Intuitive Aptitude

Mohinder Suresh's car had given up the ghost in about the middle of nowhere, otherwise known as South Dakota.

Well.

This was less than ideal.

On the other hand, though, it was almost a relief. Zane Taylor didn't seem the type to see a flaw in an engine without ever opening the bonnet (no-one else did, he thought: he was unique in that), and as no opportunity to credibly spot the problem had presented itself, Sylar had been forced to sit there for more than a day with the

damn

flaw

NAGGING at him, his teeth on edge every second as the piston in the engine just brushed against a surface it was not meant to touch for hours upon hours upon hours…

It was a wonder he hadn't gone mad.

It was all he could do not to leap out of the passenger door and fix what was broken; instead he whitened his knuckles on the car-seat and managed to force surprise into his voice as the engine groaned and coughed. "What's that? It's not—not meant to do that?"

God. Why couldn't Zane have been more assertive?

Mohinder cut the engine, looking startled. "It's not," he confirmed, sliding out of the car, his shoes crunching on the dirt road as he hurried to see what the problem was. Sylar was but a split second behind him.

"You can fix it, right?" The hope in his voice was genuine, even if the pleading note was not. Without a car, and stranded out here, it would be days before he could find another evolved human—weeks, even. And much as he longed to mend it himself… was the real Zane any good with cars? Would Mohinder even know it if he wasn't?

"I'm not sure," said Mohinder—damn him!—as he ran his fingers to the catch on the bonnet, then pulled it open. Sylar stepped back quickly, but the professor was less lucky and spluttered as hot air and steam billowed out. Sylar joined the effort to beat the stuff away from Mohinder's face.

"Thanks," Mohinder coughed. Sylar didn't make any reply. His eyes were ticking over the cooling engine's surface, narrowing a fraction at the grubby spills, the little scuffs, the tinny tck. tck. tck.

tick.

"My pa was a mechanic," said a voice, and as Sylar's mind caught up with his mouth he jerked his gaze away from the engine to bite his lip at Mohinder. Stay in character. "Weekends. Used to sit me up on the bumper and show me where all the bits went. Um."

Sylar's fingers were twitching. He brought his arms up across his chest and made himself fiddle with his over-long sleeves.

Mohinder looked at him. "Are you saying you can mend this?"

An eager nod. "I think so. I mean, I'm pretty sure I can."

"Are you certain?" the man was studying his face; the corners of Sylar's mouth flickered and he tilted his head slightly, trying to pay attention to the conversation rather than to the sputtering (broken) ticking, irritating as a wasp. "I have a cell phone – I'm sure the map said there's a town down the road; we would only be a few hours before a breakdown man…"

"That's not fast enough!" Sylar snapped.

Mohinder stared, one hand on the car's door-handle.

"Excuse me?"

The flash of anger had crept up on Sylar like a tiger, twisting his face into a scowl. Was the idiot so sure he couldn't fix this? Or was he just determined to be a hindrance? But he forced his face to become passive, nonthreatening, perhaps only just in time. Neither man spoke for a few strained seconds.

…and then Sylar swallowed, thinking of Zane. "It's… it's just, Professor," a wheedling, frustrating honorific, representing a skill that Sylar could not take—or could he? His gaze drifted gently upwards as he pondered it, until Mohinder's concerned expression pulled him back into the present. "It's just—you said, when we first met, that there were… bad people. People who want to hurt… people like us. And that we're going to warn them before it's too late."

He bit his lip again, dropped his gaze, lowered his voice to an anxious whisper. An acting masterclass. "I don't want us to be too late."

There was another silence, trailing off into the scraping of Mohinder's shoes. He approached Sylar, and clapped one dark hand onto his shoulder, giving him an encouraging smile.

Perfect.

"We won't be too late. We're a long way ahead of Sylar, wherever he is: remember, we have the List. A few hours won't make a difference."

Not so perfect.

"Besides," Mohinder added, faintly embarrassed, "I don't have the right tools to mend an engine. It would be better to wait for the professionals."

"Give me a try," Sylar insisted quietly. "I'll fix it—fix it just enough to get us into town. I do know how. I won't damage it. It won't take a second—and it'll save us hours."

And that, apparently, was enough to convince Mohinder, who nodded and patted him on the shoulder again, before stepping back to give Sylar an unrestricted view of the engine. Sylar was on it in a flash, with a practically audible sigh of relief. Tick. And the problem (the breakage) was precisely here, and his fingers moved deftly (ticktickTICK) even without tools, and though he didn't know all their names he could feel each piece under his fingers and its part in a harmonious whole.

"Is it a hobby of yours?"

Mohinder was still there.

"Mechanics?"

"The way things are and the way things ought to go," murmured Sylar, not taking his attention from the mechanism.

"Of course." A moment's silence. "And your father taught you all of this?"

"The ins and outs," was the short reply. "I learned a lot from books as well."

It was true, in a way. There had been one book, a manual for a lorry, which he'd skimmed through in a few minutes. It shouldn't all have stuck, not in so brief a read, but ever since he'd killed that waitress in Texas? He just seemed to be remembering things lately.

"Your valve is too narrow," Sylar explained, still not looking up but aware of Mohinder watching him. "The combustion chamber's not, not closing right." He remembered to stutter slightly this time, engrossed though he was. "And—and it's overheating. A bit." Well, it was, but thanks to some subtly applied cryrokinesis… "Should be all right, though, until town at least."

"Well, I'm glad to have you along, is all I can say." Mohinder offered a hand; it almost caused him actual pain to leave something that was still broken, but he turned his face away and allowed himself to be helped up.

The moment Mohinder's key turned in the ignition—

(TICKticktickticktickticktick)

—it started again, still broken, though… slightly less so. Sylar put his head back against his car-seat, and closed his eyes.