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IC Commentary on the finale
Apr. 27th, 2009 10:19 pm( Cut for spoilers )
Adam's reaction to "Cold Wars"
Feb. 24th, 2009 09:09 pmForget the fact that I'm technically dead:
I realize this might be 40 years late, but --
Angela, will you marry me? <3
I realize this might be 40 years late, but --
Angela, will you marry me? <3
Stubble update - out of control. Would kill for shower and razor.
Boyfriends are still idiots.
Starting to find Sylar disturbingly hot. At least he has a brain. No pun intended.
Yes, still in coffin.
Boyfriends are still idiots.
Starting to find Sylar disturbingly hot. At least he has a brain. No pun intended.
Yes, still in coffin.
My boyfriends are all idiots.
( Cut for mini-spoilers, but mun is being v. v. good with cutting )
Still in coffin.
( Cut for mini-spoilers, but mun is being v. v. good with cutting )
Still in coffin.
Am certain Mohinder is prettier than me. Razor might fix that, though.
Miss Peter.
Still in coffin.
ooc: *Shamelessly ripped off from The Very Secret Diary of Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, by Cassandra Claire.
Miss Peter.
Still in coffin.
ooc: *Shamelessly ripped off from The Very Secret Diary of Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, by Cassandra Claire.
[Quote This] - September
Sep. 25th, 2008 11:03 amYou are today where your thoughts have brought you; you will be tomorrow where your thoughts take you. -- James Lane Allen
He can look back on the path he has taken and see each step along the way. Those who think he doesn't know himself, doesn't recognize any wrong turns, doesn't realize why he is how he is and how he could be different, do not grasp the perspective he has. They cannot, perhaps, but whatever the reason, they are wrong, in that.
He knows.
Each step, each turn, each plan, each love, each life, each death, each new beginning, each ending, he still sees them all, burned across his memory, stretching behind him. They have brought him here, as surely as time itself. There he could have thought something else. Here he could have made a different choice. He could have gone right instead of left. He could have gone. He could have stayed. He could have sought vengeance in a different way. He could have chosen to forgive.
And now he has failed again, and there are new choices to make, new thoughts that spin inside his head in the confines of his new cell where there is nothing to do but plan and think and die. That he will escape, he has no doubt. That there will be a choice to make then, he knows. That the choice he makes will determine which new path he will set out on, he is aware.
But what that choice will be, even he does not know.
He can look back on the path he has taken and see each step along the way. Those who think he doesn't know himself, doesn't recognize any wrong turns, doesn't realize why he is how he is and how he could be different, do not grasp the perspective he has. They cannot, perhaps, but whatever the reason, they are wrong, in that.
He knows.
Each step, each turn, each plan, each love, each life, each death, each new beginning, each ending, he still sees them all, burned across his memory, stretching behind him. They have brought him here, as surely as time itself. There he could have thought something else. Here he could have made a different choice. He could have gone right instead of left. He could have gone. He could have stayed. He could have sought vengeance in a different way. He could have chosen to forgive.
And now he has failed again, and there are new choices to make, new thoughts that spin inside his head in the confines of his new cell where there is nothing to do but plan and think and die. That he will escape, he has no doubt. That there will be a choice to make then, he knows. That the choice he makes will determine which new path he will set out on, he is aware.
But what that choice will be, even he does not know.
Still in coffin.
Suspect Mohinder Suresh may be prettier than me.
ooc: *Shamelessly ripped off from The Very Secret Diary of Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, by Cassandra Claire.
Suspect Mohinder Suresh may be prettier than me.
ooc: *Shamelessly ripped off from The Very Secret Diary of Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, by Cassandra Claire.
Adam's commentary on Season 3:
Sep. 22nd, 2008 10:28 amSomeone get me out of this fucking coffin.
ooc: "canon" 'verse will be on hold until, well, someone does. Other 'verses will continue as they have been as AU from end of S2. :-D
ooc: "canon" 'verse will be on hold until, well, someone does. Other 'verses will continue as they have been as AU from end of S2. :-D
[ooc: Cross-verse, as it applies]
Please. I can justify anything I choose to. Call this what I will bother with justifying:
1. Killing Kaito Nakamura
2. Killing Harry Fletcher
3. Killing Paula Gramble
4. Killing Carlos Mendez
5. Killing Victoria Pratt
6. Killing whatshername.
7. My plans to kill Bob Bishop.
8. My attack on Angela Petrelli.
9. Forming the Company.
10. My using Maury Parkman.
11. Using Peter to escape.
12. My plans for the virus.
13. Seducing Elle.
14. Joining with White Beard. (I'm feeling nostalgic. Might as well toss it in.)
15. Drugging Hiro.
16. Marrying Yaeko's great-grand daughter.
17. Asking Claire to move in. (Not that needs justification, but I can and will should I be called upon to do so).
18. My arrangement and friendship with Sylar.
19. My school plans.
20. Anything else you feel the need to fucking question me on.
Please. I can justify anything I choose to. Call this what I will bother with justifying:
1. Killing Kaito Nakamura
2. Killing Harry Fletcher
3. Killing Paula Gramble
4. Killing Carlos Mendez
5. Killing Victoria Pratt
6. Killing whatshername.
7. My plans to kill Bob Bishop.
8. My attack on Angela Petrelli.
9. Forming the Company.
10. My using Maury Parkman.
11. Using Peter to escape.
12. My plans for the virus.
13. Seducing Elle.
14. Joining with White Beard. (I'm feeling nostalgic. Might as well toss it in.)
15. Drugging Hiro.
16. Marrying Yaeko's great-grand daughter.
17. Asking Claire to move in. (Not that needs justification, but I can and will should I be called upon to do so).
18. My arrangement and friendship with Sylar.
19. My school plans.
20. Anything else you feel the need to fucking question me on.
1671
"I will change history."
He tried. His carp--the word burned in his head now, and never, it seemed, truly his--had told him how the story went time upon time. It was his destiny, to defeat White Beard, to save Japan. He had passed all the trials, had he not? Fought cannibals and bears and climbed frozen water falls and gotten shot full of arrows more than once. He'd done his part, as he was told, to make the legend a child in the future would hear become truth, in fact. Only, there was nothing in the story about betrayal, a kiss under cherry trees, a heart ripped out before he was ready to give it to the dragon.
Realization that he was nothing more than a puppet in the boy's game galled him, the taste of it bitter in his mouth. He was Takezo Kensei, and somehow the child had convinced him that the name meant something before he took it all away. So, Kensei would make it great. He would take everything the boy had told him, twist it up, and rewrite the story to come out the way he wanted it to. White Beard would rise, and then Kensei would take his power, as well. The princess--princess, indeed, she was nothing more than a merchant's daughter, as he had once been a merchant's son--would die at the dragon's hand, because Kensei would not raise a hand to save a faithless whore. The hero would become the dragon, and the dragon would make Japan shudder under him and yield.
Fire came in a flash of pain, anguish, as he lay on the floor, the last curse still on his lips. White Beard's defeat seared through him, body and soul, and he screamed with it. He healed, but the story was still told, again and again. Takezo Kensei, savior of Japan--the boy had taken his name, his identity, as surely as he had taken his love, all of it ripped from him until he was nothing but a man laid bare, shivering as the wind caressed over new-grown skin. The stories grew, and with it, his resolve.
Some day, somehow, he would have his vengeance for his decimation. Lifted high, exalted, then thrown aside like a broken doll he might have been, but it would not always be so. It would take time, it would take patience, it would take cunning. He had all three.
"I will change history."
He could wait.
"I will change history."
He tried. His carp--the word burned in his head now, and never, it seemed, truly his--had told him how the story went time upon time. It was his destiny, to defeat White Beard, to save Japan. He had passed all the trials, had he not? Fought cannibals and bears and climbed frozen water falls and gotten shot full of arrows more than once. He'd done his part, as he was told, to make the legend a child in the future would hear become truth, in fact. Only, there was nothing in the story about betrayal, a kiss under cherry trees, a heart ripped out before he was ready to give it to the dragon.
Realization that he was nothing more than a puppet in the boy's game galled him, the taste of it bitter in his mouth. He was Takezo Kensei, and somehow the child had convinced him that the name meant something before he took it all away. So, Kensei would make it great. He would take everything the boy had told him, twist it up, and rewrite the story to come out the way he wanted it to. White Beard would rise, and then Kensei would take his power, as well. The princess--princess, indeed, she was nothing more than a merchant's daughter, as he had once been a merchant's son--would die at the dragon's hand, because Kensei would not raise a hand to save a faithless whore. The hero would become the dragon, and the dragon would make Japan shudder under him and yield.
Fire came in a flash of pain, anguish, as he lay on the floor, the last curse still on his lips. White Beard's defeat seared through him, body and soul, and he screamed with it. He healed, but the story was still told, again and again. Takezo Kensei, savior of Japan--the boy had taken his name, his identity, as surely as he had taken his love, all of it ripped from him until he was nothing but a man laid bare, shivering as the wind caressed over new-grown skin. The stories grew, and with it, his resolve.
Some day, somehow, he would have his vengeance for his decimation. Lifted high, exalted, then thrown aside like a broken doll he might have been, but it would not always be so. It would take time, it would take patience, it would take cunning. He had all three.
"I will change history."
He could wait.
[Bad] July - [016] Love & Lust
Jul. 28th, 2008 08:52 pmAre you asking me to choose? So the prompt said, it seemed. Very well, then.
Lust.
I'm not saying love doesn't have it's place, that I haven't loved, that I don't want to be loved. But ask me to choose and it will be lust, every time.
Lust provides companionship. It assuages physical needs. It allows you to connect with another human being, to feel warmth, pleasure, release. It is, perhaps, only a semblance of love. It fakes it for a few hours, a few weeks, a few months. It is a shade, a ghost, insubstantial...but it is better than the alternative.
With love...they grow old. They fall ill. They die. They leave. They betray. They deceive. They take you and make you believe in something greater than yourself, and then they break you into pieces that you never fully heal from, no matter your ability. Love leaves you vulnerable. It makes you weak. It gives them something to exploit, to twist you into what they would have you be. It is a game only a fool plays, because there is no way to win. It makes an unstable tool to wield, because it is a weapon that cuts both ways.
But lust...lust can be controlled, contained, shaped, molded into what you would have it be. It doesn't matter what the future brings, because you never tied yourself to anything to begin with. It is transient, but so are they. It is a useful sword, a thorough shield.
Love does nothing but destroy you in the end.
Lust.
I'm not saying love doesn't have it's place, that I haven't loved, that I don't want to be loved. But ask me to choose and it will be lust, every time.
Lust provides companionship. It assuages physical needs. It allows you to connect with another human being, to feel warmth, pleasure, release. It is, perhaps, only a semblance of love. It fakes it for a few hours, a few weeks, a few months. It is a shade, a ghost, insubstantial...but it is better than the alternative.
With love...they grow old. They fall ill. They die. They leave. They betray. They deceive. They take you and make you believe in something greater than yourself, and then they break you into pieces that you never fully heal from, no matter your ability. Love leaves you vulnerable. It makes you weak. It gives them something to exploit, to twist you into what they would have you be. It is a game only a fool plays, because there is no way to win. It makes an unstable tool to wield, because it is a weapon that cuts both ways.
But lust...lust can be controlled, contained, shaped, molded into what you would have it be. It doesn't matter what the future brings, because you never tied yourself to anything to begin with. It is transient, but so are they. It is a useful sword, a thorough shield.
Love does nothing but destroy you in the end.
Lost in thought and lost in time
While the seeds of life and the seeds of change were planted
Outside the rain fell dark and slow
While I pondered on this dangerous but irresistible pastime
I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the moment had arrived
For killing the past and coming back to life
It's something like a rebirth when the air rushes back into his lungs, and he feels the pain ease as his pulse pounds in his ears, loud and strong and steady. It had stopped, ceased, gone black, and while part of his mind says he must have just been unconscious, the shock on the face of the boy above him, combined with a deeper sort of knowing tells him that it is something more. He died, an arrow in his heart, and now it is gone and his wound...he can feel it close. His breath comes fast and hard, and fear flickers through him, because he doesn't understand. He runs from it.
It's something like a rebirth when he pulls himself from the flames and feels the pain of the burning subside as his skin regrows, healing before his eyes from charred and blackened to fresh, pink, new. He stares over his shoulder at the fire engulfing the tent, exploding again and again, higher, as the men come running, desperate to save their precious gunfire. One goes flying into it, helped by the push of his hand, a sacrifice to allow him to start again, unhunted, unencumbered by this failed endeavor. He is a new man, he can survive anything, and nothing will stop him now.
It's something like a rebirth when he steps out from the building into the late afternoon sun. He's glad it isn't morning, certain the glare of the sun would have blinded him after so long indoors. Even now he feels his eyes water, and blames it on the light—warm and golden instead of cold and flourescent—and not any tears of grief or joy either one. The air is sweeter than any he has smelled since his first whiff of an unspoiled meadow after the brutal stench of war on all sides. It's chilly, but he doesn't care, closing his eyes for a moment, breathing in the scent of freedom before opening them again to gaze out over the city of Hartsdale. He is free. His purpose is renewed, and the world is about to face a brand new day at his side.
While the seeds of life and the seeds of change were planted
Outside the rain fell dark and slow
While I pondered on this dangerous but irresistible pastime
I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the moment had arrived
For killing the past and coming back to life
It's something like a rebirth when the air rushes back into his lungs, and he feels the pain ease as his pulse pounds in his ears, loud and strong and steady. It had stopped, ceased, gone black, and while part of his mind says he must have just been unconscious, the shock on the face of the boy above him, combined with a deeper sort of knowing tells him that it is something more. He died, an arrow in his heart, and now it is gone and his wound...he can feel it close. His breath comes fast and hard, and fear flickers through him, because he doesn't understand. He runs from it.
It's something like a rebirth when he pulls himself from the flames and feels the pain of the burning subside as his skin regrows, healing before his eyes from charred and blackened to fresh, pink, new. He stares over his shoulder at the fire engulfing the tent, exploding again and again, higher, as the men come running, desperate to save their precious gunfire. One goes flying into it, helped by the push of his hand, a sacrifice to allow him to start again, unhunted, unencumbered by this failed endeavor. He is a new man, he can survive anything, and nothing will stop him now.
It's something like a rebirth when he steps out from the building into the late afternoon sun. He's glad it isn't morning, certain the glare of the sun would have blinded him after so long indoors. Even now he feels his eyes water, and blames it on the light—warm and golden instead of cold and flourescent—and not any tears of grief or joy either one. The air is sweeter than any he has smelled since his first whiff of an unspoiled meadow after the brutal stench of war on all sides. It's chilly, but he doesn't care, closing his eyes for a moment, breathing in the scent of freedom before opening them again to gaze out over the city of Hartsdale. He is free. His purpose is renewed, and the world is about to face a brand new day at his side.
[WM] 40.2.B -- A Courtier's Smile
Jun. 16th, 2008 02:26 pm"A man who knows the court is master of his gestures, of his eyes and of his face; he is profound, impenetrable; he dissimulates bad offices, smiles at his enemies, controls his irritation, disguises his passions, belies his heart, speaks and acts against his feelings." - Jean de La Bruyere (1645 - 1696)
1782
It was not an easy time, nor easy lessons to learn. For all that he was well over a century old, for all that he had learned to lie with ease about his family, his past, the source of his fortune, none of that had truly prepared him for moving among the court at Versailles. It was almost terrifying, how out of place he felt, and he had to remind himself that he had been a samurai, a leader of men, a commander of a British mercenary fleet, a member of the Queen's Guard, a pirate captain with the open sea his to roam and rule. But these perfumed butterflies, flitting around gilded walls, whispering behind fans, dancing and flirting and frittering away their days baffled him.
The life they led was one he had always imagined he wanted. A child of the streets, bettering himself through each lifetime--to be at the finest, most decadent, most elaborate court in the world, accepted as one of them, was a dream come true. He had reached a pinnacle of experience, and he meant to savor each sensation it brought, drinking it up like a fine wine. And in the meantime, they were going to eat him alive.
He was gauche, bourgeois, rough around the edges with passion and temper both that flared hot. He acted on impulse still, with all the sense of the world owing him for the hand he'd been dealt that he'd hurled at Hiro over a century before. His thoughts chased themselves across his face, always readable, always bare and naked to anyone watching. He floundered, and his darling wife was little help, mostly amused at the boy she'd brought to court with her and his little faux pas.
Then he met the marquis de Castries, and things changed. A Navy man, himself, and a friend of one of Adam's former commanders, despite the sides they fought upon, he took pity on the seemingly younger man. Their lessons were thorough and intricate, and most days he despaired of the nobles, finding himself more in sympathy with the rising tide of revolutionary sentiment, but over the months, he learned, and once he set himself to learn the ways of the court--he learned them well.
When Frederica died, he was happy enough to take his leave of France, returning to the grace and simple beauty of Japan, seeking some balm for his soul and tortured memories of a country he had come to love, before. He did not find it, and continued East, back to the new World and a new life there, but the lessons he learned at court, he carried with him, letting them shape him, change him, mold his reactions. No more did he react in impulse, lashing out without thinking. No more did his heart reflect plaining on his face, his emotions an open book, his thoughts there for all to see. He retreated inside of a pleasant mask, a calculating smile. Eighteen months were all he spent at court, and he made a note never to return to another, but the lessons left him changed forever, and he carried them with him into the future, letting them continue to refine him and mold him into an enigma he delighted in presenting, making it a game to watch them always guessing and never fully grasping the truth of him.
1782
It was not an easy time, nor easy lessons to learn. For all that he was well over a century old, for all that he had learned to lie with ease about his family, his past, the source of his fortune, none of that had truly prepared him for moving among the court at Versailles. It was almost terrifying, how out of place he felt, and he had to remind himself that he had been a samurai, a leader of men, a commander of a British mercenary fleet, a member of the Queen's Guard, a pirate captain with the open sea his to roam and rule. But these perfumed butterflies, flitting around gilded walls, whispering behind fans, dancing and flirting and frittering away their days baffled him.
The life they led was one he had always imagined he wanted. A child of the streets, bettering himself through each lifetime--to be at the finest, most decadent, most elaborate court in the world, accepted as one of them, was a dream come true. He had reached a pinnacle of experience, and he meant to savor each sensation it brought, drinking it up like a fine wine. And in the meantime, they were going to eat him alive.
He was gauche, bourgeois, rough around the edges with passion and temper both that flared hot. He acted on impulse still, with all the sense of the world owing him for the hand he'd been dealt that he'd hurled at Hiro over a century before. His thoughts chased themselves across his face, always readable, always bare and naked to anyone watching. He floundered, and his darling wife was little help, mostly amused at the boy she'd brought to court with her and his little faux pas.
Then he met the marquis de Castries, and things changed. A Navy man, himself, and a friend of one of Adam's former commanders, despite the sides they fought upon, he took pity on the seemingly younger man. Their lessons were thorough and intricate, and most days he despaired of the nobles, finding himself more in sympathy with the rising tide of revolutionary sentiment, but over the months, he learned, and once he set himself to learn the ways of the court--he learned them well.
When Frederica died, he was happy enough to take his leave of France, returning to the grace and simple beauty of Japan, seeking some balm for his soul and tortured memories of a country he had come to love, before. He did not find it, and continued East, back to the new World and a new life there, but the lessons he learned at court, he carried with him, letting them shape him, change him, mold his reactions. No more did he react in impulse, lashing out without thinking. No more did his heart reflect plaining on his face, his emotions an open book, his thoughts there for all to see. He retreated inside of a pleasant mask, a calculating smile. Eighteen months were all he spent at court, and he made a note never to return to another, but the lessons left him changed forever, and he carried them with him into the future, letting them continue to refine him and mold him into an enigma he delighted in presenting, making it a game to watch them always guessing and never fully grasping the truth of him.
[QT] June Repsonse
Jun. 16th, 2008 10:48 amAll hope abandon, ye who enter in. >> Dante Alighieri
The walls start to close in after the first few days, even. For one who has wandered the Earth unfettered for centuries, a room with only a view of a hallway in hell, itself. But he clings to the hope that it will not be for long. Angela, Arthur, Daniel, Maury...they'll rise up against Kaito and set him free. Even Charles would not condone this, truly. He'll come, surely, disbelieving Kaito, to speak to Adam, to reason with him. Adam can be reasonable.
He paces the room constantly, not sleeping, trying to remember if there is a way out, but nothing comes to mind. After a week, he attacks a guard who brings him dinner, but while they can do no lasting damage, they have weapons enough to subdue him, to leave him chained.
Even so, he hopes. They will come. She will come. She can't allow this, and with her power, surely she can sway the others to her way, his way, of thinking. She will come, and he will be free, and Kaito and those who aided him will pay. He does not need 12, and if Hiro isn't born...well. He hardly cares at this point, caged and shackled, betrayed by his own personal Judas.
But she does not come.
Nor do Daniel or Charles and when Arthur finally makes an appearance, the gloating smile on his face tells Adam more than words that there will be no help from that quarter. It is that look, that smile, that cold triumph that makes his gut twist, and he feels the first frisson of dread.
She is not coming.
No one is coming to set him free.
And for the first time in his life, Adam feels the flicker of hope die.
The walls start to close in after the first few days, even. For one who has wandered the Earth unfettered for centuries, a room with only a view of a hallway in hell, itself. But he clings to the hope that it will not be for long. Angela, Arthur, Daniel, Maury...they'll rise up against Kaito and set him free. Even Charles would not condone this, truly. He'll come, surely, disbelieving Kaito, to speak to Adam, to reason with him. Adam can be reasonable.
He paces the room constantly, not sleeping, trying to remember if there is a way out, but nothing comes to mind. After a week, he attacks a guard who brings him dinner, but while they can do no lasting damage, they have weapons enough to subdue him, to leave him chained.
Even so, he hopes. They will come. She will come. She can't allow this, and with her power, surely she can sway the others to her way, his way, of thinking. She will come, and he will be free, and Kaito and those who aided him will pay. He does not need 12, and if Hiro isn't born...well. He hardly cares at this point, caged and shackled, betrayed by his own personal Judas.
But she does not come.
Nor do Daniel or Charles and when Arthur finally makes an appearance, the gloating smile on his face tells Adam more than words that there will be no help from that quarter. It is that look, that smile, that cold triumph that makes his gut twist, and he feels the first frisson of dread.
She is not coming.
No one is coming to set him free.
And for the first time in his life, Adam feels the flicker of hope die.
