Chapter 48- Pushing the Limits

Hiro stood awkwardly in the lift as it descended slowly…a little too slowly for the circumstances. As he casually looked around the brightly lit interior, it occurred to him that he could speed things up a great deal if he would just teleport to the hospital room, but that made him wonder about the extent of his powers. Dr. McCoy had made it abundantly clear even to a man who did not have a firm grasp on the English language that he was not allowed to do so for medical reasons, but surely the imminent danger that faced them all would be considered an exception wouldn't it? But what if he could do more?

He frowned as he considered the possibility that if he tried really hard he might be able to freeze time for the entire ship, extending their chances of survival as he quickly shuttled personnel to and from destinations. He could get Chekov in a flash- if he was able to report for duty- and…he sighed as he realized a major obstacle to his plan: the whole venture hinged on Sylar and Peter being able to sufficiently power the ship and there was no way he could risk being anywhere near them while they reenacted Kirby Plaza times two- he would be incinerated faster than he could teleport away. He was frustrated because he wanted to do more, he just wasn't sure how best to help other than to run errands for Mr. Kirk…Jim, he quickly chastised himself. It was generally rude to address someone by their first name, especially a person of authority, but he had been explicitly instructed to do so. It was just one of those odd American customs that he was still struggling to remember because it was so contrary to everything he had learned about etiquette in Japan.

He gave very quick bows and small smiles to the doctors he passed until he located the Russian man. "Mr. Chekov." He bowed deeply with a serious expression to convey the gravity of his mission before pushing up his glasses on his nose. "I have message from Mr…Jim." He stammered. It didn't sound right.

Chekov was equally confused. "You mean the Captain?" He asked wincing as he sat up.

"Yes." He again bowed although he wasn't really sure why he did- he had already fulfilled his initial obligation to do so. "He wishes you return to duty if you are able. You are needed for the mission."

"Oh! Da!" Chekov nodded eagerly. Under no circumstance would he ever entertain the thought of leaving sickbay without being discharged least he face the full force of Dr. McCoy's wrath, but in this instance he could always pass the blame to Jim as it seemed Hiro's message was more or less an order and let him sort it out with the surly doctor. He glanced over at Spock and realized he could probably just walk out and not be noticed as McCoy was completely absorbed with that business, so he carefully let himself down from the table, feet soundlessly and gingerly touching the floor and he quietly made his exit. He would have ran for the lift as soon as he reached the hallway if it weren't for the stabbing pain he still had in his side. He didn't tell Hiro, but the truth was he hadn't really been completely evaluated by the staff due to the constant addition of more serious cases. He wasn't a doctor himself, but he was operating on the assumption that if they didn't think he had any life threatening problems then he would guess he wasn't in danger of dying at his post in the next few hours of his injuries. If he was needed at his post he would go as long as he wasn't vomiting blood or missing a limb or anything else equally prohibitive. Well...maybe.

He reached the bridge and took his seat with purpose, only pausing to give his Captain a brief salute. Jim looked him over and smiled. The scrappy little Russian looked like hell and he could tell that he wasn't 100%, but he also knew there was no place he would rather be and only a direct order for dismissal would make him budge from his duties now. He watched Sulu greet his friend with a welcoming yet knowing smile and he wondered how in the hell he got so lucky to have such a dedicated crew.

Down in the engine rooms, Peter and Sylar were not having such a good time. Both men could feel their flesh peeling from their bodies as the radiation tore at their skin, blistering and searing hot. Still, both had the presence of mind to concentrate on the task at hand, whether or not that was a good thing was a matter of debate when they wanted nothing more than to just pass out to avoid the pain and let their respective healing abilities take over. In fact, that was probably the only thing keeping them conscious, and Sylar for one began to wonder if having the ability to regenerate was such a good power since his couldn't quite keep up with the damage he was causing.

Peter held onto the coils even though he really couldn't feel his hands anymore. He didn't dare look for fear that all he would see were two skeletonized sets of bones or worse, nothing at all. Phantom limb was a well known phenomenon and he wouldn't have been surprised if his brain still believed he had hands when they had in fact been vaporized long ago. For that matter, he wasn't really sure how much of his body remained- perhaps he physically was no more, existing only as pure consciousness. The only thing he was sure of was that after Kirby Plaza, he swore to himself that he would never again use his radioactive ability for numerous reasons, yet here he was shining brighter than ever.

Of course things had changed since the showdown with Sylar and the moment they shared was proof of concept: they were using their most destructive power not to kill each other, but to work together for the greater good. Although that had always been Peter's personal prime directive, things had gone horribly wrong that night and he was almost the harbinger of death for so many innocent people. He couldn't control the burning explosion he felt growing inside of him and it was only thanks to Nathan- always Johnny on the spot when it truly mattered- that disaster was mostly adverted. But still, Nathan had suffered terribly for his decision. He burned just as Peter was now, but he didn't have the ability to heal. He had almost lost his big brother and that would have hurt worse than anything he ever could have imagined. And then there was the grand finale- the big boom in the sky when the power finally got the better of him and he exploded. Even now, he couldn't really explain what that actually felt like to anyone because no other person on the face of the Earth had experienced a similar feeling. Maybe those who had been struck by lightning might have some clue, but all he could say was that he was keenly aware of his body being scattered to the winds as it more or less shredded into bits, yet he wasn't really dead. Something of himself remained while he fell back to the ground, his…essence if such a thing had a name. That was why it wasn't so hard for him to believe that he currently had no body left yet could still remain.

Sylar was having no such existentialthoughts. Not that he wasn't capable of self reflection and deep introspection in his free time, of which he usually had plenty, it just generally wasn't in his nature to second guess himself. Once he settled on a course of action he followed it through with all due diligence and determination and this was no exception. He knew what he was doing would work, of that there was no question. What he hadn't anticipated was the sheer amount of force and concentration it would demand of him and he fought equally hard to remain conscious and to direct all the energy he could create into the coils. Never in his life had he engaged in such a test of sustained endurance and it reminded him of the seemingly endless rounds of testing he was forced to participate in at the hands of Bennet. He lived through that nightmare, he reminded himself, and he would survive this as well even if his efforts ultimately failed. If nothing else, he couldn't let Peter outdo him, so for him there was no try, only do and he pushed on even though he felt dizzy and blood poured from his nose, down his face and dripped off his chin at an alarming rate.

Claire sat on the edge of Mohinder's desk casually swinging her feet while she watched him labor over the microscope. Chekov had mysteriously disappeared, and she had the distinct impression that she should hang close for Spock's sake if Mohinder couldn't be successful on his first attempt which was looking fairly likely at the moment. She had tentatively approached Nathan's bedside to check on him, but he was fast asleep and she thought better of disturbing him even though he would have insisted he didn't mind. A nurse assigned to him assured her that he would be fine, he just needed to rest so she returned to Mohinder's lab until a better time to visit him presented itself. "Something wrong?" She asked when Mohinder sighed deeply.

He turned to her and gave his best polite smile because it wasn't her fault this was all so difficult. "I suppose there is." He admitted rubbing his tired eyes. "The truth is, Claire, when I used your blood in the Shanti vaccine, I didn't parse it out. I just mixed the whole blood with my antibodies, but that won't work this time and I am back at square one as to what exactly makes your powers work- or any of yours for that matter."

She absentmindedly looked over at the wall at the black and white karyotypes and pointed to one with a white band circled in red. "Looks like you were onto something."

He wanted to tear the film down in frustration and rip it up. It was so promising yet all so wrong. "Yes, I thought I was. But now I'm not so sure." He nearly laughed at the irony of it all. Leave it to Sylar to offer a glimmer of hope and then take it all away with a sudden yank and evil smirk. Add the contamination to his apparent refusal to leave any other form of DNA, even accidentally, and the man's cruelty seemed to know no bounds.

"Well, I'm no doctor," she said slowly, "but is the whole matching thing really that important? I mean, my blood has been given to Sylar and my dad and I'm just guessing we don't share the same type."

Mohinder's eyes lit up as he exclaimed, "Claire! That's brilliant!" before running out into the main area with her in tow to find out what was so wonderful about her idea. "Dr. McCoy," he smiled, "I believe I have a solution to your dilemma."

"Wonderful." McCoy groused. "I'm a doctor, not a mind reader! Now cut the proper niceties and spit it out, I ain't got all day here."

"Yes, of course." He agreed looking at Spock's ashen complexion. "I don't believe it will cause complications if you give Claire's blood to Mr. Spock. We have done transfusions before with evolved and non-evolved humans and there were no complications even without type matching. I believe this is probably due to the healing factor that precludes an autoimmune reaction."

"But if I give her blood to him, will the healing thing stick?" He asked skeptically.

"Um…" Mohinder paused.

"It didn't for me." Noah spoke up. "You used her blood on me after you shot me in the eye."

"Yes, about that," he replied hastily, "I truly am sorry. I thought…"

"It's ok." Noah smiled as if it were just another day at the office for him.

"Wait, you shot him?" McCoy asked Mohinder. "Jesus! What is with you people? One minute you are friends and then the next you are trying to kill the other person and then you team up again to go after someone else. It's like some goddamn soap opera with you people. Can't you just pick your friends and stick with them?"

"I think we are friends now, right?" Mohinder asked apprehensively. The corner of Noah's mouth twitched on his otherwise expressionless face. "Well, you did lure me into a van and stab me in the crotch with the paralyzer thing!" He defended. "That hurt!"

"And then you, Peter, and Matt duct taped me to a chair and tortured me for hours as I recall." Noah retorted coolly.

"We had to know about building 26!" Mohinder wailed. "It wasn't as if you would just willingly chat about it, now would you?!"

"Seriously." Matt shrugged. "He has a point and if you remember, he was the one who wasn't cool with it and tried to take me down." He chuckled and glanced back at Mohinder. "Got rolled by the fat man, didn't ya?"

"Guys!" McCoy growled. "Can we just get on with this before he dies on my table while you three bicker like old women?"

"Right." Mohinder declared, glaring at Noah as he went to his lab to retrieve the vial containing Claire's blood. Noah held his stare with his icy blue eyes, neither intimidated nor apologetic.

McCoy took the syringe from Mohinder and never had he felt more like a kindergarten teacher at recess than he had then. "Alright," he sighed inserting the needle into a vein in Spock's arm, "let's hope this works because I think this is our last shot." With that proclamation he slowly injected the purely human blood into Spock's body and watched the monitors nervously for any sign of rejection, but there was none. In fact, nothing happened and his heart sank. He didn't know how he was going to break the news to Jim that despite everything, Spock wasn't going to make it and probably only had a few hours at best left to live before his organs began to shut down permanently.

There was a sense of despair that hung heavy in the room. It seemed everyone just knew, most of all Claire who felt desperate and confused as to why she couldn't come through when she was most needed. Was his body really that much different that her blood didn't work for him? As she watched him breathe much too slowly to sustain life, she suddenly felt sorrow and grief for the alien man. Suddenly, because she was literally a part of him now, she felt responsible and regretted avoiding him because he reminded her of Sylar. He was nothing like the man she hated so much, nothing at all like him and if nothing else he did try to stick with Peter while he was being held hostage and that was worth the world to her. He probably had his own reasons for doing so, but it benefitted her nonetheless and for that she was grateful to the pointed eared man. It was no surprise, then, that she nearly squealed when she watched his dark eyes slowly open, languid yet determined.

"Spock!" McCoy shouted. "You're alive!"

"Obviously." He deadpanned in a low and slow tone. "An animated corpse would be illogical."