Faux Alliances
Takes place during the second half of season three.
Mohinder has managed to escape from building 26. He has failed to convince Matt not to pursue Danko and he is currently in his old apartment, doing some last minute packing before heading to the coast to board a ship to India. Backpack in hand, he opens the door to leave.
- Hello, Mohinder.
Mohinder's eyes barely have time to register a dark figure in the hallway before the voice reaches his ears. His hand is still on the door knob, where it momentarily freezes as conditioned fear brings him into a state of paralysis. There is the sound of a light thud as his backpack falls to the floor. Before he has the chance to do anything but inhale sharply, he experiences a crushing weight over his throat. The pain initially causes him to screw up his eyes and when he opens them again he sees Sylar, the man of his nightmares, standing only a few steps away from him. The killer's left hand is outstretched in a claw-like manner in front of him, as if squeezing thin air, while his right index finger rests on his curved lips in a shushing gesture.
Unable to talk or retaliate in any way, Mohinder takes a few stumbling steps backward as an invisible force pushes him back into the apartment. Sylar follows suit, telekinetically closing the door behind him. The sound of the lock turning serves as an unpleasant reminder for Mohinder that he is completely trapped together with the serial killer. Once inside, Sylar takes his time to look around, taking in every detail from the window to the kitchen section and the desk in between.
- Now this does bring back memories, he says in a low menacing voice and returns his eyes back to his prisoner.
One could hope that the horrors that Mohinder has had to overcome these last months would have given him some newfound courage in a threatening situation like this, but instead he finds himself unable to control the flood of adrenaline which causes his heart to race and legs to shake. He is not sure whether it is his fear of death or the prospect of what will be done to him before he dies that triggers most of his stress hormones but he is fairly certain that his remaining minutes, or hours at best – or is it worse? – are counted.
Suddenly Mohinder hears a rattling sound behind him, but Sylar's telekinetic grip on him disables him from turning around and finding out what it is; all he can do is stand there and listen as something heavy scrapes across the floor. His eyes move desperately from left to right and back again, challenging the borders of their capacity, but his field of vision is too narrow and any attempt to turn his head even the slightest is fruitless.
The sound is getting closer, the pace quickening with each passing second. For a moment, Mohinder's fear banishes all traces of common sense. He can no longer recall what kind of furniture remains in the apartment; he can only imagine what sort of contraption is approaching him, threatening to knock him out or ensnare him or impale him. A part of him just wants to close his eyes and brace himself for his demise whereas another part, the one still struggling to stay alive, furnaces his desperate attempts to catch a glimpse of whatever is closing in on him. Mohinder feels his panic rising as perspiration forms on his forehead. Gradually the pressure on his throat lessens, but all it really achieves is enabling him to hyperventilate. Any second now…
It all goes very fast. Something hard hits Mohinder in the hollow of his knees, extracting a surprised gasp from his lips as he begins to fall backward. Unexpectedly, he is caught mid-air by another hard ledge, this one striking him cross his back, causing pain to radiate throughout his body. The next thing he knows, Mohinder finds himself seated in a chair; a wooden armchair that immediately awakens strong misgivings. To further aggravate his hopeless situation, he finds that his wrists and ankles are strapped to the armrests and legs respectively by invisible bonds.
It takes a moment for Mohinder to realize that his airways are finally free. After repeated cycles of deep inhalations and exhalations to make up for his lack of oxygen he settles for a more subtle respiration, however still inflicted by the sharpness induced by his perilous predicament. When he finally looks up at his uninvited guest, he is met with a malicious smirk.
- Isn't this a déjà vu? Sylar hums almost melodiously.
Mohinder does not need to think twice to comprehend what Sylar hints at; the memories of that dire night come flooding back to him like a tidal wave. Fighting back his fear, he retorts in a defiant tone:
- If this was indeed a déjà vu, then you would be the one sitting in this chair.
There is a twitch at the corner of Sylar's lips.
- True enough, he answers with a shrug. But you get my point.
Without showing any signs of intending to prolong the conversation, Sylar takes a step back and returns to take in the apartment. He paces in a semi-circle around Mohinder, looking at everything except for the professor. As he moves along, the chair in which Mohinder is seated spins to the rhythm of his steps, creaking occasionally. Eventually Mohinder finds himself facing the front door with his back, with Sylar standing between him and the desk. A flashback from that night many months ago reminds him that now their roles are perfectly matched, although interchanged.
Mohinder's mind races with possible scenarios and outcomes, each one worse than the one before. What is Sylar's plot? Is he deliberately trying to recreate that night, which has come to haunt Mohinder's nightmares like no other ordeal in his life? The growing silence only serves to fuel his panicking thoughts. When he can no longer take the suspense, he blurts out agitatedly:
- What do you want?
He is not entirely sure that he wants to know the answer, but he believes that any knowledge of his pending fate is better than his current state of ignorance. At the question, Sylar stops. He does not look at the professor, but observing Sylar's profile Mohinder perceives that the left corner of his mouth ascends before he replies in a low threatening voice:
- I haven't decided yet.
The answer causes a chill to run down Mohinder's spine, which in turn sends a trembling sensation throughout his entire body. Feeling tiny droplets of sweat run down his forehead, he wishes he could reach up and wipe his brow, but his arms are still forcefully pinned to the armrests by Sylar's telekinesis. Against his better judgment, as a means to prevent the intimidating silence from stretching out once again, he presses the matter even further.
- Are you here to kill me?
It takes every ounce of his willpower to keep his voice steady from fear. This time Sylar returns his attention to his prisoner.
- Well, my orders are to take you in alive, Sylar replies indifferently, but adds in a smug voice: Although I've never been a fond follower of orders, as you know.
Mohinder ignores the menacing conclusion of the response as his mind is caught on the first part.
- Wait, your orders? Who are you working for?
- I'd like to think that I work with Petrelli's task force, except he's no longer in charge. I could almost go so far as to say that they work for me. They just don't know it.
It takes a moment for Mohinder to process this piece of information due to skepticism. For the first time this evening he feels upset rather than scared and he blurts out inelegantly:
- You work for Danko? You're joking! Are you insane?
Unfazed by his indignant outburst, Sylar corrects him teasingly.
- You're not listening. As I said: he works for me.
Ignoring Sylar's uninformative rectification, Mohinder continues to stare at him with disbelieving eyes, prompting the killer to elaborate his answer.
- We seek out our targets together. If the spoils are good, I get them, and if not, I leave him in charge.
Mohinder takes several calming breaths while gathering his thoughts. Once he has sorted out the horrid details, he asks in a slow and clear voice:
- You mean to say that if their abilities are not to your liking you let Danko send them to an early grave, but if you approve of them you steal the abilities and slaughter them on the spot?
Sylar makes a face of faked concentration, as if going over Mohinder's question in his head, before nodding pensively.
- Pretty much.
For a moment, Mohinder closes his eyes as he struggles against his speechlessness. There are no words to describe this monstrosity, he thinks. A justified rage is building inside him and eventually he can no longer keep it to himself. Opening his eyes, he glares at the man in front of him as he seethes:
- That is madness! How could you stoop that low? I always believed there was some part of you that wasn't entirely rotten; some part that could be reasoned with, but clearly I was mistaken! You are the most despicable creature I've ever met!
Mohinder braces himself for a reprimand, be it verbal or physical, but none comes. Instead, he perceives a change in Sylar's features during his little outburst, shifting from mocking to blank. For a moment silence rules in the apartment as the two men stare at each other, both unwilling to break the trance. Mohinder wishes he could read Sylar's thoughts in order to understand what caused his sudden change in demeanor. However, before he has time to decipher his peculiar expression it is replaced with a grim face.
- I don't need your approval, Sylar whispers defiantly.
In the blink of an eye, he raises his right hand in the same claw-like manner as before and once again Mohinder feels a weight on his throat, although this time it is gentler, as if the intention is to intimidate rather than choke him. At least, that is what Mohinder thinks before he see Sylar's other arm slowly ascend, the index finger pointing straight at him. Another flashback crosses his mind, leaving him in a state of panic unlike anything he has felt this evening. Before his inner eye he sees Peter Petrelli confined to the very wall on his right; sees a thin red line appear across his forehead and hears his anguished scream mixed with the squealing sound of an invisible edge sawing his skull open.
His heart hammering at a painfully rapid pace in his chest, Mohinder can only summon one coherent thought: This is it. Despite knowing that it is futile he begins to squirm and wriggle, using all of his strength to break free of Sylar's vice-grip, but to no avail. Hyperventilation sets in again, until a splitting ache close to his left temple momentarily brings his respiration to a halt. Then the pain explodes like a bomb in his head and whatever air is left inside his lungs is forced out in a deafening cry of agony. Tears well up in his tightly shut eyes. His vision a blur, all he can distinguish except for the unrelenting pain is a high-pitched drill-like noise accompanied by the sound of bone being crushed.
His physical strength failing him, all he can rely on is his words. But what can he say to bring Sylar to halt the assault? He can barely think straight due to the pain; much less access the capability to produce a coherent sentence. But time is running out! Gritting his teeth, he makes an effort to gather his last powers. When he opens his mouth again, he cries out the first thing that comes to his mind.
- I helped you!
Mohinder is not sure what initiated the sudden breakthrough. Was he able to speak because the torture ceased or was the abruption of his torment a result of his words? Whatever it was, the world seems to stands still for a moment. The cutting pain in his head turns into a dull throbbing ache. When he peers, he notices that there is blood dripping from the left side of his forehead. Some of the red liquid gets caught in his eyelashes, causing his left eye to smart. Sylar remains standing before him, his arms now folded across his chest. Desperate to elaborate his argument while his tormentor is pausing, Mohinder carries on with haste.
- I helped you get your abilities back. It was my blood that cured you from the Shanti virus!
He notices how his voice trembles with every syllable. Merely saying it out loud makes his stomach turn unpleasantly with guilt, but if there is any chance that he can use it to ensure his survival, he will. Sylar, however, only scoffs.
- Don't play dumb, Doctor; it doesn't befit you, he says in an annoyed voice. We both know you didn't do it to help me. You did it to save your own skin!
Mohinder is relieved that Sylar chose to participate in the discussion rather than pick up his former activity where he left off, but it does not keep him from clenching his jaw with exasperation. That last part was not entirely true and it hurts his pride to let it go without correction. The truth is that his primary reason for cooperating with the killer had not been to save himself but to protect Molly. Uncountable times he has replayed the events from that day in his mind in several different scenarios. He does not know for sure if he would have had the courage; he can only hope that he would have acted more self-sacrificial had his life been the only one on the line. As things are now, he does not intend to awaken Sylar's memory of Molly by defending his own honor. Instead he counters obstinately:
- Consequently it worked out in your favor.
- What, so now I owe you? Sylar asks, irritated. As I recall, you tried to kill me last time we met.
Good point, Mohinder thinks in defeat. Feeling cornered by Sylar's observation and unsure of what card to play, he settles on a cautious trail.
- I wasn't quite myself back then.
Sylar snorts.
- Funny you should say that, because neither was I.
For a moment, there is silence between them. Whereas Mohinder relishes the quietude by closing his eyes as a means to subdue his headache, Sylar continues to gaze at his prisoner. Each second that passes is a blessing to the professor, whose exhaustion from the last weeks' struggle combined with the torment of this evening is taking a great toll on him. When he opens his tired eyes again, he notices that the annoyance in his captor's countenance is replaced with a subtle curiosity.
- Speaking of personality traits, Sylar carries on in a conversational manner as if the last minute's torture never happened. I dare say you're not quite as blue-eyed as you were when we first met.
Surprised at Sylar's sudden shift in attitude but eager to postpone his seemingly inevitable suffering, Mohinder decides to indulge the killer.
- I believe I have you to thank for that, he retorts half accusing, half joking.
A smile, not a smirk, makes it way to Sylar's features and for the briefest moment Mohinder gets a hint of the friend he once knew as Zane.
- You're welcome, Sylar says.
In spite of himself, Mohinder cannot suppress a faint chuckle, although painfully hoarse due to his previously overly strained vocal cords. He cannot quite fathom how he is able to show such ease in front of the person who tried to kill him a minute ago and is still bent on committing the misdeed. Perhaps he has subconsciously come to peace with his fate and is simply trying to embrace whatever cheerfulness he can before it is too late.
Suddenly Sylar tenses up as his eyes flicker from the professor to the door. Mohinder frowns and opens his mouth to question his behavior, but before he has time to make a sound Sylar shushes him with a raised hand and continues to stare at the door in great concentration.
- I think there is someone…
The rest of Sylar's utterance is cut off by the loud bang of something hitting the door on the other side, breaking it off its hinges. Mohinder instinctively turns around in the chair to observe the tumult, too frantic to notice that he is no longer restrained by Sylar's telekinesis. Before the door has even reached the floor, a small projectile with yellow blinking lights comes soaring through the air, burying itself in Mohinder's right shoulder. Without delay, all too familiar jolts of electricity start to emit from the dart and spread throughout his body, causing his heart to act out with irregular painful thumps.
Unable to contain the series of convulsions that sets in, Mohinder slides out of the chair and lands on the floor. He hears a furious "Dammit!" somewhere above him and before he knows it the dart in his shoulder is pulled out by an invisible force and his spasms cease. Panting heavily, Mohinder looks up just in time to see the door ascend from the floor and slam back into its place. Turning his eyes toward Sylar he notices that he is standing with his left arm outstretched before him, mentally fortifying the barricade. Yet another flashback enters Mohinder's mind, this one of him in a similar position on the floor, except back then when he looked up at Sylar's face he saw a lust for murder. This time he makes out… worry?
Cautiously, without letting the door out of his sight and without retracting his arm, Sylar moves to his right until he stands close to the window, stealing a quick glance at the street below. On the other side of the door there is a grand commotion as several armed men appear to be hammering on the wooden barrier in a futile attempt to get inside. Mohinder has barely made it to his knees before Sylar turns his attention to him, his dark eyes boring holes into the professor.
- There is a cab coming up, he says hastily. Get in it and get away from here!
Mohinder blinks dumbfounded and for a moment he does not move a muscle. Did he hear correctly? Slowly, as to not attract any dizziness from a rapid movement, Mohinder stands up. The look he offers Sylar is one of complete stupefaction.
- You're letting me go? he utters weakly with disbelief.
Sylar's face is hard to read. There is weariness from keeping the enraged agents in the hallway at bay, apparent annoyance at the request for clarification, but also some inexplicable emotion which, if Mohinder did not know better, could best be described as concern. When Mohinder hesitates, vexation seems to rule out any other emotions in Sylar's countenance, causing him to sigh irritably.
- Move it! he snarls.
With a snap of his fingers, he reduces the window to a fine glass powder that partially blows inside the apartment, coating the already dusty floor. Mohinder frowns at the strange action. The pieces have not even begun to fall into place for the professor when an invisible force grabs him by the collar, orchestrated by Sylar's raised and closed right fist, and he is pulled toward the gaping hole in the wall.
There is no time to protest. Before Mohinder knows it, Sylar's dark figure flashes by his field of vision. His knees scrape the windowsill as he is forced through the small opening. Then he finds himself falling head first from the three-story building.
Mohinder barely manages to think that he has run out of luck; that Sylar was not quite as benevolent as he professed to be and that his own undoing is at last approaching at a frightening rate. With the concrete below rising up to greet him, he shuts his eyes tightly and braces himself for the possibly lethal impact. However, just before he collides with the hard pavement, he senses a small tug upwards, effective enough to lower his momentum. When he finally lands, his outstretched arms absorb most of the blow. His knee-caps and chin slam into the ground pretty roughly too and he momentarily loses his breath, but at least, he registers with euphoric relief, he is alive.
There are a few passersby who cry out their shock at Mohinder's unexpected landing and they gather around him, speculating between themselves if there is any chance that he survived the fall. When Mohinder stirs and groans, the crowd pulls back a little but remains attentive. The prospect of standing up seems laborious, but he makes an effort and is immediately aided by two of the strangers in the midst, who grab him under one arm each and pull.
- How you holdin' up, man? one of them asks worriedly.
Mohinder sways a little but quickly regains his balance.
- Thanks you, he mumbles but defers from answering the question more specifically.
Peering through the assembled group of people, he sees the cab that Sylar mentioned. He takes a few stumbling steps closer to the street to wave down the vehicle and as he does the crowd makes way for him. Right before the taxi pulls over, Mohinder along with the rest of the crowd is startled by a loud thud close behind him. Spinning around, he notices his backpack in a heap on the pavement. The sight of it; the unforeseen thoughtfulness of the act, brings a smile to his face. He crouches down to pick it up and then launches himself into the backseat of the cab without returning any of the curious looks from his spectators.
- Where to, son? the old man in the driver's seat asks kindly.
- Just drive, Mohinder pants.
Once the cab sets into motion, Mohinder leans back against the headrest, closes his eyes and exhales deeply. He is alive.
There is a sequel under way...