Behavioral Therapy, Part 1

Sylar was captured on a winter day when the sidewalks were wet with slush and dirt of the ugliest kind. Elle’s electricity conducted well through the grime, and Sylar was left choking on an icy puddle long enough for Mohinder to administer the sedative. This time the dose of curare was tempered by Haitian pills and there would be no stopping of the IV, no sudden reversal of fortune. This time, Mohinder had thought of everything.

Behavioral Therapy, Part 2

Bob had provided a car for him the next morning. It was a dark-windowed Lincoln town car, sitting like a black lump outside the shabby apartment. The chaffeur never said a word during the two-hour commute to Hartsdale, never once seemed to glance at him in the rear view mirror. He reminded Mohinder a little of the guards at Buckingham Palace, trained not to flinch no matter what was done to distract them. That sort of stoicism impressed him. He was unable to detach himself from his work, unable to contain his curiosity about his subjects. His father had seen that tendency and feared that he would be destroyed by it, but Mohinder preferred to think of it as the key to his humanity. His work was worthwhile because of his personal connection to it. Because in the end, it was humanity, not science, that he truly wanted to serve.

Behavioral Therapy, Part 3

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It became a habit.

Behavioral Therapy, Part 4

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Shame.

Shame, burning hot and steady in his gut. That’s all he was aware of.

Behavioral Therapy, Part 5

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The afternoon was significantly less titillating than the morning.

Behavioral Therapy, Part 6

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Mohinder awoke the next morning having no idea how he’d gotten home. He had no memory of anything after scrambling to his feet and leaving. It had been like the room was full of radiation all of a sudden; he knew nothing but that he had to leave. He had to get out. There was nothing else to say or do. But after he did, what had happened to him? Had he driven home in one of the Company cars? Had he called a taxi? Based on the labored aching of his body, he wouldn’t have been surprised had he walked through the woods for hours, catching weary legs and arms on bramble and branches, before finding his way home.

Behavioral Therapy, Part 7

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Sylar was grinning from the moment he woke up.

Behavioral Therapy, Part 8

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“Stand up.”

Cold voice on the blank walls. Hardness in the tone.

Behavioral Therapy, Part 9

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The first tears had come with the first slap.

Behavioral Therapy: Part 10

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The spot on his desk where Mohinder’s eyes were focused should by all rights have burned through by now. He certainly could feel the heat radiating from them. If it took troubled times to bring out special abilities, he thought, he should have full-fledged heat vision at this point. Because he was as troubled as he’d ever been.