(no subject)
Strange Condition
by Harikari
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Part Seven
"What is this?" asked Mohinder.
Night had fallen. He and the killer were sitting in the Kia, which was parallel parked outside of a plain looking three story building. The building stood silent, buttery light shining through a few of its square windows. Sylar was leaning forward in his seat - his chest was pressed against the steering wheel, his head turned at an awkward angle.
He's listening, the geneticist realized. The serial killer was listening intently to something or someone inside of the building, perhaps even (considering his unnatural hearing) to someone or something a mile away.
Mohinder shifted in his seat. Worked at his bottom lip with his teeth. "Where are we?" he tried. When Sylar still didn't answer he sighed. He didn't need an answer from the other man, he could guess where they were and what they were doing there. They were probably parked just outside of an apartment building where a person - likely an innocent, unsuspecting person - with a special ability lived. And Sylar was probably planning on killing that person. Soon. Tonight.
That morning, before they had pulled away from the little diner and before they had headed back to the inn where the geneticist had been forced to wait in the rented room while his captor had done laundry (honestly, laundry) and before they had checked out of the inn, the killer had mentioned that he had some 'things' to take care of.
Mohinder had no doubt that they were in the middle of taking care of one of those aforementioned things. Had little doubt that whatever they were taking care of - whatever the other man had planned - would end in violence, in blood.
"I told you before. I'm not-" he started calmly, but was cut off.
"It's quiet," said Sylar as he turned in his seat. His dark eyes met the geneticist's.
Mohinder pursed his lips. "What is?" he asked after a moment. "The building?"
There was a pause, a beat of stillness. The serial killer's eyes didn't stray from his captive's.
"Why are we here, Sylar?" asked the geneticist when the silence had stretched too long. "Are we..." He trailed off. "You're going to kill someone, aren't you?"
The killer opened his mouth as if to answer; turned abruptly when one of the building's main doors creaked open. A woman emerged. She seemed to be in a hurry; her high heels clicked loudly against the sidewalk as she strode towards a compact car that was parallel parked a space ahead of the Kia. There was the sound of keys jingling, the pop of an opening door. Mohinder watched along with Sylar as the little car's interior light switched on, as the slim figure of the woman slipped into the vehicle. The car's door snapped shut. Seconds slid by, and then the car's headlights were shining, its engine was purring - the woman pulled away.
It's a cold night, mused Mohinder. She should have warmed it up.
"We should go," came the killer's deep voice. The geneticist turned. Saw that the other man was squinting at the face of the watch fastened around his wrist.
Mohinder tensed at the sight of the watch. Memories rose up suddenly from the depths of his mind. The vivid dream he'd had of his father's murder, a dimly lit apartment with writing on its walls, the mangled corpse of an innocent mechanic, Zane's smile.
Mohinder closed his eyes. Realized the bite on his neck was throbbing.
"Come on," said Sylar. And then he was opening his door, his tall form unfolding out of the driver's seat. Cold, moist air rushed into the car as the driver's side door slammed shut. The geneticist shivered, but didn't reach for his door handle.
"Mohinder," urged the serial killer. His voice sounded vague coming from behind the tightly shut window, distracted. He was gazing at the building. Thinking, probably. Planning.
"I told you when..." Mohinder started, faltered. "I told you before that I'm not going to help you, Sylar. I won't-"
The passenger's side door exploded outward. The geneticist jumped in his seat; stared open mouthed at the now open door.
"Get out," ordered Sylar. The geneticist shot a look at his captor. The other man was looking at him with narrowed eyes. His arms were straight at his sides, his hands were clenched into fists. "Now, Mohinder."
Suddenly, the invisible hands were back. Gripping hard at his elbow, pushing at him, forcing...
"Stop," hissed Mohinder. The hands stopped pushing, stopped pulling. But the grip on his elbow stayed firm. Muscles tense, breathing fast with anger, the geneticist stared at the killer with hard eyes. The killer stared back.
At a loss, Mohinder slid to the edge of his seat; got out of the car.
"Good boy," breathed Sylar, already studying the building again, and the geneticist seethed.
-----
The night air was crisp. The light snowfall had let up around noon - had left the city wet and dreary. Heavy gray-black clouds hid the stars, hung low and threatening in the sky.
They climbed two squat, cement steps to reach the building's double entrance doors. The serial killer closed his eyes; there was a series of clicking sounds, both knobs turned and the doors swung wide.
They headed immediately for the elevator at the back of the lobby. Sylar pushed a button, and they rode silently up to the third floor. There was a ding. The elevator doors opened to reveal a long and dimly lit hallway.
Without a word, the killer started down the hallway. Mohinder followed him.
"Okay " said Sylar when they'd reached a door at the very end of the hall (the door was blue and had a cheap, metal 3F fastened to it just below its fish eye). He grabbed at the geneticist's shoulders and pushed him back; forced him flush against the door directly opposite apartment 3F's. Mohinder swallowed and hoped no one on the floor would hear them, hoped no one would try to confront Sylar and get themselves hurt or killed. "Stay here. Don't move."
Don't move.
Yet again, the geneticist found himself wanting to argue. He wanted to demand that Sylar tell him what exactly he was planning, wanted to do something to prevent the ugliness he knew was coming. Instead, he reminded himself of Molly and the others and of his resolve to avoid conflict with the serial killer and keep himself alive so that he might warn them, so that he might tell them that the dangerous man they thought dead was very much alive.
He nodded. The killer gave his shoulders a painful squeeze, then let go.
The geneticist watched as the serial killer turned to face 3F, as the door wushed open as if of its own volition. Watched Sylar step into the apartment and disappear from sight.
Mohinder held his breath, closed his eyes and waited. Waited for what he wasn't quite sure. For screams (which was, he would realize later, ridiculous because the serial killer was skilled enough that he wouldn't give his victim or victims a chance to scream when there was the risk of being heard and interrupted), for maniacal laughter, furniture being upset, the myriad of sounds that would come with a struggle.
But a long moment crept by and there was nothing. No sound. No movement.
The geneticist opened his eyes. Allowed himself to breath again. Maybe no one is home, he thought and raised his arms to fold them over his chest. He said it was quiet. Maybe-
There was a crinkling sound. Like a piece of paper being smashed, like...
The photo. Mohinder reached into his jacket's front pocket and pulled out the now slightly bent looking black and white photo of a little girl and (he assumed) a young Jake Harris. He frowned. He'd stuffed the picture into his pocket days ago, while rifling through Harris' wrecked living room - and he'd promptly forgotten about. He couldn't, in fact, recall why he'd bothered to keep the thing at all.
I must have just...tucked it away without thinking, reasoned Mohinder. It made sense. He'd been worried that Sylar had witnessed him grab the cell phone at the time, had been nervous and distracted.
The geneticist's eyes moved to the apartment's gaping door. Still nothing. He turned back to the photo, absently flipped it over.
J AND D, the back of the photo read in blocky letters. And just below that: FALL, 1969.
"Nothing," hissed Sylar from 3F's doorway. Mohinder, caught off guard, flinched. "I don't understand this," the killer went on, his voice harsh with anger. He spotted the photo in the geneticist's hand and, without a word, strode forward and grabbed it. "What-" he started, faltered suddenly when he glanced at the picture. He paused, squinted at something or someone in the picture with great attention for a second. Then he shook his head, smashed the photo in his fist and let it fall to the floor.
Mohinder stared. "What don't you understand?" he ventured after a moment of gazing blankly at the ruined photo on the floor. He turned away from the crumpled bit of paper; met Sylar's furious eyes.
"She was supposed to be here," said the killer in a low voice. "There's no reason...I watched her." His teeth clenched in a grimace. "I only left for Harris... Taking, having you slowed me down but..." he trailed off. "Something is wrong," he announced after a moment. "Someone-"
"You've been stalking her," broke in Mohinder. It wasn't a question. His tone was harsh, and his eyes were narrowed. He was suddenly sick, furious. "You were stalking this woman and..." His dark eyes widened. "You... You were going to kill Harris, and then you were going to kill her. Only Harris didn't die. Only..."
The woman isn't here for him to kill. Why isn't she here for him to kill?
Sylar was staring at him, expressionless. I'm being an imbecile, thought Mohinder, combing slender fingers through his hair. I knew. I've known all along that he was out for murder. I just...can't do anything about it. Won't do anything. Because the others...
The anger he was feeling wasn't fading; instead it was raving in his stomach like a horde of agitated butterflies, was caught in his throat like an itch that couldn't be scratched. He was angry at Sylar, of course. But he was also, suddenly, angry at himself.
He hadn't made any effort to help Harris, to help the woman who lived in apartment 3F. He'd been repeatedly reminding himself (telling himself) that he was doing all he was doing - picking his battles, acting mostly subservient -- for the good of Molly and the others. And yet his heart had leaped at the chance of rescue, at the possibility of a rescue that could get someone he cared about killed.
And Jake Harris, he thought. Harris had no obligation, no past connection to him. The man might decide he didn't want anything to do with helping him, that he didn't want anything more to do with the powerful psycho that had attempted to kill him. (Never mind that he'd sought out Mohinder's apartment, that he'd met up with Niki and D.L., that didn't mean anything concrete). And even if Harris does help, realized the geneticist, there's no guarantee that he can overpower Sylar. There was no guarantee that he wouldn't be murdered.
A large hand gripped his forearm. Mohinder, feeling dazed and distracted with all of the dark thoughts running through his mind, didn't resist.
Without a word, Sylar pulled him down the hallway. They reached the elevator; rode it back to the ground floor.
When the ding sounded and the doors slid open to reveal the lobby the geneticist finally jerked out of the hold. "Don't touch me," he said, and then promptly bit his lip. He was tired of being a captive, he was furious at himself and at the killer, he wasn't thinking straight.
Sylar, no doubt feeling irritated himself after missing his chance to aquire two abilities in a row, made a low and dangerous sound in his throat. "This is your warning, Mohinder," he growled as they reached the exit. Mohinder was walking slightly ahead of him, trying his best to ignore the other man.
The geneticist pushed at both doors and they flew wide; outside was just as they had left it - cold but not snowing, quiet, the Kia parallel parked, the night sky rife with ominous clouds. The street before the three story building was exactly as it had been before they had gone inside...except for one thing.
One person.
"You will not-" the serial killer was saying, but stopped abruptly when he spotted the figure standing directly across the street. The figure was hunched, clad in what looked in the poor light like a blue jacket and jeans. And the figure was facing them. Staring at them.
For a moment Mohinder's mind was blank, uncomprehending of what or who he was looking at. And then the person across the street shifted, and the answer of who it was they were looking at jumped to the forefront of the geneticist's mind. "Harris," he breathed (it sounded a little like a question), and despite his earlier dark thoughts he felt glad, excited.
"You," said Sylar from behind him as Mohinder was tensing to move out of the way. Because Jake Harris was running now, rushing towards them and-
Without slowing down, Harris lifted his hand. There was a quick flash of blue-white light and then-
Mohinder felt a pain in his side. He gasped. Stumbled back into Sylar's chest. He felt the killer catch him; felt large hands grip his arms to steady him. A wetness that was both warm and cold at the same time began dripping down his skin, the hands guided him to sit on one of the squat steps.
"Wha-" Mohinder tried, clutching at his right side (the shirt he was wearing was torn there, was suddenly damp and hot), but no one was listening to him.
The geneticist, unsure and in pain, looked up. Saw Sylar standing in front of him, saw Jake Harris now only a few feet away. He was facing the killer.
"You deserve this," said Harris. "You both deserve this."
Harris tensed; clenched his fists. Sylar spread his fingers wide, and a dangerous looking glow appeared, hovering, over his left palm.
"Okay, Harris," hissed the killer at the exact same moment Jake Harris breathed, "Let's finish this."
There was movement then, heat and light and noise.
But Mohinder was hurting, and tired, and words were running through his head. He tried to kill you. Hadn't Sylar said that? Hadn't the killer told him that from the very beginning?
So much for being saved. And the geneticist looked up one last time - caught a glimpse of Harris' face. He felt a flash of recognition, a feeling of 'I know him, I know who he is' for a brief second.
And then there was blackness.
Part Eight
by Harikari
-----
Part Seven
"What is this?" asked Mohinder.
Night had fallen. He and the killer were sitting in the Kia, which was parallel parked outside of a plain looking three story building. The building stood silent, buttery light shining through a few of its square windows. Sylar was leaning forward in his seat - his chest was pressed against the steering wheel, his head turned at an awkward angle.
He's listening, the geneticist realized. The serial killer was listening intently to something or someone inside of the building, perhaps even (considering his unnatural hearing) to someone or something a mile away.
Mohinder shifted in his seat. Worked at his bottom lip with his teeth. "Where are we?" he tried. When Sylar still didn't answer he sighed. He didn't need an answer from the other man, he could guess where they were and what they were doing there. They were probably parked just outside of an apartment building where a person - likely an innocent, unsuspecting person - with a special ability lived. And Sylar was probably planning on killing that person. Soon. Tonight.
That morning, before they had pulled away from the little diner and before they had headed back to the inn where the geneticist had been forced to wait in the rented room while his captor had done laundry (honestly, laundry) and before they had checked out of the inn, the killer had mentioned that he had some 'things' to take care of.
Mohinder had no doubt that they were in the middle of taking care of one of those aforementioned things. Had little doubt that whatever they were taking care of - whatever the other man had planned - would end in violence, in blood.
"I told you before. I'm not-" he started calmly, but was cut off.
"It's quiet," said Sylar as he turned in his seat. His dark eyes met the geneticist's.
Mohinder pursed his lips. "What is?" he asked after a moment. "The building?"
There was a pause, a beat of stillness. The serial killer's eyes didn't stray from his captive's.
"Why are we here, Sylar?" asked the geneticist when the silence had stretched too long. "Are we..." He trailed off. "You're going to kill someone, aren't you?"
The killer opened his mouth as if to answer; turned abruptly when one of the building's main doors creaked open. A woman emerged. She seemed to be in a hurry; her high heels clicked loudly against the sidewalk as she strode towards a compact car that was parallel parked a space ahead of the Kia. There was the sound of keys jingling, the pop of an opening door. Mohinder watched along with Sylar as the little car's interior light switched on, as the slim figure of the woman slipped into the vehicle. The car's door snapped shut. Seconds slid by, and then the car's headlights were shining, its engine was purring - the woman pulled away.
It's a cold night, mused Mohinder. She should have warmed it up.
"We should go," came the killer's deep voice. The geneticist turned. Saw that the other man was squinting at the face of the watch fastened around his wrist.
Mohinder tensed at the sight of the watch. Memories rose up suddenly from the depths of his mind. The vivid dream he'd had of his father's murder, a dimly lit apartment with writing on its walls, the mangled corpse of an innocent mechanic, Zane's smile.
Mohinder closed his eyes. Realized the bite on his neck was throbbing.
"Come on," said Sylar. And then he was opening his door, his tall form unfolding out of the driver's seat. Cold, moist air rushed into the car as the driver's side door slammed shut. The geneticist shivered, but didn't reach for his door handle.
"Mohinder," urged the serial killer. His voice sounded vague coming from behind the tightly shut window, distracted. He was gazing at the building. Thinking, probably. Planning.
"I told you when..." Mohinder started, faltered. "I told you before that I'm not going to help you, Sylar. I won't-"
The passenger's side door exploded outward. The geneticist jumped in his seat; stared open mouthed at the now open door.
"Get out," ordered Sylar. The geneticist shot a look at his captor. The other man was looking at him with narrowed eyes. His arms were straight at his sides, his hands were clenched into fists. "Now, Mohinder."
Suddenly, the invisible hands were back. Gripping hard at his elbow, pushing at him, forcing...
"Stop," hissed Mohinder. The hands stopped pushing, stopped pulling. But the grip on his elbow stayed firm. Muscles tense, breathing fast with anger, the geneticist stared at the killer with hard eyes. The killer stared back.
At a loss, Mohinder slid to the edge of his seat; got out of the car.
"Good boy," breathed Sylar, already studying the building again, and the geneticist seethed.
-----
The night air was crisp. The light snowfall had let up around noon - had left the city wet and dreary. Heavy gray-black clouds hid the stars, hung low and threatening in the sky.
They climbed two squat, cement steps to reach the building's double entrance doors. The serial killer closed his eyes; there was a series of clicking sounds, both knobs turned and the doors swung wide.
They headed immediately for the elevator at the back of the lobby. Sylar pushed a button, and they rode silently up to the third floor. There was a ding. The elevator doors opened to reveal a long and dimly lit hallway.
Without a word, the killer started down the hallway. Mohinder followed him.
"Okay " said Sylar when they'd reached a door at the very end of the hall (the door was blue and had a cheap, metal 3F fastened to it just below its fish eye). He grabbed at the geneticist's shoulders and pushed him back; forced him flush against the door directly opposite apartment 3F's. Mohinder swallowed and hoped no one on the floor would hear them, hoped no one would try to confront Sylar and get themselves hurt or killed. "Stay here. Don't move."
Don't move.
Yet again, the geneticist found himself wanting to argue. He wanted to demand that Sylar tell him what exactly he was planning, wanted to do something to prevent the ugliness he knew was coming. Instead, he reminded himself of Molly and the others and of his resolve to avoid conflict with the serial killer and keep himself alive so that he might warn them, so that he might tell them that the dangerous man they thought dead was very much alive.
He nodded. The killer gave his shoulders a painful squeeze, then let go.
The geneticist watched as the serial killer turned to face 3F, as the door wushed open as if of its own volition. Watched Sylar step into the apartment and disappear from sight.
Mohinder held his breath, closed his eyes and waited. Waited for what he wasn't quite sure. For screams (which was, he would realize later, ridiculous because the serial killer was skilled enough that he wouldn't give his victim or victims a chance to scream when there was the risk of being heard and interrupted), for maniacal laughter, furniture being upset, the myriad of sounds that would come with a struggle.
But a long moment crept by and there was nothing. No sound. No movement.
The geneticist opened his eyes. Allowed himself to breath again. Maybe no one is home, he thought and raised his arms to fold them over his chest. He said it was quiet. Maybe-
There was a crinkling sound. Like a piece of paper being smashed, like...
The photo. Mohinder reached into his jacket's front pocket and pulled out the now slightly bent looking black and white photo of a little girl and (he assumed) a young Jake Harris. He frowned. He'd stuffed the picture into his pocket days ago, while rifling through Harris' wrecked living room - and he'd promptly forgotten about. He couldn't, in fact, recall why he'd bothered to keep the thing at all.
I must have just...tucked it away without thinking, reasoned Mohinder. It made sense. He'd been worried that Sylar had witnessed him grab the cell phone at the time, had been nervous and distracted.
The geneticist's eyes moved to the apartment's gaping door. Still nothing. He turned back to the photo, absently flipped it over.
J AND D, the back of the photo read in blocky letters. And just below that: FALL, 1969.
"Nothing," hissed Sylar from 3F's doorway. Mohinder, caught off guard, flinched. "I don't understand this," the killer went on, his voice harsh with anger. He spotted the photo in the geneticist's hand and, without a word, strode forward and grabbed it. "What-" he started, faltered suddenly when he glanced at the picture. He paused, squinted at something or someone in the picture with great attention for a second. Then he shook his head, smashed the photo in his fist and let it fall to the floor.
Mohinder stared. "What don't you understand?" he ventured after a moment of gazing blankly at the ruined photo on the floor. He turned away from the crumpled bit of paper; met Sylar's furious eyes.
"She was supposed to be here," said the killer in a low voice. "There's no reason...I watched her." His teeth clenched in a grimace. "I only left for Harris... Taking, having you slowed me down but..." he trailed off. "Something is wrong," he announced after a moment. "Someone-"
"You've been stalking her," broke in Mohinder. It wasn't a question. His tone was harsh, and his eyes were narrowed. He was suddenly sick, furious. "You were stalking this woman and..." His dark eyes widened. "You... You were going to kill Harris, and then you were going to kill her. Only Harris didn't die. Only..."
The woman isn't here for him to kill. Why isn't she here for him to kill?
Sylar was staring at him, expressionless. I'm being an imbecile, thought Mohinder, combing slender fingers through his hair. I knew. I've known all along that he was out for murder. I just...can't do anything about it. Won't do anything. Because the others...
The anger he was feeling wasn't fading; instead it was raving in his stomach like a horde of agitated butterflies, was caught in his throat like an itch that couldn't be scratched. He was angry at Sylar, of course. But he was also, suddenly, angry at himself.
He hadn't made any effort to help Harris, to help the woman who lived in apartment 3F. He'd been repeatedly reminding himself (telling himself) that he was doing all he was doing - picking his battles, acting mostly subservient -- for the good of Molly and the others. And yet his heart had leaped at the chance of rescue, at the possibility of a rescue that could get someone he cared about killed.
And Jake Harris, he thought. Harris had no obligation, no past connection to him. The man might decide he didn't want anything to do with helping him, that he didn't want anything more to do with the powerful psycho that had attempted to kill him. (Never mind that he'd sought out Mohinder's apartment, that he'd met up with Niki and D.L., that didn't mean anything concrete). And even if Harris does help, realized the geneticist, there's no guarantee that he can overpower Sylar. There was no guarantee that he wouldn't be murdered.
A large hand gripped his forearm. Mohinder, feeling dazed and distracted with all of the dark thoughts running through his mind, didn't resist.
Without a word, Sylar pulled him down the hallway. They reached the elevator; rode it back to the ground floor.
When the ding sounded and the doors slid open to reveal the lobby the geneticist finally jerked out of the hold. "Don't touch me," he said, and then promptly bit his lip. He was tired of being a captive, he was furious at himself and at the killer, he wasn't thinking straight.
Sylar, no doubt feeling irritated himself after missing his chance to aquire two abilities in a row, made a low and dangerous sound in his throat. "This is your warning, Mohinder," he growled as they reached the exit. Mohinder was walking slightly ahead of him, trying his best to ignore the other man.
The geneticist pushed at both doors and they flew wide; outside was just as they had left it - cold but not snowing, quiet, the Kia parallel parked, the night sky rife with ominous clouds. The street before the three story building was exactly as it had been before they had gone inside...except for one thing.
One person.
"You will not-" the serial killer was saying, but stopped abruptly when he spotted the figure standing directly across the street. The figure was hunched, clad in what looked in the poor light like a blue jacket and jeans. And the figure was facing them. Staring at them.
For a moment Mohinder's mind was blank, uncomprehending of what or who he was looking at. And then the person across the street shifted, and the answer of who it was they were looking at jumped to the forefront of the geneticist's mind. "Harris," he breathed (it sounded a little like a question), and despite his earlier dark thoughts he felt glad, excited.
"You," said Sylar from behind him as Mohinder was tensing to move out of the way. Because Jake Harris was running now, rushing towards them and-
Without slowing down, Harris lifted his hand. There was a quick flash of blue-white light and then-
Mohinder felt a pain in his side. He gasped. Stumbled back into Sylar's chest. He felt the killer catch him; felt large hands grip his arms to steady him. A wetness that was both warm and cold at the same time began dripping down his skin, the hands guided him to sit on one of the squat steps.
"Wha-" Mohinder tried, clutching at his right side (the shirt he was wearing was torn there, was suddenly damp and hot), but no one was listening to him.
The geneticist, unsure and in pain, looked up. Saw Sylar standing in front of him, saw Jake Harris now only a few feet away. He was facing the killer.
"You deserve this," said Harris. "You both deserve this."
Harris tensed; clenched his fists. Sylar spread his fingers wide, and a dangerous looking glow appeared, hovering, over his left palm.
"Okay, Harris," hissed the killer at the exact same moment Jake Harris breathed, "Let's finish this."
There was movement then, heat and light and noise.
But Mohinder was hurting, and tired, and words were running through his head. He tried to kill you. Hadn't Sylar said that? Hadn't the killer told him that from the very beginning?
So much for being saved. And the geneticist looked up one last time - caught a glimpse of Harris' face. He felt a flash of recognition, a feeling of 'I know him, I know who he is' for a brief second.
And then there was blackness.
Part Eight