Mohinder Suresh Administrator Keeper of the List member is offline
Joined: Feb 2008 Gender: Male Posts: 150 Karma: 106
Medicine and Monsters « Thread Started on Dec 9, 2008, 4:21pm »
Because I can. Beware of spoilers.
Set in Villains between The Eclipse Part 2 and Our Father.
Mohinder couldn't take it anymore. The fluorescent lighting, the goons lurking around, the monster breathing down his neck, all of it. Not that he was in a much better place to call someone else a monster than the pot was when calling the kettle black. It wasn't safe for him to leave Pinehearst, what with his . . . condition. Especially after the new developments that had joined previous ones when the eclipse ended. That was something he still didn't understand and probably never would. Ignoring all the insanely, well, insane variables and possibilities associated with the event, the pressure was to set that research aside for later. The eclipse had come and gone, not to return for some time, but the formula still remained flawed and the need for success was pressing.
Pressing was an understatement; it held him down with such suffocating force he felt like the old man in The Crucible being crushed to death and still asking for more weight. Hopefully, it wouldn't have the same end fertilizer six feet down but even as he thought of it, Mohinder realized the comparison was too glamorous. That character had undergone the pain and death as a result of pressure he refused to give into in order to maintain an unalienable honor. The good doctor, on the other hand, was coming to accept the fact that he had no honor.
Wait, this was not the intended destination of his racing thoughts. What was the point supposed to be? Ah, yes.
Mohinder couldn't take it anymore. While wandering New York in his advanced state of mutation was not the best idea, the need to breathe air not polluted by lab chemicals and scheming had become so great even the indomitable Arthur Petrelli had relented. Pinehearst's pet geneticist had twenty-four hours to recuperate from the stress. He would go to his apartment, spend the night there, and return the next day. If he was late, there would be no more such respites. It grated against the barrier that kept Mohinder's temper at bay, a barrier that was permanently thin these days, but he decided to take what he could get. He had to keep control of his simmering rage and consider himself lucky. After all, most slaves were not given vacations.
So he had filed his notes, hung up his lab coat, and hopped in a cab bound for Brooklyn. His forehead was pressed against the cool glass of the window as New York passed in an unfocused blur. There were spots where only pressure could be felt and not the cool smoothness of the glass against his umber skin. The absence of refined sensation in those places rose a lump in his throat that he almost lost control of. The- the covering was strong and protective. It was practical and would lessen injury. It was awful.
While most of his body was still covered in nothing but soft, vulnerable human flesh, he had caught himself wondering just the night before what it would be like to be completely encased in the other material. The thought of losing the ability to feel the grain of a wooden pencil, the slightest of breezes against his skin, all those tiny things taken for granted . . . It had sent him into such a flying rage that he had torn apart his quarters and then promptly crashed into a state so despondent and utterly useless to the project that Mr. Petrelli had approved his plea. That man, using the term loosely, was right; Mohinder was going to have to deal with the monster lurking within, but he needed time to stretch and breathe in relative peace before he stood a chance against himself. Flint being beaten into a coma just hours ago proved that. Luckily for Mohinder's crippled conscience, the man seemed like to recover soon. Still, that hadn't stopped the decisive fit that followed shortly after his dejected return to Pinehearst.
The cab arrived just as the Sun vanished behind the buildings. Mohinder's position against the window had kept any stray glances from the driver from picking out the deformity during the ride, but now the doctor had to pull up his hood as he handed over the fare. Out into the street he went, feeling too bundled for the weather. It was late March and here he was in a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up and a pair of gloves. He must have looked like he had home invasion on the mind to anyone who saw him hurrying into the apartment building. Then again nobody really cared in this city. If he had been iffy about that before arriving in the country, the fact that a gun had been fired in his apartment on two separate occasions without the police being called was more than enough proof.
Mohinder would have disliked his outfit even if was weather appropriate. His olive green cargo pants and light brown, waffle-soled shoes rang true to his usual casual wear, but only because they hadn't lost any practicality. Yet. It was also true that he stuck to wearing a t-shirt beneath a button-up long sleeve beige and burgundy plaid over sky blue today but the over shirt was buttoned up completely and uncomfortably to help cover as much of his neck as possible. It was tighter than he liked, but just loose enough to draw an occasional shudder out of him when he felt the fabric ever so slightly move his sc- modifications. The brown leather gloves were well-made, but he couldn't remember wearing anything other than lab gloves in his life and they just felt wrong. Besides that, if certain new glands got out of control, things could get messy. What really stood out against anyone used to Mohinder's style was the outermost layer. Forget the properly fitting jacket. In its place was a sloughing gray hooded sweatshirt that curiously made his skin look even more ashen than the stress inflicted discoloration.
Well at least he'd be able to get rid of the unpleasant bits of his outfit when he got home. Home? Mohinder had to snort derisively at that as he rode the elevator to the top floor. Home was in India within walking distance of the University. Home was- was with Molly. God, he missed that smile. He dearly wished he could talk to her, hear that sweet voice, but he knew she was too clever to miss the roughening of his voice. He would have to make due with e-mail and trust in his mother's nurturing. Molly needed a good female figure in her life anyway and distance from the hell he was in. Still, the Brooklyn apartment was as close to home as he was going to get for now. No, probably for the rest of his life. How pathetic.
As pitiful as it all had become, that door with its chipped green paint and tarnished brass numbers was a beautiful sight and he rested his forehead against it for several seconds before slipping the key into the lock. He turned the knob, readied himself for a much needed rest, and pushed the door open. It made it all of an inch before catching loudly on a security chain.
"But most disturbing is the fact that no watchdogs are found among scientists themselves . . . There are no detached observers. Everybody has a stake." - Michael Crichton, Jurassic Park
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