CHAPTER 3: BUILDING A LIFE
POV: Peter
Peter woke to the sound of rain against canvas and the immediate, crushing awareness of his own weakness.
His hand went to his chest—searching for the superhuman strength that had been there twelve hours ago—and found only the dull thud of a mortal heart. Human. Breakable. Pathetic.
The tent smelled of mildew and old sweat. His sleeping bag was damp, clinging to his legs like a second skin. Outside, the forest was a wall of gray, rain drumming against the trees with relentless monotony.
Twenty-four hours, Peter thought, staring at the sagging tent ceiling. Twenty-four hours of being a god, and now I'm back to being a worm.
His throat didn't burn anymore. The vampire thirst had vanished with the transformation, leaving behind only the ordinary human need for water. His vision was dull, his hearing muffled, his body slow and clumsy and wrong.
He hated it.
Peter forced himself upright, joints cracking in protest. The tent was barely large enough for him to sit without hunching, and his head brushed the ceiling as he reached for his jacket. The fabric was still damp from yesterday's run through town, and putting it on felt like wrapping himself in a cold, wet embrace.
Get up. Move. You've got work to do.
The Cullens had offered shelter—Esme had practically begged him to stay in their house—but Peter had declined. Accepting their hospitality while lying about the System felt like crossing a line he wasn't ready to cross. Better to keep some distance. Better to maintain the illusion of independence.
Even if that independence meant sleeping in a shitty tent on land he'd stolen through supernatural compulsion.
Peter crawled out into the rain and stood, letting the water soak through his clothes. The cold bit deep, making his bones ache, but it was grounding. Real. This was his baseline now—human, mortal, vulnerable.
For another nine mimics, the thought whispered. Nine more abilities until you can lock something in permanently. Nine more transformations until you're not completely helpless when you're human.
His stomach growled, sharp and insistent. Vampires didn't need food, but humans did, and Peter's body was making its demands known. He had maybe twenty dollars in his pocket—bills from his old world that had somehow worked at the diner yesterday—and no way to get more except...
Peter looked toward town, obscured by trees and mist, and felt something cold settle in his chest.
Compulsion.
The word tasted bitter. He'd used it yesterday on the waitress, on the real estate agent, and both times it had felt like cheating. Like taking a shortcut through someone else's free will. But what choice did he have? The System had dropped him in this world with nothing, and survival meant bending the rules.
Or breaking them entirely.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: Host metabolic requirements elevated. Caloric intake recommended within 2 hours. Note: Permanent compulsion ability may be utilized for resource acquisition. Ethical considerations: Host discretion.]
"Thanks for the permission," Peter muttered, wiping rain from his face. "Really feeling the moral support here."
[RESPONSE: Moral support not included in System functions. Suggestion logged for future updates. Probability of implementation: 0.02%.]
Peter wanted to throw something, but there was nothing within reach except mud and pine cones. Instead, he grabbed his backpack—emptied of everything except a notebook and pen he'd compelled from a gas station—and started walking.
The Forks town hall was a squat brick building that looked like it had been built in the seventies and never updated. Inside, it smelled of old coffee and institutional carpet, and the woman behind the front desk looked up from her computer with the expression of someone who'd rather be literally anywhere else.
Her name tag read MARGARET. She was maybe sixty, with gray hair pulled into a severe bun and reading glasses that hung from a chain around her neck.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her tone suggesting she very much hoped she couldn't.
Peter approached the desk, forcing his human body to move with confidence he didn't feel. This was the moment. He could try to do this legitimately—explain his situation, hope for sympathy—or he could take the easy route.
The easy route that involves violating someone's mind, a voice whispered. The easy route that makes you no better than a vampire who compels humans to forget being fed on.
"I need to register as a resident," Peter said, meeting Margaret's eyes. "I'm new to Forks. Just moved here, and I need to get my paperwork sorted."
Margaret sighed and pulled out a form. "Name?"
"Peter Grayson."
She wrote it down with the mechanical precision of someone who'd done this a thousand times. "Date of birth?"
Peter's mind raced. He looked eighteen, maybe nineteen on a good day. "March fifteenth, 1987."
"Previous address?"
Here we go.
"I don't have one," Peter said, and felt the compulsion slide into place like a key in a lock. The words came easily, weighted with intent that went beyond their meaning. "I've been traveling. Living off the grid. But I'm settling here now, and I need documentation. You're going to help me with that, because it's the right thing to do."
Margaret's pen hesitated on the paper. Her eyes went unfocused for a moment, and Peter felt the compulsion take hold—a subtle rewiring of priorities, making his request seem not just reasonable but necessary.
"Of course," she said slowly. "We can work something out. Let me see what I can do."
Forty-five minutes later, Peter walked out of the town hall with a hastily forged identity packet that would pass casual inspection. Birth certificate—complete fiction. Social security number—pulled from some database Margaret had access to and shouldn't have used. Proof of residency—a letter stating he was renting the land near the Cullens, signed by a landlord who didn't exist.
It was shoddy work, and it would fall apart under serious scrutiny, but for now it was enough.
One crime down, Peter thought as he trudged through the rain toward the bank. Let's see how many more I can rack up before lunch.
[NOTIFICATION: Compulsion usage logged. Frequency: 3 instances in 24-hour period. Status: Within acceptable parameters. Warning: Excessive manipulation may trigger System intervention.]
"Define excessive," Peter said under his breath.
[DEFINITION: Threshold data unavailable. Host will be notified upon reaching limit. Recommendation: Exercise restraint.]
"You're a real help, you know that?"
[ACKNOWLEDGMENT: Sarcasm detected. Complaint: Noted.]
The bank was warmer but no less depressing. Peter waited in line behind an elderly man arguing about overdraft fees, and used the time to observe the layout. Three tellers behind glass partitions. A manager's office visible through an open door. Security cameras in the corners—old models, probably recording to tape rather than digital.
When his turn came, Peter approached the middle teller with his ID packet and his best approximation of a confident smile.
"I need to open an account," he said.
The teller—a woman in her thirties with tired eyes and a forced smile—took his documents. "Of course. Checking or savings?"
"Both."
She began typing, then paused. "I'll need to see proof of funds for the initial deposit."
Peter's jaw tightened. He'd expected this. "Actually, I was hoping to speak with a manager about setting up a wire transfer. I've got assets being moved from a previous account, but they won't clear for a few days."
The teller's expression said she'd heard this story before and didn't believe it. "Sir, we can't open an account without an initial deposit."
Here we go again.
"Could you get your manager, please?" Peter asked, letting the compulsion seep into his voice. "This is important, and I think they'll want to help me personally."
The teller blinked, her resistance crumbling like wet paper. "Of course. Let me... let me get Mr. Harrison."
Mr. Harrison turned out to be a balding man in his fifties who looked like he'd rather be on a golf course. Peter fed him the same story—assets being transferred, temporary cash flow problem, just needed to set up the account structure—and watched as the compulsion did its work.
Twenty minutes later, Peter had two accounts with zero balance and a promise that the bank would "work with him" on the funding issue.
Step one complete. Step two: actually get some money.
The bus to Seattle left from a stop near the grocery store. Peter paid his last twenty dollars for a round-trip ticket and claimed a seat near the back, as far from other passengers as possible.
The ride took ninety minutes through winding mountain roads, and Peter spent it staring out the window at endless trees. His reflection stared back—pale, hollow-eyed, human. A stranger wearing his face.
"I miss it," he admitted to himself. "The strength. The speed. The way the world made sense when filtered through predatory instincts. I miss being more than this."
[OBSERVATION: Host demonstrates attachment to transformed state. Warning: Dependency on supernatural forms may complicate long-term psychological stability.]
"You think?" Peter's laugh was bitter. "I died once already. Got a second chance in a world that shouldn't exist. Forgive me if I want to be strong enough to survive it."
[RESPONSE: Survival motivation acknowledged. Note: Human baseline provides strategic advantages. Vulnerability necessitates caution. Caution increases probability of continued survival.]
"Caution." Peter turned away from the window. "Is that what you call hiding in a tent and stealing identities?"
[CORRECTION: Strategic resource acquisition through available abilities. Theft implies lack of compensation. Host has compensated targets via mental adjustment reducing distress over irregularities.]
"That's not—" Peter bit off the argument. The System was right, in its own twisted way. He'd compelled people to help him, but he hadn't hurt them. Hadn't taken anything they'd actually miss. The bank account was empty, the identity was just paperwork, and Margaret would probably forget she'd even helped him.
It was still wrong.
But it was necessary.
The bus pulled into Seattle's bus station just after noon, and Peter stepped out into a city that felt simultaneously foreign and familiar. Skyscrapers loomed overhead, their glass faces reflecting gray clouds. Traffic roared past, horns blaring. The smell of exhaust and humanity pressed in from all sides.
Too many people. Too many heartbeats.
Even as a human, Peter could feel the phantom memory of vampire senses—the way this crowd would've smelled like a buffet, each person radiating warmth and life and food. He forced the thought away and focused on the task at hand.
Find someone with money. Someone who won't miss it. Someone who—
A man in an expensive suit brushed past, talking into a Bluetooth headset about quarterly projections and stock options. His watch probably cost more than most people's cars.
Perfect.
Peter followed him at a distance, tracking him through the crowd with human senses that felt painfully inadequate. The businessman ducked into a coffee shop, and Peter hesitated outside, watching through the window.
This is robbery, a voice whispered. This is theft. You're going to compel someone to give you money they earned, and there's no justifying that.
But the alternative was starving. Sleeping in a tent until exposure killed him. Giving up on the System's power because he was too moral to bend the rules.
I pushed a kid out of the way of a car, Peter reminded himself. I died doing the right thing. Don't I deserve a chance to survive now?
The businessman emerged with coffee in hand, and Peter moved.
"Excuse me," he said, stepping into the man's path. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm wondering if you could spare a moment."
The man's expression cycled through annoyance and impatience before settling on condescension. "Look, if you're asking for money—"
"I'm not asking." Peter met his eyes, and the compulsion flowed out like water finding cracks in stone. "You're going to invest in my future. Five thousand dollars, wired to this account. You'll remember it as a business opportunity—a chance to help a kid get started in life. You'll feel good about it."
The businessman's face went slack. "Five thousand dollars," he repeated.
"Wire transfer. Today." Peter handed him the slip of paper with his new account information. "You'll forget my face, but you'll remember the investment. And you'll feel proud of yourself for helping someone in need."
"Proud," the man echoed, taking the paper.
Peter waited until he was sure the compulsion had set, then walked away before he could second-guess himself. His hands were shaking. His stomach twisted with guilt that felt like nausea.
I just robbed someone. I just committed actual theft using supernatural mind control.
[NOTIFICATION: Resource acquisition successful. Account funding expected within 24 hours. Host emotional distress noted. Recommendation: Reframe action as survival-driven rather than malicious. Intent mitigates moral burden.]
"Intent doesn't make it right," Peter said aloud, drawing stares from passing pedestrians.
[RESPONSE: Correct. Intent makes it necessary. Host survival prioritized over ethical absolutism. Welcome to moral complexity.]
Peter found a bench and sat heavily, dropping his head into his hands. The rain had started again, cold and relentless, but he barely felt it.
What am I becoming?
The question echoed in his mind, unanswered.
The bus ride back to Forks was longer than the trip out, or maybe it just felt that way. Peter sat in silence, watching the city give way to suburbs, then forests, then the gray monotony of the Olympic Peninsula.
When he finally stumbled off the bus in Forks, the sun was setting—not that it made much difference in the perpetual gloom. Peter walked through town with his head down, avoiding eye contact, and didn't stop until he reached the trail leading to his land.
His tent looked even more pathetic in the fading light. But it was shelter, and it was his, and that had to be enough.
Peter crawled inside and pulled out the notebook he'd stolen yesterday. The pages were already filling up—notes on the Cullens, observations about the System, sketches of the mansion he could see through the trees.
Edward: mind reader, except for me. Alice: sees futures, except mine. Carlisle: leader, doctor, vegetarian. Jasper: empath, controls emotions. Emmett: strong, playful. Rosalie: hostile, beautiful. Esme: kind, motherly.
He flipped to a new page and started a new section: IDENTITY CRIMES.
Compelled town hall clerk to forge documents. Compelled bank manager to open accounts without deposit. Compelled businessman to wire $5000.
Peter stared at the list, then added a fourth line:
Justified it all by telling myself I had no choice.
[NOTIFICATION: Self-reflection detected. Note: Host moral framework remains intact despite necessary ethical compromises. Prognosis: Favorable for long-term psychological stability.]
"You're cataloging my guilt?" Peter's voice cracked. "Is that what this is?"
[CLARIFICATION: Monitoring Host adaptation to transmigration circumstances. Data collected for System optimization and Host support protocols.]
"Support protocols." Peter laughed, and it sounded halfway to a sob. "You're not supporting me. You're watching me break."
[RESPONSE: Incorrect. Host demonstrates remarkable resilience. Adaptation to supernatural environment within acceptable parameters. Complaint: Noted.]
Peter closed the notebook and lay back in his sleeping bag, listening to the rain and trying not to think about the businessman's blank face. About Margaret's unfocused eyes. About all the little violations he'd committed in the name of survival.
Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow I'll be better. I'll find a way to survive without stealing. Without compulsion. Without—
But he knew it was a lie. The System had given him power, and power demanded choices. Ugly ones. Necessary ones.
Choices that would haunt him every time he closed his eyes.
Peter pulled the sleeping bag over his head and waited for sleep that wouldn't come.