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fallout2282 · 5 years

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The Office of the President, Hall of Congress

Shady Sands, New California Republic

Yulia Arteaga sat in her office chair, fiddling with the Two Headed Bear Flag pin between her fingers. She unclasped it, bringing it up to her chest so that she might wear it at her heart, as was customary. It was a gift from her predecessor, a symbol of office. She wanted nothing of Kimball’s and she refused to watch as her staff moved his portrait into storage, replacing it with a painting to rival it, depicting her own visage. She stood for four hours so that the artist they commissioned, someone from her home state, the Boneyard, could accurately transfer her image to the canvas. She wore the pin in the painting too, a detail added afterwards. It had originally belonged to President Tandi, the Great Mother, before being passed along to Tibbett, Peterson, Kimball, and now her. It was a symbol of office, no matter what she wore, as long as she carried that pin it was like she like she radiated with the commanding aura of high office. Her predecessor, now retired against his will to some ranch outside the Hub, preferred old world style suits where as Yulia was often accused of looking something like a cross between a field hand and a factory worker. She liked the brahmin leather vest her Bear Flag was now pinned to, and the earthy tones of her checkered button up and slacks. She wore the same outfit in the painting. The artist thought it fitting, she was the young populist who was taking California by storm. Her majority in Congress was secure, now that Chief Hanlon won the race in Redding and was now Senator Hanlon. She was going to need the allies in the months to come as it became apparent making peace was far more complicated than making war. A detail Kimball neglected to mention when he handed over the keys to the Republic. Her train of thought was interrupted when the door to her office flew open.

“Yulia! You’ll never believe it. Dennis Crocker agreed to stay on until the drafting process for the treaty is finished. It’s just like you said, maybe he really is different from those other Kimball holdovers after all. He thinks you should meet with Chief Executive-” It was her aid, Maxim. He had been with her since her days as a labor organizer in Adytum. He managed her campaign for an Angel’s Boneyard council seat and didn’t even ask for an appointment to some cushy job in the bureaucracy. Although, being aide to the president came with similar guarantees of job security and long term financial security.

“It’s Madame President now, Maxim.” She made the deals, led the censure, and cast the first vote of Kimball’s downfall. She earned her position. Now she just had to keep it, and that meant any deal with New Vegas had to insure the lights stayed on. At least until the project she arranged with the Followers of the Apocalypse was complete. It would be funny if it wasn’t so frustrating. The Mojave Campaign was Kimball’s war, and he lost his job over it. Now it seemed most of her job was picking up the pieces, when she had campaigned on an extensive program promising to fix the many problems at home.

“The answer is no. I’ll give it my signature, but Crocker can shake that man’s hand. He knows if the deal screws us, I’ll screw him harder. I like the good Ambassador, but if he expects to come back to a career he has to earn it. Speaking of which, draw me up a list of candidates to take his place once the negotiations are finished. If his plan does work I’ll want him running for a seat here in the next election. I know Thaler’s will soon be up for grabs, and he might act like a friend, but we all know he didn’t vote with us when we got rid of Kimball. His days on the council are numbered.”

“Yes, Madame President. My apologies Madame President. I will send out word to the State Department to have a list drawn up at once. As for Councilman Thaler, we should avoid alienating him until after the vote tomorrow. He has been more than supportive of the Crimson Caravan inquiry. Alice McLafferty was forced out of her post in the Mojave branch, it’s practically an admission of guilt on their part. If he thinks we intend to endorse someone else for his seat, he could end up voting with Senator Morales. And if Morales rallies the governors then they will certainly shut down the investigation and shut down this investigation” her aide said with great uncertainty. She couldn’t blame him for his skepticism. Aaron Kimball was wildly popular until he wasn’t. All Yulia had to do was alienate the wrong person and she could lose her majority. Then it would be all over.

“Have a little more confidence in me, Maxim. I didn’t win the Presidency for the novelty of it. I intend to hold on to this seat for as long as I can. The people aren’t so fickle as to turn on me yet. Thaler will vote for me because if he doesn’t again, then it is a certainty he will lose his seat. I might have been a councilor for Adytum, but I was born in Shady Sands. Now I represent all of California. And it’s about some time someone stood up to the merchant houses. And don’t call the representatives from Hub that, their heads are already big as it is” She was right, and Maxim knew it too when she said it. Yulia had always spoken truth to power, and now she was the power. Not the only one, granted. That’s just how it was in democracies. Still, that wouldn’t stop her from using the authority she was given to hold her colleagues to account.

“We can discuss tomorrow’s vote later. There’s still a lot of other work to be done. Have we received a report from General Hsu yet? What’s the status of the withdrawal?” Military matters were the one aspect of governing she was new to. She had coordinated with the military in the past, back in Adytum during one of the multiple operations against the raider gangs that are pervasive in the Boneyard. Yet she only ever acted as a point of contact then, now she was Commander in Chief.

Maxim cleared his throat, “Slowly, but surely Madame President. The General and the Ambassador were able to convince the new management in New Vegas to allow a handful of our forces to remain at the Dam and watch over our civilian personnel that will stay there. Long term arrangements haven’t been decided yet, but the General is unsure of the prudence in leaving the Dam in the hands of those... robots. He seems uncertain if we even have a choice in the matter. You’ve already seen the projections. A renewed conflict is not likely to be in our electoral interests. As for the full withdrawal to Mojave Outpost, we are expecting the last of our forces to be safely within the border in three weeks time.”

“Sooner we conclude this business the better. What of the Legion? The rangers set out after the battle to scout their territory and I’ve yet to see a report land on my desk. I would hate to leave our new friends on the Strip defenseless against such savages.” Yulia folded her arms, leaning back against the desk.

“The robots were actually quite thorough in their assault on Fortification Hill. The military seems to think the enemy was quite completely demolished. Caesar had died three months earlier, reportedly of a botched attempt to remove tumors from his brain. As for the rest of the Legion’s leadership, they are all believed to have perished in the battle.” Now he was just rehashing what she already knew.

“What about the east? Arizona... New Mexico. Those places. I recall from the archives we sent scouts out that way decades ago. There are people out there. The Legion’s people. What will happen to them?” That was the real question. If Kimball had succeeded, if the NCR had annexed New Vegas, would they have been next? Would the NCR have kept going? Just like the old world. That she didn’t like to imagine.

“Our commanders speculate what is left of the Legion will converge on Flagstaff. That I suppose you would call the Legion’s capital. It’s also where Caesar left his heirs, supposedly. General Hsu has assured us that the Legion isn’t a threat to the Mojave, let alone us here in California.” Maxim knew as much as she did. They would both be left to wonder until the rangers they sent east reported in. It could be months, and that’s if any of them managed to cross back over the Colorado.

The Mojave Campaign began decades ago, back then the NCR only had to contend with the same raider tribes they had been fighting and beating for generations. Jackals, Vipers, Khans, all scattered to the wastes. The war with the Legion only began in 2277 when their warband attempted to seize Hoover Dam the first time. All the while her country was being bled try. More lives and more money than she could imagine. Costlier than every other war fought in California combined. Not mentioned in official reports, the rumor was General Lee Oliver died not at the hands of the Legion, but after the battle had already ended. Thrown off of the side of the dam by one of the robots that now defended New Vegas. She chose not to ask if it was true when she received her first briefing from the military, after all it allowed blame for the defeat to fall squarely on Kimball’s shoulders. And he deserved it. She wouldn’t make his mistakes.

“I can’t tell if we were lucky, or unlucky. We won the battle and still lost the war.” She chuckled at the irony, at the sheer stupidity of it all. “We saved the damn... dam, and it doesn’t even seem like we’ll be able to keep it. First we get strung along by the seemingly-immortal Mr. House, and now we’re negotiating with a former Vault dweller with a gambling addiction? We clearly didn’t play our cards right, even though for all intents and purposes we had a winning hand.”

Maxim nodded in agreement, ever willing to play the sycophant. “Poor governance ultimately makes for poor policy decisions, Madame President. I believe you will lead us towards a much brighter future. One where the people of New Vegas are our friends, not subjects.”

“Friends? We’ll just see what terms Crocker wins for us. I’ve no intention of getting us into another war, if that’s what your concern is. Still need to see about making states out of the territories up north before I go looking for more outside of our borders. Congress can’t deny the territories real representation forever. We give Arroyo and Klamath statehood, and I won’t have to worry about losing my majority for as long as I’m President.” She sighed, “First we need to see about officially ending this war and bringing our men and women in uniform back from the front. Once the withdrawal is complete we’ll set up the podium in front of the statue of Tandi in Republic Square. It won’t just be to welcome the troops home, but another state of the republic address.”

“Very good, Madame President. I also brought that report you requested last week. It took some time for the rangers to compile it. This one’s complete at least. I thought you would want to have a look at it before the committee did.” On the desk next to Yulia, her aide placed a folder that was so full of paper that it was nearly as thick as some of the books in her office.

Yulia took one look at the folder’s contents, thumbing through the various pages of eye witness testimony collected in the Mojave and official statements by other officials in the NCR. This one file alone would could take up the rest of her afternoon just to read. “One question, Maxim.” She pursed her lips, her curiosity piqued.

“What’s that Madame President?” “Who the hell is this Courier?”

#fallout #fallout new vegas #fnv fanfic #fnv headcanon #fallout fanfic #NCR

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cosmosfated · 4 years

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A Deep, Dark Home

A patrolling force, one, occasionally two.

A new one to “play” with is expected soon. Mindless and given a command: make it impossible to get to where he needs to go. Keep him here, do not let him escape.

They always loved to “play” with the one that’s supposed to be back soon. He was always so feisty, and never really stayed down for one reason or another. Spite? Fear? Frustration? Desperation? Whatever it was, it was enough to cause a stir in a very large radius to try and get him.

Sadly, he’s as clever as the devil and twice as tricky. How else do you think he’s escaped so many times before?

A patrol of twitching and desperate beasts, near a shoreline of sorts. Waiting, watching with empty sockets that bleed a thick tar like substance. The makeshift “sky” overhead twists and distorts, pushing and pulling like a never ending motion of the sea during a terrible storm, all while the ‘ocean’ beyond the gray and color-eaten shore is disturbingly still, only moving when something steps too close and gets pulled under by something beneath with barely a struggle. Everything waits, everything watches, everything knows better than to leave any place unchecked. He’s always had the habit of being in the least likely places after all.

A ripple within the thick ‘water’.

The single patrol stops, head snapping to attention towards the movement. In response, a few more entities come out of the woodwork of the nearby waterlogged, rotted and partially petrified forest with readiness in their posture - humanoid in composure but dripping and barely keeping itself together, almost as if it were melting. Several pairs of eyes watch, eager to see what’s there. Eager to believe that it’s their new “playmate”.

A minute passes. Five. Fifteen. Nothing.

Disappointed, they turn away.

Another ripple, deeper and farther this time.

Heads cannot turn fast enough to prevent being grabbed by a bright silver chain and pulled into the endless black ocean that stretches far beyond line of sight. One patrol pulled, another, then another still. Several chains reaching out from the thick ‘water’, dragging without remorse towards a place where sight goes dark and lungs fill with explosive material, constantly set aflame both within and without but never dying. With a horrible ear splitting shriek from one of the first patrolling beasts, silence takes the scene again.

In a staggered rush, another humanoid shape makes its way over to the edge of the black ocean, leaning over it without getting too close. Is it? Is this where it was? It’s too still though. Was it displaced again?

Before any more time can pass, a clawed hand snaps out of the ‘water’, the arm attached to it decorated with fluid, shifting silvery-gray markings. Claws wrap around a brittle throat, and careless steps backward pull the rest of the body free.

A too wide grin, too many teeth razor sharp, and a gaze that is wild, steeped in the madness this place invites like an Alice gifted access to a very merry unbirthday. But there’s something else. Something primal, something that flashes silver like a knife’s edge through the bright violet, then spreading like ink through water across irises and sclerae. A series of chains wrapped around his waist, decorated in a simple deep grey high collar sleeveless duster, jeans with the color eaten long ago, and an almost silver shirt, matched with heavy black combat boots.

One boot shifts to plant squarely against the chest of the brittle humanoid, his full weight pressed against it and causing it to let out a guttural choked gurgle before melting slightly into the ground. He stands, causing the three necklaces that give him the only color on his person aside from his eyes to jostle and clink together.

He opens his arms out wide, inviting and challenging, like a gladiator testing the fates to try, go ahead and try to kill him, he would love to see you try.

“well, where’s my welcome party? i’m not feelin’ th’love today!”

In an instant, there’s a swarm of a number of forces, and his grin only widens. It seems to split his face symmetrically, a Glasgow grin briefly flashing across his expression before he grabs the chain at his waist, whipping it towards a small line of encroaching assailants. With a single blow they’re sliced in half as if with a fine enchanted blade rather than links of a long tended to chain that seems to have gotten brighter since its breaking not too long before. Another swing of the chain, and a few more get knocked down.

Among this carnage, the boy has his eyes closed and is humming along to a song unheard by anything else around him, footsteps light and airy upon the ground, despite the weights put into his boots to make his steps more obvious to hear to anything nearby. Like a dance, almost choreographed in a way, every time something gets close enough to touch him, he ducks out of the way with a flourish, dodging in any number of ways, seemingly delighted to be doing what he’s doing, despite being in the middle of a one man war he invited upon himself.

His eyes open as there’s a heavy thud upon the ground at his feet. Slowly, his gaze travels upwards, up towards a beast much larger than him and much larger than even some of the people he’s met before, and that grin settles into a smug smirk. “ahh~ ‘ello big guy. come t’join th’party?”

There’s a sound that he recognizes as confident inquiry from something with a bit more intelligence than the rest of the mindless drones of The Depths being kept at bay with illusions and tricks and more swipes out from under them as if this were nothing more than a game to him. Perhaps it is, perhaps he doesn’t see it as anything more than a game─ Dance Dance Revolution, anyone?

His head cranes back, laughter filling the space as if he were just told something of a dirty joke by an old friend of his. “oh no no, i’m not your enemy today, my man.” He snaps the chain whip taut between both of his hands as bodies upon bodies pile beneath his feet as he jumps above them and slaughters each and every one with unparalleled ease. He wraps the chain around one arm and uses the other to gesture behind him.

“he is.”

And with a coalescing of black, brackish ‘water’ around a point in the ocean not even thirty feet behind him, a single taloned foot sets upon the edge of the shoreline, acting more like a cliff side rather than a shoreline. Then another, a not so short distance away from that. A draconic head, adorned with two horns on each side, emerges from the endless black ocean, followed by one wing, then the other. Followed by a body, and the feet reposition themselves for a better hold on the ground beneath them. Then, the back taloned feet breach the surface, crushing a few enemies that were trying to sneak up on the boy in the process. At full height, standing a full ten feet taller than the Depths Commander at 40 feet tall, bright silver wings spiked at the second joint and along its tail, feathered at the end, that whips out and rids this war zone of a good number of encroaching enemies, then again with the whip in the opposite direction, with feathers that look impossibly sharp at the bottoms of the wings. Scales cover its body, silver at first glance, then seeming to reflect various other colors with light that doesn’t exist, or perhaps light from internal magic that constantly moves, shifts, changes within its form.

It rears its head back and roars with a strength to rattle the very ground they all stand upon, wings spreading out to their full span with a quick movement, causing a faint silver whirlwind to whip up from it. After a few seconds, there’s an answer to the battle cry of a roar, in the form of three different roars, but of the same species, in the distance.

A wide grin that almost matches the boy’s now answers the call to action, razor sharp teeth accentuating the hungry look of fury in the dragon’s undeniably silver eyes.

“𝔓𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔬𝔫 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔰𝔦𝔷𝔢, 𝔭𝔢𝔰𝔱.”

Making short work of the onslaught of well over two hundred enemies by himself, and having the dragon protecting him from the few larger enemies, it’s also poetic how he takes good care of himself. Sure, he took a few hits, but he made them less damaging due to something that he was taught by the dragon.

Silver Magic, controlling change and the tides of fate, magic, and desire. He wishes he could sit down and fully understand it.

Atop his egregious pile of dead bodies, he snaps the whip made entirely of chain links to rid it of the brackish fluid that constituted the majority of the ‘blood’ of the beings within The Depths. Or at least, that he’s noticed. He wraps it around his waist again, situating itself there as if it were sentient rather than just a long twisting line of chain links. “that was fun!~”

“ℑ𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔢𝔡. ℑ𝔱 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢 ℑ'𝔳𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔰𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔞 𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔥.” The dragon speaks as it looks around, still wary of anything that may try to come when they’ve come down off of their high. Or, at least it has. The boy? He’s unsure when he’d ever come down from that state. So much rage, so much pent up hatred. Deserved, well deserved, but it’s enough to worry even a dragon, and that’s saying something.

“but hey, why did you have to wake them up? they were all fine asleep.”

Silver eyes shift down to the boy in question as he’s pouting up at the towering dragon. “... ℑ 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔢 𝔥𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔱; ℑ 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔲𝔫𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢. ℑ𝔱'𝔰 𝔤𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔴𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔴𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱 𝔬𝔫, 𝔰𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔴𝔢 𝔫𝔢𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔱.”

Fleur rolls his eyes and shrugs. “ah well, can’t be helped. i need to get someplace and now i need to do it with as much precision as possible.” He reaches into his barely functional inventory and takes out of the pieces of candy he brought with him, unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth, burning the wrapper with a flourish of his hand, akin to flash paper. “can ya be smaller?”

“𝔐𝔲𝔰𝔱 ℑ 𝔟𝔢 𝔰𝔪𝔞𝔩𝔩?”

“i mean. technically, you don’t have to do anythin’. it would jus’ help me out if you were small enough to like, y’know... curl around my shoulders and be portable enough to where i can hide ya if i need to be stealthy.”

“...” There’s a low, rumbling sound that resembles a sigh and the wings pull in, scales shimmering with a faint bluish-green tint. Its form shrinks down to a point where it could be easily picked up and held, though still fairly large. “ℑ𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔞𝔠𝔠𝔢𝔭𝔱𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔢?” The dragon asks as it flies up to Fleur’s right shoulder, maneuvering itself to hide underneath the boy’s water flattened hair streaked with silver and curling slightly around his neck. Warmth from something alive in a way that’s deeper than a heartbeat.

Fleur leans into the warmth against his neck and he smiles. “yup, that’s perfectly fine. thanks for bein’ so understandin’, man.”

“ℑ𝔣 𝔦𝔱 𝔞𝔦𝔡𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔳𝔦𝔳𝔞𝔩, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫 ℑ 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℑ 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱, 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔫𝔬𝔴. 𝔚𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔠𝔲𝔰𝔰 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔣𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔱'𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔞 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢 𝔬𝔯 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔰𝔦𝔱𝔲𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫.”

“fair enough. let’s get going before more show up then. maybe if i’m lucky, i can make sure my insignia is still functional... but i’ve never been lucky.”

“𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔩𝔢𝔱 𝔲𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔩𝔲𝔠𝔨 𝔴𝔢'𝔳𝔢 𝔞𝔠𝔠𝔲𝔪𝔲𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔣𝔢𝔴 𝔪𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰. 𝔒𝔫𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔡 𝔴𝔢 𝔤𝔬 𝔱𝔬𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔡𝔰 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔣 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔱𝔢.”

#Fragmented Fate #* drabbles. \ they're more like fics than anything.#horror ? /#ask to tag

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toffeetaffy · 5 years

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Beast at My Side [6]

An Unfinished Sky

Alice. I imagine her as a paper crane. Unblemished wings folded with a peerless precision, a delicate shell to house the heart of the sweetest songbird. She was once a Cullen, I am told. Once, a lot of things. Edward's sister, Bella's friend, Jasper's wife. Now they call her Volturi. That word so small and insignificant to me saturates the room with a rage that is both dark and tempting. My heart gives an irregular, sloppy thump and their eyes all turn to mine. For the first time I am truly experiencing the fear—the thrill—of being here without the numbness of my loss. Wherever this discussion now leads it is not for my ears. I gather my wits and my jacket, then make for the door.

Dark mud and thin fog are canopied by leaves of green. The woods are damp and warm, rich with colour and sound. Breath slow. Eyes closed. I feel a calm in these trees that I can find nowhere else. Too soon it is broken by the snapping of twigs, the dragging of feet. I hear her only because she lets me. Each sound a deliberate warning of her approach.

"That was a whole new level of tension, huh?" Even here in the bowels of the forest, knee-deep in weeds Bella is beautiful. Too beautiful.

I nod in response. There is no tactful way to enquire about Alice, to slake the burn of my curiosity. All I can do is arrange my face into a look that urges and implores.

She takes pity on me then. She tells me the story of Alice: a broken girl left to wither in darkness, turned cold by a stranger and preyed upon by a demon, saved from her torment by a vision of the future. A future with Jasper. "And they fixed each other," Bella continues, "they loved each other until they were whole again." She wears a smile that would once have seemed dopey. On her immaculate, snowy mask it looks only serene.

"Then why did she leave?"

"To make a new future."

Two creatures whose hearts would beat forever, stitched together by the threads of fate - suddenly undone. That even her kind were not guaranteed love eternal must have been a sobering revelation for Bella. I ask how she feels about it all and her smile takes an enigmatic curve. It's better this way, she tells me. Better for whom, I do not know.

___

The Cullen house is filled with open spaces, dusted with creamy carpet, and spotted with golden sunlight. Patterned china and priceless works of art line the white walls but nothing under its roof is quite as stunning as Rosalie Hale. Startled by her invitation I hover near the door. My hands sweat. Sitting at a vanity, her reflection greets me with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. She looks breathtaking. I look awful.

"You look awful," she says.

I laugh and she counters with a rueful smile. Creatures as lovely as her say what they please. She extends her arm in a placid appeal and I drift to her side without further thought.

"What must you think of me?" Her tone implies an inquiry but questions such as these are rarely answered to satisfaction, and I would be loathe to dissatisfy her. "Perhaps you think me cold," she hums, "cruel? Many do, Bella among them. I'm not... adept at first impressions, or so I am told."

"Guarded," I say, "not cruel. To protect a family like this I imagine I would be too."

A quirk of the mouth, a pinch in the cheek. Rosalie Hale wears her affection with a practised subtlety. She beckons me closer, pats my hair like a child. There is something in her touch that is almost warm, almost maternal. But it is only an echo, a shadowy remnant of a woman who no longer exists. Much of her seems this way. Glossy varnish coating the muddled brush strokes of an unfinished sky.

When I enquire as to why she has summoned me, she looks at my hands, my throat. Anywhere but my eyes. Profound sadness, she says, is something she knows and knows well. First, she speaks of the ephemeral nature of joy; likens human elation to the slapping of waves, the changing of tides. To know utter devastation, she explains, one must first have known complete and total exaltation.

"And did you?"

Her response is no more than an unschooled expression but it answers my question without the burden of words. Yes. For all her poise and power, Rosalie hid something inside herself that was soft and scarred. It was not damaged from a darkness that had taken over, but from a bliss that had been snatched away. I understand now that she holds a sadness so deep that I may never comprehend it.

"But that's not why you're here," she says, "give me your keys."

Outside, she appraises the Kombi with a tsk and a tut. She circles it slowly, grimaces at the paint, the upholstery, the mats on the floor. "It's a Type Two," she runs a neatly manicured hand across the blistered orange door, "popular in the sixties and seventies." For a moment she appears lost in one of her perfectly preserved memories. "The seventies were exciting," she sighs. "Not the fashion, mind you, or the music. But there was something. Something that made even creatures like us feel... alive." She smiles with all the warmth of a stolen sunbeam. "But the most memorable thing? Carlisle's wavy perm!"

When she laughs the sound is as deep and rich as the bell of a church. Stunning. Hopeful. Real. She is more striking now—parted lips, crinkled eyes—than I have ever known her to be.

Inside the van, she turns the keys and the thing roars to life, lurches forward at her command. We drive to the garage—so much larger than it first appeared—and park inside. The dark walls are spotted with cars, all new and polished, spectacular even under the rows of fluorescent lights. One corner is filled with metal chests and lined with lockers painted cobalt blue, in another sits a pair of motorcycles, a pile of rags, and an assortment of dented tins.

She wastes no time in talking. Instead, Rosalie sheds her creamy woven sweater before plunging her arms under the engine lid. For close to an hour she guts the machine: picking, pulling, and plucking at its gizzards with little effort or exertion. She speaks only to instruct, praise, or direct my hand as she sees fit. Another hour passes as I watcher her work, mesmerised by the vibrancy of her eyes and the dexterity of her fingers. At her request I hold a piece in place. The metal is round, heavy, and slick with grease but she fastens and fixes before it has time to slip away. Her dead hands work at twice the speed of any living, and her eyes see in to even the darkest recesses. Scotopia, she tells me, gives them something akin to night vision.

"Like a cat?" I ask.

"Like a cat," she replies.

With her work complete, Rosalie starts up the van. For a time she sits with her eyes closed and her lips pursed, listening for something beyond my divination. Eventually her face slackens with satisfaction and she silences the motor once more. I am caught in the act of replicating her faraway smile.

"You're rudderless," she says, "and you're sad. And you're starting to wonder if there's any point at all."

I do not question or deny. She allows me only time enough to scrunch up my nose, to wrinkle my brow, before she speaks again.

"The sad truth is: there is no point. There never was to begin with. Beyond the acts of living and loving, of sharing and dying, a single human life is of little consequence or significance. You'll spend your meagre years accumulating knowledge, friends—perhaps even wealth and status—but one day soon your body too will rest beneath the earth." She wipes down her hands and arms, picks her nails clean. "But find comfort in this: I would trade every single decade of my deathless existence for even one more day of real human pain, of real human life. Embrace it. Awful, dark, and terrifying as it is, because there will be a day when you will know incomparable joy. And that day will make these worth their bitter taste."

My arms hang at my sides, weighed down by grease, grime, and the burden of her words.

In her sister, Bella sees only mist and frost. But I can see something else. Something more. Pink and warm and resilient. A blushing rose caught in a drift of snow.

"Thank you, Rosalie."

She tilts her head in an increasingly recognisable gesture. "We're wanted inside."

A soft whistle and sharp gust of air are the only signals of her departure. I make a small attempt at ridding my arms and knees of the filth that cover them before starting towards the house at a dismally human speed. By the time I arrive the entire Cullen family is waiting, arranged around the living room like a row of teeth.

"Hey, what's up?"

Bella huffs and shrugs in a poorly practised attempt at exasperation. "I could really use a favour," she says, "Ren's going to stay at Charlie's for a while and I was hoping you could drive her there. We've got a few things that need finishing up around here."

"Sure."

My response sounds sceptical at best but Bella forges on. She stores the address in my phone, tells me Charlie is expecting me. Edward fixes his daughters backpack in place and ushers her forward with a kiss on the head and a quiet warning to behave.

"So... you have some super secret family business to take care of and you'd like it if I could myself scarce for a while?"

My assumption must be correct. The matriarch and the behemoth both laugh out loud while Edward's shoulders shake in silent mirth. Bella's face is stuck oscillating between a grimace and a pout. She appears unlikely to respond with either.

Edward produces from his pocket a ring containing a single key and fob. "Please, take my car." His saccharine smile does little to hide his intent. Impervious to harm though she may be, Edward's daughter is cargo too precious to travel in a car like mine. I'm too intrigued to be offended.

I load her in to the back seat. She's small and smiling and it somehow doesn't look right. Yesterday she was smaller. Five days ago, smaller still. A month from now she may be full grown. I worry for her. A child trapped in a woman's body. Ren reaches out and touches my cheek; her gift shows me a wisdom and strength that surpasses her frail form. She asks why that makes me sad. I tell her that I do not know.

"Tempting." He says it with a sigh. Propped against the wall of the garage, Jasper paints a long, lean shadow. Green, blue, black.

A curious combination of fear and attraction heats my skin. It crawls up my neck, pinches at my ears, renders me dumb. I remember all too well his lips on mine. Cold and smooth. Sour and delicious. I can think of little else while I stare at his well-formed mouth.

"Honestly," he says, "I am sorely tempted to just get in the car and let you drive away with me."

Ren giggles from the back seat, shaking me from my stupor. I ask him if he would like to join us. A question he seems oddly troubled by. He makes an approach—soundless and slow—his eyes always on mine.

"Never offer me something you don't truly mean to give."

Though more riddle than response, I can see his statement for what it truly is: a warning. Of what precisely, I am not sure. But I nod my head sharply. I turn away on unsteady legs.

With a little direction from Ren, and one or two lucky guesses, I find the home of Charlie Swan. It's small and white with uneven windows and a smudge of front yard. A short drive of muddy brick winds up the side, drowning in lashes of decaying summer leaves. The porch steps creak. I take them one a time and the sound makes my chest grow large, my heart feel warm. Every single thing about this house screams home. An unfamiliar feeling. I knock on the door in a short staccato, brittle chips of paint loosening at my touch.

When he answers the door I am immediately struck by how little he has changed. A few more greys in his mop of curly hair, his moustache a little more severe. But he is Charlie Swan. A plaid shirt, dusty jeans, and demure smile worn like a uniform. Perfect as a second skin.

"Hi, Mister Swan. Bella said you'd be expecting me."

Ren darts forward and offers her grandfather a brief hug before disappearing over the darkened threshold. A woman's startled laughter rings in the distance.

"Lena King." The offered greeting is little more than a mumble. "Been a long time." His arm waves lazily in a gesture that seems to beckon. I follow him inside.

He leads me in to a kitchen with stark white walls, cabinets that beam a cheery yellow in the afternoon sun. A quaint invitation. The little table we sit at is a solid slab—oaken, brown—rimmed with mismatched chairs and scored with shallow cuts. He makes tea from cheap bags. It's strong, hot, and prepared by hesitant hands. The chief of police offers me his condolences with a practised ease and I am furious to think that such a thing should ever become so simple, so straightforward. He talks in to his mug. The kitsch thing—chipped and lightly stained—is so much easier to look at than my bloodshot eyes, or my quivering lip when he asks about my future. I tell him I have no plans beyond the very next breath I'll take. No design greater than to simply survive the coming days.

"But I can do that here," I say, "with Bella. Plot a course for my future, finally figure out what it is I want to do with my life."

"Wish Bells had spent a little more time doin' that."

"Don't worry Mister Swan, we're still young. Bella's got plenty of time to figure out who she is."

His eyes meet mine. They urge, implore, they burrow away until my throat feels dry, my shoulders feel heavy. "She was just so young." And though he could be talking about her marriage, her child, her retreat into a whole new family that he is not a part of - I know that he speaks of her death. We both understand that this Bella is not his Bella.

There is little to say after that. I leave with an odd sense of foreboding.

I drive until the trees close in on me. They tower and twitch, they blot out the sky, they cover my darkness with their own. Then I see it. The thing. It's black and oily, and streaks across my vision like a shadow made flesh. I gasp without thought. The car lurches then halts. Tight against the wheel my fingers fold and flex, my knuckles pale and pop. The car fills with a sound like a rasping wheeze. It scratches at my ears. It claws and scrapes until I crush my hands to my head to dampen the din. But the noise is inside me. It is me. My own terrified breath struggling out of my mouth, burning my lungs. When I finally think I have regained my composure there is a rap on the window—short, sharp—that starts my panic anew.

The girl is pale and narrow. Her cloak hides all but her face: thin and grey with a broad, toothy smile. Such a haunting vision. She leans forward to tap the window again. It would be quite a pretty picture were it not for her eyes: brilliant and vibrant, stained the colour of mulled wine. I know what she is, what to expect, but my end does not come. Instead, she motions with her hand, one bloodless finger twirling in place. Lower the window. But even as I'm thinking no my hand obeys, the partition falls.

"Hello Lena." This smile is small, close-lipped, and barely dimples her sallow face. "Looking for a little direction?"

___

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#twilight fanfiction #twilight #fanfiction #bella swan #rosalie hale #charlie swan #title:beast at my side

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