Work Text:
Zugzwang (n): Chess. A situation in which a player is forced to make an undesirable or disadvantageous move.
Mohinder puts the finishing touches on a letter to Molly during his final evening in London. The hotel room’s desk is situated in front of the half opened window and from the fifteenth floor Mohinder can watch the vibrant fluorescent lights play off of each other as they crack the darkness of night; the perfect coupling to the honking cars and patchwork of human voices that drift upwards.
Amidst the din of noise is the quieted sound of the television news anchor on BBC detailing the day’s top stories. Trying to think of the perfect way to end the letter—Mohinder has been sifting his mind through quotes he has collected over the years, picking specific ones to mark the difference in place and sentiment, letter-to-letter—he comes to a still while the cacophony of sounds trickle by like white noise.
‘The hunt continues for the murderer of twenty-three year old Shannon McGilroy whose brutalized body was found three days ago just outside of Bath. Noted for the gruesomeness of the attack police are sharing little to no details about the crime leaving many to speculate that they have few leads. Shannon disappeared two weeks ago while walking home from a friend’s house. She was found in a heavily wooded area by a father and daughter whose car had broken down…’
The pen waits mid sentence, ink bleeding through the paper, as Mohinder turns to look at the television and sees the grinning photograph of the victim staring back. A new story snaps him out of his wondering reverie about the details of her murder that set it apart from so many others. In particular he deliberates on why her name is so familiar. Glancing down at the letter at his hands Mohinder hisses in discontent at the ink stain that now mars the otherwise attractively cursive handwriting.
“Damn it,” he mutters but he has no time to fix it as a knock on the suite door calls his attention. He wrinkles his forehead at the unlikely visitor, before placing a paperweight on top of the letter to keep the breeze from stealing it away. Pushing back his chair he cautiously crosses the room. An investigative peek through the peephole reveals a face he has ceased being surprised to see.
“No telekinesis to force your way in?” Mohinder says while opening the door, one hand on the knob and the other gripping the door’s edge.
“I thought I’d be polite. Work on my manners a bit,” Sylar replies half joking and half serious.
“How unlike you,” Mohinder snaps gamely.
Their mutual gaze makes a few seconds take on the heaviness of introspection that is normally associated with unbroken minutes and dilated pupils in unblinking eyes. Mohinder pulls the door further open as he steps back and Sylar strolls in with his shoulders back and head held high as if not a care in the world can penetrate the walls.
Sylar’s eyes travel the details of the room until he slowly turns around and sets them on Mohinder. “What are you up to?” he asks, the casualness of which immediately heightens Mohinder’s suspicions over the surprise visit.
“Nothing,” Mohinder says as he leans his back against the closed door and folds his arms defensively across his chest, bracing for the unexpected.
Mohinder is purposely not divulging anything of a personal nature but Sylar catches the brief glance over his shoulder and, turning his back to Mohinder, sees the letter angled at the center of the desk.
“How’s the kid?”
“None of your business.”
Mohinder crosses the room, briefly latching his eyes on to Sylar’s as he passes by, and stops at the desk. Picking up the letter he folds it unevenly and shoves it in the desk’s top drawer. He takes a moment to stare out the window, trying to thrust himself into the outside world, but the shuffle of feet behind him thwarts his useless thoughts of escape.
“I was wondering how long it would take you,” Mohinder says while turning around. He observes Sylar looking at the watch that is sitting on the night table.
Sylar picks it up and analyzes it closely, putting it to his ear and rubbing his thumb along the surface. A small smile suggests he is as amused by it as he is by Mohinder’s aggressive words.
“How long have you known?...I can fix this,” Sylar asks and offers.
“That you’ve been following me? Three weeks. The watch is fine,” Mohinder says.
Sylar’s smile, first directed at the watch, now settles on Mohinder. He puts the watch down and lets his fingers linger on it. “You always were good at hiding what you know. And the watch isn’t fine. It’s off by a quarter of a second, the thought of which gives me a headache.”
“I don’t recall forcing you to stay,” Mohinder says and sits on the edge of the desk.
“Your always welcoming attitude is encouragement enough,” Sylar says with a clipped edge to his tone and he begins a slow saunter around the foot of the bed towards the desk.
Mohinder’s curiosity keeps his eyes trained on Sylar and he follows his movements. Sylar’s blank face and wandering eyes (looking at everything but Mohinder) play out his walk as something unplanned, but Mohinder still holds his breath at the expectation that there is more to this visit than the trading of insults. Sylar rests his hands on the desk and leans forward to look out the window. Mohinder notices the shifty hesitation as Sylar glances his way and then outside again, unfocused. A cool breeze brings with it a relief from the otherwise warm air and shakes the silence between them. Standing back, Sylar’s attention to Mohinder is diverted by a multi-coloured paper on the desk. Narrowing his eyes he picks it up for inspection.
“What is this?”
The lack of response prompts him to continue, “It’s a simple question.”
“Molly’s hand,” Mohinder answers calling on restraint to keep his twitching fingers from snatching her artwork out of his hands. “She traced it out and decorated it—,”
“So you can take her with you anywhere in the world.”
Mohinder grabs it from Sylar and glares at his mockery laced in an overly saccharine voice regarding Molly’s show of caring. Turning his face the other way he mutters, “Jackass,” under his breath. When he turns back Sylar is looking out the window again, unmoved by the utterance.
“It’s very…colourful,” Sylar muffles a laugh and keeps his gaze forward while Mohinder looks down at the chaotic pattern of blue, red, yellow, purple, orange; of stars, swirls, half crescents; horizontal stripes and pointillism.
“I think it’s fantastic,” Mohinder grumbles.
Sylar looks at him, eyes suddenly twinkling with amusement. “You would…though the blackened finger seems to distract from the rest of it.”
“I think that’s supposed to be you,” Mohinder says and, seeing Sylar’s raised eyebrow, continues, “A black hole absorbing everything in its way.”
An amused few seconds pass wherein Mohinder does not fight to contain the smile that turns up the corners of his mouth slightly at getting a jab, small as it may be, in at him. His annoyance that Sylar is more captivated by the world outside the window than his remark is tempered when Sylar says, “Well then please express my appreciation to her for such a symbolically fitting rendition.”
Surprised at the oddness of the conversation unfolding between them Mohinder keeps his eyes clasped firmly on Sylar’s profile and leans closer to ask, “Why are you here?”
It is the smallest of spaces between them when Sylar turns to look his way. There is a look of reconsideration on Sylar’s face as if it pains him to hold back what is on his mind. Mohinder beats back the instinctive worry he feels, telling himself not to get emotionally tied to whatever is playing havoc with Sylar’s mind. Still he cannot help but be concerned that there is something that has him double guessing himself. Mohinder tries to remain detached, out of necessity. He knows all too well the emotional and mental exhaustion that comes from becoming too personally involved with those who care only for themselves.
“You know if you don’t tell m—,”
“I need your help.”
The unexpected admission surprises Mohinder but he manages a coolly spoken, “You always do,” as he walks away from the desk to the kitchenette and pours a glass of water from the tap, taking a drawn out sip. He does not need a superpower to know that Sylar is burning a hole through his back and he enjoys the moment of complete control, as fleeting as it may be.
“So what is it this time?” Mohinder asks keeping his back to him. “What is it that you’re going to try to force me into this time?”
Turning around Mohinder adds, “What are you trying to make me complicit in?”
Sylar’s blackened eyes hold onto his with an unblinking, uninterrupted, hold. “Stopping a raging psychopath.”
“Too late,” says Mohinder’s as he slams the glass down on the counter behind him.
“Save the judgmental power envy for another time, this is serious,” Sylar says with a raised voice as he walks steadily across the floor towards him.
“Power envy,” Mohinder practically shouts with disgust, moving forward. “You bloody…! You use an absolutely remarkable ability to hurt and destroy, all to make yourself into some god. There’s nothing enviable in that. And seeing how many times you’ve sought me out I don’t quite see the payoff that you do.”
Only a foot from each other Sylar strikes out his right hand and delivers a bruising grip around Mohinder’s neck. “Always driven by such personal vendettas,” Sylar sneers. “There’s a fine line between hate and love.”
With both hands Mohinder slams Sylar back with a push to his chest, forcing him to drop the punishing hold. Tenderly feeling his neck Mohinder glares at Sylar’s jeering expression, mostly encapsulated in a strongly defined smirk. Quick steps bring him into Sylar’s space.
“You know if it weren’t for my father showing up at your shop you’d still be making a living fixing watches,” Mohinder says. “So as much as it pains me to see this calling you’ve found for yourself the least you can do is show some respect.”
“I would have found my own way,” Sylar declares but the lack of conviction in his voice rings out an unquestionable uncertainty.
“Ah yes, you were really taking control of your life, answering to no one but your dead father and a mother who expected little more,” Mohinder says and, replying to Sylar’s questioning eyes, explains, “The Company keeps meticulous notes—if one knows where to look.”
“A believer in your own greatness. I wonder who that sounds like?” Sylar says quickly recovering from the unwelcome (but well played by Mohinder) remembrance of his past.
Unsure of what to say Mohinder now finds himself on the defensive with the calculated comparison that he knows Sylar enjoys making by the emphatic raising of both eyebrows and a grin. Mohinder begins to mouth various comebacks before croaking out an uncreative, but to the point, “I’m nothing like you.”
“Is that why you haven’t tried to kill me our last few visits?” Sylar says and Mohinder can hear the growing grin in his voice as he drops his focus to the floor. Bringing his mouth to Mohinder’s ear he whispers, “Don’t be too hard on yourself. I forgive you.”
Mohinder’s head snaps back and he levels dark eyes at Sylar. Quietly but forcefully he asks, “What do you want from me?”
For the second time that night Sylar’s confidence falters in his hesitation to explain his visit. Temporarily breaking from Mohinder’s scrutinizing eyes Sylar takes a deep breath that indicates a decision is being made and moves towards the bed. “I’m in…there’s trouble coming—,”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The deadly kind.”
“Well that narrows it down,” Mohinder says. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
Sylar rubs his forehead as if the gesture will sort out the cluttering of thoughts below. Dropping his hand he looks Mohinder square in the eyes and says, “I was closing in on a very lucrative power when things unexpectedly got out of hand. It was simple enough, I’ve been there a hundred times before and how I got sideswiped…And now it’s a mess that will only get worse—I just barely got away but now I’m on the damn radar…”
In the middle of Sylar’s confusing ramble Mohinder’s mind begins to spin.
Shannon McGilroy, university student, noted violent outbursts, potential shapeshifter.
Shannon McGilroy, dismembered, ritualistically desecrated.
Mohinder knows that the complexity of the attack on Shannon is not Sylar’s method of operation, or at least ceased to be years earlier, but instinctively he says, “Did you? Shannon McGilroy—was it you?”
A flash of disappointment fires up Sylar’s narrowing eyes at the unsure accusation and he tenses his jaw. “I can take abilities without resorting to such tactics. Besides it serves no purpose beyond self-gratification in the grotesque.”
“Which isn’t exactly below you,” Mohinder points out.
“I lost interest in inflicting such torturous pain a long time ago,” Sylar says.
“Please don’t tell me you had a spiritual epiphany,” Mohinder scoffs, closing the distance with Sylar as he tries to effortlessly glide across the thickening tension.
Sylar ignores the jab and keeps going. “Survival of the fittest is a far cry from the insanity of the macabre. I can easily take a power and walk away. Why debase myself with extraneous gratuities? I am the showman of my own brilliance.”
Choosing to ignore Sylar’s self-prophesizing Mohinder says, “But Shannon is whom you were following?”
“So close,” Sylar says and sits down on the side of the bed and braces his hands on his thighs. “I was so close and then it was like Bennet’s mute partner was around.”
The Haitian’s face pops up in Mohinder’s head and curiosity bypasses grandstanding sarcasm. A tentative step forward and Mohinder rolls back on his heels, coming back to the same starting position. “There’s someone else who can shut down powers? We’ve seen duplication before but not that one yet.”
“It’s not quite the same,” Sylar says and the frustration in his tired sounding tone is unmistakable.
“Then what?” Mohinder asks looking down on Sylar and as the question finishes, hanging loosely in the air with no reply to anchor it, an understanding begins to form.
Mohinder glances over his shoulder at the room door and thinks about Sylar knocking. From there his eyes move forward to the window and he remembers the whispered insult that Sylar ignored. His eyes widen, finally taking in Sylar’s pensive face below him.
“You don’t have your powers,” Mohinder guesses quietly.
His suggestion of weakness, of being overpowered, brings Sylar to his feet. “Yes I do. They’re still there. I can feel them—,”
“Then?”
“It’s like he stuck an inhibitor inside. I can’t access them,” Sylar says and stares off at some distant spot on the floor. “Not only could he stop mine but he could take on hers.”
Not so concerned with Sylar’s altered state, Mohinder is instead immediately on edge about a person with such a far reaching ability; who has used it in the most unbelievable ways. Consumed by his thoughts Mohinder says, “But you got away…”
Sylar glares at him. “Well when he started going to work on her I decided to get the hell out of there. Didn’t really care to see what he had in store for me. I’m sure you understand.”
A thoughtful moment passes and Mohinder says, “And of course you want me to restore your powers.”
“If you want him stopped,” Sylar says like the declaration is the undeniable ace in the hole that he should be jumping at to help out with no resistance.
Mohinder regards him through narrowing eyes. He clenches his jaw in irritation, drawing attention to the sharpness of its angle by what he is initially holding back then says, “So that you can claim it for your own? Because his ability will be put to much better use in your hands? You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not swayed by the argument.”
“So you’re willing to let him roam, to exterminate those of us up the evolutionary scale?”
“Of course not,” is Mohinder’s reply. He sighs in exasperation and rolls his eyes towards the front door before looking back at Sylar. “But your way can’t be the only one!”
Sylar grabs Mohinder’s arm and sternly asks, “Why not?”
“You can’t seriously be asking me that?” Mohinder asks in disbelief at Sylar’s obtuse reading of the situation. His mouth hangs half open as he contemplates then dismisses any logical argument to back up his stance in the face of Sylar’s insistence. He watches Sylar peers indecipherably at him and he thinks he catches a flicker of understanding in the unflinching gaze that bores through him.
Sylar pulls Mohinder closer and says, “I’ve come face-to-face with him and got away. I know what to expect. With my powers reinstated and your help to find and subdue him…”
Shock must register on Mohinder’s face when his eyes widen because Sylar adds, “You’re good with the unsuspecting debilitating drug cocktails. We can take him down and stop him from committing—essentially—an act of genocide.”
“You were going to do the same thing on a smaller scale, if I recall,” Mohinder wrenches his arm free and glares back at Sylar as he walks to the window and stares outside. It feels like he is always coming back to the same point no matter how many times he senses the forward propulsion of progressive strides. What seems to be a delusion of false accomplishments plays persuasive ping-pong in his pulsating brain.
As much as Sylar angers him, as much as his existence still mocks him, there is always that kernel of truth that manages to stay Mohinder’s hand and rethink any given situation, even if it is only brief. Many times a moment is all Sylar need to hook his claws in, yet even then Mohinder refuses to say still or play dead. None of it should be easy he is reminded. It is in the difficulty of the fight that pretense slowly gets stripped away and a less surprising each time common ground reemerges. But it is always a struggle.
Going over the range of options Mohinder wonders aloud, “Peter could take him on…”
Sylar’s huff of repulsion is heard before his pounding steps to Mohinder’s side. “Great idea. Peter can absorb the ability and then render everyone, including himself, absolutely useless. How far is that going to get you? This…man has experience. With or without powers he could rain down a torment, the likes of which you can’t even begin to imagine. This thing is out there right now doing god knows what. I want my powers back—what I earned—and I want to take the son of a bitch down!”
Folding his arms across his chest Mohinder turns a severe gaze, with one raised eyebrow, and a partly snarled upper lip at Sylar. “I don’t trust you.”
“You don’t have to. You know me. You know what I want. Is this really such a difficult decision?” Sylar asks facing Mohinder and resting his hand on the desktop.
Trying to avoid becoming trapped by Sylar’s imprisoning stare Mohinder looks away and thinks over the decision being placed before him. It seems unfair that such a choice, between an unparalleled in power sociopath and a re-powered serial killer, should even exist. One simply seems like an extension of the other and all roads lead to hell. The old adage ‘the lesser of two evils’ sounds too simplistic; everything here is fucked.
“Difficult?” Mohinder says so low as to hardly be heard. “You describe a torturer then want me to accompany you into the lion’s den—,”
Abruptly Mohinder stops and the dawn of the newest realization widens his eyes and drops his jaw. “You want to use me as bait.”
“You’ll be safe.”
“You want to use me as bait!” Mohinder repeats, astonished.
Sylar hesitates, taking in the full extent of Mohinder’s reaction. “Well you do attract a certain type,” he says in an attempt at humour.
“You mean I’m a psycho magnet. I noticed,” Mohinder says, backing up defiant words with a staunch stand as he faces Sylar head on.
Mimicking Mohinder’s body language Sylar quirks a half smile. “You’re just so…stimulating—or pliable.”
“Insults—definitely the way to convince me,” Mohinder says but is surprised by Sylar’s strong grasp of his shoulder.
“We’re both beyond the need to bullshit each other Mohinder,” Sylar says. His tone is suddenly serious with a truth Mohinder is aware has existed between them for quite some time, even when physical distance drew out the space between them and painful memories lashed out in strong words. “You know this has to be done.”
“I need to think about it.”
“Mohinder—,”
“Do you know what you’re asking me? I have to think about it, Sylar.”
Two sets of glaring eyes engage in a standoff that neither is willing to back down from. The more seconds that tick by the more steadfast Mohinder’s stubbornness grows to not give an answer just yet.
With a sigh of annoyance Sylar says, “Time is running out so think fast,” and he walks over to the bed and lies down, his shoes scuffing the blanket and his hands beneath his head.
“Please make yourself comfortable,” Mohinder mutters and redirects his worried eyes out the window. Eventually he pulls out the chair in front of him and sits down, hearing the labored sound of Sylar’s breathing as he drifts into a nap.
Leaning forward Mohinder cradles his head in his hands. Unease tenses his shoulders and he accidentally scrapes a fingernail barely across his skin, feeling the hurtful puckering of scraped flesh. He despises being put in such a position but here it is with no easy out.
What concerns him most is that it is not difficult to convince himself that working with Sylar right now is a painfully acceptable compromise with the harsh consequences he can deal with later. Experience tells him that siding even temporarily with Sylar will be held over his head as a point of ridiculing interest during their future meetings—a fact that brings pause to his choice. Yet mockery, hurtful or playful, is something Mohinder knows he can handle particularly given the sporadic nature of their rare interactions.
Risking his life is another issue and putting it willingly in Sylar’s hands is a point of contention. But there is that innate hope, as irritating as it is, that refuses to let go and the belief that he could in some way do good—even at great peril to himself—is something he cannot ignore. It is not that Sylar’s plan has good in it, at its nucleus, but that Mohinder can try to bring good to it.
Shifting back the chair Mohinder slides open the drawer and pulls out his unfinished letter to Molly. Unfolding it he flattens it on the desk’s surface, firmly sweeping his palm across it. Mohinder picks up his pen and thinks. An Oscar Wilde quote his mother had told him years before skips along his brain, “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
Mohinder sighs. Looking down at the letter he remembers a line from a movie he had watched on TV with Molly the last time he saw her. It had made her laugh and that remembrance of her high-pitched giggle is enough to put a much welcome smile on his face. He simply writes, “Don’t forget to drink your Ovaltine.”
Putting the pen down he gazes out the window, his smile already faltering.