Was it paranoia or survival instinct? Talita liked to think that, on good days, there was a fine line between the two, but waking up in another body, surrounded by potential enemies, in a universe she only remembered fragments of… of course, that justified a slight—or rather, absolute—freak-out. She no longer knew how long she'd been trying to stay calm, but her heart felt like it was racing constantly.
As soon as she got the chance, her first action in Nick's house—the man who proved to be a constant annoyance with his damn killer dog and whose name couldn't be more frustrating. Did it have to be similar to Niklaus, just as the cherry on top?—was to search until she found paper and a pen. Maybe a list would help. Listing things made her ideas feel less hazy, or at least that's what she hoped.
She scribbled on the paper, jotting down everything she could still remember about that world. A framework of memories and possibilities; people, places, and events that might be useful. *"What do I know about The Vampire Diaries?"* she wrote, starting the process.
She took a deep breath, discomfort settling as she watched the ink dry.
She couldn't quite explain it, but she knew that after Klaus got Elena's blood to make his damn hybrids, it wouldn't be long before the rest of that shitty family—sorry, the Mikaelsons—would be up and running. And that included the suicidal brother and the psychotic mother, who now believed she had created monsters.
(Ha, don't tell me that the ritual, which required them to drink the blood of some poor soul who probably died in the process, would create angels? Was she an idiot or just playing one?) She thought, ignoring the psychotic brother, the other psychotic brother who was a little less bad, and the mini-psychopath with rebel teen hair (yes, she needed to remember their damn names, but that would come later).
Back to the list of events—did the old woman really try to kill them with some magic juice? White oak road that kills badass vampires… fuck, her memory was garbage.
She knew they killed the mother at some point, and a guy came back kind of original to kill them? Then… New Orleans? Drink the hybrid everyone thinks is Lucifer 2.0, and… does the mother come back or the father? Hell, how she regretted not watching those damn spin-offs, but she knew at some point she'd die at the hands of her niece…? In hell, she had no idea. So, potentially, it was better to run after Klaus fathered Lucifer 2.0?
Her knowledge of the series was as full of holes as Swiss cheese.
Burn the white oak road and keep the ashes? She wasn't sure, but for some reason, that felt important. Second, figure out how to kill the Mikaelson mother? Nah, they'd already done that in the show, and potentially, if she didn't get involved, she'd be fine?
The child's voice echoed, cutting through the air like a whisper forgotten by time: "Rebekah, catch me!" Talita blinked, disoriented, as the fleeting image of a smiling boy dressed in tattered old clothes appeared before her. The vision was so vivid that her body reacted without thinking — with a sharp leap, she pulled away from the table, as if she could escape her own mind.
The discomfort within her pulsed, growing with every passing second. These intrusive memories bothered her more than she wanted to admit. She knew she inhabited another body now, but she didn't expect to be dragged by memories that seemed to find their own openings, invading her. Still with her head throbbing, she inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself. Yet something about that image unsettled her:
Henrik's smile, the peculiar gleam in his eyes. It seemed almost cruel in its joy, as if he knew something she couldn't understand. The memory was so vivid it bordered on reality, but at the same time, something felt off, misplaced—a dissonant detail that made the whole scene feel deeply, disturbingly wrong.
Talita stepped back, trying to shake off that feeling of strange familiarity that enveloped her like a fog. 'If Rebekah were still there, if she was still present in some way, what did that mean for her?' The idea of sharing space with a living memory, a shadow of another consciousness, made her shudder. Trying to ignore the growing unease, she took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus on the present — and to forget for a moment that there might be more than just her in that mind.
— My name is Talita, I'm 26, I have two cats named Billy and Stu, I hate tomatoes and garlic, my mother's name is Valentina, and my father's name is Enzo. She whispered to herself, almost as if casting a spell of self-preservation: "I am Talita. I am Talita. I'm not Rebekah. Not only that, but I am Talita." With every repetition, the weight of those intrusive memories seemed to lessen, but the discomfort remained, lingering like a stubborn echo that refused to fade. She looked at her hands—pale, cold, not hers. What did those memories mean? She hated them.
The pressure to hold onto her own identity felt like an enormous challenge, but giving up was unthinkable. She wasn't a Mikaelson. She wasn't a vampire with centuries of trauma and disappointments. Furthermore, she was herself. She took a deep breath, and with one final squeeze of her wrist, grounded herself in that mantra, determined to stay in her own essence.
— My name is… — She closed her eyes. — M-m-my name is…
For a few seconds, it seemed idiotic what she was doing, clinging to a name of a dead person. What did it matter who she was? She was alive, as if by some damn miracle! She wasn't Rebekah, but this was her new body and her new name. Not only that, but she had to hold on tight, get used to it, and cling with iron fists to that body, that mind, and that control—never letting go.
She had to get used to the hunger that seemed to eat her from the inside out, a constant burn that, no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, wouldn't leave her in peace. She ran her fingers over her lips, feeling the uncomfortable dryness. It was a problem she had to solve, and fast. She couldn't let that uncontrollable need make her lose control—if the original vampire, the real Rebekah, tried to take over, she wouldn't hesitate to fight for the damn body.
Fuck, she was so confused that even her thoughts didn't make sense. Maybe she was really going crazy.
She took a deep breath, which didn't help much, but gave her a moment to think. She required a plan. Setting up a safe, discreet feeding point seemed sensible, but given the start of the plot, any movement in the city would be risky. She had to be careful.
"Focus… Focus on one thing at a time," she murmured to herself, as if reaffirming the mantra. She closed her eyes and mentally listed what should be a priority: *survival in silence* and *discretion above all.*
That's how she ended up there. The black smoke rose slowly, thickly, staining the sky with a dark tapestry of soot and destruction. The bridge burned like a chained monster, its flames licking the air with insane violence, illuminating the outlines of the small town, already suffocated by the weight of its own misery. Rebekah, no, Talita, was there, still, distant, hands in her pockets, a faint, malicious smile playing on her lips. She had always wanted to play the arsonist.
She didn't need certainty, nor meticulously crafted plans. Research was unnecessary when fire did the work—burning, destroying, erasing any trace of the bridges. This was the third and final one; certainly, the fire department and police were worried.
Slowly, uniformed figures appeared on the horizon: the firefighters, with their fatigued and resolute expressions, became small silhouettes amid the red and black chaos. She watched them with a sort of fascination. To her, they were just pieces in a set, nothing more. She waited patiently, as if watching a dull play, until the last man extinguished the flames, and the scene finally emptied. A trail of ash and debris was all that remained.
With slow steps, like a shadow, she approached the charred remains. Crouching down, she extended her hands toward the ashes, and with almost ceremonial care, let them slip between her fingers. Ash by ash, fragment by fragment. She stayed there long enough to be mistaken for Cinderella, the vampire cinder girl.
Finally, Rebekah's eyes fell on a sign, charred, yet still intact in parts. Without hesitation, she picked it up, carefully collecting each small piece. She then made her way back to what she now called her "lair."
She forced a laugh, the kind of sinister chuckle that could belong to a cartoon villain, as she returned to her lair with her spoils of war, the symbols of the original vampire. Was it strange that she found it all so amusing? Well, she thought it was.
Burn the bridge? Done.
Collect the ashes? Done.
Buy clothes, since Klaus had disappeared along with all the ones she bought? Still in progress.
Get blood? In progress.
Sighing tiredly, she glanced at the bags of ashes, unsure where to hide them.
She was forgetting something. Her head throbbed, as if trying to remind her.