A/N: Welcome back mel and queenoftheoutlands and hello to Mrs. Eyre!
Chapter 3- The Middle Path
"If cooperation is a duty, I hold that non-cooperation also under certain conditions is equally a duty."
-Mohandas Gandhi
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For the most part, Sylar slept like a dead man on Maria's table. Even he didn't realize how exhausted he had become living the life that he had been for so long. His sleep wasn't entirely peaceful, however. During his time on the run out in the field, he had become accustomed to a lifestyle of brief naps in lieu of actual rest because he couldn't stay in one place for too long. He learned his lesson about falling asleep around strangers back in Louisiana and the stakes were even higher now than they were then. Even with his regenerative ability, he felt as though he were sleepwalking through a haze of weariness most of the time, but now he actually felt safe enough to indulge in what should have been considered normal behavior. He knew Maria and Peter would keep watch over him or at least wake him up at the first sign of danger so he could defend himself. It was a sight better than being snuck up on and shot in his sleep, which was always a possibility but even more of a threat now that the government had a new weapon in the form of S2.
He mostly resided in a very deep, dreamless sleep- the kind coma patients probably experience and he needed it. But he had trained himself to wake at the slightest noise and it was a hard habit to break. Peter was right that Maria's lab was probably the safest place to be since it was a secured area of the house. Even if government agents did storm the property, it would buy him enough time to escape undetected, keeping Maria out of harm's way. It was for this reason he remained on her table rather than sleeping in a proper bed in the quarters even though it sounded downright heavenly. There were many new faces, and it was a sad but accurate fact that not even his fellow specials could always be trusted. He didn't know where they stood on the revolution and if there was even one government sympathizer or a person who was offered a big enough reward, he could be turned in. Even one who entirely agreed with the rebellion's agenda could be too overzealous to brag to others on the outside that he was there and that would be just as dangerous. For the time being, the scope of his entire world shrank to the dimensions of the lab and his world was a busy place.
The concept of a standard workweek had been tossed out long ago after Maria learned of the S2 project. She and Mohinder spent nearly every waking hour over test tubes and Petri dishes in a desperate race to discover an antidote. Sylar's presence had no impact on the maddening pace other than to render the table unusable as a workspace, but they had relinquished that territory to Peter long ago for use as a makeshift medical bay. Sylar was far from the first to occupy the space, and tragically, he wouldn't be the last. They had become accustomed to having wounded people at their backs as they worked and the sight of blood and misery numbed them to some extent, but it also motivated them to work harder to find a solution so the suffering could stop. In severe cases, they would drop their pipettes and stop shuffling though the piles of equations and diagrams to step in as impromptu nurses to help Peter. Some survived, most were scarred and maimed for life, and some took their final breath on the table where Sylar lay. But through it all, they kept working, splitting their time between finding a cure and manufacturing more of the original serum because something was better than nothing and it was still useful for the purpose of restoring powers to chipped specials- but the time was fast approaching when S2 would replace her original formulation in chips and she knew it.
Although they tried to work quietly, the soft tinkling of glassware or the shuffling of feet woke him up with a start. It was almost reflexive, and each time he had to will his heart to stop pounding in his chest and remind himself that he was safe before he could once again drift back to sleep. The descent was always the worst. It was in this in-between state of wakefulness and near total unconsciousness that he had the capacity to dream and good things never awaited him there. It was his own concentric, downward spiraling hell where he relived the horrors he had both experienced and perpetrated. There was a certain sense of numbness for him because although it provoked feelings of dread or anxiety, he viewed it all with a detached logic. It was traumatic, yes, but all in all necessary. He had to kill to gain his powers and he had to kill to win and survive. He wasn't sorry for any of it no more than a lion feels sorry for killing an antelope on the plains of Africa. It was evolution in action, but nature was not always kind or polite and having to relive it over and over was torture.
Mohinder would occasionally glance up from his microscope when he heard Sylar's muffled moans because he remembered what he witnessed before. He told him he wouldn't help anymore, but Peter was slow to act in his estimation and he didn't see the bother in striding over to the sleeping man and giving him a shove or two to wake him if he was having a nightmare again. It seemed everyone was having them these days. As much as Mohinder wanted to hate Sylar, the war had changed everything for everyone. He knew Sylar was a killer and well suited for his job as an assassin- a one man special forces, really- but even he must have had his limits on how much death and destruction he could witness before it started to affect him. It was basic human psychology and Sylar, no matter his personality, couldn't possibly be exempt from the ramifications of living like that all day every day. Mohinder wanted to hate him, but at his heart, he felt a guarded sense of compassion for him and all who fought on the front lines.
The war had made things particularly difficult for Maria. She never wanted to be a part of something so vile, and she desperately hoped against all hope that perhaps things could be solved peacefully, but as each day passed and the body count on both sides rose, she realized that it was not likely. She didn't blame those with abilities for resisting- far from it- but she was never one to believe that violence solved anything either, favoring passive resistance as a means for change. She believed that circumventing the system was a better way of destroying it than outright attack and she did what she could to subvert the laws she saw as unjust.
Her day to day existence, along with just about everyone's, had been altered by everything from shortages in food to closer scrutiny by neighbors looking for any sign of allegiance to the rebellion even if it was just to render basic humanitarian aid. Specials were not human so it was said, and they did not need or deserve compassion. She disagreed and she knew Bryant would have as well even if he wasn't one of them. They were very much human and she was reminded of that with each injured person Peter cared for in the safety of her home and each starving or cold person who came to her door in the middle of the night seeking just enough to survive. She never took anyone in the way she used to due to fear someone may see it and report her. Noah may have been connected, but there were only so many things he could fix and she didn't want to push the envelope. Still, she never turned her back on anyone. She always provided for those that she could even if it meant having them wait in the woods while Peter quickly teleported what they needed to them.
It had always been difficult to get people into Canada via the ladder, but now it was virtually impossible and the flow of specials she helped move slowed to a trickle at best due to the borders being closed. Hiro and Ando were the last of her charges to make the journey and she had only seen Hiro once after the fighting started. She wondered and worried about all of the specials she came in contact with, it was just her nature to try to help them as best she could but it was getting harder by the day. She looked back at Sylar as he lay sleeping on her table and she smiled to herself. He was the one she least suspected would ever need anyone again, but despite it all she was glad to see him again even if it wasn't under ideal circumstances. He had unquestionably done horrific things in his past, but for the moment he seemed to be working equally hard to rectify them by taking the position he had and he was paying the price for it.
Peter jerked awake after he nearly fell off his chair where he kept vigil over his patients. He hadn't slept in almost three days and it wasn't all because of Sylar. His unique combination of abilities and skills made him very much in demand in the war effort and he was more or less on call all the time- and people made use of that fact. He could teleport anywhere in an instant to save a life and his healing ability meant that he could go right into the thick of battle and even get injured himself during a rescue and still survive- providing there were no lucky shots to the back of the head like Sylar did so long ago. He was exhausted because there was no end to the need for medical help and he was far too compassionate to tell anyone no, so he went for long stretches neglecting his own needs to help others. It was his innate predisposition and it was nearly killing him.
He sat up in his chair and rubbed his face vigorously in an effort to wake up. He had to stay alert just for a little longer, just until he could be positive that Sylar would be alright. He had lost a lot of blood and it wasn't like Maria had a blood bank in her lab, so he had to wait for his body to manufacture more. In a pinch, he might have been able to donate his own blood directly to Sylar because he wouldn't have to worry about type matching, but it had never been done before and he wasn't sure of the consequences. It seemed he was sleeping fine and his skin had a pinkish hue, but he just wanted to be sure…He reminded himself to lecture Sylar about waiting so long to call when he woke up again. He could have easily bled to death in that alley and he could only guess it was because he was too proud to ask for help. That was partially why he literally dropped what he was doing when his cell phone buzzed because he knew it must be dire.
If it weren't for Rebel, or Micah as he used to know him, the resistance may not have gone as well as it had despite the difficulties. Few knew his real identity and Peter respected that. It was bad enough knowing that a 12 year old kid had better organizational skills than whoever was supposed to be running the war, but to actually name him-even if it did just start as a rumor- seemed patently irresponsible. It was Rebel that set up the communication network Sylar and everyone else used to coordinate supply lines and pass information via cell phone without being traced. It was also Rebel that fed the infantry with real time information on surveillance and made sure locked doors opened and money spat out of ATM's when needed. No one, including Peter, knew where Rebel really was. He was nowhere and yet he seemed to be everywhere. Still, he was only one person and he couldn't look out for everyone. Peter just hoped that he and Molly were safe and together, wherever they were.
He stood and yawned as he stretched his weary muscles before carefully peeling aside the blanket that covered Sylar's still body to check his bandages. Sylar stirred slightly and lazily blinked his dark eyes at the unwelcome feeling of cold air on his skin. "Sorry, man." Peter smiled. "I tried not to wake you up."
"Good luck with that." He mumbled, draping his arm across his eyes to block out the bright light above. Somehow he managed to sleep with it on and it was just a testament to how tired he really was. "How long was I asleep?" His internal clock that was usually so precise had dimmed somewhat.
Peter glanced at his watch. "About a day and a half." He laughed while he carefully peeled off the skin tape that secured the now bloody bandages to his side. He knew from his paramedic days that Sylar was hit with a fairly large caliber bullet by the size of the exit wound and it was a little like putting a puzzle together to stitch the ragged edges together, but he persevered and largely succeeded.
Sylar softly hissed and jumped slightly at the stinging sensation of the adhesive being pulled away and the stretching of the wound that went with it. "So it's Sunday?" He asked through clenched teeth. He really wished Peter would just rip it off in one quick motion even if it did cause the wound to start bleeding again. Maybe he was doing it on purpose… The more he thought about it, it seemed like a very long time for him to sleep and he peeked at Peter from under his arm suspiciously. "Did you give me anything?"
"Like what, rufies?" Peter asked sarcastically, tossing aside the bandages and inspecting the gunshot for signs of progress.
"You would." He sneered, letting his head fall back into the pillow with a soft thud.
Peter's mouth quirked up into a grin. "Don't flatter yourself. I could lose my license for raping patients. You aren't worth it." Mohinder softly chuckled to himself while he mixed chemicals in a tube. Despite their obvious differences, Peter and Sylar had an undeniable chemistry all their own- sometimes inert and sometimes volatile resulting in intermittent explosions.
Sylar paused to give him a long, cold stare. "You don't even have a license anymore."
"Yeah, but I'm still working on you, right?" He congenially smiled while he soaked a gauze pad in antiseptic and carefully cleaned the area of dried blood. The stitches were already becoming slack as the wound closed from the edges inward and there was no sign of infection, but it would still be another two days or so before he was able to walk around without much pain. "You can sue me for malpractice later."
"And get what?" He snarked half from the pain and half in irritation at Peter's unshakeable cheerfulness.
"Exactly."
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Damian sat alone in his tiny, cramped, exhorbantly expensive studio apartment. He had no furniture other than a cheap wooden futon to sleep on and a desk lamp he found in a dumpster with a broken shade. The cupboards were devoid of dishes and the only utensils he had were made of plastic. His building was an absolute shithole, but he knew that the cost of living in Washington DC was incredibly high and he got by on as little as he could. He didn't like to think about the previous occupants, but he could tell by the peeling paint and the used syringe he found in the window sill that they were probably heroin addicts that ate paint chips. He wasn't living the high life, that was for sure, be knew what sacrifice was coming from a large family and he was determined to do what he had to in order to succeed. Things might be rough now, but they wouldn't always be that way- at least that's what he kept telling himself.
He didn't have a television, but he did often take home Senator Petrelli's copies of the daily newspaper to read at the end of the day, usually untouched by his boss. In them he read about the ongoing war between those who were special and those who were not and it made him uneasy. The outright hostile tone of suspicion and hatred with which those who were born different were spoken of gave him the chills. It was a war of perception, words, and action and the media consistently defaulted on the side of non-specials. With his father being a 'friend' and de facto supporter of the rebellion, he had known specials and even had them stay at his house from time to time on their way north even though his family didn't have much to offer other than a roof to sleep under. It was the family's credo to help anyone who needed it, special or not, because it was the right thing to do. His father always told him no matter how bad you may think you have it, there's always someone who is worse off than you and he carried that with him. That's why he never complained about the Spartan conditions he lived in, but he was too embarrassed to tell his boss where he lived so he asked to be dropped off several blocks away in a better neighborhood and walked home even though it was a little dangerous.
Between having met specials himself and working in Petrelli's office, he had a pretty good grasp on the specials issue. Those that he had personally known were never the malicious, bloodthirsty traitors the paper made them out to be. More often they were scared, tired, and just wanted to lead a normal life. They didn't want to hurt anyone and they certainly didn't believe that they deserved to be stripped of all basic human rights in the name of paranoia and he tended to agree. But then there was Sylar. The name alone struck fear into the hearts of those who knew anything about him, or anything that the media said about him since no one seemed to actually have met him, and even specials themselves seemed to talk about him in hushed whispers. He was in a category all by himself if the reports he read and summarized for his boss were accurate. Incredibly fast, precise, focused, and deadly, he knew exactly what he was doing and could take down an entire facility in a matter of minutes when he attacked. He killed quickly and without hesitation anyone who attempted to stop him and he was said to have an almost unlimited array of abilities at his disposal. How someone could become that powerful was beyond his comprehension, but the new S2 project may have found the chink in his proverbial armor.
Damian was conflicted when it came to S2. Someone as powerful as Sylar could destroy everything and everyone if he was so inclined, no conventional weapon could stop him. And if he existed, there may be a time in the future when more like him would appear if that was the way evolution was headed. Humans needed a way to defend themselves, but therein lie the rub. People like Senator McCaskey were not at all interested in self defense, they wanted to eliminate all threats to their existence- it wasn't action, it was overreaction and that was what made him sick to think that something as deadly as S2 could exist. The formula wasn't meant to kill…yet…but he knew that it was in the cards and judging by today's encounter with Senator Petrelli, he thought so too.
Senator Petrelli was an incredibly hard man to read, like any good politician. A smile could mean anything and lack thereof was equally ambiguous. He made his name on the identification and registration of specials and the country loved him for it. He was diametrically opposite of anything Damian hoped to be, but Maria insisted he work in his office despite the apparent gulf of disparity in views. He didn't understand it at the time, and resolved to get through it if only to have a great resume, but now he was starting to question things. Despite his wonderful speeches on the senate floor and on television warning the public about the dangerous nature of specials and the need to keep them tightly controlled, he seemed to know about Maria's operation and he chose to do nothing about it and the S2 project should have made him ecstatic, but he seemed agitated.
There were tight-lipped rumors, mostly from McCaskey's interns, that Petrelli had a brother who was a special, although it was never confirmed. Legend had it that late one night on a dare, a brave intern snuck into the office of Noah Bennet, a regional director, and perused the database in search of the missing mystery sibling. He managed to find 4 registered Petrelli's before he was busted, but no one ever spoke to him after that. It was like he just disappeared off the face of the Earth. Damian knew who Noah Bennet was, the man was in and out of his boss's office on business about the chip program frequently, and he gave him the creeps. There was something very cold and dangerous in his icy blue eyes and the way he smiled like a shark that sent him scurrying out of the room as quickly as possible, so he didn't doubt the rumors for a second.
People disappeared all the time and he shuddered to think that Bennet had something to do with it. It was well known that captured specials were used for experimentation, the government was proud of the fact that advances in medicine were made based on the "volunteer" participation of those with abilities, but it was clear enough that it wasn't a goodwill gesture. S2 had only gone as far as it did because it was limited by the availability of strong specials. For most, S1 was sufficient to take away their powers, but the government needed something stronger to take down people like Sylar. The problem was, they didn't have him and no one they could capture had his unique set of abilities, so the project had been stalled for a trial and error approach. Knowing he targeted holding facilities, they had all been equipped with different formulations and it just so happened he walked into the Manhattan facility- the one with the most recent upgrade. Although they didn't catch him, they did collect a lot of his blood which would likely serve as a substitute for his actually being strapped to a table. It might just be enough to perfect the formula and if they did, it would be all over for the rebellion. It was, in fact, the only reason the government hadn't fully mobilized in the first place. But once the guns were fully loaded with S2 ammunition, blood would flow like rivers in the streets and the country would witness wholesale death and destruction the likes of which they have never seen before.
He had always hoped for better times ahead, but now he wasn't so sure. The whole world had gone mad and Gandhi's words had never seemed more true: an eye for an eye leaves everyone blind.
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Matt shuffled around the kitchen in the quarters, trying his hand at making a quiche. He tried to follow the recipe as closely as possible, but he just knew his product wouldn't look anything like the picture. At the moment, he was aiming for edible. He had been substituting for Mohinder ever since Maria learned about some new deadly project the government was working on, and not always with the same results. He didn't know how Mohinder always seemed to make his creations beautiful and tasty. It seemed he could get one, but not the other and neither consistently.
If anyone minded, they didn't complain- at least not outwardly, and that was the only way he would know of their dissatisfaction. He was offered a dose of the serum, but he declined and chose to remain as normal as possible. Partially it was because he was never the type of guy that was awed by his own ability, in fact it could be downright annoying and distressful, and partly because of the nasty side effects of the cure. The symptoms seemed to vary according to the ability trying to be restored. Mohinder was in bed for days with muscle aches, so he assumed he would suffer a debilitating migraine or an aneurism if he tried to get his back. No thanks. Maria understood because it was, in the end, his decision. Peter and Sylar were lucky bastards because they never felt a thing thanks to their healing abilities. He was fine with Peter, but Sylar was a different story.
When it came to the slave issue, he was confused as to what he should do. His skills as a cop should have been good for something, but this was an entirely different game altogether- real guerrilla warfare stuff according to those that had been there themselves, and he just didn't know how to contribute. Sitting back and doing nothing didn't seem right either when there were others out there fighting and dying for him, but he was a little more pessimistic about the government changing its mind without prodding, so in the end he was stuck in neutral for lack of direction.
He sighed and tossed his towel onto the counter. He was stuck making quiche in a kitchen while others were out there doing the dirty work. It just didn't feel right and he hated it. He tried talking to others about it, but Peter was always dead on his feet and Maria and Mohinder were locked in the lab 23 hours a day. There was no one left for him to confide in or use as a sounding board to figure it out for himself. Without his power, he wasn't sure how useful he would be to the cause anyway. He was out of shape and had some difficulty reading and the list of negative thoughts went on in his head as to why they wouldn't take him even if he tried to help. He didn't think he was special…at all…and he felt helpless and restless about it.