X-Mas in July 3 of 3 for evil15smiles
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: In a 19th Century America still under British control, the West India Company has a special assignment for Captain Suresh.
(This was originally meant to be a one shot, but it demanded to be longer. So this is part one of my Mylar steampunk epic of dhoom.)
Prompt: Covert operations in the genre of AU
Rating: G. Good god, what's the matter with me?!
Characters: Mohinder, Sylar, Bennet, Claude, Peter, Nathan, Matt, Bob
Warnings: Pre-Mylar, mangling Victorian history, standard AU OOCness, general flounciness of prose.
Empire State
Part One: Stranger in a Strange Land
Trying to keep going
Trying to keep from running down
Trying to keep my Grand Work moving
Trying to stay my course
Trying to keep my demons down
Trying to keep my Grand Work running
-Unextraordinary Gentlemen, 'Frozen Mood'
He had hoped that things would be different when he left Madras, but a colony was still a colony, and even if it wasn't called the Raj in New York, the flag was the same. The Union Jack in the corner, a field filled with thirteen red and white stripes. The West Indies were just the East Indies with worse weather, in the end.
Mohinder had hoped to be treated differently at the very least. Most of America was populated by colonists, not British soldiers or the Company Raj, after all, but if anything, his situation was worse, a stranger in a strange land. The strange land was the whole world, an empire on which the sun never set.
Bennet was giving him the look of polite contempt he'd gotten used to from Company men who outranked him.
"If I may be frank, you're something of a misfit, Suresh," Bennet said finally.
"I've been told as much before, sir," Mohinder replied, refusing to waver under Bennet's calculating gaze. Misfit indeed. Apparently 'misfit' was Company code for a 'savage' who lacked the deference people like Bennet felt appropriate, but who were too necessary to be taken round back and shot. 'Misfit' certainly saved time, Mohinder supposed.
"Any Empire has her fair share," Bennet continued. "Some more dangerous than others. Which is why I've asked you here."
Mohinder's eyes narrowed slightly, listening carefully to Bennet's tone for any hints of accusation.
"There is a man who used to work for our outfit who has since gone a bit… doolally, I think is how the infantry men put it."
Bennet opened the drawer of his desk and withdrew several slips of rumpled paper and slid them across to Mohinder.
"Foreign currency?" Mohinder asked, perplexed. He didn't recognize the monarch whose image appeared amid a frame of gears.
"Not exactly. Look on the back."
Mohinder flipped a bill over and saw that it purported to be legal tender to cover debts both public and private, anywhere on the sphere of the earth.
"Well, it's absurd," Mohinder said dismissively. "Some sort of childish prank."
Bennet's gaze grew chillier.
"Her imperial majesty does not care for pranks, nor does she care for pretenders to her throne. This will be addressed, and you will be the one to address it. The man calls himself the Archduke Sylar, though his name was Major Gray, and he will tell anyone who'll listen that he means to kill the Emperor."
"We haven't got an Emperor, and Victoria Regina is quite safe in London," Mohinder snorted.
"Nevertheless," Bennet pressed on, "I expect this matter to be solved."
"Fine. Point me in the right direction and I'll arrest him."
"He won't come quietly. Find him and kill him. You will have one shot, so don't miss. If you do, you won't live to take another."
"This seems a great deal of trouble for a madman who made some pretend currency."
"It's not pretend if people accept it. He and those he's roped into his 'madness' keep to the Highbridge Park around the aqueduct."
"Do you have a description? A photograph, anything?" Mohinder replied in frustration.
"You have one right there. On the pretend money. Find something more ragged to wear; you won't get within fifty yards of him in a red coat. And do take care, Suresh," Bennet added with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Be a shame if anything happened to you. Awful shame."
Bennet turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.
"Dismissed, Suresh."
Mohinder turned on his heel and walked out, shutting the door harder than strictly necessary. The further he walked, away from Bennet's office, out of the regiment building, the deeper the realization sank in that this was well and truly it. Mohinder had known it would happen eventually; he'd known the Company and the representatives of the Empire would only stand so much not-quite-insubordination from him, only so much pride, before they decided that perhaps he wasn't so very useful after all.
So his suicide mission had come at last. It was one of the subtler methods of execution at the Company's disposal: Rather than putting a bullet to him directly, they just sent him on an errand from which he couldn't possibly return without dying. If he refused, they could shoot him for cowardice.
As he approached his own flat, Mohinder weighed his options. He could run, but he was a relative rarity here in the Colonies of West India. While most colonists couldn't tell one of the West Indian natives from the East Indian or the African, his curls were a dead giveaway. He would have to get far south or west before he'd escape the sharp eyes of Bennet and his men.
Then there was his mother, back in Tamil Nadu. If he deserted, she would have nothing, no posthumous pension to sustain her. If he died the way the Company wished him to, she would be looked after. If there was one thing the Great British Empire could appreciate, it was a stiff upper lip.
And so, Mohinder made arrangements. If he did not return to say otherwise within a week, his belongings were to be sent to India and his will executed accordingly. He wrote his mother a letter, imploring her not to be sad.
The next day he found himself floundering somewhat. There was nothing left to do save to shave, put on the threadbare clothes he'd acquired, load his pistol, and march nobly to the Highbridge and an almost certain death. Nonetheless, he struggled with the feeling that he was forgetting something, as one does when closing a door with such finality.
Close it he did, and lock it as well, to make the long walk across the island, examining the portrait on the bill along the way. The face was one of stark contrast: black brows, black hair, and black eyes, all set in and around a pale, striking face. The expression in the portrait was stern, but Mohinder couldn't help but think that the serious expression made the man look quite young. He supposed it could just be the artist's choice.
He shuddered as he walked. He certainly wouldn't miss the weather. It was nearly November, and the slate sky was spitting cold rain. The threadbare coat for which he had traded a young beggar something thicker and newer did little to keep out the chill.
Mohinder did have to admit that the aqueduct was quite lovely. Of all the places the madman Mohinder could only assume was meant to kill him could've chosen for his stomping grounds, this was certainly an aesthetic one. He sighed, looking around for any sign of other people, any excuse to ask after his mysterious mad monarch.
"You look lost, boy," a strongly accented English voice said. Mohinder whirled, but saw no one. "Dangerous thing to be, lost."
He suddenly felt the note plucked from his hand.
"Lost with Imperial currency. What a fascinating little mongoose you are, boy!" a grey coated man several years his senior added, examining the bill.
"Give that back," Mohinder demanded.
"I will!" the man retorted. "When you tell me what you're doing here by the Highbridge."
"I'm looking for someone," Mohinder said coldly, reaching for the money.
"There's a lot of someones here at the Highbridge, even if it doesn't look it. Which one are you after, cub?"
Mohinder glared.
"I'm looking for Sylar," he snapped, trying again to snatch the money from his hand, again proving too slow for the grizzled man. A slow smile spread over his face.
"Are you now," the man said, a fascinated statement rather than a question. "Fortune favors you, cub. It happens I'm on my way to see the man himself, and for this," he flicked the bill in the air, "I'll escort you."
Mohinder narrowed his eyes, but nodded, having no other leads. The grizzled man beamed and turned, leading him to god knows where.
"What's your name, cub?"
"Krishnan," Mohinder lied. "What's yours?"
"I go by Claude. What's your business with the good Archduke?"
"It's… complicated," Mohinder answered, hunching deeper into his coat. Gods knew that was the truth, at any rate.
"Lucky thing," Claude tossed carelessly over his shoulder. "He's not a man who likes the simple. Grab onto my shoulder, this next bit is tricky, cub."
Mohinder glowered at Claude's back, but obeyed. There didn't appear to be anything particularly treacherous, and Mohinder glanced in embarrassment at the one or two other people in the park, but they appeared oblivious to the Englishman walking with an Indian clinging to his shoulder. Claude led them under the arches of the aqueduct, into a narrow passage in the rocks. Set into a massive boulder was a door that Claude rapped on.
"Open up, lads. Today's gotten interesting."
The door swung open and a bald man in spectacles ushered them in.
"Where have you been Claude?" he snapped.
"Right here the whole time, Bob," Claude replied. "Didn't you see me? You can let go now, cub, the Bishop doesn't bite."
Mohinder dropped his hand from Claude's shoulder, feeling ridiculous. The man made a disgruntled noise.
"Who's that?" he asked, glaring suspiciously at Mohinder.
"Him?" Claude smirked. "He's here for an audience with his nibs."
"Claude!" Bob snapped. "A little respect. What can he do?"
"No idea," Claude grinned. "But you can't tell me he's not special. So is his Excellency here, or should I find someplace to take the cub to wait?"
"He's here, but he's busy," Bob grumbled. "Arguing strategy with the aristocrats and Matthew."
"For this little mongoose, I think he could bear the interruption," Claude smiled slyly.
"No more pets, Claude!" the man shouted at his retreating back. They came up to a set of grand double doors which Claude threw carelessly open.
"-isn't a tenable position, Excellency!" one of the men in the room protested. His eyes snapped immediately to Mohinder. "Kill him! He's an assassin!"
"Are you?" Claude asked, eyebrows popping up.
"Of course I'm not!" Mohinder gasped. "My name is Krishnan-"
"His name's Captain Mohinder Suresh," the man demanding his death, tall, broad and dark haired, said. "He's Bennet's man. He's here to kill you, Excellency."
The man he was frantically addressing finally looked up from his maps at him, and the first thing Mohinder thought was that he was as young as his picture had made him seem.
"Is he?" the supposed Archduke asked. He turned his gaze to Mohinder, tilting his head. "He's good. I couldn't tell at all. What's your ability, Suresh?"
"My what?" Mohinder asked.
"We're not stupid," another man, better dressed than the 'Archduke' and neatly polished, said calmly, taking a step over towards Mohinder with a sympathetic expression and a slight smile.
"I don't recall saying that you were."
"Just tell us your power and everything will be simpler," the youngest man, also finely dressed, but looking less patient.
"Hush, pup," Claude said to this man.
"All I have is the pistol," Mohinder said, reaching into his coat and drawing it out, holding it loosely at his side. "But in my experience, that's power enough."
No one seemed particularly concerned by the gun.
"Matt?" his target prompted.
"He's telling the truth," the big man said. "He hasn't got a power. He's ordinary. But he's Bennet's. We should put him down."
"That's a bit rich, coming from you!" Claude chuckled. The man called Matt glowered at him, but made no reply.
"Bennet sends one of his powerless men to kill me," the Archduke mused.
"I'm not his, Major Gray!" Mohinder snarled, raising his gun. The other men in the room recoiled slightly at the use of the Archduke's old name and rank, all except Claude.
"If you're not Bennet's then why are you here?" Sylar snapped.
"He knows he can't win. He knows Bennet sent him here to die," Matt said, expression softening a bit. "He really doesn't know."
Mohinder tried to ignore the quizzical expression on his target's face. He took a step back as Sylar stood.
"Fire the gun," he said softly.
"I'm not yours to command, Major," Mohinder protested, damning himself for his trembling.
"By both our estimations, I outrank you, Captain."
"Excellency-" Matt started.
"If you don't shoot me by the time I reach three, Captain, Nathan will cut your throat. One."
Mohinder's eye flicked to the side as the well-dressed man drew his sword and laid it against his neck.
"Two."
"I'd do it, cub," Claude smiled. "It seems his nibs means business."
"Thr-"
Mohinder shut his eyes and fired, the pistol falling from his hand as he waited for a deathblow. Strangely, he did not find himself cursing Bennet, or the Empire, but rather felt waves of regret wash over him as the young madman's garnet-brown eyes (not black at all) burned in his mind. What tragedy that his last act was to snuff out a life that had intrigued him so in its last moments.
"Don't be so quick to bury me, Captain," that rich voice purred. Mohinder's eyes snapped wide and his jaw dropped. Twirling between them like a cork floating in water was the bullet he'd fired.
"Impossible," he whispered. Nathan rolled his eyes.
"May I stop pretending I'm going to kill him, Excellency?" Sylar made no reply, just stood there, gazing at Mohinder with a small smile. Mohinder reached out a finger and touched the bullet, hissing as the still-hot lead singed his finger. Before he could snatch his hand back, Sylar's flashed out, long fingers wrapping around Mohinder's wrist. His heart raced as Sylar leaned forward, bringing his lips to just a hair's breadth from his finger tip and blew gently. His breath was impossibly cold, deadening the pain and cooling the burn, those slyly smiling lips so close, tongue so near.
"Good lord," Matt muttered in a scandalized tone. Neither Sylar nor Mohinder paid him any mind, each man transfixed completely by the other.
"What are you?" Mohinder whispered in wonder.
"Nothing at all," Sylar whispered back. "Compared to what I will become."
On to part two.
Summary: In a 19th Century America still under British control, the West India Company has a special assignment for Captain Suresh.
(This was originally meant to be a one shot, but it demanded to be longer. So this is part one of my Mylar steampunk epic of dhoom.)
Prompt: Covert operations in the genre of AU
Rating: G. Good god, what's the matter with me?!
Characters: Mohinder, Sylar, Bennet, Claude, Peter, Nathan, Matt, Bob
Warnings: Pre-Mylar, mangling Victorian history, standard AU OOCness, general flounciness of prose.
Empire State
Part One: Stranger in a Strange Land
Trying to keep going
Trying to keep from running down
Trying to keep my Grand Work moving
Trying to stay my course
Trying to keep my demons down
Trying to keep my Grand Work running
-Unextraordinary Gentlemen, 'Frozen Mood'
He had hoped that things would be different when he left Madras, but a colony was still a colony, and even if it wasn't called the Raj in New York, the flag was the same. The Union Jack in the corner, a field filled with thirteen red and white stripes. The West Indies were just the East Indies with worse weather, in the end.
Mohinder had hoped to be treated differently at the very least. Most of America was populated by colonists, not British soldiers or the Company Raj, after all, but if anything, his situation was worse, a stranger in a strange land. The strange land was the whole world, an empire on which the sun never set.
Bennet was giving him the look of polite contempt he'd gotten used to from Company men who outranked him.
"If I may be frank, you're something of a misfit, Suresh," Bennet said finally.
"I've been told as much before, sir," Mohinder replied, refusing to waver under Bennet's calculating gaze. Misfit indeed. Apparently 'misfit' was Company code for a 'savage' who lacked the deference people like Bennet felt appropriate, but who were too necessary to be taken round back and shot. 'Misfit' certainly saved time, Mohinder supposed.
"Any Empire has her fair share," Bennet continued. "Some more dangerous than others. Which is why I've asked you here."
Mohinder's eyes narrowed slightly, listening carefully to Bennet's tone for any hints of accusation.
"There is a man who used to work for our outfit who has since gone a bit… doolally, I think is how the infantry men put it."
Bennet opened the drawer of his desk and withdrew several slips of rumpled paper and slid them across to Mohinder.
"Foreign currency?" Mohinder asked, perplexed. He didn't recognize the monarch whose image appeared amid a frame of gears.
"Not exactly. Look on the back."
Mohinder flipped a bill over and saw that it purported to be legal tender to cover debts both public and private, anywhere on the sphere of the earth.
"Well, it's absurd," Mohinder said dismissively. "Some sort of childish prank."
Bennet's gaze grew chillier.
"Her imperial majesty does not care for pranks, nor does she care for pretenders to her throne. This will be addressed, and you will be the one to address it. The man calls himself the Archduke Sylar, though his name was Major Gray, and he will tell anyone who'll listen that he means to kill the Emperor."
"We haven't got an Emperor, and Victoria Regina is quite safe in London," Mohinder snorted.
"Nevertheless," Bennet pressed on, "I expect this matter to be solved."
"Fine. Point me in the right direction and I'll arrest him."
"He won't come quietly. Find him and kill him. You will have one shot, so don't miss. If you do, you won't live to take another."
"This seems a great deal of trouble for a madman who made some pretend currency."
"It's not pretend if people accept it. He and those he's roped into his 'madness' keep to the Highbridge Park around the aqueduct."
"Do you have a description? A photograph, anything?" Mohinder replied in frustration.
"You have one right there. On the pretend money. Find something more ragged to wear; you won't get within fifty yards of him in a red coat. And do take care, Suresh," Bennet added with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Be a shame if anything happened to you. Awful shame."
Bennet turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.
"Dismissed, Suresh."
Mohinder turned on his heel and walked out, shutting the door harder than strictly necessary. The further he walked, away from Bennet's office, out of the regiment building, the deeper the realization sank in that this was well and truly it. Mohinder had known it would happen eventually; he'd known the Company and the representatives of the Empire would only stand so much not-quite-insubordination from him, only so much pride, before they decided that perhaps he wasn't so very useful after all.
So his suicide mission had come at last. It was one of the subtler methods of execution at the Company's disposal: Rather than putting a bullet to him directly, they just sent him on an errand from which he couldn't possibly return without dying. If he refused, they could shoot him for cowardice.
As he approached his own flat, Mohinder weighed his options. He could run, but he was a relative rarity here in the Colonies of West India. While most colonists couldn't tell one of the West Indian natives from the East Indian or the African, his curls were a dead giveaway. He would have to get far south or west before he'd escape the sharp eyes of Bennet and his men.
Then there was his mother, back in Tamil Nadu. If he deserted, she would have nothing, no posthumous pension to sustain her. If he died the way the Company wished him to, she would be looked after. If there was one thing the Great British Empire could appreciate, it was a stiff upper lip.
And so, Mohinder made arrangements. If he did not return to say otherwise within a week, his belongings were to be sent to India and his will executed accordingly. He wrote his mother a letter, imploring her not to be sad.
The next day he found himself floundering somewhat. There was nothing left to do save to shave, put on the threadbare clothes he'd acquired, load his pistol, and march nobly to the Highbridge and an almost certain death. Nonetheless, he struggled with the feeling that he was forgetting something, as one does when closing a door with such finality.
Close it he did, and lock it as well, to make the long walk across the island, examining the portrait on the bill along the way. The face was one of stark contrast: black brows, black hair, and black eyes, all set in and around a pale, striking face. The expression in the portrait was stern, but Mohinder couldn't help but think that the serious expression made the man look quite young. He supposed it could just be the artist's choice.
He shuddered as he walked. He certainly wouldn't miss the weather. It was nearly November, and the slate sky was spitting cold rain. The threadbare coat for which he had traded a young beggar something thicker and newer did little to keep out the chill.
Mohinder did have to admit that the aqueduct was quite lovely. Of all the places the madman Mohinder could only assume was meant to kill him could've chosen for his stomping grounds, this was certainly an aesthetic one. He sighed, looking around for any sign of other people, any excuse to ask after his mysterious mad monarch.
"You look lost, boy," a strongly accented English voice said. Mohinder whirled, but saw no one. "Dangerous thing to be, lost."
He suddenly felt the note plucked from his hand.
"Lost with Imperial currency. What a fascinating little mongoose you are, boy!" a grey coated man several years his senior added, examining the bill.
"Give that back," Mohinder demanded.
"I will!" the man retorted. "When you tell me what you're doing here by the Highbridge."
"I'm looking for someone," Mohinder said coldly, reaching for the money.
"There's a lot of someones here at the Highbridge, even if it doesn't look it. Which one are you after, cub?"
Mohinder glared.
"I'm looking for Sylar," he snapped, trying again to snatch the money from his hand, again proving too slow for the grizzled man. A slow smile spread over his face.
"Are you now," the man said, a fascinated statement rather than a question. "Fortune favors you, cub. It happens I'm on my way to see the man himself, and for this," he flicked the bill in the air, "I'll escort you."
Mohinder narrowed his eyes, but nodded, having no other leads. The grizzled man beamed and turned, leading him to god knows where.
"What's your name, cub?"
"Krishnan," Mohinder lied. "What's yours?"
"I go by Claude. What's your business with the good Archduke?"
"It's… complicated," Mohinder answered, hunching deeper into his coat. Gods knew that was the truth, at any rate.
"Lucky thing," Claude tossed carelessly over his shoulder. "He's not a man who likes the simple. Grab onto my shoulder, this next bit is tricky, cub."
Mohinder glowered at Claude's back, but obeyed. There didn't appear to be anything particularly treacherous, and Mohinder glanced in embarrassment at the one or two other people in the park, but they appeared oblivious to the Englishman walking with an Indian clinging to his shoulder. Claude led them under the arches of the aqueduct, into a narrow passage in the rocks. Set into a massive boulder was a door that Claude rapped on.
"Open up, lads. Today's gotten interesting."
The door swung open and a bald man in spectacles ushered them in.
"Where have you been Claude?" he snapped.
"Right here the whole time, Bob," Claude replied. "Didn't you see me? You can let go now, cub, the Bishop doesn't bite."
Mohinder dropped his hand from Claude's shoulder, feeling ridiculous. The man made a disgruntled noise.
"Who's that?" he asked, glaring suspiciously at Mohinder.
"Him?" Claude smirked. "He's here for an audience with his nibs."
"Claude!" Bob snapped. "A little respect. What can he do?"
"No idea," Claude grinned. "But you can't tell me he's not special. So is his Excellency here, or should I find someplace to take the cub to wait?"
"He's here, but he's busy," Bob grumbled. "Arguing strategy with the aristocrats and Matthew."
"For this little mongoose, I think he could bear the interruption," Claude smiled slyly.
"No more pets, Claude!" the man shouted at his retreating back. They came up to a set of grand double doors which Claude threw carelessly open.
"-isn't a tenable position, Excellency!" one of the men in the room protested. His eyes snapped immediately to Mohinder. "Kill him! He's an assassin!"
"Are you?" Claude asked, eyebrows popping up.
"Of course I'm not!" Mohinder gasped. "My name is Krishnan-"
"His name's Captain Mohinder Suresh," the man demanding his death, tall, broad and dark haired, said. "He's Bennet's man. He's here to kill you, Excellency."
The man he was frantically addressing finally looked up from his maps at him, and the first thing Mohinder thought was that he was as young as his picture had made him seem.
"Is he?" the supposed Archduke asked. He turned his gaze to Mohinder, tilting his head. "He's good. I couldn't tell at all. What's your ability, Suresh?"
"My what?" Mohinder asked.
"We're not stupid," another man, better dressed than the 'Archduke' and neatly polished, said calmly, taking a step over towards Mohinder with a sympathetic expression and a slight smile.
"I don't recall saying that you were."
"Just tell us your power and everything will be simpler," the youngest man, also finely dressed, but looking less patient.
"Hush, pup," Claude said to this man.
"All I have is the pistol," Mohinder said, reaching into his coat and drawing it out, holding it loosely at his side. "But in my experience, that's power enough."
No one seemed particularly concerned by the gun.
"Matt?" his target prompted.
"He's telling the truth," the big man said. "He hasn't got a power. He's ordinary. But he's Bennet's. We should put him down."
"That's a bit rich, coming from you!" Claude chuckled. The man called Matt glowered at him, but made no reply.
"Bennet sends one of his powerless men to kill me," the Archduke mused.
"I'm not his, Major Gray!" Mohinder snarled, raising his gun. The other men in the room recoiled slightly at the use of the Archduke's old name and rank, all except Claude.
"If you're not Bennet's then why are you here?" Sylar snapped.
"He knows he can't win. He knows Bennet sent him here to die," Matt said, expression softening a bit. "He really doesn't know."
Mohinder tried to ignore the quizzical expression on his target's face. He took a step back as Sylar stood.
"Fire the gun," he said softly.
"I'm not yours to command, Major," Mohinder protested, damning himself for his trembling.
"By both our estimations, I outrank you, Captain."
"Excellency-" Matt started.
"If you don't shoot me by the time I reach three, Captain, Nathan will cut your throat. One."
Mohinder's eye flicked to the side as the well-dressed man drew his sword and laid it against his neck.
"Two."
"I'd do it, cub," Claude smiled. "It seems his nibs means business."
"Thr-"
Mohinder shut his eyes and fired, the pistol falling from his hand as he waited for a deathblow. Strangely, he did not find himself cursing Bennet, or the Empire, but rather felt waves of regret wash over him as the young madman's garnet-brown eyes (not black at all) burned in his mind. What tragedy that his last act was to snuff out a life that had intrigued him so in its last moments.
"Don't be so quick to bury me, Captain," that rich voice purred. Mohinder's eyes snapped wide and his jaw dropped. Twirling between them like a cork floating in water was the bullet he'd fired.
"Impossible," he whispered. Nathan rolled his eyes.
"May I stop pretending I'm going to kill him, Excellency?" Sylar made no reply, just stood there, gazing at Mohinder with a small smile. Mohinder reached out a finger and touched the bullet, hissing as the still-hot lead singed his finger. Before he could snatch his hand back, Sylar's flashed out, long fingers wrapping around Mohinder's wrist. His heart raced as Sylar leaned forward, bringing his lips to just a hair's breadth from his finger tip and blew gently. His breath was impossibly cold, deadening the pain and cooling the burn, those slyly smiling lips so close, tongue so near.
"Good lord," Matt muttered in a scandalized tone. Neither Sylar nor Mohinder paid him any mind, each man transfixed completely by the other.
"What are you?" Mohinder whispered in wonder.
"Nothing at all," Sylar whispered back. "Compared to what I will become."
On to part two.