1922, Pittsburgh.

[ofthefamily]

The trail of bodies is indistinct and only a trail at all if you knew what you were looking for. No human did.

When dead-on-arrivals start coming in from the Southside Slopes on a daily basis instead of sporadically, with wounds no one can explain --

Edward, Carlisle thinks carefully to the bronze-haired boy sitting in a second-year anatomy class

Comments

[sparklepires]

He is a good soldier. It was why he was sent; he can control himself. Kill when necessary, and realize that sometimes it is beneficial to remain as discreet as possible when attempting to approach such as Carlisle Cullen.

He also has the best spoken English out of any of the soldiers, though he hates it on the whole.

Hai fame, Carlisle? he thinks as he hears Cullen walking up the steep staircases edging the woods of the Slopes.

[ofthefamily]

Carlisle isn't hearing thoughts. Not actively. Someone is shoving their thoughts at him; holding up placards behind his eyelids.

He freezes, takes a gamble.

Edward you stay away and don't come near me whatever you do or hear you go home you go to Esme and you stay away

Carlisle yawns politely, staring at least nominally at his watch while trying to discern a figure moving in the shadow of the woods.

[themidnightson]

It only takes the beat of half a second and anatomy is forgotten entirely for what is happening almost far enough away from him that he can't hear the thoughts that search him out. He can't respond. Oh, he could, but unless he broke something truly large and explosive Carlisle wouldn't hear him.

His fingers gripped the edge of his arm wrest, straining.

[sparklepires]

A minute thud -- there, down from a tree. A voiceless man in a dusty overcoat and boots.

Carlisle Cullen. The Volturi pay their respects. I come with a message.

He hasn't come out of the woods onto the street yet.

Would you walk?