Heroes fic: Mohinder Suresh and the Quest for the Cure (5/8)
Title: Mohinder Suresh and the Quest for the Cure (5/8)
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
V.
“Mohinder,” Noah said urgently, circling the snakes and sweeping his torch at them, “the torches are running out.”
Mohinder kicked sand into the eyes of a snake slithering over one of the torches bordering the landing area. “I know, I know,” he said, and nodded toward the rope. “Go on, get out of here. I’ll be right behind you.”
Noah hesitated before handing his torch to Mohinder and climbing up the rope. Sweat stinging his eyes, Mohinder jabbed the torch at an asp nudging through into the landing. He glanced up and saw Noah’s feet disappear past the edge of the opening. Then, to his horror, he watched the rope tumble down and land with a fwap on his shoulder.
“Noah, what the hell are you-”
“Good morning, Dr. Suresh,” called a voice.
Mohinder found himself staring into the face of Nathan Petrelli, who crouched over the opening and waved his panama in greeting. Mohinder glimpsed Noah up above, kneeling on the ground and hands clasped behind his head.
“Why, Dr. Suresh,” Nathan drawled, “what in the world are you doing in such a nasty place?”
“Why don’t you come down here and I’ll show you,” Mohinder retorted.
“Thank you, Doctor, but I think we’re all quite comfortable up here. Aren’t we?” The Haitian and Sylar suddenly loomed in the opening, the latter smiling wickedly. “And it seems, once again,” Nathan continued, “that what was once briefly yours is now mine. I appreciate all the hard work you put into finding it for us.”
“The Hawaiian girl escaped, if you recall,” Mohinder barked, gritting his teeth. “The sarcophagus won’t stay yours for long.”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to make such claims, Doctor,” Nathan said.
“And I’m afraid we must be going now, Mohinder,” Sylar added. “Our prize is awaited in New York. But of course I would never think to leave you down there in that awful place, all alone.”
“Let go of me!” shouted another voice, and Mohinder blanched. Nathan stood suddenly as a man on the other side of the opening led a struggling Peter toward the pit.
“No!” Nathan yelled. “Sylar, what is this? Peter is not-Peter!”
But the man had already heaved Peter into the pit. Mohinder cried out, choking on his own breath-but Peter’s hands caught onto the head of the massive statue standing guard within the tomb, and he dangled there like a drop of water on a leaf.
“Mohinder!” Peter shrieked, fingers scraping wildly at stone.
“Peter!” responded Mohinder and Nathan at once. Nathan clung to the edge of the opening, watching in desperation as Mohinder held out his arms and hovered beneath Peter’s flailing legs. “I got you, Peter,” Mohinder said, “I got you-”
And suddenly Peter’s fingers touched nothing. He tumbled through the air, thudding into the statue’s legs and skidding off the side right into Mohinder’s outstretched arms. They collapsed together into the sand. Peter snapped his head up and found a cobra staring back at him.
“Holy shit-”
Peter scrambled backwards on his knees and tripped over Mohinder’s body just as the cobra lashed out. He yelped and toppled, smacking Mohinder’s face with his knee and sending both of them into a frantic flurry of limbs and curses.
Nathan hurried to his feet and grabbed Sylar roughly by the collar. “Peter was mine!” he snapped.
“He was no use to us, you said it yourself,” Sylar spat. “Now get your hands off me, or else I’ll remove them for you.”
Nathan released him, eyes seething. “Only our mission for your mother matters,” Sylar continued, voice low and dangerous. “I wonder sometimes, Nathan, if you have that clearly in mind.” He stormed off, clipping Nathan’s shoulder as he left. Nathan approached the opening again, face contorted in pain, looking down into the pit as men began sliding the stone block over it.
“Nathan!” Peter screamed, but his voice was cut short as the block dropped into place.
As the suffocating darkness enveloped the tomb, Mohinder and Peter scrambled to their feet, their torches casting a faint halo of light over the writhing floor. “Wave it at anything that slithers,” Mohinder said, nodding to Peter’s torch and shoving his own at a slippery body near their feet.
“Easy for you to say,” Peter replied after one last glance at the ceiling. “This whole place is slithering. How the hell are we going to get out of here?”
“I’m working on it, I’m working on it,” Mohinder muttered, looking around. He eyed Peter warily. “So you’re talking to Nathan now, are you?”
“If by talking you mean arguing, then yes. He didn’t believe me when I told him Asanet would kill him. He’s so obsessed with getting rid of his ability that he can’t see the consequences. And don’t even start on how Nathan’s a lost cause,” Peter added curtly. “He’ll come around, I know he will. I saw it in his eyes tonight.”
“Your endless hope in your brother never ceases to amaze me,” Mohinder grumbled. “I would’ve thought after he joined the Company that you would’ve learned to stop putting your faith in him.”
“He doesn’t want to be in the Company anymore,” Peter retorted. “And please, can we not have this conversation again? Just because you and Nathan never got along doesn’t mean that he-Mohinder!”
Peter stabbed his torch at Mohinder’s belt, and Mohinder jumped back as the sparks licked his skin. “Jesus!” Mohinder shouted.
“Sorry, I thought your whip was a-”
“Watch yourself, Peter!” said Mohinder, and he waved his torch at a snake about to strike Peter’s foot. Looking up, his eye caught a glimpse of movement on the wall across from the statue: a snake flopped out of a hole in the wall, followed by another. Mohinder glanced at the statue, then again at the wall, and hastily he darted behind Peter toward the statue.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“Through that wall,” Mohinder answered, flicking his bullwhip toward the ceiling. The leather snapped around the statue’s head; Mohinder tugged on his end, making sure it was secure, and with the torch between his teeth he started to climb.
“Don’t you leave me down here!” Peter said as Mohinder ascended. Mohinder ignored him, hoisting himself up along the statue’s back. His head peeked over the shoulder, and lounging atop the stone was a serpent, tail flickering. Mohinder shoved the torch flame into the snake, and with a frantic hiss it dropped. Below, Peter cursed loudly and flung the dead snake off his shoulders.
Before Peter could hurtle those curses at Mohinder, he caught the torch Mohinder tossed down. The flame was gone; Peter’s torch was flickering, too, and the torches circling the ground were already dead or dying. The darkness, like the snakes at Peter’s feet, continued to creep in on all sides.
“There are two more torches on a wall down that way,” Mohinder called. Peter looked up; Mohinder had wedged himself between the statue and the ceiling, his feet leaning against the statue’s head.
“Yeah, and there’s a couple hundred snakes between me and that wall,” Peter muttered. “Just hurry, Mohinder.”
Mohinder pushed his feet against the stone head, eyes squeezed shut as his muscles cried out. Far below, where the stone met sand, a tiny fracture formed.
“Mohinder,” Peter said again anxiously, watching the only remaining torchlight tremble weakly in his grasp.
Mohinder pushed again-again-and the statue began to tilt. “Here we go,” he huffed. “Get ready …”
With one final shudder, Peter’s torch succumbed to the darkness.
And then the statue groaned, scraped, lurched forward. Mohinder clutched stone and fell along with it, riding the statue until it crashed thunderously into the wall, rocks avalanching and dust billowing up in hazy clouds.
Coughing, Peter tripped through the darkness and climbed over the statue’s torso. “Mohinder?” he called, squinting through the dust. He groped for answers in the thick air and found a familiar hand.
“I’m here,” Mohinder said.
The wall had caved in where the statue collapsed, opening up a wide passageway draped in cobwebs and stale snake skins. Hand in hand, Peter and Mohinder ventured forward. As they walked, the path narrowed but brightened, until finally Mohinder’s hand tightened in Peter’s grasp-sunlight sliced through the space between two boulders in the wall up ahead.
“Look,” Mohinder breathed, but he didn’t need to say it, for both of them were already staring eagerly at the prick of light. They rushed forward and, deciding on a particularly loose-looking boulder, pressed their hands and shoulders and backs against the stone until it began to budge. After a few minutes of labored grunts, the stone finally surrendered and tumbled outward; Mohinder and Peter leaned over the side and inhaled the fresh air. Mohinder was the first to manage to climb out of the hole, pulling Peter through once he found his footing.
Propellers flippering in their ears, growling engine reverberating in the sand, the two of them heard the plane before they saw it. They stood atop a dune overlooking a makeshift airstrip. The plane, a military-green flying wing, was waiting restively in the center of the strip, its pilot rummaging within the domed cockpit. Large wooden blocks were wedged under the plane’s tires to keep it stationary. Surrounding the plane were two fuel tank trucks and a long tent; the Company’s excavations were hidden by a hill rising above one side of the airstrip. Mohinder and Peter skidded down from their escape hole and crouched behind a group of fuel barrels, peering out. A man climbed inside one of the fuel trucks and drove away toward the excavation site.
“They’re going to fly it out of here,” Mohinder said after surveying the operation. “When the sarcophagus gets loaded, we’re already going to be on that plane.” He turned to Peter. “Stay here.”
Mohinder moved to stand, but Peter pulled him back down. “No you don’t,” Peter said sharply. “Whatever you’re planning on doing, I’m coming with you. I know my powers aren’t working, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help.”
Mohinder’s hands found their way to Peter’s shoulders. “I’ll not have you come along just to get yourself killed.”
Peter bristled. “I’m not a child,” he muttered darkly. “I can handle myself. Don’t worry about me.”
“Easier said than done,” Mohinder said, quietly now. “Please, Peter, just stay here and let me handle this.” With that, he jumped up and darted out into the open, moving toward the plane. Peter cursed to himself and hesitated behind the barrels, watching.
Mohinder ducked under one of the wings and started crawling across the smooth surface of the plane toward the cockpit. The pilot’s back was turned, and the propellers drowned out any noise that Mohinder made. But with a shout from behind, Mohinder spun around; a mechanic had seen him from within the tent and was now brandishing his wrench menacingly.
Mohinder kicked the mechanic in the jaw before sliding down the plane, avoiding the whirring propeller blades as he and the mechanic began exchanging punches. The pilot was oblivious, headgear clamped over his ears. Seeing his opportunity, Peter crept out from behind the barrels and headed toward the plane.
As Peter approached the aircraft, another figure exited the tent. Seeing the tussle, she grinned, walking forward and peeling off her jacket. By the time she reached the plane, Mohinder had knocked out the mechanic and was on his way toward the cockpit again.
“Dr. Suresh,” she called, her voice carrying over the engine and propellers. Both Mohinder and the pilot turned at the sound of her voice, and Mohinder slid off the plane.
“Niki Sanders?” Mohinder asked incredulously.
“Niki’s dead,” Jessica said, cracking her knuckles. “And you should be, too. Let’s fix that.”
And she socked him square in the mouth.
Mohinder felt as though his face had imploded; he hurtled backwards through the air, slamming into the wing and collapsing to the ground. Chuckling, Jessica strolled forward and yanked him up by the collar as the pilot pulled out a pistol. Mohinder struggled in Jessica’s tight hold, but before she could clench her fist again, he sank his teeth into her arm.
Jessica cried out in rage and threw Mohinder into one of the plane’s tires. He didn’t have time to notice that one of the wooden blocks was gone as he ducked under the wing to the other side of the plane. He looked up, swerved as the pilot shot at him and missed, and ran right into Jessica’s punch, spinning from the force of it and barely keeping his balance. She swung again, and this time he landed in the dirt, his blood staining the sand dark pink.
Mohinder snatched a clump of dirt and threw it into Jessica’s face. She roared, clawing at her eyes, and stumbled back, giving the pilot a clear shot. But before he could fire, Peter appeared behind him and hurled the wooden wedge over his head, sending the pilot leadenly into the cockpit where his head smashed into the controls. The plane lurched, and Peter fell to his stomach; Mohinder sidestepped the plane wheel as it rolled passed him. With one tire still pivoted by a wooden block, slowly the plane began to circle the airstrip.
Peter crawled into the cockpit, attempting to haul the pilot’s body off the controls. His elbow knocked against the clear dome of the cockpit, and it snapped shut just as Peter pulled off the pilot to find the joysticks bent and broken. When yanking on the destroyed controls did nothing to stop the plane, Peter tried the latch on the dome instead. It didn’t budge.
He looked up frantically. Mohinder was swinging at Jessica, blood smeared across his chin, but she kneed him in the stomach before he could follow through. Peter slammed his fists against the plastic dome. “Come on,” he said to himself through gritted teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. DL Hawkins’ face flickered across his eyelids as he took a slow breath and pressed his palms against the dome. Nothing. “Come on,” he repeated. He tried to remember the kiss, the deep and fervent kiss that had given him power just days ago, thought back on the look on Mohinder’s face when they had reunited in the tent-but then Nathan’s stubborn, stony eyes shot through his mind. Peter let out an exasperated sigh and slouched back, searching for ideas that didn’t involve his abilities.
His eye caught sight of a canvassed truck rumbling in from the excavation site toward the airstrip, a dozen or so armed men riding in the back. Peter looked around inside the plane and noticed that a tunnel extended from where he crouched in the cockpit toward another dome, where a machine gun stood mounted on a tripod. Peter crawled through the tunnel and took hold of the gun, finding the truck in the crosshairs.
As the machine gun peppered the truck with bullets, Mohinder dodged a set of propellers and tumbled beneath a wing. His pistol slipped out of its holster and clattered to the ground, but before he could retrieve it Jessica rounded a corner and cut him off, her fists hovering in front of her.
Both of them reeled as an explosion drummed in their chests. Mohinder looked around; in its frenzied shower of bullets, Peter’s machine gun had pummeled the fuel barrels he and Mohinder were hiding behind a short while ago, sending a blooming fireball of gas and metal into the bleached sky.
Beyond the airstrip and across the dunes, Nathan and Sylar felt the concussion quake in the sand. They burst from their tents, passing the boxed-up sarcophagus, and watched wide-eyed as the fireball mushroomed above the distant sand. “Stay with the sarcophagus!” Nathan shouted to his men as he, Sylar, and the Haitian sprinted toward the pillar of fire.
Peter tripped backwards in the wake of the explosion, losing his grip on the machine gun. Before he had much time to think, the plane suddenly screeched and shuddered. Peter plastered his face against the dome to see what had happened. Liquid was spurting out of a puncture in the fuel tank truck parked a few yards away; the plane had scraped its wing against the valves in its slow spiral around the airstrip, and now gasoline splashed in steady streams toward both the plane and the fiery heap of debris.
“Oh my God,” Peter breathed as comprehension dawned on his face.
Down below, Mohinder’s expression was identical, looking from the fuel truck to the wreckage to the plane. “Peter,” he choked.
He was clambering up onto the plane before he even realized it, but Jessica was already at his heels. She snatched Mohinder’s ankle and ripped him off the plane, sending him face-first into the dirt. Mohinder kicked her from the ground and leapt to his feet, punching and pummeling with newfound strength. Jessica stumbled backward, her face a mess of blood and dirt, and with a furious grunt she slammed her fist into Mohinder’s chest. He collapsed, panting, lying flat on his back.
Jessica loomed over him. “Get up,” she growled, wiping blood off her mouth. “I’m not finished with you yet.”
Mohinder rolled to his side, spitting up blood, before glancing at Jessica. Behind her, the propellers closed in, their deadly blades spinning in a blur of steel. Jessica frowned as Mohinder’s mouth fell open in horror; and when she turned around, Mohinder hid his face in his hands.
She screamed. Peter squeezed his eyes shut as her blood sprayed across the clear dome like rain on a windshield. Mohinder tumbled out of the way of the blades, grabbed his revolver from the dirt, and scrambled onto the plane.
Fuel splashed dangerously close to the smoldering barrels as Mohinder and Peter shouted at one another through the plastic dome.
“It’s stuck!” Peter yelled, banging on the plastic.
“Turn it, right there, try that,” Mohinder yelled back, pointing at the latch. But after Peter fumbled with it uselessly for a few seconds, Mohinder cried, “Forget it, just stay back!” and shot two bullets at the latch. It popped open; Mohinder grabbed Peter by the wrist, yanking him out of the cockpit. They skidded down the side of the plane and bolted wildly for the dunes just as the barrels, fuel truck, and airplane erupted in three successive balls of fire that pounded like earthquakes in their chests.
-chapter six-
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
V.
“Mohinder,” Noah said urgently, circling the snakes and sweeping his torch at them, “the torches are running out.”
Mohinder kicked sand into the eyes of a snake slithering over one of the torches bordering the landing area. “I know, I know,” he said, and nodded toward the rope. “Go on, get out of here. I’ll be right behind you.”
Noah hesitated before handing his torch to Mohinder and climbing up the rope. Sweat stinging his eyes, Mohinder jabbed the torch at an asp nudging through into the landing. He glanced up and saw Noah’s feet disappear past the edge of the opening. Then, to his horror, he watched the rope tumble down and land with a fwap on his shoulder.
“Noah, what the hell are you-”
“Good morning, Dr. Suresh,” called a voice.
Mohinder found himself staring into the face of Nathan Petrelli, who crouched over the opening and waved his panama in greeting. Mohinder glimpsed Noah up above, kneeling on the ground and hands clasped behind his head.
“Why, Dr. Suresh,” Nathan drawled, “what in the world are you doing in such a nasty place?”
“Why don’t you come down here and I’ll show you,” Mohinder retorted.
“Thank you, Doctor, but I think we’re all quite comfortable up here. Aren’t we?” The Haitian and Sylar suddenly loomed in the opening, the latter smiling wickedly. “And it seems, once again,” Nathan continued, “that what was once briefly yours is now mine. I appreciate all the hard work you put into finding it for us.”
“The Hawaiian girl escaped, if you recall,” Mohinder barked, gritting his teeth. “The sarcophagus won’t stay yours for long.”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to make such claims, Doctor,” Nathan said.
“And I’m afraid we must be going now, Mohinder,” Sylar added. “Our prize is awaited in New York. But of course I would never think to leave you down there in that awful place, all alone.”
“Let go of me!” shouted another voice, and Mohinder blanched. Nathan stood suddenly as a man on the other side of the opening led a struggling Peter toward the pit.
“No!” Nathan yelled. “Sylar, what is this? Peter is not-Peter!”
But the man had already heaved Peter into the pit. Mohinder cried out, choking on his own breath-but Peter’s hands caught onto the head of the massive statue standing guard within the tomb, and he dangled there like a drop of water on a leaf.
“Mohinder!” Peter shrieked, fingers scraping wildly at stone.
“Peter!” responded Mohinder and Nathan at once. Nathan clung to the edge of the opening, watching in desperation as Mohinder held out his arms and hovered beneath Peter’s flailing legs. “I got you, Peter,” Mohinder said, “I got you-”
And suddenly Peter’s fingers touched nothing. He tumbled through the air, thudding into the statue’s legs and skidding off the side right into Mohinder’s outstretched arms. They collapsed together into the sand. Peter snapped his head up and found a cobra staring back at him.
“Holy shit-”
Peter scrambled backwards on his knees and tripped over Mohinder’s body just as the cobra lashed out. He yelped and toppled, smacking Mohinder’s face with his knee and sending both of them into a frantic flurry of limbs and curses.
Nathan hurried to his feet and grabbed Sylar roughly by the collar. “Peter was mine!” he snapped.
“He was no use to us, you said it yourself,” Sylar spat. “Now get your hands off me, or else I’ll remove them for you.”
Nathan released him, eyes seething. “Only our mission for your mother matters,” Sylar continued, voice low and dangerous. “I wonder sometimes, Nathan, if you have that clearly in mind.” He stormed off, clipping Nathan’s shoulder as he left. Nathan approached the opening again, face contorted in pain, looking down into the pit as men began sliding the stone block over it.
“Nathan!” Peter screamed, but his voice was cut short as the block dropped into place.
As the suffocating darkness enveloped the tomb, Mohinder and Peter scrambled to their feet, their torches casting a faint halo of light over the writhing floor. “Wave it at anything that slithers,” Mohinder said, nodding to Peter’s torch and shoving his own at a slippery body near their feet.
“Easy for you to say,” Peter replied after one last glance at the ceiling. “This whole place is slithering. How the hell are we going to get out of here?”
“I’m working on it, I’m working on it,” Mohinder muttered, looking around. He eyed Peter warily. “So you’re talking to Nathan now, are you?”
“If by talking you mean arguing, then yes. He didn’t believe me when I told him Asanet would kill him. He’s so obsessed with getting rid of his ability that he can’t see the consequences. And don’t even start on how Nathan’s a lost cause,” Peter added curtly. “He’ll come around, I know he will. I saw it in his eyes tonight.”
“Your endless hope in your brother never ceases to amaze me,” Mohinder grumbled. “I would’ve thought after he joined the Company that you would’ve learned to stop putting your faith in him.”
“He doesn’t want to be in the Company anymore,” Peter retorted. “And please, can we not have this conversation again? Just because you and Nathan never got along doesn’t mean that he-Mohinder!”
Peter stabbed his torch at Mohinder’s belt, and Mohinder jumped back as the sparks licked his skin. “Jesus!” Mohinder shouted.
“Sorry, I thought your whip was a-”
“Watch yourself, Peter!” said Mohinder, and he waved his torch at a snake about to strike Peter’s foot. Looking up, his eye caught a glimpse of movement on the wall across from the statue: a snake flopped out of a hole in the wall, followed by another. Mohinder glanced at the statue, then again at the wall, and hastily he darted behind Peter toward the statue.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“Through that wall,” Mohinder answered, flicking his bullwhip toward the ceiling. The leather snapped around the statue’s head; Mohinder tugged on his end, making sure it was secure, and with the torch between his teeth he started to climb.
“Don’t you leave me down here!” Peter said as Mohinder ascended. Mohinder ignored him, hoisting himself up along the statue’s back. His head peeked over the shoulder, and lounging atop the stone was a serpent, tail flickering. Mohinder shoved the torch flame into the snake, and with a frantic hiss it dropped. Below, Peter cursed loudly and flung the dead snake off his shoulders.
Before Peter could hurtle those curses at Mohinder, he caught the torch Mohinder tossed down. The flame was gone; Peter’s torch was flickering, too, and the torches circling the ground were already dead or dying. The darkness, like the snakes at Peter’s feet, continued to creep in on all sides.
“There are two more torches on a wall down that way,” Mohinder called. Peter looked up; Mohinder had wedged himself between the statue and the ceiling, his feet leaning against the statue’s head.
“Yeah, and there’s a couple hundred snakes between me and that wall,” Peter muttered. “Just hurry, Mohinder.”
Mohinder pushed his feet against the stone head, eyes squeezed shut as his muscles cried out. Far below, where the stone met sand, a tiny fracture formed.
“Mohinder,” Peter said again anxiously, watching the only remaining torchlight tremble weakly in his grasp.
Mohinder pushed again-again-and the statue began to tilt. “Here we go,” he huffed. “Get ready …”
With one final shudder, Peter’s torch succumbed to the darkness.
And then the statue groaned, scraped, lurched forward. Mohinder clutched stone and fell along with it, riding the statue until it crashed thunderously into the wall, rocks avalanching and dust billowing up in hazy clouds.
Coughing, Peter tripped through the darkness and climbed over the statue’s torso. “Mohinder?” he called, squinting through the dust. He groped for answers in the thick air and found a familiar hand.
“I’m here,” Mohinder said.
The wall had caved in where the statue collapsed, opening up a wide passageway draped in cobwebs and stale snake skins. Hand in hand, Peter and Mohinder ventured forward. As they walked, the path narrowed but brightened, until finally Mohinder’s hand tightened in Peter’s grasp-sunlight sliced through the space between two boulders in the wall up ahead.
“Look,” Mohinder breathed, but he didn’t need to say it, for both of them were already staring eagerly at the prick of light. They rushed forward and, deciding on a particularly loose-looking boulder, pressed their hands and shoulders and backs against the stone until it began to budge. After a few minutes of labored grunts, the stone finally surrendered and tumbled outward; Mohinder and Peter leaned over the side and inhaled the fresh air. Mohinder was the first to manage to climb out of the hole, pulling Peter through once he found his footing.
Propellers flippering in their ears, growling engine reverberating in the sand, the two of them heard the plane before they saw it. They stood atop a dune overlooking a makeshift airstrip. The plane, a military-green flying wing, was waiting restively in the center of the strip, its pilot rummaging within the domed cockpit. Large wooden blocks were wedged under the plane’s tires to keep it stationary. Surrounding the plane were two fuel tank trucks and a long tent; the Company’s excavations were hidden by a hill rising above one side of the airstrip. Mohinder and Peter skidded down from their escape hole and crouched behind a group of fuel barrels, peering out. A man climbed inside one of the fuel trucks and drove away toward the excavation site.
“They’re going to fly it out of here,” Mohinder said after surveying the operation. “When the sarcophagus gets loaded, we’re already going to be on that plane.” He turned to Peter. “Stay here.”
Mohinder moved to stand, but Peter pulled him back down. “No you don’t,” Peter said sharply. “Whatever you’re planning on doing, I’m coming with you. I know my powers aren’t working, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help.”
Mohinder’s hands found their way to Peter’s shoulders. “I’ll not have you come along just to get yourself killed.”
Peter bristled. “I’m not a child,” he muttered darkly. “I can handle myself. Don’t worry about me.”
“Easier said than done,” Mohinder said, quietly now. “Please, Peter, just stay here and let me handle this.” With that, he jumped up and darted out into the open, moving toward the plane. Peter cursed to himself and hesitated behind the barrels, watching.
Mohinder ducked under one of the wings and started crawling across the smooth surface of the plane toward the cockpit. The pilot’s back was turned, and the propellers drowned out any noise that Mohinder made. But with a shout from behind, Mohinder spun around; a mechanic had seen him from within the tent and was now brandishing his wrench menacingly.
Mohinder kicked the mechanic in the jaw before sliding down the plane, avoiding the whirring propeller blades as he and the mechanic began exchanging punches. The pilot was oblivious, headgear clamped over his ears. Seeing his opportunity, Peter crept out from behind the barrels and headed toward the plane.
As Peter approached the aircraft, another figure exited the tent. Seeing the tussle, she grinned, walking forward and peeling off her jacket. By the time she reached the plane, Mohinder had knocked out the mechanic and was on his way toward the cockpit again.
“Dr. Suresh,” she called, her voice carrying over the engine and propellers. Both Mohinder and the pilot turned at the sound of her voice, and Mohinder slid off the plane.
“Niki Sanders?” Mohinder asked incredulously.
“Niki’s dead,” Jessica said, cracking her knuckles. “And you should be, too. Let’s fix that.”
And she socked him square in the mouth.
Mohinder felt as though his face had imploded; he hurtled backwards through the air, slamming into the wing and collapsing to the ground. Chuckling, Jessica strolled forward and yanked him up by the collar as the pilot pulled out a pistol. Mohinder struggled in Jessica’s tight hold, but before she could clench her fist again, he sank his teeth into her arm.
Jessica cried out in rage and threw Mohinder into one of the plane’s tires. He didn’t have time to notice that one of the wooden blocks was gone as he ducked under the wing to the other side of the plane. He looked up, swerved as the pilot shot at him and missed, and ran right into Jessica’s punch, spinning from the force of it and barely keeping his balance. She swung again, and this time he landed in the dirt, his blood staining the sand dark pink.
Mohinder snatched a clump of dirt and threw it into Jessica’s face. She roared, clawing at her eyes, and stumbled back, giving the pilot a clear shot. But before he could fire, Peter appeared behind him and hurled the wooden wedge over his head, sending the pilot leadenly into the cockpit where his head smashed into the controls. The plane lurched, and Peter fell to his stomach; Mohinder sidestepped the plane wheel as it rolled passed him. With one tire still pivoted by a wooden block, slowly the plane began to circle the airstrip.
Peter crawled into the cockpit, attempting to haul the pilot’s body off the controls. His elbow knocked against the clear dome of the cockpit, and it snapped shut just as Peter pulled off the pilot to find the joysticks bent and broken. When yanking on the destroyed controls did nothing to stop the plane, Peter tried the latch on the dome instead. It didn’t budge.
He looked up frantically. Mohinder was swinging at Jessica, blood smeared across his chin, but she kneed him in the stomach before he could follow through. Peter slammed his fists against the plastic dome. “Come on,” he said to himself through gritted teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. DL Hawkins’ face flickered across his eyelids as he took a slow breath and pressed his palms against the dome. Nothing. “Come on,” he repeated. He tried to remember the kiss, the deep and fervent kiss that had given him power just days ago, thought back on the look on Mohinder’s face when they had reunited in the tent-but then Nathan’s stubborn, stony eyes shot through his mind. Peter let out an exasperated sigh and slouched back, searching for ideas that didn’t involve his abilities.
His eye caught sight of a canvassed truck rumbling in from the excavation site toward the airstrip, a dozen or so armed men riding in the back. Peter looked around inside the plane and noticed that a tunnel extended from where he crouched in the cockpit toward another dome, where a machine gun stood mounted on a tripod. Peter crawled through the tunnel and took hold of the gun, finding the truck in the crosshairs.
As the machine gun peppered the truck with bullets, Mohinder dodged a set of propellers and tumbled beneath a wing. His pistol slipped out of its holster and clattered to the ground, but before he could retrieve it Jessica rounded a corner and cut him off, her fists hovering in front of her.
Both of them reeled as an explosion drummed in their chests. Mohinder looked around; in its frenzied shower of bullets, Peter’s machine gun had pummeled the fuel barrels he and Mohinder were hiding behind a short while ago, sending a blooming fireball of gas and metal into the bleached sky.
Beyond the airstrip and across the dunes, Nathan and Sylar felt the concussion quake in the sand. They burst from their tents, passing the boxed-up sarcophagus, and watched wide-eyed as the fireball mushroomed above the distant sand. “Stay with the sarcophagus!” Nathan shouted to his men as he, Sylar, and the Haitian sprinted toward the pillar of fire.
Peter tripped backwards in the wake of the explosion, losing his grip on the machine gun. Before he had much time to think, the plane suddenly screeched and shuddered. Peter plastered his face against the dome to see what had happened. Liquid was spurting out of a puncture in the fuel tank truck parked a few yards away; the plane had scraped its wing against the valves in its slow spiral around the airstrip, and now gasoline splashed in steady streams toward both the plane and the fiery heap of debris.
“Oh my God,” Peter breathed as comprehension dawned on his face.
Down below, Mohinder’s expression was identical, looking from the fuel truck to the wreckage to the plane. “Peter,” he choked.
He was clambering up onto the plane before he even realized it, but Jessica was already at his heels. She snatched Mohinder’s ankle and ripped him off the plane, sending him face-first into the dirt. Mohinder kicked her from the ground and leapt to his feet, punching and pummeling with newfound strength. Jessica stumbled backward, her face a mess of blood and dirt, and with a furious grunt she slammed her fist into Mohinder’s chest. He collapsed, panting, lying flat on his back.
Jessica loomed over him. “Get up,” she growled, wiping blood off her mouth. “I’m not finished with you yet.”
Mohinder rolled to his side, spitting up blood, before glancing at Jessica. Behind her, the propellers closed in, their deadly blades spinning in a blur of steel. Jessica frowned as Mohinder’s mouth fell open in horror; and when she turned around, Mohinder hid his face in his hands.
She screamed. Peter squeezed his eyes shut as her blood sprayed across the clear dome like rain on a windshield. Mohinder tumbled out of the way of the blades, grabbed his revolver from the dirt, and scrambled onto the plane.
Fuel splashed dangerously close to the smoldering barrels as Mohinder and Peter shouted at one another through the plastic dome.
“It’s stuck!” Peter yelled, banging on the plastic.
“Turn it, right there, try that,” Mohinder yelled back, pointing at the latch. But after Peter fumbled with it uselessly for a few seconds, Mohinder cried, “Forget it, just stay back!” and shot two bullets at the latch. It popped open; Mohinder grabbed Peter by the wrist, yanking him out of the cockpit. They skidded down the side of the plane and bolted wildly for the dunes just as the barrels, fuel truck, and airplane erupted in three successive balls of fire that pounded like earthquakes in their chests.
-chapter six-