Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes. Does it look like I own Heroes? No. Stop reminding me.

Author's Notes: No, this isn't a songfic to that Britney Spears song.

Also? There's a reason why one of the ship names for Sylar/Mohinder is S&M. No, this is not slash. If you see slash, it's because you're looking too goshdarn hard for it. But I'm just saying.

This is what I affectionately call the "I Give Up Version." I sent this off to a wonderful beta reader (aheartfulofyou, may you forever be blessed in all your endeavors), and the ideas she gave were great, but I ended up angsting and hating what I had written and ignored it for about three weeks before finally implementing some of the stuff she had suggested, and even then I only did a few because I couldn't come up with anything. So I decided to just share what I have and just not care if it's terrible. I also had this done a while ago, it's just that was being hateful and not allowing me to upload my story. Jerks.

Sylar regains consciousness slowly, groggy and unsure and somewhat confused. Thoughts keep slipping away from him like water streaming through his fingers, and he can't put the shattered fragments of memory together enough to make sense of his current position.

Then he remembers. The list. The tea. The drugs. "Mr. Sylar."

Wait.

What?

He's still in Mohinder's apartment. He tries to move, and for one horrifying instant he thinks he's paralyzed, but he soon understands that he's merely strapped down and helpless (but it won't last, he won't let it) in one of the sturdy wooden chairs. As his mind shakes off the last remnants of the dizzying drug-induced fog, he realizes there is a needle stabbed into his arm that is connected to an IV drip.

"I can't feel my fingers," he says, keeping his voice breathless and scared and confused, attempting some sort of damage control even as he wants to scream in rage.

"It's the curare," explains a voice to his left. Mohinder. He's adjusting the flow of the drug and making sure the valve is locked into the open position. Satisfied, he leans against the chair in front of Sylar, his pose obviously hostile. "It induces paralysis in the brain, which means you can't control your abilities." And it's true; Sylar reaches for his telekinesis to free himself but finds nothing. It reminds him too much of that room back in the Primatech building in Odessa and he hates it.

Sylar struggles in his chair, not trying to get free, but to test the strength of the restraints holding him down. They hold tight, much to his annoyance, but he's careful to keep his bewildered Zane mask in place. "Whoever you think I am I'm not," he insists, adding a slight tremor to his voice.

"You are the man who murdered my father," Mohinder says, and in that moment Sylar realizes that any subsequent attempts to convince the man in front of him otherwise would result in complete failures. His voice is low, dangerous, barely kept in check. Dark eyes narrow in anger as he asks, "Do you still expect me to believe that you're Zane Taylor?"

He turns the slim laptop on the desk in front of him around, an internet article entitled "Young Musician Found Slain" accompanied by a picture of the corpse displayed onscreen.

"Zane was killed three days ago. The same day I met you." Mohinder leans forward, that pure fury still barely contained. "And you thought you were so clever, giving me his DNA." He reaches into the front chest pocket of his plaid shirt and pulls out a small, two pronged metal object: a tuning fork. Sylar can guess what's coming next. "You're a parasite. You killed my father and fed off his work."

He taps the tuning fork against the table, producing a pure note that hangs in the air, and holds it up right next to Sylar's ear. The noise seems to cut straight through his ears and directly into his head, slicing, slicing.

"Let me hear you say it." Although low, Mohinder's voice amplifies the pain. Sylar had always enjoyed the cries of his victims, the noise, the trauma, but now, now, Mohinder's voice, the anger, is just another head-splitting pain to add to the torture.

"Tell me your name!" His demand is louder this time. Sylar tries to hold back his yells because the last thing he needs now is another addition to this raucous cacophony, but he can't help but cry out.

"Say it!" Mohinder is shouting now, and it is nearly unbearable. Sylar can't form any rational, coherent thoughts other than begging to make it stop.

"I want to hear you say it!"

Almost involuntarily he gasps his name, not able to endure the pain any longer. Abruptly satisfied (if that could be possibly be considered the correct term for what the other man is feeling), Mohinder quiets the reverberating metal and stands up to open a drawer on his desk, leaving Sylar gasping and -- dare he admit it? -- whimpering in his chair.

Mohinder pulls out a sleek, silver gun and returns. "There's only one thing to do with a parasite: kill it, before it kills again."

The Zane façade is dropped in a heartbeat. Sylar does not mourn its loss; it was only merely a means to an end. Zane was a weakling, pitiful, pathetic, everything he hates, and he is glad he is finally able to end the charade. "You're just like your father, murderers, the both of you."

"I am a scientist."

Sylar laughs mirthlessly, unpleasantly. "You're father said that, but he kept leading me –"

"He had no idea what you were," Mohinder interjects angrily.

Sylar doesn't miss the use of the word "what" instead of "who." He knows what Mohinder is insinuating, and instead of angering him, it amuses him that he was able to get under the other man's skin so very easily. Sylar is an opportunist, a predator; he will wait to strike until the chance to deal the mostdamage presents itself.

"He knew. He might not have admitted it, but after all, we were making so much progress together, why would we stop?" Calculated half truths. Manipulations. The implication that Mohinder's father cared more about proving his theories right than the lives of innocents.

All too easy.

Something deep within Mohinder snaps. "You know nothing about my father!" he shouts, pointing the gun directly at Sylar's forehead.

And that brief break in Mohinder's control gives Sylar just the opening he needs.

"I know everything." His voice low, seductive. Painful truth mixed with lies, and it's all Mohinder can do to not be drawn in. Sylar wants to know what effect this will have on him.

"He confided in me."

"He told me things he felt he could never tell you."

"Things about your sister, Shanti." Mohinder's eye twitches at the mention of her name. It looks like he's ready to lose it again, to just kill Sylar and have it be done with.

"He thought you were too – what's the word? – fragile" – Sylar smirks at the way Mohinder's eyes are twitching from barely contained rage – "to know the truth." He leans forward, pressing his forehead against the cool metal of the firearm, taunting, challenging, daring Mohinder to shoot.

But Sylar is the one who is in control here. He may be tied down, drugged, stripped of his powers, and about to have his head splattered around the dimly lit apartment, but the force of his words are binding, hypnotizing, like a snake and its prey.

"That's why he liked me. You were always seeking approval, but I provided stimulation. He gave up on you, but he adored me, so who's the real parasite here?"

For a long moment they stare at each other, their eyes boring into one another, Sylar still pressing his head against the gun and Mohinder not ceding his position.

Then, suddenly, Mohinder lowers the gun.

"You're right," he admits reluctantly, averting his gaze. He regains his composure, or at least tries to. There's not much one can do when nothing's left but tattered remains. "My father did want answers."

He sets the gun down and picks up a green tin box, setting it down on the table next to Sylar, who watches apathetically. Mohinder removes something he can't see from the case. "He called you 'Patient Zero,'" he continues. "You're the template he used to create this formula." Nothing Sylar doesn't already know. He resists the urge to yawn as the Indian moves behind him.

"You're the key to unlocking its secret."

Well, this is news.

"As much as I'd like to, killing you is not going to give me what I need." Sylar can't see what Mohinder's doing, but it sounds almost like he's… uncapped something?

"So what are you going to do?" Sylar asks, genuinely curious.

There's a brief pause. "I'm going to take a sample of your spinal fluid," he replies matter-of-factly.

Oh.

Mohinder leans down close to Sylar's ear, whispering, "And it's going to hurt."

He withdraws, and his voice loses any trace of the familiarity it had just moments ago. "You might actually do some good before you die," he growls. Then a hand clamps down on the back of Sylar's head, forcing him down. The large needle—for Sylar has no doubt that is exactly what is in Mohinder's hands—plunges cruelly into his exposed neck, forcing a loud scream from his throat. This hurts so much more than the tuning fork's vibrations; this drags on and on with no end in sight.

His cries are amplified in his own head and he can't hear anything else, but for the tiniest, briefest moment he thinks he can make out the faint ticking sound of a newly repaired watch being restarted.