changehistory: (Smirk)
The warehouse in Montreal holds marvels from around the world, dancing through time. Vintage pieces, he supposes they'd call them now, though they're more aptly antiques. Curiosities, little bits of his life he hadn't been ready to let pass into other hands. Parts of him, in some ways, he supposes, and he smiles as he watches them wander through the haphazard mess its fallen into, a dark head and a light, turning to flash him smiles now and again back to where he lounges on the sofa watching them with indulgent eyes.

Shock, confusion, anger, and acceptance finally, and now the plans. He has to make things up occasionally, slipping off to a rooftop in New York, phoning an old friend and calling in a debt, setting other things in motion that needn't really bother his two young protégés. What are parents, after all, when they have him? Monsters who used them, hurt them, tried to mold them into things he'd never intended any of their generation to be--unless at his fingers.

And they are, now, turning to him in perfect faith, eyes trusting, though Peter remains wary of the shocks that spark now and then from Elle's fingers, eyes narrowed in speculation when Adam welcomes her touch with a smile, settling her against him, though the boy has to be aware of the way ice blue eyes track his every move like a hunter after elusive prey. The touches, gentle and approving that brush his skin, his hair, the smile that's meant only for him. He turns it on her more fully now, too, now that they aren't monitored, now that they have time. Approval, encouragement, support, he gives it all, warm and delighted in every little success, every conquering of a power, every step further that either of them takes.

He needs them, he tells them, in a soft litany of persuasion. They are the future, the three of them, saving the world from the evil of the Company, the evil of men, the darkness that has spread across the Earth. Peter, he works with, trying to convince him not to fear his powers, to learn to control them. So strong, so good, so able to save them all, he just knows it. And his beautiful Elle, with her practiced deception, her eagerness to do as he says--such a good little soldier, just what he needs, he whispers in her ear as he lets her tease at him with blue fire late at night. They're special, he tells them both, eyes and voice serious, earnest. Their parents betrayed him as much as they betrayed them, but together, the three of them can start over, make it right, be what they were meant to be.

He smiles when they nod, the power of his belief working to overcome years of being told they weren't good enough, of walking in shadows. He believes in them, just them, as they are now, and he wants to help them grow, to master themselves and their power, to make them the best they can be. And under that the quiet promise to himself and to them that in doing so, he'll make them his.

Note: Elle mentioned is [ profile] not_myfirstday; Peter is [ profile] its_myturn; based on scenario/set up for [ profile] watch_overyou
changehistory: (Adam/Jack almost kiss)
Write a prompt fic of your muse interacting with another muse in their life, years from now, where your muse is telling someone something that they don’t want to hear.

It always seemed to go in cycles—not quite clockwork, but approaching it. For a century, two, three at most Adam would be content. He’d find some cause he believed in and go off to war taking all the dangerous missions he could find and reveling in the decorations that followed, the press conferences, the public glory when he saved this or that platoon or village. Jack would receive frequent messages, never too long or too effusive, but enough to keep in touch, coming “home” whenever it suited them both. More than once, he donated his blood to various scientists to attempt to manufacture cures for some disease plaguing the populace. Sometimes it even worked, though nothing was ever quite as effective as his blood alone.

But then something would happen. War would pile on top of war and children would be starving. Famine would strike and roll across the world. Forests would burn from nothing natural, or be razed to the ground to try and make farms or feed livestock to get food to a planet that couldn’t continue to support so many people. When it did, Adam would get a look in his eyes, something twitching under his skin. He’d disappear, and Jack would know. Usually he could find him, talk him down, try and assure him it got better in some future he would never quite reveal. Sometimes Adam believed him, trusted him.

Sometimes he didn’t. )

(ooc: Jack borrowed with permission of his mun, though clearly this is a "what if?" situation and not binding on RP in any way.)
changehistory: (Brooding)
OOC: Brought to you by the crack inside my head. And a serious love issue with crossovers. And a Methos who keeps following Adam around my brain like a puppy. Boy has no sense when it comes to pretty bad guys. Mayhap he thinks he's found himself a new Kronos. I don't know. Byron and Wes are not pleased. ;-)

1860, American West

"Surprise. You're not dead." Curious green eyes, laced with amusement, stared down into Adam's own. It had the tone of a pronouncement, something said before, but then that flew away as the man's face split into a puzzled grin. "Though you should be."

Adam struggled to sit up, wincing as the last of the bullet wounds healed. He started to say something, anything, impressive enough to talk his way away from the two men, but something familiar nagged at him, staring into that face. It didn't click, though, until his eyes shifted to the other. His hair was longer, and his clothes far more dusty than Adam had ever seen him before, but the face was far too well known to pass by. Sometimes it worked best to launch an attack instead of sliding to the defensive, so he nodded at the other man, his eyes sliding back to the one addressing him. "So should he, and if I'm not mistaken, you as well. Doctor...Adams, am I correct?" He pulled the name from a memory he had worked on honing for two hundred years.

The eyebrows went up, and those remarkable green eyes flew to his companion for a moment. Adam pushed himself to his feet and gave a bow that did not quite fit in with the rough homespun attire he was in. "Lord Byron, I believe."

The poet looked at him, shocked for a long moment, then started laughing so hard he fell off the rock he was perched on.

"Byron..." Doctor Adams did not sound nearly so amused. He shifted his glare to Adam. "How do you know who he is?"

Interesting that he was more concerned for the poet's anonymity than his own. Adam brushed his jacket off casually, though removing dust did little for the ingrained dirt of the blood. You'd think the federal marshals would have more to do with the war about to break out than hunt down bank robbers.

"I fought in the army he raised in Greece," Adam said, keeping his voice casual, trying to suppress a bit of a shiver of excitement at finding someone else like him, after all this time. "And before that, I saw both of you in Venice several times. We even spoke once or twice, English exiles, wandering hundreds of miles from home."

The good doctor's eyes narrowed, sliding over him. "How are you alive, and unaged?"

Adam's eyebrows went up. "I could ask you the same question."

Byron sat up, his fit of laughter over, but his interest seemed fully caught. )
changehistory: (Not dead)
Eternity is a terrible thought. I mean, where's it going to end? Tom Stoppard – Czech Writer

Are you kidding me? Eternity is a fantastic thought. It gives you time to think, time to plan, time to delve deep into your psyche and find out just what it is that matters, just what it is that makes you tick and makes all that time worth living for. Some might think that the longer it stretches, the longer it seems, that time must drag on interminably until the universe ends. There is nothing interminable about time. It speeds by in a whirlwind of change and evolution. Everything around you is changing, every second of every day. The human body mutates in upon itself as cells die and cells are born until the genome itself is different.

You see it in little ways at first. We're taller than our ancestors were. We live longer. Some of us even longer than others. As the environment changes, so do we. Illnesses those who came before never dreamed of haunt the footsteps of the populace, even as others that decimated the world, before, are wiped out by the magics of modern medicine or the resistance of the modern human genes.

Technology races on, faster than we can keep up with it, it seems, and yet there are claims that some hold it back. That we, as a species, are not where we were meant to be by this time. Yet, the things we take for granted--computers, televisions, the internet, cellular telephones--none of these could have been possible before the last century. We invent weaponry of mass destruction and conduct biological warfare, bringing more disease into the world to stop that which we fear rather than embracing it and seeing just where the human destiny truly lies.

How can you stand in the way of progress? Of evolution? How can you watch it unfolding all around you and be bored? Out of destruction comes creation. Out of chaos comes order. And then destruction comes and chaos reigns again until creation and order slide their way back into the human psyche, which is forevermore changed by what came before. It doesn't end, and that is the beauty of eternity. There is no end, no real end, and it flies forward in the face of anything you do to stop it.

There is nothing more brilliant than the spirit and the will to survive, no matter the mutation or change required. Perhaps it is a terrible thought, but only in the way any miracle is terrible, any god is fearsome, any breadth or span of time awesome in its own way.

Can't you feel it? Don't you find yourself wondering, always, "What comes next?" And don't you, somewhere inside, want to be one of the architects of the future, to mold it, just a bit, to your ideals and your beliefs? What could be more beautiful than that?
changehistory: (Hmmmm)
Everyone has them, you know, especially in our world. You wouldn't think it of some, of course. You think, occasionally, that there are people in this world you can trust, people you can believe in. You let them mold you, inspire you, push you toward greatness, because you think they are pure. Guardians of light or some such nonsense. You think you are meant for more.

And then they turn, and you find out that all along what you were and what you were searching for was nothing to them. They wanted something else entirely, and once they have taken it...

You learn. You watch, and you learn, and your purpose is born in that moment, tested by fire and flame and death and life. It is all for something greater. It is all for something more brilliant and more than you ever dreamed it could be. A destiny stolen, killed, but from the ashes a new one is born. You take the lessons you learned, you wait, you watch.

And when the time is right, you play a game of your own and no one will ever really understand why. It's better that way, that they don't guess, don't look back to before, when you believed in something else, that another way was possible.

It wasn't. And that is all right, as well.

This one is far more fun.


changehistory: (Default)
Adam Monroe

February 2014

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