The Destined Path Toward the Discovery of Homo Superior

Ah, Mohinder Suresh. A name that will live on like the names of so many great minds before me: Ludwig van Beethoven, Albert Einstein, Ryan Seacrest.

Some suppositious individuals would inquire as to the authenticity of my evidence. And to those people, the nay-sayers of neo-science, I have as a rebuttal my very own Patient Zero by the name of Zane Taylor.

Is it not fate that this man, this very embodiment of my father's theories, returned my phone call just as I was deciding to call it quits? Is it destiny that created this telephonic coincidence? If so, then where does one go from here? What does the future possess for Zane and I? And isn't it not pretentious to use the subject pronoun to reference myself in the predicate of a sentence instead of the more appropriate "me"?

There can only be one reason, found only in the figurative depot of this causal agent which we can only refer to as God, for my encounter with Zane. For it is the very catalyst of this adventure, this phenomenal escapade.

We, the two of us, Zane and I (proper use can be pretentious as well), found ourselves departing by automobile across the country on our noble quest of Nobel Prize-worthy undertaking.

"You know," Zane stammered, "when we find these people, I like totally wanna show them my cool 'turn things into Alex Mack' trick."

I remonstrated, "Perhaps, Zane, that would not be the best method of initial approach. I would pose forth this suggestion: We introduce ourselves and explain my father's theories of evolution to the individual in question and trust they will reveal some information pertaining to their supposed ability prior to any demonstrations."

"You're like really smart," Zane stated. "I think that we are gonna be really bestest friends forever."

"A sudden craving for nourishment has descended upon my being," I made known.

"You mean, like, you want to eat?" Zane uttered.

"Indeed. It seems that an ample supply of thought cannot sustain a body which requires matter of the edible variety. Ah, if only one could live on brain energy alone. Why I would never require alimentary substances if that were indubitably the circumstances under which we humans lived," I cannonaded.

"Like anyone would eat brains," Zane jested, "That is a funny thought, Mohindy. You are a funny guy. Like, I wouldn't eat brains. That would just be crazy."

"Well, it would seem you failed to captivate the gist of my previous statement," I lambasted. "The aim of my non-literal interjection was not to say that one would find nourishment by devouring a brain, but rather to express that if it were possible to live with intellectual essence as one's only sustenance, then I would...ooh, a Taco Bell!"

Could it have been destiny that led us to this very same location shared by the idol of quickly served quasi-Mexican food? Or was it mere chance that there would exist such an establishment on the very road on which we chose to travel?

"Mmmmm!" Zane soliloquized in regards to his gordita.

"Ah, the quintessential southwestern meal, fit for any weary traveller on their evolutionary quest of universal proportions!" I guffawed to my quesadilla.

After our momentary interlude of spicy deliciousness, we soon found ourselves with another Homo Superior, Patient One, one might say.

She was a portly woman of magnificent girth. Though, the size of her waist was moot when juxtaposed with that of the crazed, Mohinder-obsessed, sebaceous, incandescent heavyweight, with whom my nightmares are affluent.

Despite her obesity, and my obvious intolerance thereof, progress was made.

I felt absolute pride as not only had I helped this large woman make sense of her genetic abnormality, but I astounded Zane with a figuratively glowing kernel of scientific evidence. It indeed made me a happy Mohinder. And a happy Mohinder I have not been for some time. Yet the smile on Zane's face, the joy in his expression, gave me a proprioception of comfort and balance. If only I could know what the aspiring genetic sleuth was pondering.