Adam Monroe

The wooden desk was mahogany, and well polished under the heels of his shoes which were nonchalantly propped up on its shiny surface. He noted the color of it almost absently, head tilting to study the reflection of the soft overhead lights. Some well meaning servant had likely turned it on so her master wouldn't come in out of the dark to find more of it waiting for him. The problem with light was, of course, that where it existed, pushing back the darkness with intrepid persistence, it also created shadows. They stretched through the house, dark, ominous, lurking in corners and spilling out across hallways. Death haunted them, prowling with restless anticipation that Adam felt in his core, slipping along his nerves with sensual promise.

Revenge, however, was only as sweet as your ability to carry it out, and nothing, nothing, was worth ending up on that cold steel table, chained and helpless while someone played his little games. Mild-mannered accountant-type, his ass. Adam knew what that man was capable of. He'd felt his skin change its very composition, cold creeping up over him more sharply than anything he'd ever felt in the chill in the air. This was metal, sliding into him, becoming him, and he had screamed. Even the healing was agony, and it had been one of the first times he had felt fear in centuries.

Such an insult had to be repaid. He had the right, by anyone's logic, to conduct this execution. Of all the ills done, the wrongs wrought, no one had more right to this than he did. It was not murder, not this time. Arguably, some of the others had been. Harry. Carlos. Paula. Their crimes had been ones of silence, of acquiescence, punishable, yes, but perhaps not by death. But not this one, not this death, not these screams he could almost feel filling the shadows.

This wasn't murder. This was justice.

Such was the tenor of his thoughts, curling around and around his brain. He strained to hear anything, and was met with only silence. It made him smile, made him shiver, even, tension curling through him, breath quickening, and when, finally, he did hear the sound of a door opening, he had to bite his lower lip to stop the soft anticipatory moan he wanted to release. His heart was racing. His palms felt damp. His whole body was tense, tight, hard. Wanting.

And then there he stood, bald head catching the light, glasses reflecting the shine of the lamp so that Adam could only catch the softest flare of wariness in them as he stopped short in the doorway and stared at the blond man lounging in his desk chair.

"Adam."

"Bob."

"You decided to come yourself?"

"Maury was a mistake."

"I have security."

"They have been dealt with."

The man in the doorway moved in to the room, out of the shadows, as if that would save him. The shadows moved behind him, silent as the reaper, and Adam wondered if Bob felt that faint shiver ghost along his spine. Adam did, his pulse leaping again, eyes glinting with a cruel, cold madness that was a new development in the last few decades, courtesy of the walking corpse in front of him.

"I heard you were turning over a new leaf. That's why we've left you alone."

"You left me alone because you were afraid of Peter," Adam returned mockingly. "But you shouldn't be afraid of Peter, Bob. He's a good boy. He's a hero. He's not like you and me."

Shaking his head, Bob gave him a mournful look and reached for his cell phone. "You shouldn't have come here, Adam. We might have been willing to let you go, if you'd just stayed in line..."

It had been too long. He had been too good. Shaken by defeat, he had curled up in on himself, licking his wounds. But now he had a shiny new toy, a pretty new alliance. More importantly he had what no one else would have been willing to give him.

He had back up.

The cell phone flew across the room, ripped from Bob's fingers before he could press send. Long, graceful, deadly fingers emerged from the shadows, curling lightly around Bob's shoulder, and Adam's heart skipped again as he saw Bob's eyes widen, and the first real flicker of terror lit them. Good. Adam liked terror. He swung his feet off of the desk onto the floor and leaned forward, elbows settling on the shiny dark wood surface, and the shadows cast by the lamp danced across his face as he smiled.

"I believe you're acquainted with my new friend?"

Bob turned his head slowly, glancing over his shoulder.

Sylar smiled.

And Adam laughed.


[ooc: Sylar is heroslayer, and used with permission. After this and before the crack of the power high giddiness after. Bob is effectively an NPC, and not any Bob player, though this will be a "Bob is dead" 'verse for RP with Sylar, Adam and Mohinder, at least.]