Chapter 19
Emmett's living area is drab and simple, a far cry from the glimpse Edward had of Bella's room. A pair of floor lamps in opposite corners casts the room's only light. The walls are a pale, dirty yellow with a few sparse pictures of landscapes in tiny frames. A navy blue couch sits in the center of the room, the cushions sunken and worn, accompanied by a stained coffee table. Against the wall, a smallish television sits on a low cabinet. Muted images of a World War classic flash on the screen.
After disappearing into the dimly lit kitchen, Emmett returns with two bottles of beer. He hands one to Edward before sitting atop the massive, steel strongbox on the wall. He leans back, rips the cap of the bottle and takes a drink.
"Take a seat," Emmett says as if it were a congenial order.
Getting comfortable on the uneven sofa takes a moment. Edward eventually finds a relaxing position, resting against the armrest and facing Emmett. He takes a drink, the beer harder and stronger than he's use to. But the taste is good and it's what he needs.
"Thanks for the beer," Edward says, raising the bottle slightly.
Emmett nods and says nothing.
The quiet permeates. The alcohol buzzes through Edward like an electric current, relaxing his muscles. He wants to speak. This is the first one-on-one time he's had with Emmett, and the desire to get to know him presses against the back of his mind. On the television, one battle ends and another begins.
Emmett stands. "Want another?"
"Sure," Edward says, quickly downing the last lukewarm gulp.
"You killed Jacob," Emmett says from the kitchen.
Edward bristles and sits up, placing the empty bottle on the coffee table. "It was instinct."
"And?" Emmett hands Edward a new beer before returning to the strongbox.
The respite disappears, replaced by returning regret. Scowling, Edward chugs half the bottle.
"And what would you have have done?" Edward snipes as he lowers the drink from his lips.
"Not my job."
The bile of anger bubbles in Edward's throat. Another swallow of beer forces it back down. He sighs. "Cut the shit, Emmett. I'm asking for advice."
Resting against the wall, Emmett closes his eyes.
"My advice is don't apologize," Emmett says, bored and dry. "No one else will. Attempting to decipher a better plan when your plan worked is a waste of energy."
But the plan didn't work, Edward thinks. He runs his finger over the bumps that ring the bottle's bottom. Such callousness is unappealing.
"I still want to know what I could have done differently," Edward says.
"Blown up all three of us. That may have worked."
Mild inebriation and Emmett's audacity make Edward snicker at the response. Regaining his composure, he shakes his head.
"I don't want to use the Kill Switch, though," he confesses.
"You wouldn't do it again under the same circumstances?" Emmett's voice is measured and low.
Edward thinks before answering, replaying everything in his mind. Jacob's face. Alice's frown. His mouth twists in thought. He places the second bottle on the coffee table and entwines his fingers between his knees.
"No," he says. "I wouldn't."
"Too bad."
"I just really hate the idea of it," Edward adds, accepting his need to justify his position. "Threats are a horrible way to lead. Implanting you with a bomb to keep you in line is ludicrous. They have no clue what they're doing."
"Maybe not. Beer?"
"Yeah," Edward says absently, his mind focused on the rant. "A good leader shouldn't have agents go rogue. A good leader doesn't need a kill switch to just get rid of problems. Or use his team as pawns. That bomb in your chest is the result of shitty leadership. I'm going to be better than that."
After handing Edward a new beer, the standing Emmett holds his bottle out, offering a toast. They clink and drink in silence. The credits begin to roll on the war movie, and Emmett grabs the remote to change the channel. The bright colors of the Simpsons appear on the still muted screen.
"So, what's in the box?" Edward asks, hoping his flippant tone hides the forwardness of the question.
"My collection," Emmett says after a pause. "War trophies, mostly."
"No jars of sand?" Edward asks, referencing a military tradition of putting sand from deployments in mason jars.
"Fuck no," Emmett says, the cartoons on the screen reflecting in his eyes. "This collection started before that puerile practice."
Edward glances at the strongbox, fascinated. Standing just above waist heigh and about five feet wide, the stained metal is patterned and riveted with a series of rectangular sheets, forming an irregular grid. Centered on the front, a circular locking mechanism protrudes from the uneven surface. The three visible sides each have inch-thick, rope-like handles, made of twisted steel. It's obviously centuries old, and Edward cannot deny his curiosity about what's inside.
"Very cool," Edward says, attempting to distract himself from the urge to pry further. A series of questions, comments and compliments roll through his mind as he searches for the right thing to say. Given an opportunity to speak privately with the enigmatic Emmett, he doesn't want to ruin it.
"So, I need to ask," Edward starts, "How old are you?"
Emmett gazes around the empty room, his eyes glazed with boredom, and says nothing.
Edward adjust himself on the couch, uncomfortable. "You don't have to answer. I'm just curious. Your file doesn't give much of a history."
"There's too much to give," Emmett says with a shrug. "An accurate history is impossible. The human mind doesn't remember everything. It's an evolutionary defense."
"Makes sense," Edward says, relaxing a bit at Emmett's willingness to answer.
"I can only remember details for a century or two at a time. Everything else is a shade." Emmett leans against the wall next to the TV. He crosses his arms, introspective.
The sparsely decorated walls and the Master Sergeant's statuesque pose reminds Edward of a museum. He says nothing. A commercial for cleaning spray flashes on the screen, followed by one for movie-endorsed action figures.
"I'm not human, though." Emmett says it as an afterthought.
"What?"
"The memory studies were done on the human brain. Not mine."
Edward's face twists at Emmett's self-depreciative statement. "Human enough for me."
"Being supportive makes you look stupid," Emmett says, keeping his eyes forward. "Lilim doesn't view me as human. Neither should you."
"What about before you became an addonexus?"
"I'm not Bella. Me, Jacob, Alice have always been what we are."
"Does that make a difference?"
"It does to Lilim."
"It doesn't to me," Edward says, tempering his directness.
Shaking his head with an emotionless face, Emmett returns to his seat on the strongbox. "I'm not human. The sooner you accept that, the easier this process will be. If I ever thought I was human, I forgot it centuries ago."
Edward's gut tightens in embarrassment as Emmett continues speaking.
"You can placate the rest of the team if it helps you cope, but know you're the only one in the building doing so."
Clenching his jaw, Edward looks away, appreciative of and frustrated by Emmett's insight.
Emmett allows the silence to fill the room. The conversation is engaging enough but he prefers the quiet. He closes his eyes and focuses on his breath; the rush through his nose in to his lungs. It's a peaceful constant through centuries of change.
As his eyes reopen, Emmett watches the tense Edward forcing his attention on the silent television. He taps his thumb against his thigh before swiftly departing into his bedroom. He returns quickly, carrying a large iron key.
"What's up?" Edward asks as Emmett crosses behind him.
Kneeling before the strongbox and saying nothing, Emmett unlocks the antique and lifts the lid. The whine of ancient metal hinges briefly fills the room. Underneath the massive lid, grooves and brackets hold various unseen items wrapped in cloth. Emmett easily lifts out a wooden crate from its cradle at the top of the chest, loaded with more items. Dozens more enshrouded collectibles fill the bottom cavity.
Standing behind Emmett now, the enthralled Edward watches him work.
Emmett's large hand runs slowly above the various collectibles, barely touching the protective material wrapping each piece. The effort to recollect what is hidden beneath each cloth taints his eyes as he searches.
Finally, he grabs one and quickly pulls it from the strongbox. Layered in the stained and worn cloth, it's difficult to discern what the item could be. It's thin, just over a foot long. Emmett speaks as he unwinds.
"I picked this up from the Romans. Before the fall." The cloth falls away, revealing a narrow spear-head made of iron.
"Holy shit," Edward whispers, "That's incredible."
"I don't remember much more about it," Emmett says, shifting his body and handing it up to Edward.
Edward takes it in his hand, careful to use the cloth and avoid touching the relic with his skin. He's surprised by its heft despite the thin frame. It's segmented, with a round base that narrows a third of the way up. From there, the spear forms a long, three-sided pyramid that narrows to a fine point. The three edges are imperfect but appear sharp. It's black surface dully shines in the dim light.
Heart racing, Edward can't take his eyes off weapon. His mind goes numb. It's the oldest item he's ever seen, and the man who handed it to him is conceivably older. Edward runs his thumb over the blade, feeling its ridges beneath the cloth.
"This," Emmett says, carefully pulling out another item, "This you can't touch." He moves to the coffee table, gingerly holding the wrapped rectangle in front of him. Placing it down, he delicately lifts the cloth revealing a vellum page, a bit smaller than a typical sheet of paper. Curious, indecipherable writing frames small diagrams that look like weapons.
"What's that from?" Edward asks, sitting on the edge of the couch. He holds the spear-head in his lap as he leans over to view the parchment.
"Western Europe, if I recall correctly." Emmett says, scanning the page. "Pre-Columbus, I know."
"What's it say?"
"Don't know. I forgot it if I ever did."
Edward shakes his head in awe. The thick, sickly yellow vellum is astounding; the type of thing an exhibit would center around. After several quiet moments lost in observation, Edward clears his throat.
"Thank you," Edward says.
"No problem, sir." Delicately, Emmett covers the parchment and returns it to the strongbox. He returns with another item, an etched stone. Then another. For hours, Emmett presents his incalculable collection to the team leader. Each antique reveals another layer of Emmett's untraceable history.
It is after midnight when Edward departs. His mind floods with the history he witnessed, held, as he drives home. He cannot sleep that night.