Chapter Thirteen: Death

Adam waited for it. His heart pounded through his ears. He found himself out of breath, sweat through his back and face that he did not dare to wipe. He waited, and he looked fearful of the gun, and fearful of his own hand when it would reach for it and pull the trigger right in his head...

It did not come.

"Well, aren't you going to do it?" he asked of Peter.

"I said," said Peter, leaning on his chair, "you're going to kill yourself. If I used by ability to make you kill yourself, then I would be killing you. That would be beside the point."

Adam blinked for a moment, and found he could stretch his fingers and arms. He used his legs to push himself up from the deskchair, but he chose to remain seated. Well, Peter wasn't always the clever one, he thought until he remembered that his thoughts were probably being read anyway. "I don't quite understand..."

"Don't you ever think such a thing to be possible?" Peter asked in a sociable voice. "Don't you think you could ever want to kill yourself?"

Adam shook his head. This was odd. "Of course not..." he started suspiciously. "Why would I ever want to kill myself? Why would I ever want to die? Death is for..." He searched for the word.

"...People," finished Peter. "But you, you're a god. Gods don't die. Gods don't want death. Gods never feel pain for all the sadness and guilt they have experienced in four hundred years."

"Four hundred and fifty," Adam pointed out. He was beginning to relax, and he even slouched in his chair a bit.

Peter smirked. "Four hundred and fifty two. Your birthday was last week."

It caught Adam by surprise. His heart nearly skipped a beat and his eyes widened. He really was serious, wasn't he? Peter had been shadowing his past all of this time. It was curious too, as throughout different parts, he always saw a glimpse of someone that seemed familiar. He never took that seriously either. "I-it hardly matters," he swallowed, recomposing himself.

"Does it?" questioned Peter. "Did you ever care that your mother died in childbirth? Your first significant woman you killed, and by far it wouldn't be a last."

"That's being petty," snapped Adam darkly.

"That's telling the truth. Had you ever known your mother, I assure you you would've turned out differently. But instead, you just had pub-crawling father in a boring little English village called Shippington."

Adam responded suspiciously with, "It hardly matters. Never, never have I thought twice about leaving that godforsaken place. It's not a part of me. It doesn't make a difference where I came from. I've blocked it all out."

Peter stared Adam in the eyes with a fierce look. "But see, it does. It makes all the difference. I believe that within every start, there is the choice of good and evil. With such a start, you became evil, became part of a gang in Dover, pickpocketed old gentlemen, and lit homes and ships on fire. But even before all of this, you were just a little boy from a little village."

Adam almost laughed. "Peter, you are so naive. Still after all these years, you still believe in good and evil? I learned a long time ago that there isn't. There is only illusion and reality."

"I believe," said Peter, "that everyone has a human soul within. And yours, Adam, is there, buried under centuries of memories. Four hundred and fifty years ago, you were a boy. You played hopscotch with your brothers and listened to scary stories that kept you up at night."

"Never," Adam fought back fiercely. This was getting annoying, now. "Never was I such a... so..."

"Insignificant? I know you deny it, Adam, but once you were human. You were an unloved little boy with nowhere to turn to. So you just drove on and tried to find some meaning in your life."

His teeth bit into his lip. "What are you even talking about? I knew enough where to go. I didn't run away. My family and village were fine, just too boring for my liking. Too slow and--"

"You ran away. You weren't wanted. Adam, listen to me," Peter leaned in closer to the desk. "You were unwanted. You were looking for someone to love you."

"That is," Adam cleared his throat with difficulty. His mind was buzzing. What was Peter getting at? "That is the most ridiculous thing I have heard in my entire life. I know my father and brothers loved me. I didn't want their love. They were all just idiots. They were plain and stupid. They never strove for anything. I just wanted to be somebody."

"And so you were. You ran away and told everyone you were Jack Tudor, long lost nephew of the King of England, himself. All of your little Dover friends either believed you or didn't care. And you were well content with all of them, if not annoyed by their own stupidity. Anytime you couldn't take it, you ran away again, and again. Another country, another name. For centuries."

Adam swallowed. "Stop this, Petrelli. You've got no idea what you're talking about." He was shaking.

"You know what I found really interesting?"

"Don't," he growled harshly. "Don't you dare."

Peter dared and smiled a little. "Your first name..."

Adam grasped and covered his ears. "Don't you say it!"

It was no use. Peter just amplified his voice louder. "Your real name. The name your mother gave you..."

"Stop it!" he cried. Immediately, he reached for the gun. He held it up to his own head. His finger was on the trigger. "I swear, I swear to God. Don't you say it..."

"Mr. Allen!"

There was a whoosh in his ear and Adam took some moments to realize what was going on. The gun in his hand was gone, being knocked out of his hand. When he looked up, one of the mimics lifted his arm to do the same to Peter, but he had been too slow. As if on instinct, Peter lifted his own arm, and the other mimic was slammed against the concrete.

The man had his hands up to his throat as he was pinned up against the wall and spoke in a hoarse whisper, "Please, Mr. Allen, forgive me. I tried..."

With a roll of the eyes, Peter let his hand drop, and the man fell to the ground. "I knew you had something up your sleeve, Adam. But, really? I must say, recruiting a mimic as a Kenshi..."

"But of course," Adam yawned. His face showed no signs that he had been hysterical just moments before. "That one's the second-cousin of one of the original Ten. I promised him my right hand if he could keep tabs on you. Unfortunately, he never told me about any of this ambushing business, so I must assume he wasn't entirely on either of our sides."

Peter almost laughed. "You really have no intention of dying?"

He raised an eyebrow, as it was a rhetorical question. "I've already told you. If you're waiting for me to kill myself, you're going to be waiting a very long time. What do I care about my first name? It's just a name. They're just words. You really thought I would shoot myself in my head just from hearing a name? Pity, Peter. I thought you were smarter than that." He paused. "But, then again..."

"What now, Adam?" Peter interjected. "Any more tricks up your sleeve? I know you know you can't do anymore. You won't get out of this one. This is the end of the line."

Adam tried to sneer. He really did. But, truth stopped him. Peter was right. He had no other plan to escape. Nothing could defeat Peter except another mimic, and that plan had failed. And what else? Nothing else. The shiver ran down his spine. His body went cold.

He was going to die.

He let out a breath when he remembered. He was going to die the moment he wanted to die. That moment wouldn't come for... a long time. He was sure of that.

"So leave me here, Peter. If you'd really love for that magic moment of irony when I pull the trigger on my own head, just wait. I've spent months in a coffin. Decades in a cell. I can be patient, if only you can."

Peter accepted this. "But then, you had something to live for. You survived on revenge. Planned out every little detail of how you would kill and torture Hiro and the others. But what now? You wiped out nearly the whole world. You pruned the ones you didn't like. You could try and kill me, but we both know how that would turn out. You do have the Kenshi, but they are a fault within themselves. In fact," he shrugged, "they aren't servants to you. Instead, you're the slave to them. Eventually, they're going to be demanding the world you promised them, and you're going to have to tell them that you never intended to work so hard in such a commitment the first place. You're a tumbleweed, Adam. As much as you're flattered by the power, you can't settle down to anything. You thrive on knowing that anytime, anyplace, you could leave and start again. But now, even though Kate's dead, you can't even do that."

Again. He was being pounded with truth. By the first few sentences, he closed his eyes and pretended not to listen. He knew that Peter knew he actually was listening, but it was in his blood to insult his abilities.

"Doesn't it drive you mad?" Peter crept up to Adam's ear. "Knowing that there is nothing else?"

He opened his eyes. "There is always something else," he swallowed. His voice was soft and dark.

"What else is there?" replied Peter in a whisper.

Adam stared straight forward. The two remaining mimics were staring, as if watching the most intense soap opera. "Her," he said in a hoarse voice. His throat was caught before it, but he had said it before he could stop himself. His eyes began to sting.

As equally as soft, "Who?"

"Her," Adam repeated again. He couldn't believe this was happening. His breath was now heavy and labored. His nose was running, and he sniffled. Once he closed his eyes, the tears ended up on the edges.

"You haven't loved anyone, yet?" said Peter. He looked sober. Morose. "Twelve wives, and you haven't loved a single one of them?"

"I've loved all of them!" Adam shouted now. He roared as loud as he could, as if Peter couldn't hear him. He could, obviously, and took a slight step back in surprise. The tears started to run down his red face. "Do you hear me? Each and every one of them, I loved, and I bloody cried my eyes out once they died."

Despite this, Peter moved on. He looked at Adam, and he spoke in his most spiteful voice, "Loved them? You didn't love them. You loved parts of them. You loved their eyes, their nose, how they spoke, how they laughed. You loved them for their beauty. You loved them because they reminded you of her."

"Stop it! You've no fucking idea what you're talking about," Adam warned. He looked at Petrelli with all the hate that he had ever had. He tried to swallow his tears. This was his plan, was it? Well, it wasn't going to work.

"I'm just telling you what you already know."

Adam yelled again. "Then, stop it!" he cried.

"Adam," Peter got dangerous close to the other's face. He stared him in the eyes with a daring nature. "There is nothing else. She's already gone. She died long ago."

As he trembled and cried, he noticed the gun back on the desk. "N-no..." he sobbed. "No... there's s-some... there's someone else..." But, he knew Peter's words to be true.

"Yaeko..."

He cried. He held his head, and he cried. He could try to resist Peter, and live. He could live. But then, what for? Peter spoke truth. There was nothing else. There was nothing else to live for. What in the future was there to be excited for? What else was there? Always. Always, there was something else to do. Something else to strive for. Something else to plan, to think about. But now? Nothing. Everything had already been done. There was nothing else.

They were all gone. The twelve of them plus... her. Twelve times, a broken heart. A chip at the soul, already cut in half by Yaeko. And it was true. Yaeko was long gone, and love of that kind could never be found again. Her beauty, her intelligence, her smile. He could search for such things, and find pieces of them, but it wouldn't matter. She was dead. And gone. And never, even if he lived until Judgement Day, never would she return.

Peter spoke truth. Why? What was there to live for?

He cradled the gun lightly in his hand. He wiped his eyes, and found himself done with crying.

Finger on trigger. Peter didn't look happy, but instead held a strangely blank look.

Barrel to the head. Wipe nose, again.

Close your eyes. He just regretted that his last look was at Peter and his anxious mimics to the back.

Yaeko...

One last breath. Savor the air, and be glad to be rid of it.

There was nothing else...

Squeeze eyes tighter.

And pull.

A/N: Sorry. The holidays keep me away from home.

But anyway, can you hear the violins playing like crazy? Oh, the suspense! Welcome to the penultimate chapter. Always wanted to use that word.

Well, yeah. I have little to say other than sorry for making Peter so out of character. Yeah, I know he's not that evil or clever or powerful, really. He would much more likely to be on the other side of the gun.

Um. Right. I think I might post the final chapter tomorrow. No reason to stretch it out, aye? Ayee?