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[Mad] November 2.1.2 - Henry Ford Quote
Jan. 5th, 2010 12:14 pm[ooc: No particular Peter-muse implied. Adam just insisted on this being written. If your Peter would like to be involved in a "where does this go from here" or spinning AU from here, let me know. Angela is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
oncewasadreamer and mine to use for purposes of this. Also, please to be excusing any mistakes in the Italian, as I've relied on phrase books and Babelfish...>.>]
"Life is a series of experiences, each one of which makes us bigger, even though it is hard to realize this. For the world was built to develop character, and we must learn that the setbacks and griefs which we endure help us in our marching onward."
For all intents and purposes, Adam Monroe had died, like Takezo Kensei and Richard Sanders and so many other aliases the man sipping a glass of wine in a small tavern in Portoferraio had borne before him. He preferred it that way. After nearly fifty years and disaster after disaster, it was time. Time to move on, time to disappear, time to be someone else, time to come up with some new plan. What had started as a dream, had grown into an idea through the fall of 1960 and the spring of 1961, and matured into a plan through the rest of the 60s...he had to finally acknowledge it had failed. The Company, his disciples, his grand new world order. Perhaps he'd moved too quickly, should have bided his time, let them come to him more slowly, guided the previous generation in the raising of this one. If he'd had a hand in it, in the rearing of a generation of specials from birth, maybe things would have gone differently. Then again, he thought he'd caught this one young enough, vulnerable enough to shape them, and he had in some ways, but not enough.
Whatever the reasons, whatever might have been done better, he let it go now. It was done. He let Adam die, let them all believe it, and walked away. A new name, a new home, a new life. He'd done it so many times before, it was routine, though he didn't like the way it tugged at him, like ripping off a skin he wasn't ready to shed. Still, the island was beautiful, and he settled into its rhythm easily enough, adopting an Irish accent, buying a small house, getting himself a job helping out on one of the fishing boats when the owner's son went off to college. He didn't need the money, but it gave him an entrance into the community that being a rich expatriate wouldn't have, and the simple work let him be out on the water again, in the sun and warm air, working so he didn't have to spend his time thinking. There was even a girl, not one of them, but just a girl, sweet and sassy and with a smile on her lips who kept him from thinking at night when he was most prone to brood.
He probably should have gone somewhere other than Italy, but there was some element of masochism he couldn't break.
The masochistic impulse made him keep one tie, one contact who sent him news. He knew when Pinehurst burned, knew about the body found inside. He almost sent flowers to the twice-widow, but stifled the impulse, reminding himself he was dead. He watched the news, saw Senator Petrelli take his place in politics, rising up. He heard his words with a chill down his spine, the echo in them ringing out across time to quell any sense of pride he might otherwise allowed himself to indulge in.
He knew when Peter went on the wanted list. Knew Angela was safe, and when she wasn't, and almost reached out again, to tell her to get herself and her younger son out, to offer her sanctuary, but Peter wouldn't run, and she wouldn't leave Nathan. He knew that without asking, and best, still, if they thought him dead. Best not to go back. What could he do, anyway, but end up back in a cell, and he'd spent too long in those these last three decades.
He knew when things went back to normal, though not how, and he let himself breathe a sigh of relief, hoping now he could truly let them go, and for a while he was able to. Able to bury himself in his new life and let them get on with theirs however they were.
( Cut for spoilers for 4x13 & 4x14 )
oncewasadreamer and mine to use for purposes of this. Also, please to be excusing any mistakes in the Italian, as I've relied on phrase books and Babelfish...>.>]"Life is a series of experiences, each one of which makes us bigger, even though it is hard to realize this. For the world was built to develop character, and we must learn that the setbacks and griefs which we endure help us in our marching onward."
For all intents and purposes, Adam Monroe had died, like Takezo Kensei and Richard Sanders and so many other aliases the man sipping a glass of wine in a small tavern in Portoferraio had borne before him. He preferred it that way. After nearly fifty years and disaster after disaster, it was time. Time to move on, time to disappear, time to be someone else, time to come up with some new plan. What had started as a dream, had grown into an idea through the fall of 1960 and the spring of 1961, and matured into a plan through the rest of the 60s...he had to finally acknowledge it had failed. The Company, his disciples, his grand new world order. Perhaps he'd moved too quickly, should have bided his time, let them come to him more slowly, guided the previous generation in the raising of this one. If he'd had a hand in it, in the rearing of a generation of specials from birth, maybe things would have gone differently. Then again, he thought he'd caught this one young enough, vulnerable enough to shape them, and he had in some ways, but not enough.
Whatever the reasons, whatever might have been done better, he let it go now. It was done. He let Adam die, let them all believe it, and walked away. A new name, a new home, a new life. He'd done it so many times before, it was routine, though he didn't like the way it tugged at him, like ripping off a skin he wasn't ready to shed. Still, the island was beautiful, and he settled into its rhythm easily enough, adopting an Irish accent, buying a small house, getting himself a job helping out on one of the fishing boats when the owner's son went off to college. He didn't need the money, but it gave him an entrance into the community that being a rich expatriate wouldn't have, and the simple work let him be out on the water again, in the sun and warm air, working so he didn't have to spend his time thinking. There was even a girl, not one of them, but just a girl, sweet and sassy and with a smile on her lips who kept him from thinking at night when he was most prone to brood.
He probably should have gone somewhere other than Italy, but there was some element of masochism he couldn't break.
The masochistic impulse made him keep one tie, one contact who sent him news. He knew when Pinehurst burned, knew about the body found inside. He almost sent flowers to the twice-widow, but stifled the impulse, reminding himself he was dead. He watched the news, saw Senator Petrelli take his place in politics, rising up. He heard his words with a chill down his spine, the echo in them ringing out across time to quell any sense of pride he might otherwise allowed himself to indulge in.
He knew when Peter went on the wanted list. Knew Angela was safe, and when she wasn't, and almost reached out again, to tell her to get herself and her younger son out, to offer her sanctuary, but Peter wouldn't run, and she wouldn't leave Nathan. He knew that without asking, and best, still, if they thought him dead. Best not to go back. What could he do, anyway, but end up back in a cell, and he'd spent too long in those these last three decades.
He knew when things went back to normal, though not how, and he let himself breathe a sigh of relief, hoping now he could truly let them go, and for a while he was able to. Able to bury himself in his new life and let them get on with theirs however they were.
( Cut for spoilers for 4x13 & 4x14 )
