ofthefamily: (empty gray field)
Dr. Carlisle Cullen ([personal profile] ofthefamily) wrote2009-03-25 09:30 am

1922, Pittsburgh.

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 two floors up from Carlisle's rounds as the newest doctor on call, I have to go pay a housecall.

With clouds descending over Pittsburgh, Carlisle takes a walk.

[identity profile] sparklepires.livejournal.com 2009-03-25 01:57 pm (UTC)(link)
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.
themidnightson: (Not Pleased)

[personal profile] themidnightson 2009-03-25 02:09 pm (UTC)(link)
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.

[identity profile] sparklepires.livejournal.com 2009-03-25 02:21 pm (UTC)(link)
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?

[identity profile] sparklepires.livejournal.com 2009-03-25 02:39 pm (UTC)(link)
"You're not. And you've drawn attention to yourself, after all these years."

The messenger stops, turns to face Carlisle. He wants to go home, and strolling with someone like this is not his idea of a pleasant evening.

You've turned someone. Era il suo cantate?
themidnightson: (Strange Enchanted Boy)

[personal profile] themidnightson 2009-03-25 02:49 pm (UTC)(link)
Anatomy ends and he misses it, ten seconds twenty seconds thirty, until a hurrying briefcase hits his shoulder and he's ignoring, with a half frown half sneer, the apologies of a peer who doesn't matter at all.

Everything seems to gather in his hands without trying, without noticing. He's trying to hear but they are so far away and he doesn't know who the other person is -- the other person who's speech is in Carlisle's head; talking about what? Why would that cause Carlisle stress?

He can't get closer. Carlisle's words keep him shackled to this being as close as he could should if he's listening. He walked toward the front of his building, looking toward the overcast sky, trying to read the Carlisle's reasoning and the person Carlisle was interacting with, trying not to obliterate the days props in his hands.

[identity profile] sparklepires.livejournal.com 2009-03-25 03:22 pm (UTC)(link)
The messenger laughs. A low, smooth thing; heavy velvet. It could have been comforting if it weren't for the nearly-nonexistant light of the street that still managed to reveal perfect red irises.

"And you never will."

The message is this: never return to Volterra, Carlisle Cullen. You left of your own accord after you started to become noticed. You made yourself disappear. You would do well to remember why that had been necessary.

They would like to be saved from the circumstance of killing you. Though if you continue to find such talents...


Before Carlisle can react: Yes, we've seen your boy's gift. Now that there is a second, who knows what they might bring?

[identity profile] sparklepires.livejournal.com 2009-03-25 03:50 pm (UTC)(link)
English is insufficient.

Grande Carlisle Cullen, il primo degli stregoni benefici, gioco del medico con gli uomini, con una famiglia.

The messenger smiles back.

How disappointing, he projects into Carlisle's mind before disappearing.
themidnightson: (Wary)

[personal profile] themidnightson 2009-03-25 04:03 pm (UTC)(link)
"You did."

It's nearly silent and tight.







"Your guest?"
themidnightson: (The Lion)

[personal profile] themidnightson 2009-03-25 04:14 pm (UTC)(link)
Edward didn't say anything to that. Perhaps because it's the best answer to an order he can't say he'll listen to and doesn't feel apologetic about not following this time.



He's casually leaning against the front of the small general store next to the hospital. At least he looks it to a normal person. To at least one specific person, the casual posture is far too still and his hands are too tight on the things he's holding, and his golden gaze is hard, concerned-confused-volatile, even though it lacks the ability to be darker than a stunning gold-amber today.
themidnightson: "That's Edward Cullen." (Default)

[personal profile] themidnightson 2009-03-25 04:20 pm (UTC)(link)
He raised his eyebrows at the last part, a flare of annoyance touching his confusion. "Because?" But he's pushing off the wall and nodding toward the sidewalk where he headed toward from his own spot.
themidnightson: (Words: Shine on you prissy diamond)

[personal profile] themidnightson 2009-03-25 04:28 pm (UTC)(link)
"You weren't."

Past tense specific.

It doesn't matter where they head.

They just start walking in that direction.

Edward irritably watching the people watching them.



"They couldn't have written you a dramatically worded letter instead?"
themidnightson: "Why did she have to come here? Why did she have to exist?" (Uncertain of you/your intentions)

[personal profile] themidnightson 2009-03-25 04:37 pm (UTC)(link)
There are too many questions.

"What happens now?"






(And when can he stop asking this one.)
themidnightson: (Not Pleased)

[personal profile] themidnightson 2009-03-25 04:45 pm (UTC)(link)
"Hardly," Edward said, meeting the eyes of a man watching them walk by, with a scowl. The lackey's regard for Carlisle and the regards of the one's who had sent him had made it harder for Edward to stay where he'd been so long.
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