Natasha's mother's first marriage had been too intense; the second was safe—maybe too safe. Her husband worked in the city. She served as police chief in a nearby town. On holidays, the family of five traveled together. Not amazing, not terrible—just… ordinary.
"Think we should create more 'opportunities' for them?" Natasha nodded toward the laughing man and woman, completely casual.
Bella nearly choked. That was so far from her own values. She wanted to refuse on instinct—but she also knew her opinion meant little.
Love is free. Marriage is free. Don't ask questions. If you ask, the answer is always "freedom."
She sighed.
"Do whatever you want. I don't care."
Natasha looked equally weary.
"I've transferred schools four times following my mom. By the way—how's your school?"
Bella rolled her eyes.
"I'm literally on the way there. Ask me after I arrive."
Their whispering drew the attention of the adults.
The mustached man sprang to his feet—he definitely meant to hug Bella, but years of distance and mutual awkwardness stopped him short. He settled for:
"Hey, Bella. You okay?"
"Hey, Charlie."
The reaction was polite, ordinary. They didn't look like father and daughter—more like acquaintances who got along decently. But Charlie didn't notice anything wrong. This was how they had always interacted.
Once upon a time, they'd even argued about how Bella should address him. Charlie had won—insisting she call him "Dad" in public, whatever she called him in private didn't matter.
Bella didn't know that, so she stuck to what the diary showed—just his name. Charlie assumed the plane disaster had shaken her, so he let it slide.
There wasn't much to say.
The Swans said goodbye to Natasha and her mom—they still needed to sign several liability and non-disclosure forms preventing them from leaving the state or talking to the media.
"Bye, Charlie."
"Right… bye, Samantha."
Natasha made a little "call me" gesture at Bella. The two groups split ways.
Bella signed a stack of papers, and she didn't forget the passengers who survived because of her warning. She couldn't make a group chat, but she gave out her MSN to a bunch of them. They could keep in contact if anything happened.
Under Bella's suggestion, they formed the Flight 180 Survivors Mutual Aid Association—a support network for the victims' families, and a legal front so they could hire attorneys and sue the airline.
To be honest, Bella still wasn't used to MSN, but it was the year 2000—no Facebook yet. She'd manage.
Flying from Phoenix to Seattle took four hours, then a one-hour hop to Port Angeles, then another hour drive to Forks.
That was the plane route.
But Bella remembered the "forty-day safe period." Probably this American Grim Reaper had read too much biblical symbolism—forty days representing death and purification.
Even though it should be safe, she refused to get on a plane. She'd take a slow train if she had to. Charlie didn't blame her—who would dare fly again after surviving something like that? He sighed, bought tickets, and boarded the northbound train with her.
Once the Swans left, Natasha's family also departed.
They had nothing to do with the disaster. They were dragged in because of political optics. They didn't need to sue anyone—Stark Industries handed them a $100,000 check as a thank-you plus hush money. Even Natasha's usually gloomy stepfather smiled after seeing the number.
Meanwhile, most survivors left one after another.
Claire Redfield, the brunette, was picked up by her older brother—a tall, heavily built man with sharp eyes and intimidating muscles.
"I'll find some friends to help. This was definitely caused by some kind of missile. The passenger list must hold clues."
Chris Redfield was a hardened soldier. Expert in weapons, trained in combat. In his view, no way was this a simple accident—had to be some advanced weapon.
His theory matched the FBI somewhat.
Others, however, had very different suspicions.
Professor John Gray pulled his suitcase behind him, walking alone out of the hotel.
At the corner, he stepped into a long black Lincoln.
"Charles, old friend. Thank you for coming."
Inside the limo sat a bald man in a deep-blue suit, calm and kind-eyed—the mutant leader in his wheelchair, wearing his trademark gentle smile.
"What you described over the phone was strange enough," Charles Xavier said softly. "I had to come."
John Gray trusted his old friend's abilities deeply.
"Did you find anything? Please—if you did, it concerns the lives of hundreds."
Charles hesitated, searching for the right words.
"I scanned the site. It wasn't Erik. And certainly not Jean—she's still at the school.
It wasn't any mutant I know. What I sensed was… a manic psychic force. Chaotic thoughts. Something I've never encountered before.
I'll need to investigate further."
He paused.
"Perhaps Ororo can provide some insight. I'll have her return to the States immediately."
People who loved guns saw answers in weapons.
People who wielded powers saw answers in abilities.
The Flight 180 incident wasn't an ending.
It was a beginning.
…
Bella's trip to Forks went smoothly.
Forks lay in the northwest corner of Washington State on the Olympic Peninsula. No one remembered why the early settlers named it that—sports fans or Greek mythology enthusiasts, perhaps. No way to know now.
The peninsula was shrouded in near-permanent clouds. Rain fell in long, weary stretches. Sunshine was rare—a handful of days each year. The rainfall was legendary.
Bella's mother had been driven half-mad by the gloomy weather. She'd grabbed baby Bella and fled south. Every summer since, Bella had returned for a month—until she turned fourteen.
It had been four years since she last set foot here.
Now, the drums of fate thundered once more…