(no subject)
Strange Condition
by Harikari
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Part Three
I can't believe this. Mohinder plucked at the shirt he was wearing - a dark blue long sleeved shirt that was at least two sizes too large for him. Sylar's shirt. He bent to lean on the edge of the sink in front of him, stared at himself in the mirror.
He was standing in the motel's small bathroom. The door was closed; under the buttery glow of the bathroom's light he could make out the shadows under his eyes, the tightness of his jaw.
He hadn't slept at all the night before. Through the night and early morning he'd stared bleary-eyed and without really seeing at the murmuring television across from him. Had listened to his captor's steady breathing. He'd heard when the man had shifted in his sleep, when the killer had finally rolled out of bed.
Sylar hadn't said a word. Not at first. He'd simply picked up the duffel bag that had been left gaping and in disarray the night before, stooped to grab the t-shirt and the toothbrush wrapped in a sandwich bag from the floor, then walked across the expanse of the carpet and into the bathroom.
Mohinder had listened to the sound of the shower running, some movement. Then the bathroom door had opened, a rush of moist air and heat had spilled out into the room, and the killer had stepped out. He'd been dressed, his hair wet. He'd shrugged the duffel bag's strap off of his shoulder before shoving the pile of clothes he was holding at the geneticist.
"Wha-" Mohinder had started, surprised.
"Get dressed."
Mohinder had considered arguing. He certainly didn't want to wear the man's clothes. He didn't want to feel their friction against his skin, didn't want to think about the fact that they might have once belonged to a victim of Sylar's or about all of the horrible things the serial killer might have done while dressed in them. He'd kept quiet; had reached for the clothes. He was in a precarious position as it was. He was lucky he was still alive and relatively unharmed, had already tried and utterly failed to escape from his captor's clutches. If he wanted to gain the opportunity to escape and to warn Molly and the others about the powerful serial killer's unexpected return - about the fact that he had never really been defeated in the first place - he'd have to be careful about encouraging the man to raise his guard. He would have to pick his battles.
The geneticist grabbed the belt he'd left hanging on the towel rack while he'd pulled on the shirt and pants; wrestled it through belt loops before tightening and fastening it around his waist. The jeans were Sylar's, too. They were baggy and loose around the midriff on Mohinder.
I look like a fool. He ran slim fingers through his curls; moved to pick up his discarded clothes, which were scattered on the tiled floor. He had already used his index finger and the miniature tube of toothpaste he'd found inside of the small toiletries bag Sylar had left next to the sink to brush his teeth as best he could, shaved with one - an unused one - of the three cheap razors that had also been in the bag and combed his hair. He had passed on an actual shower. He hadn't wanted to be in such a vulnerable state with a serial killer in the next room; didn't want to think about the possibility that he wouldn't be able to escape the man anytime soon, which meant his brief and mild rebellion would amount to nothing - he would have to shower eventually.
Mohinder took one last, searching look around the bathroom; juggled his dirty clothes so that he was supporting them with one arm and grabbed at the toiletries bag (it was filled with basic essentials like powder fresh deodorant, toothpaste, razors - if he had to be stuck who knew where for who knew how long with the killer he didn’t want it lost or forgotten ). Then he opened the door and stepped out.
Sylar was sitting on the bed he'd slept in. He had the black, college ruled notebook that he'd tucked underneath his pillow the night before open and on his lap. He was staring down at a single sheet of paper. An unlined sheet of paper that looked like it had been folded and tucked into the notebook for a time. He was rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. He looked absorbed, intense.
The geneticist walked to the edge of his own adopted bed. Without a word, he stuffed his clothes and the smallish cloth bag he was holding into the gaping duffel that was sitting atop the bed's rumpled comforter.
Sylar looked up at him; closed the notebook in his lap with a snap. “All done, Mohinder?” he asked.
Mohinder didn't answer; tried to ignore the way the other man's eyes swept slowly over his body. “Good,” said the killer after a long, uncomfortable moment. He was smiling a strange half smile. A smile that reminded Mohinder somehow of Zane. “You look...fine.”
Zane was a lie.
The geneticist scowled; tried not to squirm at the sensation of goose bumps rising on his flesh. There was something off about the way the serial killer was acting. Well...something more off than usual. The man wanted something - that was obvious, considering he hadn't killed his captive yet. But what? And why hadn't he just come out and said what it was he wanted already? Why hadn't he immediately demanded it?
Maybe he just wants me to suffer, thought the geneticist. Maybe he just wants me to wonder, to build things up in my mind so that I'll be absolutely terrified and confused. Maybe he wants to drive me insane before he murders me.
“I don't understand what-” started Mohinder, trying to sound calm and agreeable and determined to find out what exactly was going on all at the same time, but Sylar cut him off.
“Grab that,” he ordered, gesturing at the duffel in front of the geneticist and standing himself. “And hurry up. We have a long drive ahead of us.” He picked up the luggage still piled close to the wall, walked to the door, then stepped out of the room without looking back.
A long drive, thought Mohinder. What does that mean? A long drive where?
He grabbed his jacket from the hook on the wall near the television (he had spotted it earlier that morning, had apparently been too frantic to notice it - or the fact that Sylar had obviously bothered to take it off of him and hang it up - the night before) and slipped it on. Then he zipped the duffel bag closed, secured its strap on his shoulder and lifted. He shot a hurried look around at the beds, the television on its wooden stand, the square window; walked out the door with an unpleasant clenching in his gut and the feeling that he was forgetting something, leaving something important behind.
Outside, the sunshine was bright. Its cheery light was such a sharp contrast to the gloom of the motel room that the geneticist's eyes stung; began to water. He wiped the wetness from his cheeks, took in his surroundings. He was facing the motel's front office. Through its glass walls he could make out a few scattered chairs (chairs that were apparently meant for waiting customers - they were all empty) and a dominating desk. There was a young woman behind the large desk; she had a pen in her hand, a phone to her ear and was bent over a pile of papers.
"Wait here," said the killer. And Mohinder waited as his captor headed for the office, his long legs easily eating up the distance. The man pulled open the door, strode inside, then slammed the room key down onto the desk before quickly turning and leaving. The girl on the phone looked up - her wide eyes found the killer's retreating form, traveled to the geneticist out in the parking lot. Mohinder stared at her, his mind racing and his expression blank.
"Come on," said Sylar. "Get in." Mohinder spun. The serial killer was standing next to a tan car that had a dent in its right rear door - a Ford Tempo. The geneticist watched as the man pulled open the driver's side door, slid in behind the steering wheel, then tossed the luggage he was holding onto the empty back seat.
The passenger's side door popped open, swung out. Mohinder walked over to the car; shoved the duffel bag he was carrying over the front seat and onto the back seat before getting in.
The car sputtered to a start. Sylar didn't immediately shift the vehicle into reverse. The geneticist stared at the clumps of snow that still stubbornly clung to and dotted the area outside his window, realized that the man was letting the engine warm.
He's warming the engine, thought Mohinder. And it was strange, witnessing Sylar doing such a mundane thing. Seeing a man that had killed before, a man who...
"Where are we going?" asked the geneticist abruptly, interrupting his own dark thoughts.
Sylar cocked an eyebrow. "Where do you think, Dr. Suresh?" A pause. "Back to Jake Harris' house." He put the car in reverse, backed from the parking space with ease.
"Harris." Of course.
Mohinder shifted in his seat; kicked at the numerous small paper bowls and plastic cups scattered on top of the floor mat. They had all, judging by the sweet odor and the familiar pink logo that was printed on them, once been filled with some form of ice cream. Bemused, he glanced at his captor.
But the man had straightened out the car, was shifting to 'drive'. "Buckle up," he said. Mohinder swallowed an angry remark; buckled up. They pulled away from the motel, out of its mostly empty parking lot, and into traffic.
-----
"Finished?" asked Sylar.
Mohinder stirred. He'd been looking out the window, his forehead pressed up against the glass. He hadn't been asleep. Just drowsy, drifting. He turned in his seat. "I'm sorry?" It was an automatic response - something the geneticist said when he hadn't quite heard something, when he thought he might have heard wrong. He wanted to take the words back as soon as they had escaped his mouth; didn't. Instead, he pursed his lips. Allowed a dark look (a look that went unseen because his captor was concentrating on the road) to grace his features.
The killer didn't answer immediately. He went completely still for a moment. Then he sat up straighter, gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. "Your food," he clarified. "Are you done eating?"
Mohinder glanced at the medium coffee he'd stuffed into one of the car's inbuilt cup holders, the hash brown half-wrapped in wax paper in his hand. Shortly after leaving the motel they had stopped for gas, then had hit the drive-through of a nearby fast food place. Sylar had ordered them both breakfast.
The geneticist shook his head. "I'm not hungry." He looked around for a place to put down the food he was holding; sighed when he didn't see a likely spot. He'd have to wait and throw it out when the car finally pulled to a stop.
"You haven't had anything to eat since at least last night," said Sylar.
Mohinder shrugged; realized the killer was busy looking at the traffic and the road and spoke up. "I'm not hungry," he said again.
The serial killer spared him a glance. His dark eyes swept quickly over the untouched coffee, the food in the geneticist's hand. "Eat, Mohinder."
Mohinder wanted to refuse. Wanted to throw the excuse for a breakfast Sylar had gotten him out the window. Instead he bit into the hash brown (it was unpleasantly greasy), reached for the coffee and took a drink (it had gone cold). He had been mostly quiet for the drive so far. He'd been going over his situation, his plan to escape (he had an unfortunate lack of one) and Harris in his head. He knew his captor was planning to kill Jake Harris. And he knew that, despite the fact that his first priority was to get away and to warn someone who could conceivably do something to stop the serial killer (someone like Noah Bennet, who had connections), he couldn't stand idly by and let an innocent man be murdered. He had to somehow try and stop Sylar from murdering Harris - meaning he had a battle that was much more important than the one over whether or not he ate breakfast ahead of him.
The car rolled to a stop at a red light. Mohinder was beginning to recognize street names; after an hour and a half of driving they were closing in on Harris' house. The geneticist gazed at a small house with a black and white dog running around its yard, wondered about Harris and about what the man had done after his fight with Sylar. Had he gone to the police? Maybe reported that Mohinder had been kidnapped?
Not likely. Being attacked by a villain with super powers wasn't exactly a normal or believable occurrence. The police would have thought the man was a lunatic. If Harris had any sense at all he would have fled. And Harris running meant no chance of someone knowing about Sylar's return. Meant no one knowing Mohinder had been kidnapped by a serial killer.
"You mentioned that Harris was the one who...threw me. He didn't touch me." The geneticist stopped; shot a look at Sylar. The man said nothing, so Mohinder plowed on.
"If that's true, then that would mean that he threw me with...that Harris' ability is probably telekinesis. Or something like it."
Sylar grunted. Perhaps to assure the geneticist he was listening. Perhaps for some other reason entirely. Mohinder continued.
"And if what Harris can do is telekinesis..."
"What?" asked Sylar. The car came to a complete stop. The sound of its engine running cut off. They had reached Jake Harris' house. Sylar had parked a few feet behind the geneticist's rented Kia Rio. The silver vehicle was still sitting in front of Harris' mailbox - hulking, abandoned. "What are you saying, Mohinder?"
"You've already...acquired that ability. You've mastered it. If Harris is telekinetic you don't need to kill him." He paused. "Why kill him?" And suddenly Mohinder felt foolish. He knew why - even without the need for the man's power - Sylar wanted to kill Jake Harris. Harris had survived a violent attack from the murderer, had managed to escape him. Sylar was probably intrigued and threatened by the man - and so, without a doubt, would strive to hunt down and destroy him. The geneticist knew this. Had known. But I had to try, he thought and tried to shake the strangely embarrassed, foolish feeling that had overtaken him. I had to say something. Try something.
Sylar let go of the steering wheel and leaned back in his seat. A smile that showed teeth graced his face for a moment, then vanished. "You're right," he said. He eyed the geneticist for a long moment. Then, suddenly, he jerked his neck to the side. Mohinder's seat belt snapped loose; he jumped. "I have...mastered telekinesis." The taller man reached to unbuckle his own seat belt, leaned in close to his captive. "But I'm almost positive Jake Harris' special talent isn't telekinesis. And after what he did. What he tried to do...it wouldn't matter if it was." Mohinder felt invisible fingers (the invisible touches were becoming almost familiar - it was unnerving) brush his arm; flinched. "Let's go."
Mohinder dropped the food in his hand onto the car's seat, stuffed the cold coffee back into the cup holder. Then he pushed open the passenger's side door and stumbled out onto the pavement. Sylar was already out of the car and strolling up the walk that led to Harris' front door. The geneticist followed him. They hurried up the walk, climbed the wooden steps up to the wraparound porch. The door was already slightly ajar. The serial killer pushed it in further. The door's hinges creaked; the tiny hairs at the back of Mohinder’s neck stood straight up.
And they both moved forward, into the house.
Part Four
by Harikari
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Part Three
I can't believe this. Mohinder plucked at the shirt he was wearing - a dark blue long sleeved shirt that was at least two sizes too large for him. Sylar's shirt. He bent to lean on the edge of the sink in front of him, stared at himself in the mirror.
He was standing in the motel's small bathroom. The door was closed; under the buttery glow of the bathroom's light he could make out the shadows under his eyes, the tightness of his jaw.
He hadn't slept at all the night before. Through the night and early morning he'd stared bleary-eyed and without really seeing at the murmuring television across from him. Had listened to his captor's steady breathing. He'd heard when the man had shifted in his sleep, when the killer had finally rolled out of bed.
Sylar hadn't said a word. Not at first. He'd simply picked up the duffel bag that had been left gaping and in disarray the night before, stooped to grab the t-shirt and the toothbrush wrapped in a sandwich bag from the floor, then walked across the expanse of the carpet and into the bathroom.
Mohinder had listened to the sound of the shower running, some movement. Then the bathroom door had opened, a rush of moist air and heat had spilled out into the room, and the killer had stepped out. He'd been dressed, his hair wet. He'd shrugged the duffel bag's strap off of his shoulder before shoving the pile of clothes he was holding at the geneticist.
"Wha-" Mohinder had started, surprised.
"Get dressed."
Mohinder had considered arguing. He certainly didn't want to wear the man's clothes. He didn't want to feel their friction against his skin, didn't want to think about the fact that they might have once belonged to a victim of Sylar's or about all of the horrible things the serial killer might have done while dressed in them. He'd kept quiet; had reached for the clothes. He was in a precarious position as it was. He was lucky he was still alive and relatively unharmed, had already tried and utterly failed to escape from his captor's clutches. If he wanted to gain the opportunity to escape and to warn Molly and the others about the powerful serial killer's unexpected return - about the fact that he had never really been defeated in the first place - he'd have to be careful about encouraging the man to raise his guard. He would have to pick his battles.
The geneticist grabbed the belt he'd left hanging on the towel rack while he'd pulled on the shirt and pants; wrestled it through belt loops before tightening and fastening it around his waist. The jeans were Sylar's, too. They were baggy and loose around the midriff on Mohinder.
I look like a fool. He ran slim fingers through his curls; moved to pick up his discarded clothes, which were scattered on the tiled floor. He had already used his index finger and the miniature tube of toothpaste he'd found inside of the small toiletries bag Sylar had left next to the sink to brush his teeth as best he could, shaved with one - an unused one - of the three cheap razors that had also been in the bag and combed his hair. He had passed on an actual shower. He hadn't wanted to be in such a vulnerable state with a serial killer in the next room; didn't want to think about the possibility that he wouldn't be able to escape the man anytime soon, which meant his brief and mild rebellion would amount to nothing - he would have to shower eventually.
Mohinder took one last, searching look around the bathroom; juggled his dirty clothes so that he was supporting them with one arm and grabbed at the toiletries bag (it was filled with basic essentials like powder fresh deodorant, toothpaste, razors - if he had to be stuck who knew where for who knew how long with the killer he didn’t want it lost or forgotten ). Then he opened the door and stepped out.
Sylar was sitting on the bed he'd slept in. He had the black, college ruled notebook that he'd tucked underneath his pillow the night before open and on his lap. He was staring down at a single sheet of paper. An unlined sheet of paper that looked like it had been folded and tucked into the notebook for a time. He was rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. He looked absorbed, intense.
The geneticist walked to the edge of his own adopted bed. Without a word, he stuffed his clothes and the smallish cloth bag he was holding into the gaping duffel that was sitting atop the bed's rumpled comforter.
Sylar looked up at him; closed the notebook in his lap with a snap. “All done, Mohinder?” he asked.
Mohinder didn't answer; tried to ignore the way the other man's eyes swept slowly over his body. “Good,” said the killer after a long, uncomfortable moment. He was smiling a strange half smile. A smile that reminded Mohinder somehow of Zane. “You look...fine.”
Zane was a lie.
The geneticist scowled; tried not to squirm at the sensation of goose bumps rising on his flesh. There was something off about the way the serial killer was acting. Well...something more off than usual. The man wanted something - that was obvious, considering he hadn't killed his captive yet. But what? And why hadn't he just come out and said what it was he wanted already? Why hadn't he immediately demanded it?
Maybe he just wants me to suffer, thought the geneticist. Maybe he just wants me to wonder, to build things up in my mind so that I'll be absolutely terrified and confused. Maybe he wants to drive me insane before he murders me.
“I don't understand what-” started Mohinder, trying to sound calm and agreeable and determined to find out what exactly was going on all at the same time, but Sylar cut him off.
“Grab that,” he ordered, gesturing at the duffel in front of the geneticist and standing himself. “And hurry up. We have a long drive ahead of us.” He picked up the luggage still piled close to the wall, walked to the door, then stepped out of the room without looking back.
A long drive, thought Mohinder. What does that mean? A long drive where?
He grabbed his jacket from the hook on the wall near the television (he had spotted it earlier that morning, had apparently been too frantic to notice it - or the fact that Sylar had obviously bothered to take it off of him and hang it up - the night before) and slipped it on. Then he zipped the duffel bag closed, secured its strap on his shoulder and lifted. He shot a hurried look around at the beds, the television on its wooden stand, the square window; walked out the door with an unpleasant clenching in his gut and the feeling that he was forgetting something, leaving something important behind.
Outside, the sunshine was bright. Its cheery light was such a sharp contrast to the gloom of the motel room that the geneticist's eyes stung; began to water. He wiped the wetness from his cheeks, took in his surroundings. He was facing the motel's front office. Through its glass walls he could make out a few scattered chairs (chairs that were apparently meant for waiting customers - they were all empty) and a dominating desk. There was a young woman behind the large desk; she had a pen in her hand, a phone to her ear and was bent over a pile of papers.
"Wait here," said the killer. And Mohinder waited as his captor headed for the office, his long legs easily eating up the distance. The man pulled open the door, strode inside, then slammed the room key down onto the desk before quickly turning and leaving. The girl on the phone looked up - her wide eyes found the killer's retreating form, traveled to the geneticist out in the parking lot. Mohinder stared at her, his mind racing and his expression blank.
"Come on," said Sylar. "Get in." Mohinder spun. The serial killer was standing next to a tan car that had a dent in its right rear door - a Ford Tempo. The geneticist watched as the man pulled open the driver's side door, slid in behind the steering wheel, then tossed the luggage he was holding onto the empty back seat.
The passenger's side door popped open, swung out. Mohinder walked over to the car; shoved the duffel bag he was carrying over the front seat and onto the back seat before getting in.
The car sputtered to a start. Sylar didn't immediately shift the vehicle into reverse. The geneticist stared at the clumps of snow that still stubbornly clung to and dotted the area outside his window, realized that the man was letting the engine warm.
He's warming the engine, thought Mohinder. And it was strange, witnessing Sylar doing such a mundane thing. Seeing a man that had killed before, a man who...
"Where are we going?" asked the geneticist abruptly, interrupting his own dark thoughts.
Sylar cocked an eyebrow. "Where do you think, Dr. Suresh?" A pause. "Back to Jake Harris' house." He put the car in reverse, backed from the parking space with ease.
"Harris." Of course.
Mohinder shifted in his seat; kicked at the numerous small paper bowls and plastic cups scattered on top of the floor mat. They had all, judging by the sweet odor and the familiar pink logo that was printed on them, once been filled with some form of ice cream. Bemused, he glanced at his captor.
But the man had straightened out the car, was shifting to 'drive'. "Buckle up," he said. Mohinder swallowed an angry remark; buckled up. They pulled away from the motel, out of its mostly empty parking lot, and into traffic.
-----
"Finished?" asked Sylar.
Mohinder stirred. He'd been looking out the window, his forehead pressed up against the glass. He hadn't been asleep. Just drowsy, drifting. He turned in his seat. "I'm sorry?" It was an automatic response - something the geneticist said when he hadn't quite heard something, when he thought he might have heard wrong. He wanted to take the words back as soon as they had escaped his mouth; didn't. Instead, he pursed his lips. Allowed a dark look (a look that went unseen because his captor was concentrating on the road) to grace his features.
The killer didn't answer immediately. He went completely still for a moment. Then he sat up straighter, gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. "Your food," he clarified. "Are you done eating?"
Mohinder glanced at the medium coffee he'd stuffed into one of the car's inbuilt cup holders, the hash brown half-wrapped in wax paper in his hand. Shortly after leaving the motel they had stopped for gas, then had hit the drive-through of a nearby fast food place. Sylar had ordered them both breakfast.
The geneticist shook his head. "I'm not hungry." He looked around for a place to put down the food he was holding; sighed when he didn't see a likely spot. He'd have to wait and throw it out when the car finally pulled to a stop.
"You haven't had anything to eat since at least last night," said Sylar.
Mohinder shrugged; realized the killer was busy looking at the traffic and the road and spoke up. "I'm not hungry," he said again.
The serial killer spared him a glance. His dark eyes swept quickly over the untouched coffee, the food in the geneticist's hand. "Eat, Mohinder."
Mohinder wanted to refuse. Wanted to throw the excuse for a breakfast Sylar had gotten him out the window. Instead he bit into the hash brown (it was unpleasantly greasy), reached for the coffee and took a drink (it had gone cold). He had been mostly quiet for the drive so far. He'd been going over his situation, his plan to escape (he had an unfortunate lack of one) and Harris in his head. He knew his captor was planning to kill Jake Harris. And he knew that, despite the fact that his first priority was to get away and to warn someone who could conceivably do something to stop the serial killer (someone like Noah Bennet, who had connections), he couldn't stand idly by and let an innocent man be murdered. He had to somehow try and stop Sylar from murdering Harris - meaning he had a battle that was much more important than the one over whether or not he ate breakfast ahead of him.
The car rolled to a stop at a red light. Mohinder was beginning to recognize street names; after an hour and a half of driving they were closing in on Harris' house. The geneticist gazed at a small house with a black and white dog running around its yard, wondered about Harris and about what the man had done after his fight with Sylar. Had he gone to the police? Maybe reported that Mohinder had been kidnapped?
Not likely. Being attacked by a villain with super powers wasn't exactly a normal or believable occurrence. The police would have thought the man was a lunatic. If Harris had any sense at all he would have fled. And Harris running meant no chance of someone knowing about Sylar's return. Meant no one knowing Mohinder had been kidnapped by a serial killer.
"You mentioned that Harris was the one who...threw me. He didn't touch me." The geneticist stopped; shot a look at Sylar. The man said nothing, so Mohinder plowed on.
"If that's true, then that would mean that he threw me with...that Harris' ability is probably telekinesis. Or something like it."
Sylar grunted. Perhaps to assure the geneticist he was listening. Perhaps for some other reason entirely. Mohinder continued.
"And if what Harris can do is telekinesis..."
"What?" asked Sylar. The car came to a complete stop. The sound of its engine running cut off. They had reached Jake Harris' house. Sylar had parked a few feet behind the geneticist's rented Kia Rio. The silver vehicle was still sitting in front of Harris' mailbox - hulking, abandoned. "What are you saying, Mohinder?"
"You've already...acquired that ability. You've mastered it. If Harris is telekinetic you don't need to kill him." He paused. "Why kill him?" And suddenly Mohinder felt foolish. He knew why - even without the need for the man's power - Sylar wanted to kill Jake Harris. Harris had survived a violent attack from the murderer, had managed to escape him. Sylar was probably intrigued and threatened by the man - and so, without a doubt, would strive to hunt down and destroy him. The geneticist knew this. Had known. But I had to try, he thought and tried to shake the strangely embarrassed, foolish feeling that had overtaken him. I had to say something. Try something.
Sylar let go of the steering wheel and leaned back in his seat. A smile that showed teeth graced his face for a moment, then vanished. "You're right," he said. He eyed the geneticist for a long moment. Then, suddenly, he jerked his neck to the side. Mohinder's seat belt snapped loose; he jumped. "I have...mastered telekinesis." The taller man reached to unbuckle his own seat belt, leaned in close to his captive. "But I'm almost positive Jake Harris' special talent isn't telekinesis. And after what he did. What he tried to do...it wouldn't matter if it was." Mohinder felt invisible fingers (the invisible touches were becoming almost familiar - it was unnerving) brush his arm; flinched. "Let's go."
Mohinder dropped the food in his hand onto the car's seat, stuffed the cold coffee back into the cup holder. Then he pushed open the passenger's side door and stumbled out onto the pavement. Sylar was already out of the car and strolling up the walk that led to Harris' front door. The geneticist followed him. They hurried up the walk, climbed the wooden steps up to the wraparound porch. The door was already slightly ajar. The serial killer pushed it in further. The door's hinges creaked; the tiny hairs at the back of Mohinder’s neck stood straight up.
And they both moved forward, into the house.
Part Four