Adam Monroe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
changehistory) wrote2008-05-16 03:13 pm
changehistory) wrote2008-05-16 03:13 pm
Entry tags:
[Whack] 017. Presence of Mind
[OOC: SPOILERS FOR SPN FINALE behind cut. Elle referred to is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
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.
He'd been in many wars, too many he sometimes thought, through the years, but none of them like this. Whatever he had expected, he found himself realizing that this was something beyond where his imagination had taken him before. He had fought for countries. He had fought for ideals. He had fought for money. But he had never fought for a soul. That the boy likely would have died if he'd released the virus hardly mattered. This wasn't life or death. This was heaven or hell, and no matter what he thought of religion or his own personal feud with the Almighty, willingly letting someone be carried off to the torment of the pit was not something he could stand by and do nothing about. It was a nice little mantra he'd found for himself, resonating and filling him with that sharpened feeling that came with the anticipation and focus. For some, battle was a frenzy; for others, it was terrifying and they found themselves tested beyond measure. For Adam it was a way of life, a calling, a place where he felt at home. Death was his shadow, and he let it follow him onto that field.
The first demon he met took him slightly aback with its eyes, but without focusing on that, he was grateful to find it appeared mostly human. If that was a problem for some, it was not for Adam. He'd battled men before, killed before, in battle and out, and the form of the creatures in front of him didn't matter in the least. They were the enemy; they had to be stopped.
He fought with his blade knowing that even if he couldn't kill the demon inside, he could at least stop its use of the body it had stolen to allow those performing the exorcisms to send it reeling back to hell. There were cries, screams, people falling. He took a few hits that should have been mortal, almost laughing at the look in their eyes when he didn't fall. They were looks he'd seen before, just before he'd struck a killing blow. The surprise always worked in his favor, and it was a tactic he'd found useful ever since White Beard's guard had run him through that night long ago. His blade sliced, and someone fell, then he found another, working with an easy rhythmic focus. His eyes flickered around the battlefield more than once, looking for Elle, looking for Hiro, making sure they still stood, still fought, didn't need him. He found himself smiling, enjoying the challenge, the movement, the way it all came back even after so long confined. A few tried to gang up on him, take him together, and found themselves cleaved in half at the waist as he muttered a prayer in Latin for the human souls they had taken.
But the battle shifted as he felt something brush past him, something he couldn't see, and he spun feeling a coldness settle in his stomach as he saw Dean fall. There was no way to get to him before the light flashed, and he had to turn away. And then, as suddenly as it had seemed to start, it was over. The demons left had retreated, nothing was touching Sam as he gathered Dean's body to him. Something twisted inside Adam, a memory overlaying, another body, another pair of brothers, and he pushed it back ruthlessly unwilling to shadow the moment further, turning from the scene to scan the battlefield once more. They had won by the numbers, perhaps, with demons sent scurrying back to Hell, but the creatures had taken Dean with them, which meant that, ultimately, they had lost. Emptiness spread out inside him at the notion, though truly, it was becoming a familiar one now. There was nothing he could do for the brothers. His blood could heal the body, perhaps, but it wouldn't bring back a soul taken by such a contract as Dean had entered. This wasn't a natural death that mere cellular regeneration would fix. It was a mystical bargain, and that was out of his depth, no matter how willing he was to ply his sword.
Scanning the battlefield, he saw Hiro first, still standing, still alive, and he felt a flicker of relief. His eyes slipped back to Sam, but the blonde head by his side wasn't Elle's familiar one, and as Sam held his brother, Adam saw her standing a distance away, staring at seemingly nothing, shock and rage mingling on her face in a way he knew far too well. She swayed, and he saw blood, and he moved without further thought across the bloody expanse of grass between them until he reached her side, one hand coming up to curl around her arm, heedless of any sparks she was generating, offering the only thing he had left as Sam carried his brother from the field.
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.
He'd been in many wars, too many he sometimes thought, through the years, but none of them like this. Whatever he had expected, he found himself realizing that this was something beyond where his imagination had taken him before. He had fought for countries. He had fought for ideals. He had fought for money. But he had never fought for a soul. That the boy likely would have died if he'd released the virus hardly mattered. This wasn't life or death. This was heaven or hell, and no matter what he thought of religion or his own personal feud with the Almighty, willingly letting someone be carried off to the torment of the pit was not something he could stand by and do nothing about. It was a nice little mantra he'd found for himself, resonating and filling him with that sharpened feeling that came with the anticipation and focus. For some, battle was a frenzy; for others, it was terrifying and they found themselves tested beyond measure. For Adam it was a way of life, a calling, a place where he felt at home. Death was his shadow, and he let it follow him onto that field.
The first demon he met took him slightly aback with its eyes, but without focusing on that, he was grateful to find it appeared mostly human. If that was a problem for some, it was not for Adam. He'd battled men before, killed before, in battle and out, and the form of the creatures in front of him didn't matter in the least. They were the enemy; they had to be stopped.
He fought with his blade knowing that even if he couldn't kill the demon inside, he could at least stop its use of the body it had stolen to allow those performing the exorcisms to send it reeling back to hell. There were cries, screams, people falling. He took a few hits that should have been mortal, almost laughing at the look in their eyes when he didn't fall. They were looks he'd seen before, just before he'd struck a killing blow. The surprise always worked in his favor, and it was a tactic he'd found useful ever since White Beard's guard had run him through that night long ago. His blade sliced, and someone fell, then he found another, working with an easy rhythmic focus. His eyes flickered around the battlefield more than once, looking for Elle, looking for Hiro, making sure they still stood, still fought, didn't need him. He found himself smiling, enjoying the challenge, the movement, the way it all came back even after so long confined. A few tried to gang up on him, take him together, and found themselves cleaved in half at the waist as he muttered a prayer in Latin for the human souls they had taken.
But the battle shifted as he felt something brush past him, something he couldn't see, and he spun feeling a coldness settle in his stomach as he saw Dean fall. There was no way to get to him before the light flashed, and he had to turn away. And then, as suddenly as it had seemed to start, it was over. The demons left had retreated, nothing was touching Sam as he gathered Dean's body to him. Something twisted inside Adam, a memory overlaying, another body, another pair of brothers, and he pushed it back ruthlessly unwilling to shadow the moment further, turning from the scene to scan the battlefield once more. They had won by the numbers, perhaps, with demons sent scurrying back to Hell, but the creatures had taken Dean with them, which meant that, ultimately, they had lost. Emptiness spread out inside him at the notion, though truly, it was becoming a familiar one now. There was nothing he could do for the brothers. His blood could heal the body, perhaps, but it wouldn't bring back a soul taken by such a contract as Dean had entered. This wasn't a natural death that mere cellular regeneration would fix. It was a mystical bargain, and that was out of his depth, no matter how willing he was to ply his sword.
Scanning the battlefield, he saw Hiro first, still standing, still alive, and he felt a flicker of relief. His eyes slipped back to Sam, but the blonde head by his side wasn't Elle's familiar one, and as Sam held his brother, Adam saw her standing a distance away, staring at seemingly nothing, shock and rage mingling on her face in a way he knew far too well. She swayed, and he saw blood, and he moved without further thought across the bloody expanse of grass between them until he reached her side, one hand coming up to curl around her arm, heedless of any sparks she was generating, offering the only thing he had left as Sam carried his brother from the field.