(no subject)
Strange Condition
by Harikari
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Part Two
Mohinder opened his eyes. Saw white. He took in a deep, startled breath and let it out in a hiss of pain. The left side of his body - from his neck all the way down to his hip - seemed to be throbbing, hurting.
He shifted; felt a softness beneath him and realized that he was belly down on a bed, that the white he was seeing was a pillow pressed close to his face. He blinked, lifted his head from the pillow - he caught a glimpse of walls yellowed with age, of a small, square window - and let out an involuntary gasp at a sudden, particularly sharp flare of pain.
“You’re fine,” came a voice from above him. The voice sounded distracted, harried, and dreadfully familiar. Mohinder’s muscles went taught. The memories of Jake Harris, of sitting on Harris’ couch and feeling something ominous slither up his spine, of seeing Harris crumple to the floor and then seeing Sylar hit him in a rush.
His entire left side twinging in protest, he pushed himself up; forced himself to sit. Sylar was standing at the end of the bed, his knees pressed up against the edge of it. He was staring down at the geneticist - though his gaze seemed strangely vacant - and his posture was hunched, his left arm wrapped tight around his abdomen.
Mohinder’s mouth felt suddenly dry. He swallowed; his eyes darted to take in his surroundings (there was another bed to his left, a slightly ajar door that led into what looked like a small bathroom beyond that, an old television sitting atop a scratched wooden stand almost directly across from the bed he was on, and a closed door to his right) before landing back on the figure looming over him.
“You’re...alive?” The question came out soft and shaky. Sylar blinked. The vacant look vanished. He grinned.
Mohinder’s stomach rolled. Idiot, he thought, and clenched his teeth. Yes. He’s alive. Obviously. Just don’t show him you’re afraid. Don’t...do anything stupid. Just...
“Where are we?” he asked, and this time it came out loud. Still shaky. “What-“
“A motel,” came Sylar’s answer - a low, dangerous sounding rumble in his throat. “We’re in a motel room, Mohinder. I brought you here.”
The geneticist stared. A remark involving how very unhelpful that answer was came floating to the forefront of his mind. He bit his tongue; reminded himself that the serial killer standing before him was very likely not concerned with giving helpful answers, reminded himself that he was lucky to still be breathing.
Feeling unsure, frightened, confused - Mohinder shifted. Again, a sharp pain shot suddenly up the left side of his body. He grunted; reached to rub at his neck. Without thinking he moved to stand - to stretch out his muscles, perhaps it would alleviate some of the pain he was feeling...
“No,” said Sylar, and then there was a weight on his shoulders - invisible hands forcing him back down. “Stay.”
His telekinesis, thought Mohinder. And despite everything the geneticist had seen since first arriving in the United States, since making the decision to continue his father’s work - despite everything he’d been through, he couldn’t help but be a little bit amazed at it.
He sat. Sylar stared. Memories of how the serial killer had put his telekinesis to use in the past assaulted him in an abrupt flash; left behind a knot of apprehension in his stomach.
“You're fine,” said Sylar, again. Mohinder realized he was still gripping his neck - let his hand drop. “I checked.”
He...checked. The geneticist swallowed. Took a deep breath. He tried not to think about what exactly the man meant by that; instead focused on the anger that was welling up inside of him.
The strange fog that had obscured his mind upon waking was clearing. The lost feeling, the almost overwhelming sensation of unbalance was fading fast - morphing into a dark, forceful emotion that was fueled by the memory of the killer’s betrayal of him at their first meeting, the knowledge that the man had violently taken at least half a dozen lives.
“What happened?” asked Mohinder, and the fear was almost completely gone from his voice. Almost. A brief pause and then, “Jake Harris. What did you do to him?”
The hint of a grin Sylar was wearing vanished. He didn’t answer; didn’t move.
“You killed him. You...didn’t you?” Mohinder clenched his teeth; realized that he was shaking. He took another deep breath, narrowed his eyes. “You killed him. You murdered him and you took his ability. Wh-“
“He tried to kill you,” cut in Sylar. And his voice sounded oddly breathy, weak.
Surprised, Mohinder blinked. Stared. The serial killer’s eyes seemed glassy, vague. His arm was still wrapped tight around his abdomen, he was bent slightly at the waist, and his breathing was harsh, fast. Hurt, thought the geneticist. He’s hurt. "What?"
“You asked me what happened. I’m telling you. He tried to kill you. He tried to kill us. I fought him and he...ran.” A pause. “He got away.”
A long, silent moment slipped by. Mohinder’s lips thinned. He shook his head. “That...it doesn't make sense. You’re lying.” The man had to be lying. Was lying. Jake Harris had most definitely not tried to kill him...kill them. If Harris had done anything at all it had no doubt been in self defense. Sylar had knocked on the unsuspecting man’s front door with murder in mind, had sent him flying into a door frame - if the man had done anything violent (and the geneticist had no concrete reason to believe that he had) it had doubtlessly been an attempt to protect himself. Had been out of fear.
“You’re lying,” repeated Mohinder. “You attacked Harris. You attacked him, you used your telekinesis on me and -“
“Enough,” snapped Sylar. His eyes narrowed and he flashed his teeth in a grimace. “You asked me what happened, Mohinder. I told you - Harris is the one who threw you. It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not.” He paused, hugged his left arm more tightly around his waist. “I don’t care. I didn’t bring you here to argue with you.”
Mohinder swallowed. His fists clenched and his blunt nails dug into the flesh of his palms. The dark, angry tone of the serial killer’s voice had caused the fear that had faded moments before to creep its way back into his veins, his heart. The geneticist bit at his bottom lip - caught himself and stopped. “Why did you bring me here?” he asked. “Why...” he trailed off. Why am I still alive? How are you still alive?
Sylar didn’t answer. He stepped back from the foot of the bed; hesitated. “Just...stay,” he ordered. “Don’t move.” And with that he turned, strode quickly across the room, and disappeared into the small bathroom.
Mohinder was still. He heard a pained groan, then the sound of running water - he thought Sylar was probably standing at the bathroom sink, maybe inspecting the wound on his abdomen. Because there had to be a wound. Not only was the man very obviously in pain - Mohinder had seen the time traveler, Hiro Nakamura, run him through with a sword a mere month before. There was a wound.
He should be dead.
Without the threatening presence that was Sylar standing directly before him, the geneticist’s mind reeled; attempted to wrap itself around exactly what had happened to him, what was happening to him.
Slowly, Mohinder unclenched his fists. Saw that his nails had left half-moon shaped grooves in his skin. He shot a look at the room’s window; could make out the thick darkness of nightfall through the thin, ratty looking curtains.
So, he thought. What exactly is going on here? He had been kidnapped - and he wasn’t quite sure why - by a serial killer. A serial killer he had a history with, a serial killer who was supposed to be dead. Sylar was supposed to be dead.
Why isn't he dead? Mohinder had been among those who had seen the man fall, had been sure...
No. That wasn’t true. The geneticist hadn’t felt sure that the killer was dead. He’d never felt sure. He’d had a strange feeling about the man’s death since its occurrence - since that night at Kirby Plaza. There had been no body (only a gruesome trail of blood and a surety that a horrible, likely mortal injury had been inflicted upon the super powered villain), and Molly hadn’t been able to confirm Sylar's death or survival when she'd searched for him - the little girl had said he felt gone, that she couldn't ‘see’ him, but had also admitted that she'd never tried searching for a dead person before, so wasn't sure what it was supposed to feel like. And then there had been Mohinder's own doubts. Doubts brought to fruition by the eerie feeling of being watched and the sharp sensation of paranoia that had been plaguing him since November.
The geneticist turned toward the bathroom - saw that Sylar had left the door only slightly ajar. The water was still running; he could hear his captor moving around. Again, he shot a look at the room’s window - guessed that it had been at least a handful of hours since Harris’ house, since he’d been violently and unexpectedly forced into unconsciousness.
His thoughts strayed to Jake Harris. Is he dead? he wondered. Or was what Sylar had said true? Could Harris have been powerful enough to escape a supernaturally strong killer, a killer who had (apparently) managed to cheat practically certain death? Why would Sylar lie about him? About killing him?
Killing.
And then his thoughts turned abruptly to Molly. To Matt Parkman and Claire Bennet and Micah Sanders...to all of those on his father’s list, to all of those with ‘unnatural’ abilities. They all thought Sylar was no more; they had no idea of the danger they were in. He had to warn them. He had to do something.
Mohinder stared at the closed door to his right - the way out. He breathed. He had no idea why the serial killer had made the decision to bring him to this motel, didn’t know why the man hadn’t simply killed him on sight. What he did know was that he had to warn all of those people, those unsuspecting individuals Sylar was no doubt planning on murdering for their powers. He knew that the longer he stayed the killer’s captive, the closer he came to being murdered himself - the closer he came to not being able to warn Molly Walker and the others.
Molly, he thought. His stomach turned. The little girl was with Niki Sanders and her family; he’d heard that Matt Parkman was planning to take her as soon as he recovered from the considerable injury that had been inflicted upon him at Kirby Square. Mohinder himself had entertained ideas of...
Focus, he thought. Molly and the others were safe. For now. They’d have at least a slightly better chance of staying safe if he warned them about Sylar’s return.
The geneticist turned back to the door; slid across the comforter and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His shoes touched the carpet. He stopped, held his breath. In the bathroom the water continued to run, the muffled sounds of movement went on uninterrupted.
He glanced at the phone that was sitting on the night stand tucked between the two beds - noticed the strip of paper with the words OUT OF ORDER - PLEASE USE FRONT OFFICE PHONE taped to its surface and suppressed a groan. It was just as well. With his kidnapper so close, it was very unlikely he would’ve gotten away with using the room’s phone to call someone for help anyway. It was possibly even more unlikely he would get away with what he was about to attempt (he didn’t know precisely what he was going to do - escape the room, perhaps get to the front office and try to call someone before the man realized he was gone, perhaps just run), but he had to try.
Mohinder stood. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears; hoped that Sylar was hurting enough - hoped that the man was distracted enough - that he wouldn’t tune in to his super hearing, wouldn’t notice.
He took a single step forward; paused. Seconds ticked by. He bit at his bottom lip, realized that he was still shaking...
And then he moved. The sound of his sneakers was muffled by the carpeting - hardly a sound at all. He reached the door, grabbed the knob, pulled...
“I told you to stay,” came a voice from behind him. The door shut again with a sharp snap, and Mohinder cried out at what felt like a violent shove. His entire right side hit the wall hard. He let out a pained grunt then pushed quickly away from the wall, took a step forward. Fell. His knees hit the floor (he made the vague connection that he’d tripped over the two duffel bags and the suitcase that were piled close to the door); he moved to push himself up again...
And then Sylar was suddenly right there, at his back. Large hands gripped his waist and the geneticist panicked - turned over and kicked out. His kick landed; hit shin. Sylar cursed, said something low and angry and dangerous. Mohinder didn’t hear. Didn’t care. Memories of what he’d been through with the killer, of all the horrible things the killer had done had blossomed in his mind - vivid, heart wrenching and sharp. He wasn’t thinking anymore; he was reacting.
He felt a pressure on both of his arms - the invisible hands again. Both of his arms were forced above his head, pressed flat to the floor. He kept fighting, squirming - he was breathing hard and his heart was pounding in his chest and he wanted to get away.
“Suresh,” said Sylar. Then, “Mohinder.”
Mohinder kicked again. A t-shirt, a toothbrush sealed inside of a plastic sandwich bag, and a black college ruled notebook all came flying out of one of the duffel bags - the dark blue bag, the one that was open. He struggled against the pressure keeping his arms flat, kicked out again. The notebook went sliding across the carpet.
“Stop,” said Sylar. And he bent, grabbed the geneticist under the arms and lifted. Once Mohinder was on his feet he half dragged him to the bed near the bathroom - the bed farthest from the door; pushed him down so that he was on his back.
Mohinder, breathless and ashamed for a reason he couldn’t quite pinpoint, stared up at his captor. Sylar stared back; placed a hand, palm down, to the right of the smaller man’s head and leaned into it. He stopped when his face was close to the geneticist’s. Mohinder could smell mint, could feel the killer’s breath ghosting across his face. “You won’t do that again."
Mohinder didn’t move. Sylar lingered for a brief moment, then pulled away. The man waved his hand and the room’s lights shut off, the television clicked on. Two smiling anchors were wrapping up the evening news.
“Get some sleep,” ordered the killer. Sylar walked across the room and picked up the black notebook. He climbed into the vacant bed, then shoved the notebook under his pillow.
Mohinder pushed himself to his elbows; maneuvered into a more comfortable position. His heartbeat was almost back to normal, his breathing was steady.
He settled back into the lumpy mattress, stared blankly at the television in front of him.
Well done, he thought sardonically. That was brilliant, Mohinder.
His entire body was sore. He was tired. But even as the hours wore on, as the black of night outside shifted to gray dawn, he didn’t fall asleep; hardly allowed himself to blink.
Because Sylar was alive. Sylar had kidnapped him. Sylar was mere feet away, sleeping peacefully. Probably dreaming of blood, of brains, of horrific murder.
Brilliant.
Part Three