"Parasite," 1x18 [canon OOM]
Suresh, Nathan says. We can call Suresh, okay? He can study you. He can -- he's working on a cure.
It's not hard to find Suresh's apartment again, or to make his way inside. Peter catches a glimpse of his reflection in the metal casing of the elevator on the way up, and wonders, for a moment, if he should have stopped someplace with a bathroom first. Washed Simone's blood off his face.
Too late for that, too.
He waits a few minutes, calls, "Suresh!" and when no one answers, he tries the handle.
It's open, but the door offers unexpected resistance: when he steps inside he sees the furniture piled against it. The room is dark. "Suresh?"
Still no answer. Peter steps over the fallen IV pole in his path, careful not to crush it, and moves further into the room. "It's Peter Petrelli." Behind him, the door creaks gently shut. "Mohinder?"
There's a laptop on the table. As his eyes adjust to the dim light, he sees more: a chair fallen on its side, a model strand of DNA, a skull. Most of the apartment's about the same as it was the last time it was here -- the kitchen is undisturbed, with a teapot still resting on one of the stove's burners -- but the front room is a mess, and Mohinder doesn't seem the type to knock over furniture and leave it there.
Or the type to leave his apartment unlocked.
Peter stops by the huge wall map. In the pale blue light of the stained glass window, it's just barely readable. Photographs, tacks, linked with lines of string.
His scalp tickles; he reaches up, and his fingers touch something wet and sticky.
Peter jerks his hand down, sees the dark smear on the pads of his fingers, and sucks in a sharp breath.
Blood drips onto his cheek. He lifts his face.
It's not hard to find Suresh's apartment again, or to make his way inside. Peter catches a glimpse of his reflection in the metal casing of the elevator on the way up, and wonders, for a moment, if he should have stopped someplace with a bathroom first. Washed Simone's blood off his face.
Too late for that, too.
He waits a few minutes, calls, "Suresh!" and when no one answers, he tries the handle.
It's open, but the door offers unexpected resistance: when he steps inside he sees the furniture piled against it. The room is dark. "Suresh?"
Still no answer. Peter steps over the fallen IV pole in his path, careful not to crush it, and moves further into the room. "It's Peter Petrelli." Behind him, the door creaks gently shut. "Mohinder?"
There's a laptop on the table. As his eyes adjust to the dim light, he sees more: a chair fallen on its side, a model strand of DNA, a skull. Most of the apartment's about the same as it was the last time it was here -- the kitchen is undisturbed, with a teapot still resting on one of the stove's burners -- but the front room is a mess, and Mohinder doesn't seem the type to knock over furniture and leave it there.
Or the type to leave his apartment unlocked.
Peter stops by the huge wall map. In the pale blue light of the stained glass window, it's just barely readable. Photographs, tacks, linked with lines of string.
His scalp tickles; he reaches up, and his fingers touch something wet and sticky.
Peter jerks his hand down, sees the dark smear on the pads of his fingers, and sucks in a sharp breath.
Blood drips onto his cheek. He lifts his face.