A quick rap on the door signaled that it was two o’clock. Amelia looked up from her Inspiron 8600. Scarlett poked her head into the room, “Everyone is ready in conference room B.”
Amelia dismissed her with a quick gesture and snapped the laptop she’d been working at closed. Instead of rising to her feet, she turned her office chair to face the massive floor to ceiling office window that was a perk of being the CFO of an up and coming corporation. She wasn’t prone to sentimentality, but as she stared across the streets of Boston below her, she couldn’t help but feel a tug on her heart strings. This was her city. As cars ebbed and flowed with the changing of traffic lights, she couldn’t help but think it was like watching the pulse of the place she loved to call home.
It was amazing, when she thought about it. Three very green college kids had guided, nurtured, and healed a city filled deep with decay. Sure, there was still work to do, but the heavy lifting was done. And here she sat, overseeing it all. It was a dream fulfilled because she and her pack brothers were either too stubborn, or too stupid to understand the meaning of the word impossible.
Nothing was impossible.
She rose from her chair and lightly rested her palms against the glass. It felt pleasantly cool to the touch. A faint ring of condensation spread outward along her palms, fogging the window around her finger tips. It reminded her of when her children would drawing pictures in the frost of their farm house windows with their fingers during the depths of winter. She smiled, wondered how the three of them (four!) she forcefully corrected herself, were doing. The smile faded. The coolness against her hands that had been pleasant seconds before suddenly felt like an all-consuming chill. She stuffed her hands in her sensibly styled blazer pockets. She knew all too well the statistical probabilities for a Garou to ever reach age 25. Less than 50%. Survival to age 30 was far less than that. Amelia had a mind for numbers, and without even wanting to she ticked off their ages. Jake, 17. Grace and Brian 16. And soft hearted little Wispy, 13.
‘Jesus, she’s only 13.’
Amelia swallowed a lump in her throat. What kind of mother sent her child to war at age 13? What kind of mother sent a child to war at 17 for that matter? Sudden tears burned at the corners of her eyes and threatened to fall. She swallowed them back forcefully.
The war would not wait. That was a fact. She had done the best she could to give her children a sense of normalcy in the midst of a crazy world, but sooner or later there would be no choice. The Nation needed every soldier it could get, it didn’t much matter if they were children or not. Amelia resented that truth.
She was going to change that truth. It might not have been the way Johnny would go about it, and it certainly wouldn’t have been the way Morgan would approve, but by any means necessary it would happen. If she had to break the law for it to come to fruition, so be it. If they branded her a traitor, so be it. If it cost her the respect of her allies, the approval of her friends, or the love of her pack, so be it. If it cost her the relationship with her children, while it gutted her to think it might come to that, so be it.
Nothing was impossible.
She took a deep breath and straightened her jacket. It was time to go to work.