Work Text:
hope•ful mon•ster - noun
Definition: hypothetical biological monstrosity: a hypothetical organism with a radically different set of attributes and developmental path that could suddenly come into being if a single mutation affected an existing organism's developmental pattern
Mohinder stared at the gun.
It had been crushed. No, that wasn't right, it hadn't just been crushed - he'd crushed it. He looked at his hands. They seemed the same – same size, no strange growths, no claws or talons or scales or fur. They were exactly the same, but strong.
Strong.
His heart began to thump violently and it felt like his blood was gushing through his body too quickly. He put a hand over his chest, as if he could keep his heart from ripping through his ribcage. Could hearts pop? Could veins burst like over-inflated balloons? He didn't think so, but who knew? This was uncharted territory.
He could feel a change coming over him, in his veins, under his skin, setting his teeth on edge – some ambitious chemistry churning in him, through him, over him. He opened his mouth and sucked in the night air, so sharp and clear that it almost hurt as it flowed into his lungs. He felt…dangerous. Which was miles ahead of feeling endangered.
He laughed. He looked around for the men who had attacked him, but they were long gone, although he thought he could still hear their heavy footsteps on the docks. They had been very frightened of him. That was new for him; no one was ever scared of Mohinder. Even when he'd had Sylar strapped to a chair, completely at his mercy, the man had seemed more irritated than terrified, even when he'd shoved a gun in his face. The bastard had even leaned into it; he knew Mohinder wouldn't kill him. Couldn't kill him. And he'd been laughing at him the whole time. The poor, bumbling professor, playing at a game he couldn't possibly win.
He remembered how Sylar's laughter had been much worse than the pain when he had tossed Mohinder around the apartment. He'd been like a cat playing with a rodent, drawing out Mohinder's suffering simply because he could. He would let him drop to the ground and then watch him try to scramble away before he'd flick his fingers and send Mohinder crashing into a wall again, laughing at the whimpers that Mohinder couldn't suppress. Sylar had held him by the throat at one point and leaned in until Mohinder could feel his breath against his mouth. What's the matter, doctor? he'd said. Don't you like me anymore?, and then assuming Zane's voice: Oh golly gee, Professor, you've got to be the smartest person I've ever met. Oh, won't you take me with you, pretty please, and let me help you with your research? He laughed again. You're even more naïve than your father made you out to be.
And Mohinder had been powerless to stop him because he was weak.
Not anymore.
Mohinder rocked back on his heels. He took an experimental step forward and nearly lost his balance; his legs felt like springs. After a few more steps, he gained momentum and bounded down the docks.
He slowed down once he reached the street; it wouldn't do to draw too much attention to himself. He knew he should probably try to hail a cab, but the thought of being confined in a car made him feel oddly nervous. He needed to be out in the open, and to move. He felt like there was something coiled in his belly, and he needed to let it out…
He blinked rapidly. It was dark, but he could see everything so clearly. It wasn't quite the same as seeing in the daylight; it was like his eyes were doing part of the seeing and…something else, some deeper way of sensing things was adding clarity to his vision. Everything around him thrummed. He took off his shoes, and when his bare feet hit the ground, everything around him grew even clearer.
There was a sudden, violent rumbling under his feet, and a second later a car turned the corner and headed towards him. For a brief, mad moment, he considered jumping in front of it, just to see what would happen. Maybe the metal frame would twist around his body like the gun had twisted in his hand.
He managed to stop himself. No, that was probably not very good methodology. He moved out of the way and onto the sidewalk.
Mohinder shook his head, attempting to clear his mind. Seeing things with complete and utter clarity was almost worse than being in the dark. Too much detail – he couldn't focus. He was assaulted with strange and odious smells, and the silence around him was dissolving into small sounds that he would never have been able to perceive before – skittering scratches on the pavement, the wind blowing through windows and out of vents, the heartbeats of creatures both human and not pounding incessantly through his body. He ducked into an alley and leaned against the wall. All of the hairs on his body were standing on end, and his skin tingled. He sighed and rubbed his back against the rough concrete.
He looked down at his hands again. They seemed to be changing; his palms felt…thicker. Spongy, almost, but tough at the same time. So did his feet – he noticed that he had no cuts on the soles of his feet although he was walking around without his shoes. He experimentally laid a hand on the wall – and it stuck. Startled, he pulled back. After a moment, he gingerly tried it again. He put his other hand beside it, and some sort of instinct must have taken over because soon he was climbing up the wall.
When he had climbed about ten feet off the ground, he stopped and looked down at the alley below. He laughed giddily, then pushed off the wall, did a somersault in midair, and landed upright on the ground.
A noise behind him made him whip around. A homeless man sitting further on in the alley was staring at him, wide-eyed.
"You probably want to forget you saw that," Mohinder said. The man nodded frantically, and then stood up and bolted out of the alley and down the street. Mohinder looked at his hands again and grinned. Oh yes, things were going to be different now.
He walked out of the alley and started back down the street. He needed to go home – no, wait, Maya was there –
Maya. Mohinder felt a stab of arousal so sharp that he nearly doubled over. Oh Maya, with her wide, innocent brown eyes, her soft skin and sweet, sad smile - yes…
He shook his head again. No, not the apartment. He needed to get a handle on whatever was happening to him. The loft first.
He began to scratch himself and ended up ripping his shirt off in the process. He shrugged and threw it in the gutter. He felt too hot anyway. And he was thirsty. That word seemed inadequate for the need he felt. He looked at his watch; it was well past midnight, but this was New York. Surely he could find a convenience store open somewhere.
He wondered how everyone would react to the new, improved Mohinder. He'd always been on the outside, observing the incredible things that those special, chosen few could do, and yes, he would admit to being jealous, and sometimes frightened. He remembered how his heart had dropped into his stomach when he'd learned about the full extent of Matt's powers. Mohinder had always switched his thinking to Tamil whenever Matt was around, but then Bob revealed that Matt could control anything involving the mind. Anything.
If Matt had known the extent of his abilities earlier, where would Mohinder be now? I can't babysit her and you at the same time, Matt had said. No offense, you're a professor. You're not 007. If Matt had his way, Mohinder would probably be spending his time making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Molly and puttering around the apartment in fuzzy slippers with a feather duster, keeping the place nice until Matt came home. Hello, dear. Hard day at the station? Or he could have taken her away whenever he wanted if he decided that being around Mohinder was too dangerous, leaving Mohinder sitting in the apartment, smiling vacantly at nothing until Matt had taken her too far away for him ever to find her again…
He snarled, and a man across the street stopped and stared at him.
"What are you looking at?" Mohinder shouted.
"Nothing," the man said, holding up his hands. "I don't want no trouble."
The thing in Mohinder's belly wanted him to bound across the street and rip the man in half. Threat, it hissed.
But the man was gone already. Mohinder clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to suppress the sudden, violent urge that had come over him. He wondered if this is what Sylar felt like all the time – all this power lurking just under his skin, ready to be unleashed.
He smiled at the thought of Sylar. He couldn't wait to meet up with him again.
And Molly – he could bring her back now. He had felt so humiliated when he had to send her away because he was too weak to protect her. He hated how panicked he'd become when he couldn't get a hold of Matt, not only because he was worried for the other man, but because he realized that he needed Matt's protection.
Mohinder finally came across a convenience store. He burst through the door and went straight to the refrigerator in the back. The thought of solid food made his stomach turn, but milk sounded incredibly good. He opened the refrigerator door and bent down to pick up a gallon of whole milk. He twisted off the cap; he'd just take a quick sip before he brought it to the cash register…
But the moment it hit his lips, he had to have more. He sat down on the floor and began to chug the milk. When the jug was empty, he threw it aside and went to reach for another, but then he noticed the owner of the store looking down at him. He was an older, Indian man with a kind, careworn face. He held a baseball bat behind his back.
"Excuse me, sir," he said. His accent sounded familiar. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
Mohinder looked down at himself, half-naked and shoeless, with milk dribbling down his chin and bare chest and pooling around him and realized what this must look like. "Oh," he said. And then, in Tamil: "I'm not a drug addict."
The other man looked surprised at his response; he lowered his guard slightly. "I did not say that you were," he answered in Tamil, his voice carefully neutral.
"I'm a professor," Mohinder said. "Or – I was a professor." He was suddenly filled with thoughts of his father, how brilliant he had been, and how all his friends and colleagues had turned their backs on him, and how he had died as a lowly cab driver, humiliated, unrecognized and alone. Suddenly, he felt like crying. "I really hate this fucking country," he said passionately, in English this time.
The other man laughed. "The opportunities are not quite as plentiful as we were led to believe, yes?" He extended his empty hand to Mohinder. "Come, my friend. Let me help you."
Mohinder hesitated briefly, then took his hand.
The man led him to the back of the store, where he sat Mohinder down and handed him a towel. After Mohinder dried off, the man handed him a tee shirt. "Is there someone I can call for you?" the man asked gently. "Family? Friends?"
Mohinder stared at a dirty mop that was propped up in one corner. "No," he said. "There's no one."
"I see," said the man. He had such a kind face that Mohinder suddenly wanted to tell him everything.
"I had to send my little girl away," he said. "Because it was too dangerous. And my – my roommate, he's gone too. I can't get a hold of him. I don't know if he's abandoned us, or if he's dead." He began to scratch at himself again; his skin felt uncomfortably tight. "And there's this woman I hardly know in my apartment, and she doesn't know this city at all, she's very lost and has been through a lot lately, but I don't know what I'm supposed to do with her. She has nowhere else to go." At the thought of her, the strange desire hit him again, but he managed to quell it.
"Ah," the other man said. It probably didn't make any sense to him, but he seemed to sense that Mohinder just needed someone to listen to him.
He hunched his shoulders forward and put his head in his hands. "Molly must be so frightened right now."
The other man put his hand on Mohinder's shoulder. "Are you sure there's no one I can call for you? A cab, maybe? Where do you live?"
Mohinder shook his head violently. "No, I'm fine. I'm fine. I just – need some milk."
The other man pressed his lips together, but said nothing.
Mohinder bought six gallons of whole milk and a gallon of chocolate milk, for which he paid the man $200. "This is too much," the man protested.
"No, please, I want you to have it," Mohinder said. "Thank you. For everything."
"We have all had our troubles," the man said. "Remember that. You will be all right."
Mohinder nodded and smiled. Yes, he would.
By the time he was back on the street, his spirits had lifted again. He was getting used to his new senses; he didn't feel quite as confused. His body sang with power. For the first time in his life, he felt free. He had never realized how much fear he had carried around with him, even before this whole nightmare had began. Fear was a necessary part of life for the small and meek, which included most people, but not him, not anymore. He was filled with a terrible exuberance; there were so many promises he'd been longing to fulfill, and now he could. He ticked them off in his head as he walked down the street: his father, Sylar, Molly, Matt, Maya – he had made promises to each of them, and now he had the strength to keep them all.
He was a new man.