Chapter 97: TS/SAP-WH-2023-5826A
"Carl. Jeff."
President Mitchell's voice carried the quiet authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. His gaze swept over the two Secret Service agents flanking the secured elevator, their postures straightening instinctively at his approach.
"Mr. President," they responded in unison, their voices clipped, professional.
Carl, the senior of the two, moved first. Without hesitation, he pressed the call button, triggering a soft chime as the reinforced steel doors slid open with smooth precision. Unlike the controlled chaos of the West Wing just a hallway away, this corridor was silent, insulated—a stark contrast to the whirlwind of activity that defined the White House.
The President stepped forward, his expression unreadable as the cool, recycled air from the elevator shaft brushed against his skin. The agents remained stone-faced, their presence both a formality and a necessity.
With a final nod of acknowledgment, he stepped inside. The doors sealed shut behind him with a quiet hiss. Inside, there were no visible buttons—just a sleek scanner at eye level. He moved toward it, letting the system scan his iris. A soft beep followed, signaling verification.
"Situation Room," he instructed.
The elevator dinged in response, and a moment later, he felt the subtle jolt as it began its descent, heading deep beneath the White House, where the real matters of national security were handled.
This would be his first official intelligence update since his private meeting with Starshield three weeks ago. In that time, she had left Washington, D.C. behind, moving across the country—her presence surfacing in ways far removed from the high-profile events that had first introduced her to the world.
Unlike her previous appearances, each one seismic in its implications, Starshield seemed unconcerned with grandeur or spectacle. She simply acted, responding to need wherever she found it, whether the cameras were rolling or not.
None of her recent appearances had been televised; they existed only in footage captured by bystanders with their cell phones. Of her most recent actions, the one that had stood out the most had taken place in St. Louis, Missouri.
A man had collapsed on a street corner, clutching his chest. Starshield must have been nearby, as she swooped in before anyone could even call for help. She flew him straight to the hospital, where doctors later confirmed that it was her quick intervention that had likely saved the man's life.
Another incident had occurred near Graceland, of all places. A woman had crashed her car in a violent, single-vehicle accident, the wreckage twisted and crumpled around her, trapping her inside. Firefighters had been moments away from deploying the jaws of life when Starshield descended from the sky. After a brief exchange with the first responders, she acted—not with force, but with absolute precision. In a single, impossibly clean motion, she literally sliced the car in two, the severed metal parting as though cut by an invisible scalpel. Within seconds, the crumpled shell of the vehicle floated away, leaving paramedics an unobstructed path to reach the woman without delay.
But it wasn't just emergencies that seemed to draw her in. One particular video had gained attention online—grainy footage taken from a home's second-floor window, capturing a street corner in the middle of a heavy downpour. An elderly man stood at the bus stop, hunched against the rain, his thin coat offering little protection as he waited.
Then, Starshield arrived.
She hadn't done anything dramatic. Nothing grand or heroic. She had simply stepped beside him, her shield expanding to cover them both. As they waited, she spoke to him—her posture at ease, her presence as natural as if they were old friends.
And then, as soon as his bus pulled up and he was safely inside, she vanished just as swiftly as she had appeared.
The contrast was striking. From life-or-death rescues to the simple kindness of keeping an old man dry—her actions painted the picture of someone who followed no grand strategy, no political agenda. She simply helped.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing another long corridor. Two military guards stood at rigid attention, their presence a stark contrast to the more discreet security upstairs. These men carried automatic weapons, their grips firm, their postures unyielding. Their expressions were unreadable, faces set beneath the weight of their duty.
They never wavered. Never shifted. Not even a flicker of movement.
In all his years walking this path, the President had never once caught them in anything less than at perfect attention.
He offered a crisp salute as he passed, his steps steady, the rhythmic echo of his polished shoes absorbed by the reinforced walls. The atmosphere here was different—colder, more severe.
Up above, the White House hummed with politics, diplomacy, and the ever-present chaos of leadership. Discussions ebbed and flowed, shaped by ambition, alliances, and public perception. But down here, in the secured depths beneath it, the world operated on the hard edge of reality. There was no room for theatrics, no place for grandstanding—only decisions, strategy, and consequences.
As he neared the door to the Situation Room, his mind turned once more to Starshield. For all the questions surrounding her, she seemed to be holding true to her word. She helped when she could, made no demands, sought no recognition. And beyond that, she simply lived—existing somewhere between myth and reality, choosing peace and anonymity over power and spectacle.
If only the rest of the world could leave it at that.
So far, that hadn't been the case. Instead, the world was in a frenzy, desperate to devour any scrap of information about the enigmatic woman who had upended everything people thought they knew—about the world and their place in it. In less than two months, a near cult-like following had formed around her, and it was only growing stronger. He didn't particularly like that. And judging by their conversation, he doubted Starshield would either.
She hadn't spoken publicly since their meeting… really, other than that first day in Los Angeles, she hadn't addressed the world at all. But when she did, he hoped she'd use the opportunity to temper the fervor of some of her more obsessive supporters. The last thing anyone needed was blind fanaticism, especially when no one—not even Starshield herself—fully understood what her presence on the world stage meant in the long term.
Becky had been showing him some of the websites she liked to visit dedicated to Starshield. He knew his daughter was spending way too much of her free time absorbed in all things Starshield—and if it got any worse, he'd have to put his foot down. It seemed like whenever she wasn't doing her schoolwork, she was watching clips, reading theories, or rewatching the video of herself soaring around the Oval Office. Truth be told, he liked to watch that too, especially before going to sleep. Seeing the pure joy on his daughter's face always made sleep come easier, giving him a moment of peace before the weight of the world settled back onto his shoulders.
Becky kept asking when he was going to invite Starshield back to the White House. And every time, he reminded her—there was a time and place for everything.
And now wasn't the time.
The moment he entered the Situation Room, he noted with some satisfaction that the renovations were finally complete. The sterile, white-walled utility of the past had been stripped away, replaced with something warmer. Rich wood paneling now lined the walls, giving the space the feel of a private study rather than the small, uninspired classroom it had resembled when he first stepped into it three years ago. This was the room where the hardest decisions were made, where classified intelligence had the power to alter the course of history. And he believed—no, he knew—that he and future presidents would do their jobs better in a space that felt lived-in. Grounded. Real.
His thoughts on the décor vanished the moment the room's occupants rose to attention.
"Good afternoon, everyone," he greeted, his voice carrying the steady authority that had guided the country since his election—and, if things went well next year, for another four years. "Let's sit. I'm eager to hear what you have to report."
And he meant it. His Chief of Staff had made it clear—this wasn't a routine update. There was real intelligence. Something urgent. Something big. The meeting had been classified at the highest level, reserved only for the most sensitive matters of national security. If it had been just another briefing, they would have handled it in the Oval Office. And it wouldn't have required the presence of the top heads of the U.S. intelligence community.
As he took his seat at the head of the table, the rest of the room followed suit, a quiet rustle of chairs against the carpet. Before him sat the directors of the CIA, FBI, NSA, and Homeland Security—each with their second-in-command standing behind them. These were the people who worked in the shadows, protecting the country from threats foreign and domestic. If they did their jobs right, no one would ever know just how much they had prevented. They saw dangers before they turned into disasters, shut down threats before they ever made headlines. And today, they had gathered to brief him on something critical.
The President let his gaze drift over the faces around the table, searching for any tells, any subtle shifts in demeanor that might hint at what was coming. But they gave him nothing—stone-faced, composed, impossible to read. That, more than anything, put him on edge. This briefing was about Starshield, and he hoped—deeply—that he wasn't about to hear anything disturbing. He had quite liked her. More than that, he had believed her. And for the nation's sake, he prayed she truly was who she portrayed herself to be.
"What do you have for me, men?"
The President asked, eyeing the classified dossier waiting for him on the table. The bold TOP SECRET stamped across the folder's cover left little doubt—what he was about to learn could shape the rest of his presidency and, more importantly, impact the American people he had sworn to serve.
As his gaze lifted, he caught the sharp, unimpressed look from Rebecca Jackson, his Director of the CIA. Realization struck a split second later—he'd misspoken. Three of the four intelligence agencies seated before him were headed by women, and his outdated phrasing had not gone unnoticed.
He exhaled through his nose, offering a slight, self-aware smile. "Sorry. What do you all have for me?"
Jackson gave the barest incline of her head—but it was the FBI Director who spoke first.
"Mr. President, after your meeting with Starshield, we initiated a comprehensive search, cross-referencing every available database within the United States. By adjusting the parameters Starshield herself provided—possible age, background clues, known movements—we've eliminated all possibilities except one."
She paused, reaching forward to tap the folder in front of her.
"We are certain, beyond any doubt, that Starshield is, in fact, Isabella Swan. Born in Forks, Washington, on September 13th, 1987."
Silence followed, the weight of what he'd just heard settling over him. He looked down at the document with new eyes, the implications unfolding in real time. It seemed this briefing was going to be full of revelations.
"If you open the file," she continued, "we'll walk you through exactly what we've uncovered."
His hand hovered over the folder for a beat before he finally reached for it, his fingers trailing over the bold red stamp emblazoned across its surface. TOP SECRET.
Once he opened it, he knew there would be no turning back.
He flipped open the intelligence dossier, marked TS/SAP-WH-2023-5826A, and his eyes immediately fell on a large 8x10 image of a young woman, smiling. It looked like a school photo, most likely from a high school yearbook.
His brow furrowed. This was supposed to be Starshield?
The name beneath the photo read: ISABELLA SWAN.
He studied the image, searching for any trace of the woman he had met three weeks ago. Maybe—maybe—he could see the faintest resemblance in the jawline, the curve of her cheekbones… but that was where the similarities ended.
The girl in the picture was ordinary. With brown hair, soft features, and a polite, innocent smile, she looked like someone who would blend into a crowd rather than command the world's attention. There was nothing otherworldly about her, no striking perfection, no indication of the sheer power and control he had seen firsthand.
Starshield, on the other hand… she was something else entirely. She didn't just stand out—she commanded attention. Her features were impossibly flawless, her presence unnervingly composed, as if she moved through the world untouchable. The difference between the two was so stark, so absolute, that for a brief moment, he wondered if he had been given the wrong file.
His fingers tapped against the table before he looked up, scanning the faces around him.
"Okay… tell me about this Isabella Swan—and why you believe she is Starshield. Because this girl and the woman I met look nothing alike."
A brief pause followed before the Director of the FBI cleared her throat. "Isabella Swan was born to Charlie Swan and Renée Higginbotham. Her father is the Chief of Police in Forks, Washington—a small township on the Olympic Peninsula. Her parents divorced when she was four, and from that point forward, she primarily lived with her mother in Phoenix, Arizona, until she graduated high school."
She slid a hand over the open file in front of her. "Her early life is... unremarkable. There is nothing to suggest a connection to the woman we now know as Starshield. By all accounts, Isabella was an ordinary girl. Academically, she performed at the top of her class, but she showed no signs of anything exceptional."
The President flipped the page, scanning Isabella's early records. "So you're telling me there's nothing?"
The Director exhaled. "The only detail that stands out, sir, is her medical history. Isabella Swan made an unusually high number of hospital visits as a child."
His head lifted. "Hospital visits?"
"She was accident-prone, sir. And fell down... a lot."
The President arched a skeptical brow, glancing back at the photograph. "So you're telling me the woman who flew into space and stopped a building from collapsing was, once upon a time, best known for tripping over her own feet?"
"Yes, sir."
He shook his head slightly. "And after high school?"
The Director's expression shifted. "That's where things get interesting."
She gestured toward the next page in the folder. "After graduation, Isabella enrolled at Boston University, majoring in literature. She completed her first year without issue. But around her twentieth birthday, she abruptly left school—and never returned."
The President's fingers stilled against the table. They were finally getting somewhere. He nodded for the FBI chief to continue.
"Two days after her birthday, her father contacted the Boston Police Department to report her missing. He and her mother hadn't been able to reach her and were concerned for her safety. But the next day, he called back to withdraw the report."
The President's expression sharpened. "Why?"
"He told authorities that Isabella had reached out to her mother and assured them she was fine… but that she needed time to 'find herself.'"
The room fell into silence.
"And then?" he prompted.
The Director shook her head. "Then… nothing. We could find no digital footprints. No travel records. No financial activity. It's like Isabella Swan disappeared. She fell completely off the grid."
The Homeland Security Director cleared his throat, drawing the President's attention. He turned toward John, his old friend from their days in the House. If John had something to add, he wanted to hear it.
The President gave him a nod. "Go ahead."
John leaned forward, folding his hands atop the table. "Mr. President, I think it's worth noting that Isabella Swan's disappearance coincides exactly with an event Homeland Security investigated years ago—that unexplained explosion in central Massachusetts."
That got his attention. Straightening in his seat, the President's expression sharpened. He remembered that event well. He and John had served on the House Subcommittee that had looked into the incident. "Yes, the one that was initially classified as a failed terror attack."
"Yes, sir." John nodded. "As you know, at the time, Homeland Security was scrambling to make sense of what had happened. The blast had the same destructive force as a small suitcase nuke, but with none of the usual signatures. No radiation. No chemical residue. Just... destruction. It was unlike anything we'd ever seen before. And despite years of analysis, our nuclear scientists still haven't cracked it."
The President frowned. He remembered how the intelligence community had been thrown into disarray trying to make sense of it. And it seemed they still weren't any closer.
John exhaled before continuing. "This is just speculation, sir… but what if it wasn't an attack at all? What if it was something else? Isabella disappeared in Boston—which isn't that far from where the incident occurred."
Silence settled over the room.
John met the President's gaze, his expression unreadable. "If she was somehow there, if she was caught in or near that blast... maybe—that's how she became Starshield."
The words lingered in the air, heavy with implication.
The President's jaw tightened. "But there's no way to know for sure."
"No, sir," John admitted. "Not unless we ask her."
The President sat back, his fingers steepled as he considered the facts. That explosion had never sat right with him. Every classified report he'd read, every briefing he'd attended—they had all led to the same dead end.
Truthfully, he hadn't thought about that incident in years. But as he turned it over in his mind, another thought intruded—something from his meeting with Starshield.
At the time, it had only seemed like an offhand comment. He had asked about her glowing hands and what would happen if she pushed herself further—expelling more power, as she had put it. Starshield had only smiled, but he hadn't missed the look in her eyes or the way she had deflected instead of answering.
Now, though, he couldn't shake the feeling that she had, in fact, answered him.
His stomach tensed. If he was right—if his line of thinking was even close to the truth—then she had been right. And it was nothing he would ever want her to do in the Oval Office.
The FBI Director's voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him from the rabbit hole he had been tumbling down.
"As we noted, Isabella was off the grid for several years. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she resurfaced in Phoenix, living with her mother again. She applied for new identification, claiming she had lost all her previous documents." The Director gestured toward the folder. "If you turn to the next page, you'll see her new identification."
The President flipped the page—and his breath stilled.
A scanned copy of an Arizona driver's license stared back at him. Below it, the inside cover of a passport. But it wasn't the documents that held his attention. It was the photos.
There was no doubt now.
The girl from the high school yearbook was gone. In her place was a woman who was unmistakably Starshield. The same flawless features. The same impossible symmetry. The only difference was the absence of her mask.
The President studied the image, his gaze tracing every detail. He had already thought her striking when they met in person—but seeing her like this, unmasked, frozen in time by the sterile lens of a government camera, only reinforced what he already knew.
She was, without question, the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.
He looked up from the file, finding every eye in the room trained on him, waiting for his response.
"Alright. Isabella is Starshield." His voice remained steady, cutting through the silence. "What else do we know?"
The FBI Director continued, her tone measured. "Since then, there's been nothing of note to report. For a few years, her activities seemed normal—until she dropped off the grid again and has never resurfaced."
She let the words settle, scanning the room. Though every intelligence agency present had contributed to the report, the officials remained motionless, their focus sharp—absorbing the details with the kind of intensity reserved for those hearing it for the first time.
"Given what we now know, it's reasonable to assume she's been living under a new identity. The clearest reason why... Isabella Swan isn't aging."
The weight of that statement lingered in the air.
"Isabella will be turning thirty-six in a few months, yet the woman in that photo—the woman we know as Starshield—still looks exactly the same as she did at twenty. Not similar. Not well-preserved. The same."
The President's fingers tapped lightly against the folder in front of him. He had already accepted the impossible when it came to Starshield, but this... This was something else entirely. Even after she had admitted it straight to his face, it was difficult to wrap his mind around. If it was true—if she really didn't age—then keeping any kind of anonymity would be a never-ending battle. She would always have to be on the move, forced to walk away from whatever life she built for herself before anyone noticed.
And yet, despite that, she still risked everything, believing that the gifts she had somehow been given were meant for a greater purpose—not to serve herself, but to help others.
That kind of life... it couldn't be easy.
He exhaled slowly, letting the thought settle as the Director pressed on.
"To confirm this theory, we ran a biometric scan using the most recent driver's license issued to Isabella Swan." She tapped the folder in front of him. "And we got a hit."
She flipped to the next page. "To a Marie Smith, who enrolled at UNLV as a freshman in 2017 and graduated with honors in 2021." She met the President's gaze. "It's worth noting, sir, that Marie is Isabella's middle name."
The President turned the page, his eyes flicking over the details of her academic record. She was certainly a go-getter. He was surprised at the sheer number of courses she had taken—and how she had earned straight A's across the board. Yet, as he skimmed through, there was nothing to indicate she was anything more than an overachieving student.
Then, something caught his eye. A small note buried in her file.
She had volunteered for the UNLV chapter of Mitchell for President—one of the student groups that had helped with campus outreach during his campaign.
A slow, amused smile tugged at his lips. Well, no wonder he liked her so much.
His gaze drifted over the rest of the page. Whatever path she had taken to get there, one thing was certain—Isabella Swan had finished her education. A decade later, and under a different name, but she had finished it.
The NSA Chief cleared her throat before speaking. "Mr. President, on a hunch, my team discreetly hacked into Chief Swan's phone. If you recall, Starshield mentioned she was in the Northwest, which is how she was able to reach the cosmonaut in time. Given what we'd learned about her, we suspected she may have been visiting her father. If you turn the page, you'll see we were right."
The President flipped the page.
The first image showed Starshield—or rather, Isabella—standing beside an older gentleman in uniform. There was no resemblance between them, at least not anymore, not after whatever had happened to her. But that wasn't what struck him the most.
The man—her father, Charlie Swan—had his arm draped over her shoulder, his smile was small, but his eyes told the real story. Pride, warmth, and unconditional love. The look of a father who adored his daughter.
The President felt an unexpected sense of kinship with the man. He had taken enough photos with Becky to recognize that expression instantly—the quiet, unshakable pride of a father with his child. A father and his daughter—the way it should be.
The thought lingered as he moved to the next picture.
And then his breath stilled.
The background remained the same, but now Isabella was standing with someone else. A young man.
They both looked happy. Relaxed. And if he guessed correctly, in love.
As his eyes swept over the little details in the photo, he caught the way Isabella's hand lightly brushed against the man's.
But it wasn't their body language that held his attention—it was him.
The young man had the same impossible symmetry, the same otherworldly presence as Starshield. His features were flawless, striking in a way that didn't belong to ordinary people. Whoever he was, he wasn't normal. He was just like her.
The President exhaled, his gaze lingering on the image before looking up at the table. "Do we have any idea who the young man is?"
A brief silence followed before the NSA chief answered, her tone edged with frustration. "None, sir."
Her eyes flicked back to the image as she shook her head. "We ran his face through every available facial recognition database, but we came up empty. As far as official documentation is concerned… this man doesn't exist."
The President, seeing the briefing folder had reached its final page, closed it and looked up at the agency heads seated around the table. "Alright. Excellent work, everyone. Now comes the hard part. What conclusions do you have for me?"
A silence settled over the room. The intelligence chiefs exchanged glances, but no one spoke immediately. It was clear that while each of them had opinions, none wanted to be the first to voice them.
Finally, the Secretary of Homeland Security cleared his throat and leaned forward.
"Mr. President, at this point, we have to acknowledge that everything Starshield has told us—and the public—has been the truth. Of course, she has withheld certain details, most notably whatever happened to her in 2007, but she was upfront about that.
What we do know for certain is that she was human—and now she isn't."
He paused, weighing what mattered most for the President to hear. "We took a deeper look into both of Starshield's parents' pasts to see if anything stood out. The only notable incident involving her father was an unusual explosion in 2012 when he responded to a robbery attempt.
During a heavy gunfight with multiple armed suspects, an unexpected explosion ended the conflict. Remarkably, Chief Swan walked away without a scratch. He reported that the criminals had detonated a large amount of explosives inside the store, but the fire marshal couldn't determine what kind of explosives could have caused the level of destruction observed.
At the time, though, there was no reason to question Chief Swan's account, and no further investigation was conducted."
The President processed the revelation, leaning back slightly in his chair as he weighed this new information.
"There's something else, sir," the CIA Director interjected. "Isabella's mother, Renée, also seems to have disappeared—much like her daughter. In 2016, she boarded a flight to Paris, but as far as we can tell, she never returned to the United States. We could find no trace of her current whereabouts."
She glanced at her file before continuing. "Interestingly, her property in Arizona is still in her name, but aside from the taxes being paid by a third party, there's been no direct activity linked to her since then."
The President's brow furrowed. "And yet, when Starshield was on the space station, she made a point to greet both of her parents."
"Yes, sir," the Director confirmed. "Wherever Isabella Swan's mother is, it seems she's still alive and well."
The FBI Director adjusted her glasses before speaking. "Mr. President, as part of our investigation, we also conducted searches for any unexplained or unusual events in areas where we believe Isabella lived. One incident stood out."
She let the words settle for a beat before continuing. "In 2020, a young boy went missing in the Grand Canyon. Thankfully, he was found safe the following day, but his account of what happened raised some questions."
The President tilted his head slightly. "What kind of questions?"
"The boy claimed that an angel came down from heaven and flew him to safety," she stated evenly. "At the time, authorities assumed he was confused, likely hallucinating from dehydration and fear. But search-and-rescue teams did report hearing a woman's voice calling out, alerting them to the boy's location. Yet when they arrived, there was no woman to be found."
She gestured toward the folder. "The Grand Canyon is not far from UNLV. Based on the timeline and location, we believe it's highly likely that the woman the search teams heard was, in fact, Isabella Swan."
The President exhaled slowly, tapping a finger against the folder as he absorbed the information. "A lost child in the middle of nowhere," he murmured. "And she made sure he got home."
The Director gave a small nod. "That's what we believe, sir."
A silence settled over the room; everything that needed to be said had been.
The President sat deep in thought, absently running a finger along the folder's edge until he flipped it open, his eyes landing once again on the human visage of Isabella Swan. Her life had not followed the path she might have imagined. Yet, she had fought through every challenge thrown her way and, through sheer will, had transformed herself into something greater—a modern-day superhero.
He let everything settle—every revelation, every implication, every unanswered question. He turned it all over in his mind, weighing it against his own impressions of Starshield from their private meeting weeks ago.
The woman he had spoken with had been composed, direct, and, above all, honest. If anything, today's briefing had only reinforced that.
Finally, he came to a decision.
"Alright." His voice was firm, carrying the full weight of his office. "First, I want to thank each of you for your diligence. This was an exceptional effort, and I appreciate the speed and precision with which you gathered this intelligence."
He exhaled, nodding slightly as his course of action solidified. "Now, this is what we're going to do."
He let his eyes sweep the room, ensuring he had their full attention.
"This briefing, and everything discussed within it, is to remain classified at the highest level. No leaks, no whispers, no further discussions beyond this room. That is not a suggestion—that is an order."
He allowed a beat of silence before continuing.
"Furthermore, I am officially ordering all ongoing investigations into Isabella Swan and her family to cease immediately. Every line of inquiry is to be shut down. No further searches, no more surveillance—nothing. We will respect her privacy. We will not pry into her past, her family, or what she has become."
His fingers tapped against the table once, punctuating his next words.
"I trust her."
The words felt right as they left his mouth.
"Everything we've seen, everything she's done, tells me she is exactly what she appears to be—a genuine hero. She risks her own privacy solely to help others, without demands or an agenda. And frankly, we would be doing this nation a great disservice if we ever found ourselves on her bad side."
His expression darkened slightly.
"We cannot afford to make an enemy of her. Not now. Not ever."
He leaned forward, bracing his forearms against the table.
"Let's be clear: I have no doubt that Starshield is even more powerful than she has demonstrated so far. I truly believe that if she wanted to, she could reduce this planet to rubble. But the world got lucky. Whatever happened to her—whatever she's become—could have happened to anyone. Now imagine if it had been a criminal, or someone without morals. Instead, it happened to a young woman—an upstanding citizen who, by all accounts, has chosen to use her abilities for good."
He shook his head, the enormity of it settling on him once again.
"Yes, we got damn lucky."
He let those words hang in the air before straightening in his chair.
"Our focus needs to remain on human affairs. Starshield and—whoever her people are—will handle their own. That is not our concern." His gaze swept the table, his expression unyielding. "What was said here today does not leave this room. Is that understood?"
A chorus of firm acknowledgments followed.
The President exhaled, feeling the weight of the moment settle over the room. The decision had been made. And he was certain it was the right one.
He let his gaze move slowly from one cabinet head to the next, taking in each expression around the table. No one looked as if they were biting back a challenge to his decision. If there had been any lingering doubts, it seemed the briefing had put them to rest.
Satisfied, he gave a small nod, mostly to himself.
"Truly excellent work, everyone." His voice carried a tone of finality. "I know many of you had your justified concerns regarding Starshield when she first made her presence known. And I won't lie—so did I."
His hand moved to the folder in front of him, closing it with deliberate finality. The image of the human girl-turned-superhero disappeared beneath the thick cover, replaced only by the stark red lettering stamped across the front—TOP SECRET.
"But I believe the intelligence you've gathered should put many of those concerns to rest."
He let the words settle, giving them the weight they deserved.
"The reality is we now know who she is, where she came from, and what she's been doing with the extraordinary powers she wields. And from everything we've seen, she has given us no reason to doubt her intentions."
He adjusted his cuff, glancing at his watch, noting the time.
"Now, I'll let you all get back to the job you do best—protecting this country."
Relief settled over him—his instincts had been right. Everything Starshield had told him was the truth.
He had always trusted his ability to read people, to see past words and into the substance of their character. After his meeting with Starshield, he had believed her. What she had revealed had not been easy to hear. She described a world he had never known existed and exposed truths he would have rather not been real. The fact was, if he had harbored any doubts about her, he never would have allowed Becky anywhere near her. He was glad he had made the right call.
Pushing back his chair, he rose to his feet, prompting everyone else at the table to do the same. A nod of acknowledgment passed between him and his assembled advisors, each of them knowing their work here was done.
As he made his way toward the door, his hand fell on his old friend's shoulder. No words were needed—a simple nod conveyed his appreciation for the work that had gone into this matter. Then, without another glance back, he stepped out of the room, leaving the weight of the briefing behind him.
After making his way back up to the White House, the Secret Service agent stationed at the entrance stepped aside, pulling the door open for him. The instant he stepped through, the familiar hum of the West Wing hit him—dozens of overlapping conversations, the clatter of keyboards, the constant ringing of phones. The pulse of a government that never truly rested.
He smiled. Chaos or not, it was a well-oiled machine. And, thankfully, his part in it—for today, at least—was done.
Knowing this had been his last official meeting, he turned toward the stairs leading to the residence. Becky should be home by now. Decision made, he moved quickly, weaving past staff before anyone could stop him with a last-minute request.
The moment he stepped into the private residence, he loosened his tie, exhaling as he finally allowed himself to relax. The weight of the day—from classified briefings to surprising revelations—settled somewhere behind him. Here, in this space, he wasn't the President. He was just Thomas Mitchell. Or, as he preferred to think of himself—just Dad.
He found Becky lying on her bed, school papers spread around her, her pencil tapping absently against the page. Leaning against the doorway, he knocked lightly on the open door.
She looked up, her face brightening the second she saw him.
He grinned. "Hey, sweetie."
"Hey, Dad!" Becky's voice was light as she looked up from her math packet.
He stepped into the room, taking in the scene before him. The scattered worksheets around her bed, some spilling onto the floor, made it look like a tornado had blown through—but beyond that, it was the bright pink Starshield T-shirt that caught his full attention. He had only just bought it for her last week, yet it already looked worn in. She must have been wearing it to sleep every night.
He moved closer, sitting down on the chair beside her desk and offering an easy smile. "How was school today?"
Becky shrugged, kicking her feet idly against the pillows behind her. "It was fine."
Her answer was automatic, but the quick flicker of her eyes away from him made him pause.
"Just fine?"
She hesitated, lips pressing together before looking back up at him. "Well… Mrs. Williams gave us a surprise English test, and it was kinda hard. But I think I did okay."
Pushing off the chair, he leaned in closer, kissing her forehead, then ruffling her hair. "I bet you did better than okay. You always do."
That earned him a small, shy grin, and he felt a familiar warmth settle in his chest.
"Well, don't let me interrupt your homework." He nodded toward the half-finished multiplication and division tables. "I'll be in my room if you need anything. Otherwise, dinner's in about a half hour. And I happen to know the chef's making your favorite tonight."
Becky's face lit up instantly. "Mac and cheese?!"
"Mac and cheese." He couldn't help but laugh as she pumped her fist in victory, then turned back to her worksheet, suddenly much more motivated to finish.
"See you at dinner, sweetheart."
She waved without looking up, already too focused to spare him a proper goodbye. He chuckled, shaking his head as he turned and made his way to his room, leaving her to her work.
Back in his room, he stretched out on his bed, a thick folder of briefings resting on his lap. The pages detailed the latest developments in the Middle East—escalating tensions, fragile negotiations, the ever-present threat of conflict. He skimmed the first few lines, but his focus wavered, the words blurring together before he could fully absorb them. With a quiet exhale, he leaned back against the pillows, letting the folder rest against his chest.
His gaze drifted, settling on the empty space beside him.
The familiar ache pressed against his ribs, quiet but constant.
Blinking, he shifted his focus, turning his thoughts toward Becky. Every day, she was becoming more and more like her mother. The way she carried herself, the little expressions that flickered across her face when she was deep in thought—he saw it all. And she was growing so fast.
Too fast.
A pang of sadness crept in at the realization that her childhood was slipping away faster than he was willing to let go. In a few short years, she'd be a teenager, and he knew all too well what that would bring—new freedoms, new challenges, and eventually… boys.
At least by then, he would no longer be President.
He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Becky had already spent most of her childhood living in a bubble, constantly watched, constantly protected. He had done everything in his power to give her as normal a life as possible, but there were limits. Still, he took comfort in the fact that, despite her unique circumstances, she had at least chosen a strong role model.
Starshield.
If Becky had to idolize someone, there were far worse choices. She had latched onto Starshield the way he had once clung to his own childhood superheroes. But Starshield wasn't fiction. She was real. And Becky wasn't alone. Millions of young girls—young people, really—were watching. Seeing Starshield use her abilities not for power, not for recognition, but simply to help.
Maybe... hopefully... Starshield would inspire a new generation of boys and girls to do the same.
A small smile tugged at his lips, the weight of the day's revelations settling differently now. He now knew the woman behind the mask... Isabella Swan had never set out to change the world, yet somehow, that was exactly what she was doing.
And whether she realized it or not, she wasn't just making history.
She was shaping the future.
And for the millions of lives her actions would influence, he was grateful.
I hope you enjoyed the chapter! This was a big one with everything the government uncovered, and I'd love to read your comments.
Good news for those eager to find out what happens at the vampire gathering in Volterra! Originally, I hadn't planned to include it in the story, but after several of you asked for it, I've decided to make it happen. Nothing has been written yet, and it wasn't in my original draft, so I'll be starting from scratch—but I've already come up with some really fun ideas.
That said, it will probably take me a little longer to update again since I'm building this part from the ground up. But next chapter, we're heading back to Volterra!