Fic - All My Sins Remember'd, Part One
Fic title: All My Sins Remember'd
Author name: evil_is_pretty
Artist credit(s): Banner by azarsuerte & YouTube Trailer by trackburst or Download from Sendspace
Genre: Gen, AU
Pairing: Ensemble, subtle Sylar/Mohinder
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 29,463
Challenge: Written for heroes_bigboom
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for Season One
Summary: What would have happened if the bomb had gone off?... If Claire hadn't been given the chance to get away from her father and grandmother? If Niki and DL hadn't been able to stop Linderman? If Peter and Hiro had been left to face Sylar alone? Nathan sends Mohinder on a journey to find his brother in the aftermath, and along the way, everyone begins to discover that things aren't always the way they seem.
A/N: Special thanks to trackburst and azarsuerte for the beautiful trailer and artwork! Also thanks to azarsuerte for the title, because I hate coming up with such things! Thanks to my lovely betas, forsquilis (who took the chance to read something from an author she'd never read before!), and icalynn. Also lots of love to my perpetual cheerleader, moonlitpines. This story came about through a mixture of convoluted spoilers generated toward the end of last season, and my secret wish that the bomb had gone off. (I also have an immense love for AU's.) Originally it was just going to be a small Sylar/Mohinder fic... but then Nathan got involved and I ended up with a monster gen. Note to self: Tape Nathan's mouth shut next time... P.S. My apologies to Lewis Carroll for blatantly stealing both titles and quote.
Link to fic:
Part One: Down the Rabbit Hole * Part Two: A Caucus Race and a Long-Tale * Part Three: A Mad Tea-Party * Part Four: The Lion and the Unicorn
“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense.
Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be
what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be.
And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?”
- Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
"If birth is pain, and death is an end to that pain of life, is the whole of evolution then born in pain? The promise of freedom, of release beyond as humanity steps forward onto another path. A renaissance steeped in fire and horror, the beauty of impossibility awakening in the ashes of destruction. I’ve often wondered if I have it within me to sacrifice, to give of myself so that others may live, to reach that very potential that only the noblest and bravest of us have the strength to achieve. To ignore that primal instinct. Is humanity’s eternal struggle for survival, for dominance over nature itself, inherent in our basic need to destroy each other? The inevitably of our eventual self-destruction. If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst at once into the sky, that would be like the splendor of the Mighty one -- I am become Death, the shatterer of Worlds. “ - Mohinder Suresh, PhD, draft prologue to Activating Evolution, Second Edition
There’s a palpable silence in the air as the world mourns.
It’s unlike any devastation witnessed before, and as morbid as it feels, Mohinder can’t help but stand at the window, imaging that here in Las Vegas he can see straight through to the smoke still rising from the ashes of Manhattan. Behind him, the twenty-four hour news coverage continues. At first, there had been mass panic as the words “terrorist attack” rumbled from the explosion. The world went on alert with America as curfews were thrown into place, the National Guard appeared en masse in New York, and everyone held their collective breath as the dust settled and the death toll was taken.
A week later, and the numbers are still coming in. The panic has stilled but confusion lingers. No one understands why there is no trace of a bomb and its components, why no one has stepped forward to take credit for the attack, why it seems as if the explosion occurred out of nowhere, all remnants nonexistent. Mohinder knows, though, and he wants to tell the world, to assure them that it wasn’t an attack, that the danger’s gone. Unfortunately, he’s been warned to say nothing, and he’s being watched - phone calls, visitors, he’s certain the room he’s been given is bugged.
“We need you around,” Thompson told him. “For Molly.”
But he hasn’t been allowed to see Molly. Has only been told that she’s safe and fine, and if it wasn’t for his discovery, things could be much, much worse.
Mohinder can’t figure how such a thing is possible.
They’d barely made it to safety before the bomb went off. There had been a call, a warning that Molly was in danger, and Thompson had dragged them both to the rooftop where Linderman was already aboard the waiting helicopter. They had still been in the air, Mohinder glancing out at the night sky, when the city had become a bright firelight, igniting the darkness.
Sylar. Sylar did this. Of that, Mohinder is certain.
While there’s a small comfort in knowing the monster is dead, there’s far too much horror over the cost. Most of the time, Mohinder is left remembering the last time he spoke to Sylar, wondering if he might have had it in his power to stop him. If he hadn’t attempted to dial the police, if he had gone to confront him on his own, talk to him maybe… But that scenario never made sense. Sylar had meant to kill him. He’d meant to kill Sylar. A second confrontation would have ended badly for one of them, and Mohinder has no doubts as to who that would have been.
No, he couldn’t have stopped him. Sylar had only called him because… there had been no one else.
It was an awful feeling; that lingering doubt as to the role he’d played in the deaths of millions.
There’s a knock at the door, and Mohinder’s relieved to have something to distract him, even if it’s another visit from Thompson. He steps away from the window, moving across the lush beige carpet, thinking again how dirty it feels to be in such a luxuriously appointed building when there are people dead and dying on the other side of the country. He wants to help, to be back there, and to do something, but he’s been assured that he’s needed here. Only, he’s been holed up in this room and no one will tell him what, specifically, it is that he’s still needed for.
He’s impatient. He always has been. It was a cause of contention with his father.
As he pulls the door open, Mohinder’s impatience, along with every previous thought, is swept away. All he can say is, “What are you doing here?”
“That answer would take too long,” Nathan Petrelli says, flashing a half smile. “May I come in?”
He furrows his brow in question but steps aside, allowing the elder Petrelli brother in the room. He hasn’t seen Nathan in weeks; has been waiting for some form of retribution ever since he delivered Peter’s body to his mother. It’s difficult not to blame himself for that death as well; he’d led Sylar straight to Peter just the same as Dale.
“I hope you’re enjoying the accommodations.” His voice is pleasant, and he’s smiling, as if they were reacquainting one another at a cocktail party.
Mohinder frowns. “I’m not certain I would say that, senator. I’m beginning to feel a little like a prisoner, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”
Nathan continues to smile as he reaches into his pocket, pulling an electronic piece of equipment that somewhat resembles a reading light attached to a small console.
“I’m certain that’s not Mr. Linderman’s intent, Dr. Suresh.” He begins to move around the room, glancing down at the device as he does so. “You’re a valuable asset. Certainly even you know of your importance with everything that has happened -“
“Just what do you have to do with -“
Mohinder stops in mid-sentence as Nathan turns back sharply to face him, holding a finger against his lips. As he drops the finger, he continues in his pleasant tone. “As I said, some answers would take far too long. My main concern at the moment is making certain you’re comfortable, and that you understand that the work you could do for us will not only benefit the future, but assure that your name, and that of your father’s, will be remembered for a very long time.”
He stops beside the bookshelf, glancing at the device in his hand for a moment before pressing a button. He waits until a tiny green light appears on the side of the mechanism before setting it on the shelf and turning back to Mohinder. The smile is gone from his face, as is the previous pleasantness of his tone.
“That should keep them occupied with static for a while,” he says. “But we don’t have much time before someone grows suspicious.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I need your help,” Nathan tells him, gaze intent on Mohinder’s own. “I need you to find my brother.”
Mohinder stares at him, not certain he heard his words correctly. “Senator, I brought your brother’s body to your home personally the day of the election -“
“He was fine. There was… “ Nathan hesitates and almost smiles before shaking his head. “There’s no time for explanations. Peter didn’t die that day but if he had, millions of people might still be alive today.”
It takes a moment for Mohinder to catch what Nathan is telling him. Once he does, he immediately denies it. “No, that’s not possible. Sylar was the bomb. He called me - he knew it was going to happen.”
Nathan purses his lips, folding his arms over his chest as he stares at Mohinder. “I’d like to believe that theory. Unfortunately, as I am in possession of a few facts that you are not, I’m inclined to disagree with you. Suffice to say, my brother was likely the cause of the explosion, and from what I understand, it’s very possible he’s still alive.”
Not knowing what to say to that, Mohinder remains silent as Nathan walks past him over to the window. He pushes the curtains aside, gazing down at the row of casinos that line the boulevard. Mohinder wonders if Nathan is as bothered by the eerie stillness and empty streets as he is.
“There’s a lot more going on than you know, Suresh,” Nathan says after a moment, his voice much softer than before. “Plans have been put into motion… mistakes have been made…”
Another pause and there’s a distinct drop in his shoulders, as if the burden of whatever he is carrying around with him is suddenly too much to bear. “Not even I know everything. What I do know is that my brother was left behind, that this was meant to happen, and that he’s out there, alone and frightened, and I need to have him found. The rest of the world seems to be coming apart at the seams - the hell if I’m going to let the same happen to my family.”
Mohinder is uncertain of what to say. None of this is making sense. He starts with the simplest of questions. “If what you say is true, and your brother was the cause of the explosion, why do you believe he’s still alive?”
“From what I’ve been told, the bearer of this particular ability has immunity to its effects.” He turns away from the window, allowing the curtains to fall back into place. “I know someone who’s seen it firsthand. Peter would have been fine.”
“Wait. So you’re telling me someone has this ability to… go nuclear and Peter came into contact with them? And what? Lost control of it?”
There’s a flicker of impatience in Nathan’s eyes, and he glances down at his watch before moving toward the bookshelf, checking on the jamming device. “I don’t know the details, and we don’t have time for them if I did. What I do know is that Peter came into contact with Ted Sprague. They were both prepared to leave the city when, according to my source, this Sylar killed Ted -“
“Then, Sylar was the bomb!”
Nathan shakes his head. “I don’t know what happened to this Sylar, but I do know that all facts point to Peter. He’s missing and I can’t go looking for him. I have other commitments that momentarily take precedence.” He walks up to Mohinder, placing his hand on his shoulder. “I’ve tried to use Linderman’s tracking system but they won’t let me near it. I need your help, Suresh.”
They won’t let Nathan near Molly, either. Mohinder wonders what it is that they’re hiding.
“I need you to go to New York and look for Peter.” Nathan pauses, as if to let this sink in. “Linderman will think you’re in India, gathering some remaining remnants of your father’s research for me. I’ve got all of your travel plans made. Just tell me you’ll do this, and I’ll get you on your way.”
It takes the briefest of moments for Mohinder to push aside the dozens of questions surfacing in his mind. Nathan can’t answer them, but Mohinder might be able to find those answers on his own, in New York. It wasn’t going to be easy; he's a scientist, not a covert ops specialist. How he is going to get past the tight security surrounding Manhattan, he doesn’t know. How he is supposed to find Peter, he hasn’t a clue. But then, nothing about his life has been particularly predictable since his father’s death, and why he expects now to be any different, he’s really not certain.
“All right, senator,” he says with a determined nod. “I’ll go.”
***
The sound of approaching voices causes him to sink further into the recesses between the buildings, flattening himself against the wall where he fades into the shadows. The footsteps draw nearer and within him, the argument continues: reveal himself, or remain hidden? His confusion as to what he should do remains, even as the footsteps pass by him and move on down the street, the voices soon fading into the night air. He wants to ask for help, but he’s afraid.
Afraid because he woke up in a sewer and he doesn’t know how he got there.
Afraid because when he finally found his way out, everything was different.
Afraid because the landscape was scorched, and the streets and buildings were empty. There were fires burning and distant sirens going, and the smells… and the bodies.
Afraid because he’s alive, and for days it seemed as if he was the only one.
Afraid because he doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know who… he doesn’t know who he is.
He hurts everywhere, but especially his stomach, where there’s a deep cut and dried blood around his shirt; however it got there, he doesn’t think he should be alive right now. He knows that much. He clings to the things he does know, like he’s fairly certain he’s in New York City, or what was New York City, and that it’s mid-Fall, but then he figures the chill in the air could tell him that much. He remembers there had been an election but he doesn’t know why that’s significant, or why he can remember all of that, but not what his goddamned name is.
Or where he lives. Or if he has any family.
He kind of hopes he doesn’t have family, or if he does, that they don’t live here.
As he continues to huddle against the brick wall, he notices a cockroach crawling over the toe of his boot. He glares at it, angry that he knows what to call it but not what to call himself. Picking up his foot, he shakes it slightly until the cockroach falls off. For a moment he considers squashing it but changes his mind because there seems to be enough death already, so he slowly lowers his foot as the bug crawls away, disappearing beneath a dumpster. His stomach growls as he stares at the trash receptacle.
“You’re not that hungry yet,” he says, turning away to look back into the street.
A few days ago, he stole some food off of the back of one of the military trucks that occasionally rumble through the streets. Even if he could remember meals he’s had in the past, he has to say this one would be in the top ten for most enjoyable ever simply because he’d been that hungry. He still has a few bars stuffed into the pockets of his coat but he’s trying to save them because he doesn’t know when he’ll get such an opportunity again.
He should probably reveal himself to the next group of patrolling soldiers but it’s the not-knowing that prevents him from doing so. Some part of him fears that maybe he had something to do with all of this. It doesn’t make sense but how else did he end up in a sewer, with a very deep stab wound in his belly? It’s possible that he’s a drug dealer, and a deal went bad, and that thought is more preferable to him at the moment than any other explanation he can conceive of.
With little else to occupy him, he’s spent hours simply sitting in empty buildings and cold back streets, trying to remember. He can remember that gas cost $2.85 a gallon, and that it was November, and that there’s a name for what’s wrong with him. It’s called dissociative amnesia, and can occur sometime after a traumatic event, most common in conjunction with wars, accidents or natural disasters. He isn’t certain how he knows this; it seems so clinical, as if directly from a book. He wonders if whatever happened to the city is responsible for the amnesia, or maybe it had to do with his wound. Days and hours of remembering these things but still his life is a blank slate. Only when he sleeps does he ever glimpse faces, but those images are contorted in terror, eyes wide with fear, and he pushes them aside as nightmares, preferring not to linger over their meaning.
Maybe he’s just crazy.
The familiar panic rushes over him at the thought and he pushes away from the wall, hurrying out into the street. If he keeps walking, maybe he’ll remember. Maybe somewhere nearby, there’s a place he knew as home, maybe there’s someone there who can help him. Or maybe they’re dead like the rest of the city.
Except for the cockroaches, of course.
***
Mohinder checks the items in his bag for the third time while he waits. Nathan’s contacts got him access past the military checkpoints easier than he’d expected, but that didn’t mean things were moving anymore quickly. After leaving the airport, he’s waited at approximately four different places totaling fourteen hours now, and is beginning to wonder if he really didn’t have access after all. Maybe the trick is to keep him waiting until he gets impatient and leaves.
He’s fast approaching that point.
Nathan continued to refuse to give him any answers, even as he spirited him out of the Corinthian hotel and into an awaiting helicopter. He only said that answers would be coming, and he didn’t really need to know anymore than he already did (which amounted to pretty much nothing) to find Peter. As much as Mohinder doesn’t completely trust Nathan Petrelli, it is obvious he cares for his brother, and this alone is enough to convince him to go without argument.
Besides, he owes Peter. A lot.
He glances over the equipment given to him to monitor the radiation, including a little readout to clip to his jacket. It was explained to him in thoroughly graphic detail just what could happen to him if it were ever displayed as not green. Mohinder didn’t bother pointing out that he was already quite well aware of the effects of radiation, thank you very much. He doesn’t know how he’s remained so polite throughout this mess, not when he was fairly certain his civility had gone out the window about the time he’d discovered Sylar had been posing as Zane - right under his nose for three days straight.
Mohinder takes a deep breath, forcing any thoughts of Sylar from his mind. He needs to focus on Peter.
There’s a satellite phone to call Nathan the moment he discovers any information on the whereabouts of his brother, and a bottle of pills to counteract any effects of the radiation. Mohinder figures he’ll stay in relatively safe zones, and everything he’s carrying is simply a precaution. The explosion was a quick, sharp burst of radiation that centered the majority of its destruction in a few blocks radius; the EMP that resulted wiped out most of the lighting along the eastern seaboard. It will take years to clear out the debris, especially around the epicenter, and to replace the top layer of contaminated soil but eventually people would live and work in Manhattan once again.
It is the way of humanity, to continue to struggle against overwhelming odds. As the thought crosses his mind, Mohinder glances over at the gun tucked beneath the few extra sets of clothing. Keep it with you, Nathan had warned.
“Uh… Dr. Sur… eesh?”
He’s a little surprised when he smiles at the mispronunciation of his name, and gets to his feet. “I’m Dr. Suresh.”
“Oh, sorry, Dr. Suresh.” The soldier who approaches him seems genuinely embarrassed at the mistake. She flashes a brief, apologetic smile before once more affecting a more somber expression.
“You’ve been cleared. Be certain to wear this badge at all times. Here’s a map of the stations that have been set up around the city should you run into any problems. If you’ll just follow me, we’ve got a jeep prepared for your use as well.”
Nathan must have called in every favor out there for this one, Mohinder thinks as he clips the badge, complete with his photo, to the lapel of his jacket. He follows the sergeant out the doors of the makeshift headquarters (an elementary school a week ago), and to a waiting jeep parked on the playground. She hands him the key after he tosses his bag into the back.
“Must be some important work you’re doing,” she says, eyeing his few items dubiously. “You’re the first civilian who’s been allowed in.”
She refrains from commenting on his lack of citizenship, though a quick flicker of her eyes toward his badge says it all. There are probably flags raised all over the city at this moment, and Mohinder wonders if Nathan didn’t convince Linderman to help out a little with his entry as well. Maybe the man wanted him out of his casino so he would stop asking questions about Molly.
“Very important,” he assures her with a smile before climbing into the jeep and starting the engine.
It doesn’t occur to him that he has no real idea where he’s going until he drives a few blocks. The city is almost unrecognizable as empty as its streets are. He pulls over and grabs the map the soldier handed him, relieved to discover it’s easy to read, with yellow lines leading him to the headquarters on a direct route through the streets, and a red circle marking the epicenter of the explosion. He doesn’t have to be a scientist to know that access to that area will be extremely limited - he doubts that even the name of New York’s newest senator is going to help him get past that checkpoint. And it’s not as if the army supplied him with a radiation suit, either.
He needs a clue. Somewhere to start from.
“Damn,” he mutters, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as he leans his forehead against it and closes his eyes to think.
Moments tick by before he remembers the list of addresses Nathan slipped into his hand just before he left. He doubts that he’ll find anyone to talk with but maybe Peter might seek shelter in a familiar setting. Quickly sitting up, Mohinder digs through the bag until he finds the small slip of paper with the hastily scribbled scrawl listing four addresses - two are in Central Park West, one on the Lower East Side, and… Mohinder blinks for a moment as he recognizes his own address in Brooklyn. Now that he considers the possibility, it makes sense. It’s plausible that Peter would attempt to seek help from him, even if the last time he was there, things hadn’t gone all too well.
Tucking the paper into his jacket pocket, Mohinder puts the jeep back into drive and heads toward Central Park.
****
“I’ll talk to you later.”
“I love you, Nathan.”
“I love you, too. Give my love to the boys.”
He flips the phone shut, holding it in his hand as he stares at nothing, thoughts focused on his family. He wonders what Heidi would think if she knew the truth about everything; if she knew what he’d done in the pursuit of power. They’d both been so excited when they discovered she could walk that neither of them gave another thought to what he had accepted from Linderman. The subject never came up. The election had been won, Heidi and the boys were off to safety in Nantucket, and then the bomb went off.
And everything changed.
It’s not as if Nathan hadn’t had his misgivings about their plans from the beginning, but both Linderman and his mother convinced him that they were doing this for the right reasons. It made sense in an odd sort of way, and with everything Nathan heard recently, with everything he’d seen… well, working to create a stronger bond for humanity seemed like a good idea. In theory. It wasn’t until he realized his brother would live through it, that Peter would be all right -- that was when Nathan had been fully onboard. What was it Stalin said? One death is a tragedy. A million deaths is a statistic. So what did that make four and a half million deaths? A footnote in history.
It was when the bomb had gone off, when the destruction was done, when the dust had begun to settle and Nathan waited silently for word from Peter, that the true consequences of his actions had hit him. It’s no longer about the dead and dying; it isn’t about New York or the world. It’s about Peter. It’s about what he’s done to his brother, what he never considered.
Peter is responsible for the deaths of four and a half million people. Not Nathan. Nathan can shrug it off as something that needs to be done for the greater good, but Peter… he’s always been the gentle one, the caring one, the one whose concern for others always, without fail, outweighed concern for himself.
And now he was out there, alone; carrying with him a burden of guilt that his shoulders never should have been forced to bear.
Nathan’s own self-loathing has left a bitter taste in his mouth the last week.
To top it all off, what should have been a joyful reunion with his daughter, Claire, has turned into little more than a farce, orchestrated by his mother. On the surface, Nathan understands why they were kept apart for so long, but the resentment has been building with every accusatory look the teenager has flashed in his direction. He can’t help but think how things may have been if Claire had been a part of his life the last few years. He loves Heidi and his boys - can’t imagine life without them. But he has a connection with Claire that doesn’t exist with them, and perhaps it’s the same reason why Peter has always been so special to him. They understand one another. Maybe that would have made a difference; maybe Nathan would be more like Peter if he’d just been allowed to care.
“I don’t care who you are!” The familiar outraged voice of his daughter interrupts his thoughts as the door to the suite opens and she’s guided inside by her grandmother. “You have no right to keep me here! This isn’t fair!”
“And just where would you go?” Angela Petrelli asks, returning her granddaughter’s steady glare with one of her own. “Out to wander the streets of Vegas?”
Claire looks positively livid. It’s obvious she gets such fire from the woman beside her.
“Back to my family,” she says, and her words sting Nathan a little. “My real family.”
His mother sighs, as if she’s heard this argument before - and in the last week she’s probably heard it fifty times - and walks away from Claire. “She was caught by security trying to sneak out through the kitchens.” She pauses beside Nathan, lowering her voice to say, “You’d better have a talk with her.”
He nods slightly as his mother leaves through the door to the adjoining suite.
Slipping his phone into his pocket, Nathan looks over at Claire who is pointedly ignoring him. Her arms are folded defensively across her chest, and she’s breathing a little hard as she stares at the floor. Nathan isn’t certain he’s very good at this, not when it comes to dealing with an emotional teenage girl who’s not only as temperamental as her grandmother but intelligent enough to see right through his bullshit. He reaches back to rub his neck as he walks over to her.
“Claire -“
“What?” She brings her head up sharply, green eyes fixed on his. “What can you say that could possibly make this better?”
He’s at a loss. There isn’t anything he can say but still she waits, watching him, an almost hopeful look in her gaze as if she wants a reason to believe in him. He can’t help but think of Peter.
“Nothing,” he answers honestly. “There’s more going on here than you know - more than even I know. What happened… it happened for a reason -”
“Try explaining that to Peter!” Her lower lip trembles slightly as she speaks his name. “You left him there - you let him - God, don’t you even care what he must be feeling right now? What he must be going through?”
Nathan looks away. “More than you’ll ever know.”
“Then why? Why did you do it? You dragged me out of there and I - I don’t even know if my dad - ”
She cuts herself off, eyes welling with tears she refuses to shed. Nathan hasn’t seen her cry since the night sky lit up behind them over a week ago. She’s strong; strong and stubborn and bright, and Nathan can’t help but feel pride in that. He might not be the one responsible for having raised her but she was still his, flesh and blood.
“I’m sure he’s fine, Claire,” he says for a lack of anything else. “Your grandmother wouldn’t have allowed you to grow up with someone who wasn’t completely capable.”
She just shakes her head and looks away, as if his words aren’t worth a reply. He tries again.
“We have to stick together, you and me. There are things going on - plans that Linderman and my mother and others have put together - and we have to be careful. I’m trying to find out what I can, but too many eyes are on me right now. Between Linderman and Washington and the public - I need your help. I need you to be my eyes and ears around this place. To just play nice until we can figure out what’s going on.”
“You mean with the bomb.” She’s still watching him warily but her brow is furrowed in thought.
Nathan nods. “That, and other things. There’s a little girl that Linderman has here - her name is Molly. Apparently she has the ability to find anyone just by thinking about them. I’ve tried to get in to see her but those attempts have been blocked at every step.”
“She could find Peter!” Her face becomes animated with hope. “She could find my dad!”
“Yes, but for reasons unknown to me at this juncture, Linderman is keeping her safely hidden away from us.”
“Us?”
Taking a breath, Nathan glances toward the window. “I sent someone involved in all of this - a geneticist, Mohinder Suresh - to New York to look for Peter.” He brings his gaze back to hers. “I’m going to find him, Claire, and we’re all going to be there for him.”
Even if he hates me. Even if he can’t stand to be in the same room with me ever again, I’m going to be there for him.
“What about my dad?”
Nathan hopes she might ask about him that way someday. “I’ll ask Suresh to look for him as well.
“Trust me, Claire.” He places his hands on her shoulders, holding her gaze. “Stay with me. Don’t let me lose sight of what’s important. Help me figure out what’s going on. Help me to do what needs to be done to make things right again.”
A long silence stretches between them, and Nathan finds himself wishing he could read her mind. That would be an ultimately more useful ability than flying. He can’t help but feel as if the future hinges on her decision. If he can’t convince his own daughter to believe in him, then what kind of man is he?
“All right, I’ll stay,” she says quietly, staring up at him. “But you don’t get my trust. You haven’t earned it.”
It’s a start. He gives her shoulders a slight squeeze, wanting to pull her into his arms but recognizing that she isn’t ready for that yet. There are a lot of bridges he hopes to build between them.
“Thank you, Claire. I promise I’m not going to let you down again.”
She flashes him a doubtful look, and Nathan secretly acknowledges his own reservations to his statement.
****
He dreams that the Company has Claire, and he’s helpless to get her away from them. Worse still, the man that has replaced him is Sylar, and the last thing he hears is the killer’s laughter as he opens the door to Claire’s cell…
Bennet wakes from the nightmare with a start, glancing around in confusion as he blinks against the harsh, unnatural lighting. He’s drugged, he can figure that much out, his mind moving sluggishly as he attempts to process the images around him. Stark walls, too many beds crammed into one room, the low drone of soft voices and the beeps of machines around him. He’s in a hospital, and on the very edge of his mind there are flashes of memories - being pulled from the rubble of the Holland Tunnel, asking for Claire, the drugs to quiet his panic and numb the pain. There had been someone else…
Parkman.
His memories are slowly coming back, piecemeal. He had been working with Matt to get in and stop the Walker tracking system when he’d received a call from his inside source that the tracking system had already been moved to Las Vegas. They were on their way out of the city when he called Peter to check and make certain Claire was safe, only to find out that her grandmother had taken control of the situation. As much as Bennet wasn’t ready to hand her over to the Petrellis without a fight, he knew she would be safer with them for the time being. They could get her out of the city, and he could focus on eliminating the tracking system once and for all.
They’d just entered the Holland Tunnel when the explosion occurred. Panic erupted as the ground began shaking and firelight lit up the sky behind them. He and Parkman had gotten out of the car, trying to make their way deeper into the tunnel as the debris began to fall. He remembers thinking Peter couldn’t stop Sylar, and then everything went black.
He struggles to sit up in the bed, glancing around for his personal effects but there’s nothing around him other than medical equipment and rows of occupied beds - far more than should have been crammed into the small room. The patient to the right of him is covered in bandages; he can’t even tell if they’re male or female. He turns to his left, and feels a momentary flash of relief at recognition.
“Parkman.”
The telepath opens his eyes, immediately sitting up in bed. “Hey. You’ve been out for a while.”
“How long?” Bennet tosses the bed sheets aside and swings his legs to the floor, wincing slightly at the movement. Where are his glasses?
“Three days you’ve been in and out of it. We spent about that much time in the tunnel.” Parkman frowns. “They destroyed everything we had on us - clothes, glasses, cell phone, wallets, whatever. Radiation.”
“Damn.” He looks around the room for a phone.
“You can’t make any calls,” Parkman says. “The lines are down. What’s available is only being used for emergency purposes. They said it could be a good month before regular phone use is restored.”
“Will you stop that?” Bennet snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.
Across from him, Parkman makes a face. “Sorry, but I figured I’d save you the hassle that I’ve already been through. I’ve got family too, you know.”
He remains silent until he can focus his mind a little more clearly, and refrain from snapping at the one familiar face he has at the moment. It’s possible he’s going to have to rely on Parkman’s ability to find Claire.
“What else do you know?” He asks, squinting slightly as he looks back over at Parkman.
“A little over three million killed in the blast and resulting damage,” he says, voice lowering as if speaking about it too loudly was disrespectful. “They’re projecting another million or more dead in the next three months from the radiation.”
He doesn’t bother asking about his own chances. At the moment, it doesn’t really matter all that much. “We need to get out of here.” He stands, pausing a moment to make certain he has the strength before fixing his gaze on Parkman. “I still need your help. The tracking system is out there - “
“What? Are you mental?” Parkman stares at him in disbelief. “Did you not just hear what I told you? I think there are more important things going on right now.”
“And I think you wouldn’t be saying that if you knew what the Company is still capable of.” His tone is surprisingly calm. “Don’t think that this changes anything, that you or anyone else is suddenly off their scope. I know these people, Parkman. This is only an opportunity for them.”
Parkman slides out of bed, his curiosity obviously piqued. “An opportunity? How?”
“I don’t know.” Bennet looks up at the muted TV, broadcasting aerial images of the destruction throughout the southern tip of Manhattan. “But don’t for one moment believe that this tragedy couldn’t have been prevented.”
Part Two: A Caucus Race and a Long-Tale
Author name: evil_is_pretty
Artist credit(s): Banner by azarsuerte & YouTube Trailer by trackburst or Download from Sendspace
Genre: Gen, AU
Pairing: Ensemble, subtle Sylar/Mohinder
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 29,463
Challenge: Written for heroes_bigboom
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for Season One
Summary: What would have happened if the bomb had gone off?... If Claire hadn't been given the chance to get away from her father and grandmother? If Niki and DL hadn't been able to stop Linderman? If Peter and Hiro had been left to face Sylar alone? Nathan sends Mohinder on a journey to find his brother in the aftermath, and along the way, everyone begins to discover that things aren't always the way they seem.
A/N: Special thanks to trackburst and azarsuerte for the beautiful trailer and artwork! Also thanks to azarsuerte for the title, because I hate coming up with such things! Thanks to my lovely betas, forsquilis (who took the chance to read something from an author she'd never read before!), and icalynn. Also lots of love to my perpetual cheerleader, moonlitpines. This story came about through a mixture of convoluted spoilers generated toward the end of last season, and my secret wish that the bomb had gone off. (I also have an immense love for AU's.) Originally it was just going to be a small Sylar/Mohinder fic... but then Nathan got involved and I ended up with a monster gen. Note to self: Tape Nathan's mouth shut next time... P.S. My apologies to Lewis Carroll for blatantly stealing both titles and quote.
Link to fic:
Part One: Down the Rabbit Hole * Part Two: A Caucus Race and a Long-Tale * Part Three: A Mad Tea-Party * Part Four: The Lion and the Unicorn
“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense.
Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be
what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be.
And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?”
- Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
"If birth is pain, and death is an end to that pain of life, is the whole of evolution then born in pain? The promise of freedom, of release beyond as humanity steps forward onto another path. A renaissance steeped in fire and horror, the beauty of impossibility awakening in the ashes of destruction. I’ve often wondered if I have it within me to sacrifice, to give of myself so that others may live, to reach that very potential that only the noblest and bravest of us have the strength to achieve. To ignore that primal instinct. Is humanity’s eternal struggle for survival, for dominance over nature itself, inherent in our basic need to destroy each other? The inevitably of our eventual self-destruction. If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst at once into the sky, that would be like the splendor of the Mighty one -- I am become Death, the shatterer of Worlds. “ - Mohinder Suresh, PhD, draft prologue to Activating Evolution, Second Edition
There’s a palpable silence in the air as the world mourns.
It’s unlike any devastation witnessed before, and as morbid as it feels, Mohinder can’t help but stand at the window, imaging that here in Las Vegas he can see straight through to the smoke still rising from the ashes of Manhattan. Behind him, the twenty-four hour news coverage continues. At first, there had been mass panic as the words “terrorist attack” rumbled from the explosion. The world went on alert with America as curfews were thrown into place, the National Guard appeared en masse in New York, and everyone held their collective breath as the dust settled and the death toll was taken.
A week later, and the numbers are still coming in. The panic has stilled but confusion lingers. No one understands why there is no trace of a bomb and its components, why no one has stepped forward to take credit for the attack, why it seems as if the explosion occurred out of nowhere, all remnants nonexistent. Mohinder knows, though, and he wants to tell the world, to assure them that it wasn’t an attack, that the danger’s gone. Unfortunately, he’s been warned to say nothing, and he’s being watched - phone calls, visitors, he’s certain the room he’s been given is bugged.
“We need you around,” Thompson told him. “For Molly.”
But he hasn’t been allowed to see Molly. Has only been told that she’s safe and fine, and if it wasn’t for his discovery, things could be much, much worse.
Mohinder can’t figure how such a thing is possible.
They’d barely made it to safety before the bomb went off. There had been a call, a warning that Molly was in danger, and Thompson had dragged them both to the rooftop where Linderman was already aboard the waiting helicopter. They had still been in the air, Mohinder glancing out at the night sky, when the city had become a bright firelight, igniting the darkness.
Sylar. Sylar did this. Of that, Mohinder is certain.
While there’s a small comfort in knowing the monster is dead, there’s far too much horror over the cost. Most of the time, Mohinder is left remembering the last time he spoke to Sylar, wondering if he might have had it in his power to stop him. If he hadn’t attempted to dial the police, if he had gone to confront him on his own, talk to him maybe… But that scenario never made sense. Sylar had meant to kill him. He’d meant to kill Sylar. A second confrontation would have ended badly for one of them, and Mohinder has no doubts as to who that would have been.
No, he couldn’t have stopped him. Sylar had only called him because… there had been no one else.
It was an awful feeling; that lingering doubt as to the role he’d played in the deaths of millions.
There’s a knock at the door, and Mohinder’s relieved to have something to distract him, even if it’s another visit from Thompson. He steps away from the window, moving across the lush beige carpet, thinking again how dirty it feels to be in such a luxuriously appointed building when there are people dead and dying on the other side of the country. He wants to help, to be back there, and to do something, but he’s been assured that he’s needed here. Only, he’s been holed up in this room and no one will tell him what, specifically, it is that he’s still needed for.
He’s impatient. He always has been. It was a cause of contention with his father.
As he pulls the door open, Mohinder’s impatience, along with every previous thought, is swept away. All he can say is, “What are you doing here?”
“That answer would take too long,” Nathan Petrelli says, flashing a half smile. “May I come in?”
He furrows his brow in question but steps aside, allowing the elder Petrelli brother in the room. He hasn’t seen Nathan in weeks; has been waiting for some form of retribution ever since he delivered Peter’s body to his mother. It’s difficult not to blame himself for that death as well; he’d led Sylar straight to Peter just the same as Dale.
“I hope you’re enjoying the accommodations.” His voice is pleasant, and he’s smiling, as if they were reacquainting one another at a cocktail party.
Mohinder frowns. “I’m not certain I would say that, senator. I’m beginning to feel a little like a prisoner, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”
Nathan continues to smile as he reaches into his pocket, pulling an electronic piece of equipment that somewhat resembles a reading light attached to a small console.
“I’m certain that’s not Mr. Linderman’s intent, Dr. Suresh.” He begins to move around the room, glancing down at the device as he does so. “You’re a valuable asset. Certainly even you know of your importance with everything that has happened -“
“Just what do you have to do with -“
Mohinder stops in mid-sentence as Nathan turns back sharply to face him, holding a finger against his lips. As he drops the finger, he continues in his pleasant tone. “As I said, some answers would take far too long. My main concern at the moment is making certain you’re comfortable, and that you understand that the work you could do for us will not only benefit the future, but assure that your name, and that of your father’s, will be remembered for a very long time.”
He stops beside the bookshelf, glancing at the device in his hand for a moment before pressing a button. He waits until a tiny green light appears on the side of the mechanism before setting it on the shelf and turning back to Mohinder. The smile is gone from his face, as is the previous pleasantness of his tone.
“That should keep them occupied with static for a while,” he says. “But we don’t have much time before someone grows suspicious.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I need your help,” Nathan tells him, gaze intent on Mohinder’s own. “I need you to find my brother.”
Mohinder stares at him, not certain he heard his words correctly. “Senator, I brought your brother’s body to your home personally the day of the election -“
“He was fine. There was… “ Nathan hesitates and almost smiles before shaking his head. “There’s no time for explanations. Peter didn’t die that day but if he had, millions of people might still be alive today.”
It takes a moment for Mohinder to catch what Nathan is telling him. Once he does, he immediately denies it. “No, that’s not possible. Sylar was the bomb. He called me - he knew it was going to happen.”
Nathan purses his lips, folding his arms over his chest as he stares at Mohinder. “I’d like to believe that theory. Unfortunately, as I am in possession of a few facts that you are not, I’m inclined to disagree with you. Suffice to say, my brother was likely the cause of the explosion, and from what I understand, it’s very possible he’s still alive.”
Not knowing what to say to that, Mohinder remains silent as Nathan walks past him over to the window. He pushes the curtains aside, gazing down at the row of casinos that line the boulevard. Mohinder wonders if Nathan is as bothered by the eerie stillness and empty streets as he is.
“There’s a lot more going on than you know, Suresh,” Nathan says after a moment, his voice much softer than before. “Plans have been put into motion… mistakes have been made…”
Another pause and there’s a distinct drop in his shoulders, as if the burden of whatever he is carrying around with him is suddenly too much to bear. “Not even I know everything. What I do know is that my brother was left behind, that this was meant to happen, and that he’s out there, alone and frightened, and I need to have him found. The rest of the world seems to be coming apart at the seams - the hell if I’m going to let the same happen to my family.”
Mohinder is uncertain of what to say. None of this is making sense. He starts with the simplest of questions. “If what you say is true, and your brother was the cause of the explosion, why do you believe he’s still alive?”
“From what I’ve been told, the bearer of this particular ability has immunity to its effects.” He turns away from the window, allowing the curtains to fall back into place. “I know someone who’s seen it firsthand. Peter would have been fine.”
“Wait. So you’re telling me someone has this ability to… go nuclear and Peter came into contact with them? And what? Lost control of it?”
There’s a flicker of impatience in Nathan’s eyes, and he glances down at his watch before moving toward the bookshelf, checking on the jamming device. “I don’t know the details, and we don’t have time for them if I did. What I do know is that Peter came into contact with Ted Sprague. They were both prepared to leave the city when, according to my source, this Sylar killed Ted -“
“Then, Sylar was the bomb!”
Nathan shakes his head. “I don’t know what happened to this Sylar, but I do know that all facts point to Peter. He’s missing and I can’t go looking for him. I have other commitments that momentarily take precedence.” He walks up to Mohinder, placing his hand on his shoulder. “I’ve tried to use Linderman’s tracking system but they won’t let me near it. I need your help, Suresh.”
They won’t let Nathan near Molly, either. Mohinder wonders what it is that they’re hiding.
“I need you to go to New York and look for Peter.” Nathan pauses, as if to let this sink in. “Linderman will think you’re in India, gathering some remaining remnants of your father’s research for me. I’ve got all of your travel plans made. Just tell me you’ll do this, and I’ll get you on your way.”
It takes the briefest of moments for Mohinder to push aside the dozens of questions surfacing in his mind. Nathan can’t answer them, but Mohinder might be able to find those answers on his own, in New York. It wasn’t going to be easy; he's a scientist, not a covert ops specialist. How he is going to get past the tight security surrounding Manhattan, he doesn’t know. How he is supposed to find Peter, he hasn’t a clue. But then, nothing about his life has been particularly predictable since his father’s death, and why he expects now to be any different, he’s really not certain.
“All right, senator,” he says with a determined nod. “I’ll go.”
***
The sound of approaching voices causes him to sink further into the recesses between the buildings, flattening himself against the wall where he fades into the shadows. The footsteps draw nearer and within him, the argument continues: reveal himself, or remain hidden? His confusion as to what he should do remains, even as the footsteps pass by him and move on down the street, the voices soon fading into the night air. He wants to ask for help, but he’s afraid.
Afraid because he woke up in a sewer and he doesn’t know how he got there.
Afraid because when he finally found his way out, everything was different.
Afraid because the landscape was scorched, and the streets and buildings were empty. There were fires burning and distant sirens going, and the smells… and the bodies.
Afraid because he’s alive, and for days it seemed as if he was the only one.
Afraid because he doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know who… he doesn’t know who he is.
He hurts everywhere, but especially his stomach, where there’s a deep cut and dried blood around his shirt; however it got there, he doesn’t think he should be alive right now. He knows that much. He clings to the things he does know, like he’s fairly certain he’s in New York City, or what was New York City, and that it’s mid-Fall, but then he figures the chill in the air could tell him that much. He remembers there had been an election but he doesn’t know why that’s significant, or why he can remember all of that, but not what his goddamned name is.
Or where he lives. Or if he has any family.
He kind of hopes he doesn’t have family, or if he does, that they don’t live here.
As he continues to huddle against the brick wall, he notices a cockroach crawling over the toe of his boot. He glares at it, angry that he knows what to call it but not what to call himself. Picking up his foot, he shakes it slightly until the cockroach falls off. For a moment he considers squashing it but changes his mind because there seems to be enough death already, so he slowly lowers his foot as the bug crawls away, disappearing beneath a dumpster. His stomach growls as he stares at the trash receptacle.
“You’re not that hungry yet,” he says, turning away to look back into the street.
A few days ago, he stole some food off of the back of one of the military trucks that occasionally rumble through the streets. Even if he could remember meals he’s had in the past, he has to say this one would be in the top ten for most enjoyable ever simply because he’d been that hungry. He still has a few bars stuffed into the pockets of his coat but he’s trying to save them because he doesn’t know when he’ll get such an opportunity again.
He should probably reveal himself to the next group of patrolling soldiers but it’s the not-knowing that prevents him from doing so. Some part of him fears that maybe he had something to do with all of this. It doesn’t make sense but how else did he end up in a sewer, with a very deep stab wound in his belly? It’s possible that he’s a drug dealer, and a deal went bad, and that thought is more preferable to him at the moment than any other explanation he can conceive of.
With little else to occupy him, he’s spent hours simply sitting in empty buildings and cold back streets, trying to remember. He can remember that gas cost $2.85 a gallon, and that it was November, and that there’s a name for what’s wrong with him. It’s called dissociative amnesia, and can occur sometime after a traumatic event, most common in conjunction with wars, accidents or natural disasters. He isn’t certain how he knows this; it seems so clinical, as if directly from a book. He wonders if whatever happened to the city is responsible for the amnesia, or maybe it had to do with his wound. Days and hours of remembering these things but still his life is a blank slate. Only when he sleeps does he ever glimpse faces, but those images are contorted in terror, eyes wide with fear, and he pushes them aside as nightmares, preferring not to linger over their meaning.
Maybe he’s just crazy.
The familiar panic rushes over him at the thought and he pushes away from the wall, hurrying out into the street. If he keeps walking, maybe he’ll remember. Maybe somewhere nearby, there’s a place he knew as home, maybe there’s someone there who can help him. Or maybe they’re dead like the rest of the city.
Except for the cockroaches, of course.
***
Mohinder checks the items in his bag for the third time while he waits. Nathan’s contacts got him access past the military checkpoints easier than he’d expected, but that didn’t mean things were moving anymore quickly. After leaving the airport, he’s waited at approximately four different places totaling fourteen hours now, and is beginning to wonder if he really didn’t have access after all. Maybe the trick is to keep him waiting until he gets impatient and leaves.
He’s fast approaching that point.
Nathan continued to refuse to give him any answers, even as he spirited him out of the Corinthian hotel and into an awaiting helicopter. He only said that answers would be coming, and he didn’t really need to know anymore than he already did (which amounted to pretty much nothing) to find Peter. As much as Mohinder doesn’t completely trust Nathan Petrelli, it is obvious he cares for his brother, and this alone is enough to convince him to go without argument.
Besides, he owes Peter. A lot.
He glances over the equipment given to him to monitor the radiation, including a little readout to clip to his jacket. It was explained to him in thoroughly graphic detail just what could happen to him if it were ever displayed as not green. Mohinder didn’t bother pointing out that he was already quite well aware of the effects of radiation, thank you very much. He doesn’t know how he’s remained so polite throughout this mess, not when he was fairly certain his civility had gone out the window about the time he’d discovered Sylar had been posing as Zane - right under his nose for three days straight.
Mohinder takes a deep breath, forcing any thoughts of Sylar from his mind. He needs to focus on Peter.
There’s a satellite phone to call Nathan the moment he discovers any information on the whereabouts of his brother, and a bottle of pills to counteract any effects of the radiation. Mohinder figures he’ll stay in relatively safe zones, and everything he’s carrying is simply a precaution. The explosion was a quick, sharp burst of radiation that centered the majority of its destruction in a few blocks radius; the EMP that resulted wiped out most of the lighting along the eastern seaboard. It will take years to clear out the debris, especially around the epicenter, and to replace the top layer of contaminated soil but eventually people would live and work in Manhattan once again.
It is the way of humanity, to continue to struggle against overwhelming odds. As the thought crosses his mind, Mohinder glances over at the gun tucked beneath the few extra sets of clothing. Keep it with you, Nathan had warned.
“Uh… Dr. Sur… eesh?”
He’s a little surprised when he smiles at the mispronunciation of his name, and gets to his feet. “I’m Dr. Suresh.”
“Oh, sorry, Dr. Suresh.” The soldier who approaches him seems genuinely embarrassed at the mistake. She flashes a brief, apologetic smile before once more affecting a more somber expression.
“You’ve been cleared. Be certain to wear this badge at all times. Here’s a map of the stations that have been set up around the city should you run into any problems. If you’ll just follow me, we’ve got a jeep prepared for your use as well.”
Nathan must have called in every favor out there for this one, Mohinder thinks as he clips the badge, complete with his photo, to the lapel of his jacket. He follows the sergeant out the doors of the makeshift headquarters (an elementary school a week ago), and to a waiting jeep parked on the playground. She hands him the key after he tosses his bag into the back.
“Must be some important work you’re doing,” she says, eyeing his few items dubiously. “You’re the first civilian who’s been allowed in.”
She refrains from commenting on his lack of citizenship, though a quick flicker of her eyes toward his badge says it all. There are probably flags raised all over the city at this moment, and Mohinder wonders if Nathan didn’t convince Linderman to help out a little with his entry as well. Maybe the man wanted him out of his casino so he would stop asking questions about Molly.
“Very important,” he assures her with a smile before climbing into the jeep and starting the engine.
It doesn’t occur to him that he has no real idea where he’s going until he drives a few blocks. The city is almost unrecognizable as empty as its streets are. He pulls over and grabs the map the soldier handed him, relieved to discover it’s easy to read, with yellow lines leading him to the headquarters on a direct route through the streets, and a red circle marking the epicenter of the explosion. He doesn’t have to be a scientist to know that access to that area will be extremely limited - he doubts that even the name of New York’s newest senator is going to help him get past that checkpoint. And it’s not as if the army supplied him with a radiation suit, either.
He needs a clue. Somewhere to start from.
“Damn,” he mutters, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as he leans his forehead against it and closes his eyes to think.
Moments tick by before he remembers the list of addresses Nathan slipped into his hand just before he left. He doubts that he’ll find anyone to talk with but maybe Peter might seek shelter in a familiar setting. Quickly sitting up, Mohinder digs through the bag until he finds the small slip of paper with the hastily scribbled scrawl listing four addresses - two are in Central Park West, one on the Lower East Side, and… Mohinder blinks for a moment as he recognizes his own address in Brooklyn. Now that he considers the possibility, it makes sense. It’s plausible that Peter would attempt to seek help from him, even if the last time he was there, things hadn’t gone all too well.
Tucking the paper into his jacket pocket, Mohinder puts the jeep back into drive and heads toward Central Park.
****
“I’ll talk to you later.”
“I love you, Nathan.”
“I love you, too. Give my love to the boys.”
He flips the phone shut, holding it in his hand as he stares at nothing, thoughts focused on his family. He wonders what Heidi would think if she knew the truth about everything; if she knew what he’d done in the pursuit of power. They’d both been so excited when they discovered she could walk that neither of them gave another thought to what he had accepted from Linderman. The subject never came up. The election had been won, Heidi and the boys were off to safety in Nantucket, and then the bomb went off.
And everything changed.
It’s not as if Nathan hadn’t had his misgivings about their plans from the beginning, but both Linderman and his mother convinced him that they were doing this for the right reasons. It made sense in an odd sort of way, and with everything Nathan heard recently, with everything he’d seen… well, working to create a stronger bond for humanity seemed like a good idea. In theory. It wasn’t until he realized his brother would live through it, that Peter would be all right -- that was when Nathan had been fully onboard. What was it Stalin said? One death is a tragedy. A million deaths is a statistic. So what did that make four and a half million deaths? A footnote in history.
It was when the bomb had gone off, when the destruction was done, when the dust had begun to settle and Nathan waited silently for word from Peter, that the true consequences of his actions had hit him. It’s no longer about the dead and dying; it isn’t about New York or the world. It’s about Peter. It’s about what he’s done to his brother, what he never considered.
Peter is responsible for the deaths of four and a half million people. Not Nathan. Nathan can shrug it off as something that needs to be done for the greater good, but Peter… he’s always been the gentle one, the caring one, the one whose concern for others always, without fail, outweighed concern for himself.
And now he was out there, alone; carrying with him a burden of guilt that his shoulders never should have been forced to bear.
Nathan’s own self-loathing has left a bitter taste in his mouth the last week.
To top it all off, what should have been a joyful reunion with his daughter, Claire, has turned into little more than a farce, orchestrated by his mother. On the surface, Nathan understands why they were kept apart for so long, but the resentment has been building with every accusatory look the teenager has flashed in his direction. He can’t help but think how things may have been if Claire had been a part of his life the last few years. He loves Heidi and his boys - can’t imagine life without them. But he has a connection with Claire that doesn’t exist with them, and perhaps it’s the same reason why Peter has always been so special to him. They understand one another. Maybe that would have made a difference; maybe Nathan would be more like Peter if he’d just been allowed to care.
“I don’t care who you are!” The familiar outraged voice of his daughter interrupts his thoughts as the door to the suite opens and she’s guided inside by her grandmother. “You have no right to keep me here! This isn’t fair!”
“And just where would you go?” Angela Petrelli asks, returning her granddaughter’s steady glare with one of her own. “Out to wander the streets of Vegas?”
Claire looks positively livid. It’s obvious she gets such fire from the woman beside her.
“Back to my family,” she says, and her words sting Nathan a little. “My real family.”
His mother sighs, as if she’s heard this argument before - and in the last week she’s probably heard it fifty times - and walks away from Claire. “She was caught by security trying to sneak out through the kitchens.” She pauses beside Nathan, lowering her voice to say, “You’d better have a talk with her.”
He nods slightly as his mother leaves through the door to the adjoining suite.
Slipping his phone into his pocket, Nathan looks over at Claire who is pointedly ignoring him. Her arms are folded defensively across her chest, and she’s breathing a little hard as she stares at the floor. Nathan isn’t certain he’s very good at this, not when it comes to dealing with an emotional teenage girl who’s not only as temperamental as her grandmother but intelligent enough to see right through his bullshit. He reaches back to rub his neck as he walks over to her.
“Claire -“
“What?” She brings her head up sharply, green eyes fixed on his. “What can you say that could possibly make this better?”
He’s at a loss. There isn’t anything he can say but still she waits, watching him, an almost hopeful look in her gaze as if she wants a reason to believe in him. He can’t help but think of Peter.
“Nothing,” he answers honestly. “There’s more going on here than you know - more than even I know. What happened… it happened for a reason -”
“Try explaining that to Peter!” Her lower lip trembles slightly as she speaks his name. “You left him there - you let him - God, don’t you even care what he must be feeling right now? What he must be going through?”
Nathan looks away. “More than you’ll ever know.”
“Then why? Why did you do it? You dragged me out of there and I - I don’t even know if my dad - ”
She cuts herself off, eyes welling with tears she refuses to shed. Nathan hasn’t seen her cry since the night sky lit up behind them over a week ago. She’s strong; strong and stubborn and bright, and Nathan can’t help but feel pride in that. He might not be the one responsible for having raised her but she was still his, flesh and blood.
“I’m sure he’s fine, Claire,” he says for a lack of anything else. “Your grandmother wouldn’t have allowed you to grow up with someone who wasn’t completely capable.”
She just shakes her head and looks away, as if his words aren’t worth a reply. He tries again.
“We have to stick together, you and me. There are things going on - plans that Linderman and my mother and others have put together - and we have to be careful. I’m trying to find out what I can, but too many eyes are on me right now. Between Linderman and Washington and the public - I need your help. I need you to be my eyes and ears around this place. To just play nice until we can figure out what’s going on.”
“You mean with the bomb.” She’s still watching him warily but her brow is furrowed in thought.
Nathan nods. “That, and other things. There’s a little girl that Linderman has here - her name is Molly. Apparently she has the ability to find anyone just by thinking about them. I’ve tried to get in to see her but those attempts have been blocked at every step.”
“She could find Peter!” Her face becomes animated with hope. “She could find my dad!”
“Yes, but for reasons unknown to me at this juncture, Linderman is keeping her safely hidden away from us.”
“Us?”
Taking a breath, Nathan glances toward the window. “I sent someone involved in all of this - a geneticist, Mohinder Suresh - to New York to look for Peter.” He brings his gaze back to hers. “I’m going to find him, Claire, and we’re all going to be there for him.”
Even if he hates me. Even if he can’t stand to be in the same room with me ever again, I’m going to be there for him.
“What about my dad?”
Nathan hopes she might ask about him that way someday. “I’ll ask Suresh to look for him as well.
“Trust me, Claire.” He places his hands on her shoulders, holding her gaze. “Stay with me. Don’t let me lose sight of what’s important. Help me figure out what’s going on. Help me to do what needs to be done to make things right again.”
A long silence stretches between them, and Nathan finds himself wishing he could read her mind. That would be an ultimately more useful ability than flying. He can’t help but feel as if the future hinges on her decision. If he can’t convince his own daughter to believe in him, then what kind of man is he?
“All right, I’ll stay,” she says quietly, staring up at him. “But you don’t get my trust. You haven’t earned it.”
It’s a start. He gives her shoulders a slight squeeze, wanting to pull her into his arms but recognizing that she isn’t ready for that yet. There are a lot of bridges he hopes to build between them.
“Thank you, Claire. I promise I’m not going to let you down again.”
She flashes him a doubtful look, and Nathan secretly acknowledges his own reservations to his statement.
****
He dreams that the Company has Claire, and he’s helpless to get her away from them. Worse still, the man that has replaced him is Sylar, and the last thing he hears is the killer’s laughter as he opens the door to Claire’s cell…
Bennet wakes from the nightmare with a start, glancing around in confusion as he blinks against the harsh, unnatural lighting. He’s drugged, he can figure that much out, his mind moving sluggishly as he attempts to process the images around him. Stark walls, too many beds crammed into one room, the low drone of soft voices and the beeps of machines around him. He’s in a hospital, and on the very edge of his mind there are flashes of memories - being pulled from the rubble of the Holland Tunnel, asking for Claire, the drugs to quiet his panic and numb the pain. There had been someone else…
Parkman.
His memories are slowly coming back, piecemeal. He had been working with Matt to get in and stop the Walker tracking system when he’d received a call from his inside source that the tracking system had already been moved to Las Vegas. They were on their way out of the city when he called Peter to check and make certain Claire was safe, only to find out that her grandmother had taken control of the situation. As much as Bennet wasn’t ready to hand her over to the Petrellis without a fight, he knew she would be safer with them for the time being. They could get her out of the city, and he could focus on eliminating the tracking system once and for all.
They’d just entered the Holland Tunnel when the explosion occurred. Panic erupted as the ground began shaking and firelight lit up the sky behind them. He and Parkman had gotten out of the car, trying to make their way deeper into the tunnel as the debris began to fall. He remembers thinking Peter couldn’t stop Sylar, and then everything went black.
He struggles to sit up in the bed, glancing around for his personal effects but there’s nothing around him other than medical equipment and rows of occupied beds - far more than should have been crammed into the small room. The patient to the right of him is covered in bandages; he can’t even tell if they’re male or female. He turns to his left, and feels a momentary flash of relief at recognition.
“Parkman.”
The telepath opens his eyes, immediately sitting up in bed. “Hey. You’ve been out for a while.”
“How long?” Bennet tosses the bed sheets aside and swings his legs to the floor, wincing slightly at the movement. Where are his glasses?
“Three days you’ve been in and out of it. We spent about that much time in the tunnel.” Parkman frowns. “They destroyed everything we had on us - clothes, glasses, cell phone, wallets, whatever. Radiation.”
“Damn.” He looks around the room for a phone.
“You can’t make any calls,” Parkman says. “The lines are down. What’s available is only being used for emergency purposes. They said it could be a good month before regular phone use is restored.”
“Will you stop that?” Bennet snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.
Across from him, Parkman makes a face. “Sorry, but I figured I’d save you the hassle that I’ve already been through. I’ve got family too, you know.”
He remains silent until he can focus his mind a little more clearly, and refrain from snapping at the one familiar face he has at the moment. It’s possible he’s going to have to rely on Parkman’s ability to find Claire.
“What else do you know?” He asks, squinting slightly as he looks back over at Parkman.
“A little over three million killed in the blast and resulting damage,” he says, voice lowering as if speaking about it too loudly was disrespectful. “They’re projecting another million or more dead in the next three months from the radiation.”
He doesn’t bother asking about his own chances. At the moment, it doesn’t really matter all that much. “We need to get out of here.” He stands, pausing a moment to make certain he has the strength before fixing his gaze on Parkman. “I still need your help. The tracking system is out there - “
“What? Are you mental?” Parkman stares at him in disbelief. “Did you not just hear what I told you? I think there are more important things going on right now.”
“And I think you wouldn’t be saying that if you knew what the Company is still capable of.” His tone is surprisingly calm. “Don’t think that this changes anything, that you or anyone else is suddenly off their scope. I know these people, Parkman. This is only an opportunity for them.”
Parkman slides out of bed, his curiosity obviously piqued. “An opportunity? How?”
“I don’t know.” Bennet looks up at the muted TV, broadcasting aerial images of the destruction throughout the southern tip of Manhattan. “But don’t for one moment believe that this tragedy couldn’t have been prevented.”
Part Two: A Caucus Race and a Long-Tale