Heroes fic: Mohinder Suresh and the Quest for the Cure (8/8)
Title: Mohinder Suresh and the Quest for the Cure (8/8)
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
VIII.
The wind had started to howl through the crevices of rock by the time the caravan reached the site. The place was no more than a flattened clearing of rock, a round tableland wedged among the surrounding hills of stone. A few men brought the sarcophagus to the far end of the flatland, stumbling up plates of rock that ascended like steps toward an altar of sorts on the clearing. Sylar stood atop the altar, his eyes glimmering in the darkness that was now descending upon the place like fog. The sarcophagus was set before him; it had been removed from its wooden crate and now lay bare on the smooth rock. Floodlights erected around the flatland cast the coffin in an eerie light, the shadowy engravings of hieroglyphs standing out from the limestone in stark relief.
Mohinder and Peter saw all of this from the other side of the clearing. Their hands and legs were tied around the pole of one of the floodlights, their backs turned to one another; between them and the sarcophagus gathered the remaining Company men, all eyes glued to Sylar and the coffin. Nathan watched from the base of the steps, the artificial light drawing out the circles beneath his eyes.
Sylar gestured to a man standing near the altar, and the man walked up the steps, a piece of paper fluttering in his shaking hand. Sylar snatched the paper from him and glanced over the words, a Texan waitress on his mind.
“And you’re sure you translated the hieroglyphs correctly, Anderson?” Sylar said to the man.
Anderson nodded. Sylar thrust the paper into Anderson’s chest, and Anderson quickly stumbled down the stairs to melt back into the crowd. Sylar leaned over the sarcophagus and traced his fingers around the hieroglyphs etched into the form of the stone woman. Bright light and dark shadows extended his malevolent grin to inhuman proportions, his eyes dancing greedily above the coffin.
Suddenly he straightened, lifting his arms to the blue-black sky. The Egyptian incantations flicked off his tongue like the hiss of a serpent, ghostly words undulating across the moaning wind. Mohinder watched with an unflinching stare as the lid of the sarcophagus lifted under Sylar’s command, floating away and to the floor.
Sylar reached his hand into the sarcophagus; delicate fingers wrapped in rags met his grip. Taking a deep breath, Sylar pulled.
Slowly, quietly, the woman called Asanet rose from her sarcophagus. Her whole body was wrapped in brown strips of cloth, clutching to her curves so snugly that she seemed to be coated in another layer of skin. Sylar let go of her hand and took a step back as she slipped out of the coffin, her ancient limbs imbued with a power and a grace that belied millennia of deathly imprisonment. Thin black hair spilled from her scalp like ink and folded over her shoulders. Only her eyes and mouth remained uncovered by the strips of cloth, her intense gaze framed by sweeping lines of shadowy kohl. With these dark, knifelike eyes she surveyed the scene around her, resting at last upon Sylar’s glittering features.
She spoke, the ancient syllables rolling off her undead tongue. Her voice, though, did not sound like a human voice; rather, she uttered darkness, death, the cold and vacant nothingness of barren crypts and tombs.
“What’s she saying?” Nathan said as her words faded into the wind. He looked paler than before, his forehead shining with cold sweat.
Anderson swallowed, wringing his hands. “She wants to know your name,” he stuttered, pointing to Sylar. “Why you brought her here.”
“She doesn’t need to know my name,” Sylar answered, his voice low, and he raised his index finger until it was level with Asanet’s forehead.
Nathan lunged halfway up the steps, his eyes wide. “What are you doing?” he choked. “No-Sylar, stop!”
One of the Company men near the steps raised his rifle. “Sir, our orders are to-”
But Sylar wasn’t listening. He snapped his free hand, and the clearing echoed with the clatter of guns hitting stone. By the time the weapons had whisked themselves up and over the surrounding crags, Sylar had already cut away the cloth over Asanet’s forehead with his finger, her papery skin tearing open as though someone were ripping out a seam from her flesh.
Asanet screamed-not in pain or in fear, but in anger, her cries crackling in the air. She whipped her arm forward, pointing her own finger at Sylar, and the dark irises of her eyes began to fade away in a ghostly cloud of white.
Sylar looked into Asanet’s pupil-less eyes, and suddenly his face changed. The malice in his features gave way to bewilderment, and he turned his hand, considering his palm with bemused wonder. His mouth fell open as he stared, and the wonderment melted into fear.
“No,” Sylar whispered as he collapsed to his knees. He jerked out his hand toward Asanet, who loomed over him, cackling. Nothing. Again and again he thrust forward his hand, and again and again he watched as Asanet laughed, unharmed, her eyes boring into his own.
“No,” he repeated, voice faltering, and he doubled over, wetness trickling down his face. Porcelain eyes blazing, Asanet lowered her hand and looked down in disgust at the form hunched before her feet. She spat out words in Egyptian, the clouds in her eyes drifting away.
“Fool,” Anderson breathed in translation, his face white.
Asanet turned. The gathering of Company men took a collective step back, everything silent except for the breeze whistling over rock. Mohinder couldn’t look away from the woman, her hair sailing in a gust of wind; but Peter’s eyes followed his brother as Nathan took a tentative step toward the altar. Asanet spoke.
“She-she’s asking you the same thing,” Anderson stammered to Nathan. “She wants to know your name, why you’re here. What you want from her.”
But before Nathan could open his mouth in response, Sylar darted forward, leaping toward Asanet from behind. Asanet saw Nathan’s eyes flicker and she spun around, grabbing Sylar’s wrist before he could strike. She bellowed with rage and drove the fingers of her free hand into his throat, glaring at him with clouded eyes. Sylar tried to tear himself away from her stare but couldn’t; blood oozed from his eye sockets and his nostrils and the corners of his mouth, his eyes rolling back into his head. With a rasping sigh his arms fell limp, his head lolling to the side. Asanet released his throat and he dropped, crumpling lifelessly to the ground.
As Peter wriggled futilely in his binds, familiar words echoed in Mohinder’s head: Her wrathful eye brings blood and terror to ungrateful souls.
“Peter,” Mohinder whispered urgently, “don’t look at her. Shut your eyes, Peter, don’t look at her, no matter what happens.”
“But Nathan,” Peter gasped, watching as Asanet began to turn toward his brother. For a fleeting instant Nathan glanced at Peter, his face strangled and uncertain. “Close your eyes, Nathan!” Peter screeched, squirming in the ropes around his wrists and ankles. “Close your eyes!”
Asanet looked up at the sound of Peter’s voice, her eyes beginning to cloud over again. “Don’t look at her, Peter!” Mohinder screamed, and as Asanet began to turn back to Nathan with a raised finger, as Nathan’s face suddenly broke into a strange smile, as Mohinder saw Nathan’s painting come alive before him, with a defeated cry both Peter and Mohinder squeezed their eyes shut.
They heard nothing at first, only silence. Then, slowly, the wailing began, waves of moaning and shrieking and hoarse whimpers that grew louder and louder the longer Mohinder and Peter waited helplessly in blackness. Mohinder imagined Asanet walking through the crowd of Company men, bodies falling wherever she looked, those with enough sense to run giving in and glancing back only to feel the life sucked out of them in a single moment. The gales of cold air mingled with the screams, howling alongside the dying groans that followed in the wake of Asanet’s ivory gaze.
Eyelids still glued together, Peter craned his neck around. “Mohinder,” he choked over the wind and wailing, “if we die tonight, if this is the end … I just need you to know something.”
“I know,” Mohinder replied, “I know.” He groped for Peter’s hand and squeezed it, their fingers pressed so tightly together that they felt each other’s heartbeats throb through the skin. “I love you, too, Peter.”
And as Asanet’s footfalls echoed on the stone, the two of them twined their bound hands together until their fingers were numb, Mohinder twisting his head so that Peter’s shallow breaths burned across his cheek. Soon the screams subsided, for there was no one left; only the two men, and the wind, and the footsteps forever moving closer and closer and closer.
Then, suddenly, a gunshot exploded through the air. Both Mohinder and Peter jumped in their flesh, their heartbeats pounding in unison, as Asanet’s shrill cry erupted just a few feet in front of them. New, heavier footfalls descended upon the stone, and in a few moments the rustling of clothes and feet fell away toward the altar. With a hollow thud, Mohinder heard the sarcophagus lid slide into place; tentatively he opened one eye. “Peter,” he whispered, and, letting their hands fall limp, both of them opened their eyes and looked upon the clearing.
The floor of the flatland was carpeted in bodies, pools of blood trickling over stone. And standing behind the closed sarcophagus was the Haitian, holding a revolver in his hand.
Peter’s eyes immediately darted to the spot where Nathan lay. The older brother huddled in a fetal position upon the steps, his head leaning against the stone of the crag surrounding the clearing. Peter’s breath shuddered as he recognized his own sketch displayed in front of his bleary vision. His limbs sagged in their binds, a strangled sigh catching in his throat.
Then, ever so slightly, Nathan’s head stirred.
“Nathan,” Peter rasped, his eyes growing wide. And as Nathan’s eyelids fluttered open, Peter’s hands and feet phased out of their binds; he sprinted toward his brother, leaping over fallen men and skidding through blood, throwing his arms around Nathan just as the older man struggled to his feet. They embraced for an endless moment, Peter laughing into Nathan’s shoulder.
“You’re crushing my lungs, Pete,” Nathan said, and they parted, Peter keeping his hands on Nathan’s shoulders.
Peter’s face suddenly changed. “Your powers,” he said, “did she take them from you?” Nathan shook his head. “But you were smiling, Nathan, before I closed my eyes. Like in the painting.”
“It’s because I realized,” Nathan said, “what I really wanted.” He looked pained. “I should’ve listened to you the first time, Pete. I’m sorry.”
Peter squeezed Nathan’s shoulders. “I’m just glad that I didn’t lose my brother after all.”
“Still tied up over here,” Mohinder said dryly from the pole. Peter patted Nathan on the arm before rushing back to untie Mohinder’s binds, pressing his lips deep into Mohinder’s own.
“Your brother looks embarrassed,” Mohinder whispered as they broke away from one another.
“He’ll get over it,” Peter answered, grinning. “Where’s the Haitian?”
They looked around; the Haitian had left the altar and was now standing next to Nathan. Mohinder and Peter approached them, echoing Nathan’s look of confusion.
“You saved our lives,” Peter said to the Haitian. “Why?”
“Because the Company should never be allowed to wield the power of that sarcophagus,” the Haitian replied. “The FBI will take great pains in making sure Asanet does not fall into enemy hands.”
“You’re their spy,” Mohinder said, comprehension dawning on his face.
“Yes. Although, I believe my cover has been blown, seeing as Nathan and I are the only Company members to survive this massacre. I will assist you in bringing the sarcophagus to America.”
Nathan looked at the Haitian as though he had never seen him before. “We have a lot to talk about,” Nathan said, and the four of them approached the sarcophagus.
---
“You’ve done your country a great service,” Matt Parkman said.
“And we trust you found the settlement satisfactory,” added Audrey Hanson.
Parkman, Hanson, Mohinder, and Noah sat around a conference table within FBI headquarters at Washington, D.C. Mohinder, dressed in a dark suit, leaned forward on the table, tenting his fingers.
“The money is fine,” Mohinder said. “But the situation is totally unacceptable.”
“Where is the sarcophagus?” Noah insisted.
Hanson cleared her throat irritably. “I thought we settled this. The sarcophagus is somewhere very safe.”
“From whom?” Mohinder asked sharply.
“Asanet’s sarcophagus is a source of unspeakable power,” Noah said, his voice rising, “and it has to be researched.”
“And it will be, I assure you, Mr. Bennet, Dr. Suresh. We have top men working on it right now.”
Mohinder leaned forward even further, eyes meeting with Hanson’s. “Who?”
She stared at him, unflinching. “Top. Men.”
Noah shifted back in his chair, seething. Mohinder only glared at Hanson, his eyes sullen and full of disbelief.
---
Miles away, in a cavernous warehouse, an old man finished boxing up the sarcophagus. After nailing the crate’s lid into place, he stamped the side with the words “Top Secret” and shifted the heavy box onto a dolly. The rusty wheels squeaked as the old man pushed the crate down a wide aisle, past heaps upon heaps of identical crates and boxes that towered up to the limitless ceiling and out toward the unseen walls. The man turned a corner and disappeared into the darkness, bringing the sarcophagus ever further into the endless stacks of crates, where it was doomed to gather dust just like every other box piled deep in the government graveyard of forgotten secrets.
---
When Mohinder exited the FBI building only a few minutes later, Peter was waiting for him on the steps, decked out in a sleek black suit. “So what happened?” Peter asked. “You don’t look very happy.”
“Fools,” Mohinder spat as he met Peter halfway down the stairs. “Bureaucratic fools.”
“What’d they say?”
Mohinder shook his head. “They don’t know what they’ve got there,” he muttered, sighing.
“Well, I know what I’ve got here.” Peter looked at Mohinder fondly. Then, as he lifted his hand, Mohinder’s fedora materialized in Peter’s grasp. “Oh, and Noah told me to give this to you,” he said as Mohinder’s face lit up. “He thought you might be missing it.”
“He knows me too well.”
“He knows how much I spent buying it for you in the first place,” Peter grinned. “Come on,” he added, tugging the tattered hat over Mohinder’s head. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
Mohinder smiled, stuffing his hands into his pockets and offering his arm. Peter hooked a hand around Mohinder’s elbow, and together they trotted down the steps onto the busy street.
-end-
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
VIII.
The wind had started to howl through the crevices of rock by the time the caravan reached the site. The place was no more than a flattened clearing of rock, a round tableland wedged among the surrounding hills of stone. A few men brought the sarcophagus to the far end of the flatland, stumbling up plates of rock that ascended like steps toward an altar of sorts on the clearing. Sylar stood atop the altar, his eyes glimmering in the darkness that was now descending upon the place like fog. The sarcophagus was set before him; it had been removed from its wooden crate and now lay bare on the smooth rock. Floodlights erected around the flatland cast the coffin in an eerie light, the shadowy engravings of hieroglyphs standing out from the limestone in stark relief.
Mohinder and Peter saw all of this from the other side of the clearing. Their hands and legs were tied around the pole of one of the floodlights, their backs turned to one another; between them and the sarcophagus gathered the remaining Company men, all eyes glued to Sylar and the coffin. Nathan watched from the base of the steps, the artificial light drawing out the circles beneath his eyes.
Sylar gestured to a man standing near the altar, and the man walked up the steps, a piece of paper fluttering in his shaking hand. Sylar snatched the paper from him and glanced over the words, a Texan waitress on his mind.
“And you’re sure you translated the hieroglyphs correctly, Anderson?” Sylar said to the man.
Anderson nodded. Sylar thrust the paper into Anderson’s chest, and Anderson quickly stumbled down the stairs to melt back into the crowd. Sylar leaned over the sarcophagus and traced his fingers around the hieroglyphs etched into the form of the stone woman. Bright light and dark shadows extended his malevolent grin to inhuman proportions, his eyes dancing greedily above the coffin.
Suddenly he straightened, lifting his arms to the blue-black sky. The Egyptian incantations flicked off his tongue like the hiss of a serpent, ghostly words undulating across the moaning wind. Mohinder watched with an unflinching stare as the lid of the sarcophagus lifted under Sylar’s command, floating away and to the floor.
Sylar reached his hand into the sarcophagus; delicate fingers wrapped in rags met his grip. Taking a deep breath, Sylar pulled.
Slowly, quietly, the woman called Asanet rose from her sarcophagus. Her whole body was wrapped in brown strips of cloth, clutching to her curves so snugly that she seemed to be coated in another layer of skin. Sylar let go of her hand and took a step back as she slipped out of the coffin, her ancient limbs imbued with a power and a grace that belied millennia of deathly imprisonment. Thin black hair spilled from her scalp like ink and folded over her shoulders. Only her eyes and mouth remained uncovered by the strips of cloth, her intense gaze framed by sweeping lines of shadowy kohl. With these dark, knifelike eyes she surveyed the scene around her, resting at last upon Sylar’s glittering features.
She spoke, the ancient syllables rolling off her undead tongue. Her voice, though, did not sound like a human voice; rather, she uttered darkness, death, the cold and vacant nothingness of barren crypts and tombs.
“What’s she saying?” Nathan said as her words faded into the wind. He looked paler than before, his forehead shining with cold sweat.
Anderson swallowed, wringing his hands. “She wants to know your name,” he stuttered, pointing to Sylar. “Why you brought her here.”
“She doesn’t need to know my name,” Sylar answered, his voice low, and he raised his index finger until it was level with Asanet’s forehead.
Nathan lunged halfway up the steps, his eyes wide. “What are you doing?” he choked. “No-Sylar, stop!”
One of the Company men near the steps raised his rifle. “Sir, our orders are to-”
But Sylar wasn’t listening. He snapped his free hand, and the clearing echoed with the clatter of guns hitting stone. By the time the weapons had whisked themselves up and over the surrounding crags, Sylar had already cut away the cloth over Asanet’s forehead with his finger, her papery skin tearing open as though someone were ripping out a seam from her flesh.
Asanet screamed-not in pain or in fear, but in anger, her cries crackling in the air. She whipped her arm forward, pointing her own finger at Sylar, and the dark irises of her eyes began to fade away in a ghostly cloud of white.
Sylar looked into Asanet’s pupil-less eyes, and suddenly his face changed. The malice in his features gave way to bewilderment, and he turned his hand, considering his palm with bemused wonder. His mouth fell open as he stared, and the wonderment melted into fear.
“No,” Sylar whispered as he collapsed to his knees. He jerked out his hand toward Asanet, who loomed over him, cackling. Nothing. Again and again he thrust forward his hand, and again and again he watched as Asanet laughed, unharmed, her eyes boring into his own.
“No,” he repeated, voice faltering, and he doubled over, wetness trickling down his face. Porcelain eyes blazing, Asanet lowered her hand and looked down in disgust at the form hunched before her feet. She spat out words in Egyptian, the clouds in her eyes drifting away.
“Fool,” Anderson breathed in translation, his face white.
Asanet turned. The gathering of Company men took a collective step back, everything silent except for the breeze whistling over rock. Mohinder couldn’t look away from the woman, her hair sailing in a gust of wind; but Peter’s eyes followed his brother as Nathan took a tentative step toward the altar. Asanet spoke.
“She-she’s asking you the same thing,” Anderson stammered to Nathan. “She wants to know your name, why you’re here. What you want from her.”
But before Nathan could open his mouth in response, Sylar darted forward, leaping toward Asanet from behind. Asanet saw Nathan’s eyes flicker and she spun around, grabbing Sylar’s wrist before he could strike. She bellowed with rage and drove the fingers of her free hand into his throat, glaring at him with clouded eyes. Sylar tried to tear himself away from her stare but couldn’t; blood oozed from his eye sockets and his nostrils and the corners of his mouth, his eyes rolling back into his head. With a rasping sigh his arms fell limp, his head lolling to the side. Asanet released his throat and he dropped, crumpling lifelessly to the ground.
As Peter wriggled futilely in his binds, familiar words echoed in Mohinder’s head: Her wrathful eye brings blood and terror to ungrateful souls.
“Peter,” Mohinder whispered urgently, “don’t look at her. Shut your eyes, Peter, don’t look at her, no matter what happens.”
“But Nathan,” Peter gasped, watching as Asanet began to turn toward his brother. For a fleeting instant Nathan glanced at Peter, his face strangled and uncertain. “Close your eyes, Nathan!” Peter screeched, squirming in the ropes around his wrists and ankles. “Close your eyes!”
Asanet looked up at the sound of Peter’s voice, her eyes beginning to cloud over again. “Don’t look at her, Peter!” Mohinder screamed, and as Asanet began to turn back to Nathan with a raised finger, as Nathan’s face suddenly broke into a strange smile, as Mohinder saw Nathan’s painting come alive before him, with a defeated cry both Peter and Mohinder squeezed their eyes shut.
They heard nothing at first, only silence. Then, slowly, the wailing began, waves of moaning and shrieking and hoarse whimpers that grew louder and louder the longer Mohinder and Peter waited helplessly in blackness. Mohinder imagined Asanet walking through the crowd of Company men, bodies falling wherever she looked, those with enough sense to run giving in and glancing back only to feel the life sucked out of them in a single moment. The gales of cold air mingled with the screams, howling alongside the dying groans that followed in the wake of Asanet’s ivory gaze.
Eyelids still glued together, Peter craned his neck around. “Mohinder,” he choked over the wind and wailing, “if we die tonight, if this is the end … I just need you to know something.”
“I know,” Mohinder replied, “I know.” He groped for Peter’s hand and squeezed it, their fingers pressed so tightly together that they felt each other’s heartbeats throb through the skin. “I love you, too, Peter.”
And as Asanet’s footfalls echoed on the stone, the two of them twined their bound hands together until their fingers were numb, Mohinder twisting his head so that Peter’s shallow breaths burned across his cheek. Soon the screams subsided, for there was no one left; only the two men, and the wind, and the footsteps forever moving closer and closer and closer.
Then, suddenly, a gunshot exploded through the air. Both Mohinder and Peter jumped in their flesh, their heartbeats pounding in unison, as Asanet’s shrill cry erupted just a few feet in front of them. New, heavier footfalls descended upon the stone, and in a few moments the rustling of clothes and feet fell away toward the altar. With a hollow thud, Mohinder heard the sarcophagus lid slide into place; tentatively he opened one eye. “Peter,” he whispered, and, letting their hands fall limp, both of them opened their eyes and looked upon the clearing.
The floor of the flatland was carpeted in bodies, pools of blood trickling over stone. And standing behind the closed sarcophagus was the Haitian, holding a revolver in his hand.
Peter’s eyes immediately darted to the spot where Nathan lay. The older brother huddled in a fetal position upon the steps, his head leaning against the stone of the crag surrounding the clearing. Peter’s breath shuddered as he recognized his own sketch displayed in front of his bleary vision. His limbs sagged in their binds, a strangled sigh catching in his throat.
Then, ever so slightly, Nathan’s head stirred.
“Nathan,” Peter rasped, his eyes growing wide. And as Nathan’s eyelids fluttered open, Peter’s hands and feet phased out of their binds; he sprinted toward his brother, leaping over fallen men and skidding through blood, throwing his arms around Nathan just as the older man struggled to his feet. They embraced for an endless moment, Peter laughing into Nathan’s shoulder.
“You’re crushing my lungs, Pete,” Nathan said, and they parted, Peter keeping his hands on Nathan’s shoulders.
Peter’s face suddenly changed. “Your powers,” he said, “did she take them from you?” Nathan shook his head. “But you were smiling, Nathan, before I closed my eyes. Like in the painting.”
“It’s because I realized,” Nathan said, “what I really wanted.” He looked pained. “I should’ve listened to you the first time, Pete. I’m sorry.”
Peter squeezed Nathan’s shoulders. “I’m just glad that I didn’t lose my brother after all.”
“Still tied up over here,” Mohinder said dryly from the pole. Peter patted Nathan on the arm before rushing back to untie Mohinder’s binds, pressing his lips deep into Mohinder’s own.
“Your brother looks embarrassed,” Mohinder whispered as they broke away from one another.
“He’ll get over it,” Peter answered, grinning. “Where’s the Haitian?”
They looked around; the Haitian had left the altar and was now standing next to Nathan. Mohinder and Peter approached them, echoing Nathan’s look of confusion.
“You saved our lives,” Peter said to the Haitian. “Why?”
“Because the Company should never be allowed to wield the power of that sarcophagus,” the Haitian replied. “The FBI will take great pains in making sure Asanet does not fall into enemy hands.”
“You’re their spy,” Mohinder said, comprehension dawning on his face.
“Yes. Although, I believe my cover has been blown, seeing as Nathan and I are the only Company members to survive this massacre. I will assist you in bringing the sarcophagus to America.”
Nathan looked at the Haitian as though he had never seen him before. “We have a lot to talk about,” Nathan said, and the four of them approached the sarcophagus.
---
“You’ve done your country a great service,” Matt Parkman said.
“And we trust you found the settlement satisfactory,” added Audrey Hanson.
Parkman, Hanson, Mohinder, and Noah sat around a conference table within FBI headquarters at Washington, D.C. Mohinder, dressed in a dark suit, leaned forward on the table, tenting his fingers.
“The money is fine,” Mohinder said. “But the situation is totally unacceptable.”
“Where is the sarcophagus?” Noah insisted.
Hanson cleared her throat irritably. “I thought we settled this. The sarcophagus is somewhere very safe.”
“From whom?” Mohinder asked sharply.
“Asanet’s sarcophagus is a source of unspeakable power,” Noah said, his voice rising, “and it has to be researched.”
“And it will be, I assure you, Mr. Bennet, Dr. Suresh. We have top men working on it right now.”
Mohinder leaned forward even further, eyes meeting with Hanson’s. “Who?”
She stared at him, unflinching. “Top. Men.”
Noah shifted back in his chair, seething. Mohinder only glared at Hanson, his eyes sullen and full of disbelief.
---
Miles away, in a cavernous warehouse, an old man finished boxing up the sarcophagus. After nailing the crate’s lid into place, he stamped the side with the words “Top Secret” and shifted the heavy box onto a dolly. The rusty wheels squeaked as the old man pushed the crate down a wide aisle, past heaps upon heaps of identical crates and boxes that towered up to the limitless ceiling and out toward the unseen walls. The man turned a corner and disappeared into the darkness, bringing the sarcophagus ever further into the endless stacks of crates, where it was doomed to gather dust just like every other box piled deep in the government graveyard of forgotten secrets.
---
When Mohinder exited the FBI building only a few minutes later, Peter was waiting for him on the steps, decked out in a sleek black suit. “So what happened?” Peter asked. “You don’t look very happy.”
“Fools,” Mohinder spat as he met Peter halfway down the stairs. “Bureaucratic fools.”
“What’d they say?”
Mohinder shook his head. “They don’t know what they’ve got there,” he muttered, sighing.
“Well, I know what I’ve got here.” Peter looked at Mohinder fondly. Then, as he lifted his hand, Mohinder’s fedora materialized in Peter’s grasp. “Oh, and Noah told me to give this to you,” he said as Mohinder’s face lit up. “He thought you might be missing it.”
“He knows me too well.”
“He knows how much I spent buying it for you in the first place,” Peter grinned. “Come on,” he added, tugging the tattered hat over Mohinder’s head. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
Mohinder smiled, stuffing his hands into his pockets and offering his arm. Peter hooked a hand around Mohinder’s elbow, and together they trotted down the steps onto the busy street.
-end-