US EST (GMT -5)Player LJ: littlewings04 Name:
Head of Research and Development, Department of Homeland Security. Lead geneticist on the Meta-Human Question.Mutant/Normal:
Normal, though his DNA carries some recessive traits linked to the mutations and accompanying illnesses.Strengths/Weaknesses:
Highly intelligent and educated (BM BCh, Oxford; PhD in Evolutionary Genetics and Parapsychology, University of Madras), multi-lingual (Hindi, Tamil and English), and exceptionally tenacious, which can be a weakness as well. Emotionally distant and reserved, and wants to see the good in people, no matter how often experience has taught him that the good in people rarely prevails. Accepts authority and has a deep-seated need for approval that rears its head at inopportune times.Affiliation:
Molly Walker (ward/subject); Kamala Suresh (mother, residing in Chennai); Matt Parkman (colleague).What motivates him?
The need to justify his father's work. The need to do some good with his life and save others if he can, to be more relevant than merely an academic. Eternal scientific curiosity (and possibly the hope for a Nobel someday).Sample/Introduction Post (3rd person perfect; 200 words minimum):
Somewhere along the line, Mohinder realised that his life had fallen into easy patterns. This doesn't bother him; human beings are creatures of basic habits, repeating the same behaviours over and over through the course of days, months, years. Finding himself engaged in the same element of the human condition was almost a relief. Human nature, he supposed, persists over all other factors. And really, he thought he probably was a domestic sort of soul, academic tendencies not withstanding. So coming home every night to make tea, preparing dinner to the sounds of BBC World News, curling up on the couch to watch snatches of movies from home to let his brain stop whirring for an hour or two, these things were a comfort. These things anchored him in the moment, reminded him why he spent so many hours in his lab, why he fought so hard for more time to solve the question of how to neutralise abilities instead of the myriad of gruesome alternatives suggested. Mohinder had never, ever been the sort to take the easy path at the expense of others, not when the stakes were so very high. And when he looked at Molly, thought about the potential in her, not just as a subject but as a person, he knew that the stakes were not just her life or death, but his own. She called him her hero, and saving her had been the first thing he'd done in America that had been right. After his inability to stop Sylar, his ineptitude that had nearly resulted in Peter Petrelli's death (and at the time, he'd been so sure it had, that lifeless body cooling under his hands no matter how many times he called Peter's name, stroked that soft, dark hair), Mohinder needed that one act of goodness more than he needed oxygen. Molly always said that he'd saved her, but in saving her, Mohinder had found the means to save himself. He had purpose with her, with this work, and without that, he didn't know down what self-destructive paths he would've gone. Just like his father, only there wouldn't have been anyone to send his ashes home to his mother, no-one to scatter him in the Ganges and leave him at peace.
Those were the thoughts that haunted him at night, long after the city was asleep, the muted television in his bedroom showing images from across the world, flickering light over his weary face. Invariably, he'd call his mother--after all, midnight in Washington was only half-nine in Chennai--and let her voice wash over him like ocean waves, telling him how proud of him she was, how much he'd accomplished, how strong he was, to do everything he did and to do it alone. She, in her own moments of habit, would remind him it wasn't good for him to be alone, that she could find him a bride, a good Indian bride, if he'd only come home and let her, then he could return to Washington and she'd know he had someone to watch over him, make sure he was all right. Mohinder had learned never to outright refuse, to just claim he was too busy, that at any moment, the President could require his assistance, that his position was crucial and he couldn't be away for long. These things were, after all, mostly true, and they skirted around his own preferences without rubbing them in her face. Casual cruelty wasn't in Mohinder's nature, either. And then, when they'd said their good-byes, he turned to whatever latest pharmaceutical promised rest, turned off CNN and tried to sleep without nightmares, without memories twisted until they threatened to warp him. He was a creature of habit, and every morning when he finally woke from the drugged rest he'd been granted, he wondered if this was the day it would all finally change.