I received a message about some petition on M rated fics. To my knowledge they're getting pulled, correct? Not that I'm all that worried, but I signed it regardless. You should too. Jump on the bandwagon! Check out ShortBritches85's profile, etc, etc. Review to the petition, etc, etc.
In the very south eastern end of La Push, there is a court house. This court house is old, marginally rusted, and outdated. The upholstery has long been rotted; the wooden chairs withered; the ceiling cracked and dusty.
In this court house, despite its outward appearance, is where the entirety of La Push's decisions are made. Though the rally for its rebuilding had long ago been vetoed, it still stood with an air of authority. The bricks that held up its frame were oh-so intimidating to the naked eye, along with the high pillars that stood with undying nostalgia.
Generations of packs and their children have ruled with an iron fist in the white halls of its insides. The public (those without the genetic impurity in their line) always wondered why officials were never elected to the top of the political food chain. Never had there been a vote in which they decided who sat at the highest peak of the township.
They opted to believe that if those who made all the decisions did a good job with it, then it was not their problem. An arrogance had struck deep in their black hearts, and they disregarded it with a firm anchor. They were simple-minded, you see. Their utterances went unnoticed as time flew by them, and the officials stayed where they always had. At the top. The paramount of their counterproductive lives. (If they couldn't get past the town's government, what made them think they could move upwards to something in a higher degree, stately perhaps?)
The 'head' of the town's government was a man name William Black, or as the country bumpkin towns folk knew him as: Billy Black.
But what is a government without a figurehead?
The real man behind the mischief was an inept man of the name Desmond Bly, a caricature of a strong-willed, accepted councilman. He had been wed to a woman that he long since despised, along with two children that he wasn't the slightest bit proud of. In reality, he was the only one he admired, and that would never change, no matter how saggy his skin got or how many numbers time swept unto him.
Did he tell distorted truths? Oh, of course, as he should! The county did not need to hear what the actuality of everyday situations were... Those were only reserved and befitting to the council, not the snippy little populous he had grown to hate. But what did Desmond Bly adore? Why, you must have guessed it, power. In his decrepit hand, he held what he always desired since he was just a young lad: the aptitude to control others as he saw fit. Now, the other councilmen were not aware of his intentions, but then again, who would be? Who would assume that a stocky old man had such nefarious longings?
Not the rather dense congregation, I'll have you know.
Except for one.
Seth stormed into the mid-morning air, the screeching sun sending his red-brown skin to gold. Hands at his sides, he moved with the least bit of grace to his truck, which had rusted over before he was born. He clambered inside and slammed the door shut. The tight seat belt was taut against his chest, but he ignored whatever he had felt. In his rush for answers, he had omitted such details. He had experienced a dizzying epiphany once he had awoken from his reverence-induced haze of sleep, and vowed that if he did not know the answers, then he would fine those who did. And he would get his answers.
But he had not fit in his impulsive behavior into the equation. His mind had neglected to inform him of his impetuous manner, as it always seemed to do when he needed it most.
When his truck rolled to a stop in front of the aged tribunal, he leaped out of its confines and stomped up the steps, the boiling anger in his chest ceasing to quit. Wrenching the doors open, Seth crossed the tan carpeting and rolled his way into the inner court, mouth scrunched into a fine grimace.
The old men, all who were nearing their late fifties except for one Billy Black, turned to him, their eyes alight in dulled rage, as if they had seen so many things in their pitiful existences that nothing was quite enough to anger them fully. They all wore an expression that was equivalent to a mask of hindered fury, but that did nothing to stop one Seth Clearwater's tirade.
His young legs carried him to the center of a circle in which the councilmen sat around him in high-backed chairs. He wondered idly if they wore powdered wigs when no one was around.
Wetting his chapped lips, he said aloud, "It's pretty obvious that I've got some questions."
Desmond Bly, as uptight as he was, clenched his elderly fists with partial strength. His tongue clicked listlessly in his rotted mouth. Lips pulled back in an acute sign of repressed animosity, and he leaned forward.
"What are your questions?" He found himself clever for his words, as the other councilmen would have demanded what answers the youth wanted in particular. Clever, indeed.
Seth narrowed his caramel eyes. "I only want answers for my questions, not your noise."
Desmond shook his head slowly. "What makes you think that you deserve that level of respect, boy?"
Seth rolled his tongue around in his mouth before speaking in a voice so like his late father's. "I am related to this council, as are most of the pack. Either a relative has been in this tribunal or one of us ourselves. We are deserving of the answers we question, are we not?"
Desmond was not amused. "You are not."
Seth bared his teeth. "Bitter, are we, Bly? Harboring some composed feelings? Isn't it such a downer that your generation was skipped? That we, the children, received the gift while you did not?"
"I will not argue with you about something that is not liable to this court." Desmond said, folding his hands. Seth nodded curtly.
"I expected as much from you, Bly."
Malek Savst, Paul's uncle, a man who would die from either a heart attack or Seth's own hand in five months time, inclined forward. "What questions do you have, Clearwater?"
"Tell me, councilmen, what secrets have you kept from the pack?"