Due Revival

Introduction

50 score years is a long time to forget. For humans, a lot can happen – things change, people adapt. Countries fall, stars cease to exist. For humans. However she was not human and she has not been one for more than six hundred years. For her, nights bleed into weeks and then into years and eternity is not some fable or myth that humans create. Eternity just is. So when the new world opened up and swallowed the old one whole, she took to it like she took to industrialisation and capitalisation, without worry about stolen moments or snatches of happiness being taken from her unceremoniously. She had eternity; she could create those moments any time she wanted. If she had learnt anything through her countless years, it was that suffering never ended and different periods were due revivals...

Prometheus 5 - Las Vegas, New America in the New World. Year 3010.

"Do we have Prometheus 5? Or have I been gone so long, the world has turned on itself, again?" The urge to wretch hit her, a strong powerful wave that threatened to uproot her from her seemingly confident stance. Asking that question, post-sleep, had taken almost everything out of her and, so did the possible answer no.

"We do, ma'am. The world is as it is: ours as we still remember it to be. How are your lungs?" The elder human, Tarquin asked, slightly annoyed but not showing it as his commander wrote him off with a wave of her hand.

"Worry less about an immortal and more about what I can do for PMT5, now that I am out of deep-sleep." She considered herself adaptable. She even thought of change as something amusing. A brief hint of uncertainty reared its head as she remembered how one change has made an indelible impact on her current routines. How one insignificant crush had caused such an upheaval. She still suffered the brunt of its demise. Shaking off her rumination, she continued to listen to the updates offered by Tarquin.

"Oh yes, do ladies still wear hateful corsets and glitter stiletto boots? I have a ball to attend I believe." She asked, as she left the room with Tarquin racing to keep up with her contradictory quick pace.

Unknown - Amsterdam, Netherlands in the New World.

He paused in mid-step, feeling the brush of a familiar tingling at the back of his head. A soft mental tickle, like the re-awakening of his truly dead synapses. He remains frozen, hand still clutching the laser bow.

"Barn" He said in his mother tongue. A word he has not used in more than a millennium and has no need for in a hundred years.

Old Orleans, New America in the New World. Year 3010.

The ball had an old feel, unlike what the remaining elders were accustomed to now – dazzling, glittering and intergalactic. Old Orleans was true to its name: nostalgic with a sort of arcana that breathed string music and the 1800s. It also served humans. As beverages.

Classy.

For Wilheim the First, it was apropos.

For Pamela it told a different story – hers was a siege long over, PMT5 had lost and in doing so, Wilheim would reap the benefits of her failure. She was bitter. Having wretched the portion of a cow after suspended stasis and being told that Compton had fallen in the final battle, she was to take his place as leader of Prometheus and bear the brunt of Wilheim's punishment, Pamela was just about ready to walk in sunlight.

Having felt nothing left of her maker's bond with her, not expecting to after how bitterly and final they had separated 900 years ago, Pamela Swynford De Beaufort was well and truly alone. And that was how he found her.

"My lady."

Not yet, Wilheim, not ever. "Wilheim."

"Come now, does 10 score years truly make a difference to how we should interact with each other? You are truly cold-blooded."

She pauses, unsure of how much he will allow her, "No, but killing Bill and brutally taking the lives of 900 of my men has certainly affected how I am going to talk to you." In for the kill, then.

He merely lifts an eyebrow before laughing, "Ah, Pamela, you entertain me. Really. And if you did not already sign the license, I would gladly kill 900 more, just for the pleasure of your eternal company." He kisses her on the cheek before leaving her alone, in the balcony, bitterer than when she first entered.

"Be ready in five minutes. I would like to announce our merger, wife."

"Fucker." She breathes out the breath she did not realise she was holding, wishing she had Eric Northman, Viking Warrior, there as her counsel. But the span of years in perfect quiet told her he had truly gone to Godric. And with that, Pamela quiets the ache and quells the bitter memories of their parting and the shocking jolt of feeling their ties severed, and goes out into the awaiting crowd.

Tarquin Talbot was submissive and mellow and he hated that about himself.

He was analytical and if he were just a little more assertive, he could have prevented all of this: The war with the behemoth feudal city Cronus, Bill's pride and imperial rule that led to sacrificing 900 able-bodied men and vamp, Pamela's depression and resulting stasis, accepting the summons from Wilheim the First – Elder vampire from even before Jesus existed – and subsequent capitulation in the war treaty.

As Helena stood by him, as they listened to Wilheim's announcement of the Cronus-Prometheus merger and the Machiavellian union between himself and Pam, all Tarquin could do was grip the stem of his wine glass unless it bent.

However, if he were anything more than human, he would have felt the undercurrent stirred by the quiet entrance of his queen's maker.