(Author's Note: I'm going to lead by saying thank you for clicking on this story despite my horrible summary skills. I a) haven't read the Twilight books in years, and I only watched bits and pieces of the first few movies, and b) haven't written a story in a long while. But, I do my research before starting a story, so it should be fairly accurate. Feel free to ask questions! This is going to be a slow build, though hopefully not too slow – it's going to mainly be a romance fic, but there are action bits as well. The story (the first part of this story, at least) is written in its entirety, and I'm just going through and doing final edits before I post the chapters. I hope this is a fresh take on things, prepare for some set up; the first few chapters are going to get a little introspective. The main pairing here is JasperxOC, because he's rad with mentions of AlicexBella (though it's by no means the focus of the story), because I always thought that'd be cute. This will follow the normal timeline of the books.

I had a lot of fun writing this, so I hope you like it!

Warnings: Swearing ahead, violence and drinking and smoking, mentions of sexings in later chapters. All the good stuff, right?

Anyways, tl;dr, I'm an over-explainer, story time.

This novel of an author's note won't be a regular occurrence. Be gentle with me, I haven't done this in a while! :3

Disclaimer: I only own my original characters and my own plot, everything else belongs to Stephanie Meyer.)

Goodbye

I regard my reflection in the mirror, a new habit of mine. Never used to do it much – no time in my line of work to wonder if my lipstick is smeared or my hair is a mess – but now it's a too-often occurrence. I feel like I have to memorize every line and curve of myself, like burning that image into my memory will prevent me from fading away – dying I'm not so sure about yet, but getting sick, looking sick? Nah, I'm good. I pull at my unkempt hair, once a Mohawk and now a short shaggy mess on my head, and when I'm done with that I pinch at my face; every movement I make in the florescent bathroom lighting makes my tattoos seem to glow across my flesh. Garnet red and fathomless black crisscross in a seemingly endless pattern, lines mixing with runes mixing with magic, and even those aren't half as extensive as the ones that are barely visible to the naked eye – the ones that look like faint scars in the sunlight; those seem to literally glitter on nearly every visible inch of my skin, among the actual scars from a life forged in the heat of battle.

My tattoos – the marks of a Hunter – they'll buy me a little life, even though they're probably the thing that caused this whole mess. Now they're going to be a semi-savior. Not that I need saving – we're all dying, right? Even the ones who claim immortality; everything comes to an end eventually.

There's always a back end to everything, a point where things that once worked just…Stop. Forever has one of those, too. I have to believe that, at least – time as an endless loop is just too much for me to wrap my mind around. Sometimes I ask myself how much living I have left, and the answer comes almost instantaneously; what does it matter? I've been dying since birth, what makes now any different? I've got a shorter expiration date? After the shit I've been through…I'm surprised it's taken this long to put me down. And the baddies aren't even doing it.

I'll be dead soon. Soon-ish – a year and some change maybe. There've been plenty of times I wished for death, begged for it in the darkest reaches of my past, and now that the belated request is coming to pass I wish I could have just a little more time to make up for the mistakes I've made. Getting that fucked diagnosis really made death a real concept for me, something I can succumb to and not just deal in. And it's sounding more and more like a raw deal. After all, who can say what happens after the end? If it's really an end, there isn't really an after.

If that's true, then what about the alternative – is it any better? Immortality, living out the rest of forever…It's not really an option for me, and even if it was, I don't think I could do it. Even with the few things I have to hang onto in this world – two friends thousands of miles away and a job that's now getting harder with each hunt – I'm going to have to lose that alone once. Could I do it over and over as centuries pass, solitary and sullen? Then there's my past; coming to terms with that as forever takes on a more literal meaning would put a new spin on things. Time has a way of obscuring the past, of making you think and rethink things until they aren't exactly how they were, but they are how you remember them being – and those two aren't always the same thing. I might feel rage at what was done to me, but as a mortal I'd rather be dead than forgive John for his transgressions against me, for hurting his own flesh and blood. Would I want that feeling – that memory – to change, given the chance?

The answer to all of these questions is hell no.

"Time to do some ass-kicking while it's still left in me." I smile as I say this aloud to the reflection in the mirror, pearly whites shining brightly, sounding slightly hopeful at the thought of dying in battle and not sick in bed. So I'm a little fucked up, a little bit of a sick-bitch; I wasn't born like this.

This is what was made of me.

I turn from my reflection, grab my keys, and unlock the rest-stop door. I get more than a few stares as I strut to my beat up old Geo; like they've never seen a girl in ripped up jeans, combat boots and a black crop top before – it's Los Angeles, for Christ's sake. They're lucky it's just my stomach showing. Never mind the fact I'm covered in tats, right? I don't pay them much mind. For most of my life I've been looked at as an outsider, and stranger's opinions on things they don't know a thing about don't carry much weight with me.

Green paint is chipping away nearly everywhere on the Geo Metro – it's been through quite a lot with me. I pop open the door and climb into the duct-tape patched seat; there are still parts where the adhesive is giving up the ghost and the innards of the seat are spilling out, but that's just character. That's what I tell myself, anyways; beats saying it's just a piece of shit.

I toss a glance into the backseat, letting my gaze rest upon a journal lifted from my most recent quarry – miscreant vampires – and my mind wanders to the towns mentioned therein. Olympia and Seattle are troublesome targets, big cities are always a pain in the ass to hunt through…But my mind wanders to the third on the list.

This hunt is getting ridiculous; I need to see a man about some venom.

Jagged metal bites sharply into my thumb as I twist the top off my beer; the hiss of carbonation I'm met with soothes my frazzled nerves, but not nearly as much as the first frosty swig.

"How long you been at this one?" William Alford, my second oldest friend in the world; his wizened face crinkles into a smile as he addresses me, sun-worn skin wrinkling around his gray eyes. I've been in his apartment above his shop all of twenty minutes, and after a warm hello, he proves he still knows me best; a cool six-pack of beer sits on the table between us as I inform him of my latest hunt.

I take a moment to answer Liam, mostly so I can wrap myself up in his calming English accent for maybe the last time, and partly because I'm ashamed to answer, "A month. Too long. They've gotten away four times. New York, Vancouver, Salt Lake City, then again in San Diego…Three vampires, and they are giving me more fucking trouble than a den of werewolves during a full moon," I scoff before taking a hit off my brew, "What is the world coming to?"

"Language, mon petite chat," the old nickname makes me giggle – I've always loved cats, and he'd been quite fluent in French once upon a time, "you haven't been this impatient since your first mark." The old alchemist across from me props his dusty old boots up on his work table, assessing my barely concealed embarrassment as he lights his tobacco pipe. The scent, acrid, musty, and comforting, brings me back to my teenage years. I lived here with him then – that life seems a million years away, sandwiched between bad memories.

"Yeah, that's because I haven't felt this green since my first mark." I take another drink, relishing the cool sensation running through my body. Los Angeles always was way too warm for me, regardless of the season – doesn't help that using witch blood and beast blood and venom for tattoo ink ensures a higher than normal body temperature.

"I don't want to make assumptions," he takes a long inhale off the pipe; when the smoke pours out of his nose adding to the white stubble dusting his chin he looks quite like a dragon, knowledgeable and ancient, "but wouldn't you rather be spending your last day's alive doing something less….Macabre?"

"News travels fast with you old biddies," I rub absentmindedly at the peak of my first tattoo, at the base of my skull, "What should I do instead? Guess I could always be one of those tatted up strippers." I snort, ever lady like – and drain the rest of my beer before grabbing another from the six-pack on the table. Not like I hadn't done it a few times before – the stripping or the beer. The thought is chased with another drink.

As my only acting father figure, he looks as displeased at the mention of taking of my clothes for money as I could've imagined. His mouth is a thin line as he replies, "Is that the only thing you can think to do?"

"Like I said, I'm open to suggestion." Silence consumes us as he continues puffing away on his pipe; I can tell he is thinking, hard, about other things I could be doing. He's wanted more for me than this sham of a life, more than being a world traveling vagabond; Liam's always wanted more for me than I've wanted for myself. I always imagined going back to this life after leaving it was like a slap in the face to him, but he's reaching the same conclusion now that I did years ago. I was built for this. There's no other life for me beyond the occult.

Well, there is, but I tried it and it really sucks – and considering everything I know is tearing things up and burning them down, that's saying something.

Through the silence I pull absentmindedly at the label on my beer, and when it's in tatters I look up give him a sly glance, "Still got that venom Bryn left you? I'm gonna be needing a new mark." My other oldest friend – the oldest, considering he was turned back in the eight hundreds, during the beginning of the Viking Empire.

At the mention of rustling through the familiarly chaotic room around us, he rises from his chair with a twinkle in his eye. I settle back into my seat, arms folded across my flat chest, as Liam flits about his laboratory; he's still spry for a sixty-two year old mercenary veteran. It gives me time to appreciate him and his work, for maybe the last time. He's been my father figure even before he took me in; I've never met a more gentle soul. Or a better alchemist, but I don't often tell him that; proud bastard doesn't need help inflating his ego. I remember the day I showed up on his doorstep, a knobby-kneed fourteen year old with too many tattoos and an attitude so serious I put the supreme court to shame; he helped me come out of my shell, out of the life I'd been forced to lead. I owe him that life as it stands today, though considering the circumstances I don't know that it counts for much.

He finally stops moving about and settles a beautiful crystal vial with a silver stopper wedged in the top in front of me on the surface of his burned and battered work table, a fluid that looks as unassuming as water lurking underneath, "This is the same supply of venom Bryn left for you. Humor an old alchemist and tell me your next mark - and where you'll be heading next, of course."

I pick up the glass and remind myself to get in touch with Brynjar again; especially after how our last conversation ended, "You're a life-saver, Liam."

"If only I was, Rory," I turn myself away from his sad expression, uncomfortable and unable to bear it. Instead of pressing the issue of my impending doom farther, he moves to stand in front of me and looks at me expectantly, awaiting answers. Typical William Alford; always has to know everything.

"I'm headed to Washington. The three I've been hunting are headed up towards Seattle, but they might stop in Olympia. The journal I swiped from their last location has a slight mention of a coven up there; I don't doubt that's where they'll head for backup if I catch up again. I hate discounting the help, but I can't bank on them being friendlies. If I'm going to be going up against more than the three of them, I want a little insurance."

"What if they are friendlies? And that still doesn't explain the tattoo, or where you'll put it," his sharp eyes search the skin he can see on me in academic interest, "You're running out of room."

"Can't you tell when I'm trying to avoid a question?" I ask dryly, snatching up his matchbook and pulling out a smoke of my own. I figured I'd take up smoking for stress relief; not like I have to worry about getting more cancer. Taking a long drag, I sigh, "It's another ward for the pain, non-combat use, and I've still got some space on my neck; if I need to do my face then fuck it, right? I'm dying anyways," I gesture at the cigarette in my hand before taking a slow drag – the smoke feels heavy in my lungs and the pleasant buzz is instant. "If the coven up there turns out to be alright, well," In an effort to try to make light of my current state, I smile wanly," "it's going to be a short partnership, if they even want one."

"So you would stick around for a watchtower job?" Liam perks up at this, finally seated behind his desk with a beer in his hand once again, looking pleased as punch, "Never thought I'd see the day the infamous Amory Belmont would decide to settle down."

I groan, "My body did all the deciding for me. This…Might be my last hunt." I drain my beer and wish fervently that it's something a bit stronger. I spot the satisfied look on his face and narrow my eyes, "Might be. I don't know. If the circumstances are right when I get up there, why not?"

"I'm glad to see you finally willing to slow down, if only slightly," a sad, wistful expression crosses his countenance. "I just wish it was because it was something you wanted."

I don't want this. Don't want to admit I'm getting weaker, or stop what I've been doing for years. Change is hard. But, the things I want usually cause my utter destruction, so maybe it's best that this is a little reluctant.

Might as well make the most of the last of my days; silver linings.

We both grab our final beers from the six-pack between us, and we're both slow to drink them – we both know what's coming next. Goodbyes are always the worst, especially when they might really mean whatever eternity is worth.

"Look, this…It's probably the last time I'll be down here," the last time you'll see me alive is what I mean, but I don't need to say it, I can see the thought reflected in his misty eyes.

He surveys the books littering his work space, "Are you sure there's nothing we can do? Modern medicine may have failed you, but – "

"I've researched ways to stop this; spent all my free time pouring through old texts. I haven't drummed up anything. I'm dying…There's nothing anyone can do." I shrug, and I can feel my eyes water slightly, "I appreciate you wanting to keep me around."

William draws himself out of his chair, crosses the table to me, and pulls me up to give me a bone-crushing, heart wrenching hug. It says all that needs to be said; I love you like a daughter, I can't stand the thought of you wasting away. His scent, the scent of old tobacco and acerbic ingredients, slams me back into my childhood. I grab at the back of his shirt, fisting some of the material like I did when he picked me up as a kid. We stay that way for a few minutes, lost in nostalgia and heartache, before he finally speaks, his voice rumbling his chest against my ear, "The world will be dimmer without you in it, Rory. But with you in Heaven, the stars will shine even brighter."

I'd been holding back my tears pretty well until that; as soon as my nickname leaves his mouth with that broken tone, I lose it. With the floodgates now open, I try not to let him know how shattered I am at this possible last farewell by playfully smacking his shoulder, "You're delusional if you think I'm going anywhere other than Hell."

He pulls back and grins mischievously, tears glinting in his eyes as he winks, "Well, in that case the flames will burn just a bit hotter."

I laugh and he lights up at the sound; just like when I was a moody teenager refusing to smile and he'd catch me off guard with a joke. "You, sir, are a terror. And I think you might have missed your calling as a poet," I pull away from him and stretch out to full height, a whole foot under Liam's six five, and nod at the man before me, "It's appreciated, Liam, everything; you've done more for me in these years than I've done for myself. What do I owe you?"

He presses the vial into my hands, knowing better than to ask me to stay; he knows better than anyone that I'm notoriously stubborn once I've made up my mind, "Nothing. Just, if you do make it up to that little town and decide to stay, let me come bother you a bit."

I embrace him, trying desperately to stop the flow of my tears, "Of course; it's been more than an honor, William Alford. I've yet to meet a finer alchemist."

He smirks, and it momentarily erases the age and care suddenly prominent on his face, "Damn right."

"I know you hate it when I do this, but…I love you, dad."

I can see the thin veneer of everything is alright break behind his eyes. With one last hug, he places a kiss on the crown of my head, "I love you, Amory. Give 'em hell."

I nod as we part, and pause only to pick up my holster – beat up leather in a faded black; far more convenient to carry than a purse and not nearly as cumbersome as a backpack. I make sure my phone and I.D. are secure within the left side pocket and then head for the door. Liam sees me off in my beat up Geo with one last hug from the driver's seat. I settle my hands on the sun-bleached steering wheel and start the engine, and there's suddenly a dull ache building in the pit of my stomach; something is pushing me to go to Washington, and I don't think it's just this hunt anymore. I need to go there, to get to the bottom of the sudden vortex of weirdness I find myself in. I can almost hear Liam in my head at the thought

Be careful, mon petite chat – curiosity is the curse of your kind.

but as I turn into major traffic, I let those happier memories slide away and get ready for what might be my last ride.