Fic: Primatech 815 - Ch. 13
Fandom: Heroes (Crossover with Lost)
Characters: Ando, Bennet, Claire, Claude, Hiro, Isaac, Peter, Matt, Micah, Mohinder, Niki, Simone, Sylar (more to come)
Summary: A plane crash unites a group of strangers.
Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes or Lost.
Warnings: AU, Violence, Action/Adventure, Drug use, Het, Slash, Crossover/Fusion
Isaac did his best to suppress the groan building up in his throat as he tapped his pencil to his still blank sketch pad. Sweat was pouring down his face and his stomach felt like it was going to explode, or even implode. He hadn't felt this bad since before the plane had crashed, yet then he had a remedy for his symptoms. Now he just had to sit around and wait for his body to either fail him or get over the horrible withdrawal symptoms. Either way, he was praying for some kind of relief.
"You okay babe?" Simone asked, crouching down beside him.
He scowled, bowing his head in shame. Isaac hated having her see him like this. His skin had lost nearly all of its color and his eyes were red with thick black bags underneath. The Hispanic artist knew he must have been a terrible sight. "Fine," he lied. "Just fine."
"You sure?" she pushed, placing a tender hand on his cheek. "Maybe I can get Peter to take a look at you?"
White hot anger filled his vision at the very mention of the nurse's name. Yes, have Peter come fix him. Peter who was so perfect. Peter who was so brave. Peter who never had to deal with heroin withdrawal. He could cure everything with his innocent brown eyes and sloppy smile. He sneered, turning away from the woman, already missing the feel of her hand on his fevered skin. "I said I was fine," he grumbled. "Just... leave me alone."
Simone sighed, pulling herself back up. She had heard this tone before and was used to his cold act. That knowledge alone made Isaac feel lower than dirt as she reluctantly turned and walked away from him.
He was being awful and unfair. Simone was just trying to help him and he snapped at her. The artist was just about to go after his girlfriend when Bennet suddenly approached him.
"Come take a walk with me," the man in the horn-rimmed glasses said rather than suggested.
"No thanks," Isaac mumbled, returning his attention to his sketch pad, and not the tall man looming over him. "I think I'll stick by the caves today."
"Come on," he pushed. "The fresh air will do you some good."
Claire smiled when she spotted Peter rummaging through his tent on the beach. She knew he would come back, but she hadn't expected it to be so soon. "Changed your mind about the caves?" she asked playfully as she approached the man.
Peter turned and smiled at her, straightening up just enough so that Claire could see the bag filled with his belongings that he had with him. "No," he shrugged. "Just grabbing some stuff to bring back to the jungle."
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak since she was certain that the disappointment would seep into her words.
"You can still come with me," he suggested. "Caves make natural shelters and it's a lot safer than staying here on the beach."
Claire frowned, shaking her head slowly. "We crashed here eight days ago, Peter," she sighed. "I'm not ready to make this place my new home. I haven't even finished high school yet! Besides, Mohinder has a plan."
"Yeah," he sighed, straightening up as he closed off his bags. "Find the source of that distress signal."
The teenager felt her frown deepen. She didn't like the weariness in Peter's tone. All this effort would be for nothing if they all didn't have a little bit of faith in Mohinder. "That signal's coming from somewhere on this island," she retorted. "Mohinder will find it. He's our only hope to get us out of here."
"I know," he said. "I... I just wish I shared your faith."
"Hope I'm not interruptin'," Claude said, appearing almost out of thin air from behind the two. Claire glared at him, noticing that the tall British man had a suitcase in each hand and looked as if he were studying the little tent carefully. "Just lookin' for a place to put these. Quite heavy, ya know."
"What do you want, Claude?" Peter scowled, crossing his arms testily over his chest.
"Movin' in," he told him simply. "Heard you were makin' a permanent home of the caves, figured now was the best time ta take this spot for myself." With that said, the older man dropped his bags on the sand, smirking at Peter. "Don't worry, if you ever change your mind, more than welcome to move back in."
Claire watched as Peter stiffened and his face turned bright red as if he had decoded some secret meaning to Claude's words. The nurse's brown eyes quickly darted around the small space, finding nowhere to look as he slumped his shoulders and turned away. "I'll see you later Claire," Peter said hurriedly, disappearing back into the jungle.
Isaac flinched, as he looked around the small clearing cautiously. The faint sounds of twigs snapping and leaves rustling were clear in the distance. He wasn't a hunter and he couldn't tell if it was animal or man, but he was certain he did not want to find out.
"Bennet?" he whispered, careful not to alert whatever was following him of his presence. He just wanted to find the man who led him out here so he could get the hell away from whatever was chasing him. "Bennet? Is that you?"
Despite the fact that his voice was barely above a whisper it seemed to attract the attention of the creature that had been watching him. Before he could turn his head to get a good look, the hairy four legged creature was charging towards him at full speed, head bent and tusks ready for action. Isaac took off at full speed, his legs carrying him over the uneven terrain, determined not to be gored a second time in less than a week.
His heart was pounding in his chest as he swerved before jumping over the leaf and grass covered net that he knew was under his feet. Turning his head slowly, he watched as the boar was lifted off the ground, trapped in ropes Bennet had tied into a crude net. The artist came to a slow halt, turning around and searching the small area for a glimpse of the man in the horn-rimmed glasses.
"Nice work Isaac," the middle aged man smirked, appearing from behind a tall tree. "You make excellent bait."
"Glad to help," Isaac panted. "Now give me back my drugs."
"Is this really for me?"
Isaac's eyes grew to the size of dinner plates as he ran his little fingers over the leather binding of the new sketchbook his mother had given him. He was practically hypnotized by the sight of the golden letters embedded in the thick cover. The child’s smile widened, as he flipped open the cover and felt the pages. Rough and smooth in all the right pages. Thick enough that he wouldn't have to worry about tearing it apart when he erased or his markers seeping through.
"Of course it's for you," his mother laughed, her smile rivaling the intensity of the sun. "And so are these."
His breath caught in his throat when she presented him with the brand new set of markers. They were the expensive kind, the ones that the professional artists used. The Hispanic boy’s stubby fingers itched to try them out. He wanted to crack the caps open and test them out right away.
"This is incredible!" he gasped, wrapping his arms around his mother and squeezing her with all of his might. "Thank you! Thank you so much."
He knew that with these tools, he'd be able to create something fantastic. He was well on his way to becoming a great artist.
Isaac frowned as Bennet turned his back towards him, focusing all his attention on the wild boar currently thrashing and squealing with displeasure from within the tiny net. "Did you hear what I said?" Isaac snapped. "I want my drugs back!"
Bennet sighed, slumping his shoulders and shaking his head slowly in disappointment. He suddenly felt very much like he was about to receive a long lecture from his father. Luckily for him, Carlos Mendez had died long before he had become addicted to heroin, so he never had to have this sort of confrontation with the man. "I heard you, Isaac," he told him.
"Then give them to me dammit!" he bellowed. "I need them!"
"Yet you gave them to me," the older man pointed out.
"And now I regret it!" he snapped. "I'm sick! Can't you see that? I need my drugs."
"I think you're stronger than that, Isaac. And I'm going to prove it to you." The artist watched as Bennet continued to ignore him, prodding at the trapped animal as if it had all the answers to his problem. Isaac had to struggle to stay focused. He felt awful. He didn't know whether he was going to pass out, puke, or do both. Running for your life while your body was suffering from heroin withdrawal was a terrible idea. "I'm going to let you ask me for your drugs three times. The third time you do, I'll give them to you and just so we're clear, you've already asked me once."
Isaac blinked several times as he stared blankly at the man in front of him. He could hardly believe what he had just heard. It didn't make sense. "Why bother? Why not just hand them over or throw them away? Do you think it's funny, torturing me like this?"
Bennet laughed, turning to face the younger man with a smug smile plastered on his face. "Because if I just got rid of them you wouldn't have a choice," he explained. "Having choice Isaac, making choices based on more than just instinct, is the only thing that separates you from him."
The painter watched as Bennet pointed his knife at the piglet, still struggling to break free from his bindings, before grabbing the little creature by its ear and slitting its throat, silencing the grunting once and for all.
"Three antennas," Mohinder began, indicating the metal pole gripped firmly in his hand, and the two smaller devices resting in the sand below him. "Three points of triangulation. We'll set up one here on the beach, one in the jungle about two kilometers in, and one at higher ground, up there." He paused, pointing towards the mountain range in the distance. He intended to go a little higher to where Sylar had shot the polar bear. He watched as Claire nodded; listening intensely to his every word, while Sylar scowled, ready to make some sort of comment or remark to dismiss his idea. "If the Spanish transmission is coming from somewhere on the island, we should be able to find it. Unfortunately, there is one small problem."
"Of course there is," Sylar groaned, rolling his eyes in exasperation. Mohinder couldn't help but wonder why he was even there. This plan didn't concern him, if anything, it got in his way. The only logical explanation the geneticist could think of for the murderer's presence was Sylar’s constant need to irritate him.
"The power cells I grafted onto the antennas are dry," he continued, ignoring Sylar's comment. "There's no way of telling how long they will last. It could me a minute, maybe more maybe less."
"So we'll have to wait until we're in position to switch them on?" Claire asked, catching on quickly.
"How will we be able to tell if we're in the right position?" Sylar cut in, much to Mohinder's irritation. "We"? What the hell did he mean by "we"? "We have no way of communicating with each other."
Mohinder smirked, crouching down on the sand to dig into the backpack that had been resting at his feet. He reached in and pulled out a set of three bottle rockets.
"Bottle rockets?" Claire asked, scrunching her nose in confusion.
"Fireworks smuggles," Mohinder explained simply. "When I'm in position, I'll fire off my rocket. When you two see it, you fire yours. As soon as the last one has gone up we all switch on our antennas. Now all that's left is to decide who will be positioned where. I'll set up the antenna at the higher ground."
"I'll take the one in the jungle."
The genetics professor cringed as Sylar and Claire spoke at the same time. Wonderful, now he had to choose between sending the sixteen year old girl into the jungle by herself and leaving the serial killer on the beach to terrorize the other survivors or take said serial killer into the jungle where he could just as easily run off or possibly destroy his equipment.
"You're kidding me right?" Sylar snapped, turning his hard brown eyes towards Claire. "Jesus Christ kid! You've volunteered for every quest into the jungle since we crashed here! Give it a rest."
"Well that just means that I'm more experienced with getting around out there," she argued before turning her wide eyes towards Mohinder. "Come on Mohinder, you know you can trust me. I'll set up the antenna."
"I don't think so," Sylar butted in once again, before Mohinder could even think of a proper solution to his problem. "I don't think Professor Suresh is willing to send a kid into the jungle all by herself to get eaten by a polar bear or gored by a boar or ripped apart by that Monster. I'm going. You stay here, cheerleader." With that said Sylar grabbed his rocket and stomped off towards his tent.
Mohinder sighed, rolling his eyes at the other man's retreating form. He didn't exactly know how to feel about the situation. He supposed that having Claire stay safely at the beach and taking Sylar into the jungle was the better option, but it still didn't feel right.
"He's such a jerk," Claire huffed once Sylar was well out of earshot. "How do you put up with him?"
The Indian man laughed softly as he bent down to gather his supplies together, stuffing his bottle rocket and antenna back in his backpack. "Just ignore him," he advised her. "It'll save you a lot of grief."
"No offense," Claire began, "but you should totally dump him."
His head snapped up so quickly he actually felt it pop. He studied Claire for several seconds, waiting to see a smile, a quirk of the lips, a slight chuckle, anything to indicate that what she had just said had been a joke. It never came.
"Dump him," she repeated with a shrug. "He's no good for you. I mean, you're so nice and he's-"
"Do you think we're dating?"
His words stopped Claire mid-breath. Her tanned skin turned several shades whiter as she suddenly realized she had made a huge faux pas. "I... I uh..." she stammered, completely at a loss for words.
"Because we are not a couple!" Mohinder was ashamed to say that he practically screamed the words, climbing back to his feet quickly so he could glare down at the tiny blonde. A part of him knew that he was overreacting. The rational part of his mind knew that Claire had jumped to the wrong conclusion, but she hadn't meant any harm by it. Yet his whole body continued to radiate with anger at the very idea of being seen like that with Sylar. He was a vial, serial killing, psychopath. What person in their right mind would willingly have a romantic relationship with someone like him? "I don't even like him! He's a vial, disgusting, pig headed bastard and I hate him! And I am certainly not that way! I'm engaged! I have a fiancé! A female fiancé!"
With that said, he stormed away, leaving a shocked Claire in his dust.
Isaac moaned, wiping the sweat off of his drenched brow. He felt dizzy as the world rippled in short waves and the ground beneath him felt like wet sand. Yet he knew it wasn't real. He was sitting on a rock, a few feet away from the entrance to the cave that had now become their home, resting his feet on what he was one hundred percent certain was perfectly solid ground. He blinked back the ripples as he ran his dirt covered fingers over the clean pages of his sketch pad.
Still blank. He hadn't drawn a so much as a stick figure in weeks and with his withdrawal symptoms, Bennet's strange message, and thoughts of rescue all swimming around in his head, he couldn't really draw much inspiration at the moment. He sighed, picking up his pencil and began scratching away at the pages, hoping that something would come up. He really needed some sort of distraction.
"What've you got in these bags, Peter?" Isaac heard Matt grumble. "Cinderblocks?"
He turned his head to see Peter and Matt approaching from within the trees, a sheepish smile playing across the young nurse's features. His eyes darted to the heavy bags the two men were lugging towards the caves. He may not have been very fond of Peter, but he was willing to help out just to get his mind off of the way his body was twisting and flaring up in pain.
"Need a hand?" Isaac asked, putting his pad and pencil aside as he headed towards the two. He watched as both men dropped their bags with a thud, seeming to not hear a word he had just said. The young artist had to fight back the scowl darkening his features as he reached over and grabbed one of the suitcases Peter had dropped. "I can take these over to the caves if you-"
"Uh, Isaac," Peter cut in quickly, "that bag's zipper's..."
He was too late. As soon as the Hispanic artist lifted the bag by its handle, the flaps fell wide open, spilling little orange medicine bottles across the ground.
"...busted," Peter finished, much to Isaac's annoyance.
The artist flushed, suddenly feeling very small and childish, as he crouched down to gather up the Rx bottles and stuff them back into the bag. "Sorry," he grumbled. "Just trying to help."
"It's alright," Peter told him, and Isaac had to resist the urge to visibly cringe at the gentle, patient tone the younger man was using with him. What gave him the right to speak to him like that? Peter was two years younger than him. If anything, Isaac was the one who should be talking down to him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Peter turn his attention towards Matt, ignoring Isaac for the time being (and somehow, that felt worse). "Wanna help me with the rest of the bags?" he asked.
"Sure," Matt shrugged.
The painter sighed, fingering the bottles pills thoughtfully. Matt and Peter were temporarily distracted, Simone was nowhere in sight, and he had a suitcase full of prescription medicine right in his lap. He didn't even hesitate before reaching his hand into the bag, digging through the sea of bottles. There must be at least one that could possibly help with his near blinding headache.
"What are you doing?"
Isaac nearly jumped out of his skin as he turned to see Peter standing right behind him, a curious look on his face. The Hispanic man was embarrassed to admit that his cheeks actually got redder as he sat shamefully at Peter's feet, clutching a half empty bottle of prescription pills.
"Just... looking for aspirin," he told him, his hand suddenly going limp as the nurse reached towards him and took the bottle from his fingers.
Peter frowned as he read the label carefully. "Diazepam?" he asked skeptically. "That's for anxiety."
"I have a headache, man," he muttered, snatching the pills away from Peter and roughly stuffing them back into the bag. "I was looking for aspirin... that's... that's just what I had in my hand at the time."
Even with his head bowed and his eyes towards the ground, Isaac could still feel Peter's troubled gaze upon him. The sweat that had been pouring down his body all day seemed to intensify as Peter crouched down next to him and placed a tender hand on his shoulder. His heart hammered with fear and for a moment he thought for certain he'd been caught. Peter was a nurse; he'd probably seen these symptoms before. If he found out he was going through withdrawal, he'd surely tell Simone.
"You okay?" the young man asked him. "You don't look so hot."
"Told you, I've got a headache."
Peter sighed, gently taking the straps of the suitcase away from him. "You should go get some water," he suggested. "You might be dehydrated." Isaac scowled, ready to protest being treated like a child, when Peter quickly cut him off. "Go take care of yourself Isaac. We don't need you right now."
Isaac's blood was practically boiling as Peter gathered up the last of the Rx bottles and walked away.
"Isaac Mendez? I'm Simone Deveaux."
Isaac felt his heart flutter and his mouth go dry as the beautiful, brown skinned woman took his paint and sweat covered hand in hers. She was radiant. Stunning. Easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and she was actually talking to him. He flashed her a nervous smile, suddenly feeling very aware of the messy condition of his tiny loft.
When he'd first moved into the lower Manhattan loft, it had felt so exciting and new, even if the layout was impractical and the rent barely left him with enough money for food and paint supplies. Now, standing there gazing at the gorgeous woman, with her stylish tight black dress and radiant smile, it just didn't feel good enough.
"Hi," he greeted nervously. His mouth felt bone dry and his tongue several sizes too big. "I... uh... How can I help you?"
"I'm an art dealer," she explained. "I've been hearing a lot of positive buzz about a talented young artist from Manhattan and I came to check it out."
His face must have been as red as a tomato as he bowed his head and laughed nervously. Talented? Him? He painted for fun, painted only the things he thought would be interesting. His portfolio consisted mainly of pictures of people escaping from burning buildings, walking on air, or planes being ripped apart in mid air. They were fantastical, violent, and nothing an art gallery would have any interest in. Yet he showed Simone around anyway, just because he wanted the woman to stay a bit longer. Maybe if she stuck around, he'd be able to think of something charming and witty to say and eventually work up the nerve to ask her out for coffee.
"What do you think?" he asked sheepishly. Simone had been staring at his latest painting for some time. She stood with her shoulders stiff and a hand pressed flat against her chest as she studied the painting of a commercial bus engulfed in flames. It was one of his more violent and horrific works, if only in terms of its realism, and he hoped he hadn't frightened the elegant young woman. "Nothing special, right?"
"It's incredible," she breathed, turning to stare at him with wide, dazzling eyes. "You captured the scene so well! It's like a picture straight out of the news."
His eyes widened as he gapped at the woman, wondering if she were pulling his leg or being sincere. "You really think it's good?"
"It's amazing!" she gushed. "I have a client in Vegas looking for something just like this to go in his gallery."
Isaac’s mind was reeling as he listened to the art dealer go on and on about all the things she could get him. She was promising him fame, money, and maybe even her companionship. His heart thrummed and his skin tingled at the possibilities. With Simone by his side, he knew he could become a great artist.
The day was dragging by far too slowly for Isaac's taste. After spending eight days on the island, the survivors had all gotten pretty good at telling the time just by the position of the sun, so Isaac knew right away that it was only noon. This meant he would have to deal with the harsh sunlight for another five to six hours. He groaned rubbing his temples with his dirt covered finger tips. Except for the few random doodles lining the edge of his paper, his sketch pad was still completely blank. It was hard for the artist to concentrate on anything except the way he felt; miserable and alone.
The Hispanic man frowned, closing his pad and placing it on the ground. Inspiration wouldn't be hitting him anytime soon. He moaned, hugging his middle and doubling over in pain. He couldn't stand feeling this way for another second.
It was then that his eyes caught sight of Simone heading towards the caves. He raised his head up slightly and watched as the woman headed towards Peter, placing a gentle hand on his arm to grab his attention. The nurse turned towards her and flashed Simone a shy smile, brushing his floppy brown hair out of his eyes. Isaac felt his stomach clench and his blood boil as he watched the two exchange hushed words, every so often sending a glance his way. He wasn't blind. He had seen the way Peter looked at Simone, the way he blushed when they were together. Peter wanted Simone, and Isaac was going to make sure the nurse knew who she belonged to.
As soon as Simone walked away, Isaac got up and marched over to Peter. The younger man had slipped off inside the caves, giving them privacy.
"Hey!" Isaac barked once he was at the mouth of the cave. Peter turned and gave him a quizzical look. "I bet you think you're pretty slick!"
"Don't play dumb with me! I saw you! What'd you say to her?"
The nurse's eyes widened as he studied the man's face carefully. "N-nothing," he stuttered. "She just asked me some questions."
"Yeah, I'm sure," he snapped.
"Isaac, calm down," he warned carefully. "You're not yourself. You need rest."
"Don't play with, kid! I'm an important person! People respect me! I'm a fucking artistic genius, but you treat me like a fucking baby!"
It was only then that Isaac really took in the way the walls were shaking and the bits of dirt that fell as the cave came crumbling down around him. Peter must have noticed it too, standing as stiff as a board as large rocks came crashing down around them. His heart was pounding as his feet carried him out from underneath the falling bits of cave, narrowly avoiding the giant rocks, but not the wave of dirt and dust that covered him from head to foot.
His head was buzzing, his lungs burned as his body quaked and tried his best to cough out the excess dust that he might have breathed in.
"Isaac!" He shivered, blinking dirt out of his eyes. The artist was barely able to make out Simone's worried face as she approached him from a crowd of worried survivors. "What happened? Where's Peter?"