I dreamed I was missing
You were so scared
But no one would listen
Cause no one else cared
After my dreaming
I woke with this fear
What am I leaving
When I'm done here
Issac Mendez closed his eyes, and then he opened them again, coming back to the real world from his vision of the future. As always, he could never remember what he saw until he looked at the painting in front of him. There it was. The final painting he would ever complete, for he was looking at a painting of himself.
Dead.
At first Issac was paralyzed with shock, with fear. This was his future? This was how it was all going to end? Suddenly, though, something cold seemed to sweep through him. If he died, who was going to help stop the bomb?
Issac's eyes instinctively fell to the floor and the mural of New York engulfed in flames. He had always loved this city. It was the only companion he had at times. He could not...would not let his vision become reality.
So if you're asking me
I want you to know
When my time comes And don't resent me Leave out all the rest
Forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some
Reasons to be missed
And when you're feeling empty
Keep me in your memory
Leave out all the rest
"Oh, man! The new 9th Wonders. I've been dying to find out what happens to Hiro,"came the delighted voice of the young deliveryman, clearly an Issac Mendez fan. Perfect, Issac thought, smiling, I can trust him to get the job done right.
"The latest, and the last," he said aloud, a sadness creeping into his voice as he said the words. For all the problems in his life, for all the mistakes he had made, he would miss this life; he would miss his art.
"Last?" came the confused voice of the fan, looking at Issac curiously.
"Looks that way," said Issac.
"Why, what do you mean?" said the fan, his curiosity overcoming his perceptiveness. If it hadn't been, perhaps he would have noticed the subtle way Issac's fingers lingered on his paintings and comic, the regret in the artist's eyes.
"Never mind," said Issac dismissively.
"So what happens to Hiro in this one?" said the fan, desperate for any information.
"You promise you won't post any spoilers?" said Issac, leaning toward the fan conspiratorially. The younger man nodded fervently. Slowly, Issac pulled out the incomplete front page of his newest comic. It depicted what he had seen in one of his visions; Hiro Nakamura traveling to the future. Perhaps he'll have better luck changing it, thought Issac. I hope he lives to see it.
"The future? How do you come up with this stuff?!" the fan said excitedly.
Issac shrugged impassively.
"It's a gift. Speaking of which…"
Issac crossed his loft and brought his sketchbook to the fan, putting it into the young man's hands. I won't need this anymore, Issac thought, it might as well go to someone who will appreciate it.
"Your sketchbook? Are you serious?" the fan said disbelievingly.
"Hold on to it. It might be worth something someday," Issac said. Maybe, he thought, there'll be one person who will remember me for my talent.
Don't be afraid I'm strong on the surface
I've taking my beating
I've shared what I've been
Not all the way through
I've never been perfect
But neither have you
"You really can paint the future. Just like the professor said…Fantastic."
Issac had never heard that voice before, but he knew who it belonged to.
"You're late," he said defiantly.
"I guess you know why I'm here," came the cold and calculating voice of the man who called himself Sylar.
"You're the one who's gonna kill me," said Issac with a certainty born of his precognitive ability.
"That's true," said Sylar with the aloof air of one commenting on the weather. "This is usually the part when people start screaming," he said, seemingly disappointed at the change in routine.
"I tried fighting the future. It's too big for me. Maybe you can do better."
"Why me? Do you see some special future for me?" said Sylar, and for the first time Issac thought he saw something different in the eyes of the madman before him. He saw…expectation. Anticipation. Something almost human. It was so fleeting, however, that Issac could not be sure he had seen it at all.
"They stop you ... and you die," Issac said, the words giving him strength. A strength he would need to face the ordeal he knew was coming.
"You painted all that too?" Sylar said derisively. Show me."
When Issac did not reply Sylar tapped into the reserves of rage within him and called upon his power of persuasion.
"SHOW ME!"
Futilely Issac's thoughts, and his eyes, strayed towards the gun sitting on the table behind him. Sylar, seeming to read his mind, however, moved the weapon with his mind.
"Now, now," he said, like a parent scolding a naughty child. Sylar was through playing games with this artist. He wanted his anwers.
Issac screamed as he was pinned through both wrists with his own paintbrushes. Through his agony, the artist within him appreciated the poetry of it. He knew, though, that Sylar would not get what he had come for, and that was enough.
"It's already gone," he said, all fear washed away.
"Why don't you tell me all about it then?"
"I've seen enough of the future. I don't need to watch it happen." Issac thought about his life since he discovered his ability and what his life was before he gave up using. Simone's face seemed to hover over him as he watched the ceiling, reminding him of what might have been.
"I've wasted my life, destroyed everything good that ever came to me. At least I did one good thing before I died."
"Look, don't you get it? Everything is connected. We are all connected."
He could hear Peter Petrelli's voice in his mind, brimming with certainty; with faith. He could never understand that unwavering surety until now. Issac did not know what the future would hold, but he did know that his vision would not come to pass. He knew, somehow, that he had done what he needed to help save New York.
"You can't fight the future," he warned Sylar.
"Neither can you," came the smug reply.
"It's all right," Issac said, peace stealing through him, "I finally know my part in all of this. To die here with you. But not before I show them how to kill you…and stop the bomb. I finally get to be a hero."
Pretending
Someone else can come and save me from myself
I can't be who you are
I can't be who you are
So if you're asking me
I want you to know
When my time comes
Forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some
Reasons to be missed
And don't resent me
And when you're feeling empty
Keep me in your memory
A/N: So I just finished listening to Linkin Park's new album (one of my all-time favorite bands) and was struck by how well this song fit Issac Mendez's death scene. I felt compelled to try a songfiction and...voila!