Memento: A Heroes Fanfic
Title: Memento
Author: Alice
Rating: PG-13
A/N: For the reel_heroes challenge. Based on the movie Memento. Beta by the wonderful
brighteyed_jill and
leiadiana.
Summary: Mohinder has short-term memory loss, a condition that prevents him from creating new memories. He is searching for the man that killed his father.
Word Count: ~6,000
Imagine a bullet flying backward, going home into the barrel of its gun. Imagine a shell casting leaping from the floor to return to the gun that ejected it. Imagine smoke curling downward, blowback blowing forward, physics reversed.
Imagine a film of a man being shot in the face played backwards.
It’s not film. It’s Mohinder’s broken mind.
He fired the gun. That’s how it ended.
* * *
He wakes.
He’s in a bed. The bed is in his father’s room. Mohinder’s things are on the bedside table.
Mohinder knows where he is. Mohinder knows who he is.
The rest . . . he knows what he needs to know.
* * *
Sylar wakes as Mohinder is adjusting the IV.
“I can’t feel my fingers.”
“That’s the curare. It keeps you from being able to control your abilities.”
Sylar struggles. The bonds hold. “Why are you doing this?”
“You’re Sylar. You’re the man that killed my father.”
“No, I’m not. I’m Zane Taylor. I’m your friend. I’m here because you asked me-”
“You’re not my friend.” He’s standing in front of Sylar, leaning in to face him. His hate sits hot and heavy in his gut. “And that’s not your real name.” He holds up a printout of a driver license. Same face, different name. “Is it, Gabriel?”
He looks at the paper, then back to Mohinder. He looks straight into Mohinder’s eyes and projects earnestness and sincerity. “That name is part of a life I left behind long ago. That’s not who I am now.”
“You’re a liar and a murderer.”
“I’m not. You can’t-” He shakes his head, meets Mohinder’s eyes again. “Why would you think that? You told me about your condition. You don’t know. You’re just going off some note: buy soap, pay bills, kill friend. You’re wrong. You’ve made a mistake, someone gave you bad info, and you’re going to take my life? Become a murderer?”
“This isn’t murder, this is revenge.” But now, beside all that hot rage, there is a cold piece of doubt. He goes to the desk, picks up a handful of glossy photos. He shoves them in Sylar’s face, lets him see all the dead bodies, heads cut open and brains removed.
Sylar’s eyes flicker. That cold piece of doubt dies.
“You’re a monster.” He goes to the desk, drops the photos, and gets out his gun. “Now I’m going to fulfill my duty as a son.” He points it right between Sylar’s eyes.
And Sylar laughs. “Your duty as a son.” His voice is different now: softer, more precise. He sing-songs his words back at him. “You betrayed your father. He knew about you and Peter Petrelli.”
The air is gone from the room. He can’t breathe, can’t hold up the gun. “No.”
“He told me how you followed him to New York against his wishes, and when he wouldn’t let you help him, you stole a copy of the list and went out, found your own Patient Zero. How you hoped you would be the one to prove his theories, and improve them. The son outshines the father.”
“No.”
“But he wasn’t worried. He knew you couldn’t do it. You’re too weak and not enough of a scientist.”
It was like looking through that taxicab window, watching his father die. He didn’t want this, couldn’t make it stop.
“And now, because of your condition, you never will.”
Anger returns. He holds onto it. “My condition is because of you. You did this to me.”
“I didn’t mean to. I only wanted to knock you out, not cause brain damage. I wanted you to finish your father’s work. I would have helped you.”
He raises the gun. “You killed him in front of my eyes, and then you broke my skull.”
“I told you, I didn’t mean to hurt you that badly. Your father told me, but I didn’t realize how weak you were, how delicate.”
“You took my life from me.” He clicks off the safety.
Sylar shuts his eyes.
Mohinder pulls the trigger.
* * *
The thing about short term memory loss is that Mohinder cannot form new memories. Thoughts just fade away. It as though he’s just woken up, always.
Mohinder is smart. Mohinder is resourceful. He will not let his disability keep him from his goal.
* * *
There is a knock at the door. Mohinder looks up. He’s in his father’s apartment, sitting at his father’s desk. He looks down at his hands. He’s holding a Polaroid photo of a man. It’s labeled SYLAR. There’s a note in his other hand. It says: SYLAR COMING. TEA DRUGGED. SUPPLIES IN CLOSET.
Could it really be so easy? After how much unknown time tracking the killer, he finally had him? Mohinder tucks the Polaroid and the note into the back pocket of his jeans and opens the door.
It’s the same face, same dark hair, dark eyes. “Mohinder?”
“Come in, please.” He steps aside, lets the murderer into his father’s apartment. As Sylar sides past Mohinder can’t help but notice how much taller the man is.
He shuts the door. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course. Anytime. What do you need?” And Sylar has the gall to stand there in this apartment and paste a look of complete sincerity on his face.
“It’s all a bit complicated. Would you like something to drink?” He steps around Sylar, goes into the kitchen. “I’m having tea, a special blend my father brought from India.”
“Yes, sure.”
Mohinder pours two cups, hands one to Sylar. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Sylar smiles at him, takes a sip of chai.
Mohinder goes into the living room, puts his cup down on his father’s desk. “I’ve told you about my condition, haven’t I?”
“Many times.”
Many times? How long have I know this murderer? Doesn’t matter: it ends today. “I imagine that I have.”
Sylar gives him another smile, takes another sip of his chai.
Got you.
Mohinder watches his face. Sylar smile slips into a look of confusion, and then Mohinder sees the drug hit him. He blinks, slow, looks at the cup in his hand. Drops it. Then he drops.
Mohinder drags him over to one of the kitchen chairs. Sylar is bigger than him, and surprisingly heavy for such a skinny man. Mohinder puts him in the chair; he slides out. Mohinder hauls him up again. In the end, Mohinder has to duct tape his legs first to keep him in the chair.
Mohinder opens his file, makes sure all the information he might need is face up, ready to help him through this confrontation.
Sylar wakes as Mohinder is adjusting the IV.
“I can’t feel my fingers.”
* * *
The trick to functioning with short-term memory loss is to anticipate what you’d need to have in order to function in any situation he’s likely to find himself in.
Notes are essential. A Polaroid camera is essential.
He knows what he wants to accomplish. So long as he can guess what he’ll need, he’ll be fine.
* * *
He goes to his father’s apartment.
He lets himself in. Apparently, he’s been living there for some time. He sits at the desk, pulls out his binder. He takes out his Polaroids and puts them together. There’s something else in his pocket. He pulls it out. It’s a folded-up color printout of a New York driver license. He looks at the picture, then goes to his stack of Polaroids.
He pulls one out. It’s a picture of the same man. The driver license says Gabriel Gray. The photo says ZANE TAYLOR.
He opens his laptop, Googles Gabriel Gray. Nothing. He Googles Zane Taylor. There’s an article on the murder of a young musician. His head was cut open.
He picks up the Polaroid.
“I found you,” he says to it. He pulls a pen out of the desk. He marks through ZANE TAYLOR and writes SYLAR.
He flips the Polaroid over. Printed on the back is DO NOT TRUST. Mohinder grins, cold and satisfied. Some part of him knew already. He writes “HE IS THE ONE. KILL HIM.”
He looks at the front of the blinder. There is a list of facts about Sylar. He puts the Polaroid next to the list, reads it.
Beneath the list, in tall block letters are the words FATHER’S CLOSET. He gets up, goes to the closet, opens it.
The first thing he sees is the IV stand. The second thing he sees is the gun. His fingers tighten around the photo of Sylar, still in his hand. He looks at it again. He goes to the phone, dials the number printed on the Sylar Polaroid.
“Hello?” Sylar’s voice is soft.
“Zane?”
“Mohinder, what’s wrong?”
I haven’t killed you yet, he thinks. “Can you come over here?”
“Of course, where are you?”
“My father’s apartment.” He knows he doesn’t have to give him the address.
“I’m coming,” Sylar says.
Mohinder hangs up and goes to make some chai.
While it brews, he writes himself a note. Then he returns to the closet. He drugs the tea, and he sits back down at his father’s desk. He holds the Polaroid and the note.
There is a knock at the door. Mohinder looks up.
* * *
Mohinder has made a list of facts about the man that murdered his father. He keeps this list with him, always, even when he doesn’t know it’s there. The last fact Mohinder wrote down is the last memory he has. He needed to write it down anyway.
The last fact, the most important one, is: SYLAR TORTURED AND MURDERED MY FATHER.
* * *
He’s in a tiny room, a closet. He bangs on the door. He can’t hear anything outside. He bangs some more, then sits down.
He hears a voice. “Mohinder?”
He jumps up, bangs on the door. “In here.”
The door opens. There’s a tall man dressed in black. “Mohinder, what happened?”
He’s angry, for some reason. “How would I know?” He steps past the man. He’s in a room, empty except for the bare bookcases lining the walls. He looks around, moves from empty room to empty room.
The man follows him. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know!” There’s nothing in this tiny, ugly apartment. “Why are you here?”
“You left me a message, gave me this address and told me to get over here.”
Mohinder shakes his head, frustrated.
“The door’s broken in.”
Mohinder goes back into the front room. He’s right. “There’s nothing here. We should go.”
“Okay.”
His heart is pounding. He wants to go home.
He can’t remember where that is. He checks his pockets, finds the keys to his father’s apartment. Good enough.
He leaves, the other man trailing behind him. “See you,” he says. It seems a safe assumption.
He goes to his father’s apartment.
He lets himself in. Apparently, he’s been living there for some time.
* * *
The fifth fact is SYLAR LIVES IN NEW YORK.
* * *
He parks. There’s a sticky note in his handwriting on the wheel of his car. It says Sylar, and it has an address. He’d done it. He’d found his father’s killer. He takes the note, gets out of the car. He’s going to go to the address, check it out.
There’s no point to making a plan when you have short-term memory loss. You can only rely on instinct and common sense. That’s all there is.
He finds the apartment. There’s no answer when he knocks, so he breaks in.
Books, everywhere. The surfaces are spotless, down to the plastic covering the furniture. He goes further in. There’s an open book on brain dissection. There are even more loaded bookshelves in the bedroom.
Behind him, a door creaks. He hears a footstep.
“Hello?” he calls out, heading back into the living room. “Anyone here?”
In the doorway is a tall man with short dark hair and heavy brows.
“Hey,” Mohinder says. “The door was broken in. I was checking to make sure no one was hurt in here. Do you live here?”
The man shuts door behind him. “Yes, I do, Mohinder.”
He’s Sylar, Mohinder thinks. He killed my father. And he knows my name. “I’m sure I told you about my condition.”
“Yes.”
A force, sudden and terrible, clamps down around Mohinder’s body and holds him immobile. Telekinesis, he thinks. He tries to struggle, muscles scream to move a part of him, any part. He can’t.
“You told me, because I’m your friend.”
Liar. “You’re not my friend. You’re Sylar. You killed my father.” He’s holding onto his rage, using it to keep down his terror.
“I am, and I did.” Two long fingers dip into his pocket, pull out his Polaroids. “I had to give you a different name, but I am your friend.” He holds up the stack of photos. The one on top is a picture of Sylar. It’s labeled, in Mohinder’s handwriting, as “ZANE TAYLOR.”
Mohinder feels sick. He’s been, for no one knows how long, searching for this man, for revenge for his father, and somehow this monster, this killer had gotten past his guard, probably poisoning his investigation, tripping him up. Laughing at him.
“You’re a murderer.”
“So are you.” He flips through the photos, holds one up. It’s a dead man, shot in the chest. His handwriting proclaims “YOU MUST BE SURE. SOMEONE MISLED YOU.”
“I killed someone?” He can’t remember, of course. If he’d killed, what else had he done? He pulls his mind away, focuses again on the photo in the killer’s hand. “You misled me. You tricked me into killing someone.”
Sylar smiles, and it is like a gash. “You were happy to do it. You thought you were going to have your revenge. You thought he was me.”
Hate makes his temples pound, fills his mouth with bile. In this moment, he would make any sacrifice, perform any deed, if it meant he could kill this man.
“But it’s going to be okay, Mohinder. That’s the beautiful part about your condition. In ten minutes, you’re not going to remember this conversation. You and I are going to be friends again.”
He went cold. No.
Sylar takes Mohinder’s messenger bag. “I’d ask you how you found me, but you don’t know, do you?” He pulls out a binder, flips it open. Inside Mohinder can see notes, his notes, on his father’s murder.
“I helped you make this,” Sylar says. He pulls out a blue folder. “This is new.”
He opens it. Inside are glossy photos of dead people with their brains removed. Sylar smiles, looks at each one, traces a finger over the images.
Mohinder wants to hurt him, so badly, but it’s impossible. “You killed those people.”
“Yes,” he says. It’s almost a purr.
He puts down the photos, moves on to the rest of the documents in the folder. He frowns.
Mohinder wants to hurt him, but he also wants to live. He’d discovered Sylar once already, perhaps he could do it again.
Sylar takes the glossy photos and sticks them in Mohinder’s binder, then he puts the whole thing back in Mohinder’s bag. He picks up the stack of Polaroids and flips through them again.
“Eden,” he says, holding one.
“Who?”
“It’s someone you’re never going to see again. Don’t worry, you won’t remember that you led me to her.”
“Don’t,” he says. He doesn’t even know who Eden is.
“She also lost someone. She will help you out of pity,” he reads. He puts the photo into his own pocket. “I can’t have other people helping you, Mohinder. I’ll help you. I’ll find you another Sylar to kill. I’ll protect you.”
He holds up the Polaroid of the dead man. “Even from yourself.” He goes into the kitchenette. “It’s destiny. I know you believe in it. So do I. I’m the next step in human evaluation, and you were meant to help me.”
He can smell smoke. He knows the folder and the Polaroid of the dead man are gone.
Sylar comes back. He reaches into Mohinder’s bag, pulls out all the pens.
“Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”
He pats down Mohinder, pulls out every pen he finds.
He hates the feel of Sylar’s hands on him. The man’s a killer, he’s insane, and Mohinder can’t stop him.
Sylar takes all his pens away and then stuffs the remaining Polaroids into Mohinder’s pocket. He gestures, and a closet door flies open. Another gesture, and the jackets and boxes from the closet are flying out, stacking themselves neatly in the center of the room.
Sylar puts his hands on Mohinder’s shoulders. Mohinder’s skin crawls. Sylar looks him dead in the eye. “I’m going to fix this Mohinder. It’s okay that you won’t know, because I will.”
Another gesture, and Mohinder is flying backwards into the closet. The door slaps shut.
He has to remember. He has to write this down now, before he forgets. He searches his pockets, his bag, hoping that Sylar missed a pen. All he needs is one.
He has to remember.
There’s a loud thump from outside the closet. He looks up. More thumps. Now there’s banging. What is that?
He tries the door. He’s locked in this tiny room. It’s a closet. He bangs on the door, tries to get it open. There’s a lot of movement outside, but he can’t see and from the noises he can’t tell what it is.
It gets quiet. He’s in a tiny room, a closet. He bangs on the door. He can’t hear anything outside. He bangs some more, then sits down.
* * *
part 2