The Definition Of Insanity


DFNathan_icon.gif Mohinder_icon.gif

Summary: History repeats.

Dark Future Date: July 29, 2009

The Definition Of Insanity

A Secret Facility!

Nathan Petrelli walks down a hallway that is both sterile and grimy at the same time. Grey concrete walls, floor, ceiling, with dusty fluorescent lights illuminating the way. No windows, as this floor is below basement level, and the distinct chill in the air reflects this. For once, Nathan walks alone. No security follows him, as there are no enemies down here. Well. No enemies he needs to worry about. Gently, he flicks the occasional light switch on the wall as he walks, lighting up more and more of the dark corridor before finally stopping at one of the reinforced doors, one of many. From his pocket, he takes a card and swipes it through the electric locking system, back to the security camera overlooking this area.

It's been a difficult past few days, and Nathan is in no kind of mood - as if he ever is. While he doesn't anticipate that he will enjoy this conversation with this particular prisoner, it's one of necessity, and he's determined to get what he wants. And no one ever said that Nathan wasn't a hands on kind of President. He wraps his hand around the metal handle, pushing it down once the lock frees it, and steps inside without warning.

Within this room, Mohinder waits.. as he has for the past two years or so. Not that time means much to him now. Physically unharmed, his appearance does reflect that of someone held without frequent access to necessities. Like razors and proper haircuts. Laying there in the cell, resting on his cot, the geneticist waits. People usually come and go from this room, shuffling him around, do this, do that. Research. Experiments. Theories. Things he was complying with in the beginning. Seeing as he has no clue as to Molly's whereabouts and welfare. Hopefully his precious ward is safe with Matt.. As time has marched on, defiance has grown little by little, and his cooperation hasn't been a full hundred percent. So when the door opens, he remains staring at the ceiling, head pillowed on his arms folded beneath.

In a world such as this, you need to keep those that matter close at hand. Can they be bribed? Can they be contained? It all depends. Mohinder drew a short straw. Nathan shuts the door behind him securely, Mohinder's non-greeting not coming as a surprise to him. In the corner is a wooden chair - not a permanent feature, but security knew he was coming and placed it there for him beforehand. Considerate. Nathan walks over towards it, grabbing the back and picking it up, placing it down in the centre of the room. He stays standing, however, when he addresses the man. "You know, Suresh, it's polite to stand when the President enters the room," he says, conversationally.

Mohinder remains quietly defiant as he lays on the cot. He refuses to even look in Nathan's direction. Not even when the man addresses him. It's several moments before he even verbally acknowledges Nathan's presence. "Is there now a law requiring it? Or are you expecting those without abilities to grovel at your feet?" His tone is quiet, even, far too casual. "Among other ludicrous measures you've drafted."

At least he's still talking. For now. Nathan sits down, adjusting his jacket and tie once settled. "Ludicrous measures," he repeats, voice quiet - it doesn't have to be loud in such a confined space - and a smirk touches his expression. "I'm starting to get the feeling that maybe we're no longer on the same page, you and I." The file is flicked open. Graphs, data, reports - to Nathan, it's scientific jargon, but he's gotten the drift from those paid to translate it for him. Still, he leafs through it.

"You might not be wrong," is the calm response Mohinder gives. He doesn't look at Nathan until he hears the rustling of paper. His head turns in the President's direction and his lips turn down in a frown. He recognizes what he can see of the contents from here. Finally, he pushes himself up from the bed to sit upright.

No answer to that, just the slightest nod of acknowledgment. At the sound of the cot creaking a little when Mohinder moves, Nathan withdraws a couple of sheets of paper stapled in the corner, and holds them out for the scientist to take, or at least recognise. More data, more graphs, a written conclusion in defiance to its hypothesis. "You realise this puts a wrench in the latest project. Now, I'm no scientist, Suresh, but I pay a few who are suggesting you've either lost your touch or you're just making trouble."

"I can't imagine what you are implying." Or blatantly saying. "Fact checking behind me now are you?" Mohinder does not reach to take the paper. He saw enough to know what's on it, and what he did with the numbers and data. There is no remorse in his voice as he says, "That's a shame that facts are getting in the way of your agenda."

The papers are withdrawn, placed back into the folder. "What you're saying is that my people are just telling me what I want to hear?" Nathan asks, voice still level and calm, though the look he gives Mohinder is cold and distant. "Because they're saying you're wrong." A disarming flicker of a smile. "Maybe you're not. But empires are built on impossible dreams."

"Why not? I'm fairly certain you have most of the populace fearing your wrath. If you're paying your scientists handsomely, of course they're going to tell you what you want to hear." Mohinder's words now carry a snappish tone. The scientists Nathan pays wouldn't be wrong. Yes, he's deliberately toyed with some of the information. Just to throw a wrench into the works. Intending on laying back down, he pushes to his feet, "Dreams? This is not some impossible dream. This is madness. A fanatical desire for genocide! To wipe one race and replace it with another!"

"Sometimes it takes a fanatic." With a sudden flurry of motion, Nathan flings the file at Mohinder's chest, the papers within flying free before anyone can really think of stopping it. In contrast to this gesture, his voice remains that same gravelled, calm level. "The humans are put where they'll be safe. Their breeding is limited and ours encouraged to further evolution. Should people die, well, what is it people like you call it? Natural selection."

"You are grossly ignorant of this subject. The facts that interfere with your grand scheme are tossed out the window," Mohinder snaps in more than a slightly churlish manner. As the file is flung at his chest, he catches most of the documentation. "Put where they'll be… Listen to yourself! You're no better than Adolf Hitler and his plans during World War II with the Jewish race!" There's fury on the geneticist's face as he drops the papers, "Again, what you are suggesting is genocide, /not/ natural selection. I suggest you read 'On the Origin of Species' by Charles Darwin. Unless you require someone to translate it into small words for your understanding."

Nathan watches impassively as Mohinder makes his comparisons, his accusations, and when he's finished, silence rings out even louder in the concrete room. "Semantics," he finally says, his tone clipped and icy. "Call my actions by whatever word you wish. Either way… it's progress. I want you to redo the data currently on your floor."

Mohinder looks at Nathan, then a brief glance to the papers, before staring at the other man. "The afterlife will not be kind to you Nathan Petrelli. History will lump you alongside Hitler, Stalin, Lenin, Pol Pot. Among the worst murdering dictators ever to take charge. There will be no 'redoing' of the data." His stance and tone reek of defiance. Suresh hasn't been cowed until the fight is out of him. The earlier stages of Nathan's mad schemes were nothing in comparison to this. "I don't care that you don't like what I found. These are the facts, unpleasant in your views, and I'll not lie or force the information. I also suggest you read documentation on Joseph Mengele. He was another Nazi. I'm certain you will like his research."

When Mohinder doesn't immediately agree, Nathan's stance changes, both tenser as well as more casual, hands sliding into the pockets of his jacket, impatient. His mouth twists into a bitter smirk. "Mengele. Maybe I'll look into it," he snaps. "History will reward me, Suresh. Blood will always be shed before things can be made the way they should be." The sound is deafening, confusing. The bullet passes through the pocket fabric of Nathan's jacket, through Mohinder's leg.

Mohinder's expression hardens and he spits out, "You are a despicable man. No better than the Sylars of this world. History will spit on your corpse, and your incarnations to come will be punished for your evil deeds. Do you not read history? Mengele performed needless experimentations on the Jews imprisoned in the concentration camps. Experimentations that are better described as torture. Dye injected into the eyes of those held against their will, to try and change them from brown to blue.. He was notoriously fond of tormenting twi—" Anything else he was going to say, dies on his lips. The bang from the gun registers belatedly, sometime a few moments after he realizes that he has fallen backwards onto the cot, his leg not supporting him further.

The firearm is taken out from his pocket, and Nathan steps back from the cot, casually glancing his weapon over. "I read history," he says, coldly. "How else do we learn from our past mistakes? This time around, I intend to get right what they couldn't." If the gunshot alerted the attention of security, of anyone at all within this building, no one comes running. He points the weapon. "You know, groveling would be an excellent start, now that I think about it. Or would you like to die now before you have to compromise your pride?"

Mohinder presses both hands to the wound in his leg, gritting his teeth against the pain as he applies pressure. "You obviously.. have not learned. Otherwise you wouldn't be foolishly making the same mistakes.." There's a laugh that escapes, it's thin, pained, "Albert Einstein.. described insanity as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results…" His point? Nathan is insane with power and authority. "You are abusing and profaning the power that the citizens of this country granted you." Blood soaking his pantsleg and hands, Suresh keeps applying pressure, and does not flinch at Nathan's words. The geneticist responds by closing his eyes, and praying aloud, in Hindi.

"It's 2009," the President says, through the prayer being spoken. He smiles. "We're all mad here." Gunshot after gunshot rings out until the chambers are emptied, and the gun is lowered. He breathes harder, adrenaline making his hand shake, but only after it's done. "Very well," he whispers, before leaving the cell. The door is kept open and as he walks, he switches off the lights, one by one.

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