The Subtleties That Make Mass Murderers

A Heroes fan fiction by xahra99

The traffic light flicks from red to green.

The black Nissan idles at the intersection as though it hasn't noticed the change. Sylar, in the passenger seat, glances back at the empty road behind them.

The car does not move.

Sylar clears his throat quietly. "Uh."

Mohinder does not respond. He's right next to Sylar in the driver's seat. His left hand rests on the gearstick, his right hand holds the wheel. His mouth is slack and he stares with unfocused eyes into the middle distance. There's nothing particularly interesting there, so Sylar deduces that he is deep in thought.

Or maybe he just got a bad burger at the last diner...

Sylar clears his throat again. This time he does it a little too loudly. The sound tears right through his head like a buzz saw through butter. It has no effect on Mohinder.

Sylar sighs. He'd like to rip Mohinder's thoughts straight out of his head (maybe one day, Parkman). He'd like to smack Mohinder round the head and demand what the hell's so damn interesting, five hours from Montana with a fresh corpse behind them and the cops (for all they know) on their tail.

But Zane Taylor (musical, shy, sincere, super-powered, dead Zane) would do neither of those things.

"Mohinder?" Sylar asks quietly.

He finally gets a response. Not much, but it's there. "Mmm?"

"Light's on green."

"Mm?"

Mohinder's eyes have just focused when a car screeches to a halt behind them. Its horn blares indignantly.

Three things happen.

Mohinder slips the car into first and slams his foot on the gas. The Nissan skids forwards, smoke billowing from its tires. Sylar jerks back into his seat, slams both hands over his ears and smacks his head on the car's ceiling. By the time Mohinder glances over at him Sylar's crouched in his chair with his hands clasped to his temples. It takes every ounce of his control to relax and lean backwards. Even so, Mohinder frowns.

"Head still bad?"

Sylar manages a grunt.

"Don't you think we should stop at a clinic? It's been five hours."

"Migraine." Sylar grinds out. "Happens... often. Just...drive."

Mohinder looks like he's going to say something, but he obviously thinks better of it, because he just shrugs and says "It's your decision."

Sylar balls up Zane's sweatshirt and stuffs it between his cheek and the car window. The sound of the car horn still reverberates through his skull, but the sweatshirt blocks out some of the traffic noise.

Once Sylar has adjusted the makeshift pillow to his satisfaction he closes his eyes against the glare of the setting sun and relaxes. But Mohinder is still edgy. Sylar can almost feel the tension in him. He can certainly hear it in the abrupt way Mohinder changes gear, and he wishes he wouldn't. It hurts his head.

"You seemed pretty spaced out back there," he murmurs. "What's the matter?"

"I was just thinking." Mohinder says. He turns to Sylar for a moment, blinking in the sunset before his gaze settles once more on the road. "Can you melt anything?"

"Anything?"

"In the apartment," Mohinder says. "You melted the toaster, the phone. A mug."

Sylar can't work out where the scientist is heading with this. "So?"

"Can you melt anything at all? I mean, such as organics?"

Sylar stares at his hands in new respect. He remembers to fake confusion just in time, because he's a musician from Virginia, apparently, and can't be expected to understand long words. "Organics?"

Mohinder smiles ever so slightly condescendingly. "Biological matter. Living organisms," He takes one hand off the wheel to point at a display of meat in a deli window as they drive past. "Or those recently dead."

Sylar cranes over his own shoulder and stares at the shop until it vanishes behind them. Inside, he's cursing. If only he had thought to melt Zane Taylor, the Feds (who are probably breaking down the door of the musician's apartment right now) would have a whole lot less evidence. Outwardly, of course, his expression never falters.

Mohinder takes his silence as bewilderment. "Like chicken," he adds.

When the time is right, professor, Sylar thinks, you shall pay for every condescending little gesture.

What he says is "No idea."

Mohinder drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "I'd like to try some experiments some time." His hands pause for a second and he glances over at Sylar like he's afraid he's offended him. "That is, if you're willing."

"I've got a better idea," Sylar says as he peers around the wadded up sweatshirt and notices something at the side of the road. "Why don't we try it right now? Pull over."

"What?"

"Pull over!"

Mohinder raises his eyebrows, but he follows Sylar's order. The Nissan comes to rest with its right wheels in the gravel and its left wheels on the blacktop. Zane's shoes scuff on gravel as Sylar gets out of the car.

Sylar walks fifty meters back down the highway to the roadkill. As he goes he pulls his gloves off with his teeth and stuffs them into the pocket of his jeans. The Nissan's engine idles behind Sylar as he bends down to check on the corpse. It's a fox, a small one. Its spine is twisted, teeth bared in a final snarl.

It looks pathetic.

Sylar crouches and holds one hand out over the body. When nothing happens he reaches down and gently stirs its coat with one finger. The fur is almost too soft to feel, like dandelion fluff. It tickles his hand.

Behind him, the Nissan's engine gurgles into silence as Sylar traces the stiff lines of the animal's body. Nothing happens. After a while Sylar rises to his feet and pulls his gloves back on. He stares down at the fox's body with a surgeon's detachment.

"What," Mohinder asks from behind him, "are you doing?"

Sylar shakes his head. "There's nothing."

"Are you crazy?"

Sylar chooses not to answer that question. Disappointment curdles inside him, but the expression he turns to Mohinder is rueful and slightly embarrassed. "I had to try."

Mohinder jingles the car keys in one hand. "I was thinking of stopping at the supermarket."

Plastic wrapped meat, Sylar thinks. It's more your style. He shrugs as Mohinder studies him with those dark puzzled eyes. He's positioned himself a few meters away from Sylar. This might be due to Sylar's expression or the proximity of the dead animal, but Sylar's beginning to realize that it's just Mohinder's way. He's cautious in most things he does. Analytical. Scientific. Sylar could never mistake him for a fellow predator. But he's not a victim, either, and that makes him interesting.

Sylar can't work him out.

He tucks his hands into his jacket and says nothing. They stand in silence over the dead animal until a car breezes past. Sylar's having a good moment and the sound of the car does not bother him, but if he 

strains his hearing he can just make out the fractional increase in Mohinder's heart rate. He's unsettled, and serves him right.

"What did you think was going to happen?" Mohinder asks.

"I don't know," Sylar says.

Mohinder pauses for a moment before reaching out and laying a hand on Sylar's shoulder. The warmth of his skin leaches through Sylar's jacket. It's an affectionate and ultimately useless gesture. Sylar looks at Mohinder's hand without moving. After a while, Mohinder lowers his arm, saying "Don't worry," as he tucks his hands back into his coat pockets.

"It's not the most useful power," Sylar admits.

Mohinder shrugs as they turn and walk back to the car. "At least it's not dangerous."

"There is that." Sylar's voice has an edge to it.

"It's still an amazing ability," Mohinder says politely. "Everyone's different."

"I guess that some people are more talented than others," Sylar says softly. It takes all of his considerable restraint to prevent a touch of indignation from creeping into his voice. Zane's meekness is beginning to grate on him. He's managed a fine job of acting so far, but sooner or later he's going to start phoning it in, and then Mohinder might notice.

And that would be a shame, because then Sylar will have to kill him.

They return to the car in silence. Sylar wads up the sweatshirt into a pillow and shuts his eyes as soon as he sits down. He intends to sleep, but Mohinder's fiddling about with the map again. Every scrunch of crisp paper slices through Sylar's skull like a knife. Under the cover of his jacket pockets, he balls his hands into fists.

They've been on the road for two days now, and Mohinder's complete inability to comprehend a simple road map still enrages Sylar. He could have traced a route in less than a minute, combining his own power of intuitive aptitude and Charlie Andrews' enhanced memory. As he listens to Mohinder's increasingly frantic crumpling, he reminds himself once again that he can't. After all, he's pretending to be normal.

Sylar can't help feeling that normal is highly overrated.

When he's judged that the interval has gone on long enough, he opens his eyes. "Want help with that?"

"I'm fine." Mohinder says. He flips the map over. Sylar has to grab at the door handle to stop himself from reaching over, throwing the map in the backseat and telling Suresh that he'll be driving from here on out. Using the power of his mind.

But Zane Taylor can't drive a car with telekinesis, and he's too laid back to lose his temper. So Sylar just closes his eyes again and reminds himself for the millionth time how badly he needs Mohinder's list. Through the padding of the sweatshirt he hears Mohinder fold the map and turn the keys in the ignition. There's the crunch of tires of gravel as the Nissan pulls out into the traffic, and a few snatches of dissonant, thumping rock as Mohinder turns up the radio.

Sylar groans.

He's confident that, given time, he'll be able to hone Dale Smithers' talent into something the mechanic only dreamed of. But for now, it would help if Suresh would turn the bloody radio off.

"Zane? You okay?"

Sylar grits his teeth and nods his head once, up and down, because any more movement is going to shake his brain out through his ears.

"I thought you'd like it."

Surprised, Sylar opens his eyes. "Why?"

"The Ramones?" Mohinder points at Sylar's chest, currently wearing Zane's faded black T-shirt. "You're a fan?"

Sylar has forgotten about the shirt. He flounders for a second before catching himself smoothly. "Of course." The save is too smooth, too Sylar, but there's no suspicion in Mohinder's eyes.

"Favorite song?"

"Uh-'I Wanna Be Sedated'" Sylar says quickly, picking the only Ramones song he knows. He winces as he remembers Bennet and his drugs. Mohinder frowns. Sylar realizes too late that he's picked the only Ramones song, no doubt, that no true fan would ever choose. "It's a classic," he says defensively.

Mohinder nods. "Good choice, he says vaguely.

Sylar realizes in a flood of relief that the scientist probably knows as much about rock music as Sylar does himself. He flops back in his seat and exhales as the music ends. He has maybe a second of relief before the next song starts up. It's even louder than the first. Sylar makes a snap decision as the car passes over a series of particularly nasty potholes. He reaches out a hand as if to steady himself on the dashboard. The tips of his outstretched fingers touch the radio and its plastic casing melts like wax.

The music groans to a halt.

Mohinder looks down at the dripping plastic in amazement.

"My mistake," Sylar apologizes.

Mohinder touches the dash with his right hand, no doubt wondering how the hell he's going to get his rental deposit back. He looks up at Sylar and back at the radio and seems to come to a decision, possibly one involving the value of a real live research subject over a cheap Japanese-import radio. "Don't worry."

Sylar shakes clotted plastic from his hand and closes his eyes again, secure in the silence. His headache has instantly improved. It's replaced with exhaustion. Murder always leaves him tired. One day maybe he'll have the power to do without sleep, but for now it's like food or fuel, necessary for function. Invulnerability would be better, but he'll take what he can get.

He always does.

As he drifts off Sylar comforts himself with the knowledge that soon, he'll have the list.

After all, he's smarter than Suresh.

Mohinder pulls up at a gas station at sunset, just as the sun sinks below the horizon in a swirl of saffron and orange. He fills up quietly to avoid waking Zane and walks to the kiosk to pay and collect a cardboard cup of coffee. As he drinks, he leafs through the day's leftover papers.

It's cold, too cold, and it seems that a childhood in Madras has ill prepared Mohinder for the fury of a North American winter. The coffee's almost gone before he knows it. Mohinder is mulling over whether to wake Zane and find a cheap motel or push on for the night when page two of the Telegraph Herald makes the decision for him.

Zane Taylor is dead.

It's not a large article. After all, they're two states over now, and moving fast. The murder would probably have gone unreported were it not for the bizarre way the man had been killed. Head sawn off and brain removed.

Mohinder's riding with a corpse.

His first thought is that there's been some kind of terrible mistake, and his second is Sylar.

The Nissan is just visible at the edge of the forecourt's neon lighting. Zane is asleep in the passenger seat with his head cricked awkwardly against the window.

Zane.

Musical, shy, sincere, super-powered, dead Zane.

But it's not Zane.

It's Sylar.

Mohinder folds the paper neatly with shaking hands and replaces it in the rack. He crushes the cardboard cup and throws it in the trash, and then he walks out on the forecourt. Keeping a safe distance away from the car, he slumps against a wall and chews his nails.

He expects to be scared, but he's not. He's angry.

If he's been travelling with Sylar, travelling with his father's murders, all this time and he hasn't known...

What then?

Mohinder strips his thumb to the quick and starts on his index finger. He wants to stride over and shake Zane/Sylar awake. He wants to demand answers, but he's painfully aware that he probably won't get them by that method. In fact, he probably won't get anything except a quick and brutal death. He's going to have to be more subtle.

Dammit, he likes Zane.

Either this whole set-up is a string of coincidences and the man in the passenger seat really is Zane Taylor, or Mohinder's being played in ways he doesn't even want to think about. Nevertheless he forces himself to consider them, one by one.

If Zane really is Sylar, then he will want the list.

If he's searching for the list, then Mohinder is safe. For now.

Because if Zane is really Sylar, and if Sylar notices anything out of the ordinary, Mohinder could end up like Zane Taylor, or Mohinder's father, or Dale Smithers, or any one of the many people Sylar has killed.

Not just killed, Mohinder's brain insists. Devoured.

Mohinder shivers.

He tucks his hands back into his pockets and regards the Nissan with speculative eyes.

It would be simple to slide into the driver's seat, find a long stretch of straight road and send the car sailing to oblivion. He imagines the pyre, the stench of gasoline and the newspaper headlines. A tragic accident. Ice on the roads, maybe. But the images slip from Mohinder's grasp even as he fantasizes, because there are two problems with this plan.

The first is that he can't be sure that Zane Taylor really is Sylar.

The second is that, if Zane really is Sylar, then Mohinder wants him to recognize his murderer. He wants Sylar to realize that he's lost, that Mohinder is smarter, despite his lack of powers. And a fiery wreck, although satisfying, won't provide Mohinder with the closure he so desperately needs.

Mohinder stands under the neon lights of the forecourt for a little longer before he comes to a decision.

He's stopped shivering by the time he walks to the car, unlocks the door ever-so-quietly and straps himself in.

Sylar stirs but doesn't wake, and a few seconds later they're on the road again, headed for New York. The forecourt fades into the blackness behind them as Mohinder picks up speed. It's full dark now, and the only sources of light are the car's headlights and the soft glow of the instrument panel. It's cold, too, and although Mohinder would like to reach over the congealed remnants of the radio to switch the heater on, he's afraid that the noise might wake Sylar.

Sylar, oblivious to Mohinder's inner turmoil, sleeps on soundly.

The road changes from four-lane blacktop to two- lane. The car jolts slightly as it hits a pothole. Mohinder cringes, but Sylar sleeps on.

The fields around them are quiet and dark.

The headlights glint from a pair of small stunned eyes as an animal peers from the winter wheat. Mohinder feels a kinship with the creature, although it's too dark to even see its body. His own expression must be very similar at this moment.

After the animal, he sees nothing else for miles.

The nighttime here is different from night in New York, which is different from night in Madras. It's feral and freezing. There are no other cars, and few houses. The car's headlights seem puny by comparison to the vast swathe of blackness.

If Mohinder drives through the night he will be back at the apartment by morning.

What then?

He glances over at the man sleeping next to him and realizes that he's stopped thinking of his companion as Zane. He's still got no proof at all, but the more he thinks on it, the more compelling the 

circumstantial evidence seems. The inexplicable murder of Dale Smithers. Zane's mysterious 'migraines'. Mohinder wonders what he would have found in the motel, had he woken in the night and happened to glance into Zane's room, and then decides he really doesn't want to know.

He considers his options.

Option one is handing Sylar/Zane over to the Company, the one Bennet works for. Mohinder considers this idea for a moment before discarding it. He wants to deal with Sylar himself, after all.

This presents a problem. Sylar is taller and likely stronger than Mohinder, whose physical power has not exactly been honed by five years of classroom teaching. He'd probably lose in a hand-to-hand fight, even discounting Sylar's not inconsiderable abilities. Sylar, after all, has a ruthless streak that Mohinder lacks. The thought causes Mohinder no little resentment, and this surprises him.

Having excluded physical confrontation, Mohinder's thoughts turn to other methods.

He's been tentatively working on a plan for some time, with the idea that eventually he might meet his father's killer. He has the fake exterminator's gun at his apartment. More importantly, he has curare, obtained at great expense and no little trouble from a pharmacist friend of his father's. The old man had heard of Chandra's death, and so he'd asked no questions about what Mohinder was planning to do with the toxin. With luck, the drug will paralyze Sylar's abilities for long enough for Mohinder to extract a confession. Mohinder's a little fuzzy on the how here, but he guesses things will work out.

He takes his eyes off the road for a moment and attempts to estimate Sylar's weight. About seventy-five kilos, he guesses. The curare he has should work just fine.

Mohinder grips the steering wheel with both hands and puts his foot on the gas. The car leaps forwards, closer to New York and home. Mohinder can almost sense his plan falling into place. He thinks that it will work.

After all, he's smarter than Sylar.