Natasha's first marriage was too intense, and her second one was pretty safe—but way too bland. Her husband worked in the city, she was a sheriff in a nearby town. On holidays, the five of them would go on trips. Life wasn't amazing, but it wasn't bad either.
"Should we start giving them more chances to spend time together?" Natasha casually nodded toward the middle-aged couple chatting in the distance.
Bella was startled. This kind of thinking clashed with her values. She wanted to say no, but she knew her words wouldn't carry much weight.
Love is free, marriage is free—don't ask questions. Ask anything, and the answer will be: freedom.
She sighed. "Do whatever. I don't care."
Natasha also looked a bit down. "I've already switched schools four times following my mom. By the way, how's the school on your side?"
Bella rolled her eyes. "I'm literally on the way to transfer now, what do you think? I'll tell you once I get there."
Their quiet gossip still caught the attention of the middle-aged pair.
The mustached man quickly stood up. Looked like he wanted to give Bella a hug, but they hadn't seen each other in years, and the father-daughter bond had worn thin. Plus, he was the reserved type, so all he managed was, "Hey, Bella, are you okay?"
"Hey, Charlie."
Bella's reaction was bland. They didn't seem like father and daughter—more like acquaintances who got along okay. But Charlie didn't notice anything wrong. That's just how they used to interact.
They had once argued over how Bella should address him. Charlie had won that time—he made her call him "Dad" in public, but didn't care what she called him in private.
Bella didn't know about that. She just called him by name like she saw in the diary of her former self. Charlie figured she must be shaken from the crash, so he didn't bother bringing it up.
They had nothing else to say. The Swan father and daughter said goodbye to Natasha and her mom—they still had to sign some no-travel and no-talking-to-the-media agreements.
"Bye, Charlie."
"Yeah, bye, Samantha."
Natasha made a calling gesture to Bella as the Swans turned and left.
They signed a bunch of agreements. Bella didn't forget the other survivors she had helped.
She couldn't set up a group chat, so she gave many of them her MSN. They kept in touch on and off.
Thanks to her, they started a support group called "Flight 180 Survivors' Mutual Aid Association." The goal was to help the families of the victims, and also use the association's name to hire lawyers and sue the airline for compensation.
Bella wasn't used to MSN, but it was only the year 2000—Facebook didn't exist yet, so she had to make do.
Flying from Phoenix in the south to Seattle in the north took four hours, then a smaller plane flew another hour north to Angel Port, and from there it was a one-hour drive to Forks. That's the plane route.
She remembered something about a 40-day safe period. Probably the American Grim Reaper got brainwashed by democracy and studied the Bible—remembering that forty days symbolized death.
That period was supposed to be safe, but Bella still refused to get on any planes. She'd rather waste time on a train than set foot in an airport.
Trains were slower, but Charlie didn't complain. Not flying made sense. After surviving such a horrific crash, who would dare fly again? He sighed and bought tickets to take his daughter north by train.
After the Swans left, Natasha's whole family of five also left.
They weren't really involved in any of this—the FBI dragged them in for political reasons.
They didn't need to sue the airline. Instead, Stark Industries gave them a $100,000 check. A thank-you fee and hush money. Even the gloomy husband smiled when he saw the check. All five of them were thrilled—free money was free money.
Other survivors left one after another. The brunette Claire Redfield got picked up by her older brother.
He was tall and muscular, with sharp eyes and intimidating muscles.
"I'll get in touch with some friends and keep digging. I think this was caused by some kind of missile. There should be a clue in the passenger list."
Chris Redfield was a tough soldier, skilled in all kinds of modern weapons and good at hand-to-hand combat. He was sure the crash was caused by some kind of high-tech weapon.
His theory was similar to the FBI's. But not everyone agreed.
Professor John Grey left the hotel with his suitcase.
At the corner, he stepped into a black stretch Lincoln.
"Charles, old friend, thanks for coming to pick me up."
Bald, in a dark blue suit, sitting in a wheelchair—the leader of the mutants wore his usual gentle smile as he looked at his old friend and colleague.
"What you described on the phone was too strange. I had to see it myself."
John Grey trusted his old friend's abilities. He immediately asked, "Did you find any clues? If you did, please tell me. Hundreds of lives are at stake."
Professor Charles Xavier looked unsure how to explain. He spoke slowly. "I scanned the scene. It wasn't Erik. It definitely wasn't Jean—she's still at the school. It wasn't any mutant I know. But I did sense a chaotic psychic force. Its thoughts were jumbled, totally unfamiliar. I've never seen anything like it. I need more time to study it."
He paused. "Maybe Ororo's abilities can help. I'll ask her to return to the U.S. soon."
People good with guns think in terms of weapons. People with powers think in terms of abilities.
The Flight 180 incident wasn't the end—it was the beginning.
Bella's journey to Forks went smoothly.
Forks was in the northwest corner of Washington State, on the Olympic Peninsula. No one really knows why the colonists gave it that name—maybe they liked sports, or maybe they liked ancient Greek culture.
The peninsula was covered in clouds year-round, with constant rain. You'd be lucky to see the sun for a few days in the whole year. The rainfall was insane.
Bella's mom got fed up with the gloomy weather and moved south with baby Bella. After that, every summer, Bella would spend a month in Forks—until she turned fourteen.
It had been four years since she was last there. And now, the drums of fate were beating again.
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