mohinder said at last.
“I know.”
“I’d kill you if I could.”
“I know.”
A noise made them both look up. Someone was standing in the doorway, observing them. Arthur Petrelli. Mohinder struggled to sit upright and felt a flash of pain in his ribcage. Petrelli, Mohinder noted, looked neither surprised nor displeased at the sight of them. His only reaction was to raise his eyebrows a fraction. “Doctor Suresh, is everything all right?”
“Yes, fine.” His face was flushed. He tried to stand up. A brief surge of dizziness struck him, and he swayed on his feet. Without looking at him, Sylar took his wrist and helped him up. When he was steady, Sylar released him and stepped away. For a foolish, insane instant, Mohinder wanted him back by his side.
“Gabriel,” and Mohinder felt a moment of delirious confusion while he tried to figure out who the senior Petrelli was addressing, “why don’t we let Doctor Suresh get back to his research?”
“Sure thing, dad,” Sylar said. He nodded once at Mohinder, his expression neutral, and walked over to join his father.
Mohinder looked after them. He remained in place until the door closed behind them and he was alone in the laboratory once more.
He slid down the wall until he was seated on the cold concrete and tried very hard not to cry.