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Post by Mohinder Suresh on Nov 13, 2008 9:42:01 GMT -5
*As the door swung open, Mohinder let out a startled burst of laughter; the place was an exact replica of his New York appartment, including family photographs and Mohinder-the-lizard. It seemed that no matter how far he ran, he couldn't escape. Shaking his head ruefully, he set his bag down, took out a clicky-box, and wandered into his bedroom. Yes, also identical. He opened the box, smiled at the contents, closed it, and stood on top of the bed to place it on top of his wardrobe, at the back. Then he moved the small suitcase in front of it and stepped down. This done, he began to change for bed.*
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Post by Mohinder Suresh on Jan 8, 2009 9:02:57 GMT -5
***New Day***
As Mohinder slipped inside and closed the door behind him, he couldn't help but wonder how long it would be until Sylar found him here as well.
He sat on the couch and hid his face in his hands. He should have killed the bastard when he had the chance - but ah, which time did that mean? He'd had so many chances, and taken none of them. Oh, he'd pulled the trigger once, and fooled himself into thinking that was enoough, but part of him had known it wouldn't take. He'd procrastinated for so long before hand, that Sylar's escape had been almost inevitable.
Why? he thought to himself. Why can't I bring myself to avenge my father, and to save countless potential victims? I shot Bennet just fine. Granted, I knew he would survive - well, I was reasonably sure - but I still shot him. Still killed him, right before his daughter's eyes. I left his family to mourn him, albeit temporarily. Who would mourn Sylar? Nobody! Nobody... except myself.
And he had mourned, after Kirby Plaza. He had wrapped himself up in Molly, in Primatech - first in bringing it down, then in building it up - and arguing constantly with Parkman; the last so much so that he was convinced the cop had seen the truth in his mind, though he had never mentioned it. He had done everything he could to keep himself occupied, too exhausted to even think, but he couldn't fill up every minute of every day and in those free moments, the thought of Sylar was inescapable.
More accurately, the thought of Zane. Of Gabriel Grey, and how alike those two might be. In those times, he wondered what might have been; what if he had heard Sylar out, when he called in a panic? Was his desperation genuine? Did he truly wish to be saved, and if so, was it possible? What if he had gotten one room, that night, instead of two? He'd thought about it. Would Dale still have died? What if Mohinder had come to America with his father? Could he have prevented Sylar from even existing?
He cursed his own ego. To think that his - he would not, could not say the L word - affection could somehow cure a serial killer was the worst kind of ridiculous, and trying would only bring pain.
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