tampered | Log: Complete

Log: Complete

When: Early Morning
Rating: V for Violence?
Characters: Mohinder [

orderonto] and Niko [

cal_sitter]
Summary: Mohinder selects a snack that bites back.
Log:

With the City growing colder and snow heavy on the ground, a normal person would decide against outdoor exercise after a single glance through the window. Niko's dedication to fitness isn't so easily countered. His hair tamed into its customary braid and his knives sequestered in their customary hiding places, he's set out for a long run that will take him through the City, skirt the edge of the Wild, and then loop back to his apartment. He isn't dressed in the streamlined and reflective athletic attire that many runners favor. Waist-length leather coats are better-suited for weapons concealment, and steel-shank boots hurt a hell of a lot more on impact than tennis shoes. Having no reason to expect an assault is no excuse to go out unprepared for one.

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He shouldn't be out looking. He knows that he shouldn't. He's in trouble in his domestic life, already having had a few close calls. But he's expended too much energy and failed too many times; the edges of his nerves are all raw with need and instinct is at the forefront of his subconscious, hands shaking like an addict's. The cold and the wound make him sluggish; he simply needs to take as many as he needs now and be done for it until the weather improves. It's quieter in the very early morning that at night-- this place has an active nightlife and a handful of nocturnal residents. This early, it's only himself, the birds, and whatever he's hunting.

The jogger seems like he'll do nicely. He's healthy. That's good. Mohinder moves from his spot curled up near a vent on the rooftop of a building and tracks the man from the high ground as much as possible.

Still early in his run, Niko maintains a moderate pace. The snow compresses and becomes slick beneath his boots, but his soles' rubber treads give just enough grip that he doesn't falter. Warm air forms thin clouds of vapor in front of him as he breathes out in time with his steps. It's a good morning for a run, the dull twinge of healing injuries finally gone after the first completely undisturbed night of sleep that Niko's enjoyed for several weeks.

Niko lengthens his stride as he turns a corner, mindful of his surroundings, but he's only human, and unaware of the company he's acquired.

The corner is the chance that Mohinder is looking for, a decent attack. He can't just drop in on the man like he would have a week ago. With the wound he's received to the gut still fresh, only stitched at home in a bathroom, he can't risk jarring his body, even with all of the modifications to his body structure and muscles. Sneaking down a fire escape slightly ahead of Niko's trajectory, he waits until the man passes before falling to the ground, moving through the snow as quietly and quickly in combination as possible, looking for something long to hold.

He needs a weapon; he won't risk another cut like the one he's got, not even to sneak up behind the man and grab his mouth and nose with a hand, the more ideal method.

Alerted by the crunch of snow under another's weight, Niko slips a tiny blade into his palm from a sheath secured to his inner forearm. The sound may mean nothing more than the innocent presence of someone else who doesn't mind the weather, or the noise may be the first subtle sign of trouble. He doesn't look over his shoulder or break his stride. Trouble, if it has come to visit, can tell him what it wants before he kills it.

He finds what he's looking for, wrapping a preturnatural grip around a length of scrap wood leaning against the side of the nearby building, halfway covered in snow. The sounds of rustling fabric are too distracting for Mohinder to pick out any sense of being noticed as he approaches. He determines it a good opportunity to strike.

He does so quickly, rushing in to swing at Niko's head with one arm, the other held in front of himself this time, protecting his face and abdomen. His breath is still tight in his chest from the memories of failed attempts and worry about the authorities, but instinct propels his actions well enough.

Niko ducks the strike and pivots on one foot, his knife blade a dull flash of stainless steel in the grey morning light. He doesn't use it, though, not yet. Instead, his free hand snatches at his attacker's weapon, quick as thought, and wraps around the wood to slam it against a wall and hopefully force the other man to abandon his grip.

Completely inhuman strength and other abilities aside, the other man has what Mohinder doesn't; experience and an actual will to resolve a physical encounter. Without the imbalances caused by his miscalculations he would naturally shy away from involving himself in a fight. It isn't a wonder that Niko is able to back him into a wall and Mohinder drops the weapon, ripping himself forcefully away from arms' length to stand a good ten feet away.

He scowls and yanks the hood further over his forehead, considering a second desperate go at the prey he was hunting.

"I would advise against it," Niko warns with a conversational air. He doesn't doubt the sincerity of the initial attack, but he can read the uncertainty in the stranger's stance. That inexperience can be exploited.

Staying alert, he keeps his arms in front of him, movement jerky and insectlike, because of his wariness and because of the heightened effect the cold weather has on his system. He bows his head, staring across at Niko from under his brow, and does his best to make sure that the cultivated English accent is clear and generic, hiding any traces of Tamil that could bring up suspicions that would point to his identity later.

He keeps his arms in front of him, raised to defend himself, or attack if given a moment's chance.

"You're threatening me?" There's an undercurrent of irritation; the idea presses all of Mohinder's buttons.

The smile Niko offers in response is darkly amused, a sliver of white against olive skin. "Was that unclear? I can repeat myself if necessary." He studies the stranger as he speaks, noting the stiff-jointed posture and comparing it to the species he's become familiar with through personal encounters and extensive studies. There are too many possibilities before he takes the oddities of the City into account. "What do you want?"

The smile only serves to rattle Mohinder further, and he draws himself up and hunches his shoulders in on himself at the same time, still looking for a chance for attack, a chance to end the conversation. The hands go into the pockets of the hooded sweatshirt, hiding the scales, the only things he imagines could easily identify him. He speaks at length, voice nervous and unsure and angry but still teasing with the very natural sort of egotism that the man has always carried himself with.

"You, actually."

Anyone who spends sufficient time in the company of pucks develops an immunity to the egotism of others, and Niko already had a head start before he met Robin. Body language speaks more eloquently than tone at the moment.

"Why?"

Niko doesn't move, hoping to draw out an answer rather than provoke another assault.

He takes a step forward, trying to threaten in the only way he knows, but his voice betrays him when he speaks, lowering in tone instead of raising. Now that he isn't actively hunting and forced to acknowledge what he's doing-- kidnapping a person, with a voice and a personality, guilt seeps into his own thoughts. He isn't a monster, there are other ways of going about this. But he can't take it much longer, the way it feels. The undercurrent of uncertain and uncontrolled violence is still there, though, in his mind and in his countenance. Common sense tells him that he shouldn't speak, he should simply strike now or cut his losses. The part that is still wholly human demands to provide himself with a defense anyway.

"I'm starving. I need to."

Dark gold eyebrows drawn into a V, Niko stands his ground. He's known monsters who hunt for the pleasure of it, and monsters who hunt because they feel they have no choice. Both can be reasoned with, but need can more volatile. "You would be better served to find a benign solution. We can do that if you control yourself." It's the last warning Niko will give.

"You don't understand!" Niko's calm is like a catalyst, driving Mohinder's anger and instincts over the edge. He is growing weaker and more raw as he stands in the morning quiet, listening to the other man's blood rushing in his veins and his respiration, his constantly raised adrenaline always leaving him on two choices: run or fight. The second option is easier to follow through with, already stressed and resentful as he is about his stomach wound, which is softly bleeding beneath his sweater, into the gauze.

He snaps an arm out toward what he now sees as prey again, faster than any human reflex, though the distance and frontal approach takes away some advantage of the speed. If he can just get his hands on his face-- like any good hunting spider, the venom would do its trick after he backed off to watch and wait.

Unimpressed, Niko dodges the strike, bringing his own arm up to block his attacker's, while his knife hand turns to slash at the stranger's abdomen. Most creatures have one vital organ or another there--stomach, liver, heart. Cut deeply enough, and you'll at least give your opponent some hemorrhaging to think about.

Sense memory saves him for the moment, allowing him to recognize when the cut is about to come. Any ideas Mohinder has concerning hauling the man off to cocoon somewhere flees his mind at the sight of the knife, something which the instincts he's formed, strong and impossible to ignore, tell him could mean his inability to hunt in the near future and, thus, inability to survive. And survival was what this was all about, after all. Eat and fight to struggle on while he tries to fix what's wrong in himself.

He's twenty feet up on the wall before he's even aware himself what he's done, body moving quicker than his mind can follow, hand putting firm pressure on the hot wound on his stomach, stitches nearly ripping from the backbend he'd had to manage to avoid the knife.

He bares his teeth, frightened and enraged and barely human for a short few seconds, before he finds words again.

"You aren't worth the effort. Would you kill me with that damn pigsticker like some kind of beast?"

"To avoid becoming your sheep at slaughter? You shouldn't be surprised."

Dangerous intent is clearly written in Niko's stony expression. Survival overrules any inclination he has to help the stranger. The fear and the hand pressed hard to flesh that Niko's blade never touched give him an idea of how deep the other's desperation must run. He flips his knife, catching the steel between two fingers. Perfectly balanced and guided by a practiced hand, the weapon cuts through the air, launched twenty feet up by Niko's throw.

No matter how fast a creature can move, it's still hard to maneuver when one's back is pressed against a flat surface, especially when hands are all that is keeping one attached to it. Mohinder is only able to bat the knife out of the air with a shout of surprise, cutting the back of it deeply across the small portion of the back of the hand not covered in dense scales. The knife clatters to the ground, following by slowly dripping blood.

A good chance for flight, which he takes, dragging himself to the rooftop and leaving small, red smears on the brickwork. He peers over the edge with bright white eyes, brow drawn into deep furrows.

"I haven't killed anyone. I am not a murderer. You're the murderer."

"Perhaps I am," Niko says softly but without regret. He leaves the knife where it has fallen. To retrieve it now would be to invite a strike from above at his unprotected back. "Nevertheless, my offer stands."

It's doubtful the stranger will take that offer. Hubris, fear, mistrust--each alone is enough cause to reject aid, and Niko is in a difficult position to negate any one reason. Still, he waits, patience rather than sympathy easing his body language into a state of lesser hostility.

He says nothing more, simply staring his resentment down at the other man, keeping both eyes on him as much as possible as he wraps the hand wound in his own silk from the other palm carefully. Mohinder can't afford another blood trail; once was more than enough.

Lingering only a moment more in uncertainty, memorizing Niko's features, Mohinder eventually turns to flee, hoping that the twilight and quiet last until he can sneak away indoors into his apartment's warmth and humidity. The hand is too conspicuous. Though it will heal soon.

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Log: Complete

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