Four grey walls closed in, housing a heavily drugged form. The man was curled up on the cement slab that served as a bed, gripping his own shoulders tightly. Paled welts encircled the prisoner's neck and his arms were dotted with puncture marks.
An IV trailed from his exposed wrist and coiled wires connected him to a large machine that was readied to sharply electrocute him if necessary. The company couldn't have their most valued subject dying on them again.
Another man entered the cell silently, wielding a rather dangerous looking pistol. In his other hand he swung a bag full of various medical instruments. He shuffled through his overgrown black curls, approaching the captive slowly. He knelt by the drowsy figure, smiling slightly.
"Wake up, Sylar." He whispered, clasping a dark hand around the man's white-clad shoulder. When he was met with no response, he set down the bag he had been holding. After a moment of groaning and twitching, the man named Sylar turned over to see his visitor.
"Mohinder." He muttered blearily. The darker man nodded, grinning horribly. Sylar shuddered, feeling as if he was looking into a mirror. The drugs in his system effectively blurred the edges of his vision, but he felt very awake despite the fact. He sat up, balling his pale hands into fists. "So, what's the torture of the day, doctor?" He quipped.
Jokes were all Sylar had left at this point. He had lost the right to be brave after showing his submissive side. Even while following orders like an obedient puppy, he still pretended to be the feral serial killer he once was. He fought against the tests at first, but after a few months in the company's drug-induced death grip he learned that it was futile to even try.
Mohinder chuckled darkly, reaching out to run his fingers through Sylar's messy hair. The murderer closed his eyes, trying to contain his anger. His hand shot out, catching the geneticist's wrist painfully. "Don't touch me." He warned, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline that he craved these days. The doctor was not amused. He cocked the gun he held and rested it threateningly over Sylar's shoulder.
Sylar relaxed his grip a bit, knowing that Mohinder would shoot if he felt it was necessary. As long as the wound wasn't fatal, the doctor wouldn't be penalized. Sylar had no power in this situation and it drove him crazy, ate at his insides until he finally let go of his captor. "Bastard." He hissed, grudgingly allowing Mohinder to begin the daily tests.
Drawing out a particularly long syringe, the geneticist smirked. "Enduring hours of torture tends to make me a bit cranky, yes."
Sylar raised an eyebrow. "Still dwelling on the past?"
All emotions were suddenly wiped from Mohinder's face. "I suppose I am," He whispered, his predatory grin returning, "let's focus on the here-and-now, shall we?"