Heroes: "Angel" (Mylar, PG-13)
Title: Angel
Author: airspaniel
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Mylar
Word Count: 1387
Spoilers: Five Years Gone
Warnings: Character death
Notes: For mylar_fic Summer fic-a-thon, week 4 - "death week." An AU continuation of what 5YG set up; what might have happened if the main events of that episode had not occurred, and the genocide had gone forward.
Summary: Millions of people die, and a killer finds his salvation.
When properly administered, the educational pamphlets say, the effects of the vaccine should be felt in three to five days. Side effects may include nausea, dizziness, blurred vision, and headache; after which the patient should notice a complete cessation of any abnormal activity.
Complete cessation of all activity, if one was being honest about it.
For the first week after the vaccine is distributed, there are no reported fatalities. Mohinder holds his breath, dares to think he may have miscalculated.
By the following weekend, forty thousand people are dead.
Three days after that, he is responsible for more deaths than the camps at Auschwitz.
Mengele would be so proud.
Mohinder reads the reports and tries to remain as detached and objective as he can. He calmly reviews the statistics, not dwelling on the fact that the numbers on the page represent the very same people he tried for so long to find. The same people his father devoted his life to, and died for; and the same people he had been desperately trying to save for years.
He surpasses Sylar’s body count four days later. Five million people dead because of his “cure.” And the reports keep coming.
Mohinder laughs. There’s nothing else he can do.
-----
“An unforeseen complication,” the White House Press Secretary soothingly regurgitates, “No one could have known; could have expected such extreme repercussions.”
The public does not revile Mohinder as a murderer, nor does the world cry out for his blood. They love him, pity him, know that he was just trying to help. And goodness knows he did his best.
His colleagues are so far below the level of his research that they hardly comprehend how the cure was supposed to work, let alone the complex reason they were given for its failure. They are all sympathetic, offering kind words and support, and the hope that he will still continue his work.
His destructive, world-shattering work.
He breaks down for the first time on stage, in front of the television cameras, standing behind the President during a global address.
Nathan falters for a second and, instead of finishing the artfully crafted speech, he soundlessly turns and embraces him. Mohinder sobs hard against Nathan's chest, unable to restrain himself. The president holds him tighter, running a soothing hand through his dark hair, and the shutters of a million cameras snap in unison.
President Petrelli's approval rating soars to an unprecedented ninety-nine percent. Mohinder becomes the face of a nation, representing the grief of all humanity on a hundred thousand newsstands and magazine racks.
The photo makes the cover of Time Magazine.
He locks himself in his room. All the love and praise hurt him worse than hate would.
At least he would deserve the hatred.
-----
A week after his self-imposed exile begins, Nathan knocks on his door. He doesn't answer, hardly breathes, simply stares at the wall.
"Professor? I know you're in there." his normally calm voice has an edge of worry to it. "Please, Mohinder, let me in."
Mohinder doesn't move. He doesn't want to talk and is done with listening. Done with hearing "it wasn't your fault."
The lock clicks and the door quietly swings open. He turns his head towards the sound.
"That was locked for a reason, you know." He's almost proud of himself for putting so much emotion into the words.
Nathan's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm the president. My reasons are more important than yours."
Mohinder rails, suddenly furious. "I don't care who you are! Don't you know how many people I've killed?"
He collapses to his knees. Strong arms are around him before he has the chance to protest, rocking him gently back and forth. He sighs into the movement, tears once again running freely down his face.
"I won't let you blame yourself, Mohinder. It was for the greater good; we talked about this. You knew what the outcome would be."
"I didn't... I couldn't" he hiccups, hysterical. Nathan does not let him finish.
"No one blames you, no one knows the truth except you and me. And you were only following my orders."
It is silent for a long time as the two men hold each other. Despite himself, Mohinder relaxes into the president's embrace. Nathan's scent is comforting, a mixture of finely tailored silk and… something earthier. Something strangely familiar.
He mumbles into the man's chest. "How did you unlock the door?"
"What?"
"The door." Mohinder repeats, a little more composed. "You unlocked it. But I have the only keys."
Nathan doesn't reply. He loosens his hold on the doctor, who draws back, studying his face.
"You aren't Nathan Petrelli." It isn't a question.
"No. I'm not."
The man’s eyes meet his and Mohinder stares, fascinated by the way they change color as the air ripples around him.
Suddenly, inches from his face, his father's murderer stares back at him.
And everything falls into place.
"Oh, thank god!" Mohinder laughs, and throws his arms around Sylar's neck. The taller man jerks back in surprise, holding him by the shoulders at arms length.
"Mohinder. You know who I am, don't you?"
This time, his tears are tears of joy. "Of course I do." He presses his lips to Sylar's cheek, still smiling widely. "You killed my father.”
Sylar's mouth hangs open, unsure of how to react. Mohinder turns his head, capturing those full lips with his own.
After the briefest of moments, Sylar responds, winding his hands around the smaller man’s back, gathering him as close as possible. The kiss is manic, intense; and Mohinder doesn’t stop laughing.
Sylar pulls away, unnerved. “Mohinder, are you all right?”
His eyes are calm, expression peaceful for the first time in weeks. “Yes, Sylar. Everything is fine now.” He leans in for another kiss, this one as gentle as the last was demanding. His fingers trace the planes of Sylar’s face, and tangle loosely in his short, tousled hair.
A breathless sigh. “Why?”
Mohinder kisses his cheek again, an almost chaste gesture. “I’m just so glad it’s you.”
Sylar is stunned into silence.
A sharp knock at the door breaks the moment.
“Mr. President?” the voice at the door is authoritative. “Mr. President, I’m afraid it’s urgent, sir.”
“Just a moment,” Sylar calls in a voice not his own. He stands, drawing Mohinder up with him, keeping his arms firmly around the doctor. “I have to leave now, but…”
“You’ll come back for me,” Mohinder interrupts. “I know you will.”
The air ripples again and Nathan is there. Mohinder isn’t fazed; doesn’t react at all as the man leaves the room.
The door closes softly, and Mohinder smiles. He goes to his desk and writes a brief note, leaving it for whoever may find it. His hands are steady as he opens the top drawer and takes out the handgun.
He doesn’t ask for forgiveness when he puts the barrel in his mouth. He knows he doesn’t deserve it. His eyes slide shut, and he takes a deep shuddering breath around the cold steel.
When he burns, he won’t burn alone.
He pulls the trigger.
-----
“Mr. President, the professor is dead.”
Nathan looks up from his paperwork, eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”
The intern swallows hard. “Professor Suresh, sir. He’s dead.”
“How… what happened?” Nathan’s face is white with shock. He is across the room in seconds, grasping the young man’s arms, hard.
“Suicide, sir.” The intern hands him a single sheet of paper. “We found this.”
Nathan doesn’t look at it. He turns his back. “You can leave now.”
“But, sir, I…”
“I said GO!”
The man practically runs out of the room, letting the door slam behind him.
The president leans heavily on his desk, bracing himself. His figure ripples and changes as he reads the words in front of him. The paper falls from his hand, fluttering, almost forgotten, to the ground.
-----
My name is Mohinder Suresh, and I am a murderer.
There is nothing I can do for those I have hurt, and there can be no other justice for me. This is no less than I deserve.
I am not afraid. My angel of death has come for me.
-----
Sylar sinks down, holding his head in his hands, and tries to remember how to breathe.
Author: airspaniel
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Mylar
Word Count: 1387
Spoilers: Five Years Gone
Warnings: Character death
Notes: For mylar_fic Summer fic-a-thon, week 4 - "death week." An AU continuation of what 5YG set up; what might have happened if the main events of that episode had not occurred, and the genocide had gone forward.
Summary: Millions of people die, and a killer finds his salvation.
When properly administered, the educational pamphlets say, the effects of the vaccine should be felt in three to five days. Side effects may include nausea, dizziness, blurred vision, and headache; after which the patient should notice a complete cessation of any abnormal activity.
Complete cessation of all activity, if one was being honest about it.
For the first week after the vaccine is distributed, there are no reported fatalities. Mohinder holds his breath, dares to think he may have miscalculated.
By the following weekend, forty thousand people are dead.
Three days after that, he is responsible for more deaths than the camps at Auschwitz.
Mengele would be so proud.
Mohinder reads the reports and tries to remain as detached and objective as he can. He calmly reviews the statistics, not dwelling on the fact that the numbers on the page represent the very same people he tried for so long to find. The same people his father devoted his life to, and died for; and the same people he had been desperately trying to save for years.
He surpasses Sylar’s body count four days later. Five million people dead because of his “cure.” And the reports keep coming.
Mohinder laughs. There’s nothing else he can do.
-----
“An unforeseen complication,” the White House Press Secretary soothingly regurgitates, “No one could have known; could have expected such extreme repercussions.”
The public does not revile Mohinder as a murderer, nor does the world cry out for his blood. They love him, pity him, know that he was just trying to help. And goodness knows he did his best.
His colleagues are so far below the level of his research that they hardly comprehend how the cure was supposed to work, let alone the complex reason they were given for its failure. They are all sympathetic, offering kind words and support, and the hope that he will still continue his work.
His destructive, world-shattering work.
He breaks down for the first time on stage, in front of the television cameras, standing behind the President during a global address.
Nathan falters for a second and, instead of finishing the artfully crafted speech, he soundlessly turns and embraces him. Mohinder sobs hard against Nathan's chest, unable to restrain himself. The president holds him tighter, running a soothing hand through his dark hair, and the shutters of a million cameras snap in unison.
President Petrelli's approval rating soars to an unprecedented ninety-nine percent. Mohinder becomes the face of a nation, representing the grief of all humanity on a hundred thousand newsstands and magazine racks.
The photo makes the cover of Time Magazine.
He locks himself in his room. All the love and praise hurt him worse than hate would.
At least he would deserve the hatred.
-----
A week after his self-imposed exile begins, Nathan knocks on his door. He doesn't answer, hardly breathes, simply stares at the wall.
"Professor? I know you're in there." his normally calm voice has an edge of worry to it. "Please, Mohinder, let me in."
Mohinder doesn't move. He doesn't want to talk and is done with listening. Done with hearing "it wasn't your fault."
The lock clicks and the door quietly swings open. He turns his head towards the sound.
"That was locked for a reason, you know." He's almost proud of himself for putting so much emotion into the words.
Nathan's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm the president. My reasons are more important than yours."
Mohinder rails, suddenly furious. "I don't care who you are! Don't you know how many people I've killed?"
He collapses to his knees. Strong arms are around him before he has the chance to protest, rocking him gently back and forth. He sighs into the movement, tears once again running freely down his face.
"I won't let you blame yourself, Mohinder. It was for the greater good; we talked about this. You knew what the outcome would be."
"I didn't... I couldn't" he hiccups, hysterical. Nathan does not let him finish.
"No one blames you, no one knows the truth except you and me. And you were only following my orders."
It is silent for a long time as the two men hold each other. Despite himself, Mohinder relaxes into the president's embrace. Nathan's scent is comforting, a mixture of finely tailored silk and… something earthier. Something strangely familiar.
He mumbles into the man's chest. "How did you unlock the door?"
"What?"
"The door." Mohinder repeats, a little more composed. "You unlocked it. But I have the only keys."
Nathan doesn't reply. He loosens his hold on the doctor, who draws back, studying his face.
"You aren't Nathan Petrelli." It isn't a question.
"No. I'm not."
The man’s eyes meet his and Mohinder stares, fascinated by the way they change color as the air ripples around him.
Suddenly, inches from his face, his father's murderer stares back at him.
And everything falls into place.
"Oh, thank god!" Mohinder laughs, and throws his arms around Sylar's neck. The taller man jerks back in surprise, holding him by the shoulders at arms length.
"Mohinder. You know who I am, don't you?"
This time, his tears are tears of joy. "Of course I do." He presses his lips to Sylar's cheek, still smiling widely. "You killed my father.”
Sylar's mouth hangs open, unsure of how to react. Mohinder turns his head, capturing those full lips with his own.
After the briefest of moments, Sylar responds, winding his hands around the smaller man’s back, gathering him as close as possible. The kiss is manic, intense; and Mohinder doesn’t stop laughing.
Sylar pulls away, unnerved. “Mohinder, are you all right?”
His eyes are calm, expression peaceful for the first time in weeks. “Yes, Sylar. Everything is fine now.” He leans in for another kiss, this one as gentle as the last was demanding. His fingers trace the planes of Sylar’s face, and tangle loosely in his short, tousled hair.
A breathless sigh. “Why?”
Mohinder kisses his cheek again, an almost chaste gesture. “I’m just so glad it’s you.”
Sylar is stunned into silence.
A sharp knock at the door breaks the moment.
“Mr. President?” the voice at the door is authoritative. “Mr. President, I’m afraid it’s urgent, sir.”
“Just a moment,” Sylar calls in a voice not his own. He stands, drawing Mohinder up with him, keeping his arms firmly around the doctor. “I have to leave now, but…”
“You’ll come back for me,” Mohinder interrupts. “I know you will.”
The air ripples again and Nathan is there. Mohinder isn’t fazed; doesn’t react at all as the man leaves the room.
The door closes softly, and Mohinder smiles. He goes to his desk and writes a brief note, leaving it for whoever may find it. His hands are steady as he opens the top drawer and takes out the handgun.
He doesn’t ask for forgiveness when he puts the barrel in his mouth. He knows he doesn’t deserve it. His eyes slide shut, and he takes a deep shuddering breath around the cold steel.
When he burns, he won’t burn alone.
He pulls the trigger.
-----
“Mr. President, the professor is dead.”
Nathan looks up from his paperwork, eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”
The intern swallows hard. “Professor Suresh, sir. He’s dead.”
“How… what happened?” Nathan’s face is white with shock. He is across the room in seconds, grasping the young man’s arms, hard.
“Suicide, sir.” The intern hands him a single sheet of paper. “We found this.”
Nathan doesn’t look at it. He turns his back. “You can leave now.”
“But, sir, I…”
“I said GO!”
The man practically runs out of the room, letting the door slam behind him.
The president leans heavily on his desk, bracing himself. His figure ripples and changes as he reads the words in front of him. The paper falls from his hand, fluttering, almost forgotten, to the ground.
-----
My name is Mohinder Suresh, and I am a murderer.
There is nothing I can do for those I have hurt, and there can be no other justice for me. This is no less than I deserve.
I am not afraid. My angel of death has come for me.
-----
Sylar sinks down, holding his head in his hands, and tries to remember how to breathe.