changehistory: (A man in the shadows)
"Tact is the knack of making a point without making an enemy." - Isaac Newton

Adam had made reservations for 1:00 at Arabelle, an upscale Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side, thinking to put Angela at least slightly at ease by the surroundings. Surely he could have no immediate ill intent over expensive wine and pristine linens in elegant surroundings while dressed to impress, could he? He even went so far as to hire a town car for the afternoon instead of a cab, so that she would neither have to bother her own driver nor deal with the annoyance of truly public transportation. Well tailored suit, nice coat, leather gloves, expensive sunglasses...he remembered how to fit in this world as well as he fit in the East Village and hung around in the bar playing piano and having a glass of whiskey with the bartender. Of course, they could both of them lie with a smile and kill with a kiss and the other knew it all too well, but he was really hoping it wouldn't come to that. He did have that pesky resolution to keep about not killing any more of their parents, and she did have some minor level of protection, he supposed, by reason of their former relationship, but he did hope she knew not to push him too far.

He wanted this to go well.

The balance of power had shifted. He needed her to realize just how far. She might control Primatech, but that alone lost a great deal of significance considering he knew its secrets and knew her so well. It lost even more, when lined up against the power he'd rallied on his side, and she had to see that. He shouldn't have to make threats or be crass about it. They could have a civilized lunch and discuss an amicable settlement. It might not be exactly what Claire or Peter had hoped for when they first discussed destroying the Company, but clearly Pinehearst had risen as the far greater threat. If they could end this without fighting a battle on two fronts...because, really, that never ended well, as both Napoleon and Hitler could attest to, and he'd no intention of losing simply because he overreached.

He might have the most power on his side, but they weren't invincible, no matter what they all thought. Once he'd thought that, and once they'd proven him wrong. She held the Haitian, and he could neutralize even Sylar and Peter. A sniper could take out any of them, and Sylar was the only one with the possibility of hearing the bullet coming in time to stop it. But did she really want to wage war on her sons, on him? Did she want power that much, or did she want peace? Because she had to know she couldn't take them all out, and decimating what was left of what Arthur tried to build despite them had to be her priority as well, didn't it? Weren't they stronger together? And couldn't she see the advantages of ceding the battle gracefully, before they rained fire on what was left of her empire? Did she want to kill her own children to stop him? That, of course, was the point not to be said, but always implied. He held her sons, at least two of them, in the palm of his hand, and the third, his, theirs, wouldn't break with Peter, not again, even if he hated Adam. He wasn't too fond of her, either. She couldn't count on Nathan's support. Her best bet was to stand with them, not against them.

Angela had never been a fool, he mused as he stepped out of the car and moved up the steps to ring the bell. She would see sense, see the advantages of laying down arms, and he could win this front without firing a shot, leaving him free to devote his time to finishing the rest, and rebuilding the a new dream from the ashes of the destruction of the old.
changehistory: (Peter - Not broken)
It's been there in my dreams -- the scene I see unfold
True at last, flesh and blood, to cherish and hold
Jealous fools will suffer, yes, I know and I confess:
Once I lost my way when something good had just begun
Lesson learned, it's history, when all is said and done


He wasn't him. In the end it was as simple as that. He didn't do those things. He didn't make those plans. He didn't toss aside the best thing that ever happened to him in search of vengeance. There had to be something, of course, somewhere, enough to make the boy come back, but. He wasn't him any longer, and his mistakes would never be Adam's.

How that resulted in him standing before the mirror in a shop that was far too feminine to even dare to offer tuxedos, having Angela order the shop girls around as they fixed his collar, his sleeves, his trouser legs and generally made him want to twitch, he had yet to figure out. He eyed the champagne she had in her hand with longing, but it had been forbidden him because it might spill on the fabric.

"Couldn't we have gone to a tailor?" he asked, fidgeting in a way that got him swatted by the overly familiar shop girl. She got an icy glare for her troubles, but she seemed no more impressed by it than Angela.

"What do you think this is, Adam?" Angela asked, glancing up with an arch of her eyebrow.

"It looks like a dress shop," he pointed out dryly.

"Louisa's husband is the best kept secret in the City," she said absently. "He does all Arthur's tailoring."

Adam snorted. )
changehistory: (Half hiding)
Part of him had considered just walking away from it all. One day, Hiro would realize he was no longer buried where he had left him, if he hadn't already, and he would come. One day, Peter might take it into his head to come looking, to see what had happened, to neutralize the threat. Those were possibilities every morning when he woke and every evening when he bolted doors and flipped on the alarm system that could not keep out the only two who could stop him.

It would be wisest, of course, if they had nothing to stop. If they found him merely living his life, outside of the Company's control, reacquainting himself with this new century and living in peace, having seemingly seen the errors of his ways.

Except, well. He hadn't. He still believed with everything in him that he had been right.

It galled him that he'd been so sloppy as to be stopped by Hiro, to have been bested, to have allowed himself to have been traumatized how he had. He'd lost control of Peter, as well, and that was just uncalled for on so many levels. He should have had it all, right there in his hands. Everything he'd ever wanted, ever dreamed of had been within his grasp. Decades of work and planning his vengeance shimmered before him, just to be stripped away again.

It was unacceptable.

To walk away would be unthinkable. He could outwait most of them, yes, but now Peter would always be there, and if he didn't wrest control of the situation back, he would never have it again. That thought was galling. He had walked this earth for nearly 400 years. He could survive anything, and he would continue to walk this Earth until it was destroyed, and possibly beyond. It was his destiny, to live, to rise above, to be something the world had never seen. He was meant to be a hero, not living in a house, collecting art and music and living some quiet life of a repentant sinner.

The world needed to know his name, to know who he was, what he was. Never again was he going to let someone take control from him. Never again was he going to taste the bile of failure, or bow down to someone or something that thought itself greater than he. His original plan was out of his grasp, it was true, but there were other instruments out there, others waiting for a leader to rise and give them direction, others searching for a cause, a goal, someone to believe in.

Who was he to deny them?
changehistory: (Hiro --More than a friend)
It was all he could concentrate on, truly. Just today, just this breath, just this moment.

If he thought about the past, he could feel the coffin still, close around him. Reaching back he found the cold air on a rooftop, the shock in brown eyes, the fall, the crash, the smell and feel of blood and pain. Further, there were thirty years, the taste of betrayal as father followed in his son's footsteps. There was a reverse legacy there that shadowed his centuries, stretching out its arm to touch everything he tried to do.

If he thought of the future, he felt a tremor of fear run over him. There was too much history, too much darkness, too much they had to overcome. Betrayal, death, darkness, loss. They couldn't go back to those times when they just were together in the sun, in an unspoiled world, with Hiro's hero worship, and his struggling to be the man the boy saw when he looked at him. They could simulate it, perhaps, but they couldn't really go back. He wasn't Kensei anymore, and the things he'd done had changed the boy he knew when he was, in just a short time. He'd driven Hiro to do things that he could feel shattering that sweet, enthusiastic soul. If he looked too far in the future, followed the lines of the changes that could happen...it was the same shadow with no sense of how to change it.

So he concentrated on today. On now. On the rise and fall of Hiro's chest as he slept fitfully next to him. On getting through the day without lashing out, hurting him again. On staying, not walking out the door and away from the tangled mess they were together. On not taking the final step, for either of them.

It was all he could do, and if he let himself think about tomorrow at all, he only allowed it to be a prayer that it would go as well as today.
changehistory: (Sorcerer)
"I have been generous, up till now. I can be cruel…Everything that you wanted I have done…You cowered before me, I was frightening…I have turned the world upside down, and I have done it all for you! I am exhausted from living up to your expectations of me."

Be Mine.

I’m Yours.

It’s that time of year, when the world is filled with candy hearts with sweet promises imprinted on them, lovers’ entreaties in spun sugar passing between enamored couples around the Western world. The words are tossed back and forth, with laughs and flippant smiles. He asks; she smiles and kisses him. She requests; he holds her tight. A day, a week, a month, a year later they forget what they’ve sworn, leaving it tattered and meaningless on the ground, just another phrase that litters the romantic past, and the next person gets the same smile, the same laugh, and the words come out again.

Be Mine.

I’m Yours.

I don’t toss them around. I will say, “I love you” far more quickly than I will say, “I’m yours.” I want to hear “I’m yours” from someone who means it far more than the other. Love comes, it goes, it has different meanings, different phases, different cycles. It is a feeling, an emotion, changeable as our emotional states always are. It is not a promise. I have married even, without making that promise, that vow. But more than anything in the world, I want someone who is truly mine, who understands what I long for, who grasps what it means to me to claim them that way and comprehends what I offer in return.

Be Mine.

I’m Yours.

Mine. Body, heart and soul. Put me first, above all others. It is beyond sexual fidelity. You cannot serve two masters. You cannot belong to two separate people at the same time, unless the three of you are a solid, cohesive grouping, each committed to the unit. Love me. Listen to me. Heed my wishes. If you wander from our bed, do so only with consent and come back the moment I ask. It’s a promise of fealty, of submission. A virtual chain from one to the other, binding you to me, like the liege lords of old. It is beyond the vows of marriage, a sacred trust, a swearing of the soul, one to the other. Know I would never abuse such a trust. I care for what’s mine, cherish it, protect it, defend it, honor it, respect it.. I will not betray your trust in me. I will keep you safe from my foibles, my whims, to the best of my ability.

Be Mine.

I’m Yours.

Tell me you love me. Tell me you want me. Tell me you need me. But do not use those words unless you mean them, unless you truly offer yourself, in a vow, a promise that ties us together through time. Do not toss them at me like your sugar candy trinkets, only to strip them back when things are hard or I am cruel or you think me unreasonable. If you make a promise, I will hold you to it, and betrayal is not something I will countenance, let alone forgive.

Be Mine.

I’m Yours.

And if or when I tell you that I am yours, when those words, that promise falls from my lips, a rare gift I long to give utterly and completely to the person who will cherish it, know that is what I offer. Yours. Body, heart and soul. You, first, above all others. You only that I bind myself to. If I wander from our bed, I will only do so with your consent, and will return the moment you ask. I swear fealty. I submit. I surrender to you and only you, for as long as you choose to hold me.

Be Mine.

I’m Yours.

Can you handle it?

"I ask for so little. Just fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave."

ooc: Quotes from movie The Labyrinth.
changehistory: (Deadly)
January 1989

He asked himself the questions, again and again, going over them in his head while he paced across the floors, feet bare on the concrete, shirt off in defiance of Kaito's orders he wear what he was given. Where did it go wrong? What moment? Was there a chance they could have taken? A choice he didn't make? It had all seemed so perfect, so easy, falling together better than his wildest dreams.

They'd come soon, he knew. He could tell the days that way, the days they didn't bring him breakfast always, always meant they'd come for something else. His pacing took on a jittery edge, weeks of it, or was it years now, he couldn't always keep track, sliding together. There were days of boredom, days of books, days of cold, and days of pain. Bored, cold, hurting. It cycled and it was almost its own rhythm except they didn't seem to follow the patterns he tried to force them into in his head. A day of cold became a day of pain, with fire along his nerves and blood and tears and fluids leaking out of him.

No control. He ran his fingers along the wall as he circled the room, ripping nails as they caught and not caring. He did it. It was his, something little, just a spark to reach inside, but his. They were coming, and who knew what they'd do. Skin blistering, peeling off, regrowing. Fire, vivisection, dissection. Heart, perhaps? They thought he had none anyway. Lungs? What need to breathe in the chemicals in their room? Nothing was his, nothing left but his brain, and they kept that carefully preserved in his head, with his thoughts, slowly winding its way down dark corridors that were far too long into a blissful madness they pulled him back out of with slicing pain, keeping him here, now. If he slid away too far, screamed, banged on the glass, they stopped, let him be, gave him books, his favorite food, softer touches, gentle coaxing, pretty pills in blues and pinks until he was calm again, rational, eyes focusing. Then they started again.

They were his, he thought, fist slapping against the wall. His creation, his vision. He felt it creeping up, knew the hope and despair both that blended into him when he felt himself sliding away.

"Adam," he muttered, clinging on to that sense of self. "Adam. Adam Monroe. Strain 138. Shanti Virus. Adam." It was almost a chant, and he knew that was bad, the rational part of his brain, asserting itself, strong and forceful. "No. No. No," he screamed it at the incipient madness and the cameras that watched him with unblinking eyes.

He was alive. He was still alive. He was always alive. He would be alive when they were dust and worm food and so help him God he would put them there, his creations to do with as he pleased, his disciples turned unfaithful, denying him more than thrice and he wondered when the crucifixion would come and which would thrust the final spear into his side, the blade on his neck, sharp and final.

"No."

They wouldn't. He wouldn't. He was out there, somewhere. Nathan. Son. Child. Though not, anymore, probably. How long had it been? He had to stay him, stay Adam, for him, before they put him in here, too, taking the sins of the father out on the son. His thoughts were out of control again, the sardonic voice said, the one that wouldn't shut up and just let him slide away forever into the dark bliss of the corridors he tried to flee down in the center of his mind.

Still here, no matter what they did. Still here, still thinking, still alive, still whole, always whole, growing back everything they took, younger, stronger, did they know what they were doing? Taking a visionary and giving him a reason, shaping a sword into a reaper's scythe that would turn one day and take them all down in a fell swoop, sending them hurtling to hell. All of them. Damnation. Retribution. Punishment. Vengeance.

He was alive, he would stay alive, and the world would pay. Stopping the pacing, still as death, except his eyes, he let the thought sink in to bone and blood and sinew, curling around his heart and steadying his mind. Lifting his head to the camera, he let his bloody glee show in his eyes, and he smiled.
changehistory: (Peter/Adam)
[OOC: Unless otherwise marked, all prompts for [livejournal.com profile] muses_gonewild are AU/stand alone pieces/fics, and as such completely not binding on any other muse or to be considered to be influencing any RP 'verse in which I play. If anyone, however, would ever like to play off of them, please feel free. Otherwise, just, um, watch the crack.]

They were lying close together, curled up a bit and tangled in sheets and legs and arms. Adam's eyes were closed, body still humming from pleasure given and received in spades. His fingers lightly stroked over the sweat-slicked skin of the boy pressed against him, as he felt himself drift a little, a smile on his lips.

"So, barring Elle, and really, above and beyond anything else, thirty years without this must have been..." Peter's voice was light, teasing, trying to make light of all the things Adam had told him in fits and starts in the weeks since they'd reunited.

"Hell," Adam said, succinctly, not opening his eyes.

"So this...enthusiasm?" Peter's lips brushed his neck, and Adam opened one eye to peer at him. "Is it because of so long without, or..."

"I think you'd inspire it, no matter how long it had been," Adam said, dry and amused.

Peter grinned at him. "Yeah?"

"Yes."

They lay quietly for a bit longer, breaths evening out to match and Adam drifted toward sleep again, until Peter's voice, very thoughtful, interrupted him. "How long has it been since anyone inspired you?"

"What?"

"I mean, you told me about Hiro, but that was almost 400 years ago, so...surely in 400 years, you've loved someone else?"

Adam stilled a little, thoughts flashing to another dark head and flashing eyes with fine cheekbones and a wicked smile. )

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Adam Monroe

February 2014

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