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Mohinder and Bennet have been watching Mordecai Archand for three days. A distinguished looking gentleman in his sixties, he was once a member of The Company who went AWOL in the eighties along with precious information from subdivision 3FT confirming trained Specials who went rogue.
Watching him from afar, he looks to Mohinder like a slightly scatterbrained but affectionately regarded literary professor, speedily walking from one place to another and talking to himself (gesturing emphatically) while shaking a full head of gray hair. He makes Mohinder nostalgic for his earlier years at Oxford.
In any case, a face-to-face is finally in the cards, but nothing is going quite as planned. Most importantly, Mordecai should be in his bungalow. Turns out he isn’t. Mohinder and Bennet noted him entering and the motion detector in the house counted his presence, but unless he is able to turn invisible, he’s managed to slip through their fingers.
On the topic of disappearing, Mohinder stands in the kitchen and wonders where Bennet is. They had split up to enter the house, with Bennet working his way through the front door while Mohinder came in through the back. It was easy enough except Mohinder seems to be the only one in the house.
He reassuringly touches his hand to the handle of the gun holstered beneath his jacket as he casts observant eyes about the residence, moving towards the living room’s entrance. It’s all claustrophobically normal (books upon papers upon books) save for the overdose of Christmas decorations that make it look as if the festive season exploded all over the walls. Slowly, Mohinder walks around the room, eyeing everything in his search for any clues pertaining to Mordecai’s whereabouts.
Nearly caught up in a befuddled reverie, he almost misses the creak of a floorboard coming from the room next door. Mohinder holds his breath and slips the gun from its holding, all the while taking tentative steps forward. He wants to believe it’s Bennet, but if he’s learned anything over the last seven years it’s to not take anything for granted.
As he approaches the slightly ajar door he steadies the gun; hovering his index finger a millimeter above the trigger. His heart pounds in warning, and a step away from his destination he shoulders the door in one swift move. Unfortunately, he only gets as far as touching his finger to the trigger before he is frozen in place.
“Really, Mohinder,” Sylar says, with his right hand raised. “We must stop meeting like this.”
“What are you doing here?” Mohinder demands as he struggles against the invisible hold.
“I would guess the same thing as you,” Sylar says and telekinetically removes the gun from Mohinder’s possession, sending it over to the desk. Sylar watches its movement then slides his eyes back over to Mohinder, a telltale smirk in place. “Maybe not quite the same. Mordecai has the most delicious ability of x-ray vision, which I promised I wouldn’t take as long as he passed on the names of those he was protecting. But saying something and following through are two different things—as you already know.”
“You killed him?” Mohinder is filled with disappointment at the wasted opportunity and the senseless act. Suddenly the hold that has him disappears and he stumbles forward, bracing himself by thrusting out his left hand against the other side of the doorway’s frame.
“That’s kind of what I do.” Sylar’s tone has a hint of mockery in it.
“Bennet?”
Sylar points to his head. “Took a bit of a knock up there. He’s sleeping it off.”
The danger of the situation has Mohinder wondering what Sylar’s intentions are for him, but he refuses to ask the question and put himself in the position of needing Sylar’s mercy.
“You’ve gotten what you wanted,” Mohinder says instead, standing up and squaring his shoulders. “So why are you lurking about?”
“I was ready to dine and dash but then a little birdie told me you were coming and I couldn’t resist.” Sylar takes a step closer.
Mohinder holds his gaze steady, but nervously swallows. “I’m sure Dale would be thrilled to see her ability put to good use.”
Sylar murmurs a laugh. “She was there at our beginning. It seems fitting a part of her should be here now.”
Perplexed, and anxious for Sylar to get to the point, Mohinder asks, “Now?”
“A yearly celebration of sorts.” Sylar leans in close and Mohinder fights not to flinch. Sylar’s eyes go above Mohinder’s head then back to return his curious gaze. “A tradition all our own.”
Under a furrowed brow, Mohinder looks up and notices for the first time the mistletoe above. Returning Sylar’s amused stare, Mohinder scoffs and leans forward, saying in a low, stern voice, “Why am I not surprised the parasite would seek out his familiar?”
The narrowing of Sylar’s eyes inquisitively asks Mohinder to explain.
Mohinder fixes a stoic expression in place. “Despite being dressed up as something romantic or sweet for the holidays, mistletoe is a rather selfish plant. For its own survival it eats off those around it, leaving nothing in its wake. Some refer to it as vampiric. It can be deadly to those who dare get too close, all for a taste of it.”
Sylar pulls back slightly.
“So you see,” Mohinder continues, “It too is a con, pretending one thing, all the while being another.”
Sylar, head tilted to the side, regards him. “I don’t remember you always being this cynical.”
A momentary flash of regret hits Mohinder. He doesn’t like how far he’s strayed from where he started, when he first set out for America, with hope, but survival and experience demanded it. “It’s because I wasn’t. You can thank yourself for that.”
Something unquantifiable registers with Sylar because suddenly he is back in Mohinder’s face. “Then I guess it’s up to me to rectify that.”
Mohinder rolls his eyes, willfully ignoring the closeness of Sylar’s body, the imposition into his personal space. Folding his arms across his chest, Mohinder says, “You going to show me the true meaning of the season?”
“Oh Mohinder, I’m going to do a whole lot more than that.”
The unexpected suggestiveness in the soft rumble with which Sylar makes his statement, raises goosebumps on Mohinder’s skin and flushes a pulsing heat across the back of his neck. Mohinder can’t say where his body’s response is coming from and would prefer to not analyze what it might mean.
Mohinder begins, “I’ll hold my breath—,”
“Consider the challenge accepted.”
Sylar’s reply is said so fast it leaves Mohinder speechless, and a strange silence settles between them until a barely audible groan sounds out from another room. Both turn as Bennet can be heard, presumably, crawling to his feet.
Looking at each other again, Sylar grins. “We’ll do this again. Soon.”
With a flick of the wrist, Mohinder is sent hurtling into the far wall. Falling, stunned to the ground, he can do little as Sylar makes his disappearance.