changehistory: (I worry about you)
Slipping Hiro was a little too easy. It wasn't that Adam wasn't curious about what was going on, or which side might be the best to be on, but a window in his cell was hardly incentive enough to get him to agree to go back into a Company cell. Been there, done that, had the scars...well, metaphorically.

The physical ones disappeared; the memories didn't. He wasn't going to be a Company lab rat, ever again.

So, why was he in New York, drinking in a pub around the corner from one particularly problematic empath's apartment? Best plan of action would be to hit Toronto and his safehouse and run off to Bali or somewhere full of sun and sand and pretty girls and boys. And yet...

He'd thought about Peter a lot in that coffin. Regret. A wish things could have been different. Some fantasies where it was. Maybe he just wanted to explain. Not apologize, of course, at least not for the plan, but maybe for...using him. If he'd thought he could recruit him in the time they'd had, he would have. Maybe.

He sighed into his beer, then flipped open the phone he'd stolen from Hiro. He'd left it off until now, not wanting anyone to be able to trace it, but he needed it for a moment. He'd destroy it after this. Besides...he rather thought Angela might not have told Peter about her plan to rescue and recruit him, which meant he wouldn't know Adam might have Hiro's phone.

It was worth the gamble. He sent the text, asking Peter to meet him (Hiro) here, flipped the phone off and ordered another whiskey.
changehistory: ([Claire] Eternal)
Everything always came back around, in the end, Adam thought. He'd left London after the end of the War, making his way back to America, to Los Angeles that time, to a wife who'd betrayed him and reminded him just how much he'd lost through the years. After her, there had been a time of hope, though, when he finally found those like himself, found a way to maybe build a new home, a place for himself in the world where he didn't have to hide.

But it had all gone to Hell as quickly as so many other good things in his life had, and the last few decades had been nothing but betrayal and pain and loss.

So, he'd returned to the place where it all began, the birthplace he'd only rarely let be home after he fled the first time all was lost. Maybe it would be different this time. Maybe not. But if nothing else, no one would think to look for him here. He'd watched as things imploded in America, kept informed in that way he always had managed by people he still knew, and didn't look back. They'd made their beds, let them lie in them. He'd gotten out with his skin intact, and he wasn't going back to risk losing it, not for any of them, not after what they'd done.

Why save those who wouldn't save you, or who didn't truly want to be saved?

He bought a townhouse, settled into the anonymity of the city, moving into the rhythms of it, but found his feet tracing old paths past buildings that held nothing but ghosts overlay whatever had moved in and tried to oust him. God, but why he bothered, he didn't know. Maybe he should have gone to Australia, instead. That would have been new.

Still, slowly he found a place for himself, sort of. He found a pub he liked, and musicians to play with now and again, and caught up on theatre and film and television and books and music he had missed, and busied himself with acquainting himself with life in the 21st century, and time passed.

It was raining today, a cold rain where you wanted to curl up by the fire with a book and a whiskey and someone or something to pet, but since the cat was hiding under the bed, and Adam found himself down at the corner pub instead, nursing a pint at the bar, watching a football match and chatting with a couple of the locals who'd braved the weather instead. It was all so very normal, he had no idea what to do with himself, but he assured himself it was the waiting period, the calm before the storm. He'd come up with something else, some other plan, some other way to move forward.

He just needed to get his feet back under him first, and then everything would be fine. A sign would come along, and he'd know it, and then he'd be back.
changehistory: (A man in the shadows)
Adam was still in possibly the world's worst mood--which didn't, in general, bode well for the world--but he tried to stifle it, push it down, go on as if things were fine. Nathan wanted to spend time with him, which meant, at the least, that what he'd been doing these last few months hadn't been for nothing. He'd done this before, after all. Oh, not with so many people, or so many twisted up complications, but the family with the normal life, and fitting into society without the grandiose schemes...he'd done this before. Why it didn't fit now, why it left him unable to sleep and seething with a leashed fury now, he didn't know. Probably the last thirty years had something to do with it, but for all that he encouraged Claire to talk about her trauma and not keep it bottled up, he didn't have words for his own.

It would be so much easier if he didn't care. If he could just play them all like some well-tuned orchestra. He'd started down that course, startled at how easy it was, but somewhere along the way he'd found himself sucked in to things he'd never really had, things that went far beyond any shadow of a normal life, and now the whole lot of them seemed off message, and him with them and that couldn't be allowed.

He needed to regain control, of himself and of them, to be working toward something more than wedding bells and vacations, and today was the first step of that. The other night with Sylar had been...blowing off steam, he told himself, but not really practical for him beyond strengthening the bond with the boy which was always useful. This, though...today could be different, good, a step forward for himself. So long as Nathan didn't ask about Peter, they'd do just fine.

Tugging his wool coat a bit more snug around him in the morning chill, he rang the bell at Nathan's house, hoping he was ready. They had time to snag a coffee and walk to meet the realtor, and then it was on toward building a future for all of them. Or that's what Adam was hanging on to like his last thread of sanity, at least.
changehistory: ([Angela] BW)
Enough was enough. He was tired of watching them hurt each other. He was tired of standing back and trying to act like he was disinterested beyond being Claire's roommate and mentor. Nathan was his son. Claire was his granddaughter. They were the only blood relations he had in the fucking world, the only ones he'd had in centuries, and he was tired of seeing them hurt when they had a chance at something so much more.

He'd never asserted any authority with Claire, treating her like an adult, free to do as she pleased, and while he tried to guide her toward better decisions, he'd never laid down the law or rules at the house or anything else. He'd been there when she needed him, tried to show her she could trust him. But this time he'd let his annoyance and worry override that, and, half to his surprise, she'd listened.

Angela had arranged the Nathan side of things, and now he was pacing her living room, waiting for the younger generations to arrive. He wasn't quite certain what to say, but, well.

It was time someone took this family in hand, and if no one else was going to step up to bat to do it, then he damn well would. They were hurting, ripping apart at the seams, all of them, and he couldn't let it continue. He knew they both wanted to fix it, so hopefully there wouldn't be any difficulty, especially after his discussion with Nathan the other night. Hopefully that desire, with some sort of forcing them to face the issues and not retreating would be enough.

Somehow they had to get it right. They deserved that, instead of continuing to suffer for the mistakes of their elders. He had to find a way to make it right, no matter what it cost him.
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: (With Claire)
Claire was right, of course, in thinking that whatever she'd gone through had made him think of his years in the cells at the Company. He'd been their favorite guinea pig for a while, after all, and they could even justify it by saying what he'd nearly done made it only right that he "help" advance their knowledge of just what his blood could do. Then, he thought, they'd just done it for fun. For all she hadn't been held for 30 years, he was well aware of how much damage could be done in the time she had been held, especially by someone who delighted in inflicting pain and fear.

It was something he'd never wanted her to find out, and it was something none of the rest of them could truly fathom. For all Peter had their ability, no one had done that to him, and for all that Sylar had suffered at the Company's hands...he hadn't been able to heal then, not like they could. It was different, when they could break you down into tiny pieces and watch you put yourself back together and just do it again and again and again until you wished you couldn't, until your gift really was a curse.

He didn't talk about it either, not really. He alluded to it, flippantly, now and again, and he suspected they all knew--they'd seen enough they could guess what might have been done, but he didn't talk about it. What was there to say, really? It had happened. He'd survived. Hiro had buried him alive, and honestly, that had been as traumatic as any of the torture, and that was what woke him up in a cold sweat still more than the other nightmares, at least most nights. But he knew they'd broken him in ways he hadn't been broken before, and that all the pieces weren't back together and might never be. He was aware. You didn't go through something like that unchanged, and if three hundred years of life hadn't prepared him for it, then he was sure eighteen hadn't prepared her, and the relative spans of time it had gone on hardly mattered.

He wasn't sure what he had to offer her, beyond someone else who had been through it, who knew. And he wished to god she didn't know, because it wasn't something he'd ever wanted to have to share with another soul. But he did know that she was too young to have to bear it alone, and people were always saying talking about things helped, so. He grabbed them both a beer, because this wasn't something that should be talked about cold sober and who the hell cared if she was only eighteen--he'd been drinking beer at five as it was cleaner than the water--and knocked on the doorframe of her door instead of just wandering in, leaning there, watching her.

"So, shall we talk about it?"

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Adam Monroe

February 2014

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