Heroes fic: Mohinder Suresh and the Quest for the Cure (1/8)
Title: Mohinder Suresh and the Quest for the Cure (1/8)
Characters: Mohinder/Peter, Noah, Nathan, Sylar, the Haitian; cameos by most of the (surviving) Season 1 cast
Word Count: 28,000ish
Rating: PG-13 for mild language, violence, some non-explicit romance-y stuff -- nothing worse than what you'd find in Raiders. Also, character death -- if you've seen Raiders, you'll have an inkling as to who might not make it to the end.
Spoilers: through all of Season 1
Summary: When the FBI approaches the Helix Foundation with a request, Mohinder finds himself thrown into another adventure--one that brings up a past he thought he’d left far behind.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the words.
A/N: An AU, set in the 1930s but after the events of Season 1. Written for reel_heroes as an adaptation of Raiders of the Lost Ark. An unending amount of thanks, gratitude, and hugs to imamandajulius for cheerleading, offering criticism, and holding my hand through these past few months. You are the best of the best of the best. <3
Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight
I.
Mohinder Suresh had always heard that Hawaii’s landscape reflected paradise. The air drifted warmly around your shoulders, they’d say, flowers blooming like crayons in a flood of green and sand, and the ocean shone so blue that cloudless waves seemed to dissolve into the cresting skies. The sun was supposed to glitter and shimmer and pull the deepest hues out of your eyes; and at dusk the blueness melted to mango, its juices skimming over the water’s surface until stars poked through the surf.
He remembered these things bitterly as he trudged through the thick, heavy jungles of Kauai, dark face shining with sweat as the tropics dripped from his chin and clung to the back of his shirt. Paradise indeed. He adjusted the bag across his chest, letting some of the fabric of his button-down unstick itself from his skin, and tugged the brim of his tattered fedora for good measure.
“Almost there, I think,” Hiro huffed, trailing a few paces behind Mohinder. These trees and vines, their leaves glossy and green like frog skin, looked the same as all the other ones they had passed; but Hiro had the map, so Mohinder didn’t argue the point.
“Tell me again why you can’t teleport us to the front door?” Mohinder muttered, wiping the sheen from his brow.
“Too risky,” Hiro said between labored breaths. “We don’t know exactly where hut is. I could teleport wrong, and we end up in big trouble.”
“Ah. Right.” The shafts of light piercing through the deep, buzzing canopy were more numerous now, and the foliage began to subside from the corners of Mohinder’s eyes. He suspected the clearing was near. “So the map’s not specific enough for you, then?”
“No.” Hiro pushed up his glasses with an indignant finger. “Molly does not give latitude and longitude, Doctor.”
Mohinder opened his mouth to retort, but his voice was swallowed by the shriek that penetrated through the chattering trees. They shared an anxious glance before darting through the brush, Hiro following at Mohinder’s heels.
They plowed into the clearing in a moment’s time, eyes dazzled by the sudden sunlight. Three men stood in front of a shoddy lean-to on the opposite end of the clearing; struggling and kicking in their arms was a young woman, her black hair flipping like a flag in their faces.
As Hiro drew his sword and ran toward the scene, the woman planted a hard kick in the stomach of one of her captors, and he stumbled into the dirt. One of her hands loose now, she swung at a man but missed; he caught her wrist and twisted it behind her back until she whimpered. Hiro skidded to a halt in front of the girl. His eyes locked with hers and he lifted the sword, but the cock of a gun made him freeze.
The man who had stumbled away now aimed a revolver between Hiro’s eyes, finger twitching at the trigger. Hiro squeezed his face shut, but the familiar jolt of the halt of time did not come. The young woman wriggled helplessly, shutting her eyes against the inevitable gunshot.
Crack. The man yelped; a whip snapped around his wrist like a leather snake, and the pistol clattered to the ground. Mohinder lashed the whip and its prey back with a flick of his wrist and clipped the man in the jaw with a flying punch, sending him diving into the mud. With a glint of steel, Hiro sliced through the two other men and pulled the girl away toward Mohinder.
“What’s going on?” she demanded.
“You’re in danger,” said Mohinder, hastily coiling the whip at his belt. He snatched the revolver from the ground and checked the chamber. “Hiro, get us out of here.”
“I can’t! My powers are not working. The Haitian must be-”
“Yeah, I figured that out when three guys came and kidnapped me,” the girl snapped, ignoring Hiro. “Who the hell are you?”
“We work for an organization called the Helix Foundation,” Mohinder told her, his eyes searching their surroundings. “We protect people being hunted down by the Company. People with supernatural abilities. Hiro, if the Haitian is here, then we need to head toward Plan B.”
“Abilities?” the girl breathed, eyes wide now. “You mean … are there other people like me?”
“The sea should be close,” Hiro said, looking up from the map and pointing to his left. “Beyond those trees.”
“Then that’s where we head. Come on, this way-”
But now the trees reverberated with the hollow click of rifles, and before the three of them could move, a dozen pairs of eyes leered at them from behind gun barrels. Mohinder leveled his revolver at the trees, and the girl held her breath.
“Dr. Suresh,” uttered a voice. The leaves before them rustled, and two figures emerged from the line of barrels. One was the Haitian, ebony skin vivid against his light sport coat. The other figure was pale, dressed in a crisp, white, linen suit; he doffed his white panama and spun the brim in his fingers.
“Nathan Petrelli,” Mohinder said, his gun still steady. “We meet again.”
“So we do.” Nathan’s voice was sleek, velvet, proud; but he never smiled. He nodded to the Haitian, who advanced toward Mohinder until the revolver hovered inches from his chest. Mohinder, very aware of the twelve rifles trained at his forehead and the fierce eyes piercing his own, passed the revolver over to the Haitian’s outstretched hand. Hiro slid the sword sheath off his back with a resentful grunt.
The Haitian fell back into the ranks of rifles. “You chose the wrong friends, Dr. Suresh,” Nathan said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “It’ll cost you this time.”
“I chose the friends that make the world right,” Mohinder said coldly, “but you’ll never understand that, will you?” He gestured toward the armed men flanking either side of Nathan. “Too bad they don’t know you like I do, Nathan. Tell me, do you treat them like you treated P-”
“Enough,” Nathan snapped. He folded the handkerchief into his lapel pocket and put on his hat. “Take the girl,” he told his men.
She did not come easily, but two men managed to drag her toward the trees, her legs thrashing at empty air. She looked back toward Mohinder and Hiro before eyeing Nathan viciously.
Nathan sighed. “I hate to end it this way, Doctor, but you give me no choice.” He paused, the lines in his face showing more prominently. “Take them dow-”
The girl’s heel connected with his face before he could complete the command. Stunned, Nathan fell back, toppling into two of his men; and in the ensuing chaos, as the girl continued kicking wildly and sank her teeth into one of her captor’s arms, Mohinder and Hiro bolted. For a split second Mohinder glanced back, just in time to see the girl break away from the scuffle and escape in the other direction and to watch with satisfaction as Nathan stood up, cursing his bloody and mud-caked suit. They careened through the jungle until suddenly the trees gave way to grass and then to sand; just beyond the shore a small plane floated on the waters and a man sat on one of the wings, feet dangling. Shielding their eyes against the glittering waves, the two of them splashed through the shallow surf.
“Start the engines!” Mohinder yelled, waving at the figure on the plane. Ando looked up, alarmed, and scrambled into the cockpit. In moments Mohinder and Hiro reached the plane, pulling themselves into the cabin just as the motor sputtered to life and the hull began coasting across the water. Finally the machine lurched into the sky, spraying pearls of water into the humid air.
“Didn’t you learn how to fly one of these a while back?” Mohinder shouted to Hiro over the roaring propellers and howling wind.
“Yes,” Hiro answered. “But Ando-san always drives.”
“Right,” Mohinder said, chuckling despite himself. Holding his fedora in place with a firm hand, he watched as Kauai fell away into the distance.
---
Noah Bennet ventured down the mahogany hallways until he reached the room he was looking for. Through the glass in the door he watched Mohinder Suresh motion animatedly to the book in his hand; sidling into the classroom, Noah walked along the back wall and listened as the doctor lectured to a class of unexcited young men and daydreaming young girls.
“… gives us a succinct explanation. Here, read along on page sixty-one: ‘Owing to this struggle for life, any variation, however slight and from whatever cause proceeding’-notice that he mentions that these changes over time are small, miniscule-‘if it be in any degree profitable to an individual of any species, in its infinitely complex relations to other organic beings and to external nature, will tend to the preservation of that individual, and will generally be …’”
Mohinder looked up from the book and found his eyes drawn to a blonde girl sitting in the front row. She blinked slowly, and he realized with some discomfort that something was written across her eyelids. He stared, forgetting to look down at the book, and she blinked again.
Love. You.
Mohinder cleared his throat loudly and found his place again in the passage. “‘… will generally be inherited by its offspring.’ Yes. This is what Darwin calls natural selection, and this we cite as one of the key principles in the study of evolution.”
The bell rang, and suddenly the room buzzed with shuffling papers and scraping chairs. “Don’t forget, chapters four and five for Monday, please,” he called as the students scuttled past. After the last one dropped an apple onto the desk and crossed the threshold, Noah walked up to the doctor, taking the fruit and polishing it on his jacket sleeve.
“We had her, Noah. We had her in our grasp,” Mohinder sighed, leaning over his desk.
“What happened?”
“Guess.”
Noah made a face. “Petrelli?”
Mohinder stuffed his hands into the pockets of his tweed suit and paced restlessly in front of the chalkboard. “Want to hear about it?”
“Not at all,” Noah answered, picking up a book and eyeing it leisurely. “I of course trust that everything you do for the Foundation conforms to the rules and regulations of this noble country. I expect nothing less from you.”
Mohinder was only half-listening. “She escaped Petrelli, though,” he continued, “thank God … but they’ll be after her again in a heartbeat.”
“Judging from what we knew about her going into the rescue, I think she’ll be able to take care of herself,” Noah said. “Not to mention we don’t have the funding.”
“Noah, I’ve got to find her,” Mohinder insisted. “I’ve got it all planned out. Look, two thousand dollars, that’s all I need and then I’ll be golden.”
“Another time, Mohinder,” Noah said, placing the book back on the desk. “In the meantime, I brought some people to see you.”
“People? What kind of people?”
“The FBI.”
Mohinder considered him suspiciously. “What do the FBI want with me?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” said Noah. Mohinder gathered a few rolled-up maps and a briefcase into his arms and followed Noah out into the deserted hallway. “They knew you and Hiro were back before even I did. And they won’t say what they want.”
“You were only joking about the ‘rules and regulations of this noble country’ thing, right?” He nearly dropped his briefcase as they approached his office but quickly recovered. “I mean, you don’t think they’re going to arrest me or anything?”
“We’ll see,” Noah said, and opened the door to the office.
Mohinder recognized Matt Parkman at once, the detective now dressed in a dark suit and tie. The woman, though, he had never met, but the severe cut of her blonde hair and sharp look in her eyes told him enough. Mohinder tossed his briefcase and papers into a pile in the corner of the office and shook both their hands. Noah followed suit.
“Dr. Suresh,” Parkman said as he shook hands with Mohinder, “it’s been a long time. Good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” Mohinder replied. He turned to the woman; she watched him with a calculating gaze. “And you are?”
“Agent Hanson,” she said. “I’ve got to say, Dr. Suresh, I’ve heard a great deal about you. Professor of biological science, expert on evolution, and-how does one say it?-defender of special individuals.”
“That’s one way of putting it, I suppose,” Mohinder muttered. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
The four of them sat down around Mohinder’s office, closed in on all sides by creaking bookshelves. “You’re a man of many talents, that is clear,” Hanson continued. “And if I recall correctly, you spent several years working alongside Peter Petrelli?”
Noah glanced at Mohinder but said nothing. “I did,” Mohinder said.
“And have you heard anything regarding his present whereabouts?”
“No.” Mohinder looked warily at Noah. “Just rumors, mostly. I haven’t actually spoken with him for some time. We were friends, but we had a bit of a … falling-out, I’m afraid. Why, is something wrong?”
Parkman leaned forward in his seat. “You understand this is all strictly confidential, Dr. Suresh?”
“I understand.”
“Well, as you know,” Parkman said, “about four years ago, before I joined the Bureau, Daniel Linderman was murdered in his casino in Las Vegas. We’d known for a while that he was deeply connected to the Company, so when we heard about his death, the FBI quickly raided his private galleries. But before our agents were able to make any progress, the casino was demolished.”
“I remember that,” Noah remarked. “And Linderman’s collection of Mendez pieces-all of them were destroyed?”
“Yes and no,” said Hanson. “The gallery is gone, but before the demolition, two pieces were taken out of the gallery. It turns out that the death of Mr. Linderman activated a clause in the late Arthur Petrelli’s will. He left both of these particular Mendez pieces to his sons, and just last week, the pieces were delivered. One of them went to Nathan Petrelli.”
Mohinder sighed. “And you think Peter has the other.”
“Yes. Our spies in the Company tell us that Nathan brought his piece to his mother, and now activity in the Company is focused almost exclusively on deciphering Nathan’s half of the inheritance. We hear that Angela Petrelli has Sylar busily painting his own pieces in an attempt to find answers.”
“Answers to what?” Mohinder said. “What does Nathan’s painting depict?”
Hanson and Parkman exchanged glances, and with a nod from his partner, Parkman reached into his lapel pocket. “One of our spies has managed to acquire a photograph of Nathan’s piece of the inheritance. Here.” He handed a small photo to Mohinder; he and Noah huddled over the glossy square.
Mohinder easily identified Isaac Mendez’s style from the black-and-white photograph. Two figures were present in the painting. On the left stood a dark woman, her hair floating about white, pupil-less eyes lined in black kohl. She pointed a long finger toward the figure on the right, who Mohinder instantly recognized as Nathan Petrelli. Nathan smiled broadly, dressed in his white linen suit and poised halfway up a case of stone steps. To the left of the woman was what looked like a coffin, the lid carved into the shape of a human lying on its back, arms folded across the chest-a sarcophagus, Mohinder guessed. Because of the perspective of the painting, only the foot of the sarcophagus was visible; inscribed in the limestone was a series of symbols, a puzzle of hieroglyphics written in an ancient alphabet.
The image unsettled Mohinder, and for a minute he couldn’t understand why; then, all in the same moment, he saw the half-helix symbol wedged among the hieroglyphics and realized that the woman’s clothes were nothing more than strips of cloth wrapped around her limbs like a mummy.
“This symbol,” Mohinder said, brows furrowed, “is also on the cover of my father’s book. Who is this woman?”
“Her name was Asanet,” Parkman answered. “That’s her name inscribed at the foot of the sarcophagus, along with the symbols for Isis. According to our research, Asanet was well-known in ancient Egypt as a powerful healer; many believed her body acted as a conduit to Isis, the Egyptian goddess of magic and healing. Asanet had an incredibly devout cult of followers, and people from all over Egypt would flock to her and beg for relief from various diseases. But she nurtured a violent temper, and legends exist in which she cursed people for their impotence instead of healing them. Some say that to look her in the eye meant either an end to suffering or instant death.”
Hanson took a stack of papers out of her briefcase and slid them over the desk toward Mohinder and Noah. Mohinder glanced through them, noting that “Yamagato Fellowship” was printed at the top of each page.
“Looking deeper into this girl’s story,” Hanson continued, nodding toward the Yamagato papers, “we discovered that Asanet was most famous for curing a very particular kind of illness. Several accounts mention that people with strange, otherworldly tendencies came to Asanet, seeking to rid themselves of their supernatural abilities.”
Noah raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying this woman could cure people of their powers?”
“Exactly. And when she died, after being embalmed and placed in that sarcophagus”-Hanson gestured to the photograph-“it’s said that her followers left instructions carved into the lid for how to bring her back from the dead, if ever her magic were needed again.”
“So why has no one tried to resurrect her, after all this time?” Noah asked. “Surely there are groups out there who believe in that sort of thing and would try to revive her.”
“Because no one knows where her followers buried her,” Parkman said. “Only that her sarcophagus lies in a tomb somewhere in Egypt, hidden beneath centuries worth of sand and stone. The only known clues to her whereabouts are carved into the sides of her own coffin-a cruel joke, you might say, left by her followers, who knew how dangerous she could be if ever brought back to life.”
“So the Company is looking for this alleged healer now?” Mohinder said. “They actually believe they can resurrect her and force her to do their bidding?”
“You’ve seen Mendez’s paintings,” Hanson said. “He’s rarely, if ever, wrong about these things. And can you imagine the power a group like the Company would have if they could control who keeps their powers and who doesn’t? We need to find answers before the Company does, or else everyone will be in danger.”
Mohinder placed the photograph on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “I see where you’re going with this. You’re hoping the second Mendez piece shows the location of the tomb, and to get that piece you need to find Peter Petrelli; and since I was the last to see him before his disappearance, naturally you came to me. But you’ve not addressed the obvious question: why hasn’t the Company already retrieved the painting from Peter?”
“You said it yourself, Dr. Suresh,” said Parkman, “he disappeared. Peter Petrelli is a powerful man; if he doesn’t want to be found, then no one finds him.”
Hanson cleared her throat. “Your organization, however, can track him in ways that the Company cannot.”
“If you are referring to Molly Walker, Agent Hanson, then I’m afraid we can’t help you.”
“She is the greatest advantage you have over the Company,” Hanson insisted.
“And I promised Peter Petrelli that I would not go looking for him after he left.”
Hanson narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think you understand how important it is that we find Peter, Doctor. Parkman is right, the Company doesn’t know where Peter disappeared to-but now that they are actively looking for him, it is only a matter of time before he is located and captured.”
“And studying the remains of this girl Asanet will help us immensely in our research, Mohinder,” Noah added.
Mohinder glared at him. “Oh, so you’re on their side now, are you? You expect me to break my promise to Peter?”
“To advance our research toward finding a cure, and to keep Peter safe from the Company? Yes.”
Mohinder considered this. Frankly, the prospect of finding answers to the mystery contained within Isaac’s paint strokes was enough to excite him. And Peter’s safety meant more to him than the FBI would ever know.
“So what is it, exactly, that the FBI wants me to do?”
Parkman smiled. “Once Molly informs you of Peter’s whereabouts, go to him and retrieve the second painting. Find the girl’s tomb and bring back her sarcophagus to the FBI; in return, we’ll fund you on your travels and give you access to the girl’s remains for your research.” He picked up the photograph from the desk and offered it to Mohinder. “So, do we have a deal, Dr. Suresh?”
Mohinder looked at the photo for a long moment. “We do,” he said, and took the photograph with determined fingers.
-chapter two-
Characters: Mohinder/Peter, Noah, Nathan, Sylar, the Haitian; cameos by most of the (surviving) Season 1 cast
Word Count: 28,000ish
Rating: PG-13 for mild language, violence, some non-explicit romance-y stuff -- nothing worse than what you'd find in Raiders. Also, character death -- if you've seen Raiders, you'll have an inkling as to who might not make it to the end.
Spoilers: through all of Season 1
Summary: When the FBI approaches the Helix Foundation with a request, Mohinder finds himself thrown into another adventure--one that brings up a past he thought he’d left far behind.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the words.
A/N: An AU, set in the 1930s but after the events of Season 1. Written for reel_heroes as an adaptation of Raiders of the Lost Ark. An unending amount of thanks, gratitude, and hugs to imamandajulius for cheerleading, offering criticism, and holding my hand through these past few months. You are the best of the best of the best. <3
Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight
I.
Mohinder Suresh had always heard that Hawaii’s landscape reflected paradise. The air drifted warmly around your shoulders, they’d say, flowers blooming like crayons in a flood of green and sand, and the ocean shone so blue that cloudless waves seemed to dissolve into the cresting skies. The sun was supposed to glitter and shimmer and pull the deepest hues out of your eyes; and at dusk the blueness melted to mango, its juices skimming over the water’s surface until stars poked through the surf.
He remembered these things bitterly as he trudged through the thick, heavy jungles of Kauai, dark face shining with sweat as the tropics dripped from his chin and clung to the back of his shirt. Paradise indeed. He adjusted the bag across his chest, letting some of the fabric of his button-down unstick itself from his skin, and tugged the brim of his tattered fedora for good measure.
“Almost there, I think,” Hiro huffed, trailing a few paces behind Mohinder. These trees and vines, their leaves glossy and green like frog skin, looked the same as all the other ones they had passed; but Hiro had the map, so Mohinder didn’t argue the point.
“Tell me again why you can’t teleport us to the front door?” Mohinder muttered, wiping the sheen from his brow.
“Too risky,” Hiro said between labored breaths. “We don’t know exactly where hut is. I could teleport wrong, and we end up in big trouble.”
“Ah. Right.” The shafts of light piercing through the deep, buzzing canopy were more numerous now, and the foliage began to subside from the corners of Mohinder’s eyes. He suspected the clearing was near. “So the map’s not specific enough for you, then?”
“No.” Hiro pushed up his glasses with an indignant finger. “Molly does not give latitude and longitude, Doctor.”
Mohinder opened his mouth to retort, but his voice was swallowed by the shriek that penetrated through the chattering trees. They shared an anxious glance before darting through the brush, Hiro following at Mohinder’s heels.
They plowed into the clearing in a moment’s time, eyes dazzled by the sudden sunlight. Three men stood in front of a shoddy lean-to on the opposite end of the clearing; struggling and kicking in their arms was a young woman, her black hair flipping like a flag in their faces.
As Hiro drew his sword and ran toward the scene, the woman planted a hard kick in the stomach of one of her captors, and he stumbled into the dirt. One of her hands loose now, she swung at a man but missed; he caught her wrist and twisted it behind her back until she whimpered. Hiro skidded to a halt in front of the girl. His eyes locked with hers and he lifted the sword, but the cock of a gun made him freeze.
The man who had stumbled away now aimed a revolver between Hiro’s eyes, finger twitching at the trigger. Hiro squeezed his face shut, but the familiar jolt of the halt of time did not come. The young woman wriggled helplessly, shutting her eyes against the inevitable gunshot.
Crack. The man yelped; a whip snapped around his wrist like a leather snake, and the pistol clattered to the ground. Mohinder lashed the whip and its prey back with a flick of his wrist and clipped the man in the jaw with a flying punch, sending him diving into the mud. With a glint of steel, Hiro sliced through the two other men and pulled the girl away toward Mohinder.
“What’s going on?” she demanded.
“You’re in danger,” said Mohinder, hastily coiling the whip at his belt. He snatched the revolver from the ground and checked the chamber. “Hiro, get us out of here.”
“I can’t! My powers are not working. The Haitian must be-”
“Yeah, I figured that out when three guys came and kidnapped me,” the girl snapped, ignoring Hiro. “Who the hell are you?”
“We work for an organization called the Helix Foundation,” Mohinder told her, his eyes searching their surroundings. “We protect people being hunted down by the Company. People with supernatural abilities. Hiro, if the Haitian is here, then we need to head toward Plan B.”
“Abilities?” the girl breathed, eyes wide now. “You mean … are there other people like me?”
“The sea should be close,” Hiro said, looking up from the map and pointing to his left. “Beyond those trees.”
“Then that’s where we head. Come on, this way-”
But now the trees reverberated with the hollow click of rifles, and before the three of them could move, a dozen pairs of eyes leered at them from behind gun barrels. Mohinder leveled his revolver at the trees, and the girl held her breath.
“Dr. Suresh,” uttered a voice. The leaves before them rustled, and two figures emerged from the line of barrels. One was the Haitian, ebony skin vivid against his light sport coat. The other figure was pale, dressed in a crisp, white, linen suit; he doffed his white panama and spun the brim in his fingers.
“Nathan Petrelli,” Mohinder said, his gun still steady. “We meet again.”
“So we do.” Nathan’s voice was sleek, velvet, proud; but he never smiled. He nodded to the Haitian, who advanced toward Mohinder until the revolver hovered inches from his chest. Mohinder, very aware of the twelve rifles trained at his forehead and the fierce eyes piercing his own, passed the revolver over to the Haitian’s outstretched hand. Hiro slid the sword sheath off his back with a resentful grunt.
The Haitian fell back into the ranks of rifles. “You chose the wrong friends, Dr. Suresh,” Nathan said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “It’ll cost you this time.”
“I chose the friends that make the world right,” Mohinder said coldly, “but you’ll never understand that, will you?” He gestured toward the armed men flanking either side of Nathan. “Too bad they don’t know you like I do, Nathan. Tell me, do you treat them like you treated P-”
“Enough,” Nathan snapped. He folded the handkerchief into his lapel pocket and put on his hat. “Take the girl,” he told his men.
She did not come easily, but two men managed to drag her toward the trees, her legs thrashing at empty air. She looked back toward Mohinder and Hiro before eyeing Nathan viciously.
Nathan sighed. “I hate to end it this way, Doctor, but you give me no choice.” He paused, the lines in his face showing more prominently. “Take them dow-”
The girl’s heel connected with his face before he could complete the command. Stunned, Nathan fell back, toppling into two of his men; and in the ensuing chaos, as the girl continued kicking wildly and sank her teeth into one of her captor’s arms, Mohinder and Hiro bolted. For a split second Mohinder glanced back, just in time to see the girl break away from the scuffle and escape in the other direction and to watch with satisfaction as Nathan stood up, cursing his bloody and mud-caked suit. They careened through the jungle until suddenly the trees gave way to grass and then to sand; just beyond the shore a small plane floated on the waters and a man sat on one of the wings, feet dangling. Shielding their eyes against the glittering waves, the two of them splashed through the shallow surf.
“Start the engines!” Mohinder yelled, waving at the figure on the plane. Ando looked up, alarmed, and scrambled into the cockpit. In moments Mohinder and Hiro reached the plane, pulling themselves into the cabin just as the motor sputtered to life and the hull began coasting across the water. Finally the machine lurched into the sky, spraying pearls of water into the humid air.
“Didn’t you learn how to fly one of these a while back?” Mohinder shouted to Hiro over the roaring propellers and howling wind.
“Yes,” Hiro answered. “But Ando-san always drives.”
“Right,” Mohinder said, chuckling despite himself. Holding his fedora in place with a firm hand, he watched as Kauai fell away into the distance.
---
Noah Bennet ventured down the mahogany hallways until he reached the room he was looking for. Through the glass in the door he watched Mohinder Suresh motion animatedly to the book in his hand; sidling into the classroom, Noah walked along the back wall and listened as the doctor lectured to a class of unexcited young men and daydreaming young girls.
“… gives us a succinct explanation. Here, read along on page sixty-one: ‘Owing to this struggle for life, any variation, however slight and from whatever cause proceeding’-notice that he mentions that these changes over time are small, miniscule-‘if it be in any degree profitable to an individual of any species, in its infinitely complex relations to other organic beings and to external nature, will tend to the preservation of that individual, and will generally be …’”
Mohinder looked up from the book and found his eyes drawn to a blonde girl sitting in the front row. She blinked slowly, and he realized with some discomfort that something was written across her eyelids. He stared, forgetting to look down at the book, and she blinked again.
Love. You.
Mohinder cleared his throat loudly and found his place again in the passage. “‘… will generally be inherited by its offspring.’ Yes. This is what Darwin calls natural selection, and this we cite as one of the key principles in the study of evolution.”
The bell rang, and suddenly the room buzzed with shuffling papers and scraping chairs. “Don’t forget, chapters four and five for Monday, please,” he called as the students scuttled past. After the last one dropped an apple onto the desk and crossed the threshold, Noah walked up to the doctor, taking the fruit and polishing it on his jacket sleeve.
“We had her, Noah. We had her in our grasp,” Mohinder sighed, leaning over his desk.
“What happened?”
“Guess.”
Noah made a face. “Petrelli?”
Mohinder stuffed his hands into the pockets of his tweed suit and paced restlessly in front of the chalkboard. “Want to hear about it?”
“Not at all,” Noah answered, picking up a book and eyeing it leisurely. “I of course trust that everything you do for the Foundation conforms to the rules and regulations of this noble country. I expect nothing less from you.”
Mohinder was only half-listening. “She escaped Petrelli, though,” he continued, “thank God … but they’ll be after her again in a heartbeat.”
“Judging from what we knew about her going into the rescue, I think she’ll be able to take care of herself,” Noah said. “Not to mention we don’t have the funding.”
“Noah, I’ve got to find her,” Mohinder insisted. “I’ve got it all planned out. Look, two thousand dollars, that’s all I need and then I’ll be golden.”
“Another time, Mohinder,” Noah said, placing the book back on the desk. “In the meantime, I brought some people to see you.”
“People? What kind of people?”
“The FBI.”
Mohinder considered him suspiciously. “What do the FBI want with me?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” said Noah. Mohinder gathered a few rolled-up maps and a briefcase into his arms and followed Noah out into the deserted hallway. “They knew you and Hiro were back before even I did. And they won’t say what they want.”
“You were only joking about the ‘rules and regulations of this noble country’ thing, right?” He nearly dropped his briefcase as they approached his office but quickly recovered. “I mean, you don’t think they’re going to arrest me or anything?”
“We’ll see,” Noah said, and opened the door to the office.
Mohinder recognized Matt Parkman at once, the detective now dressed in a dark suit and tie. The woman, though, he had never met, but the severe cut of her blonde hair and sharp look in her eyes told him enough. Mohinder tossed his briefcase and papers into a pile in the corner of the office and shook both their hands. Noah followed suit.
“Dr. Suresh,” Parkman said as he shook hands with Mohinder, “it’s been a long time. Good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” Mohinder replied. He turned to the woman; she watched him with a calculating gaze. “And you are?”
“Agent Hanson,” she said. “I’ve got to say, Dr. Suresh, I’ve heard a great deal about you. Professor of biological science, expert on evolution, and-how does one say it?-defender of special individuals.”
“That’s one way of putting it, I suppose,” Mohinder muttered. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
The four of them sat down around Mohinder’s office, closed in on all sides by creaking bookshelves. “You’re a man of many talents, that is clear,” Hanson continued. “And if I recall correctly, you spent several years working alongside Peter Petrelli?”
Noah glanced at Mohinder but said nothing. “I did,” Mohinder said.
“And have you heard anything regarding his present whereabouts?”
“No.” Mohinder looked warily at Noah. “Just rumors, mostly. I haven’t actually spoken with him for some time. We were friends, but we had a bit of a … falling-out, I’m afraid. Why, is something wrong?”
Parkman leaned forward in his seat. “You understand this is all strictly confidential, Dr. Suresh?”
“I understand.”
“Well, as you know,” Parkman said, “about four years ago, before I joined the Bureau, Daniel Linderman was murdered in his casino in Las Vegas. We’d known for a while that he was deeply connected to the Company, so when we heard about his death, the FBI quickly raided his private galleries. But before our agents were able to make any progress, the casino was demolished.”
“I remember that,” Noah remarked. “And Linderman’s collection of Mendez pieces-all of them were destroyed?”
“Yes and no,” said Hanson. “The gallery is gone, but before the demolition, two pieces were taken out of the gallery. It turns out that the death of Mr. Linderman activated a clause in the late Arthur Petrelli’s will. He left both of these particular Mendez pieces to his sons, and just last week, the pieces were delivered. One of them went to Nathan Petrelli.”
Mohinder sighed. “And you think Peter has the other.”
“Yes. Our spies in the Company tell us that Nathan brought his piece to his mother, and now activity in the Company is focused almost exclusively on deciphering Nathan’s half of the inheritance. We hear that Angela Petrelli has Sylar busily painting his own pieces in an attempt to find answers.”
“Answers to what?” Mohinder said. “What does Nathan’s painting depict?”
Hanson and Parkman exchanged glances, and with a nod from his partner, Parkman reached into his lapel pocket. “One of our spies has managed to acquire a photograph of Nathan’s piece of the inheritance. Here.” He handed a small photo to Mohinder; he and Noah huddled over the glossy square.
Mohinder easily identified Isaac Mendez’s style from the black-and-white photograph. Two figures were present in the painting. On the left stood a dark woman, her hair floating about white, pupil-less eyes lined in black kohl. She pointed a long finger toward the figure on the right, who Mohinder instantly recognized as Nathan Petrelli. Nathan smiled broadly, dressed in his white linen suit and poised halfway up a case of stone steps. To the left of the woman was what looked like a coffin, the lid carved into the shape of a human lying on its back, arms folded across the chest-a sarcophagus, Mohinder guessed. Because of the perspective of the painting, only the foot of the sarcophagus was visible; inscribed in the limestone was a series of symbols, a puzzle of hieroglyphics written in an ancient alphabet.
The image unsettled Mohinder, and for a minute he couldn’t understand why; then, all in the same moment, he saw the half-helix symbol wedged among the hieroglyphics and realized that the woman’s clothes were nothing more than strips of cloth wrapped around her limbs like a mummy.
“This symbol,” Mohinder said, brows furrowed, “is also on the cover of my father’s book. Who is this woman?”
“Her name was Asanet,” Parkman answered. “That’s her name inscribed at the foot of the sarcophagus, along with the symbols for Isis. According to our research, Asanet was well-known in ancient Egypt as a powerful healer; many believed her body acted as a conduit to Isis, the Egyptian goddess of magic and healing. Asanet had an incredibly devout cult of followers, and people from all over Egypt would flock to her and beg for relief from various diseases. But she nurtured a violent temper, and legends exist in which she cursed people for their impotence instead of healing them. Some say that to look her in the eye meant either an end to suffering or instant death.”
Hanson took a stack of papers out of her briefcase and slid them over the desk toward Mohinder and Noah. Mohinder glanced through them, noting that “Yamagato Fellowship” was printed at the top of each page.
“Looking deeper into this girl’s story,” Hanson continued, nodding toward the Yamagato papers, “we discovered that Asanet was most famous for curing a very particular kind of illness. Several accounts mention that people with strange, otherworldly tendencies came to Asanet, seeking to rid themselves of their supernatural abilities.”
Noah raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying this woman could cure people of their powers?”
“Exactly. And when she died, after being embalmed and placed in that sarcophagus”-Hanson gestured to the photograph-“it’s said that her followers left instructions carved into the lid for how to bring her back from the dead, if ever her magic were needed again.”
“So why has no one tried to resurrect her, after all this time?” Noah asked. “Surely there are groups out there who believe in that sort of thing and would try to revive her.”
“Because no one knows where her followers buried her,” Parkman said. “Only that her sarcophagus lies in a tomb somewhere in Egypt, hidden beneath centuries worth of sand and stone. The only known clues to her whereabouts are carved into the sides of her own coffin-a cruel joke, you might say, left by her followers, who knew how dangerous she could be if ever brought back to life.”
“So the Company is looking for this alleged healer now?” Mohinder said. “They actually believe they can resurrect her and force her to do their bidding?”
“You’ve seen Mendez’s paintings,” Hanson said. “He’s rarely, if ever, wrong about these things. And can you imagine the power a group like the Company would have if they could control who keeps their powers and who doesn’t? We need to find answers before the Company does, or else everyone will be in danger.”
Mohinder placed the photograph on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “I see where you’re going with this. You’re hoping the second Mendez piece shows the location of the tomb, and to get that piece you need to find Peter Petrelli; and since I was the last to see him before his disappearance, naturally you came to me. But you’ve not addressed the obvious question: why hasn’t the Company already retrieved the painting from Peter?”
“You said it yourself, Dr. Suresh,” said Parkman, “he disappeared. Peter Petrelli is a powerful man; if he doesn’t want to be found, then no one finds him.”
Hanson cleared her throat. “Your organization, however, can track him in ways that the Company cannot.”
“If you are referring to Molly Walker, Agent Hanson, then I’m afraid we can’t help you.”
“She is the greatest advantage you have over the Company,” Hanson insisted.
“And I promised Peter Petrelli that I would not go looking for him after he left.”
Hanson narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think you understand how important it is that we find Peter, Doctor. Parkman is right, the Company doesn’t know where Peter disappeared to-but now that they are actively looking for him, it is only a matter of time before he is located and captured.”
“And studying the remains of this girl Asanet will help us immensely in our research, Mohinder,” Noah added.
Mohinder glared at him. “Oh, so you’re on their side now, are you? You expect me to break my promise to Peter?”
“To advance our research toward finding a cure, and to keep Peter safe from the Company? Yes.”
Mohinder considered this. Frankly, the prospect of finding answers to the mystery contained within Isaac’s paint strokes was enough to excite him. And Peter’s safety meant more to him than the FBI would ever know.
“So what is it, exactly, that the FBI wants me to do?”
Parkman smiled. “Once Molly informs you of Peter’s whereabouts, go to him and retrieve the second painting. Find the girl’s tomb and bring back her sarcophagus to the FBI; in return, we’ll fund you on your travels and give you access to the girl’s remains for your research.” He picked up the photograph from the desk and offered it to Mohinder. “So, do we have a deal, Dr. Suresh?”
Mohinder looked at the photo for a long moment. “We do,” he said, and took the photograph with determined fingers.
-chapter two-