It was a gamble, Mohinder knew, encouraging Nathan to use Sylar's emerging powers, but short of telling him the truth, he didn't know what else to do. And he couldn't tell him the truth. What was he supposed to say? "I'm sorry to tell you this, Nathan, but you're not really you. See, Sylar killed you, and apparently Matt, on the orders of your mother, had your consciousness transferred into Sylar's body, forcing his consciousness into the background and his body to shapeshift into you."
That would go over well.
He wasn't even sure if it was a consciousness in there, or some Sylar-as-Nathan, or what the hell Matt had even done. Was Nathan's soul alive inside Sylar's body, trapped there, or was it free, and this merely an identity crisis on Sylar's part, where too many memories were crowding in, and Matt's midfucking had messed things up. Could two souls share one body? Was there even a soul? Did it follow memory and consciousness--so long as Nathan believed he was Nathan, was Nathan still alive, or were they all fooling themselves?
The questions plagued him, keeping him up when he should be sleeping. He faked it well enough to know Nathan wasn't, to know he often wasn't in bed, leaving Mohinder to stare at the ceiling in peace, his mind whirling around and around with ethical, moral and personal dilemmas. Was what happened with Sylar...what? Had he cheated on a person who didn't even exist? Why had he let it happen? Why had he wanted it to? Why had there even been a smidgen of comfort in his arms at the end? Was it the absence of lies, the fact that they could drop all the pretense, finally, and he didn't have to watch every word for fear of triggering something--or, well, of triggering a change, because gods knew he could trigger Sylar on a hair.
He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. He was glad Nathan was calling Hiro, glad there was something forward that could be done. Maybe it wasn't right, maybe it was all wrong. Maybe all of this was wrong, and he should call Angela Petrelli, or at least Matt and tell them what was going on--or, well, at least parts of it--and put an end to it somehow, once and for all.
But he couldn't be the one to sign either of their death warrants. He couldn't do that again. So he swallowed back the urge to call and kept his peace and hovered in gardens and corners and kept his watch and vigil and prayed it would be enough.
He was very afraid it wouldn't be, for any of them.
Pushing up off the bench, he paced around the garden, wrapping his arms around himself. It wasn't cold, it was never cold here, but he was chilled nonetheless, and restless, and movement seemed the only hope of curing either condition.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2009-10-16 06:30 am (UTC)That would go over well.
He wasn't even sure if it was a consciousness in there, or some Sylar-as-Nathan, or what the hell Matt had even done. Was Nathan's soul alive inside Sylar's body, trapped there, or was it free, and this merely an identity crisis on Sylar's part, where too many memories were crowding in, and Matt's midfucking had messed things up. Could two souls share one body? Was there even a soul? Did it follow memory and consciousness--so long as Nathan believed he was Nathan, was Nathan still alive, or were they all fooling themselves?
The questions plagued him, keeping him up when he should be sleeping. He faked it well enough to know Nathan wasn't, to know he often wasn't in bed, leaving Mohinder to stare at the ceiling in peace, his mind whirling around and around with ethical, moral and personal dilemmas. Was what happened with Sylar...what? Had he cheated on a person who didn't even exist? Why had he let it happen? Why had he wanted it to? Why had there even been a smidgen of comfort in his arms at the end? Was it the absence of lies, the fact that they could drop all the pretense, finally, and he didn't have to watch every word for fear of triggering something--or, well, of triggering a change, because gods knew he could trigger Sylar on a hair.
He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. He was glad Nathan was calling Hiro, glad there was something forward that could be done. Maybe it wasn't right, maybe it was all wrong. Maybe all of this was wrong, and he should call Angela Petrelli, or at least Matt and tell them what was going on--or, well, at least parts of it--and put an end to it somehow, once and for all.
But he couldn't be the one to sign either of their death warrants. He couldn't do that again. So he swallowed back the urge to call and kept his peace and hovered in gardens and corners and kept his watch and vigil and prayed it would be enough.
He was very afraid it wouldn't be, for any of them.
Pushing up off the bench, he paced around the garden, wrapping his arms around himself. It wasn't cold, it was never cold here, but he was chilled nonetheless, and restless, and movement seemed the only hope of curing either condition.