Mohinder applied his breaks, distractedly pulling up to the curb. An awkwardly lean figure slid into the back seat and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, 'just get me out of here.' Mohinder glanced in his rearview mirror, taking in a taut, thin face and scruffy, longish hair obscuring somewhat angular features.
"Where to?" he asked absentmindedly, decidedly not thinking about what Sylar Zane had said to him that morning.
The man shook his head and frowned, crossing his hands across his chest and hunkering into his seat. "Main… Street?" he finally spoke, wholeheartedly uncertain. Mohinder chuckled.
"Which one?" he prodded gently, taking his cue and starting the car. It was apparent this man just wanted to "get the hell out of dodge." He couldn't help smiling at the Americanism as he stepped on the gas.
"Just drive me to the other side of town," the man sighed, defeated. Mohinder nodded, brow creasing as a bit of that irrational concern for strangers crept into his expression.
Where did that 'concern' get you last time? A sardonic voice sing-songed, causing Mohinder to cringe. That one thought was enough to throw him back into a reverie. It seemed as though he was in a constant dream-state these post-Zane days.
"Zane" pushed him back onto the bed, all trust-me smiles and gentle movements. Mohinder was hyper-sensitive to his touch, every casual brush amplified until he was whimpering, begging at the ministrations of his father's killer.
He had known it was wrong. Even if he hadn't known what Zane Sylar was, he had known he wasn't Zane; that should have been enough.
Mohinder risked a glance to the backseat, frowning when he realized his passenger had fallen asleep. He decided to keep driving, too scared to entertain the prospect of waking the man up—he looked like he could use it anyhow.
"Zane" rocked against him, the epitome of inexperience, but Mohinder wanted to let him find himself… didn't want to interfere with his mission. Sylar's face was set in a determined line, and at the time… Mohinder had found it endearing.
Now he knew it for what it truly was: Gabriel Gray trying to "figure him out." He felt his stomach sink.
He heard the man stir behind him and he turned to glance at him warily.
"Have a nice nap?" he asked, carefully keeping the cynicism at bay.
The man laughed darkly, studying his shoes. "Yeah, sure," he said, brushing his unruly hair away from his face. "You can just drop me off here."
Mohinder nodded curtly, letting the disoriented man out.
He leant forward, and gave him a really nice tip. It was almost too good to be true.
He felt a slight heat on his palm, and the man was gone as quickly as he had come. Mohinder looked down at his hand—the paper currency had turned to dust.