Heroes fic: Mohinder Suresh and the Quest for the Cure (7/8)
Title: Mohinder Suresh and the Quest for the Cure (7/8)
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
VII.
Mohinder was hunched over on the cot in his room when Peter entered. A robe tied around his waist, the younger man carried a bowl of water and a towel with him, setting them on a table before slipping off his garment. He had dressed in clean trousers and was stripped of his dirt-caked blouse, his pale skin painted cream in the moonlight poking through thin blinds.
Mohinder watched him pick up the bowl and towel again and perch on the edge of the bed. “How are you doing?” Peter asked, eyeing a smear of blood on Mohinder’s forehead.
“Fine,” Mohinder said. Peter seemed unconvinced. “Where’ve you been?”
“Just talking to Claude,” Peter said as he soaked the towel with water. He chuckled, shaking his head. “I never would have expected to see him in a place like this. But it seems he and Noah reconnected over the years, and now Claude helps him out from time to time. Noah’s with him right now. Here,” he added as a grimacing Mohinder slowly peeled off his own shirt, “let me help you.”
“No, no, I’m okay.” But Peter’s hands were already skimming over Mohinder’s back, pulling the button-down away from Mohinder’s arms. “Ow,” Mohinder gasped as the shirt came off. “Peter, I’m fine. I don’t need any help.”
“You haven’t let me help you this whole time,” Peter countered as he tossed away the shirt. “Let me do this.” He examined the bandage wrapped around Mohinder’s arm before taking up the towel and dabbing it over a cut in Mohinder’s chest. Peter’s fingers grazed the fuzz of curls that surrounded it.
“That hurts,” Mohinder hissed through his teeth, shrinking away from the towel.
A smile hooked Peter’s lips, and his fingers trailed down dark skin. “I don’t remember all of these,” he said, passing over old scrapes and scars scattered across Mohinder’s torso. “You’re not quite the man I knew two years ago.”
“It’s not the years, Peter,” Mohinder sighed, “it’s the mileage.” He slowly twisted around, trying to lean back into the sheets. Peter took Mohinder’s legs and brought them up onto the bed, but Mohinder resisted. “Ow,” he said again, more irritably this time. “Please, Peter, I don’t need a nurse. I just want to sleep.”
“You’re such a baby.” Peter kneeled over Mohinder’s recumbent form and moved to another cut, this one straggling across Mohinder’s shoulder.
“Peter, please, just go away-”
“Does this hurt?”
“Yes.” He swatted away Peter’s hand. “It hurts. Okay?”
Peter sat up in a huff, arms akimbo. “Well God dammit, Mohinder, where doesn’t it hurt?”
“Here,” Mohinder grunted, jabbing a finger at his elbow. Peter hesitated, then leaned over and kissed the spot, looking up with impish eyes.
Mohinder swallowed. “Here,” he said again, pointing to a patch just beneath his fedora. Peter tipped off the hat, letting it flop to the floor, and pressed his lips against Mohinder’s forehead, catching a curl on his tongue.
“Right here’s not too bad,” Mohinder mumbled when Peter drew back. He rubbed a sheepish finger over his eyelid. Peter’s breath played across it as he leaned forward, cupping a hand over the nape of Mohinder’s neck. As they parted, Mohinder gazed into wildfire eyes, his mind hazy and warm.
When Mohinder’s finger touched his own lips, Peter’s mouth stumbled into a crooked smile. He dipped forward, and their breaths passed in whispers across lips and tongues, heartbeats trembling together. Peter nudged one hand into Mohinder’s damp hair and placed the other over a stubbled cheek. For a moment Mohinder pressed his fingers into shoulder blades that shuddered like waves at his touch; but with a happy sigh his hands fell away, and Peter felt Mohinder’s sun-cracked lips soften and settle. Peter opened his eyes and pulled back, puzzled; then Mohinder’s head lolled to the side, a soft snore fluttering from his nose.
“Mohinder?”
Peter looked at Mohinder’s dozing face and sighed. “You never seem to get a break, do you,” he said quietly, stroking Mohinder’s cheek.
---
Mohinder shifted over the sheets and felt something heavy across his chest. He looked down. Peter’s head was curled over his heart, rising and falling with Mohinder’s steady breathing. The rest of the young man was wedged between the cot and the wall, one arm sprawled over Mohinder’s stomach. Mohinder smiled, resting his hand atop Peter’s head and brushing back the thick hair. Through the window blinds he glimpsed an orange sliver of light peering above the waters, the sky otherwise gray and dusky.
Mohinder felt a change in the rhythm of Peter’s breathing. When a finger traced around his belly button, Mohinder gasped softly and sucked in his stomach.
“Don’t tell me your belly button hurts, too,” Peter murmured. He turned his head until he was looking up at Mohinder with grinning eyes.
“Nah, just tickles.” Mohinder yawned, clicking his tongue. “I seem to recall choosing a bad time to fall asleep last night.”
“Mmhmm.”
Mohinder twirled his finger in one of Peter’s locks of hair. “How can I ever make it up to you?”
The sheets rustled as Peter slid off to the side, propping his head on his hand. “Well,” he said, glancing out the window, “looks like we still have some time before we have to get out of bed. And you’ve already rudely woken me up and everything, so …”
“So?”
“So make it up to me, Mohinder.”
“Well, if you put it that way,” Mohinder whispered, and he pulled Peter into his arms.
---
Peter woke up a few hours later to the click of a pistol.
He opened his eyes. Mohinder stood on the other side of the room, fully dressed, holding his revolver.
“What’s wrong?” Peter asked, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
Mohinder stuffed the gun into his holster. “The engines have stopped. I’m going to go check it out.” Peter watched as the door closed behind him; then he ripped off the sheets and rushed to put on his clothes.
Mohinder burst onto the bridge to find Claude and Noah arguing. “What happened?” Mohinder insisted.
“I was just on my way to find you,” Noah said, pulling Mohinder toward the glass windows surveying the sea. “Look.”
Mohinder did. A massive submarine floated above the surface, several rowboats trailing out from it toward the steamer. “Shit,” Mohinder muttered.
“You and Peter need to disappear, now,” Claude said quickly. “I’d tell you that Peter should turn you invisible, but since the arse has gone and made himself impotent-”
“Not to mention the Haitian will probably be onboard soon,” Noah said. “Abilities will be useless. Where’s Peter?”
“Still in the room. I’ll go back to get him. Noah,” Mohinder added, “if anything happens, you and Claude need to get back to the States and make contact with the FBI. I’m following that sarcophagus, wherever it ends up.”
Noah hesitated, then nodded. “Try not to get yourself killed.”
“Always do,” Mohinder said, and he left the bridge toward the cabins.
Mohinder bolted through the corridors of the ship, flying past scurrying crewmembers and skirting around armed Company men as he descended below deck. His feet paused at the bottom of the steps as voices echoed in the hallway to his room. Suddenly he saw Peter being shoved into the wall directly across from their cabin; Mohinder ducked out of sight as two thugs took hold of a struggling Peter and began to lead him to the stairs. Mohinder turned down another hallway and disappeared into the ship’s maze.
On the deck of the ship, Claude watched as the Company rounded up his crew. He stood across from Nathan, Sylar, and the Haitian, looking at Nathan with something like amusement on his face.
“And what are you staring at?” Nathan snapped.
Claude smirked. “Your brother never believed me, back in the day, when I said you weren’t worth his effort. And now, here you are, hunting him down like a dog.” He chuckled. “Guess Peter should’ve listened to me after all, eh?”
Nathan’s mouth vanished into a thin line, but he said nothing.
Parting through the swarm of crewmembers, several men advanced toward Sylar carrying the crated sarcophagus. “Take it to the submarine,” he told them, and they disappeared again into the crowds. Peter and his captors emerged in their wake, Peter’s face lined with anger. He exchanged glares with Sylar, then yanked his arm out of a captor’s hold and swung. But Claude caught the arm first, twisting it around and pulling Peter backwards. Sylar laughed, turning to address his men. “And what about Suresh? Bennet?”
“No trace of them yet, sir,” said a Company man across the deck.
“They’re dead,” Claude announced. “I killed them both. Bennet betrayed me once, and he was about to do it again. But this one,” he continued, nodding to Peter, who Claude held back in a loose chokehold, “this one I have special plans for. He nearly handed me in four years ago, and I bloody well never forgot it. Take your damn sarcophagus; I’ve got no need for a dead girl. But leave the boy with me.”
Sylar considered Claude with calculating eyes. “Peter Petrelli is too powerful a man to leave stranded on a ship. He’ll come with us.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, mate,” Claude said. “The lad’s got a bleeding heart, you see, broken to pieces after I killed his pretty little boyfriend. He’s powerless, no use to you. No harm in letting me have my way with him.”
“You are not in a position to ask for anything,” Nathan said coldly. “Peter goes with me.” He strode forward, ripped Peter out of Claude’s hold, and led his brother back to Sylar and the Haitian’s side. Peter wriggled out of Nathan’s grasp but stayed put, exchanging a look with Claude.
“Back to the submarine,” Sylar barked to the Company members. “We have what we came for.” As the armed men dissipated from the swarms of crewmembers, Sylar stepped forward, leering at Claude.
“Cheers,” Claude said, flashing his teeth.
Sylar clipped his shoulder as he walked away, followed by Nathan and the Haitian with Peter between them. When the Company had all rowed away to the submarine, Claude and his men leaned over the side of the ship, watching the waves.
“Think they’ll torpedo us?” said a voice. Claude turned; Noah stood beside him, cleaning his glasses with his shirttail.
“Nah,” Claude answered, “we’re not important enough to them. I take it you found a hiding place well enough. Seen Suresh?”
Noah put on his spectacles and shook his head. “Can’t find him anywhere-but knowing him, he’s going after Peter. Although, he left his fedora in his room, which I’m sure he’s devastated about.”
“Well, he’s got to be here somewhere. Keep looking.”
Noah glanced again at the submarine. Suddenly he grinned. “Found him.”
“What? Where?”
Noah pointed to the sub. Claude squinted; and there was Mohinder, crawling up out of the water onto the top of the vessel and jogging toward the periscope. The crewmates on the steamer cheered, and Claude laughed.
“Well, the bugger’s more resourceful than I figured,” Claude said, smiling. “Should we follow?”
“The submarine? Only if we want to get killed,” Noah said. “I say, stick with Suresh’s suggestion and head to the States. At this point there’s not much else we can do.”
Claude nodded. As the submarine descended below the water, the steamer hummed to life and set out across the sea.
---
A new sun was rising above the stained-glass waters by the time the submarine reemerged. The vessel had reached an island seemingly in the middle of the ocean, marked by jagged stretches of crags and sharp rock as well as sandy flatlands. The vessel coasted inside the mouth of a wide cavern at the base of one of the taller crags, where the rock opened up into a vast docking bay lined in cement walls and bathed in artificial light. A channel of water extended into the docking bay, flanked on three sides by loading platforms; the sub settled within the channel, and soon men poured out of the vessel carrying the crate ashore.
Mohinder watched the scene from the loading platform, hidden behind a heap of supply boxes. Water dripped from his hair, drenched his clothes, sloshed in his shoes; he had spent the night hitched to the submarine’s periscope, floating unnoticed beneath the stars. His eyes following the crate’s course across the bay, Mohinder wondered if the smell of salt ground deep into his skin would ever dissipate.
He pressed his back against the boxes as a flurry of feet passed by. Two pairs of legs paused in front of the boxes, a familiar voice drifting from above.
“We’ll open the sarcophagus here before taking it to Company headquarters,” Sylar said to his companion. “Go and tell the men to prepare.”
The companion’s feet didn’t move. “Sir,” he said waveringly, “our orders are to take the sarcophagus directly to Angela Petrelli.”
“Your orders come only from me,” Sylar growled. “We open it now.” His voice became barely a whisper as he stepped forward toward the other man. “We’ve discussed this before, Anderson. I’m taking the girl’s ability before we get to New York. And I’ll take your head off, too, if you don’t do as you’re told.”
“Yes sir,” Anderson said quickly, and he scurried away. Mohinder waited until Sylar’s footsteps faded before peeking out from behind the boxes again. He watched as Nathan, Peter, and the Haitian walked along the platform on the other side of the channel. Nathan and Peter looked coldly at each other but said nothing. Sylar approached them, his coat sweeping behind him.
“We’re opening the sarcophagus as soon as my men prepare a site on the island,” Sylar told them.
Nathan’s eyes widened. “What? Why? My mother-”
“Your mother will not want to be disappointed,” Sylar said. “We’ll test the incantations carved in the lid of the sarcophagus now, to make sure everything works as the legends say, before bringing it in.” He turned to the Haitian. “Is Peter truly powerless?”
“I have not been blocking anyone’s abilities since the submarine arrived in the docking bay,” the Haitian answered. “Peter has had many chances to try to escape. He has not.”
“Good. Then you stay here while the sarcophagus is being opened,” Sylar said. “I’m sick of you causing trouble for me wherever I go. Nathan, take your brother with you. We’re leaving for the site now.”
Sylar, Nathan, and Peter led a swarm of a few dozen men and the sarcophagus down a tunnel in the belly of the cavern. Mohinder crept through the docking bay and followed them, keeping himself hidden in the shadows.
---
Light spilled over the winding canyon, peaks melting into zigzags as the late afternoon sun stained the rock orange and gold. Shadows extended across the desert path in sharp lines like the crags themselves. Mohinder darted among these polygons of darkness at a fair distance from the crowd of Company employees and the sarcophagus, the salty ocean waters that had soaked him just hours ago now replaced by salty sweat.
The sarcophagus bobbed above the sea of Company heads, but Mohinder’s eyes focused just on one man trudging beside it. Peter’s black shock of hair gleamed in the daylight, the backside of his head held high next to Nathan’s silhouette. Mohinder was tired, exhausted by days of endless fistfights and explosions and gunshots; but whenever pale fingers tucked a lock of hair behind an ear, Mohinder found strength to push past his fatigue and continue onward across the hot sand.
The stragglers in the caravan were carrying an impressive array of weapons; after Mohinder sidestepped into a patch of shadow, he lunged forward and grabbed one of the stragglers from behind, whipping a hand over his mouth. A few punches later, the man lay sprawled in the shadows, and Mohinder started climbing up a stony hill flanking the path.
Below, Peter and Nathan walked side-by-side, the crated sarcophagus hovering on Nathan’s left as flies buzzed around their heads. Peter looked through the corner of his eye at his brother. “Don’t do this,” he said quietly.
Nathan narrowed his eyes, still looking straight ahead. “I have to.”
“No, you don’t,” Peter persisted. “I already told you, raising this girl from the dead is going to kill you, not cure you. There’s no one in this world who can take your abilities away and make everything better. Plus, even if there was … flying is a part of who you are. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Your abilities are gone,” Nathan said sharply. “And you’re still you.”
“That’s the thing, Nathan. I’m not. My powers are gone because I lost the people that make me who I am. Like Mohinder.”
Now Nathan turned, considering Peter with insolent eyes. “Your … feelings for Suresh are just another case of juvenile puppy love-”
“And you, Nathan,” Peter finished, ignoring Nathan’s interruption. “I’ve lost you. Mohinder had begun to work his way back into my life; but I’m starting to believe that my brother is gone from me forever.”
Nathan turned his head back toward the road, answering only with a melancholy silence.
Peter had little time to comprehend this before a different voice sailed above the Company caravan. “Hello,” Mohinder called. All eyes turned toward him; he stood atop a rocky plateau, a bazooka aimed directly at the sarcophagus.
The Company men shrank away from the crate and pointed their firearms at Mohinder. Nathan and Sylar moved out from the crowd in disbelief toward the cliff. Peter beamed.
“Suresh,” Sylar moaned in exasperation, flinging his black panama into the dirt. “SURESH!”
“I’m going to blow up the sarcophagus, Sylar,” Mohinder said simply.
Nathan placed his hands on his hips and sighed heavily. “Your persistence surprises even me,” he muttered loudly. “Surely you don’t think you can escape from this island?”
“That depends,” Mohinder replied, “on how reasonable we’re all willing to be. All I want is Peter.”
If Peter’s smile could stretch any wider, it did.
“And if we refuse?” Sylar asked.
“Then your Company has no prize.”
Sylar laughed, retrieving his hat. With a sudden flick of his hand, the bazooka flew out of Mohinder’s grasp and spun around, now floating in midair and pointing squarely at Mohinder. “Look around you, Mohinder,” Sylar shouted, his teeth bared in a ghastly smile. “The Haitian isn’t here to protect you from me this time.” His fingers twitched, and the bazooka quivered.
“No,” Nathan blurted, placing his hand on Sylar’s arm. Peter tore his eyes away from the plateau to stare at his brother in bewilderment. “Don’t kill him. He’s valuable; we can extract information about the Helix Foundation from him once we return to New York.”
Sylar considered Nathan for a moment, then nodded curtly. “Fine.” The bazooka clattered lifelessly onto the cliff; Sylar swept his hand, and Mohinder felt himself being yanked through the air down toward the caravan. When his feet touched ground, Sylar snatched Mohinder’s arm and held him close to his side. “Don’t try anything stupid,” he hissed. Nathan gripped Peter tightly and led him to the other side of the path so that the sarcophagus lay between the two prisoners. At Sylar’s command the caravan began its trek through the mountains again, the sun already beginning to dip toward the hidden sea.
-chapter eight-
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
VII.
Mohinder was hunched over on the cot in his room when Peter entered. A robe tied around his waist, the younger man carried a bowl of water and a towel with him, setting them on a table before slipping off his garment. He had dressed in clean trousers and was stripped of his dirt-caked blouse, his pale skin painted cream in the moonlight poking through thin blinds.
Mohinder watched him pick up the bowl and towel again and perch on the edge of the bed. “How are you doing?” Peter asked, eyeing a smear of blood on Mohinder’s forehead.
“Fine,” Mohinder said. Peter seemed unconvinced. “Where’ve you been?”
“Just talking to Claude,” Peter said as he soaked the towel with water. He chuckled, shaking his head. “I never would have expected to see him in a place like this. But it seems he and Noah reconnected over the years, and now Claude helps him out from time to time. Noah’s with him right now. Here,” he added as a grimacing Mohinder slowly peeled off his own shirt, “let me help you.”
“No, no, I’m okay.” But Peter’s hands were already skimming over Mohinder’s back, pulling the button-down away from Mohinder’s arms. “Ow,” Mohinder gasped as the shirt came off. “Peter, I’m fine. I don’t need any help.”
“You haven’t let me help you this whole time,” Peter countered as he tossed away the shirt. “Let me do this.” He examined the bandage wrapped around Mohinder’s arm before taking up the towel and dabbing it over a cut in Mohinder’s chest. Peter’s fingers grazed the fuzz of curls that surrounded it.
“That hurts,” Mohinder hissed through his teeth, shrinking away from the towel.
A smile hooked Peter’s lips, and his fingers trailed down dark skin. “I don’t remember all of these,” he said, passing over old scrapes and scars scattered across Mohinder’s torso. “You’re not quite the man I knew two years ago.”
“It’s not the years, Peter,” Mohinder sighed, “it’s the mileage.” He slowly twisted around, trying to lean back into the sheets. Peter took Mohinder’s legs and brought them up onto the bed, but Mohinder resisted. “Ow,” he said again, more irritably this time. “Please, Peter, I don’t need a nurse. I just want to sleep.”
“You’re such a baby.” Peter kneeled over Mohinder’s recumbent form and moved to another cut, this one straggling across Mohinder’s shoulder.
“Peter, please, just go away-”
“Does this hurt?”
“Yes.” He swatted away Peter’s hand. “It hurts. Okay?”
Peter sat up in a huff, arms akimbo. “Well God dammit, Mohinder, where doesn’t it hurt?”
“Here,” Mohinder grunted, jabbing a finger at his elbow. Peter hesitated, then leaned over and kissed the spot, looking up with impish eyes.
Mohinder swallowed. “Here,” he said again, pointing to a patch just beneath his fedora. Peter tipped off the hat, letting it flop to the floor, and pressed his lips against Mohinder’s forehead, catching a curl on his tongue.
“Right here’s not too bad,” Mohinder mumbled when Peter drew back. He rubbed a sheepish finger over his eyelid. Peter’s breath played across it as he leaned forward, cupping a hand over the nape of Mohinder’s neck. As they parted, Mohinder gazed into wildfire eyes, his mind hazy and warm.
When Mohinder’s finger touched his own lips, Peter’s mouth stumbled into a crooked smile. He dipped forward, and their breaths passed in whispers across lips and tongues, heartbeats trembling together. Peter nudged one hand into Mohinder’s damp hair and placed the other over a stubbled cheek. For a moment Mohinder pressed his fingers into shoulder blades that shuddered like waves at his touch; but with a happy sigh his hands fell away, and Peter felt Mohinder’s sun-cracked lips soften and settle. Peter opened his eyes and pulled back, puzzled; then Mohinder’s head lolled to the side, a soft snore fluttering from his nose.
“Mohinder?”
Peter looked at Mohinder’s dozing face and sighed. “You never seem to get a break, do you,” he said quietly, stroking Mohinder’s cheek.
---
Mohinder shifted over the sheets and felt something heavy across his chest. He looked down. Peter’s head was curled over his heart, rising and falling with Mohinder’s steady breathing. The rest of the young man was wedged between the cot and the wall, one arm sprawled over Mohinder’s stomach. Mohinder smiled, resting his hand atop Peter’s head and brushing back the thick hair. Through the window blinds he glimpsed an orange sliver of light peering above the waters, the sky otherwise gray and dusky.
Mohinder felt a change in the rhythm of Peter’s breathing. When a finger traced around his belly button, Mohinder gasped softly and sucked in his stomach.
“Don’t tell me your belly button hurts, too,” Peter murmured. He turned his head until he was looking up at Mohinder with grinning eyes.
“Nah, just tickles.” Mohinder yawned, clicking his tongue. “I seem to recall choosing a bad time to fall asleep last night.”
“Mmhmm.”
Mohinder twirled his finger in one of Peter’s locks of hair. “How can I ever make it up to you?”
The sheets rustled as Peter slid off to the side, propping his head on his hand. “Well,” he said, glancing out the window, “looks like we still have some time before we have to get out of bed. And you’ve already rudely woken me up and everything, so …”
“So?”
“So make it up to me, Mohinder.”
“Well, if you put it that way,” Mohinder whispered, and he pulled Peter into his arms.
---
Peter woke up a few hours later to the click of a pistol.
He opened his eyes. Mohinder stood on the other side of the room, fully dressed, holding his revolver.
“What’s wrong?” Peter asked, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
Mohinder stuffed the gun into his holster. “The engines have stopped. I’m going to go check it out.” Peter watched as the door closed behind him; then he ripped off the sheets and rushed to put on his clothes.
Mohinder burst onto the bridge to find Claude and Noah arguing. “What happened?” Mohinder insisted.
“I was just on my way to find you,” Noah said, pulling Mohinder toward the glass windows surveying the sea. “Look.”
Mohinder did. A massive submarine floated above the surface, several rowboats trailing out from it toward the steamer. “Shit,” Mohinder muttered.
“You and Peter need to disappear, now,” Claude said quickly. “I’d tell you that Peter should turn you invisible, but since the arse has gone and made himself impotent-”
“Not to mention the Haitian will probably be onboard soon,” Noah said. “Abilities will be useless. Where’s Peter?”
“Still in the room. I’ll go back to get him. Noah,” Mohinder added, “if anything happens, you and Claude need to get back to the States and make contact with the FBI. I’m following that sarcophagus, wherever it ends up.”
Noah hesitated, then nodded. “Try not to get yourself killed.”
“Always do,” Mohinder said, and he left the bridge toward the cabins.
Mohinder bolted through the corridors of the ship, flying past scurrying crewmembers and skirting around armed Company men as he descended below deck. His feet paused at the bottom of the steps as voices echoed in the hallway to his room. Suddenly he saw Peter being shoved into the wall directly across from their cabin; Mohinder ducked out of sight as two thugs took hold of a struggling Peter and began to lead him to the stairs. Mohinder turned down another hallway and disappeared into the ship’s maze.
On the deck of the ship, Claude watched as the Company rounded up his crew. He stood across from Nathan, Sylar, and the Haitian, looking at Nathan with something like amusement on his face.
“And what are you staring at?” Nathan snapped.
Claude smirked. “Your brother never believed me, back in the day, when I said you weren’t worth his effort. And now, here you are, hunting him down like a dog.” He chuckled. “Guess Peter should’ve listened to me after all, eh?”
Nathan’s mouth vanished into a thin line, but he said nothing.
Parting through the swarm of crewmembers, several men advanced toward Sylar carrying the crated sarcophagus. “Take it to the submarine,” he told them, and they disappeared again into the crowds. Peter and his captors emerged in their wake, Peter’s face lined with anger. He exchanged glares with Sylar, then yanked his arm out of a captor’s hold and swung. But Claude caught the arm first, twisting it around and pulling Peter backwards. Sylar laughed, turning to address his men. “And what about Suresh? Bennet?”
“No trace of them yet, sir,” said a Company man across the deck.
“They’re dead,” Claude announced. “I killed them both. Bennet betrayed me once, and he was about to do it again. But this one,” he continued, nodding to Peter, who Claude held back in a loose chokehold, “this one I have special plans for. He nearly handed me in four years ago, and I bloody well never forgot it. Take your damn sarcophagus; I’ve got no need for a dead girl. But leave the boy with me.”
Sylar considered Claude with calculating eyes. “Peter Petrelli is too powerful a man to leave stranded on a ship. He’ll come with us.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, mate,” Claude said. “The lad’s got a bleeding heart, you see, broken to pieces after I killed his pretty little boyfriend. He’s powerless, no use to you. No harm in letting me have my way with him.”
“You are not in a position to ask for anything,” Nathan said coldly. “Peter goes with me.” He strode forward, ripped Peter out of Claude’s hold, and led his brother back to Sylar and the Haitian’s side. Peter wriggled out of Nathan’s grasp but stayed put, exchanging a look with Claude.
“Back to the submarine,” Sylar barked to the Company members. “We have what we came for.” As the armed men dissipated from the swarms of crewmembers, Sylar stepped forward, leering at Claude.
“Cheers,” Claude said, flashing his teeth.
Sylar clipped his shoulder as he walked away, followed by Nathan and the Haitian with Peter between them. When the Company had all rowed away to the submarine, Claude and his men leaned over the side of the ship, watching the waves.
“Think they’ll torpedo us?” said a voice. Claude turned; Noah stood beside him, cleaning his glasses with his shirttail.
“Nah,” Claude answered, “we’re not important enough to them. I take it you found a hiding place well enough. Seen Suresh?”
Noah put on his spectacles and shook his head. “Can’t find him anywhere-but knowing him, he’s going after Peter. Although, he left his fedora in his room, which I’m sure he’s devastated about.”
“Well, he’s got to be here somewhere. Keep looking.”
Noah glanced again at the submarine. Suddenly he grinned. “Found him.”
“What? Where?”
Noah pointed to the sub. Claude squinted; and there was Mohinder, crawling up out of the water onto the top of the vessel and jogging toward the periscope. The crewmates on the steamer cheered, and Claude laughed.
“Well, the bugger’s more resourceful than I figured,” Claude said, smiling. “Should we follow?”
“The submarine? Only if we want to get killed,” Noah said. “I say, stick with Suresh’s suggestion and head to the States. At this point there’s not much else we can do.”
Claude nodded. As the submarine descended below the water, the steamer hummed to life and set out across the sea.
---
A new sun was rising above the stained-glass waters by the time the submarine reemerged. The vessel had reached an island seemingly in the middle of the ocean, marked by jagged stretches of crags and sharp rock as well as sandy flatlands. The vessel coasted inside the mouth of a wide cavern at the base of one of the taller crags, where the rock opened up into a vast docking bay lined in cement walls and bathed in artificial light. A channel of water extended into the docking bay, flanked on three sides by loading platforms; the sub settled within the channel, and soon men poured out of the vessel carrying the crate ashore.
Mohinder watched the scene from the loading platform, hidden behind a heap of supply boxes. Water dripped from his hair, drenched his clothes, sloshed in his shoes; he had spent the night hitched to the submarine’s periscope, floating unnoticed beneath the stars. His eyes following the crate’s course across the bay, Mohinder wondered if the smell of salt ground deep into his skin would ever dissipate.
He pressed his back against the boxes as a flurry of feet passed by. Two pairs of legs paused in front of the boxes, a familiar voice drifting from above.
“We’ll open the sarcophagus here before taking it to Company headquarters,” Sylar said to his companion. “Go and tell the men to prepare.”
The companion’s feet didn’t move. “Sir,” he said waveringly, “our orders are to take the sarcophagus directly to Angela Petrelli.”
“Your orders come only from me,” Sylar growled. “We open it now.” His voice became barely a whisper as he stepped forward toward the other man. “We’ve discussed this before, Anderson. I’m taking the girl’s ability before we get to New York. And I’ll take your head off, too, if you don’t do as you’re told.”
“Yes sir,” Anderson said quickly, and he scurried away. Mohinder waited until Sylar’s footsteps faded before peeking out from behind the boxes again. He watched as Nathan, Peter, and the Haitian walked along the platform on the other side of the channel. Nathan and Peter looked coldly at each other but said nothing. Sylar approached them, his coat sweeping behind him.
“We’re opening the sarcophagus as soon as my men prepare a site on the island,” Sylar told them.
Nathan’s eyes widened. “What? Why? My mother-”
“Your mother will not want to be disappointed,” Sylar said. “We’ll test the incantations carved in the lid of the sarcophagus now, to make sure everything works as the legends say, before bringing it in.” He turned to the Haitian. “Is Peter truly powerless?”
“I have not been blocking anyone’s abilities since the submarine arrived in the docking bay,” the Haitian answered. “Peter has had many chances to try to escape. He has not.”
“Good. Then you stay here while the sarcophagus is being opened,” Sylar said. “I’m sick of you causing trouble for me wherever I go. Nathan, take your brother with you. We’re leaving for the site now.”
Sylar, Nathan, and Peter led a swarm of a few dozen men and the sarcophagus down a tunnel in the belly of the cavern. Mohinder crept through the docking bay and followed them, keeping himself hidden in the shadows.
---
Light spilled over the winding canyon, peaks melting into zigzags as the late afternoon sun stained the rock orange and gold. Shadows extended across the desert path in sharp lines like the crags themselves. Mohinder darted among these polygons of darkness at a fair distance from the crowd of Company employees and the sarcophagus, the salty ocean waters that had soaked him just hours ago now replaced by salty sweat.
The sarcophagus bobbed above the sea of Company heads, but Mohinder’s eyes focused just on one man trudging beside it. Peter’s black shock of hair gleamed in the daylight, the backside of his head held high next to Nathan’s silhouette. Mohinder was tired, exhausted by days of endless fistfights and explosions and gunshots; but whenever pale fingers tucked a lock of hair behind an ear, Mohinder found strength to push past his fatigue and continue onward across the hot sand.
The stragglers in the caravan were carrying an impressive array of weapons; after Mohinder sidestepped into a patch of shadow, he lunged forward and grabbed one of the stragglers from behind, whipping a hand over his mouth. A few punches later, the man lay sprawled in the shadows, and Mohinder started climbing up a stony hill flanking the path.
Below, Peter and Nathan walked side-by-side, the crated sarcophagus hovering on Nathan’s left as flies buzzed around their heads. Peter looked through the corner of his eye at his brother. “Don’t do this,” he said quietly.
Nathan narrowed his eyes, still looking straight ahead. “I have to.”
“No, you don’t,” Peter persisted. “I already told you, raising this girl from the dead is going to kill you, not cure you. There’s no one in this world who can take your abilities away and make everything better. Plus, even if there was … flying is a part of who you are. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Your abilities are gone,” Nathan said sharply. “And you’re still you.”
“That’s the thing, Nathan. I’m not. My powers are gone because I lost the people that make me who I am. Like Mohinder.”
Now Nathan turned, considering Peter with insolent eyes. “Your … feelings for Suresh are just another case of juvenile puppy love-”
“And you, Nathan,” Peter finished, ignoring Nathan’s interruption. “I’ve lost you. Mohinder had begun to work his way back into my life; but I’m starting to believe that my brother is gone from me forever.”
Nathan turned his head back toward the road, answering only with a melancholy silence.
Peter had little time to comprehend this before a different voice sailed above the Company caravan. “Hello,” Mohinder called. All eyes turned toward him; he stood atop a rocky plateau, a bazooka aimed directly at the sarcophagus.
The Company men shrank away from the crate and pointed their firearms at Mohinder. Nathan and Sylar moved out from the crowd in disbelief toward the cliff. Peter beamed.
“Suresh,” Sylar moaned in exasperation, flinging his black panama into the dirt. “SURESH!”
“I’m going to blow up the sarcophagus, Sylar,” Mohinder said simply.
Nathan placed his hands on his hips and sighed heavily. “Your persistence surprises even me,” he muttered loudly. “Surely you don’t think you can escape from this island?”
“That depends,” Mohinder replied, “on how reasonable we’re all willing to be. All I want is Peter.”
If Peter’s smile could stretch any wider, it did.
“And if we refuse?” Sylar asked.
“Then your Company has no prize.”
Sylar laughed, retrieving his hat. With a sudden flick of his hand, the bazooka flew out of Mohinder’s grasp and spun around, now floating in midair and pointing squarely at Mohinder. “Look around you, Mohinder,” Sylar shouted, his teeth bared in a ghastly smile. “The Haitian isn’t here to protect you from me this time.” His fingers twitched, and the bazooka quivered.
“No,” Nathan blurted, placing his hand on Sylar’s arm. Peter tore his eyes away from the plateau to stare at his brother in bewilderment. “Don’t kill him. He’s valuable; we can extract information about the Helix Foundation from him once we return to New York.”
Sylar considered Nathan for a moment, then nodded curtly. “Fine.” The bazooka clattered lifelessly onto the cliff; Sylar swept his hand, and Mohinder felt himself being yanked through the air down toward the caravan. When his feet touched ground, Sylar snatched Mohinder’s arm and held him close to his side. “Don’t try anything stupid,” he hissed. Nathan gripped Peter tightly and led him to the other side of the path so that the sarcophagus lay between the two prisoners. At Sylar’s command the caravan began its trek through the mountains again, the sun already beginning to dip toward the hidden sea.
-chapter eight-