Fic: Dreams of a Carnival
Title: Dreams of a Carnival
Author: Maxinegray
Characters: Mohinder, Sylar
Pairing: Mylar
Rating: PG 13
Spoilers: Every episode of s3 so far.
Summary/Prompt: "I do know that for the sympathy of one living being, I would make peace with all. I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other." - - Mary Shelley
Word Count: 1,966
A/N: Written for the mylar_fic Bi-Weekly Contest. But I didn't like how it turned out or where my muse went with it. Un-beta'd so sorry about any mistakes.
~
He’s quite sure he’s dreaming.
It’s the only explanation.
It’s explains why he’s sidestepping empty popcorn bins and other trash on a dirt floor. Why there are large brightly colored tents on both sides, like stripped walls opening outwards presenting a path for him. And when he’s past the tents, he enters a world of flashing lights and neon signs. Empty game booths clutter the area, filled with prizes just waiting to be won by eager hands. There is the heavy scent of popcorn and other sweet treats lingering its way into Mohinder’s nostrils. The Ferris wheel and other similar rides, standing tall over the tents and booths, are in constant motion, spinning, twirling, a blur of rainbow lights, though no one operates the machinery controls. Chirpy music drifts over speakers, meant to sound inviting and cheerful but all Mohinder feels is the unnerving eeriness of it all.
The carnival is deserted.
Of course he is sure he is dreaming despite that it feels shockingly vivid and real; he has no memory of coming here, or having ever been here. The last thing he can recall is lying down on a bed in some shady motel in the middle of nowhere.
Mohinder treads slowly, bare feet padding on soft dirt and bent grass, heading deeper within the vacant carnival. It’s a dream, where he goes from here doesn’t matter.
“What do you think?”
He spins around to meet the all too familiar voice, and Sylar is there, leaning against a snack booth, blue and white popcorn bag in hand, playing with a piece of kettle corn.
Mohinder laughs. “Fantastic. I’m dreaming of Sylar and carnivals. I must be losing it.”
Sylar flicks the piece of popcorn between his fingers away, and then the bag isn’t in his hands anymore. “This isn’t just a dream.”
And quite suddenly they’re both in one of the large 3 ring showmanship tents, dark shrouding all corners except for the center ring, where a luminous spotlight focuses on Sylar.
Mohinder shifts on the edge on the circle, between light and dark; raises an eyebrow and watches to see what his dream Sylar does next.
“If this was just a dream…” Sylar advances on Mohinder, pushing him down on a chair that just appears, and grasps his chin with iron fingers that begin to glow with a searing heat, making Mohinder wince. “Try and stop me.”
He tries, he grabs at Sylar’s hand, pushing and yanking, but his super strength doesn’t seem to exist anymore. “Then this is a nightmare…” he breathily retorts, with no other explanation.
“Is it?”
Now he’s not so sure. There’s something too real about the way everything looks, something too definite about the pain of fingers digging into his flesh; it’s all too real and at the same time it can’t be, because… well because Sylar is dead.
“How…” he stops, swallows, and tries again. “You died. We all watched your body burn.”
“I never died to begin with.” Sylar says bitterly, hand unlatching.
Mohinder blinks, clutching the sides of the chair. He doesn’t know what to do. What he can do. If Sylar is right, and he’s alive, and that Mohinder isn’t dreaming…
His breath picks up as he wills himself to wake up, to prove Sylar wrong.
There is a stony silence as Sylar stares at him, watching him struggle mentally.
“Not working?” The grin on the killer’s face is so amused, and Mohinder feels like hitting him but the implications of Mohinder’s current situation are clear so instead his stomach turns.
“What do you want?” he breathes out, fighting panic.
“My body back.”
He stares at Sylar in confusion. “Your body?”
Sylar frowns, and as he does the scenery changes.
Mohinder finds himself alongside Sylar in what appears to be the carnival’s back parking lot, trailers that must be meant for the performers at their every side. All of them are dark, and look vacant.
Sylar begins walking, and Mohinder follows, unsure of what else to do.
“You see, Mohinder. I’m not me. Your friend, Matt Parkman pulled a little string, wiped a little of this and that and suddenly I’m someone else with no memory of ever being me.”
Mohinder slows, not sure what to make of this. “Then how are you doing this?”
The killer grins arrogantly. “When Parkman brainwashed me, he took a little something into his own mind.” He taps the side of his head with a finger. “Me.”
Mohinder lets out a breath of comprehension, mind reeling. “You’re using Matt’s ability now.”
“Yes, and the fat cop doesn’t even realize it.”
“And your body?”
“Amnesia of all things. Last I heard I was with some carnival characters.”
Well, that explains the carnival but does little to comfort him. He tries to avoid thinking about all the other things Sylar can do with Matt’s powers in his control.
“And what would you have me do?”
“Get me back.”
Mohinder has to laugh. “You’re insane.”
Sylar’s hand flashes out, wraps itself around Mohinder’s throat; shoves him against one of the trailers roughly and Mohinder gasps as the air leaves his lungs. Panicked, Mohinder claws at Sylar, trying to push the killer away.
If Sylar kills him here, does he die for real? The thought drives Mohinder to struggle harder but succeeds only in getting the hold to tighten painfully.
Sylar leans in, breath hot and heavy on Mohinder’s check and he twists his head away, choking helplessly, vision blurring.
“You’re the only one who can save me.” The killer growls and the grip on Mohinder’s throat loosens.
The geneticist gulps in air greedily through his nose and mouth, throat burning, glaring at Sylar as he does. “I’d rather kill you first.”
Sylar seems to ignore this. “I’m going to find my way back eventually. It’s only a matter of time.” The killer pauses, and the fingers still enclosed around Mohinder’s neck tighten again. Mohinder hisses and tugs at the other man’s shirt, trying to get him to let go.
Sylar’s head inclines, and black eyes swirl and darken, boring into Mohinder. “I’ll kill them all once I remember.”
Protests birth from his lips, mouth opening, but then, then Sylar isn’t there; air shifting, wavering and twisting. Sudden heat rises, pushing and searing at him from all sides wafting into existence with orange flame that flickers and consumes like a ravenous beast.
The whole carnival is on fire and Mohinder is trapped in the middle of it.
Sparks and explosions of flame flare up from all around him, and he spins in a circle desperately looking for Sylar but the killer is no where to be seen.
A low, drawn out creak and groan comes from above and Mohinder tilts his head up, eyes widening in horror as the Ferris wheel tips dangerously in his direction, the metal protesting and crying out.
Mohinder runs.
The ground trembles and shakes beneath his feet when the Ferris wheel hits the Earth behind him, letting him know he got out the way just in time. He lurches on, stifling thick smoke clawing its way into his lungs as he inhales deep with each racing step. He begins to stumble, terrified and eyes watering as he chokes for clean air.
A tent to his right collapses inward, devoured by hungry bright flames.
He coughs again and trips on something solid, slamming to the ground.
It’s a body.
Mohinder gags and coughs all at once, turning his head away, trying not to look at her or the empty space where the top of her head once was. Blond hair is caked with blood, and her body is littered with tattoos, some of which he notes are burning flames. He also unpleasantly notes that as a result of his tumble, some of her blood now clings to his hands.
Dizzily he climbs to his feet, heart racing against his chest and sweat from running and the heat slick against his skin. Flames continue to inch closer and he pushes himself to go on, but it hurts to breathe, it hurts to keep his burning eyes open.
The blazing inferno roars on, and with each blind stumble around a corner Mohinder is met with more bodies, more evidence of Sylar’s gruesome murders. Some of them have the top of their heads removed, others are soaking in crimson; the stench of it overrides the smell of burning.
He moves on past these but the smoke seems to grow thicker and now he can’t breathe at all, can barely see through the dense grey, and Mohinder collapses and falls to all fours, coughing and struggling for breath.
There is another body on the ground to his left, but he shuts his eyes and refuses to look at it; focuses instead on trying to shove breathable air into his lungs.
“You can prevent all this, Mohinder.”
Sylar has reappeared, and Mohinder blinks up at him, watches as the smoke appears to skitter away from the killer, giving the geneticist the air he needs.
“Why?” Mohinder rasps, sucking in sweet breath. “Why me?”
The serial killer looks at him with dark pools of black that Mohinder has to blink through the burning of his own eyes to see.
“You’re the only one I trust to control me.”
“This is absurd.” Mohinder grits out.
Sylar continues to stare, waiting patiently.
The whole idea is insane, but he knows and Sylar knows that if Mohinder refuses now, the blood will be on both their hands. It’s why Sylar must have staged this whole thing. He has no choice now. Sylar has left him none.
Control the monster? Can he do it?
Mohinder sighs in resignation. “Where are you?”
A wolfish grin appears on Sylar’s face at the victory won and Sylar tilts his head an inch. Mohinder’s whole world changes again, and the carnival is reverted back, the body beside him vanishes, the smoke clears but the blood still remains on Mohinder’s hands.
A warning.
“I’m at the carnival.”
He lets loose an exasperated noise and rises to his feet. “Yes, thank you, I figured that much out, but where?”
Sylar shifts his head slightly to the right and draws Mohinder’s eyes to a sign illuminated with lights erected on a post behind the killer.
The Sullivan Brothers Carnival.
“I think we can let those detective skills of yours work out the rest.” Sylar smirks.
He ignores the teasing stab, saying, “And what exactly do I tell your amnesiac self when I find you?”
“Everything… the truth.”
“And if you don’t believe me?”
“Tell me about Montana.” Sylar grins slyly at Mohinder who gapes at him, taken aback. “That alone should trigger quite a few favourable memories.”
“But nothing ha- we never- you... you couldn’t possibly...” He trails off and his stunned look makes Sylar laughs so he quickly changes it to scowl, crossing his arms.
The killer just chuckles again and reaches out, brushing aside one of Mohinder’s stubborn curls. The scientist refuses to acknowledge the gentle touch and tries to maintain to the scowl.
It disappears when Sylar turns to walk away, but then the killer pauses and turns back, whispers softly into his ear, “See you soon, Mohinder.”
Mohinder lets out a conflictive sigh and shuts his eyes.
~
And opens them again and gasps.
Mohinder sits upright in the motel bed, heart thumping in his chest, fisting the cheap bed sheets.
It could have been just a dream; he tries to reassure himself.
A crazy, absurd, horrifyingly vivid and real dream.
He sighs, and pushes himself off the bed. Padding through the dark to the table where his laptop rests, Mohinder presses a button and waits as the machine whirs to life.
Dream or not, he has a carnival to find.
~
~