"And then I'll let you save me." -Sylar
Title: Evil (1/?)
Author: Verdesilath
Rating: R
Warnings: violence and disturbing imagery in later chapters, sexual tension
Battle not with monsters
lest ye become a monster
and if you gaze into the abyss
the abyss gazes into you.
-Nietzsche
Disclaimer: I do not own and am in no way affiliated with Heroes. The plot, however, is my own, and the interpretation of the characters come from my creative ingenuity. This is simply a fanwork.
Word Count: 3848
1
Trust Issues
The television cast a weak light that scattered the shadows and seeped under weary eyelids. Stumbling from the couch, before cursing his own sleep-induced clumsiness that caused each of his steps to reverberate loudly throughout the room, he attempted to turn off the offending machine. In the fog of his mind, he dimly hoped that Molly had not awakened. Frowning at that thought, he brought his eyes to the screen. Bold white letters reading "Breaking News" headed the screen, and a male reporter with the appropriate worried expression spoke in dramatic tones. This textbook expression was used when reporting urgent situations varying from gruesome murders to the announcement of the dissemination of lewd, offensive photos of young pop stars. Needless to say, the viewers were almost equally concerned about both topics. Judging that the news reporter's powdered face was no more convincing than usual and the important news could wait until the morning, Suresh sighed and switched off the television. He wondered who had left it on; it had only been a week ago that the three inhabitants of the apartment had recently conversed about the importance of energy conservation. Apparently his words had not reached someone.
As he bent to pick up a stray piece of paper that Matt had probably forgotten to put up, he realized just how tired he felt. His limbs felt stiff and heavy and his body craved his normal dose of caffeine. He kept the same long hours as usual, to the point of disregarding his health to a degree, but his work was no more strenuous than before. What had changed? There was one obvious answer. His stress level had increased at an alarming rate ever since he had found Sylar quite at home in his apartment and only a few feet away from his Molly.
Every night, as exhaustion closed in on him and sleep seductively wrapped its arms about him, he was greeted with a terrible mind-image. He would see Sylar smiling at him; he had found that smile charming if a bit unnerving on Zane, but on Sylar the grin alluded to deviance and was downright disturbing. Embarrassed by the fear he felt, his fingers found themselves burrowed in his sheets, and he would breathe slowly until the fear subsided. All was well and good at this point, barring the fact that the fear never completely disappeared. The shadows had brought the dark feeling into his heart, and the bright unforgiving light of day did nothing to rid him of it.
After the phenomenon had consistently occurred for four days, he could no longer dismiss it. Especially since Molly had commented on the bags under his eyes yesterday. He had attempted to blame it on the bruising, but no one had believed him. Even if he they had, the mind-reader could have easily called him out on it. He could still remember the exact look Parkman had given him. Knowing Parkman and his nosiness, he would eventually confront him about it. It was inevitable. Lately, though, Mohinder had become more skilled in lying to himself, and it was not difficult to choose to ignore the upsetting facts that were dancing the tango in his head. Mohinder winced when he noticed how he had come to associate the facts with an emotion. Facts were simply facts, information that could be utilized to change, create, or destroy. Dismissing empirical evidence was illogical and made for a bad scientist. He diagnosed himself with what was left of his sleep-deprived yet damningly sharp mind: overemotional, unable to make the necessary decisions due to subjectivity. Wouldn't his father be proud if he could see him now?
Forcing his body towards his laptop, he turned it on and welcomed the normalcy of its stark, white glow. As he typed in a password, his gaze found the couch, lingered for a moment, and then focused on the symbols on the screen. It was easy to justify work over sleep. Besides, it was not as if he was an insomniac or anything.
"Hey, Mohinder. How long you been up?" Parkman asked, stretching his arms above him. Sleep had not yet left him completely. Thick fingers slid down his face, as if he subconsciously believed the physical act would remove the mental affliction. Pausing to study Mohinder's intense gaze, a yawn escaped from his sturdy body.
"Mohinder," he repeated. He received no reaction. Mohinder's fingers continued to rapidly press the letters on his keyboards. Slightly cranky and annoyed by Mohinder's lack of recognition of his question, he snapped.
"What are you writing, a book or something? Isn't this your day off?" The tapping stopped and the Indian's fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment.
"This doesn't concern you," Mohinder replied, gulping down some steaming liquid from a mug. Matt winced.
"What's got you all in a twist? Sure, it's only nine, but you shouldn't be this snappy in the morning." Matt muttered, before refocusing on his planned interrogation. He could be patient with the man. He had been somewhat patient with his wife even before he had free rein to examine her thoughts.
"Unless, of course, you didn't sleep last night," Parkman paused, waiting for some sort of reaction. Suresh simply raised an eyebrow.
"I did,"
"But a lot has been on your mind lately." Parkman said, anticipating that the comment would spark a reaction. It did.
"Matt, I told you not to go rifling through my mind! It's..." Before Mohinder could finish a self-righteous, half-hearted speech, Matt speedily replied.
"I don't have to read your mind to see that you haven't been sleeping. Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately? You look half-dead."
"It's none of your business," Mohinder said with a sharp finality to his tone. Matt's voice level elevated.
"Oh! None of my business? Maybe you're right, Mohinder, but when your problems start to affect Molly, you have let them get to the point where they are my business. Molly worries about you a lot. It's on her mind all the time. And I know you care about Molly and that you know that that kid has been through a lot and deserves a normal childhood. We can't give her that, but we can still provide her with some stability and try to give her something good! In order to do that though, we have to be responsible. So, do her a favor and stop adding to all of the problems in her life!" Matt stopped, realizing he had phrased the last sentence in a way that would anger Mohinder.
"Adding to her problems? What are you trying to say, Matt?" Mohinder said testily, a hint of defensiveness permeating his voice.
"C'mon, Mohinder. What with your unstable health,"
"No! That's not what you were talking about it, and you know it. I want you to say it." Matt paused, slightly confused by the doctor's words.
"Say what?"
"You think I'm a bad father figure for her," Mohinder said mechanically, as if discussing something as obvious and simple as osmosis.
"You are changing the topic!"
"And you're not denying it."
"Well, what can I say? I'm not the one that has her worst nightmare coming to call on me whenever he needs something! Just great Mohinder. You don't even have a power and yet he's after you. And he brings his girlfriend, who almost kills Molly! Your work is interfering with her life again, and this time it brought the boogeyman to her home, the very man who killed her family!" Matt nearly yelled.
"Oh? Like you never made the child face her worst nightmare for purely selfish reasons," Mohinder responded icily. The two froze when they heard padded footsteps. Mohinder shot Matt a glare before turning towards Molly. A frown was etched into her youthful features, and twisted her face into an expression usually seen on adults. A wave of regret tumbled through Matt. Once again, they had upset the girl. Once again, they had been bad fathers.
"What's for breakfast?" The girl asked as she walked towards the cabinet that contained cereal. Matt and Mohinder shared a glance and almost let out a collective sigh of relief. She had not heard the details of their conversation. Molly looked up at them, her hair in a messy tangle down her back and her eyes blazing with intensity.
"What were you guys arguing about this time?" Mohinder nearly died at the comment. He didn't know what was worse: the fact that Matt's loud voice had woken her up to an argument or the fact that Molly was so used to their spats that she had said "this time". He forced a smile, which he was sure did not light up the room and in fact was judged as quite cynical by the larger onlooker. Mohinder looked towards Matt. It was Matt's fault anyway, so Matt should be the one responding to the situation.
"You know what Molly? Maybe we can talk about it while Mohinder goes to pick up some groceries. We could have a home-cooked meal tonight!" Matt said, enthusiasm creeping into his voice.
"Okay," Molly responded warily. If Mohinder cooked, the food would be so heavily saturated with spices that it would be almost inedible, and if Matt cooked, the food would be so bland that it would be upsetting to eat. One would think their combined culinary skills would result in a perfect meal, but that was never the case. She could sense a disaster brewing.
"Okay. I'll head over there now. But. Do you want to come with me Molly? You could make sure that I got everything," Mohinder said with a brilliant smile. He cursed himself for engaging in a power play with Matt over such a trivial thing.
"Mohinder, you never forget anything," Molly said, returning a smile. Mohinder's smiles were infectious. She missed them.
"I dunno. He hasn't been sleeping well lately, so he might," Matt muttered, ignoring Mohinder's glare.
"Do you want to go instead, Matt?" Mohinder asked kindly.
"No, I'm gonna stay with the kid," he said as he affectionately mussed up Molly's hair,
"Besides, I would rather that Molly not go out, what with what's been on the news and all." Mohinder's curiosity was piqued, and he was tempted to ask about the last comment, but he knew Matt would be difficult if he did. Another conversation about his sleeping habits would ensue, albeit a more guarded one. If the news was that dire, he could check it on his phone while he was on the way to the store.
Sighing, before flashing another perfect smile, he found his shoes and got ready to go. This was proving to be a long day; he had been up for every hour of it so far and if the trend continued, he would be awake for every second of it.
732 white papers were strewn all over the floor and furniture, covering the entire room as if an attempt by a willful, impatient child to replicate snow. The papers' fine, typed print had been marked and slashed up with red crayon; one seemingly boring word grouping would be circled and smudged with red wax and another would be scratched out until the paper was rubbed raw. Photographs of bodies placed in positions that they could never achieve in life were paper clipped to some of them. Black, precise scrawl trailed underneath these pictures.
A pale, hairy body balanced precariously on the balls of its feet, a black pen between its cracked lips. It wore only tight, spotless white underwear and white socks. If an observer watched without pause for days, he or she would have noticed that even his eyes seemed a smoky white. If the observer was extremely keen and not afraid to go deeper, he or she would have noticed that all the papers seemed to be arranged around a paper absent of any typed print. It was a sketch, or possibly a caricature, of a shadowy figure huddled over another figure, whose features were smudged except for the screaming mouth.
The crouching body appraised its situation and became an identity once more. It was not an "it", it was a "he". And more specifically, that "he" was Sylar. Sylar had not planned on spending his time in this way. In fact, he had been itching for a new conquest as soon as his powers had been rightfully returned to him. His life had been at a standstill for too long, and though beautiful Maya had been a fun yet surprisingly irritating distraction, the United States was his home. He was glad to be rid of Gabriel's endearing smile, which he had adopted to charm her. Sylar's classic bemused smirk was more fitting; cheesy smiles were for those who had to conform to social norms to appease others because they were not special.
Then it had happened. He had sketched a picture, using Isaac's prophetic abilities, and become obsessed with it. He did not know why he felt so strongly about it; the sketch was small, smudged, and much less impressive than the one of New York going "boom". Yet he was fascinated because he knew that something was broken, even if he was not sure what it was and that he was more than capable of fixing it. He decided to entertain his whim. If it interested him, it had to be useful in some way.
The sketch was of poor quality, but it was apparent that one person was deliberately causing another person pain. Neither of them was identifiable which could be blamed more on the fact that the mouth of the victim used seventy-five percent of the space on the page than the careless artistry. The remaining percentage displayed an oppressor wielding a serrated blade. The picture was a puzzle missing more than half of its pieces. It was a challenge, and for some reason, Sylar had become emotionally invested in it.
Everything after that was clockwork. The first cog turned when the news helped him make a connection. The police were currently tracking down a serial killer that they had dubbed "The Band-Aid Murderer". His killings were supposedly random, and all of his victims were kidnapped and brutally tortured over a long period of time. He would use the victims as his toys, and after he proved to be an insatiable sadist, he would place artful Band-Aids over their wounds. His intuition had helped him make the necessary leap: the offender in the sketch was the unidentified serial killer that the police were seeking. So the victim was probably someone special. Never questioning his motivation for pursuing the endeavor, Sylar followed his instincts. He infiltrated the police records, did his own investigation, and studied the information. It had actually been a difficult process.
After four days of endlessly working, Sylar had become frustrated. He was not going to be able to discover the identity of the killer. What would he do with that information anyway? He was hungry, his body ached, and his mind desired fresh, fun intellectual stimulation. A wry smile formed on his dry lips. The previous thought had caused Mohinder's earnest face to float in his mind. Mohinder. The second doctor, son of Chandra: a charming, handsome, self-righteous, stubborn, and naïve man who also happened to be a liar, traitor, and a puppet. Images assaulted his mind: his Mohinder, looking down at him as he tortured him with a tuning fork. His Mohinder, tacked up to the ceiling, blood painting his lips better than any lipstick could. His Mohinder, who was useful even though he was not one of evolution's finest.
Sylar's eyes flickered over his papers again. His fingers flew across the edges of some, and his heart rate increased. Mallory Wane, Dawson Kent, Leila Todd… He bit his tongue, reveling in the tangy taste of blood. Austin Lightfoot, Regan Sanders, Ilijah Martin. It clicked. He knew how the victims were selected, and when, and why. He could see the connection. Awe filled him, before it was replaced with an uncomfortable need.
His mouth suddenly went dry, the blood welling up where saliva should have been. A weird sensation ensconced his senses for two seconds. Seven seconds later, he was out the door. He only realized that he was wearing inappropriate garb after three more seconds and five rapid blinks. His feet found their way back into the house and into some wrinkled black slacks. He shrugged on a black shirt, and secured a black baseball cap on his head before stuffing his feet into shoes. As he grabbed the key, he paused. What was this feeling? It could not have been fear, could it have been? The four clocks' tick-tick-tick rang sharply. He did not have time to question his motives or to analyze his emotions. Now was the time for action. A smile teased its way to his lips. Sylar had waited so long for this. The smile disappeared, as if it had never been. Mohinder could not wait any longer.
"Matt?"
"Yes, Molly?"
Molly had been staring intently at her glass for over a minute, and it had begun to worry the man. Females were more difficult than men, even for a mind-reader like him. Flashes of her thoughts had diffused through his mind. They were vague, though they the word "love" recurred at least three times.
"How do you know if you love someone?"
"You just… feel it, I guess. It can be painful and beautiful all at once. You begin to think irrational thoughts when you're in love: all that romantic stuff like you'd die for them and things like that. You want to see them smile, and when they're sad you want to help them."
"But. What if it is not that type of love?"
"What do you mean?" Matt did not like the direction of the conversation.
"Could you love someone and hate them at the same time?"
"You know, Molly…"
"I loved my parents. But at the same time, I sometimes hated them. And, even now, sometimes I hate them because they're gone. Even though it wasn't their faults."
"Molly, it's natural for you to feel this way. Just because you sometimes were upset or mad at your parents doesn't mean you hated them, and even when you felt that way, you still loved them. And they still love you."
An awkward pause settled in the room. He wasn't getting through to her, and he did not know why. He felt that there was a disconnection. Still, he was averse to peeking in her mind. The words about her parents seemed stilted, almost fake. She had stopped herself from saying something. Instead, she had retreated into phrases that she knew would be acceptable. What was the girl worried about? Molly began to talk again.
"Lately, Mohinder… He hardly ever smiles like he used to. And you guys argue, and Mohinder is always working… And what you said about love. No one loves Mohinder like the way you were talking about." Matt felt a burst of irrational rage. Damn Mohinder! That man just did not seem to understand how much stress he was placing on that child. He was being irresponsible, and he could not afford to be like that with a little girl depending on him.
"Why so sudden?" Matt blurted out before he could say something comforting.
"I just have a bad feeling. I think about Mohinder and I get that bad feeling." Molly said.
"It's just a feeling," Matt said uneasily, doing little to assure either of them.
"I know. It's stupid. It's just; I think that Mohinder may have someone who loves him, but that it would be better if they didn't. And I don't know why. Mohinder deserves someone who loves him, like the fairytales. Yet, I keep feeling like maybe it would be better if it wasn't like this. Because, lately I've been feeling that the three of us living together won't last that long and I'm scared."
Mohinder was nearly home. He double-checked his list, and readjusted his bags. He could not wait to return to his apartment. There were too many people, too many places that provided opportunities for a certain man to accost him. He gripped the plastic bags tighter, reassured by the sensation of the polymers cutting off his circulation. He was probably just being paranoid. Once he had taken a nap, he would probably feel better.
As he rounded a corner, he noticed the common expression of most of the pedestrians was a grim frown. It bothered him how little an impact these people made on his life. He had been indoctrinated into a world of heroes and villains who had superhuman powers and abilities. He would never be able to leave and never again could he join these strangers in solidarity. Even if given the opportunity, he would refuse because he owed the specials than that. For the first time in his life, he felt as if he belonged somewhere and was needed. As his resolve strengthened and the sun warmed up his cold heart, he began to feel more at ease.
The mind is a strange contraption. For some reason he became focused on the shadows on the ground. He had never truly looked at them in all of his time in New York. It was while he was musing about the shadows, that he felt an arm around his waist, clamping him into a body clothed in black. The grip was painful albeit familiar.
"Sylar!" He said into the hand that covered his mouth. Fear jumped through his body. Surely someone would see him and help him. Then again, if an ordinary citizen did try to rescue him, he or she might die. His thoughts raced and became a nonsensical jumble. All of his paranoia flooded him. He had been right! His heart beat wildly in his chest, and his lungs fought for every inhale. Never before in his life had he been so scared.
Molly ran to answer the knock on the door.
"Mohinder!" She said happily, only to back into a corner as fear iced her veins as the door opened up before she could reach it.
"Where is he?" Sylar asked. There was silence as Matt moved towards him, ready to enter Sylar's mind.
"Stop!" Sylar said, pinning Matt to the wall with his telekinesis. "Where is Mohinder?" He pronounced the last three syllables with a possessive quality. "I need to know if Mohinder is here. He's going to be the Band-Aid Murderer's next victim," Sylar said calmly, as if placating a dumb child who needed repetition to understand simple concepts.
"You're telling the truth…" Matt said, confused. He seemed incapable of speech after that moment. So, Molly answered Sylar's question when the furniture began to shake.
"Mohinder hasn't come back from the grocery store," the words seemed ominous when spoken in her girlish, innocent tones.
Silence filled the room.