Lazarus risen
Adam Monroe was truly and completely dead. His ashes lay in an untidy heap, tangled in his clothes, a puddle in each shoe, peeking out of the neck of his shirt, scattered on the tiled floor, dusting the side of the hospital bed… Yes, he was truly and finally gone. Arthur Petrelli, freshly risen from the half-dead, and a hospital bed besides, eyed the mess that was once human with slight distaste.
He even shook his left shoe a couple of times because the thought of scattering Adam Monroe though Pinehurst was just so… distasteful, really.
“Clean that up, will you?” He said to the closest person, which happened to be Knox, pointing at the sad little puddle of remains.
But it wasn’t Knox who moved to his clipped orders, it was the doctor, normal as he was without special abilities, but with a stable paycheck, and bent down with a small broom and tugging shirt, pants, shaking out expensive shoes and withdrawing jewelry, scooped up the handful of ashes, ready to shake it into a plastic bag and dispose it as soon as possible. There were things one better did not dwell on, especially if one wanted to return to their family in the evening once their job was done with the conviction that he would be able to do so the next day, and the day after, and the day after that as well…
The doctor was shaken out of his detached, carefully blank state, when a solid hand landed on his arm that was holding the plastic bag of ashes. Surprised, he twitched his head to the side, carefully measuring if he was allowed to look or speak or ask what he had missed while musing on how a man could turn to ash in seconds, and where all the water had disappeared to.
The hand on his arm belonged to that other man, strong and foreboding, looking at him like he was supposed to be doing something. He looked up at Arthur Petrelli, silently asking what he missed, what he was to do. And Arthur Petrelli held out his hand to him, obviously asking for the small plastic bag, so he carefully offered it to him.
“Maybe I should test out how far my powers work.” Petrelli informed him, and smiled a smile which the doctor felt was not really something he wished to see anytime soon again. It was a leer, cold, ruthless and dirty. “Give me that scalpel.” Petrelli pointed to the table at the corner, and waited until the doctor, hand firm and not shaking (thanks to excellent nerves) handed it to him.
The doctor looked away then, so it was only Arthur Petrelli and the tall, dark man witnessing as the older man pulled up one of his cuffs and cut his wrist in a slow and deep gash. He then pulled open the mouth of the plastic bag and let his blood flow freely onto the ashes, mingling with them, pouring on them, until the bag was little more than half full. He then let the wound heal and pinching the bag closed he shook it with that cold, dirty smile of his in place, looking completely enraptured with what he was doing.
Ashes mingled with deep red arterial blood, turning pink and then crimson, and then it happened. Cells formed, clustered together, a bone here, a bone there poked out of that central mass until the bag was full, and then Petrelli let go, the bag and the mass inside hitting the tiles with a splash and a soft wet thud, blood smearing on white, clean tiles, then flowing back, pulling together, meeting the growing body halfway.
It was not pretty. It was foul and gory, and even Knox looked a bit shaken until sinews and muscle formed and finally skin, pink and soft and new, and Adam Monroe emerged, gasping and terrified and shivering from the cold.
“Interesting.” Was all Arthur Petrelli said, leaning down and without a word and without warning slashed at Adam’s chest.
Blood welled up from the wound, little red dots appearing, growing bigger and pouring down, and nothing happened. Arthur Petrelli looked on, his leer firmly in place, then turned around, looking at Knox.
“Throw that out, will you?”
He even shook his left shoe a couple of times because the thought of scattering Adam Monroe though Pinehurst was just so… distasteful, really.
“Clean that up, will you?” He said to the closest person, which happened to be Knox, pointing at the sad little puddle of remains.
But it wasn’t Knox who moved to his clipped orders, it was the doctor, normal as he was without special abilities, but with a stable paycheck, and bent down with a small broom and tugging shirt, pants, shaking out expensive shoes and withdrawing jewelry, scooped up the handful of ashes, ready to shake it into a plastic bag and dispose it as soon as possible. There were things one better did not dwell on, especially if one wanted to return to their family in the evening once their job was done with the conviction that he would be able to do so the next day, and the day after, and the day after that as well…
The doctor was shaken out of his detached, carefully blank state, when a solid hand landed on his arm that was holding the plastic bag of ashes. Surprised, he twitched his head to the side, carefully measuring if he was allowed to look or speak or ask what he had missed while musing on how a man could turn to ash in seconds, and where all the water had disappeared to.
The hand on his arm belonged to that other man, strong and foreboding, looking at him like he was supposed to be doing something. He looked up at Arthur Petrelli, silently asking what he missed, what he was to do. And Arthur Petrelli held out his hand to him, obviously asking for the small plastic bag, so he carefully offered it to him.
“Maybe I should test out how far my powers work.” Petrelli informed him, and smiled a smile which the doctor felt was not really something he wished to see anytime soon again. It was a leer, cold, ruthless and dirty. “Give me that scalpel.” Petrelli pointed to the table at the corner, and waited until the doctor, hand firm and not shaking (thanks to excellent nerves) handed it to him.
The doctor looked away then, so it was only Arthur Petrelli and the tall, dark man witnessing as the older man pulled up one of his cuffs and cut his wrist in a slow and deep gash. He then pulled open the mouth of the plastic bag and let his blood flow freely onto the ashes, mingling with them, pouring on them, until the bag was little more than half full. He then let the wound heal and pinching the bag closed he shook it with that cold, dirty smile of his in place, looking completely enraptured with what he was doing.
Ashes mingled with deep red arterial blood, turning pink and then crimson, and then it happened. Cells formed, clustered together, a bone here, a bone there poked out of that central mass until the bag was full, and then Petrelli let go, the bag and the mass inside hitting the tiles with a splash and a soft wet thud, blood smearing on white, clean tiles, then flowing back, pulling together, meeting the growing body halfway.
It was not pretty. It was foul and gory, and even Knox looked a bit shaken until sinews and muscle formed and finally skin, pink and soft and new, and Adam Monroe emerged, gasping and terrified and shivering from the cold.
“Interesting.” Was all Arthur Petrelli said, leaning down and without a word and without warning slashed at Adam’s chest.
Blood welled up from the wound, little red dots appearing, growing bigger and pouring down, and nothing happened. Arthur Petrelli looked on, his leer firmly in place, then turned around, looking at Knox.
“Throw that out, will you?”