Heroes fic: Mohinder Suresh and the Quest for the Cure (3/8)
Title: Mohinder Suresh and the Quest for the Cure (3/8)
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
Hmm… I feel the need to mention here that I should’ve warned from the get-go that there *will* be some casualties in this fic, just as there are in Raiders. I know some people aren’t comfortable investing in a story only to find out that their favorite character dies, so I apologize for not mentioning this sooner. That being said, not everyone who bites the bullet in Raiders does so in this story, so I hope that makes up for my regrettable insensitivity toward the subject. :) Added warning to the header. :)
III.
When Noah knocked on the Bennets’ door, Claire was the one to answer it.
She stared at Mohinder, Peter, and her father for a long moment before the grin stretched across her whole face, eyes beaming. “Dad!” she squealed, flying into his outstretched arms, her gold ponytail bouncing.
“Hey, Clairebear,” Noah chuckled into her shoulder.
“Goodness, Claire, you’ve gotten so old,” Peter said, lips tugged into a crooked grin. “What are you, thirty, now?”
Claire pulled away from her father and gave Peter a look, arms akimbo. “Ha ha, very funny. If you hadn’t stopped answering my letters,” she said, socking him playfully in the arm, “you’d know I turned twenty last month. Too good for me now, are you?”
“Just lazy,” Peter said, and swept her up into an embrace. “Forgive me?”
“We’ll see,” she teased. “Mohinder,” she added, turning to him now, “good to see you, too.”
“Likewise.” They exchanged warm smiles. “Is your mom home?”
“Yeah, she and Lyle are inside … Dad,” she added slowly, “why are you all here? Is something wrong?” The smile fell from her face, and concern flickered behind her eyes. “It’s because Nathan’s here in Cairo, isn’t it?”
Peter felt his stomach drop as all eyes turned to him. “We didn’t know that he was,” he said, voice hollow.
“If Nathan’s here,” Mohinder said, “then so is the Company. Claire, you’ve got to tell us everything you know.”
“Let’s get inside first,” Noah suggested, and Claire led them into the house.
They stepped into the breezy home, bleach-white walls cast in shadow by the early morning sun. “They’re out on the verandah,” Claire said, and she guided her guests through an open archway onto a balcony overlooking the city’s white and brown housetops. Sandra and Lyle stood up from their seats around the table as the group walked in, and Mr. Muggles yipped at Noah’s heels.
“Noah!” Sandra gasped. She kissed her husband, and Lyle crossed the balcony to hug his father. “What are you all doing here? Please, all of you, make yourselves at home, I’ll pour us some lemonade. Lyle, honey, help me in the kitchen.”
Lyle rolled his eyes at his sister and followed Sandra reluctantly into the house, Mr. Muggles scurrying behind them; Claire and the three men pulled up chairs around the table.
“Tell me what you know about my brother, Claire,” Peter said, leaning forward.
She took a breath. “Well, I went down into the bazaar yesterday to get groceries, and I just … saw him there. It was the strangest thing-I had to do a double-take to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. I thought at first that he was alone, but later in the day I heard talk of a dig getting underway an hour or so north of the city, headed by some Americans. You don’t see a lot of foreigners around here; I didn’t really know what to make of it at the time.” She hesitated. “You told me Nathan’s been working for the Company for a few years now, right?” she asked her father.
“Yes. He started doing fieldwork just a couple months ago.”
Claire glanced sideways at Peter before continuing, wondering if such a change in events was the reason behind the sudden lack of letters from her uncle. “Then I’m glad I didn’t talk to him. Well, if you guys didn’t know that Nathan was here, then why did you come to Cairo?”
Peter looked to Mohinder, who took out the photograph and sketch and set them on the table. Claire leaned over them, frowning. “We’re looking for the tomb of the woman in this picture,” Mohinder explained, pointing to the photograph. “She was supposedly able to strip people of their abilities, but was known for her violent outbursts as well. The Company wants to find her, and we have reason to believe that she’s buried here, in Egypt. It’s likely that Sylar is in the area as well.”
Claire stiffened at the name. She looked from the image of the dead Nathan to Peter, who was currently staring intently at his hands.
Sandra and Lyle emerged through the archway, carrying a tray of lemonade and a bowl of dates. As they placed the food on the table, Mr. Muggles darted to Peter’s side and barked shrilly, hopping on his hind legs.
“Well, someone remembers you,” Noah chuckled as Peter scooped up the ball of fluff. Claire giggled when the dog licked Peter’s cheek, making him grimace. Mohinder caught Peter’s eye and couldn’t help but grin as Peter struggled to pull the tiny animal away from his wet, shiny face.
“So, someone fill me in on what you all are doing here,” Sandra said, and Claire recounted what Mohinder had told her. “Well, you’re of course welcome to stay here while you’re in town,” Sandra remarked. “Looks like Mr. Muggles has already made you feel right at home, Peter.”
“And I thought I was his favorite,” said Noah dryly.
Sandra wrapped her arms around Noah’s neck. “Well, Mr. Muggles just doesn’t have good taste in men, dear,” she said, kissing his cheek.
“I resent that,” Peter and Mohinder said at the same time.
Their faces both burned red in the awkward silence that followed. Claire suppressed a giggle; Sandra cleared her throat. “Well, I think the three of you should take Mr. Muggles out for a stroll in the bazaar, take a look around. That sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”
“I think I’ll stay here, honey,” Noah said, taking a sip of his lemonade and leaning back in his chair.
“I’ll go,” Claire blurted, and she leapt up from her chair. “Come on, you two.”
She led them down into the city streets, flanked on either side by Peter and Mohinder. Peter held Mr. Muggles in one arm and wrapped the other around Claire as they strolled into the noisy marketplace.
“You know what?” Claire said. “I actually have some errands to do. Why don’t you two … hang out for a bit, meet me at the house in couple of hours? You know your way back, right?”
She slid out from underneath Peter’s arm and gave the two of them a knowing grin before skipping off down a side street. Peter and Mohinder exchanged glances, and Mr. Muggles yipped.
“She’s something, isn’t she?” Peter said, shaking his head. “Ugh, this dog,” he groaned as the Pomeranian began licking his face again. Mohinder laughed.
“I’m surprised at you, Peter, talking that way about our baby,” Mohinder teased. “He’s got your looks, you know.”
“And your brains.”
“I noticed that. He’s a smart little thing, that dog.”
Peter grinned, but suddenly Mr. Muggles wriggled out of his grasp and jumped to the ground, darting along an alleyway. “Hey! Hey, come back!”
“He’ll be alright,” Mohinder said as Peter looked back anxiously. “He probably just went after Claire. Come on, he’ll be fine,” Mohinder added when Peter didn’t budge. “The little guy knows his way around. He’s got my brains, you said it yourself.” Peter loosened a bit, and Mohinder led him down between the whitewashed houses.
Mr. Muggles, however, did not go after Claire; the dog scurried into an alley and was scooped up by an Arab man with an eye patch, who scratched the fur ball behind the ears as he barked eagerly in Peter and Mohinder’s direction. Two white-suited Americans dropped into the shadows and approached the Arab, and in stilted English the Arab pointed out Peter and Mohinder’s whereabouts to the American men.
Peter and Mohinder browsed the street vendors a few blocks away, Mohinder balancing three bags of bread and produce in his hands. “So, I didn’t mention it before,” Peter said, “but I noticed how you squirmed a little when you saw the snakes in that sketch.”
Mohinder’s cheeks flushed. “I did not squirm.”
Peter grinned. They passed by a horse and cart as Peter took a handful of dates from one of Mohinder’s bags, popping them into his mouth. “Liar, I saw you. You didn’t think I noticed, but I did. Admit it.”
Mohinder mumbled something under his breath.
“What?”
“I said,” Mohinder grumbled, sulking, “they slither. That’s not natural, you know. Beyond a few rare varieties of amphibians and reptiles, no other species wriggle around on the ground like that. I don’t see how you can think that’s not disturbing.”
“Mohinder Suresh,” Peter laughed, “you have not changed one bit since the day I …” He trailed off, the laugh fading away.
They stopped in front of a rug vendor and browsed through it, Peter’s fingers glancing over the scarlet weaves. “You know, Mohinder,” he began in a quiet voice, “I’ve been thinking these last few days-”
He didn’t have a chance to finish the thought, for when he looked up Mohinder’s eyes were wide with alarm, staring as half a dozen turbaned men brandishing scimitars raced in their direction. “Duck!” Mohinder yelled as he dropped the bags of produce, and Peter crouched down just in time for an Arab to swipe at Mohinder.
Mohinder sucked in his stomach, barely avoiding the blade as it skimmed his shirttail. He elbowed the swordsman in the face, slamming him into the display of rugs, and spun out of the way before another sword sliced the air. Peter struggled to his feet as Mohinder dodged the swirling scimitar. As Mohinder sidestepped the blade, it lunged into the side of another turbaned man behind him.
Mohinder yanked Peter away from an Arab and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Get out of here, Peter!” he shouted before pushing Peter down and punching the man over Peter’s shoulder.
“I’m not leaving you,” Peter spat, rising. He dodged an Arab’s swing and tumbled back into the rug vendor, knocking the red-stitched carpets into the dirt. Watching Mohinder ram his knee into a man, Peter was suddenly struck by an idea. “Mohinder, kiss me.”
Mohinder froze in mid-punch. “What?”
“Kiss me.”
Mohinder finished the punch and tugged the bullwhip from his belt. He snapped the whip at the growing hoard of turbaned men, and they scattered, hovering just beyond the whip’s reach. “I don’t think now’s the best time to-”
“Dammit, Mohinder, just shut up and kiss me already!” Peter said, and in one swift movement he cupped Mohinder’s face in his hands and pressed his lips against Mohinder’s. The whip loosened from Mohinder’s grip; their lips opened, Mohinder’s hand reaching up into Peter’s thick hair, and for the first time in years Peter’s heart swelled and floated into his throat, his lungs billowing with Mohinder’s warm breath. His fingers trailed into Mohinder’s curls and slid underneath the fedora’s crown, tightening around black locks wet with Egyptian sun. Beneath the noise of the bazaar he sensed Mohinder’s thoughts bubbling up, scattered and muffled except for Peter’s name flickering above the static.
Peter pulled away, letting Mohinder’s scent linger in his nose. A swordsman lunged forward; Peter clenched his fist and swung, connecting with the Arab’s jaw and sending him spiraling into the air like a screw. With a deep breath he waved his hand toward the remaining swordsmen, and they slammed into the white walls and vendors behind them.
“Well then,” Peter panted, grinning at a dazed Mohinder, “that seemed to work pretty well.”
Mohinder waited for his heart to stop thumping in his ears before speaking. “Here come more,” he said after collecting himself, pointing toward the swordsmen elbowing through the crowd that had formed around the fight. Peter thrust his hand into the air again-nothing. He cursed under his breath.
“Oh, for crying out loud-”
“It wouldn’t have killed you, back in the day,” Mohinder said as he coiled up the whip, “to learn to defend yourself without powers. Otherwise, you’re not particularly useful in a fight-”
He accented the last word with a kick, catching an Arab in the gut. Peter fell back and sighed as his heart sagged back into his chest.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, “that makes me feel ten times better.” He leapt to the side as an Arab swiped at him, losing his balance and collapsing into the cart of hay hitched to the back of a horse. The horse whinnied, eyes rolling, and galloped down the cobblestone street. Peter toppled headfirst into the hay, scrambling to find footing as the horse dragged him through the maze of houses. Finally he managed to roll out onto the cobblestones, spitting up straw as the cart lurched to a stop.
He struggled to his feet, picking hay out of his hair, and looked around. The horse had taken him to the edge of the bazaar, but he could still see Mohinder’s back while the man with the fedora warded off a circle of swordsmen. Peter started toward the fight, but before he could take more than a few steps a turbaned man jumped into his path.
Peter snatched a frying pan from a vendor on his right. In reply, the Arab brandished a dagger, flashing yellow, rotted teeth.
“Right,” Peter said, and ran the other way down the street. When the Arab followed Peter into an empty doorway, Peter hurled the frying pan over his skull. Stepping over the unconscious body, he darted past a heap of large rattan baskets before skidding to a halt at the sight of two white-suited Americans and their lackeys closing in from the left and an eye-patched Arab advancing from the right. Peter panicked, searched frantically for somewhere to hide, and climbed inside one of the trash-can-sized baskets, sliding the top over his head.
The American men and the Arab carrying Mr. Muggles converged near the baskets and kept running, until Mr. Muggles wriggled out of the man’s grasp and hopped onto Peter’s basket, yapping like mad. Peter lifted the lid an inch or two, shushing the dog and tipping the lid in hopes that the Pomeranian would topple off. But at the sound of Mr. Muggles’ high-pitched yips, the rabble of men stopped and turned, staring straight into Peter’s wide eyes.
Mohinder sprinted down the street and hoisted himself onto the side of the horse’s cart. “Peter?” he cried, voice cracking, but the cart was empty except for the disheveled mounds of straw. He dropped to the ground and raced back into the thick of the bazaar, frenzied eyes searching over a sea of turbaned heads for a glimpse of Peter’s face.
Suddenly the crowds parted, revealing a man a few feet away draped all in black except for a red sash strung around his waist. The man lifted his scimitar and met Mohinder’s searching gaze with cold, deadly eyes.
The swordsman bandied his weapon between his hands, cackling, and the blade caught a glint of sunlight as he spun it deftly across the air. Mohinder groaned, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a dirty shirtsleeve. As the swordsman snaked the blade into figure-eights, Mohinder pulled the gun from his holster, aimed, and shot him in the chest, not bothering to watch as the black-robed man collapsed in a swirl of dust and cheers from the onlookers.
“Help me, Mohinder!” called a distant voice, and Mohinder’s head snapped toward it: a large rattan basket bounced above the crowd of heads, zigzagging out of the bazaar and disappearing into an alleyway. Mohinder pushed his way through the masses and barreled over the cobblestones, careening down the alleyway as Peter’s aggravated voice echoed through the maze of streets.
“Mohinder! MOHINDER! Get me the hell out of here, dammit! Mohinderrrrrrr!”
Mohinder tore through the side streets, bolting wildly around corners. Finally he screeched to a stop, finding himself staring once again at the bustling bazaar.
He whimpered. The marketplace swarmed with dozens of identical baskets, perched atop dozens of identical shoulders.
Mohinder ran forward and shoved a basket off a man’s back; a heap of clothes tumbled out, so he knocked over another one-another-another-another-and as he weaved through the square, toppling baskets upon baskets to no avail, amid the angry shouts and indignant cries a familiar voice broke through the din.
“MOHINDER SURESH!”
“Peter!” Mohinder shouted, and he dashed across the plaza, following the basket down another alley. Suddenly the alleyway opened up into a wider road, and he recoiled as a submachine gun spattered the dirt as his feet. He ducked behind a wall, gasping for air. As he reloaded his pistol, Peter’s basket was heaved into the back of a truck parked in the wide road. The white-suited Americans leaned out the cab of the truck, yelling for the Arabs to get inside. The engine growled; the turbaned man brandishing the submachine gun took the Americans’ position leaning out of the cab, and as the truck rumbled forward, Mohinder sprung out and shot the man with the gun straight in the chest.
The truck rattled by, but Mohinder shot again, this time nailing the driver in the head. The driver sagged onto the steering wheel, his lifeless foot pressed firmly on the gas; in a flash the truck veered off onto a hill of dirt, tipping sideways and, as Mohinder sprinted for cover, crashing into the side of a house. Almost instantly the canvassed truck bed erupted into a ball of swelling flames and sparks, the force of the explosion slamming Mohinder face-first into a wall.
Mohinder spun around. His cheeks burned in the fierce heat emanating from the smoldering truck. He stood frozen, then darted forward, half-intending to lunge into the fire; but his legs gave out after only a few paces. Numbly he stared, mouth hanging open, the dancing flames reflecting in his incredulous eyes. His revolver dropped out of deadened fingers. The blood throbbed thunderously in his ears until he could hear nothing else.
“Peter,” he whispered. The name fell off his tongue like sand.
Peter.
---
Claire paused in front of the restaurant, panting. A man sat hunched over a table outside, his shirt matted against his back and dark with perspiration and his fedora tipped low on his head. Mr. Muggles lay his head in his paws and was sprawled across the table; at the sight of Claire his ears perked up, and she scooped the dog into her arms. The man barely stirred.
Claire stared at his back. “Mohinder,” she said, quiet but anxious, “where’s Peter?”
The muscles flexed beneath his shirt as he drank from the shot glass on the table. Claire wanted to slide into the chair across from him, to see his face, but something in the stiffness of Mohinder’s body kept her where she was.
“I heard what sounded like an explosion,” she continued, gripping Mr. Muggles’ collar with white knuckles, “and you two hadn’t come back yet, so I was afraid that something bad had-”
“Peter’s dead, Claire,” Mohinder murmured. “He was in the back of a truck that went up in flames.”
Silence.
“He can’t be dead. He can heal.”
“No, he can’t.” He stood up slowly, heavily, and faced Claire; she searched his bleary face with eyes blurred by tears. “In Ireland, Peter told me that his powers hadn’t been working for months. He was depressed. Because of his brother, because of me.”
“I shouldn’t have left you two in the bazaar,” Claire sniffled, voice trembling.
“No, don’t,” Mohinder said grimly. “There’s no use in either of us blaming ourselves. I dealt with losing him once,” he added softly, more to himself than to Claire, “I can deal with it again.”
The sun hung low in the sky, its orange light skimming over the table and dusting the surrounding buildings in warm glows and gray shadows. Mohinder placed his hand on Claire’s back and led her down the narrow street, keeping his eyes sharp for any disturbances. Claire cried quietly at his side, her fingers entwined deep in Mr. Muggles’ fur, and their thin, drawn shadows extended out into the hushed darkness behind them.
---
The dates Lyle had just washed and dumped into a bowl lay in a shaft of blue moonlight on the countertop. Muffled chatter from the other room seeped into the quiet kitchen, but the Arab with an eye patch paid no mind to the noises. He crept from the balcony into the kitchen and hovered above the dates, tipping a red vial over the fruit. Once the dates glistened with the liquid, he tiptoed back outside, closing the door soundlessly behind him, and disappeared into the shadows.
Sandra strolled into the kitchen and picked up the bowl of dates along with a pitcher of iced tea. She carried them back into the living room, where her family, Mohinder, and the museum curator had gathered around the coffee table.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Claire was saying, leaning forward on the edge of the couch. “It’s taken us hours to translate these hieroglyphics, but Sylar glanced at the sketch once and could duplicate them perfectly for the Company?”
“He has photographic memory,” Mohinder said, walking to the coffee table. He plucked a wet date out of the bowl and rolled it in his hand. “One look was all he needed, and the Company’s translators must have taken it from there.”
“Then it’s a good thing he only saw one side of that sketch.”
“Well, we’ll see how useful the second side is,” Noah said, filling his glass with iced tea. “How’s it coming, Fahim?”
The curator, stuffed into the corner of the room, looked up from the sketch and the huge book in his lap. “I’ve just finished the last symbol,” he said in a thick accent, and beckoned to them. Mohinder put on his glasses and rushed with Noah to the curator’s side; Claire, Lyle, and Sandra stood up, hovering a few feet away.
While no one was looking, Mr. Muggles hopped onto the coffee table and snatched a date in his teeth. Wagging his tail, he scurried to the side of the couch and nibbled at it contentedly.
“First off,” the curator said, gesturing to the sketch of the lone sarcophagus, “these snakes etched into the wall probably represent Isis, since the serpent plays an important role in many of her myths. Asanet must have adopted the same symbol in her own cult following.”
Mohinder twitched at the mention of the reptile. Noah eyed him amusedly.
“As for the hieroglyphs,” continued the curator, “this part here gives a warning not to disturb the body of Asanet, for ‘her wrathful eye brings blood and terror to ungrateful souls’.”
“Well, that’s ominous,” Mohinder said. “What about the location of the tomb-did Sylar get it off of here?”
“Yes-the writing says, ‘She was brought to Tanis, buried among our kings, her head resting seventy cubits south of the foot of Psusennes.’ Tanis is about a hundred kilometers northeast of here; it was once a great city during ancient times, and many kings were entombed there. The ruins are extensive.”
“That’s where the Company’s excavation site is,” Noah said.
“Well, then the Company is definitely ten steps ahead of us,” Mohinder sighed.
The curator held up his hand. “Wait”-he flipped the sketch over, tracing a finger over the new hieroglyphs-“‘But to honor Isis, Queen of Heaven, Asanet’s final tomb lies another hundred cubits east of that great and powerful king, to bring her nearer to the rising sun, to heaven’s star.’”
Mohinder pulled off his glasses and stepped away, lost in thought. Setting his glasses on a side table, he rubbed the date between his fingers and turned back to Noah, whose face was lit with the same eagerness as Mohinder’s.
“They’re digging in the wrong place!” the two of them said together, and they grinned. Noah clapped Mohinder on the back and put an arm around each of his children’s shoulders. Mohinder tossed the date into the air, opening his mouth wide to catch it.
Sandra gasped as Mohinder stood waiting for the date to fall. Suddenly Noah’s hand shot forward and snatched the date in midair, mere moments before the fruit would have fallen onto Mohinder’s tongue. Confused, Mohinder looked to Noah and followed his gaze to the floor.
Sandra crouched over Mr. Muggles’ lifeless form, date pits strewn about the dog’s open mouth.
“Bad dates,” Noah muttered.
---
Later that night, as Noah’s calm voice hummed at Lyle’s side in the room across the hall, as Sandra’s restless footfalls echoed in reflections of moonlight in the kitchen, as Claire’s soft weeping fell quiet in her fitful drift to sleep, Mohinder lay across his bed in the full yet empty house, his hollow eyes boring into the ceiling and the photograph of Paris cradled close to his chest.
-chapter four-
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
Hmm… I feel the need to mention here that I should’ve warned from the get-go that there *will* be some casualties in this fic, just as there are in Raiders. I know some people aren’t comfortable investing in a story only to find out that their favorite character dies, so I apologize for not mentioning this sooner. That being said, not everyone who bites the bullet in Raiders does so in this story, so I hope that makes up for my regrettable insensitivity toward the subject. :) Added warning to the header. :)
III.
When Noah knocked on the Bennets’ door, Claire was the one to answer it.
She stared at Mohinder, Peter, and her father for a long moment before the grin stretched across her whole face, eyes beaming. “Dad!” she squealed, flying into his outstretched arms, her gold ponytail bouncing.
“Hey, Clairebear,” Noah chuckled into her shoulder.
“Goodness, Claire, you’ve gotten so old,” Peter said, lips tugged into a crooked grin. “What are you, thirty, now?”
Claire pulled away from her father and gave Peter a look, arms akimbo. “Ha ha, very funny. If you hadn’t stopped answering my letters,” she said, socking him playfully in the arm, “you’d know I turned twenty last month. Too good for me now, are you?”
“Just lazy,” Peter said, and swept her up into an embrace. “Forgive me?”
“We’ll see,” she teased. “Mohinder,” she added, turning to him now, “good to see you, too.”
“Likewise.” They exchanged warm smiles. “Is your mom home?”
“Yeah, she and Lyle are inside … Dad,” she added slowly, “why are you all here? Is something wrong?” The smile fell from her face, and concern flickered behind her eyes. “It’s because Nathan’s here in Cairo, isn’t it?”
Peter felt his stomach drop as all eyes turned to him. “We didn’t know that he was,” he said, voice hollow.
“If Nathan’s here,” Mohinder said, “then so is the Company. Claire, you’ve got to tell us everything you know.”
“Let’s get inside first,” Noah suggested, and Claire led them into the house.
They stepped into the breezy home, bleach-white walls cast in shadow by the early morning sun. “They’re out on the verandah,” Claire said, and she guided her guests through an open archway onto a balcony overlooking the city’s white and brown housetops. Sandra and Lyle stood up from their seats around the table as the group walked in, and Mr. Muggles yipped at Noah’s heels.
“Noah!” Sandra gasped. She kissed her husband, and Lyle crossed the balcony to hug his father. “What are you all doing here? Please, all of you, make yourselves at home, I’ll pour us some lemonade. Lyle, honey, help me in the kitchen.”
Lyle rolled his eyes at his sister and followed Sandra reluctantly into the house, Mr. Muggles scurrying behind them; Claire and the three men pulled up chairs around the table.
“Tell me what you know about my brother, Claire,” Peter said, leaning forward.
She took a breath. “Well, I went down into the bazaar yesterday to get groceries, and I just … saw him there. It was the strangest thing-I had to do a double-take to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. I thought at first that he was alone, but later in the day I heard talk of a dig getting underway an hour or so north of the city, headed by some Americans. You don’t see a lot of foreigners around here; I didn’t really know what to make of it at the time.” She hesitated. “You told me Nathan’s been working for the Company for a few years now, right?” she asked her father.
“Yes. He started doing fieldwork just a couple months ago.”
Claire glanced sideways at Peter before continuing, wondering if such a change in events was the reason behind the sudden lack of letters from her uncle. “Then I’m glad I didn’t talk to him. Well, if you guys didn’t know that Nathan was here, then why did you come to Cairo?”
Peter looked to Mohinder, who took out the photograph and sketch and set them on the table. Claire leaned over them, frowning. “We’re looking for the tomb of the woman in this picture,” Mohinder explained, pointing to the photograph. “She was supposedly able to strip people of their abilities, but was known for her violent outbursts as well. The Company wants to find her, and we have reason to believe that she’s buried here, in Egypt. It’s likely that Sylar is in the area as well.”
Claire stiffened at the name. She looked from the image of the dead Nathan to Peter, who was currently staring intently at his hands.
Sandra and Lyle emerged through the archway, carrying a tray of lemonade and a bowl of dates. As they placed the food on the table, Mr. Muggles darted to Peter’s side and barked shrilly, hopping on his hind legs.
“Well, someone remembers you,” Noah chuckled as Peter scooped up the ball of fluff. Claire giggled when the dog licked Peter’s cheek, making him grimace. Mohinder caught Peter’s eye and couldn’t help but grin as Peter struggled to pull the tiny animal away from his wet, shiny face.
“So, someone fill me in on what you all are doing here,” Sandra said, and Claire recounted what Mohinder had told her. “Well, you’re of course welcome to stay here while you’re in town,” Sandra remarked. “Looks like Mr. Muggles has already made you feel right at home, Peter.”
“And I thought I was his favorite,” said Noah dryly.
Sandra wrapped her arms around Noah’s neck. “Well, Mr. Muggles just doesn’t have good taste in men, dear,” she said, kissing his cheek.
“I resent that,” Peter and Mohinder said at the same time.
Their faces both burned red in the awkward silence that followed. Claire suppressed a giggle; Sandra cleared her throat. “Well, I think the three of you should take Mr. Muggles out for a stroll in the bazaar, take a look around. That sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”
“I think I’ll stay here, honey,” Noah said, taking a sip of his lemonade and leaning back in his chair.
“I’ll go,” Claire blurted, and she leapt up from her chair. “Come on, you two.”
She led them down into the city streets, flanked on either side by Peter and Mohinder. Peter held Mr. Muggles in one arm and wrapped the other around Claire as they strolled into the noisy marketplace.
“You know what?” Claire said. “I actually have some errands to do. Why don’t you two … hang out for a bit, meet me at the house in couple of hours? You know your way back, right?”
She slid out from underneath Peter’s arm and gave the two of them a knowing grin before skipping off down a side street. Peter and Mohinder exchanged glances, and Mr. Muggles yipped.
“She’s something, isn’t she?” Peter said, shaking his head. “Ugh, this dog,” he groaned as the Pomeranian began licking his face again. Mohinder laughed.
“I’m surprised at you, Peter, talking that way about our baby,” Mohinder teased. “He’s got your looks, you know.”
“And your brains.”
“I noticed that. He’s a smart little thing, that dog.”
Peter grinned, but suddenly Mr. Muggles wriggled out of his grasp and jumped to the ground, darting along an alleyway. “Hey! Hey, come back!”
“He’ll be alright,” Mohinder said as Peter looked back anxiously. “He probably just went after Claire. Come on, he’ll be fine,” Mohinder added when Peter didn’t budge. “The little guy knows his way around. He’s got my brains, you said it yourself.” Peter loosened a bit, and Mohinder led him down between the whitewashed houses.
Mr. Muggles, however, did not go after Claire; the dog scurried into an alley and was scooped up by an Arab man with an eye patch, who scratched the fur ball behind the ears as he barked eagerly in Peter and Mohinder’s direction. Two white-suited Americans dropped into the shadows and approached the Arab, and in stilted English the Arab pointed out Peter and Mohinder’s whereabouts to the American men.
Peter and Mohinder browsed the street vendors a few blocks away, Mohinder balancing three bags of bread and produce in his hands. “So, I didn’t mention it before,” Peter said, “but I noticed how you squirmed a little when you saw the snakes in that sketch.”
Mohinder’s cheeks flushed. “I did not squirm.”
Peter grinned. They passed by a horse and cart as Peter took a handful of dates from one of Mohinder’s bags, popping them into his mouth. “Liar, I saw you. You didn’t think I noticed, but I did. Admit it.”
Mohinder mumbled something under his breath.
“What?”
“I said,” Mohinder grumbled, sulking, “they slither. That’s not natural, you know. Beyond a few rare varieties of amphibians and reptiles, no other species wriggle around on the ground like that. I don’t see how you can think that’s not disturbing.”
“Mohinder Suresh,” Peter laughed, “you have not changed one bit since the day I …” He trailed off, the laugh fading away.
They stopped in front of a rug vendor and browsed through it, Peter’s fingers glancing over the scarlet weaves. “You know, Mohinder,” he began in a quiet voice, “I’ve been thinking these last few days-”
He didn’t have a chance to finish the thought, for when he looked up Mohinder’s eyes were wide with alarm, staring as half a dozen turbaned men brandishing scimitars raced in their direction. “Duck!” Mohinder yelled as he dropped the bags of produce, and Peter crouched down just in time for an Arab to swipe at Mohinder.
Mohinder sucked in his stomach, barely avoiding the blade as it skimmed his shirttail. He elbowed the swordsman in the face, slamming him into the display of rugs, and spun out of the way before another sword sliced the air. Peter struggled to his feet as Mohinder dodged the swirling scimitar. As Mohinder sidestepped the blade, it lunged into the side of another turbaned man behind him.
Mohinder yanked Peter away from an Arab and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Get out of here, Peter!” he shouted before pushing Peter down and punching the man over Peter’s shoulder.
“I’m not leaving you,” Peter spat, rising. He dodged an Arab’s swing and tumbled back into the rug vendor, knocking the red-stitched carpets into the dirt. Watching Mohinder ram his knee into a man, Peter was suddenly struck by an idea. “Mohinder, kiss me.”
Mohinder froze in mid-punch. “What?”
“Kiss me.”
Mohinder finished the punch and tugged the bullwhip from his belt. He snapped the whip at the growing hoard of turbaned men, and they scattered, hovering just beyond the whip’s reach. “I don’t think now’s the best time to-”
“Dammit, Mohinder, just shut up and kiss me already!” Peter said, and in one swift movement he cupped Mohinder’s face in his hands and pressed his lips against Mohinder’s. The whip loosened from Mohinder’s grip; their lips opened, Mohinder’s hand reaching up into Peter’s thick hair, and for the first time in years Peter’s heart swelled and floated into his throat, his lungs billowing with Mohinder’s warm breath. His fingers trailed into Mohinder’s curls and slid underneath the fedora’s crown, tightening around black locks wet with Egyptian sun. Beneath the noise of the bazaar he sensed Mohinder’s thoughts bubbling up, scattered and muffled except for Peter’s name flickering above the static.
Peter pulled away, letting Mohinder’s scent linger in his nose. A swordsman lunged forward; Peter clenched his fist and swung, connecting with the Arab’s jaw and sending him spiraling into the air like a screw. With a deep breath he waved his hand toward the remaining swordsmen, and they slammed into the white walls and vendors behind them.
“Well then,” Peter panted, grinning at a dazed Mohinder, “that seemed to work pretty well.”
Mohinder waited for his heart to stop thumping in his ears before speaking. “Here come more,” he said after collecting himself, pointing toward the swordsmen elbowing through the crowd that had formed around the fight. Peter thrust his hand into the air again-nothing. He cursed under his breath.
“Oh, for crying out loud-”
“It wouldn’t have killed you, back in the day,” Mohinder said as he coiled up the whip, “to learn to defend yourself without powers. Otherwise, you’re not particularly useful in a fight-”
He accented the last word with a kick, catching an Arab in the gut. Peter fell back and sighed as his heart sagged back into his chest.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, “that makes me feel ten times better.” He leapt to the side as an Arab swiped at him, losing his balance and collapsing into the cart of hay hitched to the back of a horse. The horse whinnied, eyes rolling, and galloped down the cobblestone street. Peter toppled headfirst into the hay, scrambling to find footing as the horse dragged him through the maze of houses. Finally he managed to roll out onto the cobblestones, spitting up straw as the cart lurched to a stop.
He struggled to his feet, picking hay out of his hair, and looked around. The horse had taken him to the edge of the bazaar, but he could still see Mohinder’s back while the man with the fedora warded off a circle of swordsmen. Peter started toward the fight, but before he could take more than a few steps a turbaned man jumped into his path.
Peter snatched a frying pan from a vendor on his right. In reply, the Arab brandished a dagger, flashing yellow, rotted teeth.
“Right,” Peter said, and ran the other way down the street. When the Arab followed Peter into an empty doorway, Peter hurled the frying pan over his skull. Stepping over the unconscious body, he darted past a heap of large rattan baskets before skidding to a halt at the sight of two white-suited Americans and their lackeys closing in from the left and an eye-patched Arab advancing from the right. Peter panicked, searched frantically for somewhere to hide, and climbed inside one of the trash-can-sized baskets, sliding the top over his head.
The American men and the Arab carrying Mr. Muggles converged near the baskets and kept running, until Mr. Muggles wriggled out of the man’s grasp and hopped onto Peter’s basket, yapping like mad. Peter lifted the lid an inch or two, shushing the dog and tipping the lid in hopes that the Pomeranian would topple off. But at the sound of Mr. Muggles’ high-pitched yips, the rabble of men stopped and turned, staring straight into Peter’s wide eyes.
Mohinder sprinted down the street and hoisted himself onto the side of the horse’s cart. “Peter?” he cried, voice cracking, but the cart was empty except for the disheveled mounds of straw. He dropped to the ground and raced back into the thick of the bazaar, frenzied eyes searching over a sea of turbaned heads for a glimpse of Peter’s face.
Suddenly the crowds parted, revealing a man a few feet away draped all in black except for a red sash strung around his waist. The man lifted his scimitar and met Mohinder’s searching gaze with cold, deadly eyes.
The swordsman bandied his weapon between his hands, cackling, and the blade caught a glint of sunlight as he spun it deftly across the air. Mohinder groaned, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a dirty shirtsleeve. As the swordsman snaked the blade into figure-eights, Mohinder pulled the gun from his holster, aimed, and shot him in the chest, not bothering to watch as the black-robed man collapsed in a swirl of dust and cheers from the onlookers.
“Help me, Mohinder!” called a distant voice, and Mohinder’s head snapped toward it: a large rattan basket bounced above the crowd of heads, zigzagging out of the bazaar and disappearing into an alleyway. Mohinder pushed his way through the masses and barreled over the cobblestones, careening down the alleyway as Peter’s aggravated voice echoed through the maze of streets.
“Mohinder! MOHINDER! Get me the hell out of here, dammit! Mohinderrrrrrr!”
Mohinder tore through the side streets, bolting wildly around corners. Finally he screeched to a stop, finding himself staring once again at the bustling bazaar.
He whimpered. The marketplace swarmed with dozens of identical baskets, perched atop dozens of identical shoulders.
Mohinder ran forward and shoved a basket off a man’s back; a heap of clothes tumbled out, so he knocked over another one-another-another-another-and as he weaved through the square, toppling baskets upon baskets to no avail, amid the angry shouts and indignant cries a familiar voice broke through the din.
“MOHINDER SURESH!”
“Peter!” Mohinder shouted, and he dashed across the plaza, following the basket down another alley. Suddenly the alleyway opened up into a wider road, and he recoiled as a submachine gun spattered the dirt as his feet. He ducked behind a wall, gasping for air. As he reloaded his pistol, Peter’s basket was heaved into the back of a truck parked in the wide road. The white-suited Americans leaned out the cab of the truck, yelling for the Arabs to get inside. The engine growled; the turbaned man brandishing the submachine gun took the Americans’ position leaning out of the cab, and as the truck rumbled forward, Mohinder sprung out and shot the man with the gun straight in the chest.
The truck rattled by, but Mohinder shot again, this time nailing the driver in the head. The driver sagged onto the steering wheel, his lifeless foot pressed firmly on the gas; in a flash the truck veered off onto a hill of dirt, tipping sideways and, as Mohinder sprinted for cover, crashing into the side of a house. Almost instantly the canvassed truck bed erupted into a ball of swelling flames and sparks, the force of the explosion slamming Mohinder face-first into a wall.
Mohinder spun around. His cheeks burned in the fierce heat emanating from the smoldering truck. He stood frozen, then darted forward, half-intending to lunge into the fire; but his legs gave out after only a few paces. Numbly he stared, mouth hanging open, the dancing flames reflecting in his incredulous eyes. His revolver dropped out of deadened fingers. The blood throbbed thunderously in his ears until he could hear nothing else.
“Peter,” he whispered. The name fell off his tongue like sand.
Peter.
---
Claire paused in front of the restaurant, panting. A man sat hunched over a table outside, his shirt matted against his back and dark with perspiration and his fedora tipped low on his head. Mr. Muggles lay his head in his paws and was sprawled across the table; at the sight of Claire his ears perked up, and she scooped the dog into her arms. The man barely stirred.
Claire stared at his back. “Mohinder,” she said, quiet but anxious, “where’s Peter?”
The muscles flexed beneath his shirt as he drank from the shot glass on the table. Claire wanted to slide into the chair across from him, to see his face, but something in the stiffness of Mohinder’s body kept her where she was.
“I heard what sounded like an explosion,” she continued, gripping Mr. Muggles’ collar with white knuckles, “and you two hadn’t come back yet, so I was afraid that something bad had-”
“Peter’s dead, Claire,” Mohinder murmured. “He was in the back of a truck that went up in flames.”
Silence.
“He can’t be dead. He can heal.”
“No, he can’t.” He stood up slowly, heavily, and faced Claire; she searched his bleary face with eyes blurred by tears. “In Ireland, Peter told me that his powers hadn’t been working for months. He was depressed. Because of his brother, because of me.”
“I shouldn’t have left you two in the bazaar,” Claire sniffled, voice trembling.
“No, don’t,” Mohinder said grimly. “There’s no use in either of us blaming ourselves. I dealt with losing him once,” he added softly, more to himself than to Claire, “I can deal with it again.”
The sun hung low in the sky, its orange light skimming over the table and dusting the surrounding buildings in warm glows and gray shadows. Mohinder placed his hand on Claire’s back and led her down the narrow street, keeping his eyes sharp for any disturbances. Claire cried quietly at his side, her fingers entwined deep in Mr. Muggles’ fur, and their thin, drawn shadows extended out into the hushed darkness behind them.
---
The dates Lyle had just washed and dumped into a bowl lay in a shaft of blue moonlight on the countertop. Muffled chatter from the other room seeped into the quiet kitchen, but the Arab with an eye patch paid no mind to the noises. He crept from the balcony into the kitchen and hovered above the dates, tipping a red vial over the fruit. Once the dates glistened with the liquid, he tiptoed back outside, closing the door soundlessly behind him, and disappeared into the shadows.
Sandra strolled into the kitchen and picked up the bowl of dates along with a pitcher of iced tea. She carried them back into the living room, where her family, Mohinder, and the museum curator had gathered around the coffee table.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Claire was saying, leaning forward on the edge of the couch. “It’s taken us hours to translate these hieroglyphics, but Sylar glanced at the sketch once and could duplicate them perfectly for the Company?”
“He has photographic memory,” Mohinder said, walking to the coffee table. He plucked a wet date out of the bowl and rolled it in his hand. “One look was all he needed, and the Company’s translators must have taken it from there.”
“Then it’s a good thing he only saw one side of that sketch.”
“Well, we’ll see how useful the second side is,” Noah said, filling his glass with iced tea. “How’s it coming, Fahim?”
The curator, stuffed into the corner of the room, looked up from the sketch and the huge book in his lap. “I’ve just finished the last symbol,” he said in a thick accent, and beckoned to them. Mohinder put on his glasses and rushed with Noah to the curator’s side; Claire, Lyle, and Sandra stood up, hovering a few feet away.
While no one was looking, Mr. Muggles hopped onto the coffee table and snatched a date in his teeth. Wagging his tail, he scurried to the side of the couch and nibbled at it contentedly.
“First off,” the curator said, gesturing to the sketch of the lone sarcophagus, “these snakes etched into the wall probably represent Isis, since the serpent plays an important role in many of her myths. Asanet must have adopted the same symbol in her own cult following.”
Mohinder twitched at the mention of the reptile. Noah eyed him amusedly.
“As for the hieroglyphs,” continued the curator, “this part here gives a warning not to disturb the body of Asanet, for ‘her wrathful eye brings blood and terror to ungrateful souls’.”
“Well, that’s ominous,” Mohinder said. “What about the location of the tomb-did Sylar get it off of here?”
“Yes-the writing says, ‘She was brought to Tanis, buried among our kings, her head resting seventy cubits south of the foot of Psusennes.’ Tanis is about a hundred kilometers northeast of here; it was once a great city during ancient times, and many kings were entombed there. The ruins are extensive.”
“That’s where the Company’s excavation site is,” Noah said.
“Well, then the Company is definitely ten steps ahead of us,” Mohinder sighed.
The curator held up his hand. “Wait”-he flipped the sketch over, tracing a finger over the new hieroglyphs-“‘But to honor Isis, Queen of Heaven, Asanet’s final tomb lies another hundred cubits east of that great and powerful king, to bring her nearer to the rising sun, to heaven’s star.’”
Mohinder pulled off his glasses and stepped away, lost in thought. Setting his glasses on a side table, he rubbed the date between his fingers and turned back to Noah, whose face was lit with the same eagerness as Mohinder’s.
“They’re digging in the wrong place!” the two of them said together, and they grinned. Noah clapped Mohinder on the back and put an arm around each of his children’s shoulders. Mohinder tossed the date into the air, opening his mouth wide to catch it.
Sandra gasped as Mohinder stood waiting for the date to fall. Suddenly Noah’s hand shot forward and snatched the date in midair, mere moments before the fruit would have fallen onto Mohinder’s tongue. Confused, Mohinder looked to Noah and followed his gaze to the floor.
Sandra crouched over Mr. Muggles’ lifeless form, date pits strewn about the dog’s open mouth.
“Bad dates,” Noah muttered.
---
Later that night, as Noah’s calm voice hummed at Lyle’s side in the room across the hall, as Sandra’s restless footfalls echoed in reflections of moonlight in the kitchen, as Claire’s soft weeping fell quiet in her fitful drift to sleep, Mohinder lay across his bed in the full yet empty house, his hollow eyes boring into the ceiling and the photograph of Paris cradled close to his chest.
-chapter four-