(no subject)
Strange Condition
by Harikari
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Part Five
Warm beads of water rained down onto Mohinder's naked skin. The water flowed in rivulets down his lean body - shoulders, back, legs - before pooling momentarily in the bathtub, disappearing down the drain.
The geneticist suppressed a pleased groan. The warmth and steady pressure of the water spraying from the shower head felt good on his bruised limbs; served as a soothing balm to his tired, overtaxed muscles. He wanted to stand under the spray until the entire bathroom was filled with steam, until the cracked mirror above the sink was fogged up and the plastic shower curtain was sweating with moisture.
With a frustrated huff he reached for the small bottle of shampoo that was sitting on the metal shower rack attached to the wall, dumped some of the bluish goo out onto his palm. Then he placed the bottle back on the rack and started to work the shampoo into his hair.
He couldn't allow himself a leisurely shower. Not only was the thought of his kidnapper a wall away, maybe listening to his every move, making his skin crawl. When - tired of staring at the droning television the rented room provided - he had stood and started gathering a change of clothes Sylar had made a point of ordering him not to take too long in the shower, of telling him that they would be 'going out' soon.
The suds of shampoo washed from his hair, slid over his body and down the drain. He turned the water off and stepped out of the tub. Then he grabbed for the towel hanging on the towel rack; quickly dried himself off and started to dress.
Without the sound of the running shower Mohinder could hear the television on in the other room (it sounded like a sitcom was on). He listened to punch lines and a laugh track as he shaved, brushed his teeth, ran a comb through his unruly hair. When he was finished he picked up his things, unlocked and shoved open the bathroom door.
The geneticist took a deep breath, stood in the doorway and stared around the room. The day before, shortly after leaving Harris' house, Sylar had ordered him to pull into the cramped parking lot of the rather dingy looking, multi-storied building (a neon sign out front had declared ‘VACANCY’) that they were staying in now.
Mohinder moved to stuff his balled up shirt and jeans into the duffel bag the killer had pointed out was for dirty clothes (he assumed this meant the man intended to make use of the inn's laundry room and pay washers soon); stared around at the two beds and the flashing television and the thin carpet. The room wasn't very different from the one Sylar had first trapped him in - it was a little larger, had a table with two chairs (presumably for eating or working), and the television was up high in one corner and bolted to the wall.
The geneticist sighed, dropped onto the bed he'd been forced to adopt (this bed was farthest from the exit, also). Already two days, he thought, memories of the several days he'd spent with the serial killer so far sliding through his mind. On the first day - just yesterday - he and Sylar had gone to Harris' house, liberated his rented Kia Rio and found this room. On the second day - just hours earlier - they had made a short trip to the large department store across from the inn they were staying at (the killer had insisted on buying him boxers and an assortment of other items - the purchases suggested that the man was planning on keeping him captive for quite a while, and he couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not considering he was the captive of a violent individual he'd been fairly sure would murder him on sight a few days ago). Already the third night. He could hardly believe it. Could hardly believe that he had been in Sylar's custody for so long, that he had been in the man's custody for so long and was still alive...
I don't understand, thought Mohinder, yet again. None of this makes any sense.
The geneticist raised his arms in a stretch; decided that dissecting the confusing situation he was in over and over again in his head was not helping him. Constantly trying to figure out what the serial killer's motive had been for kidnapping him in the first place, trying to figure out what horrible thing was going to be demanded of him or when Sylar was finally going to snap and murder him was only serving to agitate and unnerve him. He needed to concentrate on escape. He needed to focus on the here and the now. He needed to focus on everything that was happening around him so that if an opportunity to get away suddenly arose he could take advantage of it. Escaping was important. Molly was important. Not Harris. Not Sylar and the man's reasons for keeping him captive.
Mohinder closed his eyes; thought fondly of warm water running across his skin, held back a yawn. "Where are we going?" he ventured after a moment, then grabbed for his shoes and the clean pair of socks he'd left thrown on top of the shabby looking comforter. When there was no answer he frowned; turned. Sylar was facing away from him, hunched over and perched on the edge of his own adopted bed.
"Where are we going?" he asked again, angry at being ignored.
And again, there was no answer. No indication at all that the man had heard the question.
Mohinder dropped the pair of socks. His eyes narrowed. "Sylar?" He stood. Stepped closer to the serial killer. "Sylar?"
The geneticist swallowed. He's been hurt. Stabbed. And he's been hurting. I know his wound has been bothering him. Maybe...
He reached out. His fingers ghosted over the killer's shirt, loosely gripped his shoulder. He opened his mouth to ask the man before him if he was feeling okay, to offer to get ice from the machine he’d spotted in the hallway earlier (it might help the pain), to...
No. He stopped himself before he could speak, ripped his hand away from its place on his captive's shoulder. Idiot.
Mohinder felt suddenly disgusted with himself; his throat tightened, the taste of bile teased at the back of his tongue. He swallowed hard, pursed his lips. Sylar was a murderer, a kidnapper. It was a good thing he was hurting, not something to worry over. The killer hurting could mean his guard was down. Could mean possibly, finally getting away.
The geneticist took another cautious step forward; strained to look over the killer's back. His eyes widened when he saw that the man was not, in fact, curled around his abdomen in pain. Instead, there was a pen in Sylar's left hand, an open sketch notebook on his lap. The serial killer was bent over the sketch notebook, was drawing.
"What-" Mohinder caught sight of something on the floor (something that looked familiar, something that sent an abrupt and unexplainable chill up his spine), next to his captive's shoe. His heart pounding in his ears, he moved so that he was standing in front of the murderer - gasped when he saw that Sylar's eyes had gone entirely white. Blank. No pupil, no iris...just white.
Like Isaac Mendez. The geneticist paled as he recalled one of his earliest meetings with Peter Petrelli. Peter had gone on about Isaac Mendez, a man who could paint the future. And later, after Kirby Plaza and the explosion, Noah Bennet had mentioned Mendez. Had talked about the man and how very important his paintings were, had even described what he had witnessed when the artist had utilized his power. White eyes. Completely white - no iris, no pupil.
He killed Isaac Mendez. Mohinder breathed in deep, stared at his oblivious kidnapper. He can draw the future. His eyes strayed to the thick, black lines the killer had already drawn in the open sketchpad on his knees. I should run. I should... His breath hitched. With Sylar so distracted he could call Niki Sanders or Bennet; could perhaps escape. He shot a look at his jacket (it was hanging over one of the wooden chairs, next to the room’s table), thought about leaving the room. He could use the cell phone he’d shoved into his coat’s inside pocket to call someone as he left.
He backed away from the killer; stopped when he again caught sight of the familiar item on the floor, tucked close to his captive’s shoe. It was the black, college ruled notebook he’d managed to kick out of and away from one of the serial killer’s duffel bags the first night he’d been held captive. He’d noticed when Sylar had grabbed the notebook and put it under his pillow that first night. Had witnessed the man absorbed with the thing - gazing intensely at it, fingering its pages - the previous morning, before they’d set out for Harris’ house.
The geneticist stared down at the notebook. I can take it with me, he thought. I can take it with me and look through it later. It was obviously important to the killer. It might contain some vital information. Possibly life saving information.
I’ll take it with me, thought Mohinder.
And, filled with a sudden sense of urgency (the killer seemed sufficiently preoccupied, but he had no idea how the man’s ability to view the future worked or how long the vision would last), he stepped forward; bent to swipe the notebook from the floor. Notebook in hand he turned - stopped dead when a single piece of paper, a piece of paper that had been folded and trapped between the pages of the notebook, fluttered slowly to the carpeted floor.
Mohinder kneeled. Grabbed the single paper up from the floor. It was folded in half, unlined, and looked like the paper the serial killer had been studying the previous morning; was the paper the killer had been studying. Deciding that one quick (very, very quick) look at the sheet of paper that had so enthralled his captive couldn’t hurt, he set the notebook in his free hand aside. Unfolded the paper.
It was a drawing. The geneticist took in the heavy strokes of what looked like mostly red, black, and brown colored pencil; stopped breathing.
It was a drawing of Sylar, and of him. In the depiction it was night and it was snowing. They were standing outside between two hulking buildings, illuminated in a circle of soft light. He was looking up and clutching at the other man’s shoulder. Sylar was looking down, was gripping Mohinder’s waist. They were pressed close and leaning closer. It looked as if they were about to…about to kiss.
There was a signature - a thin, black tangle of letters - on the lower right of the sketch. Isaac Mendez, it read.
NO! IT’S A LIE. IT’S…
“Drop it,” came an angry voice. And a large hand was abruptly, painfully gripping his wrist.
Mohinder gasped, winced. “Sy…Sylar,” he managed; looked into his captor’s eyes. “What the hell is this? What…” he trailed off.
“You weren’t supposed to see it,” said Sylar. “Not until…” His eyes narrowed, seemed to darken. His grip on the geneticist’s wrist tightened. “You weren’t supposed to see it.”
Mohinder felt ill; tried to pull away, stopped when all that achieved was a sharp, sudden pain that started at his wrist and shot through his entire arm.
Sylar let out a sound that was something between a growl and a scream. “Why? What did you...? You weren’t-“ he started again, but the geneticist cut him off.
“I won’t help you,” he said in a low voice. “I won’t help you, Sylar. I’m not going to give you the list, I’m not going to teach you how to compile a list of your own, I’m not going to quietly tag along while you hunt down and murder innocent people like Jake Harris. And…” He shot a look at the wrist the other man was holding, at the drawing still in his restrained hand. “And I’m certainly not going to…” Unable to even say the words, he trailed off. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”
Sylar said nothing at first. He stared at Mohinder. He looked lost and furious all at the same time. He was breathing hard and fast.
“You want to know what it is I want from you, Mohinder?” he asked after a long, quiet moment had crept by. The hand grasping the geneticist’s wrist tightened, then pulled. Mohinder gasped at the shock of pain; was forced to stand. The drawing fell to the floor. “I’ll show you.”
Mohinder’s chest tightened. His gut twisted. “No-“ he managed and tried pull away, turn. But before he could get out anything else, before cold fear had fully overtaken his limbs, Sylar’s arm had wrapped around his waist. The killer lifted, threw him roughly onto the bed.
Mohinder tried to scramble away as soon as his back hit the bed; was stopped by powerful, invisible hands that forced his arms over his head and pinned his legs flat. He squirmed, bucked. But he couldn’t break free.
“It’s not supposed to be this way,” said Sylar. And he sank onto the bed; fell to all fours and crawled so that he was looming directly over the geneticist, staring into his wide and frightened eyes. He bent so that his mouth was close to his captive’s ear. “You weren’t supposed to see. Why do you do this? Why do you always ruin us? Why can’t you…” He trailed off.
Mohinder, still struggling, closed his eyes at the feeling of the killer’s mouth moving away from his ear. The warm moisture moved down; stopped at his neck. “Stop,” he said in a small, shaky voice when he felt a warm, wet pressure on his skin (Sylar kissing him, he realized). The warm wetness let up for a second; was replaced with a burst of sharp pain.
The geneticist let out a wordless shout at the pain; realized the larger man was actually biting him. At this a horrible, breathtaking terror blossomed like something physical in Mohinder’s chest. “Stop!” And this time he screamed it. “Please!” His voice had broken; his face was wet. “Sylar. Stop!"
And, quite suddenly, the killer did stop.
Sylar pulled away from him; stared (Mohinder had started crying without realizing it, was shaking even with the killer’s telekinesis holding him down). His face - twisted with fury and determination only moments before - changed, went blank. The invisible hands let up, the serial killer moved slowly away. Stood.
“Just…” Sylar started, faltered. “Go to sleep, Mohinder. We...” A pause. “Go to sleep.” And with that he turned away, dropped onto the bed nearest the bathroom. His arm came up, his wrist twitched, and the lights and television went out.
Mohinder blinked; shifted so that he was on his side, curled into a fetal position. The bite on his neck was throbbing. In the dark, he could make out a square shape on the floor - it was the drawing.
Don’t fall asleep, thought the geneticist. Don’t fall asleep.
But it was his third night with his kidnapper. And it seemed like he hadn’t slept in forever, and his neck hurt, and his limbs were heavy and sore, and his face was wet with tears he hadn’t meant to cry, and his heart was beating much too fast, and he wasn't sure what had just happened or what was going to happen or what he could do about it…
After a long while his frantic heartbeat slowed, leveled out. His eyes drifted shut. He fell asleep, the sound of Sylar’s breathing loud in his ears.
Part Six
by Harikari
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Part Five
Warm beads of water rained down onto Mohinder's naked skin. The water flowed in rivulets down his lean body - shoulders, back, legs - before pooling momentarily in the bathtub, disappearing down the drain.
The geneticist suppressed a pleased groan. The warmth and steady pressure of the water spraying from the shower head felt good on his bruised limbs; served as a soothing balm to his tired, overtaxed muscles. He wanted to stand under the spray until the entire bathroom was filled with steam, until the cracked mirror above the sink was fogged up and the plastic shower curtain was sweating with moisture.
With a frustrated huff he reached for the small bottle of shampoo that was sitting on the metal shower rack attached to the wall, dumped some of the bluish goo out onto his palm. Then he placed the bottle back on the rack and started to work the shampoo into his hair.
He couldn't allow himself a leisurely shower. Not only was the thought of his kidnapper a wall away, maybe listening to his every move, making his skin crawl. When - tired of staring at the droning television the rented room provided - he had stood and started gathering a change of clothes Sylar had made a point of ordering him not to take too long in the shower, of telling him that they would be 'going out' soon.
The suds of shampoo washed from his hair, slid over his body and down the drain. He turned the water off and stepped out of the tub. Then he grabbed for the towel hanging on the towel rack; quickly dried himself off and started to dress.
Without the sound of the running shower Mohinder could hear the television on in the other room (it sounded like a sitcom was on). He listened to punch lines and a laugh track as he shaved, brushed his teeth, ran a comb through his unruly hair. When he was finished he picked up his things, unlocked and shoved open the bathroom door.
The geneticist took a deep breath, stood in the doorway and stared around the room. The day before, shortly after leaving Harris' house, Sylar had ordered him to pull into the cramped parking lot of the rather dingy looking, multi-storied building (a neon sign out front had declared ‘VACANCY’) that they were staying in now.
Mohinder moved to stuff his balled up shirt and jeans into the duffel bag the killer had pointed out was for dirty clothes (he assumed this meant the man intended to make use of the inn's laundry room and pay washers soon); stared around at the two beds and the flashing television and the thin carpet. The room wasn't very different from the one Sylar had first trapped him in - it was a little larger, had a table with two chairs (presumably for eating or working), and the television was up high in one corner and bolted to the wall.
The geneticist sighed, dropped onto the bed he'd been forced to adopt (this bed was farthest from the exit, also). Already two days, he thought, memories of the several days he'd spent with the serial killer so far sliding through his mind. On the first day - just yesterday - he and Sylar had gone to Harris' house, liberated his rented Kia Rio and found this room. On the second day - just hours earlier - they had made a short trip to the large department store across from the inn they were staying at (the killer had insisted on buying him boxers and an assortment of other items - the purchases suggested that the man was planning on keeping him captive for quite a while, and he couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not considering he was the captive of a violent individual he'd been fairly sure would murder him on sight a few days ago). Already the third night. He could hardly believe it. Could hardly believe that he had been in Sylar's custody for so long, that he had been in the man's custody for so long and was still alive...
I don't understand, thought Mohinder, yet again. None of this makes any sense.
The geneticist raised his arms in a stretch; decided that dissecting the confusing situation he was in over and over again in his head was not helping him. Constantly trying to figure out what the serial killer's motive had been for kidnapping him in the first place, trying to figure out what horrible thing was going to be demanded of him or when Sylar was finally going to snap and murder him was only serving to agitate and unnerve him. He needed to concentrate on escape. He needed to focus on the here and the now. He needed to focus on everything that was happening around him so that if an opportunity to get away suddenly arose he could take advantage of it. Escaping was important. Molly was important. Not Harris. Not Sylar and the man's reasons for keeping him captive.
Mohinder closed his eyes; thought fondly of warm water running across his skin, held back a yawn. "Where are we going?" he ventured after a moment, then grabbed for his shoes and the clean pair of socks he'd left thrown on top of the shabby looking comforter. When there was no answer he frowned; turned. Sylar was facing away from him, hunched over and perched on the edge of his own adopted bed.
"Where are we going?" he asked again, angry at being ignored.
And again, there was no answer. No indication at all that the man had heard the question.
Mohinder dropped the pair of socks. His eyes narrowed. "Sylar?" He stood. Stepped closer to the serial killer. "Sylar?"
The geneticist swallowed. He's been hurt. Stabbed. And he's been hurting. I know his wound has been bothering him. Maybe...
He reached out. His fingers ghosted over the killer's shirt, loosely gripped his shoulder. He opened his mouth to ask the man before him if he was feeling okay, to offer to get ice from the machine he’d spotted in the hallway earlier (it might help the pain), to...
No. He stopped himself before he could speak, ripped his hand away from its place on his captive's shoulder. Idiot.
Mohinder felt suddenly disgusted with himself; his throat tightened, the taste of bile teased at the back of his tongue. He swallowed hard, pursed his lips. Sylar was a murderer, a kidnapper. It was a good thing he was hurting, not something to worry over. The killer hurting could mean his guard was down. Could mean possibly, finally getting away.
The geneticist took another cautious step forward; strained to look over the killer's back. His eyes widened when he saw that the man was not, in fact, curled around his abdomen in pain. Instead, there was a pen in Sylar's left hand, an open sketch notebook on his lap. The serial killer was bent over the sketch notebook, was drawing.
"What-" Mohinder caught sight of something on the floor (something that looked familiar, something that sent an abrupt and unexplainable chill up his spine), next to his captive's shoe. His heart pounding in his ears, he moved so that he was standing in front of the murderer - gasped when he saw that Sylar's eyes had gone entirely white. Blank. No pupil, no iris...just white.
Like Isaac Mendez. The geneticist paled as he recalled one of his earliest meetings with Peter Petrelli. Peter had gone on about Isaac Mendez, a man who could paint the future. And later, after Kirby Plaza and the explosion, Noah Bennet had mentioned Mendez. Had talked about the man and how very important his paintings were, had even described what he had witnessed when the artist had utilized his power. White eyes. Completely white - no iris, no pupil.
He killed Isaac Mendez. Mohinder breathed in deep, stared at his oblivious kidnapper. He can draw the future. His eyes strayed to the thick, black lines the killer had already drawn in the open sketchpad on his knees. I should run. I should... His breath hitched. With Sylar so distracted he could call Niki Sanders or Bennet; could perhaps escape. He shot a look at his jacket (it was hanging over one of the wooden chairs, next to the room’s table), thought about leaving the room. He could use the cell phone he’d shoved into his coat’s inside pocket to call someone as he left.
He backed away from the killer; stopped when he again caught sight of the familiar item on the floor, tucked close to his captive’s shoe. It was the black, college ruled notebook he’d managed to kick out of and away from one of the serial killer’s duffel bags the first night he’d been held captive. He’d noticed when Sylar had grabbed the notebook and put it under his pillow that first night. Had witnessed the man absorbed with the thing - gazing intensely at it, fingering its pages - the previous morning, before they’d set out for Harris’ house.
The geneticist stared down at the notebook. I can take it with me, he thought. I can take it with me and look through it later. It was obviously important to the killer. It might contain some vital information. Possibly life saving information.
I’ll take it with me, thought Mohinder.
And, filled with a sudden sense of urgency (the killer seemed sufficiently preoccupied, but he had no idea how the man’s ability to view the future worked or how long the vision would last), he stepped forward; bent to swipe the notebook from the floor. Notebook in hand he turned - stopped dead when a single piece of paper, a piece of paper that had been folded and trapped between the pages of the notebook, fluttered slowly to the carpeted floor.
Mohinder kneeled. Grabbed the single paper up from the floor. It was folded in half, unlined, and looked like the paper the serial killer had been studying the previous morning; was the paper the killer had been studying. Deciding that one quick (very, very quick) look at the sheet of paper that had so enthralled his captive couldn’t hurt, he set the notebook in his free hand aside. Unfolded the paper.
It was a drawing. The geneticist took in the heavy strokes of what looked like mostly red, black, and brown colored pencil; stopped breathing.
It was a drawing of Sylar, and of him. In the depiction it was night and it was snowing. They were standing outside between two hulking buildings, illuminated in a circle of soft light. He was looking up and clutching at the other man’s shoulder. Sylar was looking down, was gripping Mohinder’s waist. They were pressed close and leaning closer. It looked as if they were about to…about to kiss.
There was a signature - a thin, black tangle of letters - on the lower right of the sketch. Isaac Mendez, it read.
NO! IT’S A LIE. IT’S…
“Drop it,” came an angry voice. And a large hand was abruptly, painfully gripping his wrist.
Mohinder gasped, winced. “Sy…Sylar,” he managed; looked into his captor’s eyes. “What the hell is this? What…” he trailed off.
“You weren’t supposed to see it,” said Sylar. “Not until…” His eyes narrowed, seemed to darken. His grip on the geneticist’s wrist tightened. “You weren’t supposed to see it.”
Mohinder felt ill; tried to pull away, stopped when all that achieved was a sharp, sudden pain that started at his wrist and shot through his entire arm.
Sylar let out a sound that was something between a growl and a scream. “Why? What did you...? You weren’t-“ he started again, but the geneticist cut him off.
“I won’t help you,” he said in a low voice. “I won’t help you, Sylar. I’m not going to give you the list, I’m not going to teach you how to compile a list of your own, I’m not going to quietly tag along while you hunt down and murder innocent people like Jake Harris. And…” He shot a look at the wrist the other man was holding, at the drawing still in his restrained hand. “And I’m certainly not going to…” Unable to even say the words, he trailed off. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”
Sylar said nothing at first. He stared at Mohinder. He looked lost and furious all at the same time. He was breathing hard and fast.
“You want to know what it is I want from you, Mohinder?” he asked after a long, quiet moment had crept by. The hand grasping the geneticist’s wrist tightened, then pulled. Mohinder gasped at the shock of pain; was forced to stand. The drawing fell to the floor. “I’ll show you.”
Mohinder’s chest tightened. His gut twisted. “No-“ he managed and tried pull away, turn. But before he could get out anything else, before cold fear had fully overtaken his limbs, Sylar’s arm had wrapped around his waist. The killer lifted, threw him roughly onto the bed.
Mohinder tried to scramble away as soon as his back hit the bed; was stopped by powerful, invisible hands that forced his arms over his head and pinned his legs flat. He squirmed, bucked. But he couldn’t break free.
“It’s not supposed to be this way,” said Sylar. And he sank onto the bed; fell to all fours and crawled so that he was looming directly over the geneticist, staring into his wide and frightened eyes. He bent so that his mouth was close to his captive’s ear. “You weren’t supposed to see. Why do you do this? Why do you always ruin us? Why can’t you…” He trailed off.
Mohinder, still struggling, closed his eyes at the feeling of the killer’s mouth moving away from his ear. The warm moisture moved down; stopped at his neck. “Stop,” he said in a small, shaky voice when he felt a warm, wet pressure on his skin (Sylar kissing him, he realized). The warm wetness let up for a second; was replaced with a burst of sharp pain.
The geneticist let out a wordless shout at the pain; realized the larger man was actually biting him. At this a horrible, breathtaking terror blossomed like something physical in Mohinder’s chest. “Stop!” And this time he screamed it. “Please!” His voice had broken; his face was wet. “Sylar. Stop!"
And, quite suddenly, the killer did stop.
Sylar pulled away from him; stared (Mohinder had started crying without realizing it, was shaking even with the killer’s telekinesis holding him down). His face - twisted with fury and determination only moments before - changed, went blank. The invisible hands let up, the serial killer moved slowly away. Stood.
“Just…” Sylar started, faltered. “Go to sleep, Mohinder. We...” A pause. “Go to sleep.” And with that he turned away, dropped onto the bed nearest the bathroom. His arm came up, his wrist twitched, and the lights and television went out.
Mohinder blinked; shifted so that he was on his side, curled into a fetal position. The bite on his neck was throbbing. In the dark, he could make out a square shape on the floor - it was the drawing.
Don’t fall asleep, thought the geneticist. Don’t fall asleep.
But it was his third night with his kidnapper. And it seemed like he hadn’t slept in forever, and his neck hurt, and his limbs were heavy and sore, and his face was wet with tears he hadn’t meant to cry, and his heart was beating much too fast, and he wasn't sure what had just happened or what was going to happen or what he could do about it…
After a long while his frantic heartbeat slowed, leveled out. His eyes drifted shut. He fell asleep, the sound of Sylar’s breathing loud in his ears.
Part Six