changehistory: (Greater good)
[ooc: This is my own what-if. What if the founders were right? What if the founders really were trying to save the world all along, because what everyone's seeing in S3 is what they've been trying to stop all along--a worse fate, by smaller tragedies--even Adam? Sure they have their own agendas, but. Not binding on any Angela or Arthur muse, though if anyone would like to play along and let this be actual backstory I would LOVE to let it be Adam's, but won't force it on anyone, of course. :-D]

1977

Her screams brought them all running from the library where they'd been relaxing, Adam, Daniel and Arthur bickering a bit over a game of pool while Charles tried to get them to listen to some article in some magazine that Adam never could remember later. Maury had been fiddling with a chess set no one would ever play on with him given that he cheated and didn't grasp he was really only a pawn in their games anyway. Angela had left them to their brandy and conversation, claiming to be tired, and they'd waved her away with fond smiles, three of them casting each other measuring looks to see where her gaze lingered longest, but when she started screaming the competitiveness dropped away and all five of them raced for the stairs, taking them as fast as they could to reach her room.

Adam got there first, Arthur a step behind him, and both of them had their arms around her as her terror filled gaze flickered between them.

"What was it?" Adam asked, voice just a murmur, but she shook her head, closing her eyes again, then snapped them open as if what was there in the darkness was too terrible to bear.

"Get her some water," Arthur snapped at Maury who cam huffing into the room, and the portly man nodded and moved toward the bathroom immediately.

After she had sipped it and clung to Adam, and then Arthur, and then settled between them both for long enough for the trembling to stop, and just when Adam thought the tension in the room might snap if she didn't tell them what she had seen, she finally whispered, "We have to stop it."

"What?" he whispered back, as Charles and Daniel both moved in, settling on the edges of the bed, Charles on his side, Daniel on Arthur's.

"It exploded," she said, and another shudder ran over her.

"What exploded?" Arthur asked, a bit gruffly, casting a worried glance at Adam over her head.

"Everything. The Earth."

Three little words, but they stilled the room. Adam's breath seemed to completely stop, and he could not even hear his heart pounding in his chest, no pulse in his ears. His muscles ached after a long moment, and his lungs screamed for air, but he still didn't move, didn't breathe, couldn't, because somehow that would force him to acknowledge it.

It was Charles who broke the silence to ask her what she meant.

"I mean," she snapped, her voice a little stronger, "That I saw the world break apart into tiny pieces, exploding through space in fire, and we have to stop it."

"How?" Daniel asked.

And the room went silent again.  )
changehistory: (Burning thoughts)
And still I have the pain I have to carry
A past so deep that even you could not bury if you tried...

I would fall asleep
Only in hopes of dreaming
That everything would be like it was before
But nights like this it seems are slowly fleeting
They disappear as reality is crashing to the floor

After all this time
I never thought we'd be here
Never thought we'd be here
When my love for you was blind
But I couldn't make you see it
Couldn't make you see it
That I loved you more than you'll ever know
A part of me died when I let you go*


The fingers sliding lazily through his hair are familiar, even after all this time. Part of him knows that even this casual intimacy could become problematic, but in a world rapidly shifting around him--even if he caused the most drastic--some semblance of sameness seems necessary. He sleeps better when she forces him to it, and curled up here tonight, the fire the only light in the room, and the taste of whiskey on his tongue mingling with the well-remembered scent of her, he feels content. He is known, no mask necessary, no show of strength, no spinning of tales, no need to play their personal Jesus. He is safe, and safety is a thing he had forgotten. So he allows her touch, and the conversation carries between them in soft, intimate murmurs of the day and the problems to solve. Her insight is sharp and biting sometimes, cutting through the shadowed webs he dances around, but she, too, seems softer by the fire's glow, tempered by life and loss as much as he.

But there are gaps, gouges, craters and canyons that they balance on the precipice of. Thirty years is a long time to be each locked in a private hell the other can never fully understand. She is no longer the girl she was, thinking him nearly a god, and he has a new layer of bitterness pressed to his skin, a new coldness settled around him like a mantle, pulling him even further away from simple humanity than he had been just decades before. Standing apart was always his curse, but this distance is sharper, more engulfing, and he feels it with each breath, even as her fingers soothe him into a pretense of connection.

His need for the boy, her boy, separates them as well. They do not speak of it openly, but she finds him brooding in his office, sees the flash of loss, of pain in his eyes, and she knows him well enough to know. The tone that dances in his voice when he says his name is one she recognizes, and the sadness that slides through her gaze does not go unnoticed, but he does not know what to say to ease it. They are a culmination of decades of betrayal, pulled apart by their own choices, their own paths, and coming together now, pretending little has changed, when, really, the world they both knew is gone, and the people they were died long ago in cold, sterile hallways with the last gasp of a frantic dream.

These moments, then, are those out of time. They played in the snow with the boys, laughing, and there was hot chocolate for the children, and hot toddies for them when they came in. But his new consort's eyes burned, resentful and frightened of a closeness she neither understands nor shares, and the shadow of the children's father hangs over them, waiting to swoop in and break up the idyllic semblance of what could have been. Too many forces tug, pulling them back from the past to the present and an unknown future with each breath they take. He knows this. He knows she knows, too.

But, tonight, they do not speak of that. Instead they laugh softly, push the world outside the study door away, and pretend.

[ooc: Angela is [livejournal.com profile] mapetrelli and used with permission. Lyrics are from "Blind" by Lifehouse]
changehistory: (Fingers to lips)
Peter was gone. The thought kept echoing around and around in Adam's head. He didn't believe in him. He thought him a monster, like his mother before him had, and where she had helped lock him in a cell, the son had just tossed him aside. The promise to come back, the anguish in the boy's eyes, the emotion he knew he felt coming back at him, all of it meant nothing in the face of the desertion. It was as much a betrayal as those who had locked him up thirty one years before.

Reaching forward, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, a bottle such as he had sent Nathan for Christmas, anonymously. The world was not ending--again--he told himself. Elle was with child, and faithful by his side. Eden was strong, prospering, rising from the ashes like the phoenix, like he himself had. Even with the girl, with Suresh....even with what he had done, Nathan had not actually attacked. He'd tried diplomacy, as Adam would have, and not anything that would topple Adam's fledgling kingdom.

But now he had Peter, and Adam did not. Peter who was the one person who could stop him, the one person who could make him fall, make him crawl. If Peter decided he was right, that Adam was the monster of his nightmares instead of the hero of his dreams, would he act? Would he fight to bring Adam down, or would he just turn away, his back to him for eternity, blocking him without an outright attack. Was Peter capable of such an attack? Did he fully recognize what he could do with those powers at his command? A moment, a thought...Chills ran up and down Adam's spine, a flicker of fear amidst the pain and wretchedness of dashed dreams and haunted hopes.

No time to mourn the person he had allowed Peter to bring out in him, to grieve for talks by fires, soft promises of friendship given, hints of more awakening with a brush of fingertips. No time to grieve for what could have been. It was possible it could be, a small voice still whispered. Peter had said he would come back, maybe to stay, that voice insisted. Don't do anything rash, anything to give credence to his beliefs. Other than them being true? he thought, bitter and sardonic. His brave new world just might cost him the one thing he hadn't wanted to pay.

But he had learned long ago that getting everything you wanted was rare, and that sometimes you simply had to settle for almost everything.

He had to protect himself. With Peter on his side, if Nathan chose to launch an offensive, Adam would be hard pressed to defend himself, no matter Elle and Hiro and Eden--Sarah--and Candice's powers. They weren't a match for Peter who had them all at his command, and he couldn't be certain that they would stand against Peter anyway, if the choice came to it. It was pathetic how you couldn't trust people these days. Everyone was a potential snake in the grass, a knife in your back. If Peter could turn, any of them could.

Adam's fingers curled around the heavy glass and he stared into it for a long moment. There was only one answer that made strategic sense. One person who he wouldn't think to look to for loyalty, really, but one person, at the same time, who he could trust never to take the Petrelli's side. He couldn't kill Peter--Adam wouldn't allow it--but he could keep Adam safe if need be. He took a sip, then hurled the glass against the wall, watching it shatter, the liquid that remained flying everywhere.

He didn't like the choice. Hiro would have a fit, and he'd have to calm him down, but Hiro...he thought he could manage his loyalty, at least. He was the one always going on about Adam needing better security, and Adam had always pointed at Peter and asked who would dare come against him. Well, with Peter gone, Adam needed someone to fill that position, and his carp would just have to accept it.

With a grimace, he reached for the phone, dialing Eden--Sarah's--extension. He closed his eyes when she answered, taking a breath as he knew he was crossing a line he'd have to fight to hold on to.

"Get me Sylar."
changehistory: (Burning thoughts)
[OOC: SPOILERS FOR SPN FINALE behind cut. Elle referred to is [livejournal.com profile] idontdig_graves, used with permission, and this prompt ties in, ending wise with hers, found here. There will likely be RP to follow somewhere.]

Before he'd known, truly realized all of the implications, he'd wanted to fight just to fight. Inertia had been his companion for too long, and even with his still new-tasting freedom, from both cell and grave, it clung. The loss of a tightly held goal of decades left him with the realization that he had no Plan B, as it were, and coming up with one would require time and acclimation to the changed world. Computers alone had taken over far more than he could have imagined, and just catching up with thirty years of technology occupied his time for a while. Learning the social changes, the nuances of the political climate of the world, the new problems that had cropped up--many of which he had been predicting for a century--and the solutions proposed took up even more of his time, and he still didn't feel as if he'd grasped it all. Even with the history and the adaptability he was capable of, the world had simply changed too much to be fully comprehended the way he had thirty years ago in a mere five months. But the not comprehending it all was maddening, and he had no outlet. Then the opportunity presented itself. A fight, a war, a battle that needed waging, and one that, really, he could justify quite easily to those he cared for who were, nevertheless, keeping what he assumed was a close eye on his activities.

When he learned of Elle's involvement, it had become more personal. Whatever had been between them or not, she had been the one thing he could count on in some way the last years in captivity. A fellow prisoner, in her own way, an ally of a sorts, even a companion in their own dysfunctional patterns. She'd gotten out, she'd formed a new life, and now that life was threatened, and something in him couldn't allow that to happen while he sat by and did nothing. As soon as he let the one personal bit in, he found the whole idea catching hold in much the way Hiro's tales of the hero he was supposed to be had nearly four hundred years before. It was a chance, an opportunity, a way to be more than just another person walking in the world. He could be a warrior for good, fighting a fight against the very minions of Hell itself. So, he'd prepared, working with his blade daily, making sure Peter was prepared to be anti-possession back up in New York if the sharpie-drawn pentagram should wear off. He filled syringes with his blood, keeping some near the battlefield, and passing out others to any who wanted one, explaining the healing properties. If they were wounded, just a bit would heal them completely, and that had to give them all an edge.

And then the battle was met. )
changehistory: (I need you to believe)
1792

Less than two decades before he had sworn to find disciples, hubris throwing him high in the air as he felt his place was in the heavens with God himself. He was what God had feared, after all, a man who had eaten from the tree of life, at least metaphorically. To prevent this occurrence, Adam and Eve had been cast from the garden, lest they eat from the second tree and truly become like God. If that was what separated them from God, then what barrier was there for him, immortal as he was? Another name, another life, another country. He wandered, the seed of the idea Evan had inadvertently planted inside of him, growing, making him even more restless.

It wasn't enough to survive. It wasn't enough to ghost his way through courts and countries, to smile at kings and queens and change his name to suit his new allegiance or uniform he wore. It wasn't enough to flirt, to let his lips ghost over perfumed skin, then to stare into a face that haunted his dreams and memories--Yaeko, but not. There was a bitter victory in Yumi's love, the way her eyes followed him, adoring, the defiance she showed in marrying a gaijin without knowing that the stories she told him that her great-grandmother had passed down ripped into him and hurt more with each breath, but that victory wasn't enough.

His restlessness struck out, and he found himself in the wilderness of the country he had fought to keep from being free, fleeing further to the lands France still held, running from shadows and ghosts that gnashed their teeth at his heels with the ever present litany of not enough, never enough. Not life, not love, not him.

And then it stopped.  )
changehistory: (Hiro -- Wounds aren't healing)
[OOC: Based on current RP storyline in [livejournal.com profile] nota_fairytale. Bob, Elle, the Haitian, and Hiro are all NPCs in this 'verse and nothing in this prompt or any RP that follows it is binding on those muses.]

The straps were tight enough around his wrists to be painful. Apparently cutting off his circulation was not an issue for them. He somewhat doubted it would have been an issue even if they hadn't known of his ability, but that they did seemed to give them free reign to be extra vicious. Staring at the ceiling, Adam idly wondered what it would be today. After his interlude with Elle the night before, he'd foolishly hoped she'd temper whatever it was, but the tightness of the restraints seemed to prove him wrong.

The room was empty except for him, and it stayed that way for a long time. Of course, anticipation of pain was sometimes worse than the pain. One time, they'd left him strapped down for nearly a full day before finally just releasing him and taking him back to his room, the sadistic bastards. He'd sobbed when he got there, curled in a sick ball on the bed. Perhaps this was that, then.

Or not.

He watched as the Haitian entered the room. Slow anger seemed to burn inside the other man, and he wondered just how many times he could escape and be recaptured before they broke him, finally. There was a flicker of hope there, then, though. Because from what he knew, and what they did not, the man's allegiance lay with Angela, not Bob. Which meant there was a chance...He saw Bob's face over the Haitian's shoulder and hope flickered and died. This was bad.

"His power doesn't work on mine," Adam protested quietly. "He can't stop the healing..." They'd tried that before.

"No, he can't. But his other power works," Bob said with a bright smile.

The memories? Adam frowned, confused. "It never takes, not for long."

"That's because he didn't go far enough back." Something twisted in Adam's stomach as Bob leaned over him. "We go far enough back, Adam, and there's not anything to anchor you, pull you back. He couldn't do it before, as a child. He didn't have the capacity then, but now?" He glanced at the Haitian and stepped back. "Take as much as you can. As far back as you can go. Try and hollow him out."

The large, dark hand descended toward him, and Adam struggled, desperate to shield his memories, of Angela, of Peter, of Nathan, to keep the Haitian from finding them, reporting them, taking them, anything. Those were his, and he fought, clinging at the same time that he tried to shield, using what he'd learned against Maury, though it wasn't the same. They struggled in his head, his mind working to heal as fast as the Haitian could take, while he clung to the three of them. But then a wrenching feeling tore through him, and he felt something ripped away, then another, then another.

The rest flowed easily, though he watched the man sweating, and he was confused. A light burned across his brain, and he screamed, and then there was nothing but blessed blackness.

* * *

Kensei came to into a world of pain. Lights as bright as the sun, but colder, burned over him, in his eyes, on his skin. Men with masks and cold eyes held weapons covered in blood--his blood, he realized--and he felt things heal, only to be cut again. There was metal and things were beeping and they cut open his chest and he wondered, then, if they were the dragons tearing him open. He struggled, but they'd bound him down, and he tried to fixate on the one thing that he had to keep fighting for. He had a mission. He had a purpose. He had a friend, and these men, these monsters could not find him.

But when the sharp knife sliced again, inside of him, he screamed for him anyway.

"Carp...."

* * *

They threw him on what must have been a cot, though it was made of strange material. The walls frightened him, and there were things all around that made no sense. The lights. The amount of metal. The ... looking glass was huge, and terrifying in its own right, over a basin that held no water and another that seemed to float out of the wall. A privy of some sort? Inside? He tried to process it, but things were too strange. The world was too strange. And he huddled up on the cot and tried to remember how he'd come to be here, who these people were.

And where the bloody hell were Hiro and Yaeko?

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Adam Monroe

February 2014

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