Fic: Primatech 815 - Ch. 23
Title: Primatech 815
Author: starrdust411
Fandom: Heroes (Crossover with Lost)
Characters: Ando, Bennet, Claire, Claude, Hiro, Isaac, Peter, Matt, Micah, Mohinder, Niki, Simone, Sylar (more to come)
Rating: R
Summary: A plane crash unites a group of strangers.
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes or Lost.
Warnings: AU, Violence, Action/Adventure, Drug use, Het, Slash, Crossover/Fusion
Previous Chapters
Chapter 23
Sylar grunted as he slung his backpack over his shoulder and began to climb down the tree. Five days had passed since Mohinder had returned to the camp and things were slowly starting to go back to normal. Well, almost normal. The cave and beach groups had become tenser since Claire's disappearance, watching each other intently, which meant that things had gotten worse for him. Despite his lack of involvement with Claire's kidnapping, the cop had decided that Mohinder didn't do a good job keeping Sylar in line and took it upon himself to watch the fugitive constantly. The serial killer couldn't scratch his nose without Matt breathing down his neck.
It was frustrating and if it weren't for the fact that Mohinder would be upset -- and that everyone would suspect him -- Sylar would have killed the fat cop a long time ago. Matt's policing him was getting in Sylar's way of more important things, like taking care of Mohinder. The Indian man's leg had healed itself just fine, but with him returning to the beach and the tide coming in, the geneticist found himself being thrust back into his old leadership role. Mohinder was working himself to exhaustion every day and Sylar was starting to see that now more than ever Mohinder needed food, water, and someone to tell him when to rest, and he was determined to be that person.
Of course, since his movements were constantly being monitored, it only gave him a limited amount of time to take action, which meant getting up earlier than the rest of the cast aways. Not that he minded. Sylar had always been a solitary person and wandering the jungle in the early hours, knowing that he had the entire island practically to himself was calming.
He sighed, once his feet were back on the ground, slipping his backpack off and studying the contents to make sure they weren't damaged. The survivors had all been eating more than their share of food recently -- having gotten far too comfortable with their living situation -- making it that much harder to find any trees that still had fruit in them. The serial killer smiled when he saw that none of the fruits he had picked had been damaged. The others could fend for themselves, but these fruits belonged to him and Mohinder.
He took in a deep gulp of air as he studied the rising sun. It was getting pretty bright and he had gone further into the jungle that usual, which meant that he'd have to hustle if he were to get back to the beach before Mohinder woke up. Yet as he wandered through the sea of trees and rocks he heard something strange that caused him to stop in his tracks. If he didn't know any better, he would say that it was rushing water, but he was in the opposite direction of the caves.
The serial killer frowned, following the sound that only grew louder and louder as he approached. Pushing past the tangle of leaves and branches, the fugitive was greeted by the sight of a rather large waterfall.
-+-+-+-
Large waves crashed into the clear white shore, dragging a few bags that had been left idle on the beach into the ocean. The castaways scrambled to grab what they could, rescuing their precious supplies from drifting off to sea. Mohinder grunted, feeling a troubling tingle in his leg that he hoped wasn't a sign that his wound was acting up, as he grabbed two large suit cases out of the water and carried them back to the beach where they would be safe. He turned to his side to see Peter right beside him, lifting a duffle bag with both hands and dragging it out of the waves.
"This can't be normal," Mohinder told him, raising his voice so he could be heard over the pounding waves. "The tide shifting so suddenly like this," he went on when Peter only turned and gave him a confused look, "rising in such a short time."
"Yeah well there's a lot that's not normal around here," Peter pointed out, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.
The gesture made Mohinder realize that Peter's hair had grown out a bit since they had landed. It was now brushing his ear lopes and the back of his neck. If they didn't get rescued soon (or at least found a pair of scissors) the young man would probably have to tie it back. The Indian man felt his hands go to his own growing locks. Just the other day he had caught Sylar staring at his hair, his eyes hypnotized by the way his curls were growing longer and looser. It made him desperately want to cut them all off.
"At the rate this beach is eroding, the fuselage will be underwater in a few days," Peter said, pulling Mohinder out of his thoughts and back to the present. "We need to get all this stuff off the beach by night fall."
Mohinder nodded his head calmly in agreement as he watched the other survivors continued to rescue their belongings. "I just hope that moving up the coast will make a difference."
"It would make a difference if everyone moved inland," Peter said pointedly.
The geneticist sighed, crossing his arms over his chest wearily. He was getting tired of Peter constantly bringing up the idea that they should all gather into the caves and abandon the beach. It just wasn't practical and would only hinder their chances of getting rescued, not to mention all the dangers there were lurking in the jungle.
"I think you'll find that people are rather hesitant to enter the jungle after what happened with Claire," he said, blurting out the words without thinking. His heart clenched with guilt as he watched the miserable look spread across Peter's features. He should have known better than to bring up Claire in front of the younger man, especially since Peter still felt responsible for her getting kidnapped in the first place. "I'm sorry, Peter," he whispered sincerely, placing a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Mohinder," he began quietly, "maybe you should take me to the Spanish woman. She said that there were other people in the jungle-"
"Her mind is gone," Mohinder told him firmly. He didn't want to take Peter or anyone else to see Maya. The woman was unstable, her mind was falling apart, and the idea of rusting her into a social situation seemed cruel. He would not abandon her to the jungle, no, instead he would try to ease her into joining their group and although he knew that Peter would most likely have a calming effect on the woman (and could also lend a valued hand as one with a background in medicine), he'd rather go back alone so that she knew he was trust worthy.
The young nurse frowned, about to say something to him, but his words were cut off as Matt approached the two, a worried expression on his face. "Alright Mohinder, where is he?" the police officer all but huffed, crossing his arms over his broad chest threateningly.
"Who?" Mohinder asked, although he already knew exactly who Matt was talking about.
"Sylar!" Matt said, speaking the name as if it were a bitter taste on his tongue. "Where is he? He's not at your tent-"
"His tent," Mohinder corrected testily.
Truth be told, the Indian had barely even registered Sylar's absence. If anything, he was relieved by it. He knew Sylar well enough to know that he'd only harm someone he had a grudge against (and that remarkably short list only included the men he was currently chatting with) so there was no need to believe he'd gone off to murder any of the survivors. Furthermore, since returning from the other side of the island, Sylar had been a far too familiar presence at his side. The other man was constantly hovering over his shoulder, checking up on him as if he were a child who was completely unable to take care of himself. Yet despite the fact that he was relieved to no longer have the burden of Sylar's presence or how irritated he was that Matt was (once again) implying that he was unable to watch the fugitive, the geneticist couldn't help feeling guilty that he had lost track of his charge.
"I'll go look for him," Mohinder said wearily. "You and Peter just help everyone get their luggage and get ready to move."
-+-+-+-
"Hey, baby?"
Isaac stiffened at the sound of Simone's voice, a gesture that most likely did not go unnoticed by his girlfriend's careful eyes, as he slowed down to acknowledge her presence. "Hey," he returned, flashing her what he hoped looked like an innocent smile. "What's up?"
"That's sorta what I'd like to know," she said, a hesitant smile gracing her full lips. "You and Bennet have been sneaking off into jungle every morning at sunrise and coming back at dark every day for the past four days. What are you guys doing out there?"
"We're looking for Claire," he said simply, hoping that the lie would be enough to get his girlfriend off of his case.
It didn't work. The young woman merely frowned, cocking her head in confusion as she mulled over his words. "Claire?" she repeated. "Peter and I followed that trail as best as we could. It went cold."
"Well, I know, but we have to keep looking right?" he said, fumbling for a convincing argument. "I mean, she's a sixteen year old girl, one of our own, how can I just sit around and do nothing while she's out there somewhere?"
Her frown only deepened at his words. "I never realized you were so attached to Claire," she began slowly. "Or that fond of Bennet. Didn't I hear you call that guy a 'creep' less than a week ago?"
Isaac felt a slight blush color his cheeks. "Well, babe, to be fair I called everyone here a creep," he said truthfully.
"Well, maybe I can help," she offered. "I know I'm not as good of a tracker as Bennet, but you guys could probably use the extra eyes, right?"
The Hispanic artist felt himself break out in a nervous sweat as he silently cursed his girlfriend's well meaning nature. "I don't know, Simone," he began awkwardly. "I don't really like the idea of you being out in the jungle. I mean, there's the smoke monster and the polar bear and all that."
"Okay, I get it," she huffed and for a second Isaac thought he'd been caught, "you want to have your guy time. Well, who am I to stop you from making friends? Just be careful out there, okay?"
"Of course," he said, fighting back the urge to let out a far too relieved sigh. Instead, he bent forward and pressed a quick kiss to Simone's full lips. "I'll see you later." With that, he turned and headed towards the jungle.
-+-+-+-
Sylar wasn't very hard to find. In fact, Mohinder had barely started looking for the fugitive when he spotted him emerging from the jungle and heading back to his tent. Yet Mohinder couldn't find it in himself to feel relieved when he took in the serial killer's current state. The man's clothes and hair were limp and hanging off his gaunt frame awkwardly as if he had recently immersed himself in water and was slowly drying out.
"Where the hell were you?" Mohinder asked suspiciously. "It's past noon. Have you been in the jungle all morning?"
"Something like that," Sylar said, shrugging indifferently as he marched back towards his temporary shelter. "I was out in the jungle looking for food."
"For the camp?"
"For us," he corrected bitterly.
Mohinder rolled his eyes at Sylar's words. He had to wonder when the fugitive would finally give up and stop attempting to get on his good side. Mohinder had already refused or ignored every "kind gesture" the man had made towards him, yet still the serial killer insisted on playing this game. It was tiresome to say the least.
He was about to comment on how futile Sylar's efforts to impress him were, when his eyes caught sight of something he had hoped never to see again. In the serial killer's pale hands was the metal, Halliburton suitcase that Audrey had brought on the plane with her. His heart stilled and his blood ran cold at the idea of Sylar with that case. If he knew what was in there... If he managed to open it...
"Where did you get that?"
Sylar frowned, stopping in his tracks in order to give Mohinder a curious look. "Get what? The fruit?"
"Don't play stupid with me," Mohinder seethed, lowering his voice as he approached the fugitive. "Where did you get that suitcase?"
The serial killer flashed him a smug smile as he lifted the metallic case into the other man's line of sight, showing him that the case itself was dripping wet as well. "I found it in the jungle," he said simply. "Well, I found it at the bottom of a spring in the jungle, but still, doesn't it look familiar? If I'm not mistaken this is Marshall Hanson's case, isn't it?"
"Give it to me!" Mohinder growled. He lunged towards the other man, attempting to snatch the metal case out of his hands, but Sylar saw him coming and pulled it out of his reach. "Sylar," he began, a warning clear in his tone, but Sylar had never been one to take any warning seriously.
"Do you know what's inside it, Mohinder?" he asked, mock curiousness in his tone. Yet as Mohinder watched the man shift the case playfully in his hands, he had to wonder if Sylar actually knew what was in there. "Maybe we could open it up and find out together."
He frowned, confusion playing on his features. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Sylar scoffed, rolling his eyes at Mohinder's words. "Of course you don't," he said dismissively. "Well, I should be able to open it up pretty easily."
"Sylar," he began again, this time struggling to keep his voice calm and nonthreatening. "Just give me the case. We don't have to open it. We'll just put it back in the spring where you found it. Better yet, we'll bury it."
"I'd rather open it."
Mohinder groaned, slumping his shoulders warily at the frustrating man before. "Why?" he asked. "Why do you want to open it so badly?"
"Because what's in here belongs to me." The fugitive practically growled the words and suddenly there was no doubt in Mohinder's mind that Sylar knew exactly what it was he had in his hands. "It's mine."
Yet the geneticist wouldn't allow himself to be intimidated. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw, staring the taller man straight in the eyes. "You're a bastard," he seethed. "I hope you know that."
Without warning, the other man reached out and grabbed his arm and squeezing it until Mohinder' felt certain there would be a series of ugly bruises peppering his skin. He tried his best not to hiss as Sylar dragged him closer, their bodies pressed together and their faces a mere inch apart. "You have no idea what kind of bastard I am."
+-+-+-+
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned." He paused, waiting impatiently for his stomach to stop trembling with fear. He couldn’t believe he was here, couldn’t believe that he was actually doing this, but he had to. He took in another gulp of air before continuing. "It has been a month since my last confession."
"Go ahead my son," the Priest told him.
He took in several deep, trembling breaths, suddenly feel suffocated by the confessional as he thought over his words carefully. "I... I’ve been having impure thoughts," he began slowly, shame tightening his throat and bringing tears to his eyes. He struggled to collect himself, to go on, but with every breath it became that much harder. "They started a little more than a week ago. I know these feelings are wrong and I have prayed for strength, I prayed for God to take these wicked desires away from me, but..." Twin rivers were burning their way down his cheeks. His face was on fire. He must have been as red as an apple. "He tempts me Father. I don't even know his name, but I cannot resist him."
His words died in his throat as he listened to the sound of cloth rustling and the wooden seat creaking as the Priest adjusted himself. "Wait a minute," the holy man began. "Gabriel? Gabriel Gray, is that you?"
Gabriel's heart was pounding in his chest, the pulse vibrating through his entire body as he flinched away from the mess divide that had been meant to obscure his identity. "Please," he whispered, scrambling to get out of the confessional while he still retained some shred of dignity. "Please, don't tell my mother."
+-+-+-+
"So what's the plan?" Matt asked, throwing a few more bits of wood into the signal fire. They'd been keeping the signal burning for nearly a month now and there still hadn't been any signs of rescue. It had become more of a ritual than a necessity and other than the warmth and comfort that the fire gave them, Matt was starting to think their signal was completely useless. He could only hope that moving to a different part of the beach would increase their chances of being seen.
The cop frowned as he turned his gaze over to Mohinder, only to see that the Indian man wasn't paying attention to him. The other man was just standing there, a far off look in his eyes as he gazed across the beach over towards Sylar's tent. Matt's frown deepened, realizing right away that something was going on between the two, something that could potentially spell trouble for him and the other castaways.
"Mohinder?" Matt tried again, gaining his companion's attention. "Everything alright?"
"Fine," Mohinder said quickly, casually, as he continued feeding sticks of drift wood into the fire. "Tomorrow, bright and early, everyone should take down their tents, gather their belongings and get ready to move to the other side of the beach."
"Okay," the cop began slowly, his eyes flickering towards Sylar's distant figure. The sun was setting quickly, bathing the beach in a deep orange light that was quickly shifting to blackness. He could just barely see that the fugitive was hunched over something, studying it intensely, and somehow it made Matt's stomach twist with worry. "Is there a problem?"
Mohinder pinned him with a confused look pausing momentarily in his task. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, are we going to have a Sylar situation on our hands?" he asked impatiently.
It had been nearly five days since Mohinder had returned to the beach and frankly, the cop couldn't say just how he felt about it. Needless to say he was thankful and relieved to see that the Indian man was alive and well, yet with Mohinder back, it meant that the geneticist would once again be put back in charge of watching Sylar, something that Matt did not approve of. After all, Mohinder was a college professor, not a cop. He didn't have the training or the experience necessary to properly monitor a dangerous criminal like Sylar (a fact that was made more than obvious when he had abruptly abandoned his duties), but if anyone shared Matt's opinion, they didn't acknowledge it. Since Claire's disappearance, Peter had been too busy remodeling himself into the perfect authority figure and trying to figure out just how to get the girl back. Mohinder was obviously reluctant to take on the job again, but did so anyway without much complaint. And the others... well, they all continued to live in blissful ignorance of the danger they were in.
Mohinder frowned, clenching his jaw and squaring his shoulders in annoyance. "There's no problem," he clipped. "And even if there was, it's nothing I can't handle. Just because you watched Sylar for a few days doesn't make you an expert on his behavior."
"I'm also a cop," he snapped, irritated that a school teacher would actually question his methods.
"And he's evaded dozens of other cops like you for years," the geneticist reminded him. "It was only because of Marshal Hanson that he was able to be caught, and I doubt you have half the experience and ingenuity that she had."
Matt felt his nostrils flair and his body tighten as he watched the other man throw down the rest of his sticks and storm off to the other side of their camp.
+-+-+-+
It had started innocently at first. He was a striking figure, someone who easily stood out among a crowd, and Gabriel didn't put much thought into the situation, not at the start at least. It was only when he started to memorize the frequency of his visits did he slowly begin to realize that there might be a problem.
The watchmaker saw him every Thursday afternoon, sitting by the window in the coffee shop just across the street, a medium cup on his table and a serious look on his face. Some days he'd be on his laptop, some days he'd be reading that day’s paper, others a science journal, but each and every Thursday afternoon at precisely four o'clock he'd be there and Gabriel soon found himself counting the days, the hours, the minutes until he could see him again. The watchmaker would drag himself away from whatever menial task he was performing -- whether it was finishing an order for a customer or killing time by repairing the German watch he'd been slaving over for seven years -- and stand by his window, pretending to casually polish the glass as he gazed at the figure sitting across the street from him.
When Thursday rolled around, a feeling of warmth and excitement would always fill him. He'd spend the four o'clock hour wondering about the stranger. Where was he from? (Those exotic features clearly indicate that he was from somewhere far away. Indian, maybe.) What did he do for a living? (He seemed very serious, always reading or studying, a clear indication that he was of a scholarly sort.) Was he a manifestation of some dark being sent to earth to tempt Gabriel to sin (because this was a sin, a dark, horrible sin that he must repent for) or was he an angel who had come down from his heavenly kingdom to shine some light into Gabriel's bleak, meaningless life (because no one that beautiful could do any wrong)?
A quivering, love sick sigh would always escape his lips, when the mysterious man would gather his belongings, shrug on his shoulder bag and leave the coffee shop. Some days, Gabriel would fear that the man would disappear forever, sending his world into utter darkness once again. He could only pray that such a thing would never come to be. Even if the two had never been formerly introduce, the watchmaker still could not imagine going on without the stranger in his life.
+-+-+-+
Although the serial killer assumed that he was unaware of the habit, Mohinder knew that Sylar got up early -- hours before any of the other survivors did -- so the geneticist knew that he would have to move quickly if he wanted to complete his mission. The sun was just barely peeking over the horizon, the beach still covered by a haunting blue gray hue, as he swiftly crept across the sand and towards the fugitive's tent. He was fortunate that Sylar had built his tent far away from the rest of the camp; it meant that there would be less of a chance that someone watching him perform his task.
The Indian held his breath, as he crouched down beside the American's sleeping form. His brow furrowed in frustration when he spotted the steel case locked between the sleeping man's legs. Perfect. Just another way to make things harder.
His stomach tightened and his breath caught in his throat as he reached out, grabbing the handle of the suitcase and slowly tugging it away. The geneticist thought he was home free, when suddenly a large, pale hand grabbed his wrist. He flinched, pulling away instinctively, only to have Sylar pounce on him, pinning the smaller man underneath him.
"Oh, professor," Sylar practically purred, leaning in closely, their noses a mere inch apart. "I knew that it was only a matter of time-"
"Get off of me!" Mohinder growled, wriggling underneath Sylar's bulk. It was only a few weeks ago when they had been in this exact same position. Only back then, Sylar had been holding a make shift knife to his throat.
"Shhh," the other man teased, a wolfish smile tugging at his lips. "You wouldn't want the others to see us like this now would you? It'd be pretty hard to shake the rumors of us being a couple and all."
"Just give me the case," the Indian whispered. He didn't like this situation and he was suddenly trying very hard not to notice the strange object poking at his thigh. Dear gods don't let that be what I think it is!
"No," Sylar told his captive firmly. "It's mine." He paused, cocking his head curiously. "Why do you want it so badly? What's inside that you want? Or is it just something you don't want me to see?"
Mohinder held his breath, gritted his teeth, and then -- without warning -- hurled his head forward, head butting Sylar right between the eyes. The fugitive growled, flinching back and cradling his injured forehead. It was just enough of a distraction for the man to crawl out from under the man’s body and scramble away. Yet Sylar recovered quick enough to grab the steel case and throw his weight on it.
"You're not going to get it," Sylar seethed.
"We'll see," Mohinder huffed, marching away to rethink his strategy.
Author: starrdust411
Fandom: Heroes (Crossover with Lost)
Characters: Ando, Bennet, Claire, Claude, Hiro, Isaac, Peter, Matt, Micah, Mohinder, Niki, Simone, Sylar (more to come)
Rating: R
Summary: A plane crash unites a group of strangers.
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes or Lost.
Warnings: AU, Violence, Action/Adventure, Drug use, Het, Slash, Crossover/Fusion
Previous Chapters
Chapter 23
Sylar grunted as he slung his backpack over his shoulder and began to climb down the tree. Five days had passed since Mohinder had returned to the camp and things were slowly starting to go back to normal. Well, almost normal. The cave and beach groups had become tenser since Claire's disappearance, watching each other intently, which meant that things had gotten worse for him. Despite his lack of involvement with Claire's kidnapping, the cop had decided that Mohinder didn't do a good job keeping Sylar in line and took it upon himself to watch the fugitive constantly. The serial killer couldn't scratch his nose without Matt breathing down his neck.
It was frustrating and if it weren't for the fact that Mohinder would be upset -- and that everyone would suspect him -- Sylar would have killed the fat cop a long time ago. Matt's policing him was getting in Sylar's way of more important things, like taking care of Mohinder. The Indian man's leg had healed itself just fine, but with him returning to the beach and the tide coming in, the geneticist found himself being thrust back into his old leadership role. Mohinder was working himself to exhaustion every day and Sylar was starting to see that now more than ever Mohinder needed food, water, and someone to tell him when to rest, and he was determined to be that person.
Of course, since his movements were constantly being monitored, it only gave him a limited amount of time to take action, which meant getting up earlier than the rest of the cast aways. Not that he minded. Sylar had always been a solitary person and wandering the jungle in the early hours, knowing that he had the entire island practically to himself was calming.
He sighed, once his feet were back on the ground, slipping his backpack off and studying the contents to make sure they weren't damaged. The survivors had all been eating more than their share of food recently -- having gotten far too comfortable with their living situation -- making it that much harder to find any trees that still had fruit in them. The serial killer smiled when he saw that none of the fruits he had picked had been damaged. The others could fend for themselves, but these fruits belonged to him and Mohinder.
He took in a deep gulp of air as he studied the rising sun. It was getting pretty bright and he had gone further into the jungle that usual, which meant that he'd have to hustle if he were to get back to the beach before Mohinder woke up. Yet as he wandered through the sea of trees and rocks he heard something strange that caused him to stop in his tracks. If he didn't know any better, he would say that it was rushing water, but he was in the opposite direction of the caves.
The serial killer frowned, following the sound that only grew louder and louder as he approached. Pushing past the tangle of leaves and branches, the fugitive was greeted by the sight of a rather large waterfall.
-+-+-+-
Large waves crashed into the clear white shore, dragging a few bags that had been left idle on the beach into the ocean. The castaways scrambled to grab what they could, rescuing their precious supplies from drifting off to sea. Mohinder grunted, feeling a troubling tingle in his leg that he hoped wasn't a sign that his wound was acting up, as he grabbed two large suit cases out of the water and carried them back to the beach where they would be safe. He turned to his side to see Peter right beside him, lifting a duffle bag with both hands and dragging it out of the waves.
"This can't be normal," Mohinder told him, raising his voice so he could be heard over the pounding waves. "The tide shifting so suddenly like this," he went on when Peter only turned and gave him a confused look, "rising in such a short time."
"Yeah well there's a lot that's not normal around here," Peter pointed out, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.
The gesture made Mohinder realize that Peter's hair had grown out a bit since they had landed. It was now brushing his ear lopes and the back of his neck. If they didn't get rescued soon (or at least found a pair of scissors) the young man would probably have to tie it back. The Indian man felt his hands go to his own growing locks. Just the other day he had caught Sylar staring at his hair, his eyes hypnotized by the way his curls were growing longer and looser. It made him desperately want to cut them all off.
"At the rate this beach is eroding, the fuselage will be underwater in a few days," Peter said, pulling Mohinder out of his thoughts and back to the present. "We need to get all this stuff off the beach by night fall."
Mohinder nodded his head calmly in agreement as he watched the other survivors continued to rescue their belongings. "I just hope that moving up the coast will make a difference."
"It would make a difference if everyone moved inland," Peter said pointedly.
The geneticist sighed, crossing his arms over his chest wearily. He was getting tired of Peter constantly bringing up the idea that they should all gather into the caves and abandon the beach. It just wasn't practical and would only hinder their chances of getting rescued, not to mention all the dangers there were lurking in the jungle.
"I think you'll find that people are rather hesitant to enter the jungle after what happened with Claire," he said, blurting out the words without thinking. His heart clenched with guilt as he watched the miserable look spread across Peter's features. He should have known better than to bring up Claire in front of the younger man, especially since Peter still felt responsible for her getting kidnapped in the first place. "I'm sorry, Peter," he whispered sincerely, placing a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Mohinder," he began quietly, "maybe you should take me to the Spanish woman. She said that there were other people in the jungle-"
"Her mind is gone," Mohinder told him firmly. He didn't want to take Peter or anyone else to see Maya. The woman was unstable, her mind was falling apart, and the idea of rusting her into a social situation seemed cruel. He would not abandon her to the jungle, no, instead he would try to ease her into joining their group and although he knew that Peter would most likely have a calming effect on the woman (and could also lend a valued hand as one with a background in medicine), he'd rather go back alone so that she knew he was trust worthy.
The young nurse frowned, about to say something to him, but his words were cut off as Matt approached the two, a worried expression on his face. "Alright Mohinder, where is he?" the police officer all but huffed, crossing his arms over his broad chest threateningly.
"Who?" Mohinder asked, although he already knew exactly who Matt was talking about.
"Sylar!" Matt said, speaking the name as if it were a bitter taste on his tongue. "Where is he? He's not at your tent-"
"His tent," Mohinder corrected testily.
Truth be told, the Indian had barely even registered Sylar's absence. If anything, he was relieved by it. He knew Sylar well enough to know that he'd only harm someone he had a grudge against (and that remarkably short list only included the men he was currently chatting with) so there was no need to believe he'd gone off to murder any of the survivors. Furthermore, since returning from the other side of the island, Sylar had been a far too familiar presence at his side. The other man was constantly hovering over his shoulder, checking up on him as if he were a child who was completely unable to take care of himself. Yet despite the fact that he was relieved to no longer have the burden of Sylar's presence or how irritated he was that Matt was (once again) implying that he was unable to watch the fugitive, the geneticist couldn't help feeling guilty that he had lost track of his charge.
"I'll go look for him," Mohinder said wearily. "You and Peter just help everyone get their luggage and get ready to move."
-+-+-+-
"Hey, baby?"
Isaac stiffened at the sound of Simone's voice, a gesture that most likely did not go unnoticed by his girlfriend's careful eyes, as he slowed down to acknowledge her presence. "Hey," he returned, flashing her what he hoped looked like an innocent smile. "What's up?"
"That's sorta what I'd like to know," she said, a hesitant smile gracing her full lips. "You and Bennet have been sneaking off into jungle every morning at sunrise and coming back at dark every day for the past four days. What are you guys doing out there?"
"We're looking for Claire," he said simply, hoping that the lie would be enough to get his girlfriend off of his case.
It didn't work. The young woman merely frowned, cocking her head in confusion as she mulled over his words. "Claire?" she repeated. "Peter and I followed that trail as best as we could. It went cold."
"Well, I know, but we have to keep looking right?" he said, fumbling for a convincing argument. "I mean, she's a sixteen year old girl, one of our own, how can I just sit around and do nothing while she's out there somewhere?"
Her frown only deepened at his words. "I never realized you were so attached to Claire," she began slowly. "Or that fond of Bennet. Didn't I hear you call that guy a 'creep' less than a week ago?"
Isaac felt a slight blush color his cheeks. "Well, babe, to be fair I called everyone here a creep," he said truthfully.
"Well, maybe I can help," she offered. "I know I'm not as good of a tracker as Bennet, but you guys could probably use the extra eyes, right?"
The Hispanic artist felt himself break out in a nervous sweat as he silently cursed his girlfriend's well meaning nature. "I don't know, Simone," he began awkwardly. "I don't really like the idea of you being out in the jungle. I mean, there's the smoke monster and the polar bear and all that."
"Okay, I get it," she huffed and for a second Isaac thought he'd been caught, "you want to have your guy time. Well, who am I to stop you from making friends? Just be careful out there, okay?"
"Of course," he said, fighting back the urge to let out a far too relieved sigh. Instead, he bent forward and pressed a quick kiss to Simone's full lips. "I'll see you later." With that, he turned and headed towards the jungle.
-+-+-+-
Sylar wasn't very hard to find. In fact, Mohinder had barely started looking for the fugitive when he spotted him emerging from the jungle and heading back to his tent. Yet Mohinder couldn't find it in himself to feel relieved when he took in the serial killer's current state. The man's clothes and hair were limp and hanging off his gaunt frame awkwardly as if he had recently immersed himself in water and was slowly drying out.
"Where the hell were you?" Mohinder asked suspiciously. "It's past noon. Have you been in the jungle all morning?"
"Something like that," Sylar said, shrugging indifferently as he marched back towards his temporary shelter. "I was out in the jungle looking for food."
"For the camp?"
"For us," he corrected bitterly.
Mohinder rolled his eyes at Sylar's words. He had to wonder when the fugitive would finally give up and stop attempting to get on his good side. Mohinder had already refused or ignored every "kind gesture" the man had made towards him, yet still the serial killer insisted on playing this game. It was tiresome to say the least.
He was about to comment on how futile Sylar's efforts to impress him were, when his eyes caught sight of something he had hoped never to see again. In the serial killer's pale hands was the metal, Halliburton suitcase that Audrey had brought on the plane with her. His heart stilled and his blood ran cold at the idea of Sylar with that case. If he knew what was in there... If he managed to open it...
"Where did you get that?"
Sylar frowned, stopping in his tracks in order to give Mohinder a curious look. "Get what? The fruit?"
"Don't play stupid with me," Mohinder seethed, lowering his voice as he approached the fugitive. "Where did you get that suitcase?"
The serial killer flashed him a smug smile as he lifted the metallic case into the other man's line of sight, showing him that the case itself was dripping wet as well. "I found it in the jungle," he said simply. "Well, I found it at the bottom of a spring in the jungle, but still, doesn't it look familiar? If I'm not mistaken this is Marshall Hanson's case, isn't it?"
"Give it to me!" Mohinder growled. He lunged towards the other man, attempting to snatch the metal case out of his hands, but Sylar saw him coming and pulled it out of his reach. "Sylar," he began, a warning clear in his tone, but Sylar had never been one to take any warning seriously.
"Do you know what's inside it, Mohinder?" he asked, mock curiousness in his tone. Yet as Mohinder watched the man shift the case playfully in his hands, he had to wonder if Sylar actually knew what was in there. "Maybe we could open it up and find out together."
He frowned, confusion playing on his features. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Sylar scoffed, rolling his eyes at Mohinder's words. "Of course you don't," he said dismissively. "Well, I should be able to open it up pretty easily."
"Sylar," he began again, this time struggling to keep his voice calm and nonthreatening. "Just give me the case. We don't have to open it. We'll just put it back in the spring where you found it. Better yet, we'll bury it."
"I'd rather open it."
Mohinder groaned, slumping his shoulders warily at the frustrating man before. "Why?" he asked. "Why do you want to open it so badly?"
"Because what's in here belongs to me." The fugitive practically growled the words and suddenly there was no doubt in Mohinder's mind that Sylar knew exactly what it was he had in his hands. "It's mine."
Yet the geneticist wouldn't allow himself to be intimidated. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw, staring the taller man straight in the eyes. "You're a bastard," he seethed. "I hope you know that."
Without warning, the other man reached out and grabbed his arm and squeezing it until Mohinder' felt certain there would be a series of ugly bruises peppering his skin. He tried his best not to hiss as Sylar dragged him closer, their bodies pressed together and their faces a mere inch apart. "You have no idea what kind of bastard I am."
+-+-+-+
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned." He paused, waiting impatiently for his stomach to stop trembling with fear. He couldn’t believe he was here, couldn’t believe that he was actually doing this, but he had to. He took in another gulp of air before continuing. "It has been a month since my last confession."
"Go ahead my son," the Priest told him.
He took in several deep, trembling breaths, suddenly feel suffocated by the confessional as he thought over his words carefully. "I... I’ve been having impure thoughts," he began slowly, shame tightening his throat and bringing tears to his eyes. He struggled to collect himself, to go on, but with every breath it became that much harder. "They started a little more than a week ago. I know these feelings are wrong and I have prayed for strength, I prayed for God to take these wicked desires away from me, but..." Twin rivers were burning their way down his cheeks. His face was on fire. He must have been as red as an apple. "He tempts me Father. I don't even know his name, but I cannot resist him."
His words died in his throat as he listened to the sound of cloth rustling and the wooden seat creaking as the Priest adjusted himself. "Wait a minute," the holy man began. "Gabriel? Gabriel Gray, is that you?"
Gabriel's heart was pounding in his chest, the pulse vibrating through his entire body as he flinched away from the mess divide that had been meant to obscure his identity. "Please," he whispered, scrambling to get out of the confessional while he still retained some shred of dignity. "Please, don't tell my mother."
+-+-+-+
"So what's the plan?" Matt asked, throwing a few more bits of wood into the signal fire. They'd been keeping the signal burning for nearly a month now and there still hadn't been any signs of rescue. It had become more of a ritual than a necessity and other than the warmth and comfort that the fire gave them, Matt was starting to think their signal was completely useless. He could only hope that moving to a different part of the beach would increase their chances of being seen.
The cop frowned as he turned his gaze over to Mohinder, only to see that the Indian man wasn't paying attention to him. The other man was just standing there, a far off look in his eyes as he gazed across the beach over towards Sylar's tent. Matt's frown deepened, realizing right away that something was going on between the two, something that could potentially spell trouble for him and the other castaways.
"Mohinder?" Matt tried again, gaining his companion's attention. "Everything alright?"
"Fine," Mohinder said quickly, casually, as he continued feeding sticks of drift wood into the fire. "Tomorrow, bright and early, everyone should take down their tents, gather their belongings and get ready to move to the other side of the beach."
"Okay," the cop began slowly, his eyes flickering towards Sylar's distant figure. The sun was setting quickly, bathing the beach in a deep orange light that was quickly shifting to blackness. He could just barely see that the fugitive was hunched over something, studying it intensely, and somehow it made Matt's stomach twist with worry. "Is there a problem?"
Mohinder pinned him with a confused look pausing momentarily in his task. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, are we going to have a Sylar situation on our hands?" he asked impatiently.
It had been nearly five days since Mohinder had returned to the beach and frankly, the cop couldn't say just how he felt about it. Needless to say he was thankful and relieved to see that the Indian man was alive and well, yet with Mohinder back, it meant that the geneticist would once again be put back in charge of watching Sylar, something that Matt did not approve of. After all, Mohinder was a college professor, not a cop. He didn't have the training or the experience necessary to properly monitor a dangerous criminal like Sylar (a fact that was made more than obvious when he had abruptly abandoned his duties), but if anyone shared Matt's opinion, they didn't acknowledge it. Since Claire's disappearance, Peter had been too busy remodeling himself into the perfect authority figure and trying to figure out just how to get the girl back. Mohinder was obviously reluctant to take on the job again, but did so anyway without much complaint. And the others... well, they all continued to live in blissful ignorance of the danger they were in.
Mohinder frowned, clenching his jaw and squaring his shoulders in annoyance. "There's no problem," he clipped. "And even if there was, it's nothing I can't handle. Just because you watched Sylar for a few days doesn't make you an expert on his behavior."
"I'm also a cop," he snapped, irritated that a school teacher would actually question his methods.
"And he's evaded dozens of other cops like you for years," the geneticist reminded him. "It was only because of Marshal Hanson that he was able to be caught, and I doubt you have half the experience and ingenuity that she had."
Matt felt his nostrils flair and his body tighten as he watched the other man throw down the rest of his sticks and storm off to the other side of their camp.
+-+-+-+
It had started innocently at first. He was a striking figure, someone who easily stood out among a crowd, and Gabriel didn't put much thought into the situation, not at the start at least. It was only when he started to memorize the frequency of his visits did he slowly begin to realize that there might be a problem.
The watchmaker saw him every Thursday afternoon, sitting by the window in the coffee shop just across the street, a medium cup on his table and a serious look on his face. Some days he'd be on his laptop, some days he'd be reading that day’s paper, others a science journal, but each and every Thursday afternoon at precisely four o'clock he'd be there and Gabriel soon found himself counting the days, the hours, the minutes until he could see him again. The watchmaker would drag himself away from whatever menial task he was performing -- whether it was finishing an order for a customer or killing time by repairing the German watch he'd been slaving over for seven years -- and stand by his window, pretending to casually polish the glass as he gazed at the figure sitting across the street from him.
When Thursday rolled around, a feeling of warmth and excitement would always fill him. He'd spend the four o'clock hour wondering about the stranger. Where was he from? (Those exotic features clearly indicate that he was from somewhere far away. Indian, maybe.) What did he do for a living? (He seemed very serious, always reading or studying, a clear indication that he was of a scholarly sort.) Was he a manifestation of some dark being sent to earth to tempt Gabriel to sin (because this was a sin, a dark, horrible sin that he must repent for) or was he an angel who had come down from his heavenly kingdom to shine some light into Gabriel's bleak, meaningless life (because no one that beautiful could do any wrong)?
A quivering, love sick sigh would always escape his lips, when the mysterious man would gather his belongings, shrug on his shoulder bag and leave the coffee shop. Some days, Gabriel would fear that the man would disappear forever, sending his world into utter darkness once again. He could only pray that such a thing would never come to be. Even if the two had never been formerly introduce, the watchmaker still could not imagine going on without the stranger in his life.
+-+-+-+
Although the serial killer assumed that he was unaware of the habit, Mohinder knew that Sylar got up early -- hours before any of the other survivors did -- so the geneticist knew that he would have to move quickly if he wanted to complete his mission. The sun was just barely peeking over the horizon, the beach still covered by a haunting blue gray hue, as he swiftly crept across the sand and towards the fugitive's tent. He was fortunate that Sylar had built his tent far away from the rest of the camp; it meant that there would be less of a chance that someone watching him perform his task.
The Indian held his breath, as he crouched down beside the American's sleeping form. His brow furrowed in frustration when he spotted the steel case locked between the sleeping man's legs. Perfect. Just another way to make things harder.
His stomach tightened and his breath caught in his throat as he reached out, grabbing the handle of the suitcase and slowly tugging it away. The geneticist thought he was home free, when suddenly a large, pale hand grabbed his wrist. He flinched, pulling away instinctively, only to have Sylar pounce on him, pinning the smaller man underneath him.
"Oh, professor," Sylar practically purred, leaning in closely, their noses a mere inch apart. "I knew that it was only a matter of time-"
"Get off of me!" Mohinder growled, wriggling underneath Sylar's bulk. It was only a few weeks ago when they had been in this exact same position. Only back then, Sylar had been holding a make shift knife to his throat.
"Shhh," the other man teased, a wolfish smile tugging at his lips. "You wouldn't want the others to see us like this now would you? It'd be pretty hard to shake the rumors of us being a couple and all."
"Just give me the case," the Indian whispered. He didn't like this situation and he was suddenly trying very hard not to notice the strange object poking at his thigh. Dear gods don't let that be what I think it is!
"No," Sylar told his captive firmly. "It's mine." He paused, cocking his head curiously. "Why do you want it so badly? What's inside that you want? Or is it just something you don't want me to see?"
Mohinder held his breath, gritted his teeth, and then -- without warning -- hurled his head forward, head butting Sylar right between the eyes. The fugitive growled, flinching back and cradling his injured forehead. It was just enough of a distraction for the man to crawl out from under the man’s body and scramble away. Yet Sylar recovered quick enough to grab the steel case and throw his weight on it.
"You're not going to get it," Sylar seethed.
"We'll see," Mohinder huffed, marching away to rethink his strategy.