Chapter Twenty-One
"War Games"
It was afternoon by the time Peter finished his lesson with Hiro, the cold having chapped his cheeks raw. After Hiro's initial teachings, they'd moved on to actual combat. Though painful at first, such an exercise proved to be really rewarding in the end. Towards the final few minutes of the sword lesson, Hiro reluctantly allowed superpowers to come into play.
"I don't think that was really fair," Hiro commented as they shuffled back into Van's house. "Next time, remind me not to let you use your advantages."
"Lighten up, Jackie Chan," Peter protested, teasing. "Flying with a sword is my specialty."
"It's not meant to be fun, Peter." Hiro had stopped walking, his face much sterner. Peter's jovial expression dropped like an avalanche. "I'm pleased that you enjoy it, but don't forget your priorities."
"Don't worry," Peter assured him, now entirely sober. "I've got it."
Hiro bowed his head and Peter respectfully bowed back, before switching to American mode and clapping the samurai on his shoulder.
"Anyway, you can stop time. So you've got no right to talk about fairness."
Hiro chuckled as they headed into the living room, both prepared to get out of their boots and parkas. But neither one expected was all four of their comrades waiting, terrified stares lacing each face.
Peter was the first one to catch his friends' askew expressions. He gaped a bit, his gaze scanning from timid Niki, to stiff Sylar, to an almost weepy-looking Claire. Adam seemed firm and triumphant.
"Hey, guys…" he slowly began. "What's going on?"
Hiro's hand gripped him on the shoulder, and the ninja moved closer to his side. Peter's empathy throbbed like a nervous heartbeat, which seemed like a pretty apt analogy, considering the circumstances.
Niki spoke quietly. "What were you doing out there?"
Peter had a hard time finding his voice even with his innocence. He hadn't been doing anything wrong. The intentions were totally noble. Hiro taught him to fight their enemy, not become it.
But when he opened his mouth to say so, all that came out where choked noises and stammered fragments of excuses.
Sylar leaned and whispered something in Niki's ear, which Peter was too frazzled to hear. However, whatever secret words escaped from Sylar's lips made the single mother's eyes go wide. She suddenly grabbed onto the amnesiac's hands and pulled herself closer to him, staring upon Peter in shock and fear.
"What's wrong?" Peter demanded weakly. "I didn't…I haven't done anything."
Adam stepped forward, arms crossed over his broad chest. One blonde eyebrow was cruelly arched.
"I'm afraid your girlfriend has spilled the beans on you and your dream, Peter. Or shall I say, War?"
Peter's jaw dropped in disbelief. He locked eyes with Claire, who shook her head resolutely at the slander. She begged him without words to believe her, not Adam. That she could never do such a thing.
"What are you talking about?!" Claire shrieked, on her feet. Sylar had to hold her back from absolutely mauling Adam. "I haven't said anything! I don't even know why you called us all in here!"
"Oh, spare us the lovers' drama," the British man yawned. "We all know about dear Peter's nightmare anyway, don't we? The disturbing prophecy where he's slaughtering all of us? Heroic, isn't it? Especially seeing as his dreams are known to predict the future. That he told me from his own tongue."
"How do you…" Peter licked his lips, looking once again to his frantic lover. No, she couldn't have. He refused to believe it. "How do you know about that?"
"Ah, so you admit it?" When Adam tilted his head expectantly, Peter's hands balled into fists.
"Don't tell him anything, Peter!" Claire screamed, still writhing in Sylar's stronghold. At that, Peter was pretty convinced that she hadn't told Adam about the dream. But the only other people who knew were Hiro and Sylar, and Hiro was with him the whole time…
Peter nearly crumpled in heartache. Petey lurked beside him, hand on Peter's left shoulder. The shadow kept his master in check, standing resolute and glaring upon their mutual father.
The thought of Claire betraying him was harsh, yes. But the idea that Sylar ratted him out…that was… Peter's breath became shallow. The way his brother was so quiet and scared-looking, and how he was holding Claire back, how he had whispered something appalling to Niki…
"Sylar," Peter called out feebly, shaking his head at his Gemini, the most loyal friend he'd ever had. What would posses his brother to do this? Certainly Sylar wouldn't hate him in secret! "You didn't…tell me you didn't do it."
Sylar's lips parted and his eyes crinkled, sort of bewildered. Peter's heart found a way to beat again in that single expression of perplexity. Peter knew when Sylar genuinely showed an emotion, and when he was faking, and right then was a perfect example of true confusion.
Thus, if Sylar had no idea what he was talking about, if that puppyish face of naïve virtue was true, then Peter could rest mostly assured. No, Adam must have found out another way. Eavesdropped maybe, and then played to his brother's insecurities. If Adam had been manipulating their entire group all along, Peter couldn't blame Sylar for falling again. Adam's silver tongue was nearly irresistible.
"Take your suspicions somewhere else, Kensei," the samurai gruffly stated. "Peter is a good leader, an even better man. He is most definitely innocent."
"Innocent? So innocent that he's all of a sudden had the urge to pick up fencing?" Adam quipped. "Funny. A sword. That's the symbol of War, isn't it?"
Peter shook with rage, far worse than when Adam ruthlessly shot Van through the skull. His teeth were gritted as he spat out, "You conniving son of a bitch…"
Adam brushed the insult off without even batting an eye. "And what's with all the secrets? You're supposed to be our ally, Peter. You know you can trust us. If you've been having these dreams for some time, you should have warned us. Maybe then we could actually believe there was some good in you."
That was the final straw. Even Hiro's body, standing as a human barrier, couldn't prevent Peter from positively lunging at his father. The almost animalisticattack sent both of them tumbling to the ground.
"Peter!" Claire cried, taking a couple paces over to the fighting men. Peter was on top, landing punch after punch on his father's face, all the bruises rapidly rehealing. Claire and Hiro managed to peel the furious mimic off of his devious relative, while Niki and Sylar stood huddled and neutral off to the side. Adam was on the ground still, wiping blood off the corner of his mouth. Peter was doing the same with his nose, which Adam roughly cracked with a harsh clout to the face.
Adam leapt up with quick maneuverability. And before anyone saw it coming, he had pulled a gun from the back seam of his slacks, aiming it at Peter's chest.
Sylar took a breath and outstretched his fingers, prepared to mentally push the revolver out of this father's hand. But Peter raised a palm as well, canceling out his brother's power. There was something curiously tempting about that gun barrel. Adam intended to use it to prove a point, but maybe Peter could make the same stunt work to his advantage.
"This gun is loaded with holy water bullets, Peter," Adam superfluously explained. "My idea. If I shoot you, and you're who we think you are…you will die instantly."
The click of another gun sounded behind them. Claire had an equally as lethal weapon perched in her own hands, pointed directly at Adam Monroe.
"Ditto," she growled, knuckle resting confidently over the trigger.
Everyone in the room could see Adam's face whiten. The status quo had changed. Especially when Peter abruptly twitched his fingers, ripping the gun out of his lover's hands and catching it in mid-air with his own. Claire gasped, fingers holding onto nothing but air now, eyes widening towards her impulsive Peter.
He pointed the gun at Adam, two men locked in a circular duel. Anyone there who really knew Peter recognized how desperate a situation this was, how much rage truly boiled under his empathetic skin. Peter hated firearms, and now that he had one so effortlessly pointed at the heart of his own father…
Claire's countenance had gone from confident to horrified within seconds. She hated the lines of odium which lined Peter's soft face. He wasn't meant tolook that angry, and his ruthlessness in that moment nearly made her believe Adam's theory. What if, what if, Peter was the enemy they needed to be fighting?
But thank the heavens- when Peter caught a glimpse of Claire in his side vision, his features blurred with a layer of tenderness. His heart tied in a knot when he saw her so shocked, stricken. She was afraid, of him! Such a loathsome emotion was far worse than her not wanting to do with him at all.
A decision was made with a nanosecond of nerve transfer. He lowered his gun and tossed it across the room where it landed on the foyer of the unlit fireplace. Chaos stilled in expectation, all eyes back on Adam, waiting for his countermove. Monroe glanced to each and every one of his surly comrades before throwing his own weapon down too. As soon as the pistols were discarded, every bystander let out a heavy sigh of relief, while Adam and Peter remained stone-faced.
A pregnant silence lingered in the air, suffocating Peter from the inside out. He managed to shoot an apologetic gaze towards Claire before storming up the grand staircase, headed to his makeshift bedroom.
Claire and Sylar decided to run after him in tandem, calling his name along the way. Yet Peter made no move to stop or even acknowledge their presence. Not even when they were a few meters behind him and he slipped into his bedroom. Claire barely wrangled her fingers from the entrance frame before he viciously closed the door in their faces with a noisy blam.
Childish, Claire sort of thought, before considering it on such a bigger level. It really wasn't, no. Not juvenile. What Peter had just been accused of was unbelievably cruel. If she had been in his shoes, she wouldn't know who to trust either. In fact, she would have simply wanted to be alone.
"It's okay," Claire sighed after remembering that Sylar still loomed beside her. She pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the door. "He just needs some time. He'll come out soon."
"Right," Sylar nodded. He was breathing heavily, as was she. Stress had wrung the hell out of them both in that showdown. God. In all the days their group had traveled together, with all the topsy turvy romances, with all the atrophy and empty lust, nothing that full of viciousness had occurred.
As sort of a consolation trophy, Petey phased through the door, standing in front of Sylar and Claire with its head hung in depression. Claire approached the shadow sympathetically, taking one hand in hers and curving into the dark contours of its body. Sylar awkwardly set his large palm on Petey's shoulder, brotherly and all, even though he'd never really interacted with his twin's soul like Claire had.
Still, even with his lack of shadow trivia, he was aware of the rarity of the next event. Because, for the first time ever, Petey actually made a sound. Up till then, Claire hadn't even realized he was capable of it.
The shadow raised its face towards the vaulted ceiling and let out a horrible cry, a great and terrible moan like nothing either Sylar or Claire had heard before. A husky wail of banshee with smoker's lung. Claire painfully imagined a stern arithmetic teacher running her red nails down the inside of Petey's throat.
And it was that howl, instead of any other slander or gunpowder or rugged accusation in the past ten minutes…that was what made tears finally spill from Claire's mournful grey eyes.
xxx
Peter dreams of snow once more, and of an icy marble floor.
He's runningthrough the front atrium of St. Petersburg's Palace. A gust of cold breeze hits him when the entrance doors open inwardly, untouched and unstimulated. He imagines gladiator horns as his hair is blown back as the cold sword in his right hand fogs up with the change in degrees.
He stops, head craned, watching the doors open by their own accord. Listens to the roar of battle waiting for him. His blood shoots up a couple degrees with excitement. Peter vibrates with happy tension, his teeth shining as an impossibly large grin stretches across his face.
He's destroyed two fools with two different weapons over the past week. He's injured the enigmatic one, the one who is next. And as for the woman- she's hot, but she's flaky. He can take care of her with one quick thrust, like he always does. Though this thrust would be a bit different than the one he's used to giving her…and far less pleasurable on her part.
"Wait up!" screetches a voice from behind. Speak of the devil! Once again, she's totally broken his mood.
He turns his head, irritated, and sees Elle Bishop with an orange-tuffed fox trailing after her.
The part of Peter that is linked to reality cocks a quizzical eyebrow. Wait…Elle? Adam's Elle? What in God's name is she doing out here? Especially dressed in nothing but a red short-sleeved jumpsuit. Does she have no gauge of the outdoor temperature?
The cold doesn't seem to bother her as she steps up to flank Peter, the bloodbath opened in front of them like a movie screen. She links her arm excitably with his, presses an icy kiss to his cheek, and nudges him a little with her hip. Peter can feel something brush near his leg, and sees a sly length of amber fur sitting obediently at his feet. Her fox- the perky animal from his previous nightmare.
He wonders why and what and who.
"You were gonna do this without me?" she pouts, eyes cutting sharper than the sword in Peter's hand. He frowns. Yeah, he's going to do this alone, because he really doesn't need her to do a man's job…
"Ooh," Elle realizes, removing herself from his touch and gaping. She's on to him. "You naughty boy."
Peter's halfway through an eyeroll when he feels the sword being wrangled from his fingers. Elle has taken it, holding it up experimentally towards the natural grey light.
"Hey!" Peter barks along with the dog, taking a step closer, eyes locked on the blade. But now that the misty outer layer has faded, and now that he actually stares into the metal rather than onto it.
Oh…my…God…
The man looking back in his reflection, the man looking back in the sword…he is not Peter Petrelli. He has straw-colored hair, alabaster skin, and thin, quirky lips that are perfectly matched with Elle's for kissing.
Then, the sword swiftly disappears from the air. And before Peter has a chance to wonder where the man in the mirror went, he suddenly has the blade sticking between his ribs.
Elle grins toothily, her hand warmed by the waterfall of blood pouring from his chest. Peter chokes and grabs her as he's hopelessly falling to his knees. Damn gravity. Damn sword. And damn Elle! Damn the minx who has winded him up like a jack-in-the-box, ready to spring at her demand.
She slips out of his weak grasp as though coated with oil, but one of her manicured hands still curves delicately around the leather hilt of the sword as she takes a step back. Tying them together, just enough.
With his last breath Peter, the most Peter-ish part inside of this injured, bi-polar body, looks down at the clear steel once again. He's again checking out a reflection that is not his own. Yet this astonished face painted in metal is not foreign either.
Blood runs down to the ridge of the sword, streaking the face of Adam Monroe like a waterfall of molasses over a pane of glass. And then everything fades to black with the pained bawl of an orange fox.
xxx
Peter awoke to screams, and for once, they weren't his own.
He blearily glanced at the digital clock, which read about midnight. Most of their crew was usually up pretty late, so he wouldn't have been surprised if someone (most likely Sylar) was around, watching something weird on TV…something perhaps violent…
But as his mind crept further into consciousness, he became aware of two things. One, that the screams coming from outside his door were certainly real. And, that in his dream, he had become Adam Monroe.
No. Not 'become.' He'd been Adam all along. Every dream that took place on the Russian rink was from Adam's perspective, not Peter's! That's why Orson talked to him like they knew each other.
That's why Peter had talked to himself. That's why Claire so brutally said that he wasn't who she thought…
…and that's why he carried a sword and slaughtered the lot of them.
And then everything occurred to Peter at once, like a match had been ignited in his head. Adam was War. The vicious and ruthless creature who'd been trying to turn them all against each other, who'd been trying to kill off all the other Horsemen so he himself could conquer all. Of course, he'd need Peter and the others to lead him from place to place via precognition and Hiro's teleportation powers. It was easier just to tag along with a bunch of do-gooders than to attempt killing Edmund, Orson, and Leelee by himself.
Peter could recall it now. Who had been the one to stab Leelee? Adam. Who had been the one to fire at Edmund? Adam. And who had been the only one of them to react when Orson appeared, the only one who actually pulled the trigger?
The empath immediately ripped the covers off his legs and stumbled from the bed, not even noticing that he wore nothing but boxers. The surrealness of this night made him feel like he had hopped from one dream to another, but the racing of his heart convinced him that this time it was very, very real.
Peter crashed through his bedroom door and rushed down the stairs, trying to ignore the bloody footprints that ran parallel to his strides. He tried to direct himself towards the screams but terror surrounded him in all directions. Somewhere to the left, Niki was yelling Sylar's name- whether in begging for mercy or as a plea for help, Peter couldn't decipher. To the right, someone was yelling his name. And on the ground, dying and pale, Hiro Nakamura wailed for his sister.
"Kimi…"
Peter gasped, skidding towards his friend and collapsing at Hiro's side. "Hiro! Oh God…no, Hiro…"
Multiple gunshot wounds dressed the samurai's chest, but Hiro was visibly trying to keep his breathing even, and the pain off his face. And despite his deliriousness concerning his sibling, his eyes shined with recognition when he caught sight of Peter's concerned face hovering above him.
"P…Peter…" Nakamura sputtered. Peter shook his head in denial, eyes stinging, hand roaming over Hiro's injured chest. He had to touch the wounds just to make sure they were real. And indeed, the liquid that pooled underneath his fingernails was warm and touchable and made him want to vomit.
"Hiro," the empath moaned, pulling the ninja into his arms. "Hang in there, okay?"
"Tell Kimiko…I…love…"
"No, no, no, no! Don't do this! You're gonna be fine!"
But Peter Petrelli, demi-god of the new world, still was not strong enough to stop death. Hiro slumped in his arms as the life left his eyes, four-hundred year old katana still clutched in his unyielding grip.
Peter would have stayed, but a gunshot whizzed over his head from an unknown assailant, just grazing his black hair. He reluctantly abandoned his friend's side with a rolling lunge, ducking behind a hallway corner. Peter held his breath, and taking one last look at the body of his best friend, he began sprinting in a straight shot down the opposite corridor.
Now he wished he was back in nightmareland. Because despite the horror of those dreams, and the dread they always bestowed upon his chest, he could always wake up the next morning and find his friends waiting with open arms. But this, this was no fantasy. He and his comrades were actually in danger, dying even. And there was no waking up and seeing that it was all better.
Such a thought reminded him of his dream though, the dream where he'd turned into Adam. Was the immortal responsible for this, or was it coincidence? Was it Orson? Random robbers attacking a decadent mansion without mercy? So many questions, but all he knew how to do at this point was how to run away.
"Peter! Oh!"
Something blonde slammed into him not far down the hall, and he soon recognized it as Claire. Yes, Claire, hair matted, face streaked with tears, and clothes dotted with splatters of blood. His Claire, a tough but innocent girl trapped in the midst of chaos. She must have been the one calling his name earlier, the distant and mysterious voice in distress. Despite the frantic nature of their situation, he couldn't help but be a little humbled.
He forced her to look at him, cupped her face in his dirty palms, damming her weeping. Her hands covered his, and Peter frantically looked around for the source of her terror.
"Claire! Shh, I'm here. I'm here. What's going on?" Hiro hadn't been lucid, but maybe he could get some answers from Claire.
She opened her mouth and weakly moaned, "Adam-."
And then a gunshot straight to the back of her skull severed the words.
She slumped, lifeless and empty-eyed in Peter's rigid arms. He gaped in horror and screamed her name, shaking her body, his chills becoming hers. No, not again…she could not die in his arms again, not after all they'd been through, and after all they'd gotten back…
And when Peter looked over Claire's shoulder, his own eyes clouded with tears. The bastard that had been her last word, the bastard who he called a father, stood at the end of the hall with a smoking gun.
"Sorry, Peter," Adam piped, lowering the pistol to make his own offspring his next victim. "It's nothing personal. Just…what does your brother call it? An evolutionary imperative?"
The second gunshot went off in slow motion, smoke exploding around the bullet like a softly blooming flower. Peter's eyes were tightly shut as he nervously thought of Hiro- his good friend, not the corpse in the entrance hall.
By the grace of God, his plan succeeded. The next time Peter opened his eyes, he was in the upstairs bathroom, Claire still cradled in his arms. He moistened his lips and locked the door with a twist of telekinesis, now given a moment of solace to take in everything he'd just seen.
Part of him knew he should be weeping. His best friend was dead. The love of his life lay departed in his arms, and could hopefully be revived. The status of his dear brother and Niki were unknown, but judging from all he'd seen and heard in the last day, Peter wasn't even sure he could trust Sylar anymore.
And Peter hadn't been able to warn them until too late. Why hadn't he been able to see it before? That in his dreams, it was not him killing all his friends on the ice- it was Adam. Their temporary leader and the man they trusted with their lives and the fate of the world.
Peter wanted to curse them all, and himself, for such naivety. But really, how could they have known? The circumstances that they met Adam under weren't malicious. He'd saved Micah's life, as was his job. He happened to be related to them, another positive. How could anyone have suspected that Adam Monroe, the miracle doctor of Frisco and the alienated father of Peter and Sylar, could be the missing Horseman in their puzzle of Armageddon?
The empath sniffed and lifted Claire up, going to sit on the lip of the bath. He set her body down inside the tub so the blood would have somewhere to collect. Peter leaned closer and turned her head gently, inspecting the bullet wound in the back of her head. It was deep, but if he could find a pair of tweezers in the medicine cabinet, he could pull it out and bring her back. That was the bitchy thing about head injuries, even with projectiles- they totally paused the healing system. Peter or Claire could get shot in the chest and the slug would automatically be ejected from the body. But getting shot in the head required an external source to remove the offending bullet.
Peter set Claire's head back into a normal position and covered her thousand-yard stare with a wave of his hand. He nostalgically brushed back a lock of her hair before rising from the edge of the tub, headed towards the cabinet. Van said his mother lived here to, so there was bound to be-
Four swift bullets ripped through the wooden door, cascading Peter with splinters of wood and metal shrapnel. He cried out and ducked, flattening himself on the ground to avoid the continuing stream of firing. Daring a glimpse over his shoulder, he spotted over a dozen smoking holes buried into the sheetrock.
Needless to say, Adam had found them again.
"You know, cockroaches are a funny thing," slurred a languid British accent from behind the tattered door. "The more and more they get away, the more and more you can't wait to kill them."
Alright, Peter thought bitterly. No more mister nice guy.
He quickly jumped to his feet and pulled the shower curtain, partially masking Claire from view. Adam pushed his way through the remnants of the door, pistol still raised, eyes still dancing with sapphire madness.
"How did Nicholson put it?" Adam mused, thrusting an arm violently into the bathroom. "Here's Johnny?"
Peter glared and thrust a hand forward, spraying his father with a hailstorm of ice. Adam yelped and was tossed back from the door, hollering at the frostbite eating his skin. Such a blast of raw power had unhinged the door completely, leaving nothing between Adam and his furious son but malice.
Monroe, without hesitation as all villains do, raised his gun yet again and quickly clipped off three bullets towards Peter. Two made their mark, hitting the empath in his left breast and throwing him into the towel rack. Peter yelled in frustration and agony, plunging his fingers into the wounds without even thinking about it, willing the projectiles to get out quicker.
Adam sauntered into the bathroom haphazardly, regeneration and body heat having already melted Peter's last attack. Peter pulled himself to his feet as one of the slugs finally poked out of his flesh, with the other one not far behind. He was still too weak to lunge though, and not quite in the position to use a power.
Well…except one he often overlooked.
The next time Adam, coward that he was, raised his weapon while Peter was down, a shadowy figure ripped the pistol from the immortal's hand. Adam blinked and stared down at his suddenly empty fist.
How had Peter…?
The answer came in the form of Petey, the silhouetted soul which packed a lot more punch than an opaque absence of light ought to. It shoved Adam against the sink, hand clutching the British man's throat. Adam's jaw dropped wide as he choked, but the bigger problem was the titanium barrel now digging into his chest.
Peter the human had healed from his own gunshot wounds, now flanking his featureless twin. The shadow had passed Peter the gun, which he now had pressed right between Adam's ribs, pointing straight up in a diagonal angle towards the man's indestructible heart.
"I know what you mean about cockroaches," Peter muttered, encouraging his shadow to tighten the grip on theimmortal man's throat. "They never can seem to die."
Adam closed his eyes in preparation for yet another death, but was surprised to find the metal against his chest and the shadow holding his throat both abruptly disappear. He peeked open an eyelid and got one glimpse of Peter, before a super-strengthed fist came right at his face.
Adam yelled in pain, feeling Peter's punch and the secondhand contact of the sink smashing into this jaw. Before he even had a chance to recover, he was being pulled by the collar again, punched and beaten within an inch of his never-ending life. Peter had never been this ruthless in his life, not since he'd performed the same rough treatment on Sylar at Kirby Plaza.
"I saw you in my dreams!" Peter finally unleashed, shoving the injured man backwards. Adam caught himself on the sink, leaning hunched over the ceramic rim of the vanity, forehead pressing onto the faucet. "I know what you are, Adam!"
Adam tried to turn over, foolishly revealing his torso. And that's when the dominos were finally pushed. Two loud bangs, the last two in the cartridge, tearing through a Horseman's chest tissue. Adam twitched from the force of the impact, but was motionless afterwards, face slumped into the basin of the sink.
Peter didn't expect his father to respond. The bullet wounds were deep and crimson, frozen at the moment. He inhaled a deep breath, chest ballooning, waiting for a response. Or, hopefully, a lack of one.
But he wasn't lucky enough to receive the latter today. Shockingly, Adam raised his head, teeth bared and red-stained in a nasty leer. He grabbed his own lapel and ripped it back, revealing the two wells of marred skin on his chest where Peter had shot him. The wounds stained Adam's shirt with a pair of roses in their mutual blood.
Peter watched on, jaw hanging, as two holy water bullets popped right out of the man he thought to be defeatable. Despite Adam's immortality, wouldn't this have killed him? This was the Horsemens' single weakness, and if Adam fit that bill, then shouldn't he have died?
If Adam wasn't War like Peter's dreams suggested, than who did hold the title of their final enemy?
There was no time to contemplate it. The pistol was wrangled expertly from his slack grip and instantly raised. All Peter could see was a gun barrel between his eyes. Adam smirked and pressed the icy metal against Peter's cranium. The empath was too shell-shocked to fight back or muster together any abilities. He recalled his exchange with Claire in the gym, back in Cairo, concerning nerves and fights.
"I'm not afraid of combat anymore. I've been in so many; it's sort of just another day at work."
"If you don't get scared, you're a liar, Peter. I get scared every time I fight someone. Or at least, I did."
She had been right, and her immobile cadaver lying in the tub was enough to prove it.
"Sure you know, Peter," Adam finally growled right before squeezing the trigger, finishing this mad night.
An explosion of hellfire burst from the tip of the pistol. The slug went through the front of Peter's head and out the back, momentum throwing his body into the bathtub.
Peter was dead on contact, the bullet immediately tearing through vital layers of brain tissue. His body arched from the energy at a back-breaking angle, feet lifting off the floor. For a split second, his corpse was in mid-air, body levitated in a graceful semi-circle. But then time sped up again and gravity had its way with him, tugging him back to right back where he belonged- on top of Claire.
When all was still and the gun smoke had cleared, Peter lay sprawled and lifeless across his equally as dead lover in the bathtub, the white tiles already painted red.
Adam sighed in relief, taking a moment to enjoy the silence of death engulfing the house. He carelessly pocketed the gun and headed out of the bathroom, already making his way to the front door. But not before plucking Hiro Nakamura's antique katana from a pair of cold, limp hands.
"My sword never left your side, Hiro," Adam commented to the corpse, "and you still ended up dead."
And with that final retort, he stepped over the body of his at last conquered rival, off to fry bigger fish than just carp.
xxx
The airport in St. Petersburg was pretty conventional for the twenty-first century. Even all the Russian signs had translations in English beneath them. For Adam, it didn't really matter. He read a little bit of the language, enough to get around. He had dabbled in most languages over the years, having spent so much time around the world. The only ones he spoke fluently however were Japanese, English, and Spanish. He'd spoken great French in the nineteenth century, but hadn't been back since the revolution. Reign of Terror…those were the days.
The heavy crowds, probably all there for the holidays, provided a nice pulse of body heat to the open place. Anything that could block out the Arctic cold was invited in by Adam. He couldn't get real frostbite, at least not for long, with his healing powers. Still, that didn't make him any more cold-blooded than your average human. He was definitely a fireplace aficionado.
And hand-warmers. What an innovation. He liked them better than the invention of television, or even the telephone. Honestly, why hadn't they thought to bring hand-warmers on this trip? Ridiculous.
The immortal man- blonde, pale, and blending in with the crowd- glanced openly at his Seiko watch. It was almost time for his visitor's plane to arrive. About damn time. He'd been standing there for hours after driving from Van's house. A thick wool jacket covered the blood-stained shirt he hadn't had time to change. He had been shocked to get through security without ten drug dogs trampling him and sniffing the blood of others soaking his clothes.
Thankfully, he'd been smart enough to leave his katana in the rental car. He'd certainly be stopped for that one. And Russian security guards were a lot rougher than American ones. More muscle, more moustaches. Also, Adam had a feeling that this country wasn't quite as politically correct as far as 'police brutality' went either.
So, sitting on a waiting bench for his expected to arrive, he sort of wondered about guilt, having nothing better to ponder during this time. Did he feel guilty about slaughtering every one of his comrades, two of which being his sons, and leaving them all to die? Should he have felt guilt about that? As an average con man and a father, yes. But the responsibilities he had at hand now didn't leave room for heart. His deal with the devil didn't leave room for anything but success.
Especially since he never really had a choice in the matter. Ever since he escaped from the Company, it had been a perpetual tug of war. He'd made friends with someone way over his head and there was no chance of ever escaping. Adam had been forced to suck up that fact a long time ago- that he could never lead an army of his own, or be a villain in his own right. No, he was nothing but a fox sent out to play fetch, a trained gofer, one of Pavlov's dogs. And instead of bells, Adam's trigger was electricity.
Just when he was about to call the woman he was expecting, he spotted her on the other side of the terminal. She was moving towards him chipperly, blonde hair rippling, tight jacket hugging her curves, lighting-bolt necklace still glinting despite the dim fluorescent lamps overhead. Elle.
Adam waved a hand to get her attention, as if he didn't already have it. He began to start towards her too, like they were in the middle of an old-time movie. Two lovers rushing towards each other in the middle of a crowded terminal. How cliché. And how inappropriate. He and Elle were more business partners than lovers. Just business partners with benefits.
Then again…the insanely deep kiss she gave him as soon as they met through the crowd kinda begged to differ. Adam's arms were wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around as her tongue danced with his. He could feel her long tresses tickling the top of his wrists, as well as the soft eyes of bystanders on his back. A light cluster of applause diffused through the spectators.
Adam eventually set her down on the ground when his lungs burned for air. Elle gazed up at him in fascination and joy, grinning like a child.
"It's about time. I missed you," she breathed, running her hands from his cheeks to his chest in amazement. Adam yearned for her to let the sparks fly; give him a taste of electricity he'd been craving for days. But Elle was still smarter than that. She wouldn't make such a show in a public place.
"I could say the same thing," he murmured back. "Why was your plane so late?"
The young woman linked her arm with his, intentionally pressing a succulent breast into his bicep. Adam shivered and it had nothing to do with the arctic cold.
"The weather," she replied, annoyed. "I picked this place so Peter and his little toy soldiers would be scared by the cold, but it's proving to be a suck-fest for us too."
"The architecture is nice," Adam said cheekily, digging into his pockets for something. He finally pulled out a gold-leafed room key. Elle lit up like one of the Christmas trees decorating the airport. Though unfortunately for Adam, not literally. "And the inns."
Elle's lips curled into a delighted smirk. "Ohhhh. I love hotel rooms. Especially with you."
And then, right there in front of two-hundred Russians and tourists, she pressed her lips against his neck in an embarrassingly intimate gesture. Luckily, only Adam knew about the small jolt of electricity she shot right onto one of his pulse points. He bit back a moan at the intense pleasure, breath hitching as his heart stopped- just for a couple seconds as the electricity traveling through his veins like simulated CPR. Adam could feel himself warming below the belt as his life was taken and restored in a split second, the rush intoxicating and arousing him. God, this minx knew how he ticked.
And when Elle had pulled back, she was innocently batting her lashes.
"Good," Adam coughed, shaking sparks from his body. Perhaps this move would distract the crowd's attention from the front of his pants as well. "Took more string-pulling than a puppeteer. You know how hard it is to get a room at this time of year? Nightmare." Adam shook his head.
"Stop complaining. I should be asking you what the hell took so long. Was it really that complicated of an assignment?" She was tapping her high-heel impatiently.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Adam replied sardonically. "I didn't know that in addition to blowing the heads off all your competition, I was also supposed to make them work fasterand magically hunt down every other bloody Horseman with no teleportation or people-finding powers of my own."
"Pssh," Elle tsked. "You're the most manipulative guy ever. Couldn't you just make Peter do it?"
"There's this thing called trust involved, my dear," Adam grumbled, though he knew the explanation fell on deaf ears. "I can't just waltz in and demand my way. I have to give and take what I can manage from each of them. Especially this lot. Lord, I'd like to never get Claire to trust me."
"Claire?" Elle whipped around, hair spinning dramatically behind her. "Who is Claire?"
Adam masterfully managed to keep his face neutral, and thanked God that Elle couldn't read minds (something he often thanked His Holiest for, in fact). Because the last thing he wanted her to see was the reel of roguish mental fantasies he'd had about the woman, Claire, despite his current distaste for her.
"Claire Bennet. Peter's squeeze. Stubborn girl, but good with a gun, I suppose. Why, is there a problem?"
The forced innocence on his face was ignored as a new type of smirk suddenly bled onto Elle's features.
"Clare Bennet? Her dad worked for my dad," the woman drawled. "Oh, this will be interesting."
Before Adam could so much as gape with revelation, Elle shoved her suitcase into his arms, already clip-clopping towards the lobby exit. Adam's eyes narrowed as he set down the rolling luggage and tugged up the handle to pull it behind him. A Russian man passing snickered at him, making whip noises and Adam was quick to strike back with a couple rude, two-fingered gestures.
He eventually caught up to his partner with a bit of a jog. "Forget the time it took, and everything else," he suggested breezily. "I still have what you really asked for in the car. That ought to cheer you up, eh?"
Her eyes widened in expectation. She stopped in her tracks and turned on one stiletto heel, suddenly looking much more sugary sweet and polite. Ah, the rose has unfolded again, Adam thought triumphantly. It was, after all, a fitting analogy. Elle was covered in thorns from head to the, but she could be beautiful and bursting with life when she so chose.
"You got it? What I asked for?" she asked, appalled. Her smile had elated menace like the Cheshire cat's.
Adam snorted, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to lead her down the terminal yet again. "Let's just say that it's shiny, it's ancient, and it's very, very sharp."
xxx
End of Part Two: the Fulcrum of Days
To be continued in Part Three: Apocalypse, Please