[Mohinder's world is a place where congressmen can fly, cheerleaders can get dropped off ten-story buildings and still somersault back into position, and entire ill-advised story arcs are reversed by simply rinsing the character off with an overturned vat of Deus Ex Machina Juice. And still, this is all a bit much for him. No matter how loose the definition of "science" might be where he comes from, this does not qualify. This seems like the kind of bedtime story his ten-year-old ward would claim to be too old for (but then make him finish reading it anyway.)]
Suboptimal?
[He strains, in vain, mainly on the plain against the puppet strings. Magical as they are, his inability to do anything with them doesn't immediately tell him that his super strength is gone. And then they vanish anyway.]
I'll show you suboptimal.
II. The Bar Is Open
[It's not that Mohinder isn't listening to the bartender's friendly explanation of giant reincarnation and elven shrinkage and all of that. It's just that...no, yeah, he's absolutely not listening. Any information that would or should reassure him is going right over his head at the moment, because the hand that had been gripping his glass of water is rapidly forming into the claw of a reptilian Rahuth, and this time there is no Deus Ex Machina Juice in sight.]
No--no, not again--
[And just as quickly as they had manifested, before he can even really start panicking in earnest, the scales are gone again. (They are replaced, unbeknownst to him, with a majestic pair of fruit-bat ears.) Mohinder turns to gape at the person next to him, wondering if anyone else even witnessed this or if he's simply going crazy. Again.]
III. Ice Storm
[Having been deemed optimal enough to stay, and no longer subject to the trauma of losing his humanity, Mohinder could try to be magnanimous towards those who are less...fortunate, if "fortunate" is the word for people getting vaporized by the magic staff instead of sitting here surrounded by eldritch horrors impervious to scientific explanation. If the sub-suboptimal are indeed being tossed back where they came from, then they're more fortunate in Mohinder's estimation than the entire audience combined, but he is not at all going to assume that.
Throwing ice at them just seems like an unnecessary addition of insult to injury--one he might, were he in a better frame of mind, object to. But he is not in a better frame of mind, and when Mohinder is angry or exhausted or overwhelmed or any combination thereof, he's all about throwing things. Not usually at people, granted, but if everyone else is doing it, then he'll take the excuse.]
Can't you take a hint? Get off the stage!
[He wings an ice cube at the well-dressed man under the lights with considerably less force than most people are putting into the effort. The cube arcs gently through the air and lands on the floor between two audience seats, and it is at this point that Mohinder finally becomes aware that this place is not going to let him keep the super strength for which he suffered through weeks of scaly, insectoid madness.
The next ice cube he flings has enough force behind it to shatter against the wall at the back of the stage.]
IV. Wildcard
[Anything you like! Hit me up at annalizabeth#7549 on Discord or layonmacduff.]
Mohinder Suresh | Heroes | Human
[Mohinder's world is a place where congressmen can fly, cheerleaders can get dropped off ten-story buildings and still somersault back into position, and entire ill-advised story arcs are reversed by simply rinsing the character off with an overturned vat of Deus Ex Machina Juice. And still, this is all a bit much for him. No matter how loose the definition of "science" might be where he comes from, this does not qualify. This seems like the kind of bedtime story his ten-year-old ward would claim to be too old for (but then make him finish reading it anyway.)]
Suboptimal?
[He strains, in vain,
mainly on the plainagainst the puppet strings. Magical as they are, his inability to do anything with them doesn't immediately tell him that his super strength is gone. And then they vanish anyway.]I'll show you suboptimal.
II. The Bar Is Open
[It's not that Mohinder isn't listening to the bartender's friendly explanation of giant reincarnation and elven shrinkage and all of that. It's just that...no, yeah, he's absolutely not listening. Any information that would or should reassure him is going right over his head at the moment, because the hand that had been gripping his glass of water is rapidly forming into the claw of a reptilian Rahuth, and this time there is no Deus Ex Machina Juice in sight.]
No--no, not again--
[And just as quickly as they had manifested, before he can even really start panicking in earnest, the scales are gone again. (They are replaced, unbeknownst to him, with a majestic pair of fruit-bat ears.) Mohinder turns to gape at the person next to him, wondering if anyone else even witnessed this or if he's simply going crazy. Again.]
III. Ice Storm
[Having been deemed optimal enough to stay, and no longer subject to the trauma of losing his humanity, Mohinder could try to be magnanimous towards those who are less...fortunate, if "fortunate" is the word for people getting vaporized by the magic staff instead of sitting here surrounded by eldritch horrors impervious to scientific explanation. If the sub-suboptimal are indeed being tossed back where they came from, then they're more fortunate in Mohinder's estimation than the entire audience combined, but he is not at all going to assume that.
Throwing ice at them just seems like an unnecessary addition of insult to injury--one he might, were he in a better frame of mind, object to. But he is not in a better frame of mind, and when Mohinder is angry or exhausted or overwhelmed or any combination thereof, he's all about throwing things. Not usually at people, granted, but if everyone else is doing it, then he'll take the excuse.]
Can't you take a hint? Get off the stage!
[He wings an ice cube at the well-dressed man under the lights with considerably less force than most people are putting into the effort. The cube arcs gently through the air and lands on the floor between two audience seats, and it is at this point that Mohinder finally becomes aware that this place is not going to let him keep the super strength for which he suffered through weeks of scaly, insectoid madness.
The next ice cube he flings has enough force behind it to shatter against the wall at the back of the stage.]
IV. Wildcard
[Anything you like! Hit me up at annalizabeth#7549 on Discord or