Another Way (Worm AU fanfic)

[Ack]

Ten years previously, the Brockton Bay Brigade attacked Marquis in his home and defeated him; in time, he was sent to the Birdcage.
What would happen if things went ... another way?

1) This story is set in the Wormverse, which is owned by Wildbow. Thanks for letting me use it.
2) I will follow canon as closely as I can. If I find something that canon does not cover, I will make stuff up. If canon then refutes me, I will revise. Do not bother me with fanon; corrections require citations.
3) I welcome criticism of my works, but if you tell me that something is wrong, I also expect an explanation of what is wrong, and a suggestion of how to fix it. Note that I do not promise to follow any given suggestion.

Index
Prologue (below)
Prologue Part Two
Prologue Part Three
Prologue Part Four
Part One: Progress Reports
Part Two: Heir Apparent
Part Three: The Making of Marchioness
Part Four: Staking a Claim
Part Five: For Every Action ...
Part Six: Coming to Terms
Part Seven: The Shape of Things to Come
Part Eight: Many Happy Returns
Part Nine: Close Encounters of the Interesting Kind
Part Ten: Escalation
Part Eleven: Retribution
Part Twelve: Home to Roost
Part Thirteen: Relative Innocence
Part Fourteen: Clash of Titans
Part Fifteen: Closing In
Part Sixteen: Following Up
Part Seventeen: Dealing with Blasto
Part Eighteen: Friends and Family
Part Nineteen: Taking Care of Business
Part Twenty: Socialising and Scouting
Part Twenty-One: Panzerfaust
Part Twenty-Two: Developments
Part Twenty-Three: A New Viewpoint
Part Twenty-Four: Boss Fight
Part Twenty-Five: Shenanigans
Part Twenty-Six: Consequences
Part Twenty-Seven: The Gathering Darkness
Part Twenty-Eight: Rats in the Walls
Part Twenty-Nine: The Game is Afoot
Part Thirty: Discussing Options
Part Thirty-One: Gathering Storm
Part Thirty-Two: A View to a Kill
Part Thirty-Three: Recruitments

Omake: Marchioness in Brockton Bay [ edale ]
Omake: A Match Made In Brockton Bay

 

[Ack]

Another Way
Prologue

A/N: Much of the text and dialogue in this prologue is taken from Worm: Interlude 15. It is intended to explore the ramifications of what might had happened if things had gone another way.
A/N 2: This chapter has been revised from the original posting.


"Stand down," Brandish ordered.

"Now why would I want to do that?" Marquis asked. "I've won every time your team has challenged me; this situation isn't so different."

"You have nowhere to run. We've got you where you live," Manpower spoke.

"I have plenty of places to run," Marquis replied, shrugging. "It's just a house, I won't lose any sleep over leaving it behind. It's an expensive house, I'll admit, but that little detail loses much of its meaning when you're as ridiculously wealthy as I am."

The Brockton Bay Brigade closed in on the man who stood by his leather armchair, wearing a black silk bathrobe. He held his ground.

"If you'll allow me to finish my wine -" he started, bending down to reach for the wine glass that sat beside the armchair.

Manpower and Brandish charged. They didn't get two steps before Marquis turned himself into a sea urchin, bone spears no thicker than a needle extending out of every pore, some extending twelve or fifteen feet.

Brandish planted her heel on the ground to arrest her forward movement and activated her power. In an instant, her body was condensed into a point, surrounded by a layered, spherical force field. It meant she didn't fall on her rear end, and she could pick a more appropriate posture as she snapped back into her human shape.

Manpower wasn't so adroit. He managed to stop himself, slamming one foot through the mahogany floor to give himself something to brace against, but it was too late to keep him from running into the spears of bone. Shards snapped against his skin and went flying.

Lady Photon opened her mouth to shout a warning, but it was too late. Flashbang fell to one knee as a shard bounced off the ground near him, reshaping into a form that could slash across the top of his foot. Brandish caught only a glimpse of the wound, primarily blood. She didn't see anything resembling bone, but Marquis apparently did.

There was a sound like firecrackers going off, and Flashbang screamed.

The needles retracted. Marquis rolled his shoulders, as if loosening his muscles. "Broke your foot? How clumsy."

Lightstar was the next to go down, as one splinter that had embedded in a bookshelf branched out to pierce his shoulder. Fleur caught him before he could land on top of more of the bone needles.

Brandish shifted her footing, and the slivers of bone that scattered the ground around her shifted, some reshaping into starbursts of ultrafine needle points, waiting for her to step on them. She knew from experience that they would penetrate the soles of her boots.

Lady Photon fired a spray of laser blasts in Marquis' general direction, tearing into bookshelves, antique furniture and the rack of wine bottles. Marquis created a shield of bone to protect himself, expanding its dimensions until it was taller and wider than he was.

He's going to burrow, Brandish thought. He'd done it often enough in the past, disappearing underground the second he'd dropped out of sight, then attacking through the ground, floor or rooftop.

"Careful!" she shouted.

Lady Photon spent the rest of the energy she'd gathered in her hands, spraying another spray of lasers at Marquis' shield. Then, as they'd practiced, she prepared to use her forcefield to shield Flashbang, Fleur and Lightstar. Brandish and Manpower could defend themselves.

A barrier of bone plates erupted around one corner of the room, rising just in time to keep some of Lady Photon's salvo from striking a closet door. Marquis emerged from the floor a short distance away, driving a spike of bone up through the ground and then deconstructing it to reveal himself.

"What are you protecting?" Lady Photon asked.

"I'd tell you, but you wouldn't believe me." He glanced around, "I don't suppose we could change venues? I'll be good if you are."

"Seems like we should take every advantage we can," Manpower said.

"If you're talking purely about increasing your odds of victory, yes. But should you? No, you really shouldn't."

"If you say we shouldn't, then that sounds like a good plan to me," Brandish stated boldly.

Marquis sighed, and held up a hand. "Truce, for just a moment?" As he spoke, the spikes and spines of bone throughout the room retracted, ceasing to menace the heroes. "I'll not attack if you don't."

"What's your play?" asked Lady Photon suspiciously.

"Dear lady," Marquis stated carefully, "I mean it. Truce. There is something that needs to be explained. And it's better shown than told."

"No tricks," Brandish snapped.

"No tricks. My word upon it."

They relaxed slightly; whatever else he was, Marquis was a man of his word.

"So what do you want to show us?" Manpower asked bluntly.

"This." Marquis stepped back to the closet door, the one that he had been protecting. Never quite taking his eyes from the heroes, he reached back and opened it. "Amelia, dear, come out and meet our visitors."

A girl. A toddler, not much younger than Vicky. The girl was brown haired, freckle-faced, and clutched a silk pillow to her chest. She wore a silk nightgown with lace at the collar and sleeves. It looked expensive for something a child would wear.

"Daddy," the girl's eyes were wide with alarm. She clutched the pillow tighter.

"Brigade, meet Amelia. Amelia, these delightful people are the Brockton Bay Brigade. They're superheroes. Like on TV." He offered his hand to the little girl, deliberately leaving himself open to attack. Nobody moved.

Trustingly, she stepped from the closet; he scooped her into his arms, pillow and all.

"Real superheroes, Daddy?" she asked, eyes wide, the fright slowly leaving them.

"Real superheroes," he agreed. "Really and truly."

"The motherfucker has a kid?" Lightstar muttered the question, as if to himself. "And she's, what, five?"

"Six," Marquis answered. "And I'll thank you to moderate your language around my daughter."

Six. Vicky's age, then. She looks younger.

"Sorry," muttered Lightstar, despite himself.

"Better." Marquis raised an eyebrow. "Now, dear Brandish, if you'd like to tell young Amelia here what you're doing in my home?"

Brandish glared at him. He was putting her on the spot, in no uncertain terms. "Amelia," she began. "Your daddy is a bad man, and we have to take him away."

"You can't take him away," the girl told them.

"He's a criminal," Brandish responded. "He's done bad things, he needs to go to jail."

"No. He's just my daddy. Reads me bedtime stories, makes me dinner, and tells me jokes. I love him more than anything else in the world. You can't take him away from me. You can't!"

"We have to," Brandish told the girl. "It's the law."

"No!" the girl shouted. "You can't take him! You can't!" She buried her face in her father's shoulder and started to cry.

"Well then," Marquis observed. "It appears that the jury has spoken. Amelia here knows me better than anyone else in my life. Her mother's gone, I'm afraid. The big C. Amelia and I were introduced shortly after that. About a year ago, now that I think on it. I must admit, I've enjoyed our time together more than I've enjoyed all my crimes combined. Quite surprising."

Gently, he patted his daughter on the back. "Now, now, little one. Don't cry. I'll read you your favourite bedtime story later. All right?"

Slowly, the crying devolved into sniffles, but the girl kept her face close to her father's shoulder.

"Now, we can keep this going," he observed. "I can send Amelia upstairs, and we can retire to a less dangerous venue. But I'm wondering which of you will be chosen to explain to my little girl why it is that you're arresting me. Why you chose to burst into my house and start a fight while she was here."

"We didn't know - " began Manpower.

"Manpower… do try to keep up. The dumb brute stereotype persists only because people like you insist on keeping it alive. You should have found out. After all, you found out my real identity, my real address. But you didn't keep looking, did you? You just decided to pounce."

"Perhaps we should just go -" began Lady Photon.

"No!" Brandish's voice was loud; Amelia jerked in Marquis' arms; he shot her a reproachful look. She moderated her tone. "No. Can't you see? He's playing us. Hiding behind his child."

"Playing you, most definitely, dear Brandish," he admitted. "And a most entertaining game it is. But hiding behind my little girl? Not at all." Taking a few steps toward the doorway, he lowered Amelia to the floor.

She clung to him. "No, Daddy. I don't want to leave you."

"And you won't, sweetness. Run along upstairs. Clean your teeth and get ready for bed. I'll be along to read you that bedtime story."

"You'll be in handcuffs," muttered Brandish.

"That may well be," he replied cheerfully. "But we shall see. Go along now, darling."

Obediently, she trotted out the door. Then she stopped, turned, and pointed at the heroes. "Don't you dare hurt my Daddy," she told them sternly. "You leave him alone!"

Marquis smiled. "I'll be fine, Amelia. Go on."

As her footsteps could be heard pattering up the stairs, he turned to them. "Shall we retire to a less hazardous venue, now that you have seen what I am protecting?" he asked. "Outside seems about right. Less chance of a stray shot punching through the ceiling. I shall withhold hostilities until we are safely away."

Lady Photon nodded. "I agree." Brandish went to open her mouth, but Lady Photon shook her head. "It's the best thing. We do not want to hurt the child. She, at least, is innocent."

"She's being harmed just by being here," Brandish muttered, but she went along at Lady Photon's gesture. Marquis stood aside as they filed from the room, Manpower supporting Flashbang, and Fleur fussing over Lightstar. They stepped down from the rear portico, out on to the vast lawn.

"One more question I want to ask before we begin," he stated, walking in a careful half-circle around the heroes; they turned to face him so that their backs were to the house. "If, by some chance, you defeat me, who takes Amelia in?"

"The foster system -" began Manpower.

Marquis, shaking his head, cut him off. "Do not be denser than you have to be. I have enemies. Would you like to see her fall into their hands? It wouldn't be pretty."

"They don't have to know," Manpower spoke.

"They'll always know, they'll always find out. You put that girl in foster care and interested parties are going to find out."

Lady Photon bit her lip. Brandish shook her head. "This is not our problem."

"No, he's right," Lady Photon admitted. "Even ignoring his enemies, once people found out she was Marquis' child, they'd start fighting over who could get their hands on her."

Marquis inclined his head. "Thank you, dear lady."

"Lady Photon -" Brandish started.

"Then they'll kidnap her. They'll do it to exploit her powers, and she's bound to be pretty powerful if she inherits anything like her father's abilities."

"It's not our problem," reiterated Brandish, a little desperately.

"It really is," he pressed. "Actions have consequences, you know. Mine certainly do; you are here to attempt to visit them upon me. And, should you defeat me, that will also hold consequences. Are you ready to face up to them?"

Brandish felt herself, just for a moment, wavering. Drawing a deep breath, she steeled herself. "We'll deal with that when we come to it."

"As you wish." He rolled his shoulders, looking past them at the house. "Shall we?"

<><>​

Amelia knelt up on her bed and pressed her nose against the window. I know Daddy told me to brush my teeth and stuff, but I need to see that he's okay.

Outside, Daddy was facing the people he had called superheroes. She didn't like them, because they wanted to take him away from her. She glanced into the corner of her room, where the princess costume he'd had made for her held pride of place. He's my Daddy. I don't want him to go anywhere.

Glancing back, she nearly missed the first pass. Light flared and explosions threw dirt into the air, but her Daddy was always on the move, never where they expected him to be. The scary lady who had shouted was swinging a blade made of light, but Daddy moved in a funny way and it hit the really big tall man instead. Amy winced and looked away for a moment, but then she peeked out from between her fingers.

Daddy was smooth and graceful, like when he was teaching her how to do that really fancy writing, or how to dance, and it looked like he was dancing with them now. But each time they tried to hit him, they missed, and each time he tapped them, they tripped and fell. When he swung a big blade of bone at the big tall man, the scary lady jumped in front of it, and Amy caught her breath, but Daddy made sure it wouldn't hurt her.

<><>​

One moment, Brandish was attempting to carve a bone manacle off of her ankle – there were shards of bone all over the lawn now – and then Lady Photon cried out and froze. Brandish looked around to see Manpower on his knees, bone covering his nose and mouth, his eyes frantic behind his mask. He was trying to break the bone gag away from his face, but his wounded arm was hampering him.

"It's in his lungs," Marquis declared, emerging from one of three bone spires that had erupted from the lawn. "Every cubic inch, all the way down to the alveoli. Yield, or he dies."

"I'll kill you first!" shouted Brandish, slashing the last of the bone away from her foot. She lunged at Marquis, but he stepped back out of the way. A bone shield sprang up, deflecting her blow.

"Even if you managed it, Brandish dear, you would never remove the bone from his lungs in time. To remove it, you'd have to remove his lungs altogether. Which would more or less defeat the purpose, yes?"

Manpower scrabbled at the bone; for every chunk he broke off, more grew in its place. His face was turning from red to purple; his eyes were bulging as he fought to inhale air that would never come.

"You're killing him!" screamed Lady Photon. "Let him go!" She tore at the bone that was suffocating her husband; in an instant, it had extended to encompass her hands and wrists.

"Not until you yield," Marquis replied implacably. "He only has a minute or two before he dies. Your move, ladies."

Lady Photon wrenched uselessly at her calcitic bonds, then stared into Manpower's eyes. They were starting to roll back into his head. Hopelessly, she lowered her head. "I yield."

"What?" shouted Brandish. "No! We can't lose to him! Not again! We were so close!"

"Brandish, my dear, you lost the fight the moment you invaded my home," Marquis stated from almost directly behind her. "He hasn't much time. Yield."

She dropped into her invulnerable ball-shape, then reformed facing the other way, the lightblade stabbing out. At the last moment, she dissolved the weapon, fractions of an inch away from Flashbang's frightened face. Her husband was bound with bone, his mouth gagged with the same material.

"Killing me kills Manpower," Marquis told her from behind Flashbang, as casually as if he were inviting her for coffee. "Yield, and you all walk away today. He hasn't much time. Will you truly let your hatred of me kill him?" Behind him, Fleur circled around, trying to get a clear shot; absently, he raised a bone barrier in her direction.

"Brandish, for god's sake!" screamed Lady Photon.

Brandish stared at her, then at Manpower, then at Marquis. Her hands curled into fists, almost hard enough to gouge her nails into her palms. She gritted her teeth, forcing the words out. "I yield."

"And I accept." Marquis gestured negligently, and the bone retracted away from Manpower's face, releasing Lady Photon's hands. The big man inhaled a huge, shuddering breath, falling to prop himself on one arm. His other was still useless from the slash that Marquis had decoyed Brandish into inflicting on him. "He breathes; he lives. My side of the bargain has been fulfilled. Go, now."

For a moment, Brandish considered attacking him anyway. He divined her expression, and shook his finger at her. "Ah, ah, ah, Brandish dear. Let's not go there."

"Let's just leave," Lady Photon told her, supporting a still-gasping Manpower in her arms. "We've lost here. Please."

<><>​

Out on the front portico, he watched as they climbed into their car. Brandish was the last to get in.

"This isn't over, Marquis," she told him. "Not by a long shot."

"No, dear lady," he replied. "It most certainly is not."

She got into the car, and the door closed behind her. The engine started, and the vehicle moved out of sight.

Turning, Marquis entered the house once more. He tut-tutted over the damage done to his study. Never mind; we'll be leaving soon, anyway.

<><>​

Amelia finished carefully brushing her teeth. When she entered her bedroom, Daddy was sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for her. "Little Amelia." He smiled and held out his arms.

"Daddy!" She ran to him. He hugged her, picked her up, put her on the bed. "I was worried about you."

"But not too worried, I hope." He smiled indulgently. Picking up a brush, he began to work it through her hair.

"I knew you'd win, Daddy, but that lady scared me. The shouty one."

"She wants to be a hero, but she has issues." He shrugged, continuing to brush at her hair. "But she's gone away now, and she's not going to bother us any more."

"But what if she comes back?" She lifted her eyes to his, the worry showing.

"We won't be here," he assured her. "Tell me, do you remember when we visited Boston?"

"Yes, Daddy," she replied. "Are we going to move there?" A moment of distress crossed her face. "I like it here."

"It holds many fine attractions," Daddy assured her. "One of which is a distinct lack of the Brockton Bay Brigade." He smiled down at her. "You were very brave, little Amelia," he told her solemnly.

"I didn't feel very brave, Daddy," she replied honestly. "They were really scary."

"Well, you helped a lot. You helped plant the seeds of doubt. And an enemy that doubts himself is a battle half won." Finished with her hair, he put the brush down.

"Huh?"

"We defeated them with the one weapon that superheroes can't ignore," he intoned.

"And what's that, Daddy?" she asked.

"The power of love, Amelia. The power of love."

Reaching up, she hugged him. "I love you, Daddy."

"I love you too, Amelia." His strong arms held her to him for a long moment. "Now, did you want a bedtime story?"

She looked expectantly at him. "You said you'd read my favourite."

"I did, didn't I." Without even looking, he reached out and pulled a well-thumbed volume from the shelf beside her bed. As he turned it over, it fell open. "Well, will you look at that. The right page, even."

She giggled and snuggled down into bed as her Daddy began to read. "Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess … "

Closing her eyes, she held her daddy's hand as she began to drift off to sleep.

I love my Daddy.


End of Prologue

Prologue Part Two

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Prologue, Part Two



Carol Dallon leaned against the kitchen bench, her arms folded tightly around herself. Her eyes were on the window showing darkness outside, but she didn't register it. All she could see was the mocking expression on Marquis' face, the one that told her that she had lost, he had won, yet again ...

"What the hell were you thinking?"

The abrupt question jolted Carol out of her reverie. Startled, she looked around, into her sister's blazing eyes. "What?"

"I said, what the hell were you thinking?" Sarah had moderated her tone, but her voice was still a harsh whisper as she gestured toward the living room. "You nearly got Neil killed! What is it with you and Marquis?"

Carol closed her eyes for a moment. Thank goodness Vicky isn't here to see this. Her daughter was having a sleepover with the Pelhams' kids; she was older than Eric and younger than Crystal, but they got along pretty well. Neither family had a lot of money at the moment – she was still a ways away from sitting for her bar exam – but they'd pooled their resources to afford a sitter for the night, at the Pelham household. Which meant that they'd had to come back to her house – hers and Mark's – to properly deal with the wounded men.

"Well, I'm waiting."

Carol opened her eyes. Sarah was still standing there, hands on hips. "What do you want me to say? He's a monster. You know it, and I know it. Tonight was our best chance to take him down, but we can still come back from this -"

"I'm not talking about that, and you know it!"

I really don't want to face this right now. "Can we talk about this later?" Much later. Never, for preference.

"No." The word came out flat and hard. Inwardly, Carol flinched. She's never been this pissed at me before. "We will talk about this. Here. Now."

"I'm really kind of tired -"

"You nearly got Neil killed!"

"I didn't – I was aiming at Marquis and -"

"Not that!" Sarah was in her face by now. "When you kept trying to kill Marquis when Neil was choking to death!"

"I - I thought that if -"

"No!" Sarah's voice was raised again. "You didn't think! You weren't thinking! You were just attacking! While Neil was suffocating!"

"I – if I'd knocked him out or killed him -"

"Then Neil would have died!" screamed Sarah. "Didn't you hear him? The bone was in Neil's lungs!"

"I – thought maybe he was bluffing?" ventured Carol. "If he died, maybe it would crumble away -"

"Leaving him with a lungful of bone dust! Do you even hear yourself, Carol? Marquis had us beaten, and you wouldn't give up, and you nearly got Neil killed because of it!"

"No, I wouldn't give up!" Carol shouted back, stung. "Because with Marquis, you don't give up! He's a murderer! Tonight, he nearly murdered your husband, and you're blaming it on me!"

The sound of someone tentatively clearing their throat made both of them turn their heads. Fleur was leaning in through the door from the living room.

"What?" asked Sarah, visibly getting hold of her temper.

"Uh, if there's nothing else, I was going to get Donny home," Fleur told them. "He needs his rest, and I've got an early start."

Curtly, Sarah nodded. "Okay, go ahead," she agreed. "And tell Donny that I said you both did good tonight." Carol caught the unspoken message loud and clear; at least you didn't nearly get my husband killed.

Wisely, Fleur took the statement at face value. "Thanks. I'll tell him." She disappeared back into the living room; Carol heard the murmured voices as she assisted Donny out to her car. The distant engine started up and moved off.

Sarah turned back to Carol. "I'll tell you what I think happened tonight." Her voice was low and controlled once more. "You can tell me how close to the mark you think I am."

" ... okay." Carol's tone reflected her wariness, but there wasn't much she could do about it. At least she's not screaming any more.

"I think you're far too invested in capturing Marquis. Stopping him, any way possible. If necessary, killing him. Am I right?"

Her sister's tone was almost reasonable; Carol tried to match it.

"We're all invested in stopping Marquis, Sarah. How many times have we faced him? How many times has he beaten us? How many people has he killed because we've failed to stop him? He's a murderer. A monster. He needs to be stopped. Tonight was our best chance. We had a battle plan, a strategy -"

"One that you came up with, Carol."

"It was a weakness to be exploited, and it could have worked."

"The man doesn't hurt women or kids, Carol! That's not a weakness! That's something that makes him less of a monster!"

"It doesn't make him less of a murderer, less of a criminal, though," Carol retorted stubbornly.

"No, you're right, it doesn't." Sarah sighed. "Mind you, it's not like we've got any shortage of murderers, monsters and criminals in Brockton Bay, these days. Allfather makes Marquis look like a saint by comparison, and Galvanate isn't far behind. And Butcher was even worse, before the Teeth left Brockton Bay."

"Only by comparison," argued Carol. "He's still a crime lord, and he's still a murderer. No judge in the world would be swayed by a plea of 'the other criminals out there are a lot worse than him, Your Honour'."

"Which still raises the question," Sarah mused. "Why is it that we find ourselves going after Marquis all the time anyway? I mean, we had more of an advantage in that last fight than we've ever had before – and I'm still dubious about the wisdom of using that 'weakness' against him, just by the way – and he still cleaned our clocks without breaking a sweat."

"I think we had a chance," Carol insisted. "If we'd tightened things up a bit -"

Sarah shook her head. "No. The man knows his powers. He's fought people worse than us, and come out on top. He was going easy on us. No injuries to the men that would cripple or disfigure them, nothing worse than bruises to us."

"We need one good victory before we unveil the New Wave project. Marquis is prominent. And if we manage to take him down, we won't have to worry about revenge strikes. Because he doesn't work with other capes."

"I think there's something more," Sarah told her. "Something you're not saying. A reason why you're so set on taking down Marquis."

"You're just imagining it," Carol replied. "He's the best available target, is all." But she couldn't stop her eyes from shifting away.

"I'm not imagining it," Sarah responded. "There's something about him. Christ, I'm team leader, and you still take lead when we fight Marquis. Like it's personal or something."

"You don't know what you're talking about," insisted Carol. "He's a villain, we're heroes. It's as simple as that. The Teeth are gone, and if we can bring Marquis down, that's halved the number of supervillain-led gangs in the city."

"So why don't we go after Galvanate? His men do more damage than Marquis, and he doesn't care nearly as much about collateral damage."

"Because we don't know where he lives," pointed out Carol. "Taking on his men is problematic; they're just about impossible to hurt, and they've got those damned electrical powers. You and Donny are our only fliers, and your powers don't do more than tickle them."

"Plus, they don't hold back when fighting women."

Carol dropped her eyes.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

"I'm not a damn coward, Sarah!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," sighed her sister. "I never said you were. But there's this thing you have against Marquis – whatever the fuck that's about – and there's the fact that no matter how many times we go after him, he's not going to do more than embarrass us and inflict disabling injuries on the guys. Which makes him your ideal target. Am I right?"

"You make it sound like I want to keep fighting him. Like I'm happy that he's there to fight."

"Well, do you? Are you?"

"No!" Carol rounded on her sister. "Like I said, he's a criminal. A murderer. A monster. He needs to go down hard. And that's all there is to it."

"That doesn't change the fact that we nearly screwed up really badly, tonight." Sarah was looking out the window, or rather, at the window. Carol could see her sister watching her reflection.

"What do you mean, nearly?" Carol's voice was bitter. "We did screw up. We nearly had him, and he still took us down."

"That closet." Sarah's voice was quiet; she put her hand on Carol's shoulder. "If he hadn't shown us who was in there, would you have tried to distract him with it?"

Carol twisted away from her. "That's not the point!"

"We're heroes," Sarah insisted. "Or at least, I'm trying to be one. And you should be too. To give Vicky a good role model when she gets powers too."

"You don't know that she will." But Carol's voice lacked conviction. Too many children of known capes had gotten powers of their own.

"Let's assume she does," Sarah told her steadily. "Do you want her role model to be her mom the hero, or her mom who lashes out and gets people killed? Because that's what I was talking about. We went in with way too little information. We didn't know about that little girl. You would have gone for that closet, distracted him. What if he failed to stop you?"

"We didn't know," protested Carol. "I'd never attack a little girl on purpose."

"I attacked her, because I didn't know," Sarah pointed out. "It wouldn't make me any less guilty, if my shots had gotten through. She'd still be dead."

"So we're supposed to just ignore him, now that he's got a kid? This is supposed to absolve all of his crimes, all the people he's killed, all the things he's stolen?"

"No," Sarah replied patiently. "But it does change matters, considerably. We can't attack him at home. Rather, we never should have. Too much chance of something exactly like that happening. We acted on the information we were given, and didn't ask if there was anything more."

"Wait, so you think that little shit set us up?" asked Carol, frowning. "He wanted us to attack Marquis at home, maybe hurt the girl? Because that's really screwed up."

"I don't think it's that either," Sarah mused. "But it's a lesson; just because we've got some information, we should never assume that we've got all the important information."

"So what are we going to do about Marquis?" asked Carol practically. "Now he knows that we know who he is. And that we know he's got a kid." She shook her head. "What's wrong is that he's even got a daughter. He's a murderer. A monster. A man like that shouldn't even be allowed near children."

"Didn't you see the look in her eye, hear what she was saying?" Sarah frowned. "She loves him, that's beyond a doubt. He hasn't taught her any of his vicious ways. In fact, she's probably unaware that he's even a villain." She paused. "Well, until tonight, anyway. In any case; he doesn't hurt kids. He doesn't even deal drugs, and that's a baseline crime for nearly every syndicate out there. He truly loves his daughter, and I wouldn't be surprised if he was actually a pretty good father. She looked well cared for."

"He's a criminal." Carol couldn't understand why Sarah didn't seem to be getting it. "If it's not us bursting into his house, it might be the Teeth next week, or the Empire Eighty-Eight the week after. And they won't stop attacking just because there's a little girl in the way. She's in danger. We have to save her from him."

"She was more in danger from us than from him, tonight," Sarah pointed out. "And I would venture to guess that he's also figured it out that people know. Anyone bursting into his house from now on is likely to get a very unpleasant welcome."

"So what do we do?" Carol looked at her helplessly. "He still needs to be arrested. Just having a child, even one who loves him, is not grounds for extenuating circumstances."

"You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"No. I'm not."

Sarah rubbed her chin. "Well, Neil's going to be sidelined until that cut on his shoulder heals, and Mark and Donny are also going to be out of action for a while. Which means that he probably won't see us as a threat, with half the team down. So we capitalise on that."

"We hit him again?" Carol's voice showed the eagerness she felt. "Tonight?"

"No. Not tonight. Not tomorrow night. He'll be on guard for that. The night after, however, we can do this. But we don't make it a frontal assault. He's too good for that. I'll go in through the upstairs window … "

<><>​

Midnight. Time to move.

Lady Photon drifted in from above, as gently as a falling leaf. She'd flown as high as she dared, as high as she could and still identify the house from above. Instead of her regular costume, she wore all black, with a scarf covering her lower face, the better to be not seen in the night sky. If anyone had seen her, she'd spotted no reaction. Brandish and Fleur were creeping up on the house at ground level; one for the front door, one for the back door. They would stay silent as long as possible, the less warning Marquis had, the better.

She knew that Amelia's bedroom was on the upper floor, but she didn't know which one. She was also not sold on the idea of abducting a supervillain's daughter, but she was worried that if she did nothing, then Carol might just come in on her own.

Pausing next to each window in turn, she pressed her face to the glass, and let the slightest illumination shine into the room within. It shouldn't wake anyone; her eyes, adjusted to the dark, needed less light than normal.

Downstairs, she knew that Carol would be at the front doors, while Fleur was at the back. Each of them had powers capable of gaining them entry, hopefully with a minimum of noise. The first window was a bust; it seemed to be a spare room, or maybe a storeroom.

Second window, the same. Third window, a bed. But nobody in it. Fourth window, a larger bed. Also unoccupied.

Wait a moment.

Carefully, she increased the intensity of the light; it gradually illuminated the room. Revealing a chest of drawers, all pulled out. Pale squares where paintings had rested on the walls.

With a surmise growing in her mind, she darted back to the previous window. This bed was a child's one. Mattress bare, stripped of sheets and covers. A few toys, abandoned, scattered on the floor. Brightly coloured wallpaper. This was her room. They've gone.

Downstairs, a sound of breakage, smashing.

Maybe not?

She tried to open the window, but some sort of child-lock defeated her. Backing up, she unleashed a burst of laser bolts at it; it shattered inward, tinkling to the floor of the child's room. Entering without landing, she pulled the door open and flew down the corridor.

When she got to the top of the stairs, the sound of breaking things got louder; over the top of that, she could hear swearing. Carol's voice.

Not combat, then?

Forgoing the stairs, she crossed over the bannister and dropped to the floor below, coming to a halt a foot above the floor. Brandish, similarly dressed in dark clothing, was in the process of using her light-blade to demolish a stately dining-room table. Several of the chairs lay nearby, smashed. Fleur stood nearby, apparently not interested in participating in the orgy of destruction.

"Brandish!" snapped Sarah. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

Carol stopped, and took a deep breath. "Ask Fleur," she growled. But she stopped attacking the table, and merely stood with clenched fists.

Sarah turned to Fleur. "Well?"

"We found this on the dining-room table." Fleur handed a folded sheet of paper to Sarah. On it, in flawless copperplate calligraphy, was inscribed the name Brandish.

She unfolded it; it was a letter, penned in the same beautiful handwriting.

Brandish, my dear (she read).

On the off-chance that you are reading this, then it means that we have flown the coop and that you have returned to my home on a fruitless errand. On the one hand, I am sorry that I was not here to greet you and show you proper respect. On the other, I am unsure as to how much respect to show you; you were, after all, willing to use my own child against me, knowingly or no.

So that you understand this; my daughter is the most precious thing in the world to me, and it is for her sake and only for her sake that I am taking this step. I know well that should I remain in Brockton Bay, you would never cease attacking me, and I fear that where one learns my identity, others will follow. Not all of them, dear lady, would be as concerned for the well-being of a child as you are.

Thus, I must go. My little girl and I must venture into the wide world, to seek our fortunes elsewhere. Talking about fortunes, those of my assets that you have already had frozen, after your ill-fated foray into my home? A mere fragment of my true worth. So sorry to have disappointed you.

Off we go, dear Brandish, far from Brockton Bay and the madding crowd alike. Search as you like, you will find neither us nor any clue to our destination. We will be as ghosts in the crowd, never to be seen again.

Now, I understand that you have a certain animosity against me, but this impulse should be tempered; I tell you now, you should not have returned to my house. If you do not leave at once, it is likely that you will undergo a most unpleasant experience. However, I do not expect you to follow my directives, so feel free to do as you wish. I remain,

Ever yours,

Marquis​

Click to shrink...

​

"Hmm," mused Sarah as she re-folded the letter. "I see why you're not happy."

"That's the least of what I'm feeling," Carol retorted. "He left that letter for me to find. He knew I'd come back. And he taunts me in it. Even tells me that I shouldn't be here. That 'unpleasant experience' thing, that's a threat if I ever heard one."

"Yeah, I don't like that one," Fleur agreed. "What if the place is rigged to blow?"

Sarah shook her head. "No, I doubt it. He wrote the letter to Brandish. He doesn't hurt women. Whatever the 'unpleasant experience' is, it won't be fatal, or even overly harmful. And it's probably aimed at all of us."

"How do you mean?" demanded Brandish.

"I mean that whatever he does, he can't do more than set it up and make it happen, wherever he is now," Sarah told her. "So if he's telling you that you are due an unpleasant experience, it very likely means that we all are."

"But if we leave right away," argued her sister, "we can't search the place and maybe find a clue as to where he went."

"I'm actually liking the idea of leaving right now," Fleur decided. "That letter gives me the creeps."

"I agree," Sarah decided. "Marquis does not make idle threats."

"But what if he's hiding in the wine cellar right now, bags packed?" Carol pointed out. "Ready for the capturing. Come on, just a quick search of the house and we're gone."

"You do realise that he would probably anticipate you saying that exact thing," Sarah told her.

"If we keep second-guessing each other, we'll never get anywhere," Carol replied. "It'll only take a few minutes."

Sarah sighed in aggravation. "Will it shut you up? And stop you from destroying furniture?"

"Yeah, okay."

"Good. Then let's get this over with."

<><>​

"What's that, Daddy?"

Marquis looked up from the bank of TV screens that cast a pallid glow across his face. Amelia stood in the doorway, her favourite pillow clutched to her chest.

"You should be in bed, little angel," he chided her gently, but with no heat to his voice.

"I couldn't sleep, Daddy," she told him. "Nothing's the same. Nothing's in the right place."

"You'll get used to it, Amelia," he assured her. "In the meantime, want to come and see what Daddy's watching?"

She came on over, and he lifted her on to his lap. "This doesn't look like normal TV," she pointed out, looking at the screens, each of which showed a static view of a room.

"It isn't," he replied. "It's called closed-circuit television. I had these cameras put up in our home before we left."

"Why, Daddy?" she asked, then pointed. "Oh! There's some people, Daddy!"

"Why, yes there are. And that's why I had this done. So I could see if people came in to the place. And they have."

"What are they doing, Daddy?"

"They're searching the house, little one."

"What are they looking for?"

He smiled and ruffled her hair. "You and me, Amelia."

She giggled. "But we're not there, Daddy."

His chuckle answered her. "I know that, and you know that, and they probably know that, but they've still got to look."

"That sounds silly, Daddy."

"As you grow up, dearest Amelia, you will discover that people can be very silly indeed for what seem to be the best of reasons." He gestured at the screens. "Case in point. I told them in my letter to Brandish that they should leave immediately, and so she took it as a challenge, and decided to stay and search the entire house from top to bottom. After, of course," a pained look crossed his face, "demolishing my dining-room table."

"But why should they go, Daddy?"

"You'll see in just a moment, little one."

<><>​

"Well, they weren't in the attic."

Fleur brushed at the smudges of dust on her clothing as she spoke. There hadn't been any people in the attic, but there had been much dust, quite a few spider-webs, and many places for someone to hide. And Brandish had refused to leave before every nook and cranny had been investigated.

"Look," Sarah told her sister as they descended the stairs once more. "This is getting ridiculous. We've checked everywhere from the wine cellar on up. They're not here."

"I know they're not here," Carol replied adamantly. "But there's got to be some clue, somewhere, as to where they've gone. And we'll find it."

"And what then?" asked Sarah. "Chase off after them? Hound them from city to city?"

For a moment, she thought Carol was going to answer in the affirmative. But then her sister shook her head reluctantly. "No. But we can inform the authorities about where they've gone to."

"I don't know," Sarah replied. "Outing supervillain identities. It sets a bad precedent. They could do the same to heroes, you realise."

"Which is what the New Wave initiative will nip in the bud," Carol argued. "They can't out us if we're already public."

"And the other part?" pointed out Fleur. "Attacking them in their homes? What if -"

She never completed the sentence; the front doors burst open and armed men poured in, shining bright lights and pointing guns.

"Police!"

"Hands on your heads!"

"Show us your hands!"

"This is the police!"

"Down on the floor!"

"You're under arrest!"

"Get down on the floor! Now now now!"

They were taken utterly by surprise; Fleur, in the lead, was grabbed and wrestled to the ground before anyone could react. Carol was grabbed, but went to her invulnerable form, and Sarah threw up her force field. Immediately, pistols were being pointed in her direction.

"Drop the force field! Immediately!"

"There's no need for this, officers," Sarah told them clearly. "We're members of the Brockton Bay Brigade. I'm Lady Photon, that's Brandish, and you've got Fleur on the ground there."

"Really?" growled a grizzled sergeant. "So where's the rest of your team, and why are you breaking and entering someone else's home in the middle of the night? And where's your costumes?"

Sarah sighed. He called the police on us.

This was going to be a very embarrassing night indeed.

Well, I can't say we weren't warned.

<><>​

Marquis, immaculately clad, with his hair neatly tied back out of the way, stood before Accord's desk. He knew that the diminutive man before him had only very recently established his hold on Boston's underworld, but that he was a rising power. Also that he had stringent requirements for anyone with whom he associated.

Accord studied him in return. "Marquis." His voice was dry, to match the metal mask which mirrored his every facial movement. "You had a thriving criminal enterprise in Brockton Bay. Why have you abandoned it all to come to Boston?"

"I have no intent of ousting you, if that was what you were worried about," Marquis replied evenly. "My identity was discovered, there, and superheroes invaded my home. I chose to come here rather than fight that battle to its logical conclusion."

"If someone threatened me like that, I would have them killed." Accord's voice was matter-of-fact.

"I do not harm women or children. You know that." Marquis' was flat.

"This is true. Some would see this as a weakness."

"Some would be mistaken. You believe in discipline, in regularity in all things. This is part of my discipline. We all have those things which we will not abide, do we not?"

Slowly, Accord nodded his head. "Your point is well-made. There is territory to the eastern part of the city which I have not yet claimed. I will not contest you for it. Keep your men from my territory, and we will not clash."

"You do not ask for tribute?"

A faint smile. "In the beginning, you will not have sufficient resources to pay me any sort of meaningful tribute. Once you are strong enough to pay such a tribute, you may question the need to pay me anything. You were strong in Brockton Bay; you will be strong here. I understand that you defied Jack Slash, held territory against the Teeth, against the Empire Eighty-Eight, against Galvanate."

"All of that is true, yes," admitted Marquis.

"So, in return for freely granting you access to your territory, I ask for just one thing."

"And what is that?"

"The reason why you run from superheroes when you do not run from villains."

Marquis hesitated for a long moment. "I need your word that you will not use this information against me."

"I will give no such assurance until I have heard it."

"I would truly rather not say."

"Then I would be forced to retract my offer."

"You will not act upon this information?"

Accord lifted his chin slightly. "If I choose to act upon it, I will give you fair warning first."

"That's fair, I suppose." Marquis took a deep breath. "I have a daughter. She is quite young. The superheroes endangered her when they invaded my home. I did not want villains coming after her, to get leverage on me."

"Or to kill her just to spite you," filled in Accord. He nodded. "Very well; this information makes sense, and is not actionable. The territory is yours to be had."

Marquis bowed slightly from the waist. "Thank you."

"Do not give me cause to regret this." Accord gestured in dismissal.

Turning on his heel, Marquis left the office.

Well, he knows about Amelia, but he doesn't seem to care. I can work with him; he's a cold little bastard, but he keeps his word.

Walking briskly, he left Accord's base of operations. He had work to do.

<><>​

Accord mulled over Marquis' situation. He was powerful in Brockton Bay. Charismatic and dangerous; a potent combination. But he has a weakness; his child.

A man with a child will take less risks, unless the child is in danger. Allow the child to be kept safe, and he will be predictable, will not threaten me.

I can work with this.



End of Prologue, Part Two

Prologue, Part Three

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Prologue, Part Three


1999

"Paul, got a moment?"

Paul Renick looked up from the progress report he was preparing; leaning into his cubicle was his immediate superior.

"Uh, sure, Mr Jameson," he replied. "If it's about this progress report -"

"It's not about the progress report," Jameson told him. "Leave it for the moment; this is more important. I need to talk to you."

"Sure, okay." Not entirely certain as to what was going on, Paul saved the report, locked the papers in his desk, and shut down his terminal. Not that what he was working on was so sensitive, but the habit had been ingrained into him by his years of working for the PRT.

Getting up from his ergonomically-designed chair, he followed Jameson to his office. There, his boss closed the door and leaned his rump up against his desk. He was a big, bluff man with fading reddish hair, and ruddy cheeks. "How long have we been working for the PRT, Paul?"

"About four and a half years, more or less, Mr Jameson." I wonder what this is about.

"Cut the 'Mr Jameson' crap, Paul," Jameson snorted. "Outside the office, you're Paul and I'm John, and we went to the same damn school, back in the day."

"That's true, uh, John," allowed Renick. Only you were a couple of years older than me, and you stole my lunch money more than once. It was funny how that tiny slight still stung, years later. "So what's going on?"

"What's going on, Paul, is that they're opening a new PRT office, and the powers that be are looking for some patsy to be the Director there."

"Uh, patsy?" Don't let it be me, don't let it be me.

"Yeah," Jameson told him heavily. "It's in Brockton Bay. You know it?"

"Christ, yes," Paul blurted. "Only two hundred fifty thousand people, and it's got no less than four major supervillain gangs operating there."

"And some minor ones, yeah," agreed Jameson. "The Protectorate's had a presence there for a few years, but a while ago one of the gangs hired the Slaughterhouse Nine to take out a couple of our capes who were intruding on their business. Goldstar and Venturi, you may have heard of them."

"Yeah, I heard," agreed Paul, still wondering. Still dreading Jameson's next words.

"So head office wants us to establish a presence there, to try to bring law and order to the Wild West, as it were. Give the capes a bit of backup. Show the flag."

"And what's this got to do with me, John?" he asked boldly. If you're going to say it, say it.

"They've asked me to step up, Paul," Jameson told him. "And I told them, only if I get to pick my deputy." He chuckled. "Shades of the Wild West, all over again. I might have to get myself a ten gallon hat."

"Wait, you want me as your deputy?" Paul was stunned.

John gave him an are you kidding? look. "Well, yeah. You kick ass in the admin department. Haven't you ever wondered why I've never had you transferred out of my department? We've always worked well together. I've never had to scratch my head trying to figure out what you were saying in a report."

"Huh. I never knew."

Jameson clapped him on the shoulder. "The more you know, pal. So. You in?"

"Uh ... I've kind of got a girlfriend ... "

"So bring her along too."

"I don't know if she'll want to move."

Jameson rubbed his chin. "Tell you what. I'll give you twenty-four hours to talk to her about it. It's not going to be for another month. Let her know that there are full accommodations laid on, and the pay's a bit higher than we're getting here."

Renick wasn't sure if he wanted to lead with the pay deal; he rather liked Janine, and thought she liked him for himself. If she's only with me because of the money …

"Just so long as this isn't some ploy to slide me into the Director's chair," he replied. "I don't want that sort of responsibility."

Jameson clapped him on the shoulder. "Perish the thought," he told Renick heartily. "You're more of a behind-the-scenes kind of guy, I know. Don't worry about it; I'll give the orders, and you can figure out how to make the numbers work."

For the first time, Paul felt himself smile. "Sure thing … John," he agreed, still a little awkward with using his boss's first name. "That's something I know how to do."

<><>​

Early 2000

"So, what do you think of the place?"

Paul looked up at John, then around at the office. It was cramped, dingy, and a little musty. "I … it's seen better days," he allowed. The PRT budget for Brockton Bay must be stretched thin.

"You're wondering about why they're putting us up in such crap conditions," Jameson told him.

Renick blinked. "I … yes, I was. How did you know?"

Jameson grinned. "I wondered exactly the same thing. So I asked. Come on."

"But I haven't finished unpacking -"

"Finish later. Come on. I wanted to show you something."

Getting up off the ergonomic chair – it was the first thing he'd unpacked – Paul followed Jameson from the office.

"So how'd the girlfriend take the move?" the Director of PRT ENE asked as they headed along a corridor, the carpet worn through in places.

"She, uh, didn't," Paul replied. "Decided to stay."

There had been a bit more to it; disbelief, demanding that he stay, recriminations, thrown crockery … all in all, he decided, he was better off. A woman who would throw a plate at someone's head over a relocation was possibly not the best choice for life partners.

But he still missed her.

"Her choice. Ah, here we are." Jameson pushed on a door, then leaned his shoulder into it; the slightly warped doorframe resisted, then released it. The stairwell was beyond; they ascended.

"I was actually asking what you thought of Brockton Bay." John's voice echoed in the stairwell.

"I haven't seen enough of it to make a judgement," Paul replied defensively.

"So take a car. Go for a drive. Take its pulse." Jameson chuckled heartily and opened the roof access door. They stepped out on to the flat rooftop, and looked over Brockton Bay.

For a city housing four major crime syndicates, it seemed remarkably peaceful. No gunshots, no screams broke the relative peace. A distant siren was sounding, but Paul thought it might be an ambulance. To the east could be seen the distant glint of the ocean.

Jameson turned in a circle, his arms out, breathing deeply of the air. "Smell that?"

Cautiously, Renick sniffed. "Smell what?"

"A new day. An opportunity to make a difference. It's the year two thousand, Paul. The dawn of a new century." He pointed. "See that?"

Paul adjusted his glasses, peered into the distance. There was a building going up; at the moment, it was a skeleton of steel and concrete, yet to be clad in gleaming glass. "Uh, yes?"

"That's why we're in such a crap location. That's the new PRT building. No expense spared. Tinkertech lifts. Underground detainment cells. Research levels. There'll be a gift shop in the lobby, even."

"A gift shop." Paul shook his head. "Why?"

"To sell the action figures, of course. Revenue's revenue." Jameson pointed toward the ocean. "And the Protectorate's gonna be building a proper base. A floating island in the bay, if you can believe it. Protected with some fancy-dancy force field."

"Which is also why we're in this piece-of-crap office building," Paul noted.

"Sure as hell. Which is why we soldier on. Why we make do with what we've got. Because great things are coming."

Renick nodded. "I see what you mean. I do see." Just so long as I don't have to run the show.

<><>​

Mid 2000

The phone's discordant tone jolted him from warm, comfortable slumber. Rolling over, he scooped it up and hit the answer button. "Renick," he mumbled.

"Sir, this is Henderson in Ops. We have a situation."

No other set of four words could ever be so unwelcome, especially over the phone at ten on a Sunday evening. He'd gotten in after dark, microwaved himself a meal, watched a little TV, and enjoyed a glass of wine before bed.

The work was hard and never-ending, but he was on top of it; every new challenge he met, and beat. And any time he ran into red tape he couldn't cut through, all he had to do was pick up the phone, and John would deal with it. It was odd; he'd worked for the man for years, and it was only in the last few months that he'd really gotten to know him, that they had become the sort of friends that John had always thought they were in reality. "Uh, why are you calling me and not Director Jameson?"

"Director Jameson is dead."

He'd been wrong. Those four words were even worse.

<><>​

Twenty-three minutes later, he was in the makeshift Ops centre, reaching out to take the cup of coffee that someone was handing him. He took a drink, steeling himself against the biting taste; John had always liked it strong and bitter. "Brief me."

"Director Jameson took his family out to dinner at a restaurant," Henderson recited. "A Chinese restaurant."

"Fuck."

The word, harsh as broken glass, stilled the room. A moment later, Paul realised that he himself had uttered it. He waved to Henderson to go on. "Sorry. Continue." But he had a sinking feeling that he knew what was coming next.

"Gang members currently thought to be Empire Eighty-Eight targeted it. They threw incendiaries. He tried to protect his family."

Of course he did. John's wife is half Japanese. "Tell me what happened."

"Witnesses say that he put up a good fight. He was stabbed six times, and shot twice. They fled when the police arrived. He was dead on arrival at the hospital."

He took a deep breath, then looked at everyone in the room. He was used to being the nobody, the ignored one, the invisible man. Now everyone was looking at him. " … what?"

Henderson was the one who broke the silence, who asked the question. "What do we do now, Director?"

What do we do now, indeed.

<><>​

"I'm very sorry to hear about Director Jameson, but there's not much I can do about it from here. You were Deputy Director, and now you're Director. The regulations are quite clear about that."

"But Chief Director -" Renick paused, and took a breath, trying to moderate his tone. Another breath, then he spoke again. "I'm sorry, Chief Director, but I don't think I'm really the man for the job."

"But you're the man on the spot. I'm sorry, Director Renick. I really am. But we don't have anyone available right now to step into Jameson's shoes. So you're going to just have to do the job."

"But I -"

"Director Renick." Her tone brought him to a halt. "You are the Director of PRT East-North-East. Brockton Bay has one of the highest incidences of cape crime in the United States, per capita. If you abandon your post, by the time we can get someone else in, there won't be any order to maintain. You are there, you have an understanding of the city. You made an oath when you joined the PRT. Now, carry out that oath and do your job. Do you understand me?"

He drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good." The phone clicked down at the other end, and he was left listening to a dial tone.

Well … crap.

<><>​

"So where will you go?"

Susan Jameson, only a slight puffiness around her eyes betraying her grief, looked at him steadily. "Far away from Brockton Bay. Probably back to Columbus."

"Ohio?" he asked, stupidly.

"Yes." She nodded. "It's where my parents are. I'll see if we can make a new start there. Away from all this."

Awkwardly, he nodded. "Look, I'm sorry – more sorry than you can imagine -"

She shook her head. "I know. John told me time and again that he would never be able to do this job without you. 'Thank God for Paul Renick', he said."

"He said that?"

"And that you were the ideal subordinate. Because you didn't want his job."

"God, no," he blurted. "I never wanted it. Still don't. Even if he'd just retired, I still wouldn't want it. But like this -"

"But you've got it. It's your burden to shoulder, now."

"No." Convulsively, he shook his head. "I can't do it. I'm going to resign from the PRT. They can't make me do this. The job's too big for me."

Reaching up, she laid her hand on his cheek. "The job's too big for anyone, Paul. Do what John did, and trust your staff. Do this, take on this burden, for John. He had faith in you. Make him proud."

He felt his resolve crumbling in the face of her calm assurance. "But I can't -"

"Yes. You can."

Closing his eyes, he surrendered. "Okay. I'll do my best."

But I still don't want the job.

<><>​

Late 2000

Interim Director Paul Renick, PRT ENE, sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Lowering his reading glasses, he looked over them at the six people before him in his office.

He had moved into said office just a month previously; the Protectorate base was still taking shape out in the bay. Stubbornly, he had refused to hang pictures on the wall, or bring any other sort of decoration into the office. Anything like that, he had figured, would mark his acceptance of the post, not just someone holding down the fort until the actual Director was finally assigned to the Brockton Bay branch.

I never wanted the job.

Every day he said that to himself, and every day it proved him right once more. Crises averted by the skin of his teeth, cape crime rates that stubbornly refused to go down by any sort of effort engineered by himself or the PRT. The Teeth had left the Bay recently, but only because they'd been nearly obliterated by the Empire Eighty-Eight in a turf war of some sort. They'd been the worst of the offenders, but the Empire and Galvanate's men weren't much better.

Not a day went by without some problem or other cropping up, and despite what the law of averages tried to say, more often than not it was something for which he had no precedent to follow. Such as this one; as he looked over the six people, three injured, he tried to work out all the potential outcomes, which one would be most acceptable, and how to reach that one. A perfect solution failed to magically appear, which didn't surprise him in the slightest.

"Okay, I'm going to need this from the top," he stated. "You are the Brockton Bay Brigade."

"We are," stated one of the black-clad women. She stood straight, proud, despite the PRT guard close behind her. "I'm Lady Photon."

"Very well, I'm going to presume that's true," he replied, massaging his forehead in a vain attempt to prevent an oncoming headache. "After all, Flashbang, Manpower and Lightstar have arrived once you telephoned them, and they vouch for your identities."

"Good," stated the second woman, who had been identified as Brandish. "So we -"

"I hadn't finished," he interrupted. "You were in that building to … as I recall … apprehend the supervillain known as Marquis?"

"That's true," Lady Photon stated. "It's his house."

"Do you have proof of that?"

She blinked at his question. "I beg your pardon?"

"Do you have proof of that?" He spread his hands. "It's a simple enough question. Do you have any evidence that conclusively states, or even very strongly implies, that the house in question belongs to Marquis?"

"Yeah," snapped Brandish. "We fought him."

"Inside the house." Renick's tone was dry.

"Yes, inside the damn house. Which is his house." Brandish's tone was almost hostile; Flashbang put a hand on her shoulder. She subsided slightly.

"But did you have any proof that it was his house before you entered?"

Brandish blinked, apparently seeing the trap. "We had evidence."

"May I see it?" He held out his hand.

"No – it was the word of an informant. He didn't give us anything written. Just that Marquis lived there. So we investigated, and found the name of the owner. Pictures of him fitted Marquis, so we went in."

Renick rubbed his forehead again. "And when was this? When did you get the information, and when did you go in?"

Brandish didn't seem to want to reply, but Lady Photon filled in for her. "Four days ago, and three days ago, respectively."

"And of course you informed the police. Obtained a search warrant for the house." Renick stared back at their expressions. "Come on, please tell me you at least told the police. Because I know you didn't inform the PRT."

"I – we – the information was too sensitive," Lady Photon told him. "If we'd let them know, let anyone know, then it may have gotten back to him. We had to take him by surprise."

"Your logic, however misguided, is sound," Renick conceded. "You could have at least informed me so that I could have PRT troops ready to move in." He paused, looking them over. "I take it that the surprise attack failed."

"He's good," muttered Lightstar. "Too damn good. And besides -"

Too late, a gesture from Fleur, the third dark-clad woman, quieted him. Renick raised an eyebrow. "And besides?"

"He plays dirty," Brandish filled in. "He, uh, lured us outside, and used the terrain to his advantage. Took Manpower hostage and threatened to kill him before forcing us to leave."

"Manpower, were you harmed by this?" asked Renick. "Your shoulder -"

"A wound acquired in battle," Lady Photon cut in. "Once we agreed to cease fighting and leave, he withdrew the threat on Manpower. We had half our members wounded; retreat was the logical option."

"And so you then informed the authorities?" pressed Renick. Silence greeted his question. "Come on, please tell me that you told someone."

"We, uh, decided," Lady Photon replied stonily, "that the best idea was to wait a few days, then try again, at night." Her expression was almost impossible to read, but there was a glance at Brandish that he couldn't interpret. Did Brandish object, or did she push the plan through against opposition? If I press the issue, they'll close ranks and I'll never get to the bottom of this.

"So you went in," Renick went on, "without notifying the police or PRT, to the home of a supervillain who had beaten you six on one, not even wearing your identifying costumes." He shook his head. "I'm just trying to work out what's worse about that plan; how stupid it was, or how illegal."

"I -" began Lady Photon, but Renick cut her off.

"And then, you find important evidence, which you fail to then take straight to the police, because you first decide to indulge in the crime of destruction of private property, which has followed your crime of breaking and entering. Which, incidentally, gets caught on the closed-circuit TV cameras which Marquis had apparently had installed over the last few days. Along with the silent alarm system which had been given a priority status for police response. So that the letter, which was undoubtedly intended to decoy you into staying to search the house, succeeded long enough for the police to arrive and arrest you. Is that about it?"

Lady Photon nodded slowly. "I … that's about it, yes. Sir."

"You're lucky," Renick told her, and the rest of the Brigade. "Lucky on two counts, so far. The first count is that the police decided to call in the fact that they had found parahuman perpetrators. I was able to get on top of this and claim jurisdiction, and take you off of their hands. The second count is that Marquis was not there, to hand you yet another humiliating defeat." He paused. "Oh, wait. He did. Without even being there."

Stung by the biting sarcasm, Brandish raised her head. "He's a murderer and a monster. We were just trying to take him down."

"Oh, I have no doubt that he has committed many heinous crimes," Renick agreed. "But it's not him that we are talking about. It's you."

"Okay, if we're talking about us, how about we talk about the number of people we've saved from being hurt and killed since we formed the Brigade," Brandish countered. "We're superheroes. We help people. He's a villain and a murderer. For god's sake, he kills his own men if they fail him. Who even does that?"

Renick took a deep breath. "Okay, I get it. He's a bad man. You're on the side of goodness and light. More or less literally. But."

" … but?" ventured Lady Photon, waving Brandish to silence.

Abruptly, Renick felt tired. "But even the police – whose paid job is to protect the community – have to investigate and prosecute an officer, even one who's saved countless lives, if he's found to be breaking the rules. If you want to have extra privileges, you need to show that you hold yourselves to that higher standard. Which you haven't been."

"If we'd taken him down, what would have happened then?" asked Lady Photon.

Renick nodded acknowledging the point. "We would have taken him off of your hands. Success tends to wipe away the little awkward questions. Capturing Marquis, one of the crime bosses of Brockton Bay, would be a coup for everyone. There would have been no question of throwing him back."

"So we -" began Brandish.

"I hadn't finished," Renick told her. "However, you didn't succeed. You failed, in quite a spectacular and potentially public manner. This doesn't erase the awkward questions; it magnifies them. You made a big play, risked your good name as a team, and fell flat on your faces. Worse, you compounded on your failure, played straight into his hands, and opened yourself up for legal consequences. If I was the type of person to dislike capes, you would be in so very much trouble right now."

"But that's not fair!" burst out Fleur. "We were just -"

Lady Photon cleared her throat, silencing the younger woman. "I notice that you said 'if' you were that type of person," she stated carefully.

"Indeed," Renick agreed. "Now, I can see where you were coming from. I can't exactly condone your methods, but I can more or less understand why you resorted to them. Which is one of the reasons why I'm not going to have you prosecuted. After all, you are superheroes. You have done much public good. You helped carry the load before the PRT and Protectorate were properly established in this city."

He paused a beat, then went on. "But on the other hand, there has to be accountability. Responsibility. People have to be able to know that they can trust their superheroes not to play fast and loose with the rules. I have to be able to know that."

"Well, actually, we've been working on something along those lines," Lady Photon stated, her face and voice showing cautious hope.

"What, really?" asked Renick.

"Really," the female superhero confirmed. "We're calling it the New Wave initiative. Capes to unmask across the country, reveal their identities. We stay in our teams, keep our costumes and cape names, but the general public knows that Joe and Jane Smith are really Captain Commando and Lady Patriot, or whatever. That way, there's accountability. If Captain Commando accidentally kills an innocent, then he can't just take his mask off and go home and never be held -"

"Okay, I've heard enough," interrupted Renick. "No."

The members of the Brockton Bay Brigade looked at one another; Lady Photon was the one to speak. " … no?"

"Absolutely, one hundred percent no," he repeated. "What happens the very first time a criminal decides to take revenge on the hero who put his brother away? He can find him in the White Pages, that's what."

"But if we're being accountable to the public -" began Brandish.

Renick snorted. "I'm the public, and I think it's a stupid idea. Especially after that stunt you pulled with Marquis' house. What if that gets out? No, scratch that. If you carry through with this plan, how soon before it gets out that heroes invaded a villain's home? No hero would be safe. No, I'm telling you now, I oppose this plan. The PRT will oppose it. If need be, we'll speak out against it. And if anyone does follow through with it due to your urging, and gets hurt or killed as a result, the PRT will hold you six personally responsible."

"But you were just talking about responsibility, accountability," Brandish challenged him. "How else are we going to achieve that?"

"I can think of two ways," Renick told her. "One way is that you six join the Protectorate. We have accountability more or less built in to our regulations. On the upside, you get our paycheck and backup from PRT and Protectorate; on the downside, you have to follow orders."

Lady Photon shook her head. "We can't do that. We have children -"

"And you were going to unmask yourselves to the nation? With children at stake? What were you thinking?" Paul shook his head. "No. Very well, there is always the other option."

"Which is?" Brandish's voice once more held a note of challenge.

"You reveal your real identities to me, personally. All of you. Your identities will be kept as a matter of highest security. You get no paycheck, but nor will you be under orders. You will, of course, be required to follow the law, at least as far as we can see you."

"So you'll just be holding this over our heads?" Brandish asked.

Renick spread his hands. "Accountability. You wanted it. Now, unless you want this to go farther, I'd advise you to pick one of the two options."

"And the police?" asked Lady Photon. "They saw our faces."

"I will advise them to pass on to me anything that can be used to identify you," he assured her. "After all, from here on in, you're going to be directly accountable to the PRT."

Lady Photon grimaced. "You've got us over a barrel. We don't really have a choice."

"We could just, you know, quit," offered Fleur in a small voice.

"Are you really going to go there?" asked Brandish. "After all we've done to build this team up?" She turned to Renick. "So, do you have any other demands?"

"Actually, yes," he replied. "I'd like you to do one more thing for me. I'm lining up a psychologist for the team – more than one, hopefully – and I'd like you to talk to him. See if we can't ferret out the reason you went at Marquis so hard when you were taken down the first time. It'll also help make me happier on the accountability front."

Again, the glance from Lady Photon to Brandish, too fast for him to interpret.

"It's … probably not that bad an idea," the former conceded.

"No, hell no!" retorted Brandish. "Not going to happen!"

"You do realise that not doing so will merely ensure that we keep a closer eye on you? Because I do not want something like this happening again on my watch."

Lady Photon muttered something to Brandish, and the belligerent hero subsided. Then Lady Photon turned to the rest of the team. "It's the best deal we're going to get, guys."

One by one, they nodded; Flashbang readily, Fleur dubiously. Brandish was reluctant, but Lady Photon stared her down until she nodded curtly.

"Fine," she muttered. "Let's get this over with."

Lady Photon turned to Renick; as the others removed their masks, she pulled the scarf from around the lower part of her face.

"My name is Sarah Pelham."

As he watched the heroes unmasking, all Renick could think was, John should have been doing this, not me. He'd know if it was the right thing to do.

But it was him and not John, so he had to do the best he could with what he had. As each mask came off, he made no real attempt to memorise faces; however, he did jot down the names as they were spoken.

"Well," he announced, once the last name was written down. "That's a start, at least. We'll be verifying your identities, of course, but that's just a formality, right?"

Lady Photon, fitting the scarf over her face again, nodded. "That's correct."

"So, one last thing before you go," Renick noted. "This is the letter he left you, correct?" With his fingernail, he tapped the missive, currently contained in a large zip-lock bag.

Lady Photon leaned forward and peered at it. "Looks like the one, all right. What's the matter?"

"I was just wondering why you were searching the house. It was clear that he had already left."

Brandish spoke up. "There had to be a clue somewhere in the house as to where he had gone. He was taunting me, daring me to find it."

Renick blinked. "But there was. Didn't you see it?"

Silence, as all six members of the Brigade stared at him.

Lady Photon broke the deadlock. "What?"

He tapped the letter again. "I was a forensic accountant before I joined the PRT. I spotted it as soon as I read the letter. First letter of each paragraph." Using two fingers, he spun the letter around so that she could read it; almost instantly, Brandish was looking over one shoulder, and Fleur over the other. Manpower loomed over all of them, while Flashbang and Lightstar – Mark and Donny – didn't seem to want to bother.

"Boston," hissed Brandish. "Fucking Boston." Her voice rose to a scream. "And I had the fucking letter in my hand all that fucking time!"

"Calm down, Brandish," warned Renick. "This is not a good time or place for a temper tantrum."

"He's right," Lady Photon – Sarah – agreed. "Now we know where he is, we can -"

" - stay right here in Brockton Bay," Renick told her flatly. "I've already alerted the PRT in Boston. If he raises his head there, they'll know about it. If I get even the slightest whiff of you going to confront him yourself, after the last fiasco, then you will be charged with interfering with an ongoing investigation. Do you understand?"

Brandish – Carol – turned to glare at him, and he flinched inwardly; a moment later, Lady Photon put her hand on the woman's shoulder. "We understand," she assured Renick. "We'll leave it to the PRT."

Paul wasn't so sure. And he really didn't want to have to prosecute superheroes who were just trying to get villains off of the street. But nor did he want a repeat of the previous incident.

Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

I really, really don't want this job.


End of Prologue, Part Three

Prologue Part Four

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Prologue, Part Four

[A/N: the last bit of this has been revised with the assistance of a friend who is both a mother and a writer]

March, 2001

The intercom on Renick's desk buzzed. With a quick, nervous gesture – why am I nervous? I've been waiting for this day for more than eight months – he pressed the button. "Renick."

"Sir, we just received word. She's five minutes out."

"Thank you. Inform me when she arrives."

"Yes, sir."

He swallowed, but his throat remained dry as dust. Intellectually, he knew that he was at least adequate to the task of running the Brockton Bay branch of the PRT, but in his heart of hearts, he still considered himself an accountant, a subordinate. The loss of Director Jameson had landed him in the hot seat, and he'd been running like hell ever since, just to stay in the same place.

I never wanted the job. John would have done better. It was the constant refrain that had gone through his head, as he worked hard to keep his part of the PRT from falling prey to a never-ending series of escalating crises. In truth, had he allowed himself to admit it, he hadn't done that badly, but his perfectionist outlook only let him focus on the failures, rather than the victories, as small as they were.

And now they finally had his replacement here, they were bringing in the new Director. He'd ensured that his request to be relieved of the top position was renewed on a monthly basis; so long as there was nobody else, he'd do the job, but he didn't want it. Finally, someone had listened. Finally, he could go back to being the Deputy Director. Finally, his assistant could step back into her proper role, instead of filling in as his Deputy.

Finally.

Getting up from the desk, he crossed the room to where the ten-gallon hat hung on the hook beside the door. It had been hanging there when he first took over from John, and he had never had the heart to take it away. So long as it was there, John wasn't gone, not really. Once in a while, when pressed hard for answers, he had taken it down, put it on and tried to ask himself what John would have done. He wasn't at all sure that this had had any real effect on his thinking, but the solutions hadn't ended in total disaster, so he had kept doing it, knowing all the time that it was just a little silly.

He took it down now, and placed it on his head. It was a little large for him; John had been a big man, with a correspondingly large hat size. He didn't mind; it served to remind him how large the shoes were that he'd had to fill.

"Well, John," he murmured. "She's here at last. I can finally step down. Thanks for all your help."

His phone rang; hastily, he put the hat back on the hook and ducked back around the desk.

It was an update on the Empire Eighty-Eight crisis, following Allfather's death. Paul had a certain amount of sympathy toward Kaiser; the rumour was that Allfather had actually been Kaiser's real father, and losing a parent was always a blow. But the Empire Eighty-Eight, under Allfather, had killed Renick's boss and mentor, so he wasn't totally broken up by the event. In any case, he did wish that Kaiser would express his grief in a somewhat less public fashion; so far, two minor gangs had been obliterated for the crime of attempting to move into Empire territory.

At that very moment, several of Galvanate's men were currently in a running battle with Empire Eighty-Eight capes, which had so far caused moderate property damage. The officer on site had been following Renick's directive of observing and containing the conflict, and keeping civilians out of the way. Houses could be rebuilt; people, not so much. Criticism had been levelled at him for not being more proactive, but he could not find it in himself to send men into harm's way for what he saw as no real benefit. There was that new 'containment foam' stuff, but he'd never had a chance to see it in action himself, and he was dubious about trusting his men's safety to something he didn't know about personally.

"Thank you, captain," he told the officer. "Keep me apprised of any new developments."

"Yes, sir."

Hanging up the phone, he was just about to reach for the intercom when it buzzed.

"Renick."

"Her vehicle just pulled in, sir."

"Good. Bring her right up."

"Will do, sir."

It was almost time. Getting up, he paced across the office and back again, looking around in sudden agitation. There was no artwork, no ornamentation. He had not made any changes to the office. The coffee machine settings had been changed to his own preference – the thick, bitter brew that John had preferred tended to upset his stomach – but that was about it.

Quickly, he checked his hair; sometimes putting on the hat disturbed it. This time, it was fine. He took up a position in the middle of the carpet, facing the door, then changed his mind. I don't want her first impression of me to be someone who abandons his post. He'd read her dossier, of course; she was a soldier, who had gone through Ellisburg. It had made for grim reading. The military mind was a mystery to him, but he was fairly certain that this would not sit well with her.

Stepping back around his desk – not his for much longer, he reminded himself – he pulled out the chair, preparing to sit down. And then came the knock on the door. Straightening up again, he called out. "Enter!"

The office door opened, and Emily Piggot stepped inside.

<><>​

Renick's first impression of her was that of a woman in pain. She was fit and strong, as far as he could tell, despite the toll that a serious injury and a stay in the hospital had taken on her. Her dark hair was still cut short; it had not had the opportunity to grow out since she had been wounded. Carefully, she moved forward, leaning heavily on a pair of walking canes; he could tell from the lines on her face how much moving hurt her, but he also had the very strong impression that she would die rather than give up the slightest bit of independence that she could manage.

"Ms Piggot," he greeted her, moving around the desk and approaching her so that she didn't have to move too far to meet him. "It's a pleasure and an honour to meet you at last. Allow me to welcome you to Brockton Bay, and your office."

Awkwardly, he paused, his hand out to shake hers, as he realised that both of her hands were occupied. But she shifted both canes to her left hand, and leaned on them as she held out her right.

"Director Renick," she replied, her voice a little sharp. Her grip was strong, almost crushing his hand before she let him go. "I've heard much about you."

She didn't elaborate on exactly what she'd heard, but he didn't pay much attention to the pleasantry. From what he understood, she had been in combat ops, and this was her first desk posting. As an officer, she would have had a certain amount of paperwork to deal with, but as Director, that amount would become exponentially larger.

"I won't be Director after today," he pointed out. "I have the papers ready to sign on your desk. I'll be giving you all the assistance I can, to help you ease into the job, of course."

"Of course," she agreed, but the glance she shot him was curious rather than hostile. "You seem remarkably eager for someone who's being demoted."

"I, uh, never wanted the job, ma'am," he explained. "I was stuck with it after Director Jameson was killed in gang violence. I'll give you all the help I can, but I don't want that job."

"Hm." Her eyes creased, and she gave him an appraising stare. "I'm not totally sure that I want it yet either, but we shall see." Moving around the desk, she sat down carefully, then leaned the canes against the filing cabinet behind her. He stood toward the side of the desk and cleared his throat; she looked enquiringly toward him.

"The, uh, top left drawer has ongoing situations in a folder. Also, daily passwords, the combination to the wall safe, and so on. I presume that you will be changing those as soon as you see the need. We have a locksmith that we call on." Aware that he was starting to wander, he reined himself in. "There's also a list of duty officers, a roster of all the men, and a plan of the building."

"Thank you, Mr Renick." Her voice was dry, but she opened the drawer anyway and lifted out the folder. Then she opened each of the other drawers in succession. "Well, you keep a neat desk at least. I approve."

"Uh, thank you, ma'am."

He had left a pen next to the papers on the desk for her; picking it up, she began reading through the documents, signing each one at the bottom. Leaning over the desk, he used his own pen to countersign where necessary; with each scribbled signature, a little more of the weight lifted from his shoulders.

There was almost complete silence in the office, aside from the sound of pen on paper. He was aware of a simmering anger in her, hard and sharp, pushing her every action. She was used to being strong, capable, able to take action herself; being relegated to a desk job had to be rankling at her.

The phone rang. She glanced at him; he glanced at her. She was Director now, legally, but she had literally only just now sat down at the desk. He still knew far more about what was going on in the city. Who answers it?

"Put it on speaker," she ordered.

Reaching out, he did so; she watched every move that he did.

"Renick," he stated out loud.

"Ah, yes, sir, this is Captain Landon. You told me to apprise you of any developments."

"Yes, Captain, I recall. What's happening?" At the same time, he flicked open the situation folder and tapped the notes that he had made on the Empire/Galvanate cape battle. She took them up and began skimming them immediately.

"They're approaching the Fulton Street shopping mall, sir. We're having trouble getting everyone out in time."

Renick tried to think, to work out how to deal with this. "Uh, can you use vehicles to barricade the street, slow them -"

Piggot spoke up, overriding him. "Never mind that. Captain Landon. This is Director Emily Piggot. I've just taken over from Deputy Director Renick."

"Uh, can I have confirmation of that from Director, uh Deputy Director Renick, please?"

"I'm confirming it, Captain Landon." Renick's voice was firm. "Authenticating Delta Bravo Delta."

"Uh, thank you, sir. Ma'am, your orders?"

"One question." There was the snap of command in Piggot's voice. "Do you have containment foam?"

"Uh, yes, ma'am, but we don't have much training in deploying it."

"That's fine. I'll talk you through it. Now, here's what you're going to do … "

As Renick stood there, she rattled off orders. She didn't know, couldn't know, exactly what was going on there, but she had plans, strategies which she had obviously put to use before now. She was sharp, she was tactically aware, and she knew exactly what she was doing.

He felt that he should maybe have been more hurt at the sound of relief in Landon's voice as Emily Piggot took charge of the situation; he had been out of his depth, but the PRT troopers had understood this and made allowances. With her, Landon's responses were crisper, more in tune with her way of thinking.

This is what they needed from me. I didn't know how to do it.

As it went on, he went over to the coffee machine and fetched a cup for himself, and one for her. It was about all he was good for in this situation. She took the cup absently and sipped at it as she continued to manage the situation. Finally, however, she exchanged a last few words with Landon, and ended the call.

"Does this sort of thing happen every day?"

"Well, not every day," he admitted. "But it's not uncommon for something like it to happen once or twice a week. Although it's been a lot quieter since the Teeth were pushed out of town, and Marquis left. Allfather's death affected the Empire quite a bit, but they're rallying around Kaiser now. Galvanate's been trying to capitalise on this, but I think he left his run a little late.""

"Mm. Good analysis." She glanced through the rest of the folder, then closed it, lacing her fingers over the top of it. "I've already been briefed-in on the Brockton Bay situation and how you've been handling it, and I've got just one question."

He swallowed, suddenly nervous. Here it comes. "Uh, yes?"

Her steel-grey eyes were suddenly intense. "Mr Renick, are you a cape sympathiser?"

<><>​

This was not the question that he had been expecting. "Uh, beg pardon, ma'am?"

"It's not a difficult question." He heard an edge in her voice that had not been there before. "Do you favour capes over normals? Do you think they're better than us, that the rules don't apply to them?"

"No, of course not," he protested. "The law applies to everyone equally."

"Your actions don't seem to bear that out." Her voice was grim. "There are many instances where pressing a little harder would probably have resulted in the capture of a cape, but you never pushed that hard. Why?"

"Ma'am, I'm not an aggressive man. I'm not a soldier. Or even a police officer. I don't know how to think like one. I'm a bureaucrat. An accountant. What I'm good at is numbers. And I don't see the benefit in getting our men hurt or killed for the potential capture of a cape who'll be out again all too soon anyway."

"What I'm hearing is excuses, Renick. Defeatism. Have you just been standing back and letting them run rough-shod over the city?"

"No, ma'am." Now he was on more sturdy ground. "I've been concentrating our efforts on minimising loss of life. Making sure that civilians aren't in the line of fire, and doing my best to keep the troops out of it as well."

"And sending a clear message to the capes in the city. All they have to do is not threaten citizens, and the PRT won't bother them."

He flinched at the scathing tone of her voice. "I know it's not an ideal solution, ma'am. I knew it then. But ..." He trailed off, not sure what to say next.

For a moment, it seemed as though Piggot was going to continue castigating him; instead, she frowned. "But what?"

"But ..." He searched for words. "What you did? Just now? I don't know how to do that. I don't know what to authorise, what to hold back on. I know the city, the gangs. I know how everything fits together. What I don't know is what to do about it. So I was just trying to ... keep people safe."

To his surprise, she nodded. "Holding action. You were fighting a holding action. Until the cavalry came over the hill."

"I ... if you say so, ma'am."

"And all you want to do is be the Deputy Director."

"Yes, ma'am. I can do that."

Another nod. "Well, Mr Renick, you can relax now." Something that may have been the ghost of a smile. "The cavalry's arrived. The capes of Brockton Bay are about to learn that there's a line, and if they step over it, I will come down on them like a ton of bricks."

"They, uh, they might not be too happy about that, ma'am."

"Well, I'm not too happy about how it is right now. And I care more about my happiness than theirs, so they're just going to have to suck it up." She gave him a dry look. "Relax. You're out of the firing line now."

"Thank you, ma'am. Will there be anything else?"

"No, Mr Renick. You can go. But don't stray too far from your phone. I'll probably have questions."

"Of course, ma'am."

He was almost to the door when her voice snapped out. "Renick."

Stopping, he turned. "Yes, ma'am?"

She pointed. "Don't forget your hat."

Involuntarily, he glanced at the ten-gallon hanging on the wall. "Oh, uh, that's not my hat."

"Well, whose is it then?" Impatience coloured her tone.

"It belonged to Director Jameson. He bought it as a sort of joke when we were transferred here. When he died, I left it there. Sort of an inspiration. 'What would John do?'"

She snorted. "Well, you can take it with you." Unspoken were the words I don't need it.

"Yes, ma'am." Lifting the hat from its hook, he tucked it under his arm. "Ma'am?"

Lifting her gaze from the paperwork on the desk, she looked at him. "Yes, Mr Renick?"

"It's good to have you here."

The ghost of a smile crossed her lips once more. "Well, it looks like I got here just in time. Dismissed."

Taking that as his cue to leave, he closed the door carefully behind himself.

<><>​

Two Weeks Later

"So, are the Wards behaving?"

Renick looked up at Piggot's question, using the excuse of a mouthful of sandwich to consider his answer. Ever since she had succeeded him in his post, she had indeed had 'a few questions' for him at least once a day since then. However, she never needed telling anything twice, and she demonstrated a talent for the job that he envied. They had fallen into the habit of lunching at the same table in the cafeteria, where problems or ideas could be aired between them. It wasn't quite the camaraderie that he'd had with John, but they were definitely working well together.

The Wards had originally been intended to be housed on the oil rig platform that had been moved into the Bay, torn almost to its component parts, then rebuilt from scratch. However, this was turning out to be less than ideal for more than one reason, so they had been relocated into the sub-basement of the PRT building. Director Piggot had put Renick in charge of them, and he had accepted the responsibility with good grace. The youngsters had rather taken to him, which had improved his morale somewhat.

"Well," he answered after chewing and swallowing, "they've been a bit of a handful since Armsmaster graduated, but they're adjusting. Miss Militia drops in to talk to them every now and again; she tells me that she remembers all too well what it was like to be young and have strange powers for the first time. Mind you, Mouse Protector also drops in, which raises morale but doesn't do much for their behaviour."

"You like them, don't you?"

He raised an eyebrow at her tone, but he was getting to know her moods; she was displeased at something, but that something wasn't him.

"Yes, ma'am, I like them. They're good kids. I think some of them are destined for greatness." He paused. "May I ask … ?"

"Yes?" Her tone was prickly, uninviting, but she didn't forbid him to ask.

"Why don't you like capes? I mean, I know that some of the villains are pretty bad, but there are some worthwhile heroes out there as well."

Her lips thinned. "Deputy Director Renick."

The shift from informality caught him by surprise, but he rolled with it. "Ma'am?"

"What I'm about to tell you goes no farther than this table."

"Of course, ma'am."

"You've read my dossier." It was a statement of fact, not a question.

"I have, yes, ma'am."

"You know where I got my injuries." She did not mention the name of the town.

"Yes, ma'am." Nor did he. She's going to tell me that Nilbog's a cape and that's why she hates them.

"There were capes assigned to us as support." Her voice was low, deadly. "Heroes. They cut and ran. Left us to die."

Taken aback, he blinked. "Christ."

"Precisely. As far as I'm concerned, capes are overgrown children who have been given access to automatic weapons that we can't take away from them. I will manage them. I will allocate funds for their base, their training and their costumes. I will even say nice things about them on TV. But I will never, ever, trust them with my life. Or anything else important."

"Even the heroes?"

"Especially the heroes." Venom still dripped from her voice. "I already know not to trust the villains."

"I … I see." And he did see; he saw the reason for the anger within her, the attitudes. The revelation explained much. "Uh, what was it like?" Ellisburg.

Very slightly, she shook her head. "The answer to that question is above your pay grade." Her tone lightened for a moment. "One day, when medical science figures how to replace my kidneys, you and I will get very drunk together, and I'll tell you everything. But until that day, no."

He tilted his head. "Talking about your kidneys; surely you could get a Tinker to build you replacements. Even Armsmaster; he's still young, but he's built some very impressive things already. He's good at compressing a lot of utility into a small space."

"No." Jaw set, she shook her head again, this time more vigorously. "I told you, I don't trust capes. And Tinkers generally have to maintain their products. Which means that he'd have to open me up again on a regular occasion to keep my kidneys in working order. I'll stick with haemodialysis, thank you."

"And even if there was a healer who could do it -"

"There's at least two that I know of," she interrupted him. "Eidolon and Scion. But I wouldn't trust either of them as far as I could throw them. Even if I could get Scion to listen to me."

"Hm. Okay." He stirred his coffee. "I can't blame you, not really. Not after that."

"Which reminds me," she noted. "I need you to tell me what really happened with the Brockton Bay Brigade and Marquis."

He paused. "You've found the file."

She nodded. "I found the file."

After another moment of hesitation, he spoke. "Can we take this to your office?"

"Certainly." She rose to her feet; he had already noted that she was only using one cane now. Pretty soon she'll be walking without them. I wish I had her drive.

Of course, what she'd gone through to get that drive, he wouldn't wish on anyone.

<><>​

Back in her office, she opened the wall safe – Renick could tell just from the movements that she'd had the combination changed, although he didn't try to tell what it was – and dropped a folder on the desk. "Imagine my surprise when I found that you had a complete dossier on the Brockton Bay Brigade, including secret identities. Plus a note that you were observing them, had them on warning for irresponsible actions."

"That's true," he confirmed. "I let them know that their activities will be scrutinised."

"But why?" she asked. "All I found in the folder about why they were under scrutiny was a note saying to ask you."

"Give me a moment," he advised her, and went back to his own office. There, he opened his own wall safe and extracted a somewhat thicker file. Closing the safe, he conveyed the file back to Piggot, who was now seated in her chair. "This is why," he told her, dropping it on her desk.

"Why was this in your safe, and not in mine?" she asked, opening the folder.

"Because I knew you would be too busy dealing with the villains, and didn't need to worry about this at the moment. But when you wanted to know, I could get it for you. Thus, the note."

"Hm." She began to read; Renick grabbed a chair and sat. He observed her expression, the growing anger, as she perused the file. Finally, she closed the file and slapped her hand down on it. "What the hell is this, Renick?"

"That's the story of what happened, as closely as we could determine," Paul explained. "Forensics techs went through the house with a fine tooth comb and discovered the evidence of a child being on site both before and after the fact, and reconstructed the earlier events. Which begs the question."

"What, why would they start a fight with a child present?"

"I'm presuming that the child wasn't in the room when the fight began. No, the question is even more basic. Why didn't they tell me she was there at all? Any sort of description or even an approximate age would've given our people in Boston a huge head start in locating Marquis before he managed to go to ground." He shook his head. "She's mentioned in the letter, but from the way they never touched on the topic, I assumed at the time that she'd been offsite during the battle." A grimace settled on his face. "I'm good with numbers, not people."

"Hm. I see your point. Okay, so let's run through it. Marquis is on site, and the Brigade enters." Piggot flipped through pages. "They attack, he defends. Blood on the floor is a match for Flashbang and Lightstar. Neither wound is mortal, however. All members of the Brigade are alive and well today."

"Then at some point," Paul went on, "at his request, they move outside. Their reason for this was vague at the time, and now I think I know why."

"The girl came into the picture," Emily stated.

"Precisely." Paul nodded. "However, instead of backing off altogether, they choose to continue the fight outside. He trounces them anyway. They retreat in confusion."

"Finally, they return, three days later." Piggot picked up the narrative, skimming pages. "Marquis has packed up his household and left for Boston, leaving a taunting note for Brandish. He also leaves behind a closed-circuit camera system and an advanced silent alarm system, directing alerts toward the police station. They start looking around the house, the police arrive and arrest them."

Renick nodded. "As soon as I got word, I claimed jurisdiction on behalf of the PRT."

"Well, good," the Director decided. "What puzzles me is, why are they still walking free? Quite apart from the second situation, where they broke into the house of a person they knew to be a supervillain." She eyed Renick. "You've already assured me that you share no partiality toward capes, and I believe you. So … why?"

Renick leaned back in his chair and sighed gustily. "Because I spoke to them, and put them on notice, before the forensic techs told me that the girl had been in the house during the battle. And that all of the evidence pointed toward them being aware of her presence, at least on the second go-around," he confessed. "I'd told them that they were free and clear so long as they kept their noses clean, and I didn't want to go back on that." He paused. "In any case, I'm strongly inclined to believe that they didn't know that she was there before the fight started. The first fight, anyway."

"It was their responsibility to find out," noted Piggot. "That's endangering a minor. Adding to the charges of withholding evidence, breaking and entering, and so on. Those other ones don't mean much in the grand scheme of things, especially when it comes to supervillains; on the other hand, putting a child in danger is a really big thing."

"Worse," Renick reminded her. "They came back. As far as they were aware, the child would still be there. Also, they didn't tell me about her at any time. And they didn't inform the authorities about the fact of the fight or of the child in the three days between the first incident and the second." He rubbed his forehead. "Had I known what they knew, I would've gone a lot more harshly on them. Especially since they tried to conceal from me the fact that she'd been there at all, and whatever they did to endanger her during the first fight."

"Do they know that you know?" Piggot's voice was firm.

"No, ma'am. I haven't spoken to them since their interview in this office. They haven't tried going to Boston yet."

"Good." Her smile was sharp-edged. "I think I want to talk to them."

<><>​

A Few Days Later

When the six members of the Brockton Bay Brigade filed into Director Piggot's office, they found the new Director sitting behind her desk. Standing alongside it, hands clasped behind his back, was Paul Renick. Also in the room were four PRT soldiers.

"Good afternoon," the Director greeted them. She did not rise. "Don't bother sitting down. This won't take long."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Brandish.

"Exactly what I meant it to," Piggot replied flatly. "Manpower, Flashbang, Lightstar, I'm glad to see that you've recovered from your wounds."

Lady Photon stepped forward from the group. "Director Piggot, you phoned me at home to request that we attend this meeting. From this, I presume that Deputy Director Renick has shared certain information with you."

"You could presume that, yes," Piggot agreed. "As you know, I'm new on the scene. I asked you to come here to answer me a few questions about that particular series of events. Fill in the blanks, as it were."

"Is this supposed to be an interrogation?" asked Brandish sharply.

"No, it's a friendly conversation," Piggot told her. "It can become an interrogation if you want. Right now, I have questions to ask of you. I would like you to answer them, please."

"And if we exercised our rights and walked out of here?" Brandish's tone was aggressive. Flashbang placed his hand on her shoulder; she relaxed her stance slightly.

"Then you would be allowed to leave," Piggot told her. "Of course, then you wouldn't know what I wanted to ask questions about. And you would lose any trust that we have in you."

"For god's sake, shut up," muttered Manpower. Aloud, he continued. "What are these questions?"

"Thank you." Picking up a sheet of paper from her desk, Piggot looked over it at Lady Photon. "How much investigation did you do before invading the house presumed to belong to Marquis?"

Brandish went to step forward, but Lady Photon nudged her back. "We, uh, got information on Marquis' identity. Checked out photos; it was the same man, as far as we could tell. Used that to find his house, went in, and it was him."

"I see." Piggot's eyes flicked to the paper for an instant, then she asked the next question. "So you didn't know that there was a child in the house?"

Renick saw the reaction spread through the group at the word 'child'. The level of tension in the room rose just a little.

Lady Photon cleared her throat. "No. We did not know."

Piggot's voice was relentless. "If you had known, would you have gone in?"

Lady Photon's eyes flicked from side to side as she saw the trap. Brandish stepped forward, this time unopposed. "This is an interrogation. If you're going to ask leading questions, at least have the decency to read us our rights."

The Director's eyes flicked to Brandish. "It's not a difficult question. If you had known that Marquis had a child, would you have entered the house and started a fight?"

She clenched her fists, but answered. "We would have secured her before any fight started, so that she wouldn't get hurt. But -"

"So, you would have kidnapped a supervillain's daughter and held her against her will," mused Director Piggot. "Interesting. Of course, as you didn't, I can't hold that against you. However, I presume that was your intent when you came back to the house." Her gaze flicked to Lady Photon. "The broken window in the girl's bedroom, with the glass on the inside. Laser holes in the wallpaper opposite. That was you? You were the one designated to 'secure' her?" She paused. "This isn't an interrogation. You won't be arrested for answering."

Lady Photon hesitated, then nodded sharply. Her lips pressed tightly together, she refused to speak.
"So now we come to the more interesting questions," Piggot went on. "Specifically, why you failed to inform my predecessor, Deputy Director Renick, that the girl was there at the time. Now, why is that?"
Silence greeted the question. She searched out one member of the Brockton Bay Brigade after another, and each of them looked aside, apart from Brandish, who stared back defiantly.

"You do realise," Piggot stated quietly, "that by withholding that information, you were making it much harder for the PRT in Boston to locate and apprehend Marquis. If they were looking for a man alone, then a man with a young girl would've escaped notice altogether. A complete description would be very useful, and may go a little way toward redeeming you for your actions."

"She's six, but looks younger," Brandish admitted. "She has Marquis' hair, long and brown and a little frizzy. Her name … " She paused, for what reason Renick could not understand. "Her name is Amelia."

"Very well," stated Director Piggot, her pen busy. She looked up at the group, and although she was at a lower level than them, it was her personality that dominated the room. "You do realise how badly you've screwed up here. Endangering a minor, seeking to kidnap said minor, concealing vital information from law enforcement agencies. And, of course, getting caught."

She shook her head. "By rights, I should be bringing charges against the lot of you. Normally, I would not hesitate to do so. But my predecessor gave you a second chance, albeit without full knowledge of what you had done; going back on that would send the wrong message. I could force you to dissolve the Brockton Bay Brigade, require you to serve a year in the Protectorate, on different teams across the country, so that you learn about following the law all the time, not just when it suited you."

Silence reigned in the office as she laid the pen down; the tiny clack was audible to all.

"But I won't do any of that," she decided at last. "You're superheroes; not that this cuts much ice with me, but you at least try to do the right thing. Most of the time, anyway, as the Deputy Director assures me. Furthermore, you have young children, and I would not punish them for your crimes. So this is what's going to happen."

She stood then, pressing her hands against the desk for support. "You will attend a PRT therapy session at least once a week, each of you. The more often the better, given what's at stake."

She drew a breath to go on, but Brandish interrupted her. "What could possibly be at stake?" She put her hands on her hips. "I'm sorry, but state-mandated therapy just doesn't sit right with me."

Piggot raised her eyebrows. "Would you prefer to lose the right to train your children, once they trigger?"

Silence fell on the room for just a few seconds; Brandish's face grew red. She opened her mouth to reply, but Manpower interposed his huge hand, covering most of her face in the process and pulling her back against his broad chest. She struggled for a moment, but his strength was the greater. Leaning down next to her ear, he stated flatly, "Button it, Carol. We've got two kids to your one. Sarah and I have twice as much to lose, here."

Brandish's eyes darted around the room, alighting on Flashbang, who grimaced but did not step forward to assist her. A very slight shrug indicated that he was in agreement with Manpower. Drawing in air through her nostrils, she glared at Piggot one more time, but then subsided.

Lady Photon glanced at her, then turned back to the Director. "Very well," she began carefully, "what do you mean by losing the the right to train our children?"

Piggot lowered herself carefully into her chair. "Mr Renick, if you please?"

Renick cleared his throat and stepped forward. "It's clear from recent events that some or all of you have issues. Issues that get in the way of your being responsible superheroes; issues that need to be dealt with." He glanced at Brandish, still held immobile by Manpower; she glowered back. "Some more serious than others." Clasping his hands behind his back to conceal the tremble in his fingers, he went on. "Those issues need to be dealt with before your children trigger."

Fleur spoke up. "And if we fail to deal with our issues in time?" The others looked at her, and she shrugged. "Hey, Lightstar and I might end up having kids of our own."

Renick tried for a reasonable tone. "If your issues aren't dealt with, we cannot in all conscience accept any level of training that you might give them to be adequate to the task of readying them to be superheroes in their own right. In short, before they're allowed to go out and be heroes, we will require them to be trained to a more responsible standard than you yourselves are currently demonstrating."

"So what does this mean? For us and the kids?" That was Manpower.

"It means that, should you fail to meet that certain standard via independent assessment, your children will be required to train with the Wards under my direction, and pass said training, before they're legally allowed to use their powers in public." He tilted his head. "So, as you can see, it's in your best interests to give the therapy a fair chance." Unclasping his hands, he held them out, turning them palm upward. "This way, everybody wins."

"But if we do get our heads on straight," Lady Photon replied cautiously, "it's all good?"

Renick stepped back, and glanced at Piggot; she nodded briefly. "We'll have no reason to interfere. Do your jobs, and we won't have to." She leaned forward. "Just remember; you are still on notice. I do not want this happening again. Is that perfectly understood?"

Manpower, at Piggot's nod, ungagged Brandish; the woman did not look in the slightest bit thrilled, but she nodded reluctantly, as did the rest of them.

"Good." Her tone was dismissive. "Now get out of my sight."

Brandish led the way to the door; Lady Photon hung back. Piggot eyed her. "Was there something else?"

"We will get a fair chance with this therapy?" pressed the superhero.

"So long as you don't screw up in some other way, yes." Piggot met her eyes. "You're superheroes. Act like it."

Lady Photon nodded. "We'll do better." Turning, she left the room. The door closed behind her.

Renick waited a long moment, then exhaled. "Hmm," he commented quietly. "I think that went well."

Piggot's expression hadn't changed. "It's a start."


End of Prologue Part Four

Part One

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part One: Progress Reports


2002

Boston

'Earl Marchant' paused in the doorway and watched his daughter for a moment. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was tied up with a neat bow; with a self-conscious grimace, he ran his hand through his own short-cut hair, dyed to the same shade. Such is the price of anonymity.

His daughter was seated at the dining-room table, industriously colouring in a large picture. Glue and glitter, each container carefully capped, stood by on a separate piece of paper, for when the finishing touches were needed. Even the crayons she wasn't using were placed carefully in the box they had come in.

"What's that you're doing there, Claire-bear?"

She looked up, her face lighting up with a smile. "Oh, hi, Daddy. I'm making a picture for Mr Accord."

Strolling into the room, he looked it over. "It's definitely very colourful. And very neat. Very tidy. I think he'll like it."

"I hope so, Daddy," she told him. "He doesn't look very happy, a lot of the time."

"You're probably right," he agreed absently, then came back to the moment. "Are you able to leave it for a little bit? I have some people I'd like you to meet."

"Okay." Putting the crayon down, she slid off the chair. "Who are they, Daddy?"

He got down on one knee. "Do you know what a 'bodyguard' is, Claire?"

"They're those people on TV who follow 'portant people around and make sure no-one hurts them, aren't they?"

"Exactly correct, Claire-bear." He hugged her. "Now, you know I love you very much."

Her arms went around his neck. "I love you too, Daddy bear."

He couldn't hold back the smile at the nick-name she had bestowed upon him. Besides, it is true. I would tear apart anyone who harmed a hair on her head. "Well, because I love you, and because you're very important to me, I'm giving you some bodyguards all of your own."

Her grip around his neck tightened. "Is there something wrong, Daddy?"

He cursed himself for not approaching the subject more carefully. "No, sweetie-pie. I'm just making sure that if something does go wrong and I'm not there, you're protected."

"What about you, Daddy?" Her voice was still worried. "Aren't you going to need 'tection too?"

He chuckled warmly. "I think you're forgetting something, princess. Your Daddy bear can take care of himself. Grrr!"

As he growled, he suddenly tickled her, so that she jumped and squealed, then collapsed into giggles. "Daddy!"

"That's me. Are you ready to come and meet your new bodyguards?"

"Okay, Daddy." As he stood, she took his hand trustingly.

He led her to his study, where his three hand-picked employees awaited. There were two men and one woman; one of the men was about fifteen years older than 'Earl', while the other was about his own age. The woman, on the other hand, appeared to be in her late teens. She was blonde-haired, fresh-cheeked and naïve-looking; the T-shirt and jeans she wore did little to dispel this impression. 'Earl' knew that her apparent age and demeanour were both misleading; it was for this reason, and others, that he had hired her.

<><>​

"Gentlemen, lady, I would like you to meet my daughter Claire," her daddy greeted the people. "Claire, these people are your new bodyguards."

Wide-eyed, Claire stared at the strangers, and shrank close to her father.

The woman dropped to one knee. "Hello, Claire," she greeted the girl warmly. "My name's Abigail." She gestured up behind her. "That tall scary-looking one is Jonas, and the other one's Damien."

"They're both scary-looking," ventured Claire. "You're not. You're pretty. I like your hair."

Abigail chuckled. "Well, aren't you a little treasure, then. Mind you, you're not wrong about the boys, sweetheart." She settled down into a seated position, with her legs folded under her, then glanced up at the two men. "Well, come on, lads. Sit yourselves down. The little lady's going to think you're all mean and scary if you're all towering over her like that." Her bright gaze returned to Claire. "Aren't you now, love?"

"Y-yes," Claire admitted. She watched, fascinated, as the big men awkwardly folded themselves down into seated positions. They still looked big and scary, but they were closer to her height now. "The way you talk, is it English? Like on the TV?"

"Close to, love, close to." Abigail smiled, and her accent grew broader. "'Tis Irish that I am, and all."

Despite herself, Claire giggled. "That sounds funny. What's Irish?"

"Ah, ye poor wee lass," Abigail told her, still in the funny accent. "Do ye not know where Ireland is? That little island to the west of England?"

"Oh." Claire stopped giggling long enough to think that over. "Oh yes, I know that one. It's a really long way from America."

"That it is, lass, that it is." Abigail gestured toward the big scary-looking one with the grizzled hair. "Jonas is from South Africa. Do you know where that is?"

"Well, I know where Africa is." Claire screwed up her face in thought. "So South Africa's down at the bottom end, like South America's down at the bottom of America?"

"Yup." The voice, deep and gruff, startled her as Jonas nodded. "Good going, kid. You're a smart cookie."

Growing bolder, Claire pointed at the last of the three. "And where are you from?"

"Los Angeles, actually, Miss Claire." Damien nodded politely; he had dark hair and coffee-brown skin, and his teeth were very white when he smiled. "I'm pretty sure you'd know where that is.'

"Oh, yes!" She nodded vigorously. "That's in California! My friends say that everyone in California's crazy."

Damien looked a little taken aback, but Abigail chuckled delightedly. "Looks like we've got a live one, boys. Claire, I do believe that I'm going to enjoy working with you."

Earl nodded. "That's good. You start tomorrow. Abigail, you'll go everywhere with Claire that I can't go. Jonas, Damien, work out a roster; one of you will be the driver whenever Claire and Abigail go out without me in the car. If either of you has to take time off, give me adequate warning. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Jonas agreed. Damien and Abigail chimed in with their confirmations a few seconds afterward.

"Good." Earl dropped to a crouch, so that he could talk to Claire face to face. "Now, Claire, this is important. While you're out with your bodyguards, you can say where you want to go, but don't be silly about it, and don't try to duck out on them, okay?"

Solemnly, she nodded. "Okay, Daddy."

"And if they ever start telling you what to do, listen. Because it'll be important." He clasped her shoulder. "And if they ever tell you to run – run. Do you understand me?"

She wanted to giggle, to make a joke, but the serious tone in Daddy's voice made her serious, too. "Okay, Daddy. I'll do that."

"Good. You can go back to making your picture now. Abigail, would you like to go and help her?"

"Sure and I would, sir," the woman agreed; with a flexibility that Claire admired, the young woman climbed to her feet. "Show me where it is, Claire?"

"Okay," Claire agreed, and led her back through into the dining-room. She heard her father shut the study door behind them, but paid no mind to it. "I've been making this picture for Mr Accord, and he likes things being real neat and tidy, so I'm trying to be real neat and tidy while I'm making it."

"Really?" asked Abigail. "Wow. I'm sure he'll love it."

<><>​

Once Earl had the door closed, the two men stood up immediately; Damien was faster to his feet than the older and heavier Jonas, but not by much. Almost automatically, they assumed positions of attention.

"Gentlemen," he addressed them. "You know who I am."

"Yes, sir." They spoke almost in unison.

He paced up and down in the study before them. "You know what I do to men who disappoint me."

"Yes, sir." Again, the chorus.

"Claire means more to me than anything or anyone in the world. If anything or anyone threatens her, I will stop at nothing to end the threat, once and for all. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"If she is harmed or lost to me through negligence or betrayal, whoever is responsible will wish that I had only killed them. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"But if there is an attempt, and you get her back to me, then I will spare no expense in whatever treatment you require after the fact. That is a promise."

"Yes, sir."

"And finally. Most importantly. If you are offered a sum of money to betray me in this matter, I want you to accept."

There was a strangled silence, then Jonas' deep voice responded. "Uh, sir?"

Earl turned to face him. "I said, accept the offer. Then come to me. I will pay you double to lead them on, tell me exactly when and how the attempt is to be made. I will take care of the rest. Do you understand?"

A very faint smile of understanding crossed Jonas' face; he and Damien responded together. "Yes. Sir."

"Now, are there any questions?"

Damien raise his hand hesitantly. "Uh, about Abigail, sir?"

Earl tilted his head. "What about her, Damien?"

"Shouldn't she be here for this briefing?"

"No need." Earl shook his head. "I spoke to her earlier."

<><>​

Earlier

"Ms Beltane."

"Mr Marchant." The tone of her voice told him that she knew who he was. He wasn't surprised, nor disappointed.

"Have a seat." He sat himself, in his study chair.

"Thank you, sir." The Irish lilt to her voice was present, but she kept it under control.

"I understand that you're a cape."

"That I am, sir, but you knew before you asked me."

"Indeed I did. You're a Thinker and a minor Mover. How does that work?"

"May I demonstrate, sir?" At his nod, she rose. "I'm flexible, more than humanly possible." Abruptly, she seemed to fold over backward, placing her hands flat on the ground, before one leg and then the other followed; performing a flip, she ended up back on her feet, not a hair out of place. "More acrobatic, more athletic. I can scale most buildings without needing a ladder, run a hundred yards in a shade under six seconds. I only have to watch someone fight for a few seconds before I can outfight them, and I can hit the bullseye on the second shot with any firearm, even one I've never handled before."

"Impressive," he murmured. "Anything else?"

"Yes, sir," she confirmed. "I have a very short-range precog ability, which tells me when I'm in immediate danger. Sometimes, this also works for someone I'm close to."

"And you can tell when someone's not telling the truth?"

She nodded. "I get an itch, sir. The same sort of itch you get when you're reading and one word is totally misspelled, and you can't get it out of your head. Little lies are a little itch. Big lies jump in my face."

Earl nodded. "Again, I say impressive. I want you guarding my daughter. If you can become her friend at the same time, all the better. I know the sort of trouble you're in, and I will ensure that no-one comes looking for you."

"So long as I manage to keep your daughter safe, sir?" Her tone was matter-of-fact.

"Just so." He smiled. "I think we understand each other, Ms Beltane."

"I think we do, sir."

He offered his hand; she accepted it. They shook on the deal.

<><>​

Mid 2004

Brockton Bay

Paul Renick stood and leaned across his desk. "Mrs … Yamada, is it?"

"Yes, sir," the woman replied. She was of average height, with somewhat Asian features. "Jessica Yamada." She shook his hand; her grip was firm.

"Pleased to meet you," he responded. "Take a seat."

"Thank you, Deputy Director." She sat down, placing her handbag on her lap.

He sat down also, and studied her for a moment. "So, you're the new psychologist I've been asking for. Have you had much experience working with capes?"

"Some," she agreed. "I've been working in the parahuman asylum that they've started for the Case Fifty-threes who can't be integrated into normal society. The ones who are too dangerous to be around others without special protection, normally."

"That can't be easy." He got up and strolled over to the machine in the corner. "Coffee? Tea?"

"Black tea, if you don't mind. No milk, one sugar." She paused. "No, it's not easy. But I remind myself that it's even less easy for them; for some of the people in there, I'm the only friendly face, the only voice of encouragement that they get. And I get to go home at the end of the day."

"And yet you accepted the position here as well," he commented, busy with the machine. "Won't that give you more of a workload?"

"Well, not that my workload is that strenuous at the moment," she admitted. "And besides, I've been told that I'll only be required once a month."

"Ah, yes," he sighed. "Someone up the line decided that they didn't want a psychologist getting a grip on any of our capes, so we have to rotate our therapists."

She stared. "Please tell me that you're kidding."

"I wish I was." He turned and spread his hands. "I've strongly protested, but apparently the spectre of some cape going off the rails via a crooked therapist is too strong. I mean, I understand the point, sort of, but surely therapy is built around some kind of rapport, right?"

"Well, yes," she agreed. "Rapport is very important. We need trust and rapport if we're going to move forward." She grimaced. "And this can't be changed?"

"Don't think I haven't tried." He returned to his desk, placing a cup of tea on her side, and bearing his coffee to his own side.

"Well, it's too early in the game to rock the boat. I suppose I'm just going to just have to make do." She picked up the teacup and sipped. "And how is the good Director faring in the job?"

Renick tilted his head. "Managing crises. Keeping things in hand."

"There must be a lot of stress on her."

Her tone was neutral, but he raised an eyebrow. "Are you asking me if she needs help of her own?"

She shook her head. "I'm asking you if you think I should speak to her on the matter."

A long pause. "No. Well, I don't think so, but you can if you want. However, I don't think you'll meet with much in the way of success."

"But even in the asylum, we hear that she's the most hardline PRT Director in the country. Villains who threaten lives go away, and not for a short time either. It seems to me that she must have issues."

Renick stirred his coffee. "What issues she has, she brought to the job with her. And I don't think she'd be amenable to getting therapy for them. Also, I'm not totally sure that she'd be able to do the job so … well, so ruthlessly, if she didn't have them." He sipped. "To be honest, I think she thrives on the stress. She enjoys it."

"Hmm." Mrs Yamada didn't comment further.

"So, about the actual purpose of this get-together."

"Yes, the Brigade. I have my first appointment with them in an hour."

He nodded. "I rather like them, you know. Apart from that 'New Wave' idea. Have you read the notes on that?"

She nodded. "It seems remarkably bold to me."

"Try 'foolhardy'," he advised. "Remember, they're taking this therapy because they invaded the home of a supervillain and attacked him in his civilian identity. What sort of a message, exactly, would that send?"

Her eyes widened slightly. "Oh. Well, I understand that Brandish is actually responding to treatment now, opening up and talking. I'm hoping I can work with that."

"Yes, so am I," Renick replied gloomily. "The first few sessions, she wouldn't open up at all, until Lady Photon took to sitting in to mediate. Once they got a few things out of the way, Brandish started talking. Still, all the reports I've been getting say that she's the one who needs the most help."

"She'll get my help, along with the rest of them," agreed Mrs Yamada. "Believe me, I'm looking forward to this."

Renick raised his coffee cup in a kind of toast. "Well, here's to your success."

She raised her own cup, and smiled. "Thank you."

<><>​

Boston

Accord looked up from his desk, at the picture on the far wall. Rendered in crayon, it had been framed and hand-delivered to him by Marquis. He had, of course, detected all of the imperfections in it as soon as he saw it. But then he looked at the whole of it, and he saw the best efforts a little girl had made to render a perfect creation of her own; the imperfections balanced one another, ever so subtly.

He had taken it, and he had hung it carefully on the wall opposite his desk. At first, he had intended to take it down after a few days, once the courtesies had been observed. But he had begun to find deeper symmetries within the artwork, most likely unplanned, but still indicative of the symmetries within the girl's intent.

He could have planned and executed a better drawing of his own, but that was his gift. The little girl, Marquis' daughter, had no such gift; however, she had all the same done her best with the talents that she had, to make his day a little brighter. It had become his reminder that no matter how humanity strove for an ideal, no matter how ardent their attempt, sometimes it fell short.

<><>​

"Let us out here, Jonas."

"Sure thing, Abby." The car pulled over to the side of the road. Abigail unsnapped her belt and slid from the car; Claire followed afterward. The door closed behind them, and the car began to merge back into traffic.

Claire moved on to Abigail's left, and captured her hand as they walked along. This was, she knew, because Abigail liked to keep tactile awareness of where she was, and so that her right hand was free. But that didn't matter to Claire; she liked holding Abigail's hand. She didn't remember much about her mother, but it seemed to her that the woman had been a lot like Abigail.

Abigail listened to her, and spoke to her of Ireland, and provided a feminine presence that Daddy, no matter how much she loved him, couldn't give her. These days, she thought of Abigail less and less as a bodyguard, and more and more as the coolest big sister ever. The woman could fight – Claire had watched her sparring with the men – and shoot as well. After watching her on the target range that Daddy maintained, Claire had been deeply, deeply impressed.

"Abigail," she commented before she really knew what she was going to say.

"Yes, Claire acushla?" asked Abigail.

Claire kept her voice down so that nobody could hear her except Abigail. "Could you teach me how to shoot?"

Abigail paused for the barest moment, then shook her head regretfully. "I'd love to, but I cannot do it. You'll have to ask Jonas or Damien."

"But why?" asked Claire. "You're miles better than either of them."

"Ah, but that's because of my gift," Abigail reminded her. "It lets me know how to do it without ever learning. I have not made all the mistakes that a learner makes, so I do not know what mistakes to correct. I only know how to do it perfectly, once I have fired the pistol the first time."

"Oh," Claire replied, a little downcast. "Do you think Jonas or Damien would teach me?"

"Well, they certainly could," Abigail told her, "but do you not think that your father might want to be kept in the loop about this?"

"Uh, maybe?" Claire didn't want to think about approaching her father over this, and being turned down.

Abigail's chuckle was warm, to match the pressure of her hand. "We can speak to him later about it. I'm sure that we can convince him that if you know how to fire a pistol safely, it may save your life one day."

"Thank you!" Impulsively, Claire hugged her. "You're the best, Abigail."

"And you're pretty special too, Claire acushla." Taking her hand once more, Abigail led her toward the shopping mall. "So, shoes?"

Claire nodded. "Shoes."

Holding her bodyguard's hand, Claire skipped along. Shopping with Abigail was fun.

<><>​

Late 2004

Brockton Bay

The laptop had been a present from her husband. It was heavy and cumbersome, and the battery barely lasted six hours before a recharge was needed. But it was an absolute godsend to Jessica Yamada's work, and so she took it everywhere. More specifically, she made sure to take it everywhere with her; if anyone managed to crack the password on it, all the files she kept on her patients would be open for them to read.

At that moment, she was sitting in the office which had been loaned to her, typing up her current notes on the series of sessions which she had just conducted. She would transcribe it into a more effective format once she was back home, but this was good enough for now.

BROCKTON BAY BRIGADE

PROGRESS REPORT

Patients LIGHTSTAR and FLEUR, having passed their therapy sessions, are taking the recommended Cape Law course. Their progress is excellent.

Patient MANPOWER is still undergoing therapy, but doing well. He is making progress in facing his inadequacy issues; now that he recognises them, he can move forward.

Note to self: it is odd that a man who can bench press a truck can have inadequacy issues, but perhaps other anomalies such as this exist for capes having trouble with therapy? Bears investigation.

Patient LADY PHOTON is doing well. Still has bad memories from kidnap incident in youth (see below), but she is remarkably well-adjusted for all of that. Her determination to keep pushing the Brigade forward is almost certainly rooted in an intent to ensure others do not get hurt in the same way. She has been a great help in bringing BRANDISH out of herself for the purpose of therapy.

Patient FLASHBANG was already known to suffer from chronic depression. Discovered to neglect taking medications when he feels better, and then forgets to take them when he slumps back into depression. Partly a mental problem, partly an attitude problem, placing responsibility for remembering medication on Patient BRANDISH; when she forgets to tell him, he forgets to take them. Now that we've identified the problem, we can work on it. Also recommended a slightly lower dose of medication, but with a regular reminder. Hopeful that this will work out.

Patient BRANDISH has been the most problematic of the six, being the one who needs the most help. Along with LADY PHOTON, was kidnapped at age thirteen, for ransom. Spent months in lightless environment, suffering lack of food and comforts. She identified with captors, thanking them for small favours, developing Stockholm Syndrome. When ransom payment failed, kidnappers attempted to kill both captives, causing them to trigger with powers. Part of BRANDISH's trigger event involved a feeling of deep betrayal from the man she had seen as a friend. BRANDISH has recently revealed that supervillain 'Marquis' resembles one of the kidnappers (LADY PHOTON, upon being queried about this, recalled no such resemblance). BRANDISH has presumably transferred her feeling of hatred for the attempted murder to Marquis, which might explain the repeated attempts to capture him. Progress is slow, but continues.

Click to shrink...

She paused, considering, then added in a postscript.

Perhaps seeing a little girl in Marquis' presence made her recall her captivity, and caused her to wish to free the girl from her own 'captivity'? That might be a line of inquiry worth pursuing.

Click to shrink...

<><>​

Boston

"Okay, chick. Just hold it steady … steady … front sight on the target. Steady."

Jonas' voice was a dull rumble in Claire's ears, within the ear protectors that she wore. She squinted in concentration behind the tinted glasses as she held the small pistol with both hands, doing her best to follow his instructions.

"Okay, then, just squeeze the trigger … gently does it."

Slowly, she applied pressure; suddenly, it broke, and the gun barked, jumping in her hand. A tongue of flame leaped from the barrel, and a cartridge case jumped out of the side, smoking slightly. She had been ready, however, and brought the firearm back into line.

"Again," Jonas told her, a solid, reassuring presence beside her. "Front sight on the target, hold it steady, breathe out, and squeeze."

Again she went through it; each time, it became a little more familiar, a little easier to do. The recoil was no longer a sudden shock, but something she was used to. She was even getting to know how much pressure the trigger needed before it broke. The noise, the flash, the smell of the smoke, was something she was less enthusiastic about, but she was doing it. She was shooting on the target range at last, with a real pistol, after all the training, the safety lectures, the dry-firing.

After the last shot, when the gunslide locked back, Jonas clapped her on the shoulder. "Well done, chick. Weapon down."

Obediently, she put the empty pistol down on the bench before her, and reached up to remove the ear protectors and the safety glasses. Jonas was already motoring the target up to where she stood. From behind her, Abigail strolled over, removing her own ear protection as she did so. "Let's see how you did, Claire acushla."

Claire looked at the target paper, and groaned. "I never even got one in the bullseye."

"This is true," Jonas grunted. "Figure you're pulling low and right when you fire. See the grouping? Maybe you're flinching just a little."

"And I was so sure that I wasn't," Claire told him, crestfallen.

"I've known grown men to flinch, chick," he advised her. "You have the will. You've got many years to grow. By the time you're my age, you'll be shooting better than me, if you keep it up."

"Will she really?"

They all looked around at her father, who had just entered the target range.

"Yes, sir, I believe that she will," Jonas answered.

Her father nodded. "So do I want to know how well you did this time?"

"Not so great," she admitted. "All off to the side."

"A good grouping, though," Jonas told him, holding up the paper. "She knows how to hold it on the line. Once she finds her eye, she's going to be putting them through the X-ring every time."

"I wasn't sure about you learning how," her father told her. "But you've shown that you can do it."

"And now that you've shown that you can," Abigail told her, picking up the empty pistol, "let's see if we can't solve that flinching problem."

"How are you going to do that?" asked Claire.

"Random empties in the magazine. If the pistol jerks when it doesn't go off, then you're flinching. Once you catch yourself doing that, then it's just a matter of controlling it."

"Not all that easy," Jonas told her. "But I think Claire can do it."

Claire smiled. "Thanks, Jonas."

The big man ruffled her hair. "Learn to shoot well, chick. That'll be thanks enough for me."

"Just remember, Claire," Abigail told her. "Once you've finished shooting today, you get to take the pistol apart, clean it totally, and then put it back together."

"Yay, homework," Claire replied, totally deadpan. They all laughed.


End of Part One

Part Two

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Two: Heir Apparent


Early 2007

Boston

The backfist came out of nowhere; it smacked into Claire's chest, sending her back on to her butt. She nearly sprawled, but rolled fast and came to her feet. Abigail stepped around her, hands up and ready. At this moment, she didn't look like Claire's best adult friend, or her bodyguard. She looked like a predator.

Damien called out from the side of the mat. "Again."

Doing her best to ignore the multitude of aches and pains that were trying to make themselves known, Claire circled around Abigail. The blonde woman's hair was tied back, just as her own curly brown hair was, but she looked irritatingly fresh; Claire could feel sweat running down her face, and it was only the headband that kept it out of her eyes.

"Weight on the balls of your feet, Claire," Damien advised her. "Don't get off balance."

"Listen to him, Claire," Abigail advised her. "It's the only way you're going to beat me." But she wasn't smiling; even the encouragement was offered in a flat tone of voice. Her eyes were hard and cold rather than warm and friendly.

"Go."

At Damien's command, Claire stepped in, guard up. Abigail feinted, but Claire deflected it, then snapped a kick at Abigail's knee. The older woman evaded, but this left her guard open; Claire spun and punched -

- and felt her knuckles impact Abigail's ribs, just before her own legs were swept from beneath her. She rolled better on landing, this time; the bruise on her butt wouldn't be quite as big as it was last week. Spinning her legs around, she got them under her, and regained her feet – hey, that move actually works! - ready to go again, or at least get knocked on her ass again.

"Okay, that'll do for the day."

Claire held her pose for a moment, until Damien's words sank in. She and Abigail turned to each other and bowed slightly. When the blonde straightened up, she was smiling and relaxed; her eyes were friendly again. "Nicely done, Claire acushla," she praised her student. "I wasn't holding back at all then. You scored on me properly."

"And you put me right on the mat again," Claire pointed out. "Where I've spent more time on my butt than standing up." But she wasn't complaining; now that training was over, she was relaxing, unwinding.

"Any fighter needs to learn how to land right, chick," Jonas advised her. "Because you're gonna get knocked down. It's a fact. The trick is falling down and getting right back up again."

"Which you're getting better at, Claire," Damien noted. "You were really getting it together there, at the end."

Claire felt a warm glow of pride. "Thanks. It's … not fun, not really, but it's good to know, this sort of thing."

"There's only one problem with learning martial arts," Abigail advised her with a grin.

"What's that?" she asked, pulling off her headband and wiping her face with a towel.

Damien answered for her. "You won't be able to watch a martial arts movie without picking it apart."

"Oh. Yeah. Good point." Claire hung the towel around her neck. "I mean, I remember when you were first showing me the moves, and I was like what? I'm not Chuck Norris. I can't do those. And now it's like, yeah, I'm still not Chuck Norris, but those moves I can do."

<><>​

Earl Marchant heard the laughter as he entered the gym-turned-dojo; Abigail turned to face him first, followed by Claire and then the other two bodyguards. Claire looked sweaty but proud of herself, and Abigail looked about sixteen in the martial arts outfit, with her hair tied back. The two men just looked dangerous, which was part of their duty.

"Well, if you're laughing, she can't be doing too badly, am I right?" he asked.

"No, sir," Damien agreed promptly. "She's doing very well indeed. To be honest, give her a couple more years of training, and she might even be competition material."

"I don't believe we'll be going that far," Earl commented blandly. "I do like the idea of Claire being able to defend herself, and you have proven yourselves to be worthwhile teachers, but I don't feel like tempting fate by showing anyone else just how good she is."

"I like the way you think, sir," Abigail agreed with a razor-edged grin. "Even if someone does get past Damien or Jonas, it's not some damsel in distress that she'll be."

"And if they get past us, where'll you be?" asked Damien, sounding a little stung.

"Well, it's on holiday that I'll be, to be sure," Abigail responded cheekily. "Because that's the only way any of those buggers will be getting past me."

Earl joined in with the laughter that time; he clapped his daughter on the shoulder. "Sorry I didn't get in to watch earlier. A business call that went longer than I expected. So how are things at school?"

"Oh, pretty good, Dad," she replied briskly. "They're still speculating about why I have a bodyguard drop me off and pick me up every day."

"Oh, they are, are they?" He raised an amused eyebrow. "And what's the rumour mill come up with this week?"

<><>​

Some Hours Earlier

"Okay, Claire, I got it."

Claire turned around in her seat so she could look the newest speaker in the face. He was a fairly nice guy, and did well in science class. "Got what, Everett?"

"Your dad's not just rich. I mean, we all know he's rich. Dropping you off and picking you up every day? That's some kinda money right there."

Lindsey rolled her eyes. "Get to the point, Ev."

"My point is that Claire's dad isn't just some rich guy. He's a supervillain."

Laughter arose at the table. People threw balled-up paper and empty drink containers at Everett; laughing, he fended them off with his arms.

"No, wait," Claire told them. "I want to hear this. Go on, Everett. Which supervillain's my dad?"

"Well, it can't be Marquis, because he was in Brockton Bay before coming to Boston, and you don't talk with a Brockton accent." Everett raised a finger. "So you're Accord's daughter."

Laughter exploded around the table again, and Claire joined in this time. She had met Accord on quite a few occasions over the years, and the idea of him even considering the idea of children was … outlandish. The man was just too … finicky. No, 'finicky' wasn't nearly descriptive enough. He was obsessed with everything going just so.

"No, wait, wait," Everett protested, even as he joined in with the laughter. "Have you seen how she writes? It's like, holy crap, her handwriting's gorgeous."

"What?" she retorted defensively. "My dad taught me calligraphy when I was really young, and it stuck."

"Hey, guys," Roger put in, "we better drop this."

"What? Why?" Everett was still chuckling.

"Because if she is Accord's daughter, then putting it out there is putting a target on her back. And you know, even if she isn't? It's kind of a dick move to make out that she is. What if Accord hears about it and takes offence?"

"Oh, yeah, right," agreed Everett. "Sorry, Claire."

She shrugged, pretending nonchalance. "Eh, it's fine, Ev. No big."

"So okay, I gotta know," Lindsey put in. "What is with the driver and stuff?"

"It's like I keep telling you guys; it's just a thing with Dad," Claire told her. "Years and years ago, he had a kidnapping scare, so he's always made sure of my security ever since."

"That's gonna suck when you start dating," Lindsey commented with a grin.

"Not for him, it's not," Claire replied ruefully. Not that I'm all that interested in dating right now, but they don't need to know that.

<><>​

Claire waited patiently until her father finished laughing. "It's not funny," she pointed out. "He only got it wrong because I don't have a Brockton Bay accent."

"That's because you've spent more than half your life in Boston," he pointed out. "But you're right, of course. I might need to spread rumours that I'm a perfectly mundane mobster or something."

"How about just an ordinary rich guy?" she asked. "I'm the only kid in school who gets dropped off and picked up by a driver. I'm just glad that Abigail doesn't walk me into the school any more. The 'nanny' jokes at the last school were getting a bit old."

He sighed. "I'm sorry, Claire. You're absolutely correct, of course, but you do understand why I have to keep you safe. In Brockton Bay, the heroes nearly killed you."

"I know, Dad," she agreed. "I'll just go take a shower, then if it's okay, Abigail and I can go out to the mall for awhile? Maybe catch a movie?"

"Of course," he replied with an indulgent smile. "Feel free to buy something if you want. Get something nice for Abigail, too. Your charge card is all topped up."

"Well, you know that I don't like acting all spoiled-rich-bitch, but I do like buying stuff," she agreed. "Thanks, Dad. You're the best."

"Well, I try," he replied, with fake modesty. "Tell you what. On the weekend, we'll go out and have a father-daughter day. Just go where we want, do what we want. Have fun together. How does that sound?"

Her hug almost drove the air from his lungs; he staggered back a step. "Whoof," he pretended to complain. "You're getting strong, my girl."

"Yeah, Damien's got me doing weights for my training," she told him as she released him. "It's a lot of work, but I think it's paying off."

"Yes, yes it is," he agreed, and pretended to hold his nose. "It's also got you all sweaty. You might want that shower sooner rather than later."

Laughing, she flicked her towel at him, then trotted off.

<><>​

"She's a good girl."

Earl turned toward Abigail, who had been observing the byplay. "Yes, she is. And you've helped more than a bit. She likes the men, but she loves you."

Abigail's smile was a little wistful. "She's as close to being a daughter as I'm ever likely to get."

He glanced around, then stepped up to her. They shared a kiss; brief at first, then more lingering. "Have you given any more thought to my offer?" he asked softly.

"I have," she replied, just as quietly. "I cannot. I am sorry."

"I could give you a new face, a new name. A new life." He wasn't so much arguing as repeating arguments which had been made before.

"I know, but if they track me down again, I need to be able to cut ties." Her forehead was pressed against his. "I shouldn't even be doing this. It's totally unprofessional. I mean, a client is a client is a client." Her words, too, were repeated from past arguments.

"We can stop now if you want."

Her chuckle was musical. "As if we could."

"I didn't mean to put you in this spot -"

She chuckled again, with a tinge of sadness in it. "It wasn't your fault, any more than it was mine. Mutual attraction, I suppose." Her hand came up to caress his cheek. "They'll find me again, someday, and then I'll have to move on. But in the meantime … "

"She'll be a while in the shower. She always is, after training." His eyes met hers.

"Yes." She reached down, captured his hand. He did not resist as she led him away.

<><>​

Brockton Bay

"Enter."

Director Piggot stood up as the costumed heroes stepped into her office. Manpower ushered his wife through the door, then shut it behind them.

"Thank you for seeing us on short notice, Director," offered Lady Photon.

"Let's not beat around the bush," Piggot pointed out. "Given the difficulties that you've had in the past, when you ask for an appointment, I'm interested in finding out what you want from me." She gestured at the chairs. "Have a seat."

As the pair of heroes sat down, she took her own seat, and looked at them over her desk. "I presume that this has to do with your daughter triggering with powers."

Manpower looked startled. "How did you -"

"Please." Piggot made a throwaway gesture. "If anyone's going to find out, I am. But even if I hadn't found out on my own, a simple phone call could have dealt with that particular courtesy. So why are you here in my office today?"

Lady Photon took a deep breath. "We want Crystal to train with the Wards."

That got Piggot's attention. " … you want her in the Wards?"

"No, no, just to train with them," Manpower repeated. "To get to know them, to learn the basics of teamwork, to learn how to use her powers properly. That sort of thing. She'll still be part of the Brigade."

Piggot leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers. "You went through therapy so that you could train your offspring the way you wanted to. You've earned that right. Why are you turning your child over to us now anyway?"

"Because we've had time to think about it," Lady Photon explained. "We work well together as a team, but that's because we've had years to get it right. We never learned tactics or strategy in any formal way, and I wouldn't know how to teach it, except by example. I'd like Crystal to get at least a bit of training with the Wards, so she learns how they do it, before she starts coming out with us."

"Also, power testing and training is something that you can do a lot better than we can," Manpower supplied. "There may be nuances in her power that we don't know about. Things we can watch out for, once we know about them. Better safe than sorry, you know?"

"I think that's a very interesting suggestion. Excuse me." Piggot leaned forward and pressed a button on her intercom. "Paul, are you busy?"

"No more than usual, Director."

"Can you come in here a moment?"

"Give me thirty seconds."

She cut off the call and looked at the two Brockton Bay Brigade capes. "Deputy Director Renick, as you know, has authority over the Wards. I value his input on matters such as this."

"Of course, of course," Lady Photon agreed.

"So how old is Crystal now?" asked Piggot. "Thirteen, fourteen?"

"Fourteen in two months," offered Manpower.

"That's early for a trigger," noted Piggot.

"She's second generation," Lady Photon pointed out. "Her powers take after mine, but she's weaker on the force field and stronger with the lasers."

"Ah, of course," Piggot replied, just as the knock came on the door; she raised her voice slightly. "Enter!"

Paul Renick let himself into the office, closing the door quietly behind him. Already greying and careworn before he had handed the Directorship over to Piggot six years previously, he was showing his age a little more now. But he performed his duties impeccably; without his assistance and support, her job would have been a whole lot harder.

"Yes, Director?" he asked diffidently.

"You know Manpower and Lady Photon, of course," the Director noted. "And you also know that their daughter has recently triggered." Because you're the one who told me, she didn't add; they didn't need to know.

"I know this, yes, Director," he confirmed.

"Good. What you might not have been aware of is that they wish for her to train with the Wards, at least for a little while. To get her powers tested and checked out, before she starts going out with the Brigade."

Renick's eyes opened just a little wider. "Indeed? They are aware that -"

"We are, yes," Manpower stated. "We don't have to do this."

"But we think it's a good idea," agreed Lady Photon. "At least for a little while. We'll finish her training, but we'd appreciate it if you get her started."

Renick rubbed his chin. "Hm. That's certainly doable. Do you have a costume for her yet?"

"We're working on it," Lady Photon replied. "It'll be based off of mine."

"Her powers are similar to yours, including flight?"

She nodded. "Very similar, yes."

"Good. We don't have any fliers at the moment; it will be useful to have her for the Wards to train with, and against."

"That sounds fine to me." Manpower looked at the Deputy Director. "When should we bring her in?"

"Any time in the next week or so should work." Renick frowned slightly. "Does she have a cape name picked out yet?"

"Oh, yes," Lady Photon told him. "She's calling herself Laserdream."

<><>​

Boston

"So how are you feeling, Claire acushla?"

"Still a bit sore, here and there," Claire admitted. "The mat's soft, but not that soft."

"That's the idea," Damien supplied from the front seat. "If falling down had no consequence at all, we wouldn't try so hard to stay on our feet."

Claire smiled as she looked out the window at the passing scenery. "That's true, I guess. I -"

"Damien." Abigail's voice cut across hers; it was hard and flat, getting her attention immediately. "We have a problem."

Damien flipped the cover off of the red button on the dash, and slapped it. "Where?"

"Floor?" asked Claire; they had been through this drill, and sometimes Abigail had gotten her to get down on the floor.

"Not yet, no – truck!"

Turning her head, Claire saw the truck bearing down on them from the side street; she heard Damien swearing as he tramped on the accelerator. The engine roared and the car leaped forward. Claire's father had spared no expense on the car; under the hood was a V-12 racing engine. With the right tyres, it could pull truly phenomenal acceleration.

The truck swerved to try to hit them, but only barely clipped the rear bumper; Damien easily kept control. "Well, that -"

"Car!" screamed Abigail, reaching for her pistol.

Claire didn't even see where the car came from; all she knew about was a screech of brakes as Damien locked everything up, then a tremendous crash. The impact was enormous, even with the airbags deployed from the back of the passenger seat. Everything went black.

<><>​

"-aire? Claire!"

Her head was spinning, and she felt sick to her stomach. Someone was pulling on her arm, which hurt. Everything hurt.

"Claire!" It was Abigail's voice. She forced her eyes open; deflated airbags lay across her lap. Her seat belt was undone, and Abigail was pulling her from the car. The crumpled car. Broken glass lay on her lap.

"Abigail." It was a mumble. "What -"

"Car hit us. Come on, Claire acushla."

Reality slammed into her. This was an actual kidnap attempt. What she'd trained for, with Abigail and the men. She began to clamber out of the car, at the same time as Abigail straightened her left arm, pistol in hand, and fired three shots without looking; Claire was vaguely aware of someone in the middle distance, falling over.

"Damien?" she managed to ask, once she was out of the car. It was very definitely crumpled; they had hit the other car in a head-on collision, which had slewed them across a lane of traffic. Other cars were stopped, the vehicles abandoned. This was not much of a surprise, as dark-clad men seemed to be moving in on them. Shots were fired in return, and she ducked.

Abigail didn't answer at first; she hustled Claire into the dubious shelter of two cars in a V formation, then fired three more shots over the hood at an unseen assailant.

"Damien's down," her bodyguard told her bleakly as she dropped the magazine and reloaded in a single fluid move. "But he hit the alarm, so all we have to do is -"

She spun, firing, and two men went down. But the third brought his submachine gun up and fired back; Claire screamed as Abigail grunted, red appearing on the back of her blouse. She crumpled, more or less into Claire's arms.

"And that's that," the third man observed. "You led us a merry chase, Beltane, but -"

Claire didn't even think. Abigail's hand relaxed, dropping her pistol; she caught it, the familiar lines settling into her grip. The man's eyes widened, his weapon coming up again. "Don't be st-"

She double-tapped him in the middle of the chest; he stumbled back, but fired in return anyway. His bullet smashed into her left shoulder; she spun backward, falling on her butt. Reflex kicked in again, and she rolled, avoiding more bullets as they cracked into the asphalt. Her left arm was useless, but her right hand came up; she fired once, blowing out his left kneecap. He toppled forward; her second shot hit him in the throat.

Even as he fell, something smashed into the middle of her back; she was thrown forward, the pistol skittering from her grip. Someone grabbed her by the hair. And then the world went away.

<><>​

Jonas came awake in an instant as the key fob on his nightstand blared the sound he'd hoped never to hear outside of a drill. Not even bothering to grab his boots, he rolled off the bed, grabbed the key fob and his shoulder rig in one movement, and bolted from the room.

He met Mr Marchant as the latter emerged from the gym; his employer was wearing shorts and a sleeveless workout shirt, but looked no less dangerous for all of that. On his waistband, an identical key fob was blaring an identical tone. They wasted no words; stride for stride, they headed for the garage. Marchant didn't bother pausing to unlock the key safe; a spike of bone shot from his hand, tearing through the thin metal. Reaching in, he grabbed a set of keys, tossed them to Jonas.

Catching them on the fly, Jonas pressed the unlock button; one of Marchant's several cars bip-bipped as the lights flashed. They ran for it. Jonas got to the driver's side door first, wrenched it open, and dived in. Even before Marchant got to the passenger side, he was jamming his thumb on to the garage door remote. As the door began to grind upward, he slid the keys into the ignition and pulled his door shut. The engine roared to life as Marchant slammed his own door.

They took an instant to fasten their seat belts, then he slammed the car into gear and let the clutch out. The V-12 engine had a gearbox that worked on two modes; normal driving and pursuit. As the vehicle burned rubber out under the still-opening door, he wasn't using normal driving mode.

<><>​

Claire blinked her eyes clear; the burning pain in the back of her head indicated that she was still being held. Her left shoulder was on fire; she could feel blood running down her arm. In front of her was Abigail; the woman's eyes were still open, still tracking, but she was fighting for breath. A huge patch of red across her stomach and chest bubbled air occasionally.

She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. And then she opened her eyes again.

"Okay, bitch, it goes like this," a voice grated from behind her. "We're here for Beltane, but you're our bonus pay. We get extra if you're alive to be handed over, but I won't cry if you act -"

But Claire wasn't listening any more. Her awareness was expanding by the instant; first herself. Mild concussion, fractured ribs, broken shoulder, penetrating wound to shoulder, moderate bleeding. Then the man behind her, his left hand tangled in her hair, knuckles touching the back of her neck. Late thirties, very fit, several healed limb fractures, many microfractures, very angry, ready to kill. Wants to kill both me and Abigail.

Then Abigail, fingernails scrabbling at the asphalt as the life flickered from her eyes. Two bullet wounds in left lung, one in heart. Sucking chest wound. Bleeding copiously. She was dying before Claire's agonised gaze.

There were more, closing in now; Claire counted three, with one more dying and two wounded. One of the unwounded ones was close, with two others farther away. Damien, in the car, didn't register as anything at all. He's already dead.

After awareness came control.

The man behind me has a pistol; he intends to kill Abigail. She felt searing hatred building up in her heart; it was directed at the man holding her hair. Her awareness of his body snuffed out along with his life; there was a wet splattering sound as what remained of him fell to the asphalt behind her.

The control was already working on her shoulder; she felt the click as the bone re-set itself. There was no pain; her nervous system was already under her explicit control, and she was only feeling what she needed to feel. The blood vessels were sealing and the wound closing over, but she wasn't paying attention to that. Her attention was on something much more important. Abigail.

Her eyes locked on to Abigail's as her hand found the older woman's shoulder. Life was almost extinct, hanging on by a mere thread; she had stopped breathing, her lungs filling with her own blood. Death was mere moments away.

Not if I can help it.

Her power had already cut the pain, had begun to seal the smaller blood vessels. She could tell almost to the instant when Abigail realised that something was going on; for a moment, she looked puzzled, then her eyes opened wide. Wounds healed, lungs emptied of blood, the air drained from her chest cavity, her heart restarted, Abigail took a long, shuddering breath of life-giving oxygen.

I could have done it at distance, realised Claire, but touch is surer and quicker.

There were still enemies around; she could feel them, closing in. She concentrated, exerting her newfound power. Everyone within her range who was moving with intent, holding automatic weapons, screamed and dropped their firearms as if they had been burned. One was close enough to be dangerous; the danger, however, went both ways. Even as he pulled a pistol from its holster, he screamed anew as the very skin began sloughing from his hands. The scream died in a gurgle as she wreaked havoc on his internal organs, disrupting his lungs and then his heart. He fell to his knees, then slumped on to his side. The two further away, their hands still burning with agony stared; after another moment of hesitation, they fled. She let them go.

<><>​

Abigail inhaled again – oh blessed, beautiful air! – and sat up; she had gone from down and dying, choking on her own blood, to hale and hearty. All in just a few seconds. She felt no pain from the wounds, not even a residual ache. In fact, she felt fantastic. Her eyes were clear, her hearing sharper than ever.

Absently picking up the pistol, she looked wonderingly around her. "Claire acushla, what happened?"

"I … I think I happened," Claire explained. "I must have triggered. With powers."

"Your shoulder," Abigail exclaimed, ignoring the fact of her blood-soaked blouse. "You've been shot!"

"It doesn't hurt any more," Claire told her; when Abigail pulled the sleeve up, all they found was bare, unmarked skin, albeit liberally coated in blood.

"You healed yourself. As you healed me." Abigail touched her stomach. "Not even a twinge." She looked past Claire's shoulder. "Oh my holy God."

Claire looked around, to see the jellified remains behind her; the only indication that they had ever been human was the clothing in which they were encased. "Oh. Yeah. That was the guy who had hold of my hair. I think he kicked me in the back."

"And you did that to him?" Abigail's eyes were wide.

"Yeah. I didn't like him at all."

"And me … you healed me. Saved my life." She knew of healers; she'd never heard of any that good. Save for the really big guns, of course.

"Well, yeah. I like you, a lot. I wanted you to be okay, so … you're okay." She hugged Abigail, ignoring their respective bloodstains.

"Well, it's glad I am that you got your power when you did," Abigail told her. "Good shooting on that one, by the way."

"He had a vest," Claire noted as she got up. "I should've gone for a head shot after I double-tapped him."

"Careful!" hissed Abigail, pulling her down again. "There might be hostiles still."

"Not inside a hundred feet," Claire assured her. "Anyone still inside that distance is either unconscious, dead, or keeping their heads down."

Abigail stared at her. "You can sense people out to that distance?"

"If I concentrate, yeah," Claire confirmed. "The bad guys all ran away. The ones that could."

Abigail looked down again at the remains of the man who had been holding Claire. "So I see."

"Who were they, anyway?" asked Claire. "They said they were after you, but they were also being paid to get me for someone else."

"We can talk about that later," Abigail advised her. She tilted her head to the sound of oncoming sirens. "Do you have your phone on you?"

<><>​

Earl hung on as Jonas drifted the car around a corner and accelerated into the straightaway. The key fob didn't have enough of a readout to give GPS coordinates; he wouldn't have been able to read it at this speed anyway. What it had was a compass-style digital arrow; that he could read. For distance, the arrow flashed on and off; the faster the arrow flashed, the closer they were. He estimated that they only had a couple of miles to go.

And then his phone rang; he had shoved it into his pocket before bolting out of the gym, but every attempt at calling either Claire or Abigail had rung out. Pulling it out, he saw that it was Claire calling; relieved almost beyond words, he swiped the screen to answer it. "Claire!" he exclaimed. "Are you all right?"

"Dad?" It was Claire's voice; she sounded deeply relieved. "I'm okay. Abigail's with me. She's okay too. All the bad guys are dead or they've run away."

"And Damien?"

There was a long silence, long enough that he knew what the answer was to be. "He's dead, Dad. I ... I couldn't get to him in time."

He wasn't even sure what the last bit was supposed to mean. I'll ask her later. "But you're both all right?"

"Yeah, we're all right. Dad, can you get here quick please? I ... I killed someone. And the police are coming. I can hear sirens."

Earl could hear sirens too, over the phone. "I'm on my way, honey. We'll be there soon. I promise. In the meantime, I want you to do exactly what I say, all right?"

"Okay, I will. I love you, Daddy bear."

It had been years since he'd heard that one from her. "I love you too, Claire-bear. Now, I need you to give the phone to Abigail."

<><>​

The street was a mess. Two cars had impacted in a head-on collision; one of them was an expensive sedan while the other looked like a cheap clunker. Both cars had slewed sideways, impacting with other vehicles, until no less than seven cars were caught up in the initial pileup. The driver of the sedan did not seem to have survived the impact.

And then someone had started a firefight, using H&K MP5s on one side and a single Beretta 9mm pistol on the other. Amazingly, it looked like the pistol had won the day.

Or at least, that was what it looked like at first glance to Lieutenant Detective Rob McAllister, BPD. As he instinctively mistrusted first impressions, he took care to look twice. In the middle of it all were eight men wearing similar clothing, dark in colour; or at least he thought there were six men. Two were wounded and were currently being disarmed and treated, four had been shot dead, and two were … he had no idea what had happened to them, but he had officers establishing a perimeter around the … remains.

The only other people on site were two women, or a woman and a girl; the woman had had possession of the aforementioned 9mm pistol, which she had voluntarily given up to officers upon request. She had been handcuffed and was being held on suspicion of having shot the six men who had actually suffered bullet wounds. Both the woman and the girl wore clothing liberally covered in blood, but neither acted as though they were injured. And the girl had a phone.

"Uh, hi?" the girl addressed Rob as he approached them. "Are you in charge?"

"Lieutenant Detective McAllister. Yes, I'm in charge here. Your name, miss?"

"Claire Marchant," the girl replied. "You're wanted on the phone."

"I'm … what?"

"My dad wants to talk to you," she explained. "He's on his way, but … " she pointed at the lines of blocked traffic and shrugged.

"Fine. Give me that." He took the phone from her. "Lieutenant-Detective McAllister. Who's this?"

"Ah, Lieutenant," he heard. The voice was cultured, but a little breathless, as if the other person were walking briskly. "My name is Earl Marchant. You got that phone off my daughter Claire, am I correct?"

"Yes, I did, Mr Marchant. What is your connection to all this?"

"Apart from Claire being my daughter? Well, the other lady, Abigail Belmont, is in my employ as a licensed bodyguard for my daughter. My car, which I understand to have been wrecked, contains the body of her driver, Damien. Both are, or were, licensed to carry concealed. I am on my way to your location as we speak, so we can talk in person."

"Good. Great. I'm in need of a great many answers. Such as who these clowns were who were waving around MP5s in my city."

"Oh, I can answer that one for you. I think you'll find them to be affiliated with a terrorist group called Gesellschaft, based in Germany. They've got connections in America which they use for acts of domestic terrorism."

Hitting speaker on the phone, he held it and his notepad in the same hand as he wrote down what Marchant was telling him. "Ges – what?"

Marchant patiently spelled it out for him. "It means 'society' or 'group'."

"Right. Okay. So what's this Gesell-whatsit group doing attacking your car?"

"Lieutenant, I am a very rich man. Claire is my only family. I think you can connect the dots from there?"

"Kidnap, ransom, gotcha. Okay then." He turned to a new page. "Maybe you can tell me what would melt a guy, or make one look like he was half melted, without touching his clothes or his boots."

"Powers, obviously."

"Oh shit. You employ a powered bodyguard?" He looked around at where the blonde stood with her hands cuffed behind her back. She gazed back at him blandly.

"Well, she's obviously powered now. Perhaps the trauma of being shot triggered her powers. I understand that both my daughter and her bodyguard are showing signs of being wounded but are no longer injured. Classic protective instincts. I would strongly advise not separating her from my daughter."

"Yeah, well, your kid's apparently threatening lawsuit to anyone who tries."

"Whatever she threatens, I'll be backing her up." The threat was not lost on McAllister. "Do you have any more questions for me?"

"Yeah. How do you know that thing about the Gesellschaft?" He was fairly sure that he'd gotten it right this time.

"They've proven problematic to me in the past. Ah, there you are."

"Sorry, what?"

"To your left. I'm the one waving to you."

McAllister glanced to his left, and sure enough, a tall man in jogging clothes was holding a phone and waving. He headed in that direction.

"Mr Marchant?"

"One and the same." Earl Marchant's voice was even smoother in person. "Very pleased to meet you, Lieutenant Detective. Would I be able to see my daughter now, please?"

"This is still a crime scene -"

"Lieutenant Detective. My twelve year old daughter has just survived a car crash and a firefight by the grace of God and the skill of her bodyguard. I would like to speak to her. Now."

It wasn't much of a decision to make; Marchant quite likely had the sort of influence that could make life difficult for a lowly Lieutenant Detective, and it wasn't an unreasonable request. So he raised the tape, allowing Marchant entry.

"Thank you," Marchant acknowledged him politely. "I'll have my daughter's phone, too … thank you. Jonas, wait here."

"Sir," growled the huge guy who had been standing next to Marchant; McAllister tried not to flinch. Christ, you wouldn't need a vest around him. He looks like he can stop bullets with his biceps.

He watched as Marchant went over to greet his daughter, then returned his attention to running the crime scene. Someone had called the news crews, and they were just now arriving. Awesome, just what we need.

<><>​

"Dad!" Claire ran forward and hugged her father.

"Claire!" He returned the embrace, just as tightly. "Oh god, I was so worried."

"I didn't have time to be worried," she told him honestly. "Terrified, yes. Angry, yes. Worried, no."

"So you're all right? Really all right? Because if I didn't know better … " He touched her sleeve, still covered in blood.

"Really all right, Dad," she assured him. "Honest."

"Good," he told her. "Because I'm taking you and Abigail home right now, and you're going to tell me everything that happened."

"I think the police want to arrest her for, well, being the last one standing," she noted.

He smiled. "Challenge accepted."

<><>​

That Evening

Abigail, showered and dressed, leaned back in the lounge chair and sipped at her glass of wine. "I cannot thank you enough for getting me away from that," she told Earl.

"Hey," he replied. "You saved my daughter. It's only fair that I save you."

"You both saved me," she pointed out soberly. "Right, Claire acushla?"

"Well, I guess," Claire admitted; she was also cleaned up from the afternoon's adventures. "But it wasn't me, not really. It was the powers I got."

"Which you used to save me," Abigail pointed out.

"You'd be better off accepting responsibility for them, Claire," Earl advised her. "Make them yours, so you can learn how to use them better. Smarter." He paused. "Just by the way, is it you that's making me feel like a million dollars?"

"You too?" asked Abigail. "I've been feeling like this more or less since Claire brought me back from the dead."

"Well, I guess, yeah," Claire admitted. "I love you both, so my power wants to help you. So it's making you feel rested and alert and stuff."

"And people you don't like?" Earl looked interested.

"Well, I didn't like the guys who were attacking us, so I made their hands hurt, so they dropped their guns." She lowered her eyes. "And then there was the one who was holding my hair."

Abigail nodded. "I can tell you really didn't like him."

"I wanted him to die. So he died." Claire looked at her father. "Is that all right?"

Earl Marchant, also known as Marquis, smiled. "Some men, my dear Claire, need to die. He was going to kidnap or kill you, which put him in that category. You've got nothing to worry about on that score."

Abigail drew in a deep breath. "Which brings us on to our next topic. I've got something to worry about now. The Gesellschaft have tracked me down. I've got to move on."

"No!" The word was torn from the throat of father and daughter alike.

Abigail's words were soft. "I'm sorry, Claire acushla. I'm endangering you just by being here."

"But you can't go!" Claire's eyes were full of tears. "I love you! Dad loves you!"

Abigail glanced at Earl, perplexed. "I didn't tell her."

"Well, I certainly didn't," he replied. "Claire?"

"It was obvious, now that I've got my powers," Claire pointed out. "Abigail, I can use them to change your face, so nobody knows it's you."

She shook her head. "Still too risky. But I'll take you up on a face change anyway. Maybe I can circle back around, once the heat's died down."

Earl nodded. "I would like that very much."

"So what are you going to do in the meantime?" asked Abigail. "I mean, you've just lost two bodyguards. And your daughter's a parahuman."

"My concerns here are running smoothly," Earl told her. "I think it's time we returned to my hometown. Now that Claire is able to take care of herself against any would-be kidnap artist."

Claire's eyes lit up. "Are we going … "

"Yes." Earl nodded. "We're going back to Brockton Bay."

"Wow," she marvelled. "It'll be so weird. I was what, six when we left? I won't know where anything is."

"You'll have one other concern, too," her father told her. "Your cape name."

"Hmm." Claire rubbed her chin. "What do they call the daughter of a marquis?"

"Claire?" suggested Abigail disingenuously, to general laughter.

Claire shook her head, still giggling. "No, a female version of the title."

"Oh," Earl observed. "That would be 'marchioness'."

"Then that's me," Claire stated. "You can call me Marchioness."

Abigail raised her wineglass. "Agus d'fhéadfadh do naimhde a fhoghlaim a eagla d'ainm."

"Wow," Claire replied. "I don't know what you just said there, but it sounded awesome."

"It means, 'and may your enemies learn to fear your name'." Abigail smiled at her. "It's a traditional toast in my family."

Earl raised his glass. "I'll drink to that."

Claire raised hers too, for all that she was only drinking soft drink. "Brockton Bay, here we come."


End of Part Two

Part Three

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Three: The Making of Marchioness



Early April, 2007

"When I got my powers, it was an easier time for parahumans."

Claire leaned back in her lounge chair and looked over at her father. "You mean supervillains, right?"

"Well, yes," he admitted. "There was a rush of new parahumans deciding to be heroes in the early eighties, but once Vikare died, more and more people chose to go villain. But a certain subset of us were ethical, more or less. Or at least, we did our best."

"That's why you don't hurt women or kids?"

He frowned slightly. "It goes back to before that. My father … wasn't a nice man. He wasn't much of a father, and he wasn't much of a husband. By the time he left us, he'd done everything in his power to destroy us both. With your grandmother, he succeeded. I swore from quite a young age to never emulate him. I did what I had to in order to survive, but at least I had that rule. And when I triggered with powers, I kept it. In your grandmother's memory, so to speak."

Silence fell for a few moments; it was broken by Abigail, from where she was relaxing in her own chair. "Ah then," she commented, pulling the conversation back on track. "There were other ethical villains?"

"More than a few." He sipped from his wine glass. "Of course, there's also the other type. The Slaughterhouse Nine. Butcher and the Teeth. The Empire Eighty-Eight. Even Galvanate was brutal enough for them to send him to the Birdcage, but at least he didn't glory in it."

"But you did kill. You do kill." Claire didn't make it a question.

"Yes." He paused. "It's been required from time to time; to keep myself alive, to keep my reputation alive. But I'm not a sadist; even when the men I killed most desperately needed it, I never made it needlessly painful." His voice took on a certain lecturing tone. "If you have a power, you have a responsibility to use it intelligently. Not just like a brute-force club. Learn everything you can do with it, and apply that. When your enemies think they know everything you can do, surprise them with something new. Always be one step ahead."

"Is this why you've been teaching me chess?"

"Well, that," he agreed with a smile, "and the fact that I like a good game of chess."

Claire smiled and drank some of her soft drink. "So what should I do with my powers?"

"As I said," he told her airily, waving his wine glass. "Learn how to use them effectively."

"No, after that," she pointed out. "What should I do with them?"

"I think she's asking if she should be a hero or a villain," Abigail clarified.

"I suspect that I am the last person to be asking that question of," he replied, somewhat amused. "I have amassed a ridiculous amount of money through the art of being a parahuman crime lord. Had I taken the hero route, you can be sure that I would not have quite as much money as I do."

"I'm not interested in the money," Claire retorted impatiently.

"Spoken like someone who's never had to worry about it," he observed, still mildly amused. "I will tell you this now; if you ever decide to apply your powers for the public good, charge. People value what they pay for."

"Never a truer word," Abigail advised. "But don't get greedy, Claire acushla. There's a world of difference between enough and too much."

Claire nodded. "Okay, I can see that."

"Also, discipline must be a part of your life," her father advised her. "Never forget that."

"Like Damien kept telling me, in the martial arts training?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Yes, but in all aspects. How you use your powers. How you treat people. My powers make it possible for me to ignore rules, ignore laws, to run rampant over other people. I keep myself in check, because the alternative is to lose sight of the fact that we are all ultimately human, all ultimately fallible. Those villains who exercise no self-control, the ones who indulge their every whim, do so because they imagine that they have no higher power to answer to. They couldn't be more wrong."

Claire frowned. "Are you talking about, you know, religion? God?"

He snorted in reply. "Hardly, my dear Claire. Although if you want to take that up, more power to you. No, I'm talking about the fact that there's always a bigger, more powerful parahuman waiting around the next corner. Just for instance, I personally would not wish to try conclusions with the Triumvirate, and so I do nothing that will gain their attention. I will stick to being a medium large fish in my own little pond, thank you very much."

"So it's a balancing act, then?" Claire looked thoughtful.

Abigail nodded. "Yes indeed. Your da is a master at using his power well, but not overmuch."

Pleased, he nodded. "Precisely, my dear. I find it useful to practice courtesy in my everyday dealings, while maintaining a reputation of implacability for when it is needed. Once people learn that you can be worked with, but not around, they tend to keep coming back."

"I can do that," she allowed. "Is there anything else I need to remember?"

"Oh, many things," he told her. "Most of which you will learn at the time. I can't teach you all about being a successful supervillain in one sitting; else, there would be far more in the way of successful supervillains out there."

"But there are … " she began, then trailed off upon seeing his expression. "There's not?"

"Heh, no," he replied, once more amused. "There are some successful supervillains. But there are many more who simply haven't failed yet. It would be educational for you to keep track of which ones succeed and which ones fail, and the methods that each one uses."

"All right," she assented. "I can do that."

"Good," he agreed. "Should you decide to become a supervillain, or even if you don't, the insights will be useful."

"I'm still deciding on that one," she admitted. "The trouble is, I don't want to be a full-on villain. Taking stuff, scaring people … that's not me."

"It doesn't have to be," Abigail assured her. "I mean, look at myself. I'm no great villain, but nor then am I a hero. I tread the road betwixt and between."

"In other words, a rogue," Earl interjected dryly.

"Yeah, I got that," Claire agreed. "But once I declare myself as a rogue, even if I do something that's a bit heroic, like healing people, they'll still decide that I'm a rogue."

"Especially if you charge for it," he pointed out. "That part is important."

"But I don't have to charge for it every time, do I? Suppose someone's in an accident, and I happen to be there? Do I wait for them to find the money before I heal them? What if they die first?"

He shrugged. "Well, you can do pro bono work, I suppose. But make sure that they know it's a one-off. The important thing is to not let them get the impression that they can tell you what to do. You are the one in control of your power. Nobody else."

"Okay, I got that too," she agreed. "The other problem is, if I'm accepted as a rogue, but then I show up as working with you, they'll just decide that I'm a villain, right?"

"Well, the name will definitely be a giveaway," he pointed out. "Are you certain that you don't want to change it?"

"Positive." She raised her chin. "I am your daughter. Nobody and nothing is going to force me to deny that."

"Well spoken." He raised his glass to her in a toast. "Perhaps upon seeing you doing good things as well as working with me, people will learn to not force parahumans into the categories of hero, villain and rogue."

"Do you think that's possible?" she asked doubtfully.

He smiled and drained the glass. "Well, it's certainly worth a try."

"To be sure, Claire acushla," Abigail agreed. "If anyone can do it, it'll be you."

<><>​

Late April, 2007

The clean-cut young man leaned out of his car window and pressed the intercom button. After a moment, the small screen lit up, to show the face of a brutal-looking man. "Yes?"

"Uh, I'm here to interview for the tutoring job?"

"Name?"

"Anderson. Uh, Geoff Anderson."

"Park your car. You will be admitted. Do not stray off the driveway." The screen went blank.

Anderson looked at the length of the gravelled driveway within the gate, then down at his immaculately-shod feet. Reluctantly, he pulled the car around into one of the parking spaces outside the gate, then got out of the car. Pulling his phone from an inside pocket, he checked it, then put it away again.

As he approached the gates again, a click alerted him to the presence of a smaller gate in the larger whole, wide enough to take a man and no more. Stepping through, he heard it lock behind him as he began his trek up toward the house.

The front door opened to show a man in his mid-thirties, with short cut auburn hair. "Mr Anderson. I'm Earl Marchant. Please come in."

"Thank you, Mr Marchant." Anderson stepped in through the front door and shook Earl's hand. "It's good to be here."

"Well, you do come with the highest of recommendations," Earl pointed out. "I presume that you've been told about the non-disclosure agreement that you'll have to sign, should you get the position?"

Anderson shook his head, frowning slightly. "I wasn't told about that. May I inquire as to why you need an NDA?"

"There was an attempted kidnapping upon my daughter a few weeks ago," Earl informed him. "One of her bodyguards was killed, and another quit. I do not believe it safe for her to resume using the regular school system just yet, so if you get the job, you will be tutoring her here, on the subjects that she needs to know. And I do not need any incidental information about the household getting out to unfriendly ears."

"Oh, I can understand that," Anderson agreed. "Certainly, I will sign."

"Well, first you have to get the job," Earl pointed out. "I think that first you should meet her. I ... value her impressions of people."

Geoff nodded. "Of course, of course."

"Through here, then." Earl guided the young man through to the living room. "Claire," he called, "would you come in here, please?"

<><>​

"Coming, Dad." Claire trotted in through from the back patio. While she wasn't wildly enthusiastic about having a tutor in, nor was she interested in the idea of going to school without Abigail watching her back. I'll give him a chance, she decided. It'll make Dad happy.

As she entered the living room, Jonas came in from the security office. Her father was standing with a stranger, whom she figured must be her new tutor. He looked to be in his early twenties, clean shaven, with neatly cut dark hair.

"Geoff, this is my daughter Claire," Earl introduced him. "Claire, this is Geoff Anderson. He's here to interview for the tutor job."

"How do you do, Mr Anderson," Claire greeted him politely, stepping forward to offer her hand. "I'm pleased to meet you."

Mr Anderson was already registering on her power, as he had been since before she entered the room. But as she neared him, she noted an increase in adrenaline. He's tense. Why?

"Likewise, Miss Marchant," he agreed, accepting the handshake. "I hope that we will be able to work together."

To Claire, Geoff Anderson was a total stranger; she didn't know him, knew nothing about him. She had no feelings about him, one way or the other. Right up until the point that he entered the two-foot-something zone around her that gave her access not just to his physical makeup, but the inner workings of his brain as well. And at that point, as they clasped hands, she knew that something was definitely wrong.

He's not thinking 'tutor' or 'potential employee'. He's thinking 'predator'. He's here to attack us in some way. He's hiding it well – the only way she could tell it from his outward behaviour was a certain tension – but he means us harm. I'm sure of it. How do I handle this?

"I'm sure we will," she told him, shaking his hand firmly. "I just need to know one thing."

"What's that?" he asked incautiously.

"Whether I'm the one you're here to abduct or kill, or if it's my father you're after."

His eyes opened wide, and suddenly his hand wasn't there. It had melted from her grip, as 'Mr Anderson' abruptly became a cloud of particles, spreading out to surround her, to surround her father, and Jonas as well.

This is not good. This is not good.

Then she realised. He's around me. In my range. I can still feel his body, such as it is. I can still feel his mind.

Let's see what I can do with that.

Gritting her teeth, she concentrated; there was an inrush of particles, and 'Mr Anderson' stood before her once more, swaying, disoriented.

"What … ?" he mumbled. "How did you … ?"

Claire recaptured his hand, and this time she didn't hesitate. She bored in, laying claim to his every conscious impulse. Control of your body might not stop you from changing back to that particulate form, but control of your mind will stop you from wanting to.

Her initial rush of triumph faded.

"Dad?" she asked carefully. "Uh … what do I do now?"

<><>​

'Geoff Anderson' stood, swaying gently, his every faculty overwhelmed by the teenage girl who gripped his hand. Her father stood behind her, face grimly intent. "Ask him why he's here," he murmured to her.

"Why are you here?" she asked flatly.

"I … I … I'm here to see if Beltane is still in the house, and to gather intelligence for a raid if she is."

In some part of his mind, he knew that he should not be telling these secrets to these people, but another part overrode it.

"And if a raid isn't possible?"

"To see about abducting you, in order to make your father surrender her to us."

"Do you know who my father is?"

"Earl Marchant."

"Do you know his other name?"

"No."

"If I had been kidnapped in order to force my father to hand over Abigail, would I have been released alive?"

"Why bother? Your father crossed the Gesellschaft. He should be made to pay the price."

Pain lanced through his body, although he wasn't able to react to it. It ceased almost immediately, however.

"So what are your orders in the case that Abigail isn't here?"

"To gain leverage over Earl Marchant, to find out what he knows about where she has gone."

"In other words, kidnap me."

"Yes."

"Which I probably wouldn't survive."

"No."

She was prompted with another question, which she relayed to him. "Who are you, and what have you done with the real Geoff Anderson?"

"My name is Geoff Schmidt. The other tutor was intercepted. He's probably dead by now."

A light fuzz descended over his thoughts; he wasn't able to move or even think clearly, while she spoke to her father and bodyguard. Such was the lethargy over him that he wasn't even worried that he had spilled the whole plan.

"Okay, Dad, so what do we do now?"

"With all due respect, sir, I think we should squeeze him dry then kill him."

"I'm not sure killing him would be the best option under the circumstances."

"How do you mean, Dad?"

"Well, if this one disappears, his entry was almost certainly recorded from outside my estate. They can call the police to search the premises. Make all sorts of trouble for me."

"But if we release him, sir, he goes back with the information that Miss Claire is also powered now."

"Maybe not."

"What do you mean, Claire?"

"I mean that I have an alternative idea."

<><>​

'Geoff Anderson' strolled out through the door, turning to shake Earl Marchant's hand one more time.

"Well, sorry about the job interview, but I hope you have better luck next time," the older man told him.

"Those are the breaks," Anderson agreed. "Well, I wish you and your daughter luck in finding a suitable tutor."

He turned and started back down the driveway; it had been a thoroughly boring conversation with the Marchant family, but he'd found out what he needed to; Beltane had definitely left in a hurry. More to the point, they had no idea where she had gotten to. No reason to come back. For some reason, he was very sure of that fact.

He was all the way back to his car when he recalled that he had left his phone in an inside pocket, recording the entire conversation. I'll just check it over before I wipe it.

To his puzzlement, the phone was off, and no such conversation had been recorded. Huh. And I was sure that I had set it to record, too. With an inward shrug, he put it back in his pocket. It had been a wasted trip, anyway. I didn't even get to kill anyone.

<><>​

Early May, 2007

"Well, I think it sucks."

Roger nodded in agreement with Lindsey's words. "It does suck, yeah. So when are you going, Claire?"

Claire, lounging against the park bench, shrugged. "Dad's still wrapping up his business affairs. A few weeks, maybe. A month at the outside, he says."

"Crap." Lindsey flipped herself around so that her legs went up over the back of the bench. Upside down, she looked up at Claire. "How long are you away for?"

"I have no idea." She shrugged again. "We're moving moving, not just staying in a hotel or something, so it could be years."

"And in the meantime, you get a vacation from school. Lucky you."

Lindsey reached up and rapped on Roger's kneecap. "Shut it. You do know her driver was killed when they tried to kidnap her, right?"

To his credit, his look of contrition was matched by his emotions, as best as she could read them. "Shit, sorry, Claire. I didn't mean to … "

"It's okay. Dad says he never felt a thing." I'm not so sure, but it's a reassuring lie.

"Oh hey," Lindsey piped up. "Did you know Everett's leaving at the end of June too?"

Roger pounced on the change of subject with ill-concealed relief. "What, really? Everyone we know's just leaving Boston all of a sudden?"

"Yeah, really," Lindsey confirmed. "He says his dad's been transferred to Chicago or something. Not even just up the road, like Claire here."

"I'm gonna miss you guys." Claire felt the honesty in her words. "I'll call, I promise."

"Hey, study buddies forever, right?" Lindsey reached up. "Gimme hand. Blood's going to my head."

Claire grasped one hand and Roger the other; together, they lifted Lindsey far enough that she could spin around and get her feet on the ground. "Whoa, whatta rush. Thanks."

"Hey, what are study buddies for?" Claire ruffled her hair, disarranging it even more.

"Hey, I know what we can do," Lindsey decided. "Why don't we get your big scary bodyguard -" She pointed out Jonas, who was standing nearby, pretending to observe the ducks on the pond. "- to drive us to get ice cream or something."

"Ice cream. Is this a girl bonding thing or something?"

Lindsey wrinkled her nose at Roger. "Are you saying you don't want ice cream?"

"Oh, I'm for ice cream," he declared. "Just wanted to know what the occasion was."

"Ice cream," Claire pointed out, "is its own occasion."

"True dat," agreed Lindsey.

As they headed for the car, Claire was already feeling disconnected from the scene. To them, she was … normal. Rich, yes. Attended by a bodyguard, yes. But she was, for all of that, normal. When in fact, she was the daughter of a supervillain, making plans to follow in his footsteps. Or at least make my own way.

They really don't know me any more. I hope we can keep in touch.

But she had her doubts.

<><>​

Late May, 2007

The costume felt odd, now that she was wearing it at last. She had carefully supplied all the measurements, and her father had sent them away for it to be made up. There were people who did this, for a price. The right people, for a greater price, carefully forgot which costumes they had made, and for whom. She didn't want to think about learning how to make clothes, sitting over a sewing machine for hours at a time. As Dad says; if you have the money, pay the people who know how to do it.

"So, may I see it?" His voice was audible from the other side of the partition.

"Just a second." She took a deep breath, and exerted her power, completing the transformation.

"You know," he observed with a chuckle, "costumes are made to be seen in public. It's more or less -"

He broke off as she emerged from the changing room. She moved in a slow and stately fashion, as her expensive deportment lessons had taught her, showing off the costume to its best advantage.

It was basically a gown, she knew. A dress. But it had been made of a hard-wearing fabric, then tricked out with enough lace and frills, in a tasteful fashion, to conceal that fact. The heels were a slight problem, until she reorganised the muscles and bones in her ankles to deal with that. Afterward, she moved with grace and poise and confidence.

He was staring at her, his mouth slightly open. Abruptly, he shut it, but continued to stare. "Claire?"

She tried not to let the grin get too wide. "Yes, Dad?"

"Good god. You made yourself taller."

"Just a bit."

"And more slender."

"Well, yes." She'd had to take the mass from somewhere.

"And you changed your face and your hair." She had raised her cheekbones and made her chin a little more prominent; her previously-auburn tresses were now a midnight-black spill of hair, gathered over her left shoulder.

"It makes things a lot easier than wearing a mask," she pointed out. "And unless I covered my hair, there's always the possibility that someone will make the connection. Now, there's no chance."

"You … can change yourself so easily?"

"It's not easy, Dad. There's a sort of starting point, a self-image. The farther I get away from that starting point, the harder it is to maintain. My body keeps wanting to revert. This, I can keep up."

"Well, consider me impressed, my girl," he declared. "You win hands down at the 'keeping your secret identity secret' stakes."

"Which reminds me," she pointed out. "You know how you dye your hair?"

"Yes?"

"I can make that permanent, if you want."

He blinked. "Just like that? Like you offered to change Abigail's face?"

"Just like that," she confirmed. "It's a tiny change."

"And yourself? Won't your self-image keep changing it back?"

She rolled her eyes, just slightly. "Apparently my powers decided that my self-image included that colour of hair. Since I got them, I haven't needed to dye my hair at all."

Again, he looked a little startled. "So your hair is permanently auburn?"

"So it seems," she agreed. "Unless I spend a few years dyeing it dark brown again, that is."

"Hmm. So, have you decided on whether you're going to be a hero or a villain?"

"I'm still working on it," she admitted. "In the meantime … " She opened the small handbag attached to her wrist. "I'll be carrying a pistol, as well as these."

He accepted the small cardboard rectangle. "Business cards?" Upon one side was inscribed the name 'Marchioness', in what he recognised as his daughter's best copperplate handwriting. On the other side, the words 'By Appointment Only' and a phone number.

"If I'm going to be more than a villain, then I need to have a contact number, right?"

"Telephone numbers are traceable, Claire. But you know that."

"Not if I only turn on the phone once a day, to accept all text messages," she pointed out. "If I can ensure that GPS doesn't transmit at any other time, they won't be able to track me."

"That could work," he admitted. "But why would you want a way for people to be able to make appointments with you?"

"It's part of the image I'm going to be trying to build," she told him. "Not quite a villain, not quite a hero, not quite a rogue. My own person. Approachable, but on my terms only."

"Ah." He raised an eyebrow. "You've been talking to Abigail, haven't you?"

She smiled. "We did a lot of talking, before she left. It was her idea to make myself taller and do the facial changes." The smile dropped away. "I miss her already."

"As do I." He put his hand on her shoulder. "She'll come back to us. I have faith in her."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"No." He didn't look happy at the notion. "I gave her as generous a severance payment as I could get her to accept – her 'don't be greedy' notion can be irritating at times."

"She told me that she was that way because of what made her go on the run," Claire mused thoughtfully. "She took something from the Gesellschaft without realising how much trouble it would get her in."

"To be honest, even knowing might not have stopped her," he pointed out. "Abigail is very much a free spirit. Tell her she can't do something and she's likely to do it, just for fun."

"Actually, Dad," she posited, "I've been looking at Brockton Bay's cape scene. Kaiser took over the Empire Eighty-Eight when Allfather died, right?"

"Correct. I knew the boy before he triggered with powers. He's his father's son, all right."

"Okay then. The Empire Eighty-Eight's the main link that the Gesellschaft has with Brockton Bay, right? And through the Empire, the rest of New England?"

He frowned. "I think I see where you're going with this. I'm not so sure that it's a good idea."

Her face was alight with excitement. "I'm not saying we can do it overnight," she conceded. "But if we can do this, then ... "

"Claire." His voice was firm.

"Yes, Dad?"

"We make absolutely no moves against the Empire unless and until I say so. Is that clear?"

She opened her mouth to protest, then caught the look in his eye; slowly, she closed it, words unspoken. Slowly, she nodded. "Yes, Dad."

"Good girl." His smile was thin. "I am fully aware of the Empire's sins. It's time and past that they were brought down. But it's not time for us to move against them; not until we are ready. Do you understand?"

Her smile matched his. "Oh yeah. I understand."

<><>​

Early June 2007

The train chugged into Brockton Bay; Claire sat with her nose up against the window, absorbing the view.

"See anything interesting?" asked her father, from beside her.

"Not particularly," she replied without looking around. "What's the gang tag using the M with two strokes?"

"Where?" he asked; she pointed, just before the tag went out of sight.

"Hm," he mused, leaning back against his seat once more. "I think that might have been one of the newer gangs in the city. They call themselves the Archer's Bridge Merchants."

"Oh, yeah. I read about them." Claire wrinkled her nose. "Drug dealers, as far as I can tell."

"Wonderful." Her father's face took on a pained expression. "Most gangs deal drugs for additional money. The Merchants use it as their stock in trade."

"Are you okay, Dad?" she asked. She knew he was physically fine; her power gave her a real-time awareness of his every life sign. He was just … unhappy.

"I'm okay, honey," he assured her. "It's just … hearing about how my city's gone downhill is one thing. Seeing it is another thing altogether."

"But it's okay now, isn't it?" she ventured. "I mean, we're here now. We can help fix things. After all, Boston's twice as big as Brockton Bay, and you and Accord got it running just right between the two of you."

"That was partially due to Boston not being as full of capes as Brockton Bay, and partially due to the fact that Accord can make a plan for any eventuality. Neither of which we can rely on here. It's the two of us versus fifty or sixty hometown capes." He raised an eyebrow. "Still sure that you're ready to take on a cape identity?"

She smiled at him. "Totally."

Putting his arm around her shoulders, he hugged her to him. "That's my girl."

Leaning up against her father, her head on his shoulder, Claire found her eyes still searching the skyline outside the window. It looked somehow grim and foreboding. Oh god, I hope I'm ready.



End of Part Three

Part Four

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Four: Staking a Claim

[A/N: the emergency room scene was directly inspired by the omake by edale ]

Late June, 2007

"You're not ready."

Claire eyed the principal of the Northwest Middle School thoughtfully. Just a little closer and I could change her mind for her …

But no; Mrs Cooper was not what she and her father had agreed to be a valid target for her powers. And besides, her father was right there; he'd seen what she had done with that Schmidt character, and he would probably suspect similar shenanigans if Claire's principal suddenly pulled an about-face on the matter.

"Mrs Cooper," he stated now, "Claire really is very bright. The only reason that she didn't finish seventh grade in school was that I couldn't allow her to attend school, following a kidnapping scare."

Mrs Cooper stared at him forbiddingly. "You could have brought in a qualified tutor."

"We did interview for one," her father replied. "He was … unsuitable. I tutored her myself, after that." That hadn't been perfect, but it had worked. After a fashion. However, as her father wasn't recognised as being qualified …

Mrs Cooper shook her head. "I'm sorry, but regulations are regulations. Your daughter is going to have to repeat the seventh grade, now that she's enrolling in my school."

Claire raised her head. "Mrs Cooper?"

"Yes, Claire?"

"If I get good enough marks, may I skip a grade next year?"

The middle school principal frowned. "If you do well enough … then yes, that can be considered."

Claire beamed. "Thank you, Mrs Cooper."

<><>​

"You took that remarkably well."

Claire looked up at her father's comment as they walked from the school. "Yeah, well, it's not like I could argue her around, is it?"

He raised an eyebrow speculatively. "The temptation to … change her mind … must have been strong."

"It was," she admitted. "But I realised something."

"What's that?" He paused. "Apart from the fact that you knew I'd know about it, that is?"

"Well, that," she agreed, "and the fact that if I'm go to be making my mark as Marchioness, I'm going to be up long hours without much time to study. Going to school in a new city, with new surroundings and a whole new curriculum, it's probably a good idea that I know at least part of the material already."

"You do realise," he pointed out firmly, "that if your schoolwork suffers due to your extracurricular activities, I know which of those I will be curtailing. And it won't be the schoolwork. So I expect you to apply yourself."

"Yes, Dad," she agreed meekly.

<><>​

Early July, 2007

"So where are we going today?" Claire looked out the window at the passing scenery, the buildings basking in the mid-afternoon sunlight. They were in the north of the city, the less affluent area. She had seen several gang tags over the last few minutes; each of them was the red and green of the ABB, Brockton Bay's burgeoning Asians-only gang.

"To see an old contact of mine," her father replied absently. "He used to live around here somewhere."

"Maybe he moved?" she suggested.

"Maybe he did," he agreed. "But maybe not." He frowned. "I don't recall these back streets as well as I should. Let's see what's down this way." Turning the wheel, he guided the car down a narrow street, which was as much a wide alleyway as an actual vehicular thoroughfare.

"Uh, Dad?" She pointed.

"I see it." Up ahead, a grimy dumpster had been set up, deliberately or accidentally, to block the street. Turned sideways, it left no way for a vehicle to get around it.

"Maybe we'd better back up." She twisted and looked over her shoulder. A white van was pulling into the alleyway behind them. It stopped, and people started getting out. People wearing gang colours. Walking toward the car. "Uh, Dad?"

"I see them." He was peering into the rear-vision mirror. Abruptly, he smiled. "Well, I suppose this is as good a time as any."

"A good time for what?" she asked.

"To give notice that I'm back in town, of course." He opened his door. "Coming?"

Oh shit. He's going to confront these guys.

And then she caught herself. What the hell am I worried about? He's Marquis, and I'm Marchioness. I've trained for this sort of thing.

Pushing her body into the form that she had practised, she climbed from the car. He glanced sideways as she carefully closed the door, and smiled approvingly. "Ready for this?"

Belying the nervousness in her stomach, she showed her teeth in what might have been a smile. "Oh yeah."

<><>​

It was the first time that Yan had been allowed to come out with the actual gang members; she had listened to their boasts about how they shook people down, but this seemed even easier than they had told her. The car had stopped, hadn't even tried to ram the dumpster out of the way. When the two, the man and the girl, got out of the car, she was sure they were going to run. But they didn't; they came toward the gang members.

"Is this supposed to happen?" she whispered to Sugito, who was only a little older than her. "Aren't they supposed to be scared?"

"Shh!" he hissed back, but he looked thoughtful.

The man and the girl weren't armed, or at least their hands were empty. They were dressed in evening clothes, not uniforms or costumes. But what really worried Yan was the faint smile on the man's face. A smile that promised, I know something that you don't.

The girl wasn't smiling. She was merely … intent. Studying them each in turn. Yan wasn't sure she liked that level of scrutiny.

"Gentlemen," the man addressed them, in cultured tones. "And lady, of course." He had inclined his head toward Yan. "If I may have your attention?"

Oh hell yes, you've got my attention. Yan studied him carefully. Shoulder-length brown hair, tied back in a ponytail. Clean-shaven. Something in her memory twinged, and she frowned. It wasn't coming to her, so she looked at the girl. Black hair, as black as Yan's own. Wearing an evening gown and heels, no less. Strong chin, high cheekbones. I would kill for cheekbones like that.

"Yeah, what?" growled Dao. "You got something to say before you pay toll?"

"Toll?" The man chuckled, obviously highly amused at Dao's words. "Why would we pay toll?"

"You're on ABB turf," cut in Sugito, anxious to appear tough. "You pay toll, or we take it out of you."

"Ah yes, Asian Bad Boyz," the man agreed. "I've heard of you. There's only one unfortunate issue here."

Dao produced his butterfly knife, flicking the blade open in a ballet of movement. "Only unfortunate issue here is -"

He dropped the knife. He actually dropped it. In all the time Yan had known him, she had never known him to drop his butterfly knife. It was like forgetting to breathe, for him.

"As I was saying," the man went on imperturbably, even as the butterfly knife clattered on the asphalt; the sound was loud in the alleyway, "the one unfortunate issue is that this is my territory, and all of you owe toll to me."

Obviously torn between bending to pick up his knife, and thus losing face, or confronting the guy without a knife, Dao chose the latter. "How the fuck do you see that?" he demanded. "This is ABB turf, has been for years."

"Let's just say that I've been away for awhile," the man explained. "But I never ceded claim to my territory. And to be honest? You've done a terrible job at keeping it up." Fastidiously, he toed an empty tin can away with the tip of his well-polished shoe. "So I'm taking over again. Putting my house in order. Fixing things."

"Who the fuck are -"

Yan cut in on Dao's growl, as memory clicked into place at last. "Dao! Marquis! It's Marquis!"

Dao paused then; Marquis had been away for years, but he'd also been a scary bastard when he'd been in the 'Bay, and stories like that didn't go away in a hurry. "Marquis? Seriously?"

"Oh, yes." Bone plates emerged from nowhere, cladding the older man in top to toe armour, giving him a ragged crown of sorts. "Very seriously indeed."

Dao pointed at the girl, who stood unafraid beside Marquis. "So who's that then?"

The girl's unsettling gaze switched from Yan to Dao. "You may call me Marchioness."

"Fuck you," growled Dao, bending to scoop up his butterfly knife. "You can't tell us what to do on our turf."

"As I said, you're on my turf," Marquis corrected him. "And I will warn you exactly once. Do not speak to my daughter again in that fashion."

"Or what?" Dao seemed to be getting bolder by the moment. "There's a dozen of us, and two of you." He held up his knife, letting the lowering sun flash from the blade. "Your armour looks cool, but how are you gonna protect her?"

"You mistake numbers for strength," Marquis retorted, his tone sharper. "Be smart. Yield. You will not be harmed. All I require of you is -"

Dao lunged forward and grabbed Marchioness by the arm. An instant later, he had her arms trapped, holding her from behind, while his blade hovered next to the hollow of her throat. "No," he snarled. "This is what you're gonna do, old man. You're gonna get rid of that armour, or I'm gonna -"

"Excuse me," Marchioness interrupted him. Yan could not credit it; the girl calling herself Marchioness was held securely, a razor-edged blade mere inches from her carotid, and she was still as calm and collected as if she were asking Dao to pass the salt. "How old are you?"

To her surprise, Dao grunted out an answer. "Nineteen."

Her expression wasn't quite a smile. "Good. I really don't like people who point weapons at me, and you're old enough to know what you're doing." And then, to Yan's utter astonishment, she stepped forward out of his grip, pushing his hands aside. He continued to stand there, arms held oddly, until she reached out and nudged him slightly; at that point, he fell over, landing heavily on the asphalt. Even then, his arms stayed in those odd positions, eyes still open, fixed, staring …

"Allow me to correct myself," Marquis stated punctiliously. "All but that one will not be harmed. Attempt something stupid, as he did, and suffer the consequences. Yield, and undertake to pass on a message for us, and you will be allowed to leave unharmed."

"Allowed to leave?" blurted Sugito. "How you gonna stop us?" He turned and bolted; before he got more than a few paces, a line of grey-white bone streaked across the ground from Marquis' feet, following Sugito and then passing him.

Yan tore her horrified gaze from Dao – I don't think he's breathing – and followed with the rest of them. Just as far as the latticework of bone that had sprung up from the ground between them and the van.

"Like that, I would imagine," Marquis advised Sugito. He and Marchioness unhurriedly followed the abortive retreat of the ABB contingent, keeping pace with one another. "Your choices remain the same."

"I'm pretty sure some of them are children, Marquis," Marchioness pointed out. "And that one's a girl."

Yan paid no attention to his reply, pushing to get to the latticework so that she could climb it, get over and away. Some capes you avoid, some capes you fight, some capes you just run like fuck.

Screams from above sounded, and everyone who had gotten more than four feet off the ground fell back, their hands bleeding. Yan looked up; the latticework now sported wicked spikes. Some of these were bloodied.

"All right, once more for the hard of thinking," the girl spoke up. "Marquis can create and shape bone. He can make it any shape he wants. A fence as high as he wants. A fence with spikes on it. Are we getting the hint yet?"

Sugito, one of those who had fallen from the fence, got up, cradling a bloody hand. "What … what the fuck do you want?"

"For you to surrender, to stand down. Drop your weapons," Marquis ordered. "It's not like they'll do you any good."

"Are – are you going to kill us?" quavered Yan.

"No." Marquis' voice was firm. "You will carry a message for me. A message to Lung. Tell as many people as you can, along the way. Promise to do that for me, and you will live."

"Wh-what's the catch?" asked Sugito.

"Two catches," Marquis told him. "One, in doing this, you accept that this alley is my territory, not ABB."

Sugito shrugged. "Sure. Have it. Not my hassle."

Marquis smiled briefly. "A man after my own heart. The second catch is much more serious. You have to survive giving Lung the message." He paused. "How old are you?"

"S-sixteen," Sugito stammered. Yan blinked; she'd thought he was eighteen for sure.

"Damnation," muttered Marquis. "I can't send a child. Lung will almost certainly kill him." He raised his voice. "Who among you is over eighteen?"

For a moment, there was silence, then Yan pointed to Dao's still-frozen body. "Him."

"Of course it's him." Marquis shook his head slightly. "Marchioness, my dear?"

"Oh, all right." Marchioness walked back to Dao's body, leaned down, and hauled him to his feet by his arm. He staggered and inhaled great gulps of air, rubbing his eyes and blinking.

Marquis walked over, leaned in to stare into his face. "You will carry a message for me."

Dao blinked. "I'll carry a message for you, sure."

"You will tell Lung this; rather, you'll tell Lung as soon as you can, but you'll also tell everyone else who's listening. The message is; Marquis has returned. He will be taking back what is his. Repeat the message back to me."

"Marquis has returned. He will be taking back what is his." Dao's eyes were glazed over.

"Perfect. You can release him now."

The second part was obviously aimed at Marchioness; she lifted her hand from Dao's arm, and the gang lieutenant staggered, life coming back into his eyes. Did she do something to him?

"The fuck?" he demanded. "What did you do?"

"You attempted to hold a knife to my daughter's throat," Marquis advised him. "That action has consequences. You have a message to deliver. I suggest you get about it."

"But how -" began Sugito, even as the bone barricade began to shrink and degrade away. "Oh. Right."

Dao didn't waste time; he headed for the van, with the gang streaming behind him. Yan hesitated, then followed. Even as she climbed in, a treacherous thought assailed her, followed shortly by another one.

I wonder if they're hiring.

I wonder if they'd let me join.

<><>​

Late July, 2007

Jonas helped Claire lift out the folding recliner chair out of the trunk of the car. Next came the rolling cooler; she pulled out the extending handle and stacked the recliner atop it.

"I can give you a hand, chick," offered Jonas. "Make sure nobody bothers you."

"I'll be fine," she assured him. "Thanks for helping me this far."

"I don't know that your father will be very pleased with me for letting you do this alone."

"I'll talk to him, all right?" She gave him a winsome smile. "I do stuff with him; this is me doing stuff for me. I'll call when I need pickup."

"Okay, then," he agreed. "Be safe, chick."

She watched him get back in the car and drive off before she took hold of the handle of the rolling cooler; with a determined stride, she set off for the nearby bulk of the Brockton Bay General Hospital; more specifically, the emergency room.

<><>​

It was an average night in the emergency room; the usual assortment of minor accidents, children with mysterious ailments, and the silently suffering. The night nurse looked up as the doors hissed open, then her eyes widened as a girl who couldn't have been more than fourteen wrestled a rolling cooler into the room.

All eyes turned to the newcomer – dressed in a fancy gown of some sort, albeit fitted perfectly to her frame – as she rolled the cooler across to what seemed to be the geometric centre of the room. Pulling what turned out to be a folding recliner from atop the cooler, she unfolded it, then arranged the cooler next to it. After that, she looked around a little aimlessly, then strolled over to the night nurse's desk.

"Can I help you?" asked the nurse. She knew the question sounded ridiculous, but she had to ask. "Are you injured or unwell?"

"Neither, actually," the girl replied brightly. "I was wondering if you knew where the TV remote was."

"I have it here," the nurse told her defensively, glancing at where the TV showed the twenty-four hour news channel. "Why do you need it?"

"Because I want to watch cartoons." The line was delivered with cheerful self-mockery, and the nurse found herself smiling. "May I have it, please?"

"All right, here you go." She handed it over, then watched as the girl went back to her recliner. A moment later, she asked herself, why did I do that? She had never given out the remote before. But it seemed such an effort to go and get it back …

Seating herself carefully, the girl used the remote to locate the cartoon channel. Still the centre of attention, she popped the cooler and opened a bottle of soda that she had in there. Settling back with the fizzy drink and a bag of gummy bears, she proceeded to watch cartoons with the greatest of enjoyment.

<><>​

The first people to filter out were the family sitting right next to the strange girl in the black evening gown. They had two children, each with a hacking cough; within minutes, it seemed, both children had stopped coughing and were avidly watching the cartoons. A few moments later, a man sitting on the other side of her frowned as the bandages began falling off of his no longer swollen leg.

It took less than fifteen minutes before people started noticing that those sitting closest to the mystery girl – who was by now laughing out loud at the timeless antics of Road Runner – were looking better, feeling better, and in some cases, getting up and walking out. A sort of subtle Brownian motion began to occur, with people drifting toward the middle of the room, leaving the corners empty.

The night nurse got up and headed through to the examining rooms. The person she was looking for was in the second one she checked. "Doctor Harmon, can you come with me to the front desk a moment? I've got something you need to see."

Harmon, who at that moment was wrestling with hour fourteen of a twenty-hour shift, looked around with some annoyance. "I have a patient here," he reminded the nurse.

She didn't need reminding; she had admitted that very patient, twenty minutes beforehand. A lacerated foot, courtesy of a malfunctioning lawnmower; nasty and possibly infected. He'd be lucky to keep most of his foot.

"I know, Doctor," she told him. "But this is something you really do need to see."

Harmon knew her, knew that she did not say such things lightly. "Hold on for just a moment," he told the unlucky lawnmower man, and followed the night nurse into the corridor. "What -" he began, but she ignored the question, and led the way back to the desk.

"What?" he asked again.

She pointed at the girl on the recliner. As they both watched, she handed out gummy bears to two little girls, then took a sip of some sort of purple soda. "She's been there for about fifteen, twenty minutes."

"And she's lying on a recliner, drinking soda, and watching cartoons. In general, treating my ER like her living room. Why, exactly, haven't you had security remove her yet?"

"Because in the time she's been here, no less than thirteen people have gotten up and walked out, apparently healthy."

Harmon stared at her, then at the girl. At that moment, the parents of the two girls got up and led them out.

"Wait a minute," he muttered, pointing at the girls. "What was wrong with them?"

"Allergic reaction," the nurse recited, not bothering to check her notes. "They had lumps all over them."

"Is she … speaking to them? Touching them? Using visible powers?"

"Not that I can see," the night nurse told him. "She's just watching cartoons."

"Right, okay. Thanks." He went back out into the corridor.

The night nurse, for her part, went out into the ER, to stand next to the girl on the recliner. "You like cartoons, I see," she observed.

"Yeah," the girl admitted. "Silly, I know, but it's a thing."

"Uh, is it you who's doing … this?"

The girl glanced up at her. "Doing what?" she asked ingenuously. Even as the words were spoken, the nurse felt her body go from feeling worn-down to totally refreshed, as though she'd just had a hot shower and a long nap. Even her feet stopped hurting.

"I … see. Well, uh, enjoy the cartoons."

"Sure thing."

She pushed her way back into the corridor, to meet a wheelchair coming the other way. It was Doctor Harmon with his lawnmower victim, the vicious wound loosely covered.

"What?" he asked, misinterpreting her look. "It's worth a try."

"Oh, it certainly is," she agreed. "I'm not stopping you." She sidestepped to get to the reception desk, then sat down to watch the show.

The girl on the recliner didn't look around as the wheelchair was rolled up alongside her; she did offer Harmon a gummy bear, however, without taking her eyes off the screen. Looking somewhat bemused, Harmon accepted it, then took a seat beside his patient.

The man in the wheelchair, face initially grey with pain, gradually began to pay more attention to his surroundings; he tapped Harmon on the arm, and pointed at his foot. Carefully, Harmon removed the dressing, to reveal a perfectly normal foot. Not even scar tissue marred what had previously been a mess of mangled meat.

Harmon looked up, and his eyes met those of the night nurse; the girl on the recliner didn't seem to notice at all.

<><>​

Elsewhere in Brockton Bay

"Stand down." Armsmaster underlined the command by activating his halberd; the ominous hum was audible for several yards around him. It certainly reached the ears of the girl in the cobbled-together powersuit; she took a couple of nervous steps backward into the wreckage of the pharmacy, servos whining.

"I don't have to do what you say," she tried to retort defiantly, but couldn't quite pull it off.

"In case you hadn't heard, yes, you actually do," he stated flatly. "I've been put in charge of local Protectorate forces, which makes me an officer of the law. Using a powersuit to steal non-prescription drugs is definitely against the law." He paused. "What name are you using, anyway?"

"I was thinking Traction," she replied sulkily. "It's not fair."

"What's not fair, Traction?" He didn't relax his stance, but if she was talking rather than acting, he'd prefer that. As an afterthought, he activated the recorder he'd built into his helmet.

"I heard about how Brockton Bay was all about the capes, how they'd fall over themselves to hire a Tinker. Had to be better than Boston, anyway."

"What happened in Boston?"

"I tried to see Accord, get a job with him. But before I even got in to see him, I got told that I'd be better off leaving town before he had me killed. I'm too chaotic for him or something." She sniffled. "I thought being a villain'd be easier."

"So you came to Brockton Bay. What then?"

"I've been here one fucking day, and I wanted to figure out who to join. I'm not Asian, so the ABB won't have me. I'm not some racist, so I wanted to steer clear of the Empire." She sniffled again. "So I decided to get something to clear my head, and you turn up. You're a Tinker too, right?"

"Yes. I am." He hefted his halberd. "Traction, you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up this right, anything you say -"

"But if you're a Tinker, we're kind of the same," she forged on desperately. "I mean, you could let me go, say you never saw me."

"We are nothing alike," he growled. "Anything you say can be taken down and used -"

"No!" she shouted. "I'm not going to the Birdcage!" She raised her arm and pointed it at him; there was the crackle of an energy buildup, and an aperture that was beginning to look rather like a gun muzzle started to glow. He went to dash forward -

Glass sprayed as a slim form smashed in through the window. Armsmaster caught just a blur of motion as his trainee slammed into Traction, driving her through a display case. The energy weapon went off, blasting away some of the ceiling. They were out of sight; he pulled aside wreckage and slashed his halberd through some more, to clear the way.

When he reached them, Traction was on her back, with Armsmaster's trainee kneeling atop her. As he watched, she punched the recumbent Traction one more time, then grabbed the arm with the energy weapon and squeezed. There was a crack, and a flash of light, and she was flung backward; Armsmaster fielded her inexpertly, then placed her on her feet.

"Are you all right, Mega Girl?" he asked.

"Uh, sure," she replied. "My invulnerability took it."

"Good," he told her grimly. "Now let's see how she is."

<><>​

Traction wouldn't have been very attractive in the first place; she had a pasty complexion, bad teeth, and ratty blonde hair, which Armsmaster rather suspected was dyed. But Mega Girl appeared to have punched clear through her faceplate, breaking her cheekbone and jaw, and embedding fragments of plastic or glass in her face. Worse, when she broke the energy weapon, it had exploded, doing serious damage to Traction's right forearm and hand. She was unconscious, which was a mercy. But her life signs were less than comforting; Armsmaster suspected internal injuries.

"What have I told you about using excessive force against unpowered foes?" he asked; his tone wasn't as harsh as it could have been, but Mega Girl still looked as though she were about to burst into tears.

"I'm sorry," she ventured. "I – I thought she was going to shoot you -"

"I had that under control," he assured her. "I told you to stay back and observe for a reason. Now we have a villain who desperately needs medical treatment."

Now a few tears did trickle down her face. "I'm s-sorry," she sniffled again. "A-are you going to kick me out of t-training? C-crystal said s-she loved it."

"Hey, it's all right," he told her. "No-one's dead, and this one's fixable. But you can see how this could have gone a lot worse, yes?"

Mutely, she nodded, then sniffled again. He sighed, turned to a display which held absorbent bandages, tore one open, and handed it to her. "Blow your nose, then see if you can't tell me which way to the nearest emergency room."

<><>​

Brockton Bay General

Claire had been watched cartoons for about three hours now; in that time, several more people came in, sat near her – following not so subtle coaching from the night nurse – and then walked out again under their own steam. Other patients were wheeled out to her; she ignored them while letting her power go to work on their ailments. She began to gain an appreciation of what doctors and nurses must go through every day, just in those few hours.

She had noted something interesting about her powers, which was one of the reasons that she had decided to visit the ER. When she was relaxed, her powers seemed to relax with her, and spread out, achieving a greater area of effect. This seemed to attenuate the strength of her power, reducing the speed with which healing – or other effects – took place, but she could live with that. So long as she didn't try to concentrate on her power, it still worked, just more slowly than normal. On the upside, she didn't have to consciously direct it to heal more than one person at once when it was working like this; it just worked.

She almost sat up in the recliner when her sensory field picked up the next people coming in. One flying, one walking, one being carried. That's different. The one being carried was injured; neither of the other two were. When the automatic doors hissed open, she sneaked a peek that way, and nearly inhaled her drink.

Holy crap, that's Armsmaster!

The tall hero, clad in blue and silver armour, was an icon of Brockton Bay. He appeared on lunchboxes, school supplies, T-shirts, and she'd even heard there was an underwear line. Claire had seen him on TV, but this was the first time she'd met him in person.

In his arms was a young woman, with injuries to her face and her right arm; a roughly-wrapped bandage around the latter was heavily stained with blood. Entering behind him was a girl around Claire's own age; she was tall and slim – naturally instead of power-enforced – with blonde hair, a gold domino mask, and a grey-and-white costume. The girl didn't look happy at all; Claire wondered what was going on here. Oh well, I'm just minding my own business. Not my problem.

Armsmaster, after one sweeping glance of the room to establish any threats – no threat here, nope, no sir – gave Claire one penetrating and inquisitive glance, then quite obviously dismissed her from his priority list. Carrying the injured woman past her, he strode up to the night nurse's desk.

Claire popped another gummy bear – not here to force healing on anyone, no matter how much they might need it – took another drink from her bottle of soda, and kept watching cartoons. After a few moments, the girl – who she'd kept track of, of course – moved up beside her.

"Uh, excuse me?"

Claire looked over. "Yeah?"

The blonde looked positively hangdog. "Can I – is it okay if I sit here?"

"Sure. Take a seat. Gummy bear?" She offered the bag.

"Uh -" The girl glanced up at where Armsmaster was placing the woman on a gurney. "Sure, thanks." She accepted the gummy bear and sat down. "Thanks."

"No probs." Claire took another drink from her soda. "So what's the deal here?"

The girl took a deep shuddering breath. "I – I can't say much, because legal issues, but I'm Mega Girl. I'm training with Armsmaster. That's a – a villain, I guess. We arrested her, but things went wrong, and now … " She sniffled. "I suck at being a superhero."

"Hey. Hey hey hey. It's all right. We all have bad days." Claire retrieved a tissue from her bag, carefully not letting Mega Girl see the pistol she had stashed in there, and handed it over. "It'll be okay. She'll be okay." She cheated a little, tilting the blonde's brain chemistry more toward optimism. "You'll see."

"Yeah, I suppose." Mega Girl blew her nose and brightened a little. "I mean, this is a hospital." She turned toward Claire. "What's your deal, anyway? How come you get to sit here in a recliner with a cooler full of soda? Your dad the head surgeon or something?"

"Heh, no." Claire was about to expand on the topic, when the gurney returned, Armsmaster trying to argue with Doctor Harmon and failing.

Mega Girl looked around in bafflement as the orderly parked the gurney right behind Claire's recliner. "What's going on? Why did you bring her out here again?"

"You'll see." Doctor Harmon was positively radiating smugness; Claire could pick it up from where she was. She rather liked the doctor; he cared about his patients and really was a nice guy. She decided to let him have his fun; sipping her soda, she popped another gummy bear and kept watching cartoons.

"What's going on here?" Armsmaster must have noticed the way that the shards of plastic had pushed their way out of the woman's face, and her cuts and contusions were healing nicely. "How is this – is this you?"

Claire guessed this last question was aimed at her; she turned her head to look up at the armoured hero. "Who, me?"

"Yes, you." His mouth was set. "Are you healing her?"

"Probably. And by the way, that old break to your left kneecap? You're welcome." She extracted a card from her bag and handed it back up to him. "My card."

He took it, and examined it closely. "Marchioness?"

"The very same." She settled back into the recliner. Mega Girl was staring at her with undisguised curiosity; she wanted to giggle so very badly, but she kept herself under control.

He must have turned the card over. "'By Appointment Only'?"

"Congratulations," she drawled. "You can read." Mega Girl's eyes went wide, and she covered her own mouth with her hand. Claire grinned and passed her a card as well.

"Marchioness, Marchioness … " He paused. "Female form of marquess, British nobility. Marquess is the British form of … Marquis?"

Claire could feel the adrenaline ramping up through his system; she popped another gummy bear. "That's my dad, yeah."

"I'd heard rumours of Marquis being back in town, and how he's got a sidekick. That's you?"

"I object to the term 'sidekick' on general principles, but yes, that's me," she agreed. Mega Girl was staring at her; Claire shrugged. "Hey, it's a thing."

"And why would you decide to heal people, in that case?" Armsmaster asked.

"Because I chose to."

"When she came in here," Doctor Harmon pointed out, "this waiting room was full. We were pushed to the limit. Now look at it." As Armsmaster turned his head, looking around the empty room, the doctor went on. "We've been bringing our worse cases down from Intensive Care and Oncology. Some of them are still undergoing follow-up tests, but every one that we can clear, has been cleared." He pointed at Claire. "She cured them."

Armsmaster rubbed his chin. "Interesting. A self-admitted sidekick of Marquis spends her time healing others without asking anything in return."

"Hey, enough with the 's' word, all right?" She swung her legs off of the recliner and stood up to face him. "I'm not Marquis' sidekick, I'm his daughter. Or maybe 'associate'."

Mega Girl broke in at that point. "Oncology means the cancer ward, right?"

"Yes, it does." That was Doctor Harmon.

The blonde stared at Claire. "You can cure cancer?"

"Well, sure." Claire shrugged. "It's easier to get rid of than your boss here. Less talky, too." She paused. "In any case, I never said I'd be healing for free." She handed Harmon a card. "I meant to do this later, but when you get a chance, pass that on to whoever runs this place, so we can negotiate a price scale for when I drop in next, yeah?"

"A ... a price scale?"

"Well, yeah. You don't think I'm gonna be doing this for free all the time, do you?" She shot him a grin. "Don't worry. I'll tell my dad's lawyers to keep it fair. We won't gouge you too much."

Harmon drew himself up. "Considering the work you've just done tonight, I'm not sure that any price would be considered 'gouging'. I just hope we can afford your rates."

"Pretty sure we can work something out," she assured him.

"Will these rates also apply to healing heroes?" Armsmaster asked.

"You can discuss that with my dad's lawyers," Claire told him with a cheeky grin. "Oh, and by the way? Your prisoner's fully healthy, plus I cured her ongoing drug addiction. She's been faking unconsciousness for the last few minutes; I think she wants to make a break for it once you get her out the door."

The prisoner erupted into movement, rolling off of the gurney; Armsmaster grabbed for her and missed. Coming to her feet, the prisoner bolted toward the doors; Mega Girl levitated straight up out of her seat. Claire ducked and sat back down on the recliner as the blonde passed over her head.

Mega Girl got to the doors first, landing in front of them and spreading her arms wide. The woman recoiled, hesitating just a moment too long. Even as she looked for another way out, Armsmaster grabbed her from behind. Pulling her wrists together behind her back, he began to secure them together. "You have the right to remain silent," he panted. "If you give up this right ... "

Getting up from the recliner, Claire strolled over toward where Mega Girl was still guarding the doors. "Nicely done," she observed. "New to the Wards, I'm guessing?"

"I'm, uh, not in the Wards," the blonde admitted. "I'm actually part of the Brockton Bay Brigade. M- uh, they've got me doing my initial training with the Wards, to learn teamwork and stuff."

"I suppose that makes sense," Claire noted. "How long have you been doing it?"

"First week," confessed Mega Girl. "I was supposed to hold back and observe, and I just jumped in." Her voice lowered. "I suck."

"Well, you'll get better at it," Claire assured her. "My first week of pistol training, I was horrible."

"You get to use pistols?" Mega Girl's eyes were wide. "That's so cool."

"Actually, it's noisy, smelly, and hard on the wrists," Claire responded. "But you've got the potential. You'll get there, I bet." Again, she pepped up Mega Girl with a little more optimism; the blonde seemed to need it.

That earned her a smile. "Yeah, thanks. I appreciate it."

"No problem." Behind her, she knew, Armsmaster had the prisoner secured and Mirandised. "See you round. Keep the card. Feel free to text me if you want to chat. And one more thing."

"Yeah?"

She couldn't resist grinning again. "Tell Brandish that Marquis' little girl says hi. And that the table didn't really deserve it."

"I ... don't get it."

"Don't worry. She will."

Leaving Mega Girl staring at her back, she wandered back to the recliner. Armsmaster, determinedly ignoring her, walked his prisoner toward the doors. "Oh, by the way," she called out to the armoured hero.

He paused, then after a long moment turned to face her. "What?"

"When they ask you, tell them that yes, I will be attending Endbringer battles. For free, even."

He nodded once, then guided the woman out through the doors, followed by Mega Girl. She waited till all three life signs had left her range before beginning to fold the recliner.

"Oh, you're going?" Doctor Harmon looked a little taken aback.

"Yeah, sorry. Past my bedtime and all that. We'll work out that price schedule, yeah?" She handed him the TV remote.

"Uh, yes, yes, of course."

"Excellent. See you around. Have a good night." Putting the recliner up on the cooler, she headed for the doors.

<><>​

The car pulled up next to her, and Jonas got out to help her put the recliner and cooler into the trunk.

"So how did it go, chick?" he asked. "Nobody bothered you?"

"Nope, it all went well." She climbed into the front seat and did her seatbelt up. "And Dad will never believe who I met."



End of Part Four

Part Five

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Five: For Every Action …


Accord looked up at the deferential knock upon the door. He frowned; there were no appointments scheduled for this time of day. The knock was not repeated, but he knew that his secretary would be waiting until he decided to call her in. She would wait all day, if he so chose; he valued that in an underling.

"Enter," he stated, pressing the buttons that deactivated the traps in the floor and ceiling between the door and the desk. One could not be too careful, after all; the traps designed to catch someone coming in through the window remained active.

The office door opened, and he noted that it was indeed his secretary; she held an envelope. Advancing to the desk, she laid it down before him. "This came for you, sir."

He did not touch it immediately; she had, of course, placed it precisely, square with the sides of the desk. The address was not that of the building, but one of his several post office boxes. It was postmarked Brockton Bay; picking it up, he checked for a return address. This turned out to be another post office box which was located, unsurprisingly, in Brockton Bay.

Brockton Bay …

Now that he looked more closely, the address had been hand-written, but extremely neatly so. The rounded hand was a strong clue. I suspect I know who sent it …

"You may return to your duties."

"Thank you, sir." She turned and left, closing the door silently behind her.

Retrieving a letter-opener from his drawer, he carefully slit open the envelope. It was, he noted in passing, made from good quality paper. The letter within, covered in copperplate writing of the same calibre, was also penned upon thick, creamy paper.

Of all Accord's acquaintances, only Marquis used that quality of paper. This did not surprise him, as the handwriting appeared to be that of the man's daughter. Reminded, he raised his eyes to the framed drawing upon the wall facing his desk. She had made that years ago, a mere child, striving for perfection. She had not achieved it, but the evidence of her effort was there all the same.

He unfolded the letter and began to read.

Dear Accord …

Under Marquis' no doubt patient tutelage, the girl's handwriting had improved to the point that even he himself could find few flaws in it. No child's scrawl this; each letter was formed to perfection, the words balanced neatly across the page. So few people wrote letters these days; even fewer took the time to do it properly.

We are now settled in Brockton Bay. Father says that it has changed in the years that he spent in Boston, but I think that he may remember it differently to the way it really was. I don't know if that would apply to me; when we left, I was too young to know much about the city at all.

Most of the changes, Father tells me, have to do with the gangs themselves. Galvanate has gone, as have the Teeth, but new gangs have emerged or moved in to replace them. The Archer's Bridge Merchants are a particularly sore point for him, as he has never approved of selling drugs, especially to children. The Merchants, it seems, have no particular scruples in that area, and so he says that he is going to talk with them sometime soon.

Accord paused in his reading of the letter. He had heard things about the Merchants, and very little of it was good. If Marquis was going to react predictably to them, particularly to their famously foul-mouthed leader, then they were on a collision course with a destiny that they would not be able to avoid.

With a brief, dry smile upon his lips – relieving Brockton Bay of the Archer's Bridge Merchants could only improve the tone of the city – he read on.

We have already encountered another gang. Father and I were driving through a back street when we were stopped and accosted by members of the Asian Bad Boys. Once we made them see reason, Father served notice via one of their members that he would be reclaiming his territory. We're still waiting for Lung's response.

<><>​

"Who is this man called Marquis? Who does he think he is?"

Lung was almost incandescent with rage, both literally and figuratively. Flames danced over his body and leaped from his hands, leaving yet more scorch-marks on the concrete walls of the building. Dao, more than a little singed but otherwise healthy, cowered back, while the rest of his contingent huddled near the exit. Along with the rest of them, Yan stared at Lung. He could kill us all in a moment. He still might.

"He – he used to be here in Brockton Bay -" Dao babbled, but Lung cut him off.

"I know who he is!" he shouted. "He left! He ran away! Why is he back? This is my territory, not his!"

Dao opened his mouth – to do what, Yan had no idea. To agree with Lung, probably. But instead, he quoted again the words Marquis had told him to say: "Marquis has returned. He will be taking back what is his." His eyes opened wide with horror, and he turned to run.

He was far too late; driven beyond reason, Lung engulfed him in fire. Dao made it three steps before he fell, his dying scream almost lost in the crackling of the flames. Sugito was the first to make a break for it, but the others weren't far behind. Yan fled with the rest of them and by the time Lung looked around for them, they were gone.

Sugito led them on a mad, scrambling rush away from the building. They covered three blocks before Yan stumbled and fell.

"Come on," urged Sugito. "We gotta keep going."

Thus far, Yan had been running on pure terror, but when she got to her feet, her lungs were heaving and her legs refused to support her. "I can't," she whimpered, and collapsed to her knees.

"Lung's gonna kill us all for what Dao just said," urged Chang. "Come on, get up."

"I can't run much more either," wheezed Juuko.

"Fuck," muttered Sugito. He looked around for any potential shelter; a derelict Seven-Eleven across the road caught his eye. "Come on."

Assisted by Chang, Yan got to her feet. Most of them were staggering as they crossed the street; Sugito went ahead, circling around behind the building. Moments later, Yan heard the sound of wood breaking, then Sugito popped his head back around the corner. "Come on, guys. I got a way in!"

He had indeed; a boarded-up window had been kicked in, leaving a gap wide enough for them to crawl through. Sugito came last, picking up the boards and fitting them roughly back into place. They collapsed to the floor; Sugito sat up while the others lay back and gasped. Yan closed her eyes, but all she could see was the burning form of Dao, screaming as he fell to the floor. Opening them with a jerk, she stared fixedly at the stripes of light visible between the planks blocking the window. Around her, they talked, although the voices barely registered to her.

"What – what are we gonna do?" stammered Chang. "He killed Dao, man."

"Yeah," Pak agreed. "He might come after us next. 'Specially since we ran away."

"We're gonna have to join another gang," Sugito decided. "He won't come after us then. That'd mean a gang war."

"But who're we gonna join?" Chang's brow furrowed. "Not the Empire Eighty-Eight. And not the Merchants either. Buncha druggie fucks."

Pak didn't argue. "Marquis, maybe? He's all kinds of badass. And so's Marchioness."

Sugito shook his head. "No. Fuck, no. They're the reason we're in this shit. Besides, you want to work for someone who can make you say stuff just 'cause they want you to? No, we're a fuck-load better off going with Blasto."

"Pssh, yeah," scoffed Chang. "Like Blasto's gonna let us join. He doesn't need minions. He can make all the monsters he wants."

Sugito grinned. "I think he'll see it our way." Pulling a grubby kerchief from his pocket, he unwrapped it to show two items; one was a piece of bone, while the other looked like a gleaming metal scale. "How much do you think he'll be willing to deal for these?"

<><>​

Father says that we won't be taking all of Lung's territory, at least at first. We may yet end up displacing the Merchants instead, if the ABB proves tougher than Father thinks they will. But that's in the future. Right now, we have to consolidate our position.

By now, Father thinks, the rest of the gangs will have heard that he's back. I'm wondering about their reaction to this, especially from the Empire Eighty-Eight. Father knew Kaiser before he succeeded Allfather for the leadership of the Empire; from what he says, he and Allfather held to an uneasy truce until we had to leave town.

It's possible that the previous association will lead to a similar truce with Kaiser, or he may instead choose to be hostile. Whichever way it goes, we need to find out soon where we stand with him.

<><>​

"You're certain of this." Kaiser, clad in gleaming metal armour, stared ominously down at the skinhead before him. The metal surrounding his head hid all but his eyes, but it wasn't hard to hear the frown in his voice.

"Sure as I can be, sir." The skinhead nodded anxiously. "The ABB kid was telling everyone. That Marquis was back, and that he'd be retaking his territory."

"Hmm. Very well, you can go." Kaiser gestured; the skinhead hurried from the room.

The supervillain turned and stalked across the room to where a map was pinned to a table. Already examining the map was a petite brunette wearing a white costume and a domino mask; she looked up as he leaned over and placed a push-pin in the map, at the location of a small, non-descript back street.

"It's no empty rumour," he mused. "Marquis has indeed returned. And he's brought help."

"I never met Marquis before he left," the young woman told him. "Is he likely to be that much of a problem?"

"Let me put it this way, Purity," Kaiser told her. "Back before you joined the Empire, there were four main gangs in Brockton Bay. Can you tell me who they were?"

"I know who they were," she pointed out. "I've done my homework. The Empire, obviously."

"Obviously," he agreed dryly.

"Galvanate, who's now in the Birdcage."

He nodded. "Of course."

"Butcher and the Teeth, who moved on after they almost got wiped out."

"They have a way of making enemies." His tone was hard.

"And Marquis." She paused. "So what's so special about Marquis? Is he so dangerous?"

"Purity – Kayden – listen to me. Marquis was just one man. In those days, operating without parahuman backup was tantamount to suicide. The unwritten rules were a lot looser then; even so, Marquis managed to hold his territory and make a very respectable profit at the same time, while employing no other parahumans. Now, he's got a parahuman at his side, presumably his daughter. His powers are worrying enough; if hers are anything similar, then yes, they could be a lot of trouble if they chose to be."

She tilted her head. "You sound worried."

"Marquis held his own against Allfather, against Butcher, against Galvanate, and against Jack Slash. He also fought the Brockton Bay Brigade to a standstill several times, single-handedly. You tell me how worried I should be feeling."

She blinked, looking concerned for the first time. "Oh. Oh shit. I see what you mean."

The metal retracted from his face, showing a faint smile that carried no trace of humour. "Precisely."

"What are you going to do?"

He looked thoughtful. "I think my first order of business is to have a talk with the man. Following that … we shall see."

"Should I come along?"

"Why not?" he asked rhetorically. "After all, this Marchioness will probably be there as well. You can talk to her, find out her spin on things."

"So, you want me to pump her for information?" Her tone was more than a little dry.

"Precisely." He smiled broadly. "The more we can find out about them, the better." His phone chimed, and he picked it up from the table. She watched him as he read what appeared to be quite a lengthy text message. After reading it through for the second time, he looked back up at her, his expression suddenly introspective. "Huh. Well, well. Speaking of which ..."

"Speaking of what?"

He leaned over the map and placed another push-pin, at the site of the Brockton Bay Central Hospital. "I think I see a way to kill two birds with one stone."

She let her exasperation show, just a little. "Could you be slightly less cryptic?"

"You'll see. Come on, I need to speak to Hookwolf."

Shaking her head, she followed him from the room.

<><>​

Just by the way, I have set out to make sure that the forces of law and order are at the very least ambiguous about our status in the city. I went to the Brockton Bay General Hospital and set myself up in the waiting area of the emergency room. To give the medical staff full credit, they didn't take long to realize what was going on, and were soon parking their most needy patients right next to me.

In case you were wondering, I didn't charge them. However, I did tell them that this was just a free sample, and that we could arrange a price schedule for later visits. They had some rather painful-looking accident cases, as well as a few cancer patients; by the time each of those has been cleared to go home, the news should be out.

I'm also reasonably certain that the Protectorate and the PRT know about Marquis and myself by now. This is mainly because Armsmaster came into the ER with an injured prisoner whom I healed, once the doctor managed to persuade him to put her next to me. As you have told me repeatedly; if you have something that someone else wants, make them come to you. It makes them value it more.

An interesting note: Armsmaster had with him a teenage superhero called Mega Girl. The interesting part is that she's not with the Wards, but instead with the Brockton Bay Brigade. I am guessing that she might be Laserdream's sister or something; they have a certain family resemblance. The Brigade has placed her with the Wards for training, which I think might be a good idea, given what Father has told me about how the Brigade used to operate.

Mega Girl was not overly happy; reading between the lines, I suspect that she has super-strength, and that she may have accidentally caused the injuries on Armsmaster's prisoner. She seems nice enough. However, I could not resist giving her a message to pass on to Brandish.

<><>​

Vicky dropped straight down out of the sky from a thousand feet up; she landed in the back yard with barely a jar. I'm getting better at that. Dusting her hands off – she had used them to cushion the impact – she got up and strolled over to the back door. It was unlocked, of course; her parents were expecting her. The rear porch light was off for the same reason.

Slipping in through the door, she removed the domino mask as she closed the door behind her. "Mom, Dad, I'm home!" she called out.

"We're in the living room," her father replied. As she came on through, both of her parents got up from the sofa and came over to her. "So how did it go, pumpkin? First night out and all?"

She took a deep breath. Her parents valued honesty above all else. You can lie to the public about who you are, but you never lie to your teammates about anything. Besides, Armsmaster would probably be talking to them soon anyway. "I, uh, screwed up a bit. Beat up a villain pretty badly."

Her mother grimaced slightly. "How badly?" Vicky could read between the lines. Lawsuit badly?

"Badly enough to have to take her to the ER," she admitted, and went to her father for a hug. His strong arms enfolded her, and she felt comforted; a moment later, her mother's arm went around her shoulders. "I – I didn't mean it," she went on, feeling tears prickling her eyes. "It all happened so fast, she was wearing power armour and pointing a gun of some sort at Armsmaster, so I just tackled her and hit her and broke the gun, but it exploded and injured her pretty badly."

Her father squeezed her slightly. "But you're okay? The explosion?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. But it messed up her arm pretty badly."

"How is she now?" asked her mother practically. "Still in the hospital?"

She pulled free of her father, sniffling slightly. "Oh, no. She's all right now. Totally healthy. We took her back to holding and processed her through."

Her mother frowned. "She was a regenerator? You could have told us, so we didn't worry so much."

"No, no, she wasn't any sort of regenerator. There was this girl about my age, a cape, in the ER waiting room. She called herself Marchioness. She was just … well, chilling. Sitting back in a recliner with a cooler full of drinks, watching cartoons. The doctor told us to put the villain next to her. And she just … healed."

"Just healed? Just like that?" Her father looked impressed. "All the injuries?"

"Yeah," Vicky told him. "Plus, Marchioness said she cured her ongoing drug addiction, too. And she never even put a hand on her. She was watching cartoons and talking to me the whole time."

"Was she healing the other people in the emergency room, too?" asked her mother.

"Uh, yeah," Vicky replied. "She must have been. There was nobody there when we got there. The doctor said they'd all gone home."

"I'm impressed," her father admitted. "I've never heard of a healer who's not, you know, Eidolon or Scion, being able to do something like that."

Vicky was warming to her topic; anything to deflect attention away from her screwup. "And that's not all. The doctor told us that they'd cleared out all the bad accident cases, and the ones from the cancer ward too. She could cure cancer. I mean, holy shit, is that even possible?" She paused, realising what she had just blurted out. "Uh, sorry."

Her mother didn't seem to have noticed. "Well, Scion healed Vikare's sister of cancer back in 'eighty-two," she mused. "But since then … if there's a healer of that capability in Brockton Bay, that's huge news. Do you know if she's got a team affiliation, or if she'd like to join the Brigade?

"And how's that name spelled, do you know?" asked her father. "I'm trying to visualise it, but all I'm coming up with is 'female Martian'. And that doesn't make sense."

"Oh, no," Vicky told him. She dug in the small belt pouch. "She gave me her card."

He took it and read it carefully, then turned it over and read the back as well. "'By Appointment Only', huh?"

Vicky nodded. "Yeah, I got the impression she was some kind of rogue."

"Still," her mother pointed out. "A healer of that magnitude is going to need some level of support, or people are going to be trying to recruit her by any and all means. Does she have a team that she works with?"

"Uh, yeah," Vicky admitted. "She, uh, told me that she came back to Brockton Bay with her father. And she had a message for you."

"For me?" Carol Dallon looked somewhat taken aback. "How does she even know me? What's the message?"

Vicky took a deep breath. "She said to tell you that Marquis' little girl said hi, and something weird about a table not deserving it."

Brandish went very still indeed. "Say that again," she whispered.

"I, uh, Marquis' little girl says hi, and that the table didn't deserve it." Vicky looked at her parents. "What does it mean?"

"Marquis. Oh god." Her mother ignored the question. "Is he back? Did she say that he was back? Marquis?" She paused. "Was he there, in the hospital?"

"Well, yeah, um, Armsmaster said he'd been hearing rumours," Vicky told her. "He wasn't there, no. Just Marchioness. She was kind of nice. Friendly. She wasn't really polite to Armsmaster, but she made me feel better about what I did to Traction."

"Traction?" Her father frowned. "Who's Traction?"

"Oh, the villain we captured. Sorry."

"And this Marchioness healed Traction in front of you?"

"Yeah. Armsmaster had to carry her in, but in about two minutes, she was totally healed. She made a break for it, but we caught her."

"What, Marchioness?" That was her mother.

"No, Traction. Marchioness just sat back and watched the show."

"Did Armsmaster try to arrest Marchioness?" asked her father.

Vicky shook her head. "No. They just talked a bit, and Armsmaster asked about her rates for healing heroes, and she said something about her dad's lawyers, and then she told him that she'd be attending Endbringer battles, and we left."

Slowly, Carol sat down on the sofa again. "Oh god. It's starting up again."

Mark sat next to her, his arm around her shoulders. "It's not as bad as that, honey."

"Yes. It is." She shook her head. "Marquis is back in town. He was dangerous enough when it was just him. Now his daughter is a cape, and she's some sort of ranged healer and god knows what else, and she's probably helping him out. So even if he gets injured, she'll be able to heal him. And that's not the worst bit."

Vicky sat down on her other side. "What's the worst bit, Mom?"

Brandish drew a deep, shuddering breath. "On our best day, we would never have been able to beat him. I can see that now. But now she's made herself untouchable – someone who can heal people en masse, who's willing to show up to Endbringer battles? Nobody's going to care who her father is. But if he gets arrested, what's to stop her from demanding that he be let loose? Withholding her services, in return for his release?"

Mark drew her into his embrace. "It might not come to that, dear."

She buried her head against his chest. "Just you wait," she told him. "I'm right. You'll see."

<><>​

Armsmaster did not seem happy that I was Marquis' daughter, but he didn't try to arrest me. This was probably because I had just healed his prisoner. Also, the doctor told him about all the other people I had healed. However, I am reasonably sure that he will be telling his superiors about me.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall.

<><>​

Director Piggot looked up as the intercom buzzed. She had just been in the process of packing up for the night – she had yet to get home and set herself up for haemodialysis – and really didn't need any more distractions. For a moment, she toyed with the notion of ignoring it, but then duty overrode her impulse.

Leaning over, she pressed the button. "Yes?"

"It's Armsmaster, ma'am. I have some news that you need to hear, in person."

She sighed. "Can it wait until morning?"

"I don't believe so."

"Fine. Come on in." She pressed the button that unlocked her door.

Armsmaster strode in, armour marred in the various subtle ways that indicated that he'd had a busy night out. "Thank you, ma'am. I think you'll want to hear this."

"Well, you're here. Spit it out."

"First off, the rumours about Marquis are confirmed. He's back in town."

She blinked. "That's … not good to hear, but at least now we know for sure. Was that it?"

"No, ma'am, that's the least of it. He has a child. A daughter. She's a cape."

Well, I knew he had a little girl … and now she's triggered. Joy. "What are her powers? More bone-shaping?"

He shook his head. "No. She's a healer. A ranged healer."

"A … ranged … healer?" She stared at him. "What's her range?"

"It only seems to be a few yards, if that," he admitted. "But it seems to be a Shaker effect, with her. We had an injured prisoner, and this girl was in the ER waiting room. She'd cleared out the place. As well as their bad accident cases, and their oncology ward."

"And she healed your prisoner – wait. How did your prisoner get injured, in the first place?"

His mouth tightened. "Mega Girl got a little enthusiastic. But I spoke to her, and she seemed to understand where she went wrong."

"How bad were the injuries?"

"Left alone, they would have been life threatening. Which is why we took her to the ER. This girl, Marquis' daughter, was there. She called herself Marchioness." He produced a card and placed it on Piggot's desk. "She had business cards."

Piggot looked the card over, then put it down. "So she's selling her services?"

"So it seems," Armsmaster agreed. "She didn't charge us anything this time, but she spoke about setting up a price schedule with the hospital, and doing something similar with us, for healing heroes."

"Wait, wait." Piggot held up a hand. "She intends to heal heroes, and charge us to do so?"

"Traction had a badly crippled right arm," Armsmaster pointed out. "Catastrophic equipment failure. Arm gun blew up. Marchioness brought it back to full function, complete recovery, along with healing her other injuries, in about a minute or so. Or even less; I wasn't timing her."

"Capes have been getting maimed in Endbringer battles for years," mused Piggot. "If she could heal that sort of damage, it might just be worth it."

"Actually, on that note," Armsmaster put in, "she stated definitively that she would be attending Endbringer battles. For free."

"And yet, Marquis' daughter … "

"Well, she also said that she would be charging for healing, outside of that situation." he noted.

"Understood." She nodded to him. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Also, I will want a full report on Mega Girl's actions on my desk tomorrow morning."

"Yes, ma'am." He paused. "She was defending me, or thought she was."

"So noted. A full report."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Dismissed."

"Good night, ma'am."

She watched him turn and leave; the door clicked shut behind him. Wearily, she began to finish tidying up her desk. The card caught her eye; she picked it up again, and looked it over before tucking it into a pocket.

By Appointment Only. Good God.

<><>​

Overall, I think that it was a successful night out. I spread the word that Father was back in town, and I got to meet Armsmaster. He's got even less of a sense of humor than we see from him on TV, but I have to admit, the man has presence.

I will write you again later. Remain well, and take care of yourself.

Regards,

Marchioness​

<><>​

Accord folded the letter carefully and put it back away in the envelope. Equally carefully, he placed the envelope in a folder containing several other letters written in the same hand. He had no urge to be a parent, much less go through the messy business of actually fathering a child. Children, indeed, were a thing to be avoided; they had no respect for rules, and no idea of self-discipline. On the other hand, Marquis had raised his child to be reasonably tolerable by any rigorous standard.

Of that, at least, Accord had to approve.

<><>​

"Claire, seriously, what were you thinking?"

Marquis' tone was mild, but Claire felt defensive all the same. "I was thinking I could get our names out there," she replied.

"By going out alone," he responded grimly. "You have Jonas for a reason."

"He took me there," she pointed out. "I just went in alone. Because we don't need people connecting Marchioness with the Marchant family."

"Still, I don't like the idea of you going out alone. You should have at least told me."

"And you would've stopped me from going."

"You don't know that."

"Well, would you have let me go alone, if I'd told you where I was going?" Her tone was just a little challenging.

He grimaced. "Perhaps not. But -"

"Jonas was parked around the corner. I had my phone. If anything had gone wrong, I would've called him. Nothing went wrong. I even got to meet Armsmaster. Oh, and guess who else I met."

He paused. "Who?"

"Mega Girl. She's in the Brockton Bay Brigade. She's about my age."

"Really?" He knew that she was trying to distract him. And she's succeeding too. "Did you speak to her?"

"Oh yeah. She's pretty nice, for a superhero. She's training with the Wards. I gave her a message for Brandish."

He raised his eyebrows. "Oh? And what message was that?"

"That Marquis' little girl said hi, and that the table really didn't deserve it."

"Hah." He regarded her with an amused eye. "Well, I suppose I don't need to teach you any more about taunting superheroes then."

"Yeah." She met his eyes. "Sorry about going behind your back like that, but I really did want to see if I could do it on my own."

"Hmm." His expression was fond, belying the gruff tone of voice. "Well, I suppose that no harm was done. Just don't do it again without telling me."

Earnestly, she nodded. "Okay, Dad."

"Good. Come here, honey." He hugged her. "I'm just glad that you're all right."

"Well, yeah, me too." She leaned her head on his shoulder. "You should've seen the look on Armsmaster's face when he figured out that I was your kid. Well, I couldn't really see his face, but I knew that he had a pretty funny look on it."

"Heh. And you really told Mega Girl to give Brandish that message?"

"I sure did."

He chuckled warmly. "That's my girl."


End of Part Five

Part Six

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Six: Coming to Terms


"Armsmaster. Take a seat."

He did so, looking across the desk at the Director. "What's the problem?" It didn't cross his mind for a moment that there might not be a problem. "Is it about Mega Girl?"

"Not Mega Girl, no," she informed him. "It's the Tinker you captured. Traction."

He frowned. "I recall her. Has she experienced problems?"

"Not in the way you might be thinking," Piggot stated. "She's escaped from custody. A guard's been murdered."

"Escaped?" he blurted. "Murdered a guard? How? We removed her tech from her. She was under Tinker protocols. I made sure of it myself."

"She had outside assistance." Piggot's voice was cold. "Someone hit her transport. Our best bet right now is Empire Eighty-Eight. Probably Hookwolf. She's gone, two guards are injured, and one is dead. Throat cut."

"Who do you think did the killing? Her or the rescuer?"

"They're not sure yet. But if she did it, we'll nail her to the wall when and if we catch her."

He studied the set of her jaw; she was serious about this. "So what do we do now? Keep an eye out to see if the Empire suddenly acquires a Tinker?"

"Exactly," she replied coldly. "And make a note on her file; she's possibly complicit in the murder of the guard."

"Understood. Was there anything else?"

"Speaking of Mega Girl, how's she turning out?"

"Improving," he observed honestly. "She's taken what happened to Traction to heart, and she's learning to show restraint without holding back too much. Also showing more confidence, which is good."

"Just remember, she has to meet the standards that we hold the Wards to."

"She'll get there, Director."

"Good. Dismissed."

By the time he got up from the chair, she was already scanning her paperwork; leaving the office, he closed the door behind him. The murder of the guard would have her on edge, he knew. She would be hard to work with for a few days. He frowned. This is a bad business, even for the Empire. Kaiser must really want that Tinker on board.

<><>​

Earlier

Sherrel looked up as the prison transport lurched. "What was that?"

"Nothing," grunted the guard. "The roads are shit. We're -"

The truck lurched again, but Sherrel had already braced herself. Her Tinker speciality was vehicles, the bigger and more unwieldy the better, but she had a feel for any vehicle and how it moved. And this one was about to -

The third lurch caught the guard off balance, and as the truck went over, he went with it. Her restraints made it awkward to hold on, but she managed it; in the meantime, the rolling vehicle gave her the distinct impression of being inside a tumble dryer.

It finally skidded to a halt, and she fought to catch her breath. The vehicle was lying on its side, and she carefully let herself down on to what was now the floor. At her feet, the guard groaned but didn't seem about to get up.

If anyone's got the keys for these restraints, he has. Dropping to her knees, she reached for him, only to find her reach coming up short. The restraints on her wrists were connected to a flexible cable, which was in turn connected to a floor bolt right between where her feet would have been resting. Now that she was kneeling on the wall, the cable was attached to a point halfway up the floor, and it was just too short for her to reach the guard.

"Damn it!" Getting up, she kicked the guard in the stomach; he doubled up a little and groaned some more.

Maybe I can search his pockets with my toes? She began to work the shoes off of her feet, but was interrupted when the rear doors were ripped open. Turning, she backed up, stepping over the recumbent guard, as a menacing figure stepped into the back of the truck.

He was tall, shirtless, with greasy hair and an array of tattoos that she couldn't make out with the light in her eyes. Metal protruded from his arms and torso, giving him a certain amount of armour, as well as a nasty set of claws. He wore a metal mask of some kind, but she couldn't quite make it out.

"You're the Tinker, right?" The voice was harsh, demanding.

"Uh, yeah," she replied. "Traction. Who are you?" Shit, maybe I should've said no.

"Hookwolf. You comin'?" Ah, so that's a wolf head. Got it.

Raising her hands, she showed him the cable binding her to the floor. "Slight problem with that idea. Who are you with?" I should know this one …

He sneered. "You're being busted out and you wanna know who's doing it? Kid, your best bet is to come along now and ask questions later."

Oh shit. She had it figured out. "You're with the Empire Eighty-Eight, aren't you?"

"Got it in one." He stepped closer. "You coming with, or not?"

"And if I don't want to go with you?" she asked, with more defiance than she felt.

Abruptly, a blade formed from the end of his hand; she recoiled, but instead of attacking her, he stabbed downward instead. There was a dying gurgle, and a pool of blood spread from the gaping wound in the guard's throat. He would never get up now, she realised. Oh god. He killed him. Just like that.

The blade dropped from Hookwolf's hand a moment later, and clattered on the wall of the truck. Sherrel backed away to the limit of the cable, trying to avoid the spreading pool.

"I can leave you here with the shank that killed him, and you can try to argue that you didn't do it," Hookwolf offered coldly. "Or you can come with me. Your choice."

Sherrel closed her eyes briefly. Fuck. Opening them again, she stared at Hookwolf. "Okay, I'll come with." Can't be worse than prison. I hope.

Another blade formed, extruding from his flesh, then a matching one. She watched, horribly fascinated, as the oversized shears cut through the cable as easily as if it were a cheese stick. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that they would do much the same to her wrist – or her neck – if Hookwolf decided to turn them on her instead. "Come on," he ordered. "Let's go. Boss wants to talk to you."

Numbly, glancing briefly down at the body of the guard, she followed him out of the truck. She didn't even notice when she trod in the pool of drying blood; the footprints she left behind were a silent accusation.

<><>​

At About the Same Time

Rey Andino heard the knocking on the door, but ignored it. He wasn't expecting anything in the post, and there was really nobody in Brockton Bay with whom he wanted to talk. Concentrating on his apparatus, he eyed the two specimens currently growing in separate tubes. Do I want more chimpanzee, or more Rottweiler?

The knocking ceased, and he relaxed slightly. Obviously a mistake. Leaning closer, he examined both specimens carefully. Gently, as of a concert pianist, his fingertips rested feather-light upon the controls of his cloning device. The one on the left seemed to be heavier in the shoulders, whereas the one on the right had a larger braincase -

The banging on the door was so abrupt, he jerked reflexively. Fingers pressed buttons, and he yelped involuntarily as both specimens were sterilised with boiling water, then flushed away. "Fuck!" he shouted. "That was fucking hours of work, right there!"

The banging continued; it sounded like someone very large and strong, or perhaps they were using a rock. Gritting his teeth with exasperation, Rey snapped his fingers twice; the large somnolent pile of fur in the corner of his lab stirred and sat up.

"Go," he told the gorilla-lion hybrid. "See who's at the door. If they have business with me, bring them back here."

It grunted in reply; he had made it smart enough to understand words, and use a few of its own, but he'd also made sure that it was utterly subservient to his will. As it knuckled its way from the room, its mane brushing the doorframe, he turned back to his workbench. Hours of work, literally down the drain … ugh. However, he had a good idea where he'd gone wrong with the last batch. Not chimp. Orangutan. Smarter and stronger. Opening a canister, he extracted one of his seeds, then began to search through his supply of samples. I know I've got orangutan around here somewhere …

"They here."

The grunt from his guard-beast took him a little by surprise; he looked around to see a bunch of … "Kids? What the hell?" One of the teens stepped forward; Rey realised belatedly that they were all Asian to one degree or another. "Shit, you let ABB into my house?"

The guard-beast growled, and the kids shrank away from it. "No, no," protested the boy who had come forward. "We're not ABB. Not any more."

Rey looked him over. "Yeah? Prove it."

"Lung wants to kill us," blurted the one girl; she looked about thirteen, if that. "He killed Dao. Burned him to death." She appeared to be close to tears.

"Well, don't come to me for protection," Rey told her. "Lung and I have an agreement. I don't fuck with his internal policies, and he doesn't come and burn my place down around my ears. I'd like to keep it that way."

"We don't want your protection," the boy told him. "Well, not just your protection. We want to work for you."

Rey shook his head. "No, you don't get it. I work alone. If I want assistance, I make it. I grow it. That way I know it's loyal."

"How about if you owed us?" asked the boy suddenly.

"Owed you?" Rey shook his head. "I don't owe you shit."

"I got two things you'll want for sure," the kid told him, bold as brass. "You want them, you gotta let us stay here. We'll work, clean, whatever. Just let us stay."

This had to be a trick of some kind. "Yeah, like you've got anything that I want."

The kid grinned. "Okay, how about one of Lung's scales? It got ripped out the last time he fought Kaiser, and I found it."

Rey's eyes widened. "You're shitting me," he breathed.

"And that's not all," boasted the kid. "I also got a chunk of bone from Marquis."

And it had been going so well, too. "Okay, that's it. I got no time for bullshit." Rey turned to the guard-beast. "Throw 'em out. Make sure that one bounces." He pointed at the mouthy kid.

"No, wait, no!" yelled the kid. "It's true! I got 'em!" He dodged around the guard-beast's gigantic paw as it swiped at him. "I got 'em right here!"

Rey rolled his eyes. "Marquis left Brockton Bay years ago, kid. Don't even think about trying to play me."

"But he's back!" the girl insisted. "We saw him!"

An upraised hand served to halt the guard-beast. "Where did you see him? What was he doing?"

"He was in our territory," the boy told him. "We, uh, tried to rob him."

"It was Dao's idea," the girl added quickly. "He had a girl with him. His daughter or something. She's scary as fuck."

"Yeah," supplied the boy. "They got hold of Dao and told him to tell everyone that Marquis was back, and he did. And then he told Lung, and Lung killed him for it."

"And he wants to kill us too," another boy put in. "We'll be your minions. Just give us a chance."

Rey scratched his chin; it was stubbled. He hadn't shaved in a few days. When he was working on something new, he tended to forget about the basics. "I suppose you'll be wanting me to feed you, too."

The kids looked at each other hopefully. "Uh, yes?" ventured the kid with the mouth.

Rey looked them over. "Can any of you cook?"

"Uh, I can, a bit." That was the other boy.

"Right." He held out his hand. "I'll have those samples right now. Once I've determined if they're genuine, you've got a place here. But I'll want people cooking and cleaning and doing laundry and shit like that." No matter how patient he was with them, his creations never quite got the hang of separating lights and darks. "I'm not gonna let you just sit around eating my food."

"Right, right, sure," the kid agreed immediately, pulling a knotted handkerchief from his pocket. "Here."

Rey undid the knot, and the gleaming metal scale was revealed, followed by the piece of bone. Oh god, if these are genuine, what I can do with them …

Turning to his workbench, he began his tests. But somehow, he knew what the result would be.

If these are genuine, this changes everything.

Blasto was going to become a name in Brockton Bay.

<><>​

A Few Days Later

"I don't recognise the name." Claire looked at her father.

"There's no reason for you to," Marquis told her. "It's not a well-known place, which is deliberate. I certainly never took you there before we left the city."

"Somer's Rock." She pronounced it carefully. "So what's it about?"

"It's neutral ground," he explained. "Back in the days before the PRT set up shop in the city, we needed a place to meet and hash out our differences. Otherwise, we would have spent more time at war with each other than actually running our respective gangs."

"Huh. So who came up with it?"

The car came to a halt; Marquis got out, and offered his hand to Claire. She checked herself over to make sure that she was presenting the appropriate appearance to the world, then accepted it. While her dress wasn't quite as constricting on the legs as it might appear, it could still make getting in and out of a car a little bit of a trial.

The car moved off; Jonas had his instructions already. Marquis offered Claire his arm, and they strolled toward their destination, for all the world as if they were attending the opera.

"As I recall," he went on, "it was Galvanate's idea originally; he was Mob before he was a cape, so he had the background for it. He already owned the restaurant; we each paid him a portion of its value, and he gave it over to the current owners, on the condition that we could hold our business in there at any time. In return, they pay protection to nobody, and they are compensated for keeping their mouths shut."

"Don't the cops ever raid them? Try to shut them down?" She was trying to get her head around the idea.

He chuckled, the humour evident in his mind as well as his voice. "I'm going to presume that you meant the PRT. Because the police would be ill-suited to the task of breaking up a meeting of supervillains."

Her cheeks began to heat, but she suppressed the reaction. "Yeah, that's what I meant."

She could tell from the shape of his thoughts that he knew that she was lying, but neither his expression nor his tone of voice betrayed this, for which she was grateful. "I thought as much. Well, to answer your question, it has been long recognised by the PRT that having a neutral ground for criminal capes is a good idea. So while they officially don't know about it, unofficially it is left alone."

"I'm still not sure about how this works," she objected. "There are more criminal capes in Brockton Bay than the heroes and rogues put together. Surely the PRT would prefer that the gangs be at one another's throats than working under any sort of agreement?"

"Your point is valid," he agreed. "However, a cape-led gang tends to be an empire unto itself – the Empire Eighty-Eight being a case in point. In that particular situation, it's survived a generational change. Gangs are very insular; they rarely work together, even when they have no arguments with each other. Gang warfare costs the lives of innocents, especially where capes are concerned, so leaving us a place to mediate our differences is a smart move on the part of law and order."

"Okay, I get that," she observed. "But if the gangs are unlikely to work together on anything, what's to stop the PRT and Protectorate from cracking down on any one gang, and taking them down, before starting on the next one?"

"Because such a move, if unprovoked, would bring the gangs into a temporary alliance. Such an alliance would overwhelm the forces of PRT and Protectorate in the city in relatively short order, and once more threaten the citizenry with unbridled violence, an outcome not to be desired on either side." He smiled at her and continued. "I suspect that you're about to ask why the criminal element does not simply combine to eject the PRT and Protectorate from the city, if we are capable of doing just that?"

"Uh, yes," she admitted. "Why is that?"

"Because that would start a war," he informed her. "PRT and Protectorate forces from all over the nation would converge on Brockton Bay. There would be fighting in the streets, and many, many people would get hurt. Including those citizens who are the basis for our ongoing profits. Thus, it is far better for all concerned to maintain the balance which we hold today. We get our crime; they get their law and order. Everybody is happy."

"So it's not as haphazard as it looks," she realised, the moment of insight stunning her temporarily. "There's a reason it is the way it is. It's all a series of checks and balances."

"Very good, my dear," he praised her. "Very good indeed. You see it now."

"I do," she agreed. "I really do. Wow."

"Not many do, you know, not at first," he commented, bringing them to a halt before an unprepossessing building. "We're here."

"Really?" She stared at the frontage, with its fading off-white paint, green curtains dimly visible through grimy windows, the windows set behind rusting iron bars. Some of the rust had bled into the white paint that coated the window sill. "I … thought it would look more impressive. More upscale."

"That's part of the deal," he explained. "They can't improve the property in any significant way. We don't want more clientele being attracted to the place, as this might make things difficult when we're meeting here." At her expression, he raised an eyebrow. "I never said that it was a fair deal."

"Oh." Claire blinked. "I see." She concentrated. "I count … five people inside. Three men, two women." More details were showing up in her mind's eye, but she tried to stick to the relevant ones. "Nobody is hyped up on adrenaline; they're all conscious and healthy." She paused. "No firearms; or at least, nobody can smell gun oil."

"Very good." He drew himself up and pushed open the faded wooden door; she followed him in.

The word that immediately came to mind was 'dingy'. The bulbs were old and seemingly on the verge of burning out, and did not seem capable of supplying the amount of light currently flooding the place. In that light, she saw that the curtains were indeed green, but a faded, tired sort of green. Underfoot, the floorboards were a greyish colour, matching the countertop. Dirt gritted under her shoes; she wasn't quite sure when the place had been last swept, and didn't want to know.

Of the five people in her range, two were seated at a table, and three were near the bar. She was reasonably certain that the two at the table were the people with whom her father was here to meet; one was wearing metal armour and the other was glowing like a flashbulb, supplying the extra illumination. Given that they were there to meet with the Empire Eighty-Eight, identification was more or less automatic. Kaiser and Purity.

Claire decided that the other three, at the counter, were waitstaff. The two guys were near-identical, both in appearance and biometrics, while the girl was also related to them, but -

"The waitress is deaf," she murmured.

"Hm," he replied, just as quietly. "That's new. Also, useful to know."

Kaiser and Purity rose at their approach. "Marquis," Kaiser stated courteously. "It's been a while."

"It has indeed, Kaiser," Marquis replied, equally politely. "I heard about your father's passing while I was out of town. I hope you received the sympathy card I sent."

"I did, thank you," Kaiser responded. He reached out; they shook hands. Claire kept an internal eye on the crime lord for suppressed tension, and only found a moderate amount. At this range, she knew, she could affect him if necessary, especially if he attacked her father. Darkening her corneas, she observed Purity with a certain amount of curiosity; the woman seemed to be in her mid twenties, and was looking back at Claire with what seemed to be equal interest.

"Marquis, do you recall Purity?" asked Kaiser.

"I believe so," Marquis confirmed; he addressed Purity directly. "I believe that you joined the Empire very shortly before I left the city."

"Yes, I did," Purity agreed. "I don't think we ever met, though."

"I think I would have remembered, yes." Marquis took her hand and bowed over it; Claire knew that he had shut his eyes so as not to be dazzled by her radiance. "Normally I would kiss a lady's hand, but I do not wish to give offence."

Kaiser inclined his head. "None taken, either way." Turning, he looked at Claire. "And this is … Marchioness, I believe? The feminine form of Marquis?"

"Yes, I am," Claire replied. "I've heard a lot about you too, sir." Not elaborating on exactly what she'd heard, she offered her hand; he bent over it to about one degree lower than her father had with Purity's. One-upmanship, hah. Having grown up with her father's impeccable manners, she felt no more than a slight flutter in her stomach at the attention.

The contact also gave her access to his mental state; he was calculating, observant, his mind clicking over like cogs made of the same steel that clad his body; this effectively quelled the flutter. He's trying to overawe me with manners. Keep me off guard.

She could also read his attitude toward her; the respect was pretended, to make a good impression on her father. Mentally, he had already dismissed her as a significant factor. I should turn you black, you supercilious bastard. Or Asian. Or Asian and black.

But she didn't; they were meeting under an agreement of truce, and she would respect that. However, as her attitude toward him shifted toward dislike, her powers began to reassess him as a potential threat. Carefully, she suppressed any outward tells that would let him know how she felt about him. At the same time, she also stifled the semi-autonomous reaction from her powers that would cause him discomfort or even pain while they were in close proximity. A whole-body itch. I could do that. Let's see him scratch through steel armour. But no; Dad would not be happy.

And then she was facing Purity; absently, she decided that darkening her corneas made her close to blind, so she restored them to normal and instead enlarged and moved her blind spots to cover the glowing supervillain. "I'm pleased to meet you," she offered, holding out her hand.

"Likewise," Purity responded, shaking her hand. "You're Marquis' daughter? I didn't even know that he had one."

"Yes, I am." Claire found the older woman to be more spontaneous, less calculating than Kaiser. She was also somewhat in love with her boss, or Claire was totally misreading the chemical signals in her brain. "There was an incident, so he took me away. But now we're back."

"Oh, I see." Purity released her hand. She was curious, Claire knew, but her manners won out. "Well, I hope you like it here in Brockton Bay." She was actually being sincere; Claire's attitude swung toward liking her.

"Thank you; I'm sure I will." Claire allowed her father to pull out her chair for her; on the other side of the table, Kaiser likewise seated Purity.

"Now then," Kaiser stated, once they were all settled, "shall we get refreshments first?"

Claire opted for a bottle of soda, while Marquis had a cup of tea, Kaiser got coffee, and Purity asked for a glass of water. Kaiser said nothing about the waitress' disability, but both he and Purity wrote on the pad that she carried. Claire also wrote her order, as did Marquis; Kaiser showed no reaction either way, but Claire caught a tinge of disappointment. Did he expect us to make fools of ourselves? Is everything a power play with him? It seemed so.

"Before we commence our business here," began Kaiser, "I have a question." He looked at Marquis enquiringly. "Neither you nor Marchioness are masked. Does this indicate a change in the way that you will be doing business? Or do you simply consider yourself too powerful to be captured?"

Marquis smiled thinly; he was, of course, wearing the features and hair of the Marquis of old. "I no longer need to go masked," he explained enigmatically. "My real identity was uncovered and I was attacked once before. This will not happen again."

"But your daughter," protested Purity. "She can't be more than fourteen."

Claire read the concern in her mind; it matched that in her voice, whereas Kaiser was fishing for information. "It's fine," she assured the woman. "My father and I know what we are doing."

"You do realise that the PRT has closed-circuit TV cameras and facial recognition technology now," Kaiser pointed out. "They don't actively seek to unmask villains, but anyone showing their face is fair game."

Marquis's smile widened very slightly. "I wish them all the luck of the hunt. They won't get far." And they wouldn't; Claire was adept now at changing both herself and her father from their cape faces to their private faces and back again. Hair length and colour, eye colour, even bone structure; everything that 'Earl Marchant' had achieved via cosmetics and coloured contacts, Claire could make real in seconds.

Kaiser, frustrated but refusing to show it, changed the topic. "Very well. You say that you have returned to reclaim your old territory."

Marquis inclined his head. "That's what I've said, and that's what I'm going to do."

There was a dangerous edge to Kaiser's voice when he spoke next. "You do realise that when you left, the Empire Eighty-Eight took over some of the territory that you abandoned?"

Marquis, unruffled, sipped at his tea. "I'm aware. I'm also aware that a large section of it is in ABB hands. And that some of it is in the hands of the Merchants."

"And you propose to take it back from all of them?" Kaiser's voice was, if not flat-out disbelieving, at least a little dubious.

"Not all at once, of course," Marquis assured him. "But I do intend to rebuild what was once mine." His gaze upon Kaiser was calm. "I won't simply walk into your territory and take over, of course. As reasonable men, we can negotiate on the matter. Your father and I always maintained a professional standard, even when we had our differences."

"I think you will find that Brockton Bay is different today. Seven years is a long time." Kaiser, though still polite, had been slightly rattled by Marquis' casual reference to his father. Claire had to admire his control; he showed no sign of his disquiet.

"Yes. It is." Marquis sipped at his tea again. "Back then, we had Butcher and the Teeth. Galvanate. And the Nine dropped in for a visit once in a while. Today? A foul-mouthed drug dealer holds territory, and you allow him to keep it."

<><>​

Kaiser controlled his inward wince. Marquis' tone had been polite and friendly, and had cut like a razorblade hidden in a silk scarf. "It's not worth the trouble to dislodge him … " He paused, reminded of something. "Speaking of drugs."

"Yes?" Marquis' gaze was frank and open, and Kaiser mistrusted it utterly. He had met the man a few times while still in Allfather's entourage, after he had triggered but before Marquis had moved away. Marquis had a reputation; he was honourable, trustworthy and absolutely true to his word, but he could also be utterly ruthless when the need arose.

As for Marchioness – not that Kaiser was totally sure that the girl was indeed Marquis' daughter, given the almost complete lack of family resemblance – her steady gaze should not be unsettling him the way it was, but damn it, it was. Something about her made him want to avoid her gaze. Is she a Master?

"Are you aware that your daughter encountered Armsmaster in the Brockton Bay General Hospital, when she went there to exercise her healing talents?" There, chew on that.

"Of course," Marquis replied urbanely. "She told me all about it when she got home."

"Then you will know that Armsmaster had an injured prisoner, and that your daughter -" I will not use that name for her " - healed her."

"She told me about that too, yes. Your point?"

"My point," Kaiser stated, "is that -"

<><>​

Earlier

Sherrel still had the restraints on her when she was ushered – or rather shoved – into Kaiser's presence. She stopped, panting, and pushed her hair back from her face.

The room looked for all the world like a regular office, albeit with a rather oversized desk. Sherrel could easily envisage landing a helicopter on it. Kaiser himself was clad in contoured steel armour, fitting him like a second skin. Albeit, a second skin that would turn small-arms fire.

He rose from what had to be a reinforced chair – her Tinker instincts wanted to look it over – and stepped around the desk to meet her. "You would be Traction, I believe," he stated.

"Uh, yeah?" It wasn't as though she could deny it, now. She also had the impression that of all the dangerous men she had met in her life, including Hookwolf, this was the most dangerous. I don't cross this guy for any reason. Ever.

"Welcome." His voice was warm. "I hope that my men have not been too rough with you?"

She held up her arms and rattled the restraints. "Not really, but offing a guard just to make me come along, and then not letting me out of these, wasn't too friendly either."

He clucked his tongue sympathetically. "I understand fully. You've been through quite a bit since you reached Brockton Bay, haven't you?" He held up his hand, a metal strip protruding from the armoured gauntlet. "May I see your cuffs?"

"Be my guest." She allowed him to take hold of them, as he continued talking.

"Thank you. I'm afraid that my men may have been slightly overzealous, mainly because I gave them very firm instructions. Once I found out about your existence, speaking with you became my highest priority. You see, my organisation lacks a Tinker." He paused, looking her over. "I understand that your speciality allows you to create power armour?"

"It's vehicles, actually," she corrected him with a scowl as one of the cuffs popped free. "Heavy vehicles. Heavier the better."

He set to work on the other. "Well, all the better. Ms Traction, I'm willing to offer you quite a generous employment package if you will work exclusively for me."

Shit, what do I say? "I'm not … " She paused, trying to figure how to say it most diplomatically. "Uh, I don't feel the way you guys do about blacks and Asians." She braced herself for the tirade of anger.

It didn't seem to bother him. "Do you feel any particular need to protect them?" he asked, popping the second restraint free. "Blacks and Asians, I mean. Other minorities."

She snorted. "Hell no. Let 'em take their chances."

His tone was approving. "Well then, we can work together. Because, just between you and me? I find fanaticism to be quite an impediment to sound business practice. Build me vehicles and quibble not on the manner in which they are used, and I will – well, not shower you with gold, not unless you request to be paid in that fashion. But I will certainly pay you most handsomely."

His tone was reasonable, and the offer was … well, more than reasonable. Much more. She felt her objections to working with 'that racist gang' fading away.

Her mercenary instincts, scared into submission until now, kicked back into gear. "Will I get a workshop?"

"My dear, I will allow you to design a workshop, to your specifications. All expenses paid." He paused. "And speaking of expenses."

Sherrel hesitated, visions of the workshop she'd always wanted dancing in her head. No more scrounging in garbage dumps and wrecking yards for what I need. Everything laid on. All expenses paid. "Uh … what?" She had a horrible feeling that the other shoe was about to drop.

He was watching her intently. "You were attempting to steal from a pharmacy when you were captured. What is your stimulant of choice?"

She hesitated. Shit, he knows I'm an addict. "Oxy," she admitted at last in a low tone.

"Oxycontin, yes?" His tone was non-judgemental.

"Uh, yeah."

"Well, then, that can also be supplied to you. However," his tone hardened, "I will require that you keep your head clear when you are building vehicles for me. Your drug use happens on your time, not mine."

"Sure, sure," she agreed, nodding her head.

"When was the last time you took some?" She got the impression that he was eyeing her carefully.

"Uh, a week ago," she told him.

"Hm. You don't appear to be suffering any sort of withdrawal."

"The girl in the hospital," she told him. "She … she fixed it. Made it so I wasn't feeling addicted any more. That's what Armsmaster said, anyway."

"What girl in the hospital?" His voice was intent.

"The healer. Girl in black. She said she was Marquis' daughter."

"Marchioness?" He asked the question sharply.

"Uh, maybe. I don't remember. I was kind of unconscious for part of it. He said she'd fixed my addiction."

"But you still want some."

"Hell yes. No bitch is gonna tell me what I can and can't be addicted to."

"Well spoken," he praised her. Going back to the desk, he pressed a button on the intercom and gave orders. "Now, then," he told her. "Tell me everything you're going to need for this workshop of yours. Leave nothing out."

"Uh, okay," she agreed, and began to talk.

<><>​

Just a few minutes later, a skinhead trotted in with a paper packet in his hand. Kaiser pointed at the girl, who was now seated in a chair. "Give it to her."

As the skinhead left the room, she ripped open the packet and shook a pill out into her hand. There was a look on her face, midway between yearning and apprehension. If she had any sort of willpower, he told himself, she would throw that packet far away. To have the monkey of addiction riding on your back, day after day, and then have the chance to be done with it, and not take it? That's why I'm in charge and she will be doing my bidding.

Tilting her head back, she popped the pill and dry-swallowed it. "I've been waiting for this ..." she mumbled, more to herself than to him.

And then she heaved, vomiting up the pill, along with a mix of what must have been prison food. Sliding from the chair, she ended up on all fours, heaving out her stomach contents on to his expensive carpet.

He started toward her, but the damage was already done. He would have to have the entire carpet taken up and burned. As for her …

Grabbing her by the arm, he jerked her to her feet. She was groggy, almost unable to stand, but with his support, she managed it. "What the hell was that?" he demanded. If she's suffering from something, and she hasn't told me …

"What the hell was that?" she shot back, then belched uneasily.

"Are you ill?" he asked. "Do you need a doctor?"

"No, I was feeling fine. Until I took your fucking oxy. What sort of shit was that?"

He took the packet from her limp fingers and examined the label. It held the appropriate information. "It was oxycontin. High grade oxycontin."

"Can't have been." She shook her head and swayed. "It was like poison."

"I assure you, I have absolute confidence about the quality of our drugs." That was because much of them were refined in the Medhall labs, after hours. He paused. "If it's not the drug, then … you were cured of your addiction, yes? By Marquis' daughter?"

"Yeah, why?" Her dull eyes fixed on him, then cleared as the penny dropped. "That bitch!"

"Hmm," he mused. "I'll have to have the rest of the batch tested, but if it's really the case … this is most interesting. Most interesting indeed."

<><>​

Somer's Rock

"Yes, I did that," Claire confirmed. "I knew that if I just left things the way they were, she would be addicted again as soon as she got access to drugs, so I put in a physiological aversion to the drug. It'll wear off, but in the meantime, she can't indulge without suffering a violent reaction."

"So I am to understand, then, that you can affect brain chemistry?" His voice was hard. "Instil compulsions?"

"No, I can't affect the brain," she lied smoothly. "This was merely a temporary modification to her digestive system. And for that, I needed skin to skin contact for several minutes."

"Indeed," Marquis observed, picking up the ball without missing a beat. "It's not exactly subtle. Her main focus is on healing. That, she can do from a foot or so away, if she concentrates."

As he spoke, she blessed him in her mind, but mostly she was focusing on Kaiser. To remove his disbelief would be too heavy-handed; she instead leaned on his critical faculties, amplifying the lack of respect he already felt for her, reducing her importance in his mind. Subtly, she encouraged his brain to build corroborating arguments in his mind. And last but not least, she dulled the critical faculties watching over his own thought processes. Everything's perfectly fine.

"That's all well and good," he decided, "but the problem here is that she can cure addicts, and make it stick."

"I don't see the problem with that," Marquis commented mildly.

Claire read an agreement within Purity's thought processes, but Kaiser was speaking again. "The problem is that each of the major gangs relies on drug distribution for a significant proportion of our profits. Curing addicts, permanently, removes that from us."

"I still fail to see the problem," Marquis observed. "I never sold drugs, and I'm not about to start."

Attention was well and truly off of Claire now. Kaiser stared at Marquis. "No drugs? Really?"

"Really. I despise the practice, especially where drugs are sold to schoolchildren, or women are forcibly addicted to drive them into a life of prostitution." Marquis put down his teacup. "If Marchioness proposes to cure every addict in the city, I will support her in this, one hundred percent."

Kaiser put his hands on the table. "You propose to do away with a significant percentage of the profits of the Empire Eighty-Eight." His tone was dangerous.

"On the contrary," Marquis pointed out. "You are now ahead of the curve. If you sell your stockpiled drugs to your competitors right now, at a discount but above cost, you make a profit and you're no longer saddled with a commodity that's going to have far more supply than demand in the near future."

"And in the long term?" He didn't sound convinced. "What is to replace it?"

"Well, I intend to go and have a heart-to-heart talk with this Skidmark fellow, in the Merchants. Explain to him why he can't deal drugs to children any more." Marquis' tone was deceptively mild. "I suspect that he'll see reason. It won't be a choice that's hard for even him to understand; leave the city or ... don't." He raised an eyebrow. "I'll only want some of the territory. Would you be interested in the rest?"

"Hmm. An interesting offer. One I'll have to think about." Kaiser rose to his feet, followed by Purity; Marquis and Claire followed suit.

"Don't take too long about it," Marquis advised him cordially. "The offer won't last forever."

Kaiser nodded. "I understand. Thank you; it's been an interesting meeting."

"Likewise." Marquis shook his hand politely. "Do give my best to Krieg."

In the meantime, Purity was speaking with Claire. "Can you really cure addictions?"

"Sure. It's easier than cancer."

It wasn't easy to tell, but the glowing woman's eyes may have widened. Her tone was certainly startled. "You can cure cancer?"

Claire gave her a smile. "Go check with the oncology ward at Brockton Bay General. Tell 'em I sent you." She extracted a card from the small handbag that hung from her wrist. "My card."

Purity examined it, then put it away. "Thank you."

"No problems. See you around."

"I look forward to it."

Claire watched as Purity and Kaiser walked out; Marquis came to stand beside her.

"Well," she declared cheerfully, "I think that went well." He gave her a distinctly appraising stare. "What?"

"How much of that was you affecting his brain?" His tone was not quite censorious, but sounded as though it could turn that way in a moment.

"Some, but not all that much," she admitted. "When he was asking if I could affect brain chemistry. Also, I was keeping him off balance so that he couldn't concentrate fully on everything you were saying. And I may have tweaked him just a little so that he's more accepting of your no-drugs policy."

"Marchioness, my dear," he replied, his voice mildly reproving, "that was neutral ground."

"And he came to the table determined not to give you any kind of concession," she pointed out. "He was just after information on you. On us." She shrugged. "And besides. It's Kaiser. He's a douche. Trust me, I saw it in his mind."

As they exited the restaurant, he cleared his throat. "A young lady does not use language like that."

"Sorry." She looked up at him. "But I couldn't think of anything else strong enough for him."

"Hmm." He rubbed his chin. "Next time? Clear anything like that with me first."

"Sure thing." She slid her arm through his. "Where to now?"

"Now?" He smiled slightly. "Are you up for a visit to the Merchants?"

Her answering smile was razor-edged. "I thought you'd never ask."


End of Part Six

Part Seven

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Seven: The Shape of Things to Come


The car pulled up alongside them; Claire's father handed her into it, waited for her to scoot across, and then climbed in himself.

"Where to, sir?" asked Jonas.

Marquis seemed to consider for a moment. "Do you know where Archer's Bridge is?"

Jonas nodded. "Yes, sir. It's the middle of Merchants territory."

"I know. Take us to within a block of the Bridge."

"Certainly, sir." The car moved off smoothly.

Marquis sat back, relaxing. His heart rate was slightly elevated; she could even tell that he was happy, almost excited. Claire tried to relax herself; after a few moments, she worked out that she could, but it required a light touch. Her heart rate steadied, and she felt a little less nervous.

"Claire, you mentioned that Kaiser was not a nice man," Marquis commented.

She coloured slightly. "I said he was a douche."

"And I said that such was not appropriate language for a young lady," he retorted. "All the same; what led you to that no doubt rather accurate summation of his character?"

She paused, trying to think of what to say first. "Purity is in love with him, but he doesn't love her," she blurted.

"Hardly a crime," he murmured. "Are they in a physical relationship, do you know?"

She coloured again, heavily. "Dad! I didn't check."

"Sorry, sorry." He seemed genuinely penitent. "But it would be more reprehensible if he was, and still had no feelings for her."

"He … maybe," she admitted. "It was pretty strong on her part, I think."

"Anything else you can tell me about him?"

"He doesn't think much of me," she told him. "I don't know whether it's because I'm a child, or because I'm a girl, or both."

"Hm." He seemed pleased, instead of angry for her sake. "That's good."

"Excuse me?" She stared at him. "He wanted to get information out of you, and he decided more or less to my face that I wasn't worth showing respect to."

"And would you rather that he considered you powerful and dangerous, and decided to do something about it?"

Claire paused, thinking about that. "He's got a strong personality. Very controlling. I think … I would not like to be on his bad side."

"Then don't get caught doing anything he doesn't like," he advised her blandly. "Such as delving through his mind."

"Oh, trust me, I've got no intention of that." Her reassurance was heartfelt.

"Doing it, or getting caught doing it?" his voice was amused.

She let her smile become a grin. He knows me so well. "Getting caught, of course."

His smile answered her grin. "That's my girl." He tilted his head. "Speaking of Purity, is there anything I should know about her?"

"Actually, yes," Claire noted. "She basically agreed with your stance on drugs, though she couldn't really say so, not with Kaiser there."

"Interesting," he murmured. "So she's more in line with our aims than he is?"

"To a point," she agreed. "He was all about getting the advantage without giving anything up, whereas she was more interested in us. When he was saying nice things, he was just saying it. She actually meant it, most of the time. I liked her."

"Is there anything there we can use?"

She frowned. "I think I can keep in touch with her, and she probably won't mess me around. But I doubt you'd be able to buy her off. I think he'd have to let her down her pretty badly to make her leave his side. And she wouldn't turn on him without a really good reason."

"Well, that's a start," he observed. "Does she share his prejudices?"

"That's the funny thing," she mused. "He doesn't really have strong prejudices, that I can see. Except for one. He's all about the bottom line. You know how most people think they're the centre of the universe? Well, he's absolutely certain of it."

"Hmm. That sounds about right," he mused. "He probably puts on the racist rhetoric to keep the rank and file happy. And Purity?"

"No really strong convictions that I could see," she admitted. "If she's got anything along that line, it's habit, probably picked up from him. Nothing that she'd go out of her way for."

"To be honest, most people have some level of prejudice or racist attitude," he told her seriously. "It's almost impossible to not pick something like that up at some point in the upbringing. The trick is to realise it and to not let it colour your dealings with people. Ignore it long enough, and it does go away."

Jonas cleared his throat from the front seat. "Your father is right, chick. I'm from South Africa; I should know."

"Yeah, I've been reading up on that," she replied. "Apartheid sounds horrible."

"It is," he replied without hesitation. "Except that when you grow up inside it, it makes sense. Fish in water, see? Until you get outside of it, and look back, then look at the rest of the world. Then you see that you've been swimming in sewage."

"So you used to think like that?" she asked cautiously.

"Some, yeah," he replied. "Pretty hard not to. But I keep a rein on it."

"It's the people who can't not think that way that you have to watch out for," Marquis advised her. "Fanatics of all kinds are extremely dangerous. They'll ignore what's smart and safe to advance their agenda."

"So how do you deal with people like that, Dad?"

"Three ways," he posited. "First way; avoid them. Because they will totally bypass whatever agreement has been made if it violates their personal hot button, and you will find yourself on the back foot. Second way; work with them, but keep their agenda in mind at all times. That's if it's something you can live with."

"And the third way?" she asked, fascinated.

"If you can't avoid them, and you can't work with their agenda … then you dispose of them, cleanly and quietly, and move on." His tone was matter-of-fact; he may have been discussing the best way to boil an egg.

"Just kill them? Just like that?" She didn't feel repulsed at the thought, which mildly surprised her. Her father's words, rather, rang true in her mind. She had been in a situation where people wanted to kill her and Abigail, had killed Damien, and she couldn't avoid it and couldn't work with it. So she'd killed them instead. She'd done what she had to do, and Abigail was alive because of it, and so was she.

"Just like that." Marquis read her tone correctly. "Just remember one thing; if you're going to kill someone, do it quickly and cleanly and don't linger over it. If you're going to cause pain to send a message, cause pain. If you're going to kill, kill. Never mix the two."

She nodded. "You know, there's a fourth way."

"Well, for you there is," he agreed. "Most people can't change the minds of fanatics. It's more or less what makes them fanatics. I'll be interested in seeing what improvements you can bring to my organisation with your powers."

"Actually, talking about that. Jonas, there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"And what's that, chick?" responded the driver.

"I'm pretty sure that I can do more than heal people and alter their appearance. I can change them. Improve them. Faster reflexes, increased strength, better eyesight, tougher skin. Would you be interested?"

There was a long moment of silence; when Jonas spoke, his voice was careful and measured. "You're saying that you can make me better than I am now?"

She nodded. "That's exactly what I'm saying, Jonas."

Marquis cleared his throat. "Just before we get any more into this, Claire, are there side-effects or after-effects that we'll need to know about?"

"No, Dad." She paused for a moment, putting her thoughts in order. "This isn't some science fiction morality tale, or a comic book where every improvement comes with a drastic disadvantage, or there's some sort of trade-off that needs to be made. You'll probably have to eat a little more and exercise a little more to keep at your new level of capability, but nothing more than that. You won't go insane and your body won't just spontaneously quit on you, or develop some exotic disease."

"Hmm." Marquis looked intrigued. "You're certain about this."

"As certain as I can be." Claire shrugged. "And if side-effects start happening, I can reverse the changes. Anything I can do, I can undo."

"Well, then. Jonas?"

Jonas' voice was still careful. "Sir, miss Marchant … I'll need to think about this, but yes, I'm definitely interested."

"Oh, for god's sake, Jonas, call me 'chick'," Claire told him with a chuckle. "You've only been doing it for the last five years."

"It's not respectful, miss," Jonas replied reproachfully. "Not any more. Not for who you are now."

"Respect is for when people can see us," Claire told him firmly. "I consider you to be my friend, and when we're in private, I want you to keep calling me 'chick'. In public, you can be as respectful as you need to be."

Jonas hesitated. "Sir?"

Marquis smiled slightly. "Do as she says, Jonas."

"Thank you, sir. Well then, chick, I'll be willing to try out your improvements once we're safely home."

Claire leaned back in her seat. "Cool."

<><>​

PRT Building

Deputy Director Renick's intercom buzzed; he pressed the button. "Yes?"

"The Brockton Bay Brigade is here to see you, sir."

"Good. Send them in."

He stood as the door opened, and no less than eight parahumans trooped into his office. The last one through, Lady Photon, closed the door behind her. They arranged themselves before his desk, with the youngest and most petite members – the two active children and Fleur – at the front, and Manpower looming at the back.

"Good evening," he greeted them. "Thank you for coming over so promptly."

"You intimated that it was rather important," Lady Photon pointed out. "So we came as quickly as we could."

"I still appreciate it," he noted, then turned his attention to the younger members of the group. "Laserdream, how are you doing?"

"I'm doing good, Mr Renick," the older girl told him cheerfully. "Miss Militia graduated me a while ago, so I'm patrolling with the Brigade now."

"We're very proud of her," Lady Photon added. "She really knows her business."

"That's very good to hear," Renick told her sincerely. "And Mega Girl, how about you?"

"I'm still learning," the younger girl ventured. "But Armsmaster says that I'm getting better all the time."

"Good," Renick told her. "I'm in the loop to see his reports on you, and I have to say, I'm very pleased with your progress."

As she flushed pink from the praise, he sat down. "I won't keep you long. I just wanted to make sure that you all knew a certain piece of information. Marquis is back in Brockton Bay."

Brandish and Flashbang didn't react, while Mega Girl merely nodded. However, the other five members of the team showed varying levels of surprise.

"Marquis?" asked Lady Photon. "Are you sure?"

"Within a ninety to ninety-five percent certainty, yes," Renick told her. "We have several unconfirmed sightings, as well as an encounter between Armsmaster, Mega Girl and a girl claiming to be his daughter."

Laserdream turned to stare at her cousin. "Vicky? I mean, Mega Girl? You met Marquis' daughter and you never told me?"

Mega Girl shrugged uncomfortably. "I told Mom and Dad, and Mom told me to keep it quiet."

Lady Photon turned to Brandish. "You didn't tell me?"

Brandish avoided her eyes. "I didn't know how to take it. It might have been a hoax."

"I wanted to tell you guys," Flashbang told them. "And I'm pretty sure he's back. Vicky told us that the girl, Marchioness, made a reference to a table. The same table that Carol destroyed when she was searching his house."

"The fuck?" blurted Lightstar. "This is the guy who owned us, repeatedly, and finally disappeared to Boston when we found out who he was? And now he's back, with his daughter, and you guys were gonna keep it from us?"

"Look, once we were sure, I was going to call a team meeting -" began Brandish desperately.

"We had a right to know!" That was Manpower; his voice rattled the windows.

Renick was tempted to let this go on, but his time was limited. As entertaining as it was, there was a certain point to this meeting. So, reluctantly, he cleared his throat.

They each turned to look at him. "If we've quite finished shouting at one another … " he murmured.

Lady Photon was the first to get the hint. "Uh, yes, sir?" she asked.

"I called you here not just to drop that little bombshell," he informed them, "but to ask you a very important question. Specifically, what are your intentions now that you know?"

Silence fell as everyone considered that very important question.

Some didn't consider it for very long; Brandish took no longer than the time required for a deep breath to begin talking. "He's still a wanted criminal. We'll find him, we'll take him down, and we'll turn him over to the authorities."

"You've got to be kidding!" Lightstar was shaking his head. "The motherf- I mean, the bastard's too slippery. He's too damn good. We've never been able to beat him."

"We've got the kids now," Manpower suggested. "Eight to one odds."

"Seven to one," Fleur stated quietly. Everyone looked at her.

"What?" Brandish frowned. "We need you. You can't sit this one out."

Fleur put her hand to her stomach. "I'm pregnant. I can't risk the life of the baby, so I'm stepping down as of next week."

Renick blinked. "Congratulations. Boy or girl?"

She smiled shyly. "We haven't found out yet. I think we might keep it as a surprise."

"Wait, when were you going to tell us about this?" asked Lady Photon, her tone a good deal softer than when she had asked Brandish almost exactly the same question.

"We only found out the other day," Lightstar explained. "She's only about a month in."

"This is awesome," Laserdream enthused, hugging Fleur; Mega Girl joined in, carefully.

Brandish cleared her throat; everyone looked her way. "We can have the baby shower later," she suggested. "For now, we're talking about Marquis. With Fleur stepping out of the picture, we still have seven to one odds. That's better than we've had before."

"Seven to two, remember," Flashbang noted. "He has his daughter."

"What does she do?" asked Lady Photon.

"She's some sort of healer," Mega Girl supplied. "I watched her heal this villain who was all busted up. Inside of two minutes, she was totally healthy. She was also a drug addict, and Marchioness fixed that too. Like you might tie your shoes."

"A healer, huh?" asked Laserdream. "Wonder how good she is?"

"From observed evidence, she is perhaps the most versatile healer we have ever seen, short of Scion and Eidolon," Renick revealed. "According to Armsmaster, and his account is backed up by the staff of the Brockton Bay General Hospital, she can use her powers to heal multiple people, simultaneously, so long as they are within a few feet of her. Even quite grievous injuries were repaired, without even leaving a scar, within a minute or two."

"Wait, wait, this is Marquis' daughter," Brandish stated. "What was she even doing in the hospital?"

"Healing people," Renick explained patiently. "While apparently relaxing on a recliner, I believe, Mega Girl?"

Mega Girl nodded. "Yeah, the doctor told Armsmaster that she'd basically emptied the oncology ward and the intensive care ward. All by herself. While kicking back in a recliner, watching the cartoon channel, and drinking soda pop."

Manpower chuckled. "Well, I gotta say, kid's got game."

The teen hero nodded. "Yeah. And she was eating gummy bears too. She was pretty cool. She seemed to understand what it was like for me." A shrug. "She was nice. Could've been a bitch to me, but she wasn't. Gave me a pep talk about the whole superhero thing, right when I needed it."

"I don't understand," Lightstar stated. "What was she doing there, healing people, if her father's a villain?"

Renick smiled dryly. "Well, apparently, she intends to return, and to work out a price schedule, once it's been determined exactly how efficacious her powers are. In short, she will be charging for healing. Incurable diseases, amputations, potentially fatal injuries … apparently she can fix them all, within minutes. She will be able to charge more or less whatever she likes."

Brandish frowned. "That sounds … wrong."

"Why?" Renick gazed at her mildly. "I'm paid by the PRT for showing up every day and sitting at this desk. Why can't she get paid to show up and heal people? I assure you, people will pay."

"It still feels wrong," she muttered stubbornly. "In any case, it's a moot point. If she's going to assist her father in his criminal activity -"

"You will stay away from her." Renick's voice was flat. "Moreover, if she is with Marquis, you will stay away from him as well. Do I make myself clear?"

Eight pairs of eyes turned to stare at the Deputy Director. Eight minds worked to make sense of his statement. Such was the level of silence that a fly buzzing idly in the corner was clearly audible.

Lady Photon was the first to speak. " … all right, I'll bite. I understand what you are saying, but not why."

"It's very simple," he explained. "Marchioness has indicated to Armsmaster that she will be attending Endbringer battles, free of charge."

<><>​

And that put the seal on it, as far as he was concerned. Endbringer battles were the ultimate test of fire for a cape. Nobody blamed anyone who opted out, but to attend even one meant instant respect. In the very best case, any such battle held a one in four chance of dying or being crippled beyond assistance, which meant that each subsequent battle merely increased the overall odds of suffering death or permanent disability, by one means or another.

The death toll for any Endbringer battle was horrendous; hundreds showed up, and inevitably dozens were killed. Some died instantly – Behemoth, the Herokiller, was good at that – but some were wounded so terribly that no hospital, no doctor, could patch them together again. And yet others were left injured, maimed, crippled; still alive, but incapable of fighting. The official casualty list only included the dead, but there were always those who had survived, but would never again live a normal life.

Marchioness, if her power was anywhere near as effective as events suggested, would be a tremendous force multiplier for such a battle; bring a crippled or dying cape from the battlefield, have her heal him, and send him back hale and hearty. The mere knowledge that a powerful healer was on call for the battle would boost attendance considerably. Those shameful days when crippled capes would sue rescue personnel in an attempt to recoup the loss of their earning capability would be gone forever; if they lived, she could heal them.

And in the meantime, of course, her ploy was both obvious and unbeatable. If Marchioness' powers were as good as claimed, and she was offering to attend Endbringer battles, then she was effectively untouchable, and every law enforcement agency from the PRT on down knew it. They simply could not afford to antagonise her.

<><>​

Empire Eighty-Eight Base

"Traction."

Sherrel jumped up from the work table and turned around as Kaiser strode into the room, followed by a glowing woman. "Kaiser," she replied. "Uh, hi?"

"I spoke to Marchioness on your behalf," he told her as he stepped past her to look down at her work. "She confirmed that she used her power to make you allergic to oxycontin. You will continue to throw up each time you take some."

Her expression twisted. "God fucking dammit. That bitch!"

"Surely it's not all that bad," the woman pointed out. "You were spending money on drugs that you could have been spending on other stuff. Now you don't have to."

"Except that I was gonna be getting it for free here," Sherrel retorted. "Now it's no fucking good to me."

Kaiser cleared his throat. "Traction, Purity is my second in command. You will treat her with all due respect." The tone of his voice made it clear that the phrase 'or else' would be entirely superfluous.

Sherrel swallowed hard. She'd heard of Purity, but hadn't yet connected that name to Kaiser's glowing companion. By all accounts, Purity was even more dangerous than Kaiser; with flight and high-end blaster powers, she could evade most ground-bound foes, and rain death on them from above. As a Tinker without any Tinker tech as yet, Sherrel was just another squishy human to the Empire Eighty-Eight second in command.

"Oh, uh, sorry," she managed. "I was just … a bit … unhappy."

"I understand that," Purity stated. "I just don't understand why. You're no longer an addict. Doesn't this make your life easier?"

Sherrel took a deep breath. "Purity. Uh, ma'am. Have you ever taken drugs? The hard stuff, I mean. Oxy, coke, E. Stuff like that."

Purity shook her head. "I smoked a bit of weed in college, and I have a drink every now and again, but none of the other stuff, no. Why?"

"Because unless you have, you don't know what it's like, uh, ma'am. I don't have the cravings and the withdrawal, but I can remember how great it feels to take a hit and just have your brain melt all over the place. And I want to feel that again."

"Right." Purity glanced at Kaiser, then back at Sherrel. "Well, I can't help you with that. Maybe you'll be better off just … moving along? Putting it behind you?"

Sherrel bit off her sharp reply. She can blast me into a greasy spot, and she's my boss besides. "I, uh … yeah, maybe. I can try."

"Good." Purity's voice was warm; Sherrel thought she might have smiled, but the radiance was too bright to be certain. "Well, I have things to do, so I'll leave you two to chat." She walked from the room.

The sound of the door closing died away; Kaiser said nothing, just observing Sherrel. She looked back at him, not knowing what to say, not wanting to say the wrong thing. His face was covered, giving her no clues. Do I go back to work? Do I apologise for dissing Purity earlier? Do I pretend it never happened?

"Ms Bailey." Kaiser's voice nearly made her jump; it took her a moment to realise that he had just spoken her name. Ah shit, he knows that too.

"Uh … yes?"

"You will not be punished, this time, for your disrespect to Purity. Next time, however, will be a different matter."

She swallowed. "Uh, right. No disrespecting. None whatsoever."

"Good." Even the way he pronounced the word was just plain ominous. "Now, I've had ideas about your costume and your name."

Sherrel struggled to keep up with the topic change. "My name? I've got a name. And I don't really do costumes."

"Your name, as … adequate … as it is," he responded, "is unfortunately … generic. Also, you were arrested under that name. We need to distance you from that, and to give you a name that tells people that you are a proud member of the Empire Eighty-Eight. And as for that, if you are a member, then you stand with the rest of us. You will be seen with us. Therefore, you will need a costume that fits the name."

"Uh, if Traction doesn't suit you," Sherrel ventured, trying to keep some control of the conversation, "I've always liked the name Big Rig. You know, big vehicles and everything?"

He shook his head briefly. "That name's already in use."

"Well, do I really need a costume? I'll be in the vehicle, right? Nobody needs to see me."

"Everybody needs to see you," he told her flatly. "They need to see that the Empire has a Tinker."

She decided to put the ball back into his court. "Well, if I can't be Traction, and if Big Rig is already taken, what sort of a name can I use to show that I do big, heavy vehicles?"

"I'm glad you asked." Crap, she realised. He already had one picked out. "There's one that exemplifies your specialty while also recalling the spiritual heritage of the Empire Eighty-Eight." His hand fell on her shoulder, as if bestowing a knighthood. "Your name will be Panzer."

<><>​

PRT Building

The expressions on the faces before him made it clear that they were just as aware of the nuances of the situation. Endbringer battles were a fact of life, had been so for the last fifteen years and change. Hundreds of capes, perhaps thousands, died every year fighting against the monstrous Behemoth, the whip-fast Leviathan, the terrifying Simurgh. And that was a drop in the bucket compared to the civilian casualties. Any advantage or ploy, however small, that would tilt the odds would be eagerly seized upon.

"Okay, understood," Manpower grunted. "We leave her alone. But what about him? What about Marquis?"

"If she is with him, then you stand down," Renick reiterated. "We can in no way risk any sort of collateral damage harming her. None whatsoever."

"And what if he's committing a crime?" demanded Brandish, her voice harsh. "What then?"

Renick stood up. "Let me make my position abundantly clear," he stated flatly. "If they are in the process of walking out of the Brockton Bay Central Bank, carrying bags of stolen cash, then you are to open the doors for them and wish them a good day. Is that perfectly understood?"

Brandish's fists clenched tightly, and her eyes shut tightly; she seemed to be murmuring under her breath. Renick watched her closely; ever so slowly, her fists unclenched, her tension relaxed. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, then took another one.

"Okay," she told him. "Okay. I understand. Marquis is hands off, so long as Marchioness is on the scene."

"Exactly," he agreed. "To be honest, I don't know what will happen if he is taken into custody when she's not there. But then, that's never actually happened before, so it'll be a new experience for everyone." He realised too late exactly what it was that he had just said, and hoped that nobody took it as a direct reference to all their defeats at the villain's hands.

"What if she demands that he be released?" asked Lady Photon.

"If her powers are as good as we think, that might just happen," Renick allowed. "Of course, they might not be, in which case the hands-off order would be rescinded, just as soon as we found out that she was faking it. Or she may choose to let the law decide his fate. But I'm giving you the heads-up, just so that you know what's happening."

"Translation," Manpower supplied, "you were warning us in case we ran into Marquis and decided to go in, all guns blazing."

Renick smiled dryly. "Well, that too, yes."

"Was there anything else?" asked Flashbang.

"Not as such, no," Renick told him.

"Well, thanks for the heads-up," Manpower commented. "Not that we could ever take Marquis before, but at least now we've got a reason not to look stupid for trying, yet again."

Brandish faced Renick. "I'm presuming that this state of affairs is not exactly public." It wasn't a question.

"You presume correctly," he agreed, holding her gaze steadily. "Do you intend to make it public?"

"And put my neck on the chopping block for the PRT?" Slowly, she shook her head. "Marquis is going to go down someday, and I intend to be there. So I'll play nice, for the time being."

He inclined his head. "Thank you."

"I'm not doing it for you." Turning, she led the way out of the office.

One by one, the others left, until Lady Photon was the last one there. She looked at Renick. "Thanks for letting us know."

He shrugged slightly. "Flashbang and Brandish no doubt knew about Marquis' return; I didn't know if they'd told you. In any case, you needed to be briefed in on the rest of it, so … two birds, one stone."

"Makes sense." She paused, glancing out the open door. "She really is doing much better in therapy. It's just that Marquis pushes so many of her buttons just by existing, you know?"

"I know, I know," he agreed. "Just do us both a favour and make sure that she doesn't do something we'll all regret. All right?"

She sighed. "I'll do my best."

<><>​

Archer's Bridge

There were two bus stations, one on either side of the main road. A bridge crossed the road between them. Graffiti adorned every surface, the most common item being the green 'M' with the two vertical lines through it. Claire assumed that the lines were from the dollar sign, crossed with the M for Merchants.

"What did you use for a marker?" she asked her father as they stepped on to the bridge. "When you held territory here, I mean?"

"I didn't," he replied. "People knew. And if they didn't, they found out."

"Oh."

He raised his arm, pointing. "Do you see that building there? The one that looks vaguely like a lighthouse?"

"Yeah, I see it." She shaded her eyes, looking. "What is it?"

"It used to be a gift shop, back when I ran this area." He waved an arm. "This was all thriving. People lived here, worked here. Tourists came through. It was well kept up. And then I had to leave. I'm not sure who took over this particular area – I think it may have been the Teeth – but you can see how the life's gone from this part of the city. And the Merchants have not helped."

They crossed the bridge, then turned down toward the old gift shop. As they did so, a couple of gang members stepped from a shop front doorway; they wore Merchants colours. Claire noted a couple more, moving in from behind.

One of the pair in front was swaying badly – she could sense a large dose of opiates in his system – but the other held a switchblade, as yet unopened, loosely in his hand. Marquis did not react to the ones behind; she could tell from his mental processes that he was aware of them, but that he was leaving them to her.

"You will allow us to pass, now," he stated to the two in front.

"Picked the wrong place to be, old man." The Merchant thug's voice was slurred and his pupils were pinpoints. "You want to get past, you give us your wallet an' watch."

"No. You will step aside. Now."

"Wrong answer, dickface. Grab the girl." The gang member stepped in, a snick signalling the switchblade snapping into place.

Claire decided that she didn't like these people at all. As the two behind stepped in, they crossed an invisible barrier, and her power went to work on them. They crumpled to the ground, solidly unconscious.

Marquis was a little less gentle; a bone spear shot from his hand, skewering the hand that held the switchblade; before the thug had a chance to even scream, bone bands encircled his arms and legs, holding him in place. Another wrapped around his mouth, stifling any outcry he might have made. His stoned friend blinked in astonishment, equally entrapped within bone manacles.

They waited for a few moments, but no more outcry arose. "Good," Marquis decided. "Knock these two out as well, and we can be on our way."

"Okay. Just give me a second." Claire reached toward the one whom Marquis had disarmed, and stopped the bleeding in his hand without fixing any of the actual damage; then she put them both into dreamland as well. She spent another moment concentrating on them, then nodded to him. "Okay, we can go."

"What did you do?" he asked as they moved on.

"What I did to the woman in the hospital," she told him. "Got the drugs out of their systems, removed the addiction, and made them allergic to the drugs. If they try to use again in the next week, their bodies will violently reject it."

Grimly, he smiled. "I like it. Is it hard to do?"

"It was a little time-consuming the first time around, but I'm getting the hang of it now," she admitted. "The hardest part was setting up the allergic reaction so that it would be unpleasant but not immediately harmful."

"You're more tender-hearted than I am, my dear Marchioness," he noted. "Sometimes people need to suffer in order to learn."

She thought back to the man whose skin she had removed before killing him; she had wanted that man to suffer before dying for his part in the ambush, for his part in killing Damien and almost killing Abigail. "I don't know about that. I'm just trying to find my balance in all of this."

He smiled down at her. "You'll find it. I have faith in you."

Finding his hand, she clasped it. "Thanks, Dad."

As they entered the gift shop proper, she was aware of more Merchants. Some were sitting around in their own private drug-addled universes, but others were much more alert. However, she was into their nervous systems before they became properly aware that something was wrong; tongues tangled before they could call out warnings, fingers fumbled on weapons, and then she was close enough to put them straight into dreamland.

Marquis looked around at the slumped bodies, some snoring, and shook his head slowly. "I would not have believed it if I did not know you, my dear girl," he murmured. "I know of capes who could clear a room faster, but your finesse is amazing."

"Thanks," she told him, flushing slightly; the praise made her feel warm all over. "Should I fix their addictions now or later?"

"Later," he decided. "We still have the capes to deal with."

"Got it." Rejoining him, she followed him up the stairs.

<><>​

"We gotta get our shit together."

Adam Mustain strode across the floor and back again, stopping to look at the stained map laid out on the table. He leaned in and tapped the red marks which indicated ABB incursion into the territory which the Merchants had claimed for themselves. "We gotta push 'em back."

"But we can't." The whining noise came from Mush; while the wizened little man looked about a hundred and three, Skidmark knew for a fact that he was only nineteen. "We go and take it back, leave some guys there, and Lung kills 'em. And I don't wanna fight Lung."

Skidmark would dearly have loved to revile Mush for being a coward, but the truth was that he didn't want to fight Lung either; the leader of the ABB was altogether too good at what he did. He was also too damn good at folding Asian gangs into his own, so the membership of the Azn Bad Boyz was climbing all the time.

Adam turned to look at Whirlygig, who was seated on one of the few intact chairs, leaned up against the wall so that she could look out the window. The fall of her hair concealed her face from him, and he wondered if she was merely asleep. Her name irked him; he felt he had a talent for picking cape names, and she had refused to change hers. 'Whirlygig' did nothing for him, while 'Shitstorm' sounded so much better.

"So what do you think, sugar cakes?" he asked, more for something to say than out of any idea that she would be able to help.

She turned to look at him. "I think we should pull back."

"Pigshit!" he retorted. "Merchants don't pull back."

"The Merchants," a new voice interrupted, "will be doing a great deal more than 'pulling back', I'm afraid."

Skidmark turned fast; a newcomer wearing tuxedo and tie stood at the top of the stairs, with a girl in evening dress beside him. "Who the -"

"I am Marquis, and this is Marchioness," the man stated. "I am here to tell you what is going to happen."

Marquis. Skidmark knew that name. The man had held his own against the Empire Eighty-Eight, against Galvanate, and against the Teeth. And now he was back in Brockton Bay. He was right here, right now.

"Up yours, turdburger!" he yelled, slapping a slide-field on the top of the stairs; that would send them toppling uncontrollably down the steps.

But they didn't move; or rather, Marquis didn't move, while the girl, whatever her name was, only lurched a little, before Marquis steadied her.

"What the dingleberry?" He strengthened the field; by now, Marquis should be shooting down the stairs at about the speed of sound. But he was just … standing there. Mush and Whirlygig were also on their feet now, staring. Mush's skin was doing that branching thing, gathering random garbage to him.

Marquis lifted his foot and stepped forward; Skidmark thought he saw bone spikes protruding into the floor, holding him firm. No fair! And then he lifted his arm; another bone spike speared outward, divided in two, and passed either side of Mush's neck. The wizened little man was thrown backward and nailed to the wall, where he hung limply, big eyes staring blankly with terror.

Another step, and another, and Marquis was beyond the slide-field; the girl, supported by his arm under her shoulders, was deposited on the floor. He gazed coldly at Skidmark. "To quote one of my favourite authors, 'I permitted that, as a demonstration of futility'. You will not get another chance."

Desperately, Adam tried to lift his hands, tried to cover the floor with slide-fields; if he could make the table skid into Marquis, throw the furniture at him, anything, he might be able to get away. But his arms hung limply at his side, only twitching slightly when he tried to move them.

The girl stepped forward, her cold eyes boring into him. "I don't like you," she stated flatly. "My father told me what you do, how you get people addicted to your drugs so that you can sell more and more of them. I don't like you at all."

From the corner of his eye, Skidmark saw Whirlygig finally activate her powers. Trash began to spin around her, faster and faster …

… until another bone spike shot out, and she found herself encased from neck to toe, her arms immobilised. The girl in front of Adam did not seem to have even noticed. "Why do you do it?" she asked. "How can you hurt people for your own gain?" She paused. "Oh. You don't even understand the question. I suppose that answers that."

Marquis stepped up alongside her. "Marchioness, my dear, what do you propose to do with him?"

Skidmark felt her studying him; those dark eyes, so damn creepy, as if they could peel back his skull and read his very thoughts. She pursed her lips. "Original plan, I think."

"As you will."

"Thank you, father." She paused, and when she spoke next, Skidmark felt her words searing themselves in his very soul. "You will leave Brockton Bay. You will never return. You will never deal drugs again. You will never speak of what happened here, today, to anyone."

Something changed inside his body, inside his brain, as she spoke. And then he felt himself collapsing to his knees, exhaustion sapping his will to move, to even speak. She stepped away from him, going over to Mush. The same words were repeated; this time he didn't feel the terrible compulsion, but he supposed that they weren't aimed at him. Despite all his efforts, the exhaustion claimed him, and he slid to the floor.

<><>​

They exited the derelict gift shop and moved off down the pavement, side by side. "So they'll do it?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "Once they wake up, they'll have the overwhelming need to just leave the city. They're no longer addicts; I gave them all the same treatment that I gave Traction. They won't be able to tell anyone what happened, or even who did this to them."

"With Skidmark and his lieutenants gone, the Merchants will fall apart," he decided. "Kaiser and I will be able to make our move within a couple of weeks. In the meantime, I'll be recruiting. I hope I can call upon you for loyalty checks? Normally, I would take more time, but we're working against the clock, here."

"Sure thing, Dad," she agreed. "Because you and I both know that everyone and his dog is gonna try to slip spies or saboteurs into your organisation."

"Of course," he confirmed. "My one concern will be what I do with them. Reject them or disappear them? Either way sends a message."

"Do neither one," she suggested. "Keep them on, and let them think they're trusted." She shrugged. "Or, you know, I could …"

"I would far rather keep that particular aspect of your powers under wraps for just as long as possible, my dear," he advised her.

"Okay, Dad." She looked up at him. "But did you like the idea of letting them in, and letting them think they're trusted?"

"I do." He smiled. "That could be quite useful."

"Sweet." She grinned in reply. "This is gonna be fun."


End of Part Seven

Part Eight

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Eight: Many Happy Returns


Monday, September 3, 2007

"Happy birthday, Miss Claire."

"Thank you, Jonas." Because they had company, Claire didn't hug her burly bodyguard, but she did favour him with a smile as she accepted the present. "What did you get me?"

He smiled avuncularly at her. "That would be telling. Why don't you open it and see?"

"Yeah, c'mon Claire," Lindsey urged her. "Open it up."

"Don't rush me, don't rush me," Claire told her friend. Carefully, she began to separate the paper from the tape holding it in place. "Have I thanked you for coming? If I haven't, thanks for coming."

"Hey, it's no big," Roger said. "Your dad chartered a bus to get us and our folks here, just so you'd have someone you know here for your birthday."

Lindsey looked around the decorated living room, over to where her parents were chatting with Claire's father. "That's some kinda awesome, right there. But it's also kinda sad that you haven't made any more friends since you got here."

Claire shrugged a little as the paper came off. "Haven't had much chance to mix with kids of my own age, you know? I start school tomorrow and then we'll see. But for now, I'm just glad you guys are here." She held up the revealed gift, which appeared to be a folded bundle of cloth.

Roger squinted at it. "Okay, I give. What is it?"

Claire shook it out. "Oh. Oh wow. It's a new gi."

"Oh, one of those martial arts things?" Lindsey stared at her. "Wow, you do martial arts?"

"Not seriously," Claire assured her. "But Dad wants me to be able to defend myself, so he's got Jonas teaching me." Though I wish Damien and Abigail were here to do it instead.

"So how come you never talk about it?" asked Roger. "If I could kick ass with martial arts, I'd want everyone to know."

Claire snorted. "And then they know you do martial arts. Rule number one with going into a fight. Never let the other guy know what you've got up your sleeve. If you've got a weapon, wave that at them then kick them in the kneecap and run like hell."

"So no flying jump kicks?" Roger sounded obscurely disappointed.

"Hah, no." Claire grinned at him. "If you're in a fight, you don't want to fall over. Jumping in the air, or even kicking at anything above the knee, is a great way to fall over. I told you. I'm just in it for self defence."

"So what happens if you run into someone who knows martial arts too?" asked Roger. "Or has a knife, or a gun?"

I turn off his voluntary nervous system and see how he likes flopping around like a fish. "I try to surprise him with something that'll slow him down and then run like hell." She shrugged. "Sometimes, running away is the best defence. Especially if you drop your purse first."

"But then you've lost your purse," Lindsey pointed out.

"No," Claire corrected her, "you've lost a purse. Which is what muggers are generally after, anyway."

"Wow, this conversation's taken a turn for the dark," Roger said cheerfully. "Linds, you're forgetting Claire's best tactic."

Lindsey frowned. "And what's that?"

Roger pointed at an imaginary perpetrator and put on a dramatic tone of voice. "Sic 'em, Jonas!"

Lindsey giggled; Claire snorted with laughter. She shook her head. "If I ever said that … wow. No, I don't think I'll ever say that."

"Thank you, Miss Marchant," Jonas said imperturbably from right behind Roger; the boy jumped.

There was a brief silence, then Lindsey changed the subject. "So wow, this is a big house you've got. With a heated indoor pool, no less. I gotta say, I'm just a little bit jealous."

Claire shrugged. "Dad always says, if you've got the money, you may as well enjoy it. And Brockton Bay winters might not be that cold, but I bet they're too cold to really want to go swimming."

"I hear it can get pretty cold in Chicago, too," said Roger. "I wonder how Everett's getting along there?"

"Oh, probably just fine," Claire replied. "He always made friends easily. You can bet, whatever group he ends up in, he'll be the one calling the shots."

<><>​

"I'd like to thank you all once more for coming." Earl Marchant, better known as the supervillain Marquis, shook hands with the men, then gave each of the women a decorous peck on the cheek. "You and your children really made the party work for Claire."

"Hey, it's no problem, Earl." Lindsey's father, a heavy-set man, slapped him on the shoulder. "You've helped us out enough in the past. This wasn't anything at all. You've got a good kid there."

Earl looked over at where Claire was saying her own goodbyes. "Well, I try. You've done a good job with your daughter as well. If you ever decide to move to Brockton Bay, look me up. I'm reasonably certain I can find work for your construction company."

"What's this?" asked Roger's mother, who happened to be a corporate accountant. "Favour trading and kickbacks? I'm shocked, I tell you. Shocked." Her giggle betrayed the several glasses of champagne in which she had indulged.

The hand she laid on his arm could have also been attributed to the champagne; in point of fact, she had slept with Earl twice since Abigail's departure. Roger's father, Earl was certain, did not know of this indiscretion. Nor had Earl been overly disappointed when the move to Brockton Bay put an end to the affair; she had been dropping hints about leaving Roger for him, which he most certainly did not wish her to do.

"Not at all," he said airily. "I just like to work with people I know and trust."

"Well," agreed Lindsey's mother, "I can't argue with that."

<><>​

"I wish you didn't have to go." Claire hugged Lindsey tightly, then Roger as well.

"I wish we didn't either," Lindsey said. "But school starts tomorrow, and you know how the parental units are about that." The roll of her eyes and the dryness of her tone conveyed her opinion quite readily.

"So when are you going to visit next?" Claire looked from one to the other.

"Uh, when we can?" Roger shrugged. "Maybe I can talk Mom and Dad into letting me stay over for a weekend?"

Lindsey slugged him on the shoulder. "Not without me, dork."

"Ow. Hey. That hurt." Roger turned to Claire. "See what I have to put up with when you're not around?"

Claire grinned. "You do realise that means that, in teenage girl speak, she likes you?"

Roger rubbed his shoulder. "What?" He stared at Lindsey, who had turned an interesting shade of pink.

"Does not," she muttered.

"Oh, really?" murmured Claire. Grabbing Roger by the lapels, she pecked him on the lips before releasing him once more. Bending a challenging look at Lindsey, she raised an eyebrow. "Still not interested in him?"

Lindsey's face was a somewhat deeper pink now; she mumbled something incomprehensible. Claire dusted her hands in satisfaction and looked at Roger, who had also blushed very slightly and was staring at her like a stunned trout. "Well," she told the both of them, "it's about time someone sorted that out for the two of you."

Roger finally managed to get his jaw in working order. "You kissed me!"

"And see what Lindsey thought about that," Claire pointed out briskly. "You like her; she likes you. For God's sake, why don't you both just admit it? Then you can get on with the awkward teenage romance drama." She turned to the girl. "And Linds, I expect a full report on a weekly basis. If he backslides, let me know and I'll be on the next train to straighten him out."

Still just a little pink, Lindsey managed an awkward smile. "It's a deal." She offered her hand; they shook solemnly.

"Hey, wait," protested Roger. "Don't I get a say in this?"

Both Claire and Lindsey turned toward him. "Nope."

<><>​

As the bus rolled away down the driveway, Earl turned to Claire. "Sorry to see them go?"

Claire sighed. "You know it, Dad." She brightened. "But it was a great party. Thanks for getting them up here. That was a wonderful surprise."

"Talking about surprises," he murmured, "what was that about between you and young Roger? Am I going to need to be sitting down for a serious chat with the lad?" He seemed to be more disturbed by the incident than he was letting on; she wasn't sure why.

Chuckling, she shook her head. "Nope. I was just clearing the air between him and Lindsey. She likes him, but she didn't know what to do about it until I kissed him. After that, she was pretty certain."

He echoed her chuckle. "May I assume that you were cheating just a little with your powers?"

Her expression managed to convey the impression of utter innocence. "Maybe?"

"Well, all I can say," he said, "is that I'm glad that you didn't ensure that the boy would be besotted with you."

She lowered her eyes. "I do kinda like him a bit," she confessed, "and he likes me a bit. But he likes her more than he likes me and she likes him more than I do. And since I like her as a friend, that's why I did it that way."

He nodded. "There are certain ethics that must be adhered to in our line of business. Finding them is the trick."

"Yeah." She nodded. "I hope they'll be okay."

"I'm sure they will, chick," Jonas said from behind her. Unlike Roger, she didn't jump. "In the meantime, you've got your preparations for school tomorrow, so I'll start with clearing up."

"I'll give you a hand." She paused. "Talking about preparations, how's that new muscle configuration working out for you?"

"Benched nine hundred fifty this morning, chick," the burly bodyguard replied with a certain amount of satisfaction. "Between them and the new bones you gave me, I figure I could push half a ton with a bit more work."

"Just make sure you don't push yourself too hard," Earl cautioned him. "Claire's putting a lot of hard work into making you as good as you can be. We don't want you hurting yourself because you're being careless."

"Believe me, sir, I'm bein' careful," Jonas said. "Miss Claire already yelled at me when I detached my shoulder tendons that one time. I don't want to have to go through that again." He paused thoughtfully. "You know, sir, you ain't got the bulk I do, but Miss Claire could surely make you a whole lot stronger'n you look. Just sayin'."

"There is something in what you say," Earl conceded, "but I think I'll stick with the basic protective upgrades for the moment."

"Any time you want to push it farther, Dad, just say the word," Claire assured him.

"I'll keep it in mind," he replied urbanely; she knew that there was no more to be said on the matter.

<><>​

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

Claire huffed out an exasperated sigh. "Dad, you know I love you dearly, but you're being way over the top protective, you know?"

Her father turned an amused gaze toward her and raised his eyebrow. "My darling Claire, I do not wish to belabour the point, but your life has come under serious threat not once but twice in the past seven years. Three times if we count that Schmidt character from Gesellschaft."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. He wasn't any sort of threat. I had control of the situation the whole time."

"Be that as it may." His voice was level and reasonable, holding no hint of his true thoughts on the matter. "There was the incident with the Brigade that forced us to leave Brockton Bay and then the attempt on Abigail's life in Boston. Either time, you could have been badly hurt or even killed. I do not wish to even chance that again; after all, we're back in Brockton Bay now, where it all began."

"But I've got powers now, Dad," she pointed out, attempting to match her tone to his. "You saw how I dealt with that boy who held a knife to my neck. I'm not going to say I've got nothing to worry about -"

"Good," he interjected. "Because if you were so foolish as to say that, I would order Jonas to turn the car around and take you home again, school or no school."

"And you would too," she replied dryly. "But that aside, while I do have to worry about things, the fact is that I don't have to worry so much about them. For one thing, nobody is going to recognise us as Marquis and Marchioness. And for another, my powers are much more subtle than yours. I can use them to defend myself without drawing attention."

"Your points are entirely valid," he agreed readily enough. "However, do note that getting into the habit of depending solely upon your powers and not on your other skills and talents, however tempting, can lead to disaster. Especially if someone finds a way to circumvent them. Or to put it another way, Jonas and the others put a lot of effort into giving you the training that they did, and they wouldn't want to see it go to waste. Isn't that right, Jonas?"

"Never a truer word, Mr Marchant, sir," rumbled Jonas from the driver's seat of the car. "You listen to your father, chick. You're good – better'n any other I've seen at your age – but he still knows more'n you do right now."

Claire nodded earnestly. "Yeah, I know that. And trust me, I really do appreciate the time and effort you and the others have put into making sure that I'm not totally unprepared for whatever might happen."

"Just remember," Earl told her seriously. "No matter how much you might prepare, it's what you haven't prepared for that will trip you up. So always be ready to react to unusual circumstances."

She rolled her eyes again. "Dad. I'm just going to school."

"My point exactly."

<><>​

"Well, here we are."

Earl knew that he sounded heartily insincere as Jonas pulled the car to a halt outside the gates of the Northwest Middle School. He didn't much care; his doubts about allowing Claire to come to school at all were beginning to surface once more.

"Looks like it." Claire leaned across and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "See you this afternoon, Dad." She undid her seat belt and grabbed her bag; by this point, Jonas had rounded the car and opened her door for her. "Thanks, Jonas."

"My pleasure, Miss Claire." Apparently oblivious to the stares of passing children heading into the school, Jonas seemed to be enjoying playing the role of devoted manservant to the hilt.

"Just one moment, Claire. Jonas, wait with the car." Earl opened his door and climbed out. He walked around the trunk to where Claire awaited him.

"What's up, Dad?" She looked at him expectantly.

"I'm walking in with you, is what's up," he explained.

"No, no you're not," she retorted, keeping her voice down. "Nope. Just … nope."

"Claire, I'm worried about your safety -"

"Dad, you can't hover over me every second of the day." She lowered her voice to a murmur. "They don't know who you are. You won't be able to scare them like you could as Marquis." Taking a breath, she went on in a normal tone. "Seriously, Dad. I'm thirteen, not eight. I had my birthday yesterday, remember? I'm perfectly capable of walking into the school on my own. In fact, you can save gasoline this afternoon; I'll take the bus back. There's a stop only a block away from home."

Earl was astonished to find himself gritting his teeth. His girlfriends had all been besotted with him, while his employees had known to follow his orders. Rarely had he found his will being thwarted in this manner, in such a way that he could not retaliate. Claire was clearly his equal in stubbornness. To think I encouraged her to stand on her own two feet.

"No," he ground out. "You will not take the bus. Jonas will pick you up in the car."

"Then I'll walk into school on my own," she shot back. "Jonas drives me to and from, but I don't get walked in like a kid. Deal?"

"Deal," he agreed immediately, before she could change her mind.

"Great," she said, swinging the backpack on to her shoulder. "See you this afternoon."

Earl watched her walk away, joining the mass of adolescence currently pouring in through the gates; in moments, she was out of sight.

Did I just get played? I think I just got played.

Turning to Jonas, he found that the bodyguard already had the front passenger door open. Earl studied his expression; it was as bland and inscrutable as the man's broad, battered features could manage. Climbing in, he allowed Jonas to close the door, then put his seatbelt on. Jonas got into the driver's seat and started the car. Earl waited until the vehicle was in motion before he spoke again.

"Jonas?"

"Sir?"

"Did my daughter just do to me what I do to everyone else?"

There was a long pause, no doubt due to Jonas working out the most diplomatic way to answer.

"If she did, sir, it's only because she learned from the best."

"Indeed." Earl leaned back and closed his eyes. "Thank you, Jonas."

"You're welcome, sir."

<><>​

Holding a plan of the school in her hands, Claire manoeuvred through the surging, shifting crowd of her peers. Okay, if I'm here, then my locker should be just around this corner -

"- so I'm wondering if Mr Wilson will be as deadly boring in History this year as he was last, and have you seen the gym? I think they repainted it, I really do. Also, I think they rearranged the cafeteria a bit. Hopefully this means that we'll be able to – whoa!"

Rounding the corner, Claire nearly ran face-first into another girl, around her age but a few inches taller. The girl had long brown curly hair, large eyes behind round-lensed glasses and a wide expressive mouth; at the point of the almost-collision, she had been half-turned toward her companion, a strikingly pretty redhead. Her torrent of words cut off with the exclamation; Claire stopped her with a hand on each shoulder so that they didn't encounter each other more forcefully.

"Sorry, hi," the red-headed girl greeted and apologised to Claire in the same breath. "I'm Emma, this is Taylor. She's a bit of a motormouth, but she means well."

"Motormouth, hah," Taylor replied good-naturedly. "I can hardly get a word in edgewise, the way you talk." She turned to Claire. "Sorry about that. Taylor Hebert." She held out a hand to shake.

Bemusedly, Claire shook it. "Hi," she said. "Claire Marchant. Pleased to meet you. And you too, Emma."

"Same here, Claire," Taylor told her, then squinted. "Are you new here? You look new. I don't think I've met you before. Is that a Boston accent? Are you from Boston? Did you just move here? If you did, then welcome to Brockton Bay, our capes aren't as bad as they say, really. And welcome to Northwest, it might not be the best middle school in town, but with me and Emma here, it's definitely the coolest."

Metaphorically, Claire staggered back under the torrent of words. "Uh, yeah, I'm new here," she said. "Dad and I moved here from Boston back in July. I hope I'll like it here. They say the winters are milder."

"Oh yeah, they're milder all right," Taylor agreed. "Some days you can even walk along the Boardwalk in shorts and t-shirt – have you seen the Boardwalk? It's pretty awesome. Do you have anything like it in Boston? And the Market. You've got to see the Market. If you want to buy anything at a good price, go to the Market first. Emma and me can show you around sometime if you want."

"Taylor, seriously, let the girl talk," Emma cut in, laughing. "Sorry, Claire. Taylor can be a little overwhelming at first. I think she's a bit excited by the first day of school. And I think she also had too much coffee before she left home."

"Too much coffee?" declaimed Taylor. "Never! No such thing! Though," she added thoughtfully, "Mom is talking about weaning me on to tea. She says it might make me a little less hyper. Whatever that means."

Claire tried not to let her grin spread too wide. "That's fine. Uh, I was actually trying to find my locker. I have the combination, but I just don't know where the silly thing is hiding."

"Locker?" Taylor took on an expression of intense concentration. "Look no further. Sherlock Hebert is on the case. What's the number?"

Claire consulted the sheet. "Uh, one five four three."

"That'll be just back this way," Taylor stated at once. Turning, she ducked into the crowd; Emma and Claire followed, their pursuit made easier by the fact that Taylor was a bit taller than most of the others.

"So is she always like this?" asked Claire as they pushed through the mob in pursuit. "Not that I think it's bad or anything," she added hastily. "But it must be a bit hard to keep up with her."

"Oh, I just go with the flow," Emma said cheerfully. "She only ever stops talking to let her brain catch up. But she's so much fun to be around. She's one of those people who doesn't even imagine the existence of a glass half empty, you know?"

"Wow, she's lucky." Claire tried to imagine that sort of mindset. Not even acknowledging the possibility of something bad on the horizon.

"I dunno." Emma frowned briefly. "If she ever did have something bad happen to her, I don't know if she'd crash hard or just bounce back like it was nothing."

"Well, that's not something we can know till we find out, yeah?"

Emma glanced at Claire. "Yeah. Point." She looked ahead again. "Ah. It looks like she's stopped."

"Or run out of steam, one of the two."

That earned her a snort. "Fair point."

When they caught up with Taylor, she was nonchalantly leaning against a locker, looking somewhat smug. "Is this the locker you were looking for?"

Claire looked at the numbers stamped into the metal. "One five four three. Wow, you found it."

"Hey." Taylor buffed her nails, then casually examined them. "I'm just that good."

"Well, I appreciate it," Claire told her sincerely. She checked the paper for the combination, then entered it into the lock. The locker popped open; Claire unloaded books on to the shelves, then took several out, checking with her class list in the process. "That should be okay for the moment."

"So what are you going to be doing until the bell rings?" asked Taylor. "I was gonna go with Emma to the library and see if they have any new science fiction books in. Wanna come with?"

"Actually, that sounds like a lot more fun than what I need to do," confessed Claire. "I need to go find all my classrooms so I don't get lost between classes."

"Can I see, please?" Emma held out her hand for the class list. Claire handed it over. "Okay then … looks like you've got Math with us, as well as English. And PE. How are you at dodgeball? They're very big on dodgeball here."

"I think they're very big on dodgeball everywhere," Claire replied dryly. "I'm okay, I guess."

"Anyway, it looks like English is your first. Where's your home room? Ah, okay. You're with Taylor in Mr Crandall's. I'm in Mrs Beeton's. You can come with us now, and Taylor can get you to English okay. Sound good?"

"Sounds awesome, actually," Claire replied. "Thanks for helping me out like this."

"That's okay," Taylor told her. "I like meeting new people and talking to them. I learn all sorts of interesting things that way. By the way, did you know that Emma's dad is a lawyer? Well, just a divorce lawyer, not a criminal lawyer, but we don't hold that against him. So what do your parents do? My dad's in the Dockworkers' Association and my mom's an English teacher. If you ever need help with your English homework, just say the word. If I don't know it, Mom will. She's really cool like that. I mean, she's not just a teacher teacher. She's a professor at the college …"

And they're off and running again … Claire met Emma's eyes; they shared a mutual grin and followed their bubbly friend toward, Claire figured, the library.

Taylor would indeed take a little getting used to, but as far as Claire could tell, it would definitely be worth the effort. Good friends, after all, were hard to find.

<><>​

Danny Hebert stood up from his desk and stepped around it to meet his visitor. "Hello, ah, Mr Marchant, was it?"

"Earl Marchant, yes." The auburn-haired man shook his hand. "Thank you for agreeing to talk to me."

Danny's grin was a little self-conscious. "As someone who lives in a problem area of the city, I'm always willing to listen to someone who says that they can help with a solution."

Earl tilted his head. "If you'll excuse me for saying so, Brockton Bay has more than its share of problems. I can't guarantee to help with all of them, or even most of them. But some of them, definitely, yes."

"Some is better than none," Danny agreed. "And it's far better than being part of the problem, as some people in the city seem to want to be."

"I can honestly say that I came to this city to help solve its problems, not multiply them," Earl assured him. "Now, to show you what I want to help with, are you free to come for a drive?"

Danny paused, glancing at his desk. "I've got nothing that needs my attention right this very second." He stepped past Earl, into the outer office, where the receptionist sat at her desk. "Jude?"

The middle-aged woman – decorative she was not, but she knew her job backwards and forwards – looked around from where she was typing something into her computer. "Yes, Mr Hebert?"

"I'm going out for a bit. If you need me, call my cell."

"No problem, Mr Hebert." She turned back to her terminal and started typing again, fingers rattling the keys.

Danny turned to Earl. "So, where were you going to take me?"

<><>​

"The ferry terminal."

Earl heard the mixed hope and curiosity in Danny's voice as Jonas pulled the car into the parking lot. "That's correct," he said. "I understand that you've been trying to get it started up again."

Danny turned to stare at him, then looked around, startled, as Jonas opened the passenger side door for him. Almost robotically, he got out, followed by Earl.

Jonas didn't need telling to stay with the car as Earl and Danny started toward the terminal proper. Danny tried several times to start a conversation, but Earl simply ignored him until they had mounted the steps to the patio overlooking the eponymous Bay. Earl leaned on the decorative stonework making up the safety rail, looking out toward the Protectorate headquarters. Talk about ostentatious …

"Okay, so talk," Danny tried once more. "What was that crack about?"

"What, starting up the ferry again?" Earl turned to face him. Leaning back against the rail, he shrugged elaborately. "No crack. It was merely a comment. We both know that it would allow people to commute to the city and back with relative ease, allowing more people to take jobs and hold them. Bringing affluence back into this part of the community."

Danny clenched his fists. "Yeah, all of that's true. Doesn't mean you're going to do more than talk about it, though."

Earl tilted his head. "Very true. And you've had this conversation a dozen times before, right? With people who promised the world and didn't deliver."

"Or flat-out told me that it didn't advance their agenda, so they'd back something else," Danny's voice was tight.

"Well, then. Allow me to put your mind at ease." Earl lounged against the stonework, his casual posture at odds with the intensity of his voice. "I want to see Brockton Bay thrive again. I want to invest in the city. If and when I need a workforce, I want to be able to call on the Dockworkers to provide the core of that workforce. And I agree with you; if the people living in and around the Docks are going to have a fair chance, then they need the ferry to be up and running."

"And you'll put your money toward that?"

"I'll put my money toward that."

For a long moment, Earl watched hope play over the face of the tall, skinny man before him. Here was a man who had lived through the worst times of Brockton Bay. It was hard for him to accept that there may actually be a light at the end of the tunnel.

Then Danny shook his head. "No. It'll never work."

Earl's head came up. "Why not?"

"No matter how much money you throw at it, the Mayor's office has the same old answer. You can't reopen the ferry just yet, not until the gangs and the drugs are no longer an issue. They don't want gang members or drug dealers to have an easy way to get into Downtown."

Earl let his eyes narrow just a little. "The drugs and the gangs … around here, that would be the Merchants, right?"

Danny looked at him intently. "You're right, yes, but what does that have to do with anything?"

It had quite a lot to do with it, as Earl well knew. Since the parahuman members of the Merchants had vanished quite literally overnight, the rest of the organisation had melted away like snow on a hot summer's day. As Marquis, he had found virtually zero resistance to moving in and laying claim to the area most adjacent to the ferry terminal.

Those in his area of control found their protection payments reduced to a pittance, while protection was actually a reality. Those men Claire deemed trustworthy had been given enhancements making them equivalent to low-level Brutes or Movers, allowing them to police those areas effectively. Those in the pay of Earl's enemies – and he had more than a few – were funnelled into their own groups where they spied upon one another and sent reports back to their various handlers.

"Well, then," Earl said quietly, "I was just wondering. When was the last time you saw any Merchant activity in Brockton Bay?" A long pause, while he met Danny's eyes. "Because I haven't seen any in quite some time."

<><>​

Danny blinked. On the surface, the words were innocuous. But the meaning behind them was something else altogether. Marchant hadn't spoken loudly or boastfully, but his meaning had been clear. The Merchants are gone, and he had something to do with it. Or he knows who did.

The Brockton Bay underworld was a vast and seamy place, where it would be quite easy to lose one's sense of moral direction. Danny wasn't entirely unaware of it; in his time with the Dockworkers, he'd brushed shoulders with many persons of shady character. Some of these people were inclined to speak loudly, but were in the end of little consequence; others didn't talk much but by God, when they did, it was wise to listen.

He wasn't quite sure exactly how shady Earl Marchant was, but he was certain of two things. The first was that the man was deadly serious about getting Brockton Bay back on its feet. And the second was that Marchant was connected.

"Admittedly, neither have I," he agreed. "Well, let's assume that the Merchants are no longer an issue. With outside funding to get it all up and running, I should be able to talk the Mayor into letting it happen. But if you want commerce to really get going, there's something else in the way."

"Oh?" Marchant looked interested. "What is this obstacle of which you speak?"

Danny had the distinct impression that Marchant already knew and was just giving him the straight lines. However, it didn't change anything. Stepping to the outside curve of the rail, he pointed north. It wasn't all that far away, but even if it had been, it still would have been visible. A vast spread of ships, fifty or so at last count, rode at anchor or lay half-foundered within what had once been called Lord's Port.

"The Boat Graveyard," Danny pronounced the current name with distaste. "If we're going to have any chance at all, that's gotta go."

"Ah. Yes. That." Stepping up, Marchant shaded his eyes as he peered northward. "I see. Well then."

Something about his tone plucked at Danny's curiosity. That didn't sound like he was giving up.

"'Well then'?" he echoed. "What do you mean, 'well then'?"

Marchant smiled. "I mean," he replied, "well then. Challenge accepted."

Danny blinked again. Holy shit. He's serious.


End of Part Eight

Part Nine

 

[Ack]

She saw him, standing on the edge of the rooftop, looking out over the city. Such was his belief that she would not attack him, he had his back turned, even though he had to know that she was there. For a moment, Skitter had the impulse to make something sting him, something non-venomous, just to shake him out of that supreme self-confidence. But she quashed it as unworthy. They were here under truce, after all.

"Skitter." His voice was rich and deep. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."

She moved to join him, feeling the gravel turning under the soles of her feet. "Your message said that you had something for me."

"I do indeed." This close, she realised that he wore evening dress, illuminated faintly by the glow from the city lights below. Unclasping his hands from behind his back, he gestured out over the city. "We both care about Brockton Bay. You want its people to be safe. I want it to work again. Those two aims can go hand in hand. Currently, we have been working separately, and occasionally at cross-purposes. I propose to put an end to that."

"How?" She was wary, on her guard. The swarm she had gathered, just outside visual detection range, hovered ready to attack. Despite that, she was fully aware that he could probably kill or capture her in an instant, if he so chose. Of course, he did have a strong reputation for never breaking his word and never attacking women or children ... but one could never be sure. The vast profits from running a city unopposed could undermine the strongest principles, given time.

"I propose a partnership." His voice was smooth and measured. "You handle the street level side of things, with assistance as needed from my forces. I handle the higher level politics, with backup from your parahuman forces as necessary."

She paused, searching his words for any tricks. "It can't be that simple."

"It won't be simple in any way at all," he assured her. "But if we are able to work without looking over our shoulders, if I can run interference on the PRT for you, if you can handle the street-level problems for me, it will be somewhat easier for the both of us."

"Your methods -" she began, then paused.

"Are harsh, yes, but I have found them necessary in the past," he went on. "However, I will not be kidnapping twelve year old children. I will not be seeking to betray you while pretending to be your ally. If I am your enemy, you will know it. I would prefer not to be."

"No murder." The words were rough in her throat.

Carefully, he inclined his head. "As you say. No murder. What, then, do I do with those of my men who let me down or, inevitably, attempt to betray me?"

She turned her head to look at him fully. "Let them know that I'm working with you. If the problems persist, send them to me."

"Some would call that a more stringent punishment than my norm." His words were light, addressed to the city skyline.

"Doesn't matter. It's the way it's going to be if we're going to be working together."

"Of course." Again, he inclined his head. "So, then, shall we call it a partnership?" Turning to face her, he extended his hand.

"We've still got to work out the details, but sure." She took it.

It was only a handshake, but it signified much more to Brockton Bay.

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Nine: Close Encounters of the Interesting Kind


Friday, September 7, 2007
Northwest Middle School

" - and then she said," Taylor finished triumphantly, "'I've never seen it do that before!'"

Laughter burst out at the table; Emma, caught unawares, snorted banana-flavoured milk out of her nose. Claire found that even funnier than the joke; she kept laughing, even as she patted Emma on the back. Emma coughed and sputtered and turned red in the face, but Claire subtly helped her through the worst of it with her powers.

"Oh god, Taylor," wheezed Emma. "What are you trying to do? Kill me? What did I ever do to you? Did I offend you in a past life?"

Taylor grinned unrepentantly at her. "Nope, but it serves you right. You were drinking milk while you should have been listening to my joke. You gonna clean that up, by the way? You sure made a mess. It's all over your face. And you got milk on your new top, too. Wow, your mom is gonna be pissed."

Claire silently handed Emma some tissues; the redhead shot her a grateful look and wiped her face before dabbing at her blouse. "You know, you could warn us before you're gonna tell one of your jokes," the redhead went on. "I mean, that was downright hazardous to the health."

"So where do you get all your jokes from anyway, Taylor?" asked Claire curiously. "I mean, you're not exactly the rough, tough type."

Taylor rolled her eyes. "I might not be, but Dad's in the Dockworkers, remember? Every time they come over for a few drinks, I sit in the corner as quiet as I can. Once they've had a few beers, the jokes start coming out. And if anyone can tell a dirty joke, it's a Dockworker. Trust me, you haven't heard one tenth of the ones I know."

"Yeah, trust her on that one," Emma confirmed. "One time I challenged her to a dirty joke telling contest. Boy, did I lose."

Taylor giggled. "That was hilarious. Your face was even redder than your hair. And I wasn't even telling the really dirty ones. There's ones I know that I don't even want to think about, let alone tell. I mean, there's one that goes -"

"So anyway, guys," Claire interjected hastily, "I was just thinking. How would you like to hang out over the weekend?"

Taylor and Emma glanced at each other, then back at Claire. "Uh, well, it's just that Emma and me kind of have a thing where we sleep over at each others' places on a weekend," Taylor said. "But if your dad's fine with it, you can sleep over with us."

"Yeah," Emma agreed. "You're cool. We'd love to have you over."

"I got a better idea," Claire told them. "How about you both come sleep over at my place. Trust me, we've got the room."

Again, that almost-telepathic glance, the exchange of information. "Uh, maybe -" began Emma.

"We've got a heated indoor pool," Claire pointed out.

"Hell -" Taylor began.

"- yes," Emma finished. "An indoor pool? Count me in."

"You've just been wanting to show off your new bathing suit that you got for your birthday," Taylor accused her.

"Yeah? So?" Emma spread her hands. "We don't have an indoor pool."

Taylor turned to Claire. "Well, it looks like it's settled. Sleepover, your place. What time should we turn up?"

<><>​

"We're late," fretted Taylor. "She said between six and seven. It's almost five after seven. She'll think I'm not coming. She'll think I'm a horrible person."

"She will not think you're a horrible person," Annette told her from the front seat. "She sounds like a very nice girl and I'm sure she'll forgive you for being just a little bit late. I'm glad you're making more friends, by the way." She turned to Danny. "Dear, would you like me to help you navigate?"

"I'll be fine," Danny said, just a shade tersely. "These streets look all the same to me. What was the address again?"

"One seven nine Hampton Way," Taylor recited promptly. "I think we just passed it."

"So we did," Annette agreed. Just back that way, dear."

"I see it, I see it." Danny pulled over to the side of the road and manoeuvred the car into a U-turn, then trundled back toward the appropriate intersection. It was indeed Hampton Way.

"So what do her parents do for a living, honey?" asked Annette as they rolled down the street.

"Oh, her mom's dead, I think. But her dad's some kinda rich. I mean, they've got a heated indoor pool. I haven't met him, but Claire says he's a businessman of some sort. Maybe a stockbroker or an investor. They moved here from Boston a few months ago. Claire's really cool. She knows all sorts of interesting stuff. Emma likes her too."

"That's nice," grunted Danny, concentrating more on the house numbers than the conversation. "One thirty-one … one thirty-five … "

"If she's used to living in relative luxury, perhaps she might not be so interested in sleeping over with you," Annette said, a touch of concern in her voice.

"Oh, she's not like that," Taylor assured her. "She's a really great person. Genuine, you know? She doesn't put herself above everyone, just because her dad's got money. Anyway, I told her about our house and she says she can't wait to see it."

"Ah-ha." Danny pointed ahead. "That'll be it, on the corner."

"Wow," Taylor blurted. "That's a huge house. I mean, that's enormous. Her dad must be loaded."

"It's definitely a large house," agreed Annette as Danny manoeuvred the car in to the curb. "And look, dear. He drives the same type of car as Alan does."

"That's not his car," Taylor told her. "Or at least it's not the one Claire goes to school in. Mr Barnes must be just dropping Emma off."

"Huh," Danny said as they got out of the vehicle. He peered at the rear license plate on the red sports car in the driveway. "I think you're right. That's Alan's car all right. I recognise the vanity plates. BARNES-1. Nobody else would be using those."

"Oh, it'll be nice to see Alan and Zoe again," Annette declared. She straightened her dress and started up the driveway alongside her husband and daughter.

<><>​

Danny had associated with people used to wealth and privilege before. He had been to their houses and had even attended events at the Augustus Country Club. But he wasn't personally used to ostentatious displays of wealth. This house positively screamed, "I'm rich!" to all and sundry.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed the doorbell. Sonorous chimes sounded within the house. He waited. Behind him, Taylor whispered once again, "This is a really big house." Annette shushed her.

Footsteps approached the door from the other side. It clicked, then opened silently with not even a creak from the obviously well-made hinges. Standing there was …

Danny's brain took a few seconds to register who it was. "Wait … Jonas?"

The burly man inclined his head toward Danny. "Mr Hebert. Mrs Hebert. Miss Hebert. Won't you come in?"

"I – but – wait – what – what are you doing here?" demanded Danny.

"I work here, sir," Jonas said simply. Stepping aside, he gestured, a come-in motion.

"Thank you – Jonas, was it?" Annette took the invitation; grasping Taylor by the hand, she stepped inside, leaving Danny to follow, feeling slack-jawed and stupid.

"Indeed, ma'am. Mr Marchant is in the living room, through there, ma'am."

"Wait," Danny began again. "This is Earl Marchant's house."

"Yes, sir." Jonas' expression was bland, unrevealing.

"So Claire is Earl's daughter."

"Correct, sir.

"So my daughter's new friend is my business partner's daughter."

"So it would seem, sir."

Danny blinked and shook his head, trying to get his thoughts into order. "Right. Good. Glad we got that settled." He set off in his wife's wake, following her to what had been described as a 'living room', but into which Danny could quite easily see his entire house fitting with room to spare. Acres of carpet, a flat-screen TV that would have barely fit through the door, amazingly comfortable-looking furniture …

"Danny! Glad you could make it." Earl Marchant himself advanced across the room from where he had been chatting to the Barnses, husband and wife. Taylor and Emma were reuniting with a verve that suggested a parting of days, not hours. A girl whom he presumed to be Earl's daughter Claire was also greeting Taylor with comfortable familiarity. At the same time, Anne-Rose embraced Zoe Barnes with somewhat more restraint, but with no less sincerity.

"Earl." Danny shook the other man's hand. "It's good to see you but I must admit, I'm more than a little surprised."

"Why is that?" Earl tilted his head to the side. "Oh, you didn't know? Ah." A smile crossed his face. "Well, when Claire told me Taylor's surname, I must admit, I checked the White Pages to make sure there weren't any other Heberts in Brockton Bay. So yes, I have gotten over the surprise. Coincidences do happen, after all."

"Well, yeah," began Danny, but was interrupted by Alan Barnes. The heavy-set man, his hair once as red as Emma's but now beginning to fade with age, came up to Danny and slapped him on the shoulder.

"Danny," he exclaimed by way of saying hello. "Earl here was just telling me all about the plans you two have for fixing up the Docks. It sounds like a great idea. Why didn't you tell me about it earlier?"

"I … because we've only just started talking about it," Danny hedged. "I wasn't going to say anything until we had signatures on paper."

Alan nodded wisely. "Yeah. Distinct point, right there. You've been burned a few times, as I recall."

"More than a few, but yeah," Danny said. "These days, I'm more than a little careful about who I put my trust in until the contracts are signed, sealed and delivered."

"A very wise policy," Earl agreed. "I've been disappointed a few times in my career as well. After all, who hasn't? But I make sure that whoever does this to me doesn't get a second chance to do so. It all seems to work out in the end."

Danny glanced at Alan, whose expression hadn't changed from one of polite interest. Was I the only one who caught that? The undertone in Earl's voice had been one of … it wasn't quite menace, but it did hold a promise that if you make a deal with me and go back on it, you will be very terminally sorry.

For a long moment, he wondered whether it was a good idea to even let Taylor associate with this man's daughter. But then Claire approached them.

"Uh, excuse me for interrupting," she said brightly.

"Yes, honey?" asked Earl.

"I just wanted to say hello to Mr Hebert, and thanks for bringing Taylor over." She flashed Danny a brilliant smile; Danny could not help but return it. At least the kid's polite.

"That's all right, Claire," he replied. "She was really looking forward to this."

"Yeah," she agreed. "Me too." She turned to her father. "May I show Emma and Taylor around the house, now that Taylor's here? And are we allowed to go for a swim?"

Danny blinked. Swim? It's September.

"Certainly," Earl said. "But be careful and don't show off too much, all right?"

"Sure, thanks, Dad." And she was gone again, more or less dragging Taylor and Emma away with a burst of enthusiasm.

Earl looked back at Danny and Alan. "I want to thank you two for bringing your girls over. Claire's been talking about nothing else since she got home today. She's had no real chance to make friends since we moved here, and I worry about her getting lonely."

Such was the genuine emotion in his voice that much of Danny's concern melted away. He may be a dangerous man, but not to his daughter or her friends. "She's very polite," was all he could think to say.

"Well, yes," Earl replied. "Children hold a special place in the world, as far as I am concerned. But they also need to be taught how to be responsible adults."

Alan nodded. "I try to make sure that Emma knows what's what." He paused. "I understand," he went on delicately, "that her mother has passed away?"

"Yes." Earl frowned briefly. "It happened when Claire was very young. The big C. I've had to raise her on my own. It hasn't been easy, but it's been amazingly rewarding. I never thought I would have children, you see. But even after the first year, I couldn't imagine not having Claire there."

Danny found himself nodding in unison with Alan. "Taylor was kind of a happy surprise," he confessed. "Anne-Rose was in college while I worked with my father on the Docks, but we never even considered not having her. Her parents never really forgave us for getting pregnant so early; Anne-Rose had to drop out of her law studies to have her. Afterward, she got her English degree, but it wasn't the same. To them, anyway. Me, I wouldn't have had it any other way."

"Zoe and I had it slightly easier," Alan confessed. "Well, I was the one who had it easier, given that I was the one studying for the degree, while Zoe was the one getting pregnant. Not with Emma; she came later. Our first was Anne; she's in college."

"Ah, yes," Earl said wisely. "Of course, we all know the next scary thing that's going to happen, right?"

"Boys," Danny agreed.

"And dating," Alan supplied.

"I don't even know how I'm going to handle it," Danny told them. "Seriously. If Taylor comes home one day and says she's interested in a boy, I'm strongly considering locking her in her room till she's about, oh, twenty-five." He drew a deep breath. "Thankfully, the closest thing she's had to a crush is an Alexandria poster on her bedroom wall. So far." He chose not to mention the Armsmaster underwear; she'd wanted it, he hadn't seen the point in it, but Anne-Rose had chosen to get it for her anyway. For his part, he'd done his best to forget about it.

"You think you've got problems?" Alan rolled his eyes theatrically. "I've got one in college. I don't dare ask her anything more than 'do you need more money' just in case she tells me about some boy she's seeing. Or some girl, for that matter."

Earl frowned slightly "A girl wouldn't be so bad, would it? After all, it's not like she'd get pregnant."

"Two words," Alan advised him. "Matching. Tattoos." The three men shared a theatrical shudder.

"At least you've been through the teen dating years with Anne," Danny pointed out. "As I understand, the expected horror show never actually materialised."

"Yeah, but with all fairness to Anne," Alan lowered his voice and glanced around to make sure that Zoe was not in earshot, "she's pretty and she's a wonderful girl, but she's not drop-dead stunning gorgeous." He looked toward where Emma had disappeared with the other two. "Emma's already showing real promise. The boys will be lining up to ask her out."

"What about you, Earl?" asked Danny. "You're pretty quiet on the subject."

"Well, one thing I have learned from spending so much time with my daughter," Earl replied, "is that she has rather good judgement. I have no doubt that she will become attracted to someone at some point. At which time, hopefully, she will apprise me of the situation and I will make the decision to either give him the 'if you make my daughter cry' speech or have Jonas show him the driveway in a ballistic arc." He paused. "Mind you, I've also made sure that Claire can punch out any overly grabby young lout if and when required."

"That actually sounds like a plan," Danny mused. "I wonder where I could get lessons for Taylor."

"Emma could take them too," Alan agreed. "She might like it better than horseback riding or piano lessons."

"Point of fact, gentlemen," Earl advised them. "No child enjoys starting on any new endeavour unless it's already easy for them, or unless their friends are also doing it. Piano lessons rarely fall into either category."

Alan Barnes rolled his eyes. "Preaching to the choir here."

Danny opened his mouth to make a comment, but was interrupted when Jonas stepped into the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served."

"Dinner?" Danny looked around. "I didn't know we were staying for dinner."

"Of course we were, dear," Anne-Rose said as she came over to take his arm. "Mr Marchant offered when we spoke on the phone. I accepted for the both of us."

"But I'm not dressed for it -" Danny glanced down at his polo shirt and jeans.

"Nonsense. You look very smart. Come along now."

Not for the first time in his life, Danny found himself doing as his wife told him.

<><>​

Later That Night

"Well, that was very pleasant," Anne-Rose observed as they pulled away from the curb. "Earl Marchant is a nice man."

That's because he only showed you that side of himself, Danny thought but did not say. However, truth be told, he had seen no cracks in the facade when it came to Earl's attitude toward Anne-Rose and Zoe. He had been friendly and attentive without being flirtatious or creepy.

It appeared that Earl Marchant was a man of many layers, one who chose which person saw what part of him. Zoe and Anne-Rose saw a genial host, while Alan Barnes saw a businessman who was interested in improving matters in Brockton Bay. Danny had seen deeper into him, but he could not be sure that Earl had not shown his darker side deliberately, to see his reaction. Because if their plans were to come to completion, Danny would see that side of him sooner or later. Better you see it now, than when it's too late to back out …

It was going to be a difficult decision, but he was reasonably sure which way he was going to jump. After all, if Brockton Bay was going to be pulled back into the light, it was going to need more than vision and resources to do it. A certain level of ruthlessness was also going to be required, a ruthlessness that Danny suspected Earl Marchant had in spades. Plus, someone with a daughter as polite as Claire can't be all bad.

"Yeah," he agreed. "That was a really nice evening. And I still can't believe he has an indoor swimming pool."

"The girls were certainly enjoying it when we left," Anne-Rose said. "And Taylor was right. Claire is very down to earth. She's a delightful girl."

"I think she gets it from her father," Danny mused. "He strikes me as someone who hasn't always had all the advantages, but now that he's got them, he intends to enjoy them to the fullest."

"And more power to him," Anne-Rose said. "So I gathered from the small amount of shop talk that you shared at the table that he and you are going to be collaborating on improvements to the city, like the ferry and the Boat Graveyard?"

"That's the general idea, yes," Danny admitted. "Though the full extent of our plans have yet to be worked out."

"Good," Anne-Rose declared firmly. "It's about time someone did something about that."

And Danny could only agree.

I just hope I'm not making a huge mistake.

<><>​

Friday, September 28, 2007
Northwest Middle School

"Will the contestants for the under-thirteen four hundred yard race please report to the starting line … will the contestants for the under-thirteen four hundred yard race please report to the starting line."

Danny looked up as the announcement crackled over the PA system which had been set up out on the playing field. "That'll be you, kiddo," he told his daughter. "Now, are you sure you're up for this?"

Beside him, Annette put her hand on his arm. "Well, if she's not, it's too late to back out now, dear," she pointed out.

"Yeah, like Mom says," Taylor agreed rapidly, pulling off the jacket that she'd been wearing up till that point. Under it, she wore a racing vest with her number – 43 – displayed front and back. "I'm pretty good at it."

"But some of these visiting runners are really good," Danny fretted. "I -"

"I got it, Dad, I got it." Taylor flashed him a wide smile. "I win, I win. I lose, at least I tried."

Jumping down off of the stand, she trotted through the crowd to where the runners were lining up for the four hundred yard race.

<><>​

At the trackside, Claire watched Taylor and Emma take their places along with the rest of the runners. During the time she had spent with them, her power had worked on them, gradually improving their muscle tone, increasing their stamina and making them overall fitter and stronger – and just a little smarter – versions of the people she had met on her first day.

It would be interesting to see how they did in this race; Taylor's body was optimised toward speed, while Emma's focus was toward endurance. Neither one had been made over into superhuman capability as yet; any medical examination would simply find that they were a little faster, a little stronger than the norm.

She hoped they would do well. They were her friends, after all. She wanted the best for them.

<><>​

"Ready … steady …."

The starter's gun cracked, sending a dozen girls hurtling forward from the blocks. Taylor was off like a hare, hitting the lead in her first few strides. Emma wasn't far behind, with the rest of the pack, but she was pacing herself. Very smart. Let the others wear themselves down and then make your move.

The better runners were coming to the fore now, a couple starting to draw up on Taylor. She flicked a glance over her shoulder and actually accelerated, scorching down the track at a pace that Claire suspected she could not maintain.

A few seconds later, she was proven right when another girl forged out of the pack and past the initial hopefuls; Emma was right behind her, correctly judging that now was the time to make her move. As the finish line came closer and closer, Taylor started to flag, with the other girl coming up fast now. She tried grimly to hang on, but the girl passed her just a few yards away from the line. They came in first, second and third, with about a tenth of a second between each of them, Emma just behind Taylor but closing on the both of them.

Claire had already been making her way to the finish point; she got there just in time to see Emma helping Taylor up from where she had collapsed on the ground.

"Is she all right?" Her concern was unfeigned; Taylor had pushed herself to the absolute max to finish as fast as she had. Subtly, her power began leaching lactic acid out of her friend's muscles and cracking the food in her stomach for more glucose.

"Yeah, hah, I'll, hah, be fine, hah," panted Taylor. "Good god," she added to the girl who had won, who was panting heavily herself. "You can run."

"Yeah, well, you're not so shabby yourself," replied the other girl. "Your friend was coming up behind me like a steam train, and I thought you'd never slow down long enough for me to pass you. That was a great race. They may as well just give you the one and two hundred yard trophies now and save everyone the time."

Emma, still supporting Taylor, held out her hand. "Emma," she greeted the girl. "Pleased to meet you. This is Taylor."

The girl reached out a slim dark-skinned hand and they shook. "Yeah, likewise," she agreed. "Sophia. Sophia Hess."

<><>​

Saturday, September 29, 2007

"Wow, the parking around here's really horrible."

"That's okay, dear," Annette advised Danny. "Just park a little way away. We can walk."

"Dad, seriously," Taylor put in. "We don't have to go to a restaurant to celebrate getting those athletics trophies. I'll just admire them at home while we eat."

"No, we arranged to meet the Barneses there, remember?" Annette said. "I just wish Claire and Earl could have joined us too."

"So do I," agreed Taylor. "But Claire said she had a thing on, so maybe another night. She was pretty cut up about it, though. I think she would really have liked to be here."

"Finally!" Danny spotted a parking spot and wheeled the vehicle around to slide into it. A horn blared as another car, also aiming for the same spot, had to sheer off. As the other driver moved off in search of an empty space, Danny triumphantly pulled into the parking spot. "Hah. Got it."

"Okay, now which way was the restaurant again?" asked Taylor. "Because I have no idea."

"It's this way," Danny declared, pointing down the street. "Down there, turn left and then right again and we're there."

They started off, when they got to the corner, Danny began to turn left, but Annette stopped him. "I think we should be turning right here, dear," she said doubtfully.

"You sure?" he asked. "I thought it was left and then right."

"We did come the other way, you know," Taylor added helpfully. "If it's right one way, it's left the other."

"Yeah, but I took that into account," he muttered.

"Dear …" began Annette.

"Just a minute, trying to figure out which way we came."

"No. Danny, look." The note of concern in Annette's voice was enough to make him look around. Half a dozen people wearing gang colours had emerged from an alleyway and were moving to surround them. Each of them held a weapon of some sort, be it a switchblade or a length of pipe or chain.

"Dad?" That was Taylor, trying to keep the fear out of her voice.

Doing his best to do the same, despite the fact that his heart felt as though it had been plunged into a bucket of ice water, he spoke calmly to her. "It's okay. I'll handle this." Stepping forward, he did his best to keep his hands from shaking too obviously. "Evening. Can I help you?"

The nominal leader of this little group of what Danny could see was the Empire Eighty-Eight nodded sharply. "Yeah, you can, four-eyes. You can give us your wallet an' watch an' the little woman's purse an' jewellery. Anythin' else valuable you got on you, too. Car keys. An' then maybe you c'n go on your way."

The young man's arrogant tone pricked at Danny's pride in the worst way. Normally an even-tempered man, he usually did his best to keep his temper, inherited from his father, under control. The shaking in his hands changed from fear to anger; he dared not clench them into fists, for fear that the gang members would see it as a challenge. I can't risk Anne-Rose and Taylor. Not for this.

Growing up in Brockton Bay, the rule was very simple; if you were mugged, you handed over your goods. Fighting back only got you hurt. That was what the heroes were for. Where are they, now that I need them?

Taking a deep breath, he tried to quell the anger rising within him, the terror for his wife and child. I've got to do what they say. I can't risk Taylor or Anne-Rose. I just can't.

"I -" he began, but that was as far as he got.

"Excuse me, sir."

The voice came from a little way down the street. Danny looked around, staring at the three men who hadn't been there a few moments ago. All three were dressed in black; long coats over shirt and trousers, with some sort of white emblem on the right shoulder. They stepped closer, moving in unison; despite the fact that they were unarmed, Danny got a sense of danger from them.

"Yes, sir, I'm speaking to you," one of the men spoke up; this time, Danny realised the he was the one being addressed. "Are you in difficulty? Would you like our assistance?"

"A – assistance?" he asked, trying to figure out what was going on.

"Yes, sir," the man said patiently. "Would you like us to deal with the situation you're in? It'll cost you a hundred dollars."

The leader of the gang members stared at the three newcomers. "What the fuck?" he demanded. "Seriously, what the fuck? We're shaking these people down. You can fuck all the way off."

The men kept moving closer, at a steady pace that Danny wasn't sure was not intended to be intimidating. "For a start," the man stated clearly, "this is Marquis' territory. You're off your patch. Second, you're looking to rob them. We're offering them our protection. This protection, by the way, sir," he added in an aside to Danny, "lasts for twenty-four hours. Forty dollars start-up, ten dollars per day or part thereof, half price for women and children. One hundred dollars all told." One of his cohorts leaned in and murmured something. "Oh, I do apologise. I forgot; families get a twenty percent discount. Eighty dollars. Do you have that?"

Danny blinked, his brain finally catching up with the situation. He'd heard that Marquis was back in town; if he had to choose between the mercy of the Empire Eighty-Eight and paying eighty dollars to protect his entire family, he knew which he'd go for.

"Uh – yeah, I got eighty bucks," he replied. Fumbling out his wallet, he extracted four twenties. "Got it right here. I accept your deal. Eighty bucks, right?"

"Correct, sir," the leader of Marquis' men agreed. "Now, if you'll just all step back …"

"Hell with this!" snapped the Empire gang member. "Get those Marquis motherfuckers!" He gestured toward his colleagues and four of them started toward the men in black. Then he turned back to Danny. "And as for you, four-eyes, you're gonna pay all right and not just in money. Maybe we'll take your wife and have some fun with her. Teach you both a lesson about crossing the Empire." With the last gang member, he began moving toward Danny, switchblade out and weaving, the chromed steel catching flickers from the street lights.

Danny spread his arms and started moving back, pushing Taylor and Annette with him. "Keep away from them," he told the man as firmly as he could. "Don't hurt them."

<><>​

"Mmmmm."

Earl paused in his slow, careful massaging of the woman's lower back. "You like that?"

"Oh yeah," she murmured. Rolling over, she pulled him to her. "But I like what we were doing earlier a lot more."

"Hey, I'm no longer a young man," he told her playfully, all the while responding to her caresses. "I've got to take time to get my strength back."

"I'd be happy to do this all day long," she told him, grazing his shoulder with her teeth.

"Well, we can only do it when your husband's occupied otherwise," he replied, doing something that made her gasp. "You want to sleep around, sure, but I'm not going to have a hand in destroying your marriage."

She pouted. "I'm pretty sure that he's got something going on with his new secretary. Have you seen her? Her bra size is bigger than her IQ."

"No, I haven't met his secretary. And if he does come into the partnership, what we're doing is going to have to stop," he told her firmly.

She stopped what she was doing and sat up. "What, really?" she asked disbelievingly.

"Really," he assured her. "If a married woman wants to sleep with me, I'll happily accommodate. After all, you approached me and you are very attractive. But if I end up having legal obligations toward your husband, I'm not going to complicate that."

"Fine," she sighed. "So long as we're -"

His phone rang and he held up one finger. "One second. I have to take this."

"I thought you turned your phone off," she muttered.

"Not this one. Now shush." He hit the answer button. "Yes?"

"Sir, we have a situation. Six Empire men, and they have the Hebert family cornered. I have two with me. It could get problematic."

All lethargy fell away from him. "Location?"

"Jackson and Fogerty."

"I'm on my way. Do what you can." He was already standing beside the bed as he ended the call.

She stared at him as he began to pull his clothes on. "What? What's going on?"

Leaning down, he gave her a perfunctory kiss. "My dear Zoe, I have to go. We can finish this conversation at another time."

And then he was gone, leaving Zoe Barnes sitting in the middle of her rumpled bed, wondering what the hell had just happened.

<><>​

Claire leaned back on the recliner and grinned as she popped another gummy bear into her mouth. Road Runner cartoons were so predictable and yet she loved them. The physics were almost as ridiculous as those exhibited by the average cape, but a lot funnier.

Turning her head, she gave the duty nurse a nod; the nurse gave her one back, along with a discreet thumbs-up. Claire presumed that meant she was holding steady on people going out versus people coming in. The doctors hadn't screamed too loudly at the numbers on the price schedule, especially when people were paying specifically to come into the hospital while she was there.

Her phone rang; she opened it. "Marchioness speaking."

"We have a situation. The car will be picking you up outside in thirty seconds."

Eyes widening, she sat up. "What? What's going on?"

"The Hebert family is being mugged."

Taylor. Shit. "Right. Thirty seconds." Standing up, she gestured to the duty nurse. The woman was looking at her with intense curiosity. "I have to go. Make sure nobody steals my stuff, okay?"

Not even waiting for an answer, she hurried to the doors. Barely had she made it out before the car screeched in through the drive-through; yanking open the passenger-side door, she tumbled in. Jonas barely gave her time to get her feet inside and the door closed before he powered off again; it took her three turns before she managed to get the seat-belt on.

"Situation?" she asked out loud.

"Six gang members, three of our own," her father's voice emerged crisply from the car's speakers. "Jonas knows where to go. High possibility of one or more of the Heberts being injured."

"Which gang?" she asked, hanging on as Jonas drifted the car around another corner. She had upgraded his reflexes and eyesight for just such an occasion, but she wasn't sure that he wasn't pushing himself beyond his limits.

"Empire Eighty-Eight."

She drew an aggravated breath. "Dammit, Dad. I told you we should have done something about those racist thugs before now."

"I know, I know. We'll talk about that later."

"If Taylor's hurt, we're gonna have a lot to talk about."

When he replied, there was mild censure in his voice. "You're not the only one with a friend in this situation, my dear Claire."

"Yeah, sorry, Dad."

"Never mind. New update. Gang members are down." His phone signal dropped out for a second. "- is badly wounded."

Claire gripped the handholds. "What? Who's hurt?"

<><>​

Taylor could not believe that this was happening to her. An actual real mugging, with actual real gangs fighting it out. Part of her was terrified; another part babbled, I can't wait to tell Emma and Claire when I see them! Dad's so cool and brave!

Her attention was on the confrontation between her father and the gang member, but then it was caught by the four Empire members closing with the three Marquis men. One moment, there were seven people standing, facing one another. The next, the three had blurred into action, telescoping batons extending from their right hands.

It was as though the fight had been choreographed and the Empire thugs were playing through in slow motion, while Marquis' men were not slowed down at all. The men in black moved around their opponents in what seemed almost to be a dance, but with each swing of a baton, a limb flailed uselessly or a weapon fell to the ground. The dance only lasted for a few seconds; as a finale, four solid meaty thuds were followed by four Empire members collapsing to the ground, down and out. Their three opponents still stood, apparently unharmed. They barely even seemed to be breathing hard.

"Hostages!" snapped the Empire gang member. "Get the woman and the girl!" He and his last remaining cohort moved forward with intent.

"No! No way!" yelled Taylor's father and surged forward. He must have caught them by surprise; his wildly swinging fist clipped one of the gang members on the jaw, sending him spinning to the ground with a look of utter astonishment on his face.

The other one, however, slashed at Danny; her father raised his arm more or less by instinct and caught the blade there instead of on his face. The sharp metal sliced his sleeve and blood flowed. Danny wasn't done, however; he swung with his left hand, slugging into the guy's shoulder. "Leave them alone!" he grunted.

The Empire gang member brought the knife around; Taylor saw her father double over, then fall to his knees. "Dad!" she screamed; she went to dart forward, but her mother held her back.

And then the three Marquis men were right there. One of them took hold of the Empire Eighty-Eight man who had attacked her father; she heard a horrible crunch, then the man was dropped to the ground like a rag doll. The one that her father had punched merely had his arms broken, or perhaps dislocated; Taylor didn't know and didn't care.

The third man rolled her father over carefully. Taylor gasped and her mother let out a cry of distress; there was so much blood, covering the front of his shirt and his right sleeve. For a moment, Taylor thought that he was dead, then his eyes flickered open.

"Taylor," he rasped. "Anne-Rose."

They stumbled forward, Taylor at her mother's side. Annette fell to her knees beside her husband, uncaring of the pool of blood on the ground. "Danny," she gasped. "Danny, don't die."

"Ma'am, I'm going to need you to keep talking to him," the man told her. "Just do what you're doing right there." He looked up at Taylor. "Miss, have you ever done first aid?"

Taylor shook her head so hard that she thought her glasses might fall off. "N-no. No, I haven't."

"Well, that's okay," he told her. "If you can get down here and press your hands here, you can keep your father alive."

Hesitantly, she knelt down and pressed where he told her. Under her hands she felt a warm pulsing; when she realised what it was, she almost pulled her hands away. "That – that's blood," she blurted.

"That's correct," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone that did more to calm her down than anything else would have. "It's supposed to be inside him. You're stopping it from getting out. Can you do that for me?"

"I – yes," she agreed. At her side, she could hear her mother murmuring to her father, keeping his attention, keeping him awake. "But we need an ambulance. A doctor. I've seen enough TV shows. This won't save his life."

"It only has to keep him alive long enough, miss," the man told her. "Help is on the way."

"It most certainly is."

<><>​

Taylor looked around, careful not to lift her hands from where she was pressing on her father's injury. Descending into the narrow street were three people; almost immediately she recognised members of Brockton Bay's homegrown superhero team. It was Brandish, being carried by Mega Girl, who had spoken.

The rush of relief that she felt – the heroes are here. It's going to be all right now - was almost immediately overtaken by reality. What can they do here?

"Brandish. Lady Photon. Mega Girl." It was the spokesman of the three Marquis men, careful to make no aggressive moves, who spoke. "I'm afraid you're a little late."

"No, it looks like we got here just in time." That was Brandish. "Who are you supposed to be?"

Lady Photon nodded to Mega Girl and gestured toward where Taylor and her mother were kneeling over Danny. Taking the hint, the teenage superhero hurried over. "Can I help?"

"I don't know," whimpered Taylor. "I've never done this before. Am I doing it right? Can you fly him to the hospital?"

"I don't know," confessed Mega Girl. "It depends on how bad the bleeding is. If he dies on the way, it doesn't matter where I take him. He's your father?"

Taylor nodded, tears leaking from her eyes. "I don't want him to die. He can't. He just can't."

"It's okay, calm down, calm down," Mega Girl soothed her. "Have you called nine one one?"

"No, but they said they have," Taylor admitted, pointing with her chin.

"Who are they, anyway?" asked Mega Girl. "I've never seen that gang emblem before. It's not the Merchants."

"No, they said they're from Marquis," Taylor said, glad to have something to talk about. "You should have seen them, they just took those guys apart."

"Villains fighting villains? That's kind of weird."

"No, they said they were -"

<><>​

"- offering protection for money," the man in the black long-coat told Brandish. "It's a perfectly legitimate business transaction. The police and the army do it all the time. So do bodyguard services."

"And you're doing a bang-up job about it," she retorted. "One of your 'protectees' is badly wounded and what are you doing about it? Standing around waiting for him to die so you can refund your money and then sidle off into the night?"

"No, ma'am, that's not what we're doing," he replied, his tone even and polite in the face of her anger. "We're waiting for appropriate medical attention to get here."

"We might need some for these gang members too," observed Lady Photon, checking another one for life signs. "Some of them are pretty badly hurt and at least two are dead."

"So we're looking at manslaughter, maybe murder, if intent can be proven," Brandish stated flatly.

"Not at all," he replied blandly. "Those men were threatening these three with lethal force. We defended them with lethal force. The fact that the man got hurt merely underlines the threat that they were under."

"But you work for a supervillain!" Brandish's energy blade snapped into being in her hand. "I'm placing you under citizen's arrest."

The roar of a car engine interrupted whatever he was going to say in return; first one car and then another roared up the street. They screeched to a halt just yards away from the ongoing tableau. A person got out of each car; the vehicles drove off once more.

<><>​

"I really would rather you didn't, Brandish dear," Marquis said blandly, striding over to where Brandish was facing off against his minions.

"Marquis." Her voice was liquid helium; the energy blade curved in his direction.

"Brandish." In contrast, his voice was light, friendly. "It's so good to see you again. You really have done well for yourself; I would hardly believe that it's been one year, let alone seven."

She gritted her teeth; Lady Photon stepped up alongside her and put a hand on her arm.

"What do you want, Marquis?" asked Lady Photon.

"For myself? Nothing." Marquis took a deep breath of the night air. "But my men here used only appropriate force to subdue armed opponents. To arrest them would merely make you look incompetent."

"And who is that?" asked Lady Photon, gesturing at the girl in the evening gown, who had approached the wounded man and his family.

<><>​

"Marchioness!" Unlike her mother and aunt, Vicky was actually glad to see the new arrivals. "He's hurt bad, I think. Can you help him?"

"I believe so." The newcomer gave Vicky a smile. "It's good to see you too, Mega Girl. I see you've been passed on your Wards training. No more incidents like that other time?"

"No, thank God." Vicky gave her brow an exaggerated wipe. "That was a real wake-up call for me. Thanks for bailing me out on that one, by the way."

"No such thing," Marchioness told her firmly. "I was just there and you brought her in."

"Help."

They both looked down. The skinny girl holding pressure on the wound was looking around wildly. "Help, I can't feel the bleeding any more. Does that mean -"

"It's okay, you can take your hands away now," Marchioness told her kindly. "The bleeding's stopped because the wound has closed. He's going to be fine."

The woman's head snapped up. "What? You healed him? But you didn't even touch him."

Vicky's grin stretched the corners of her mouth. "Nope. She's cool like that."

The woman bent over her husband again. "Danny? Danny, can you hear me?"

"Ow." His tone was heartfelt as he opened his eyes.

"Are you still in pain? Where does it hurt?" She looked up at Marchioness. "Help him, please!"

"No, it's fine," he grunted, sitting up. "Landed on my keys. I'm gonna have a really funny-shaped bruise there tomorrow. Ow."

"Dad!" The girl's relief was obvious. "You're okay!"

"Well, I am now, yeah. What happened?"

"Ladies and gentleman, allow me to introduce Marchioness." Vicky gestured at the girl in the evening gown. "She's the one you can thank for this."

"Oh. Wow." The skinny girl got up and, along with her mother, helped her father to his feet. Together, they looked like the unlikely survivors of a massacre, all three of them liberally bedaubed with blood, but Vicky took it as given that they were fine. "Hi, I'm Taylor. I'm really pleased to meet you. And thanks for saving my dad's life." She offered her hand, then hesitated when she realised that it was covered in drying blood.

"That's okay," Marchioness replied. Firmly, she took Taylor's hand and shook it anyway. "I understand that you're part of my father's protection plan so really, I had an obligation to come and do what I could."

"Well, I don't care why you did it," Taylor's mother told Marchioness. "I'm just glad that you did."

"That's okay," Marchioness said again. "Look, he's going to be a little weak, so when you get him home, make sure he has a large meal and plenty of fluids. His body needs to replenish all that. All right?"

"Yes, yes, of course," the woman replied, nodding. "Thank you again."

"And from me too," the man – Danny, Vicky seemed to recall – added. "It sort of got fuzzy after I got stabbed, but I'm feeling all right now. I'm really glad you were here. Who did you say you were?"

"I'm Marchioness," was the reply. "Marquis' daughter."

Danny paused as this sank in. "You're a supervillain's daughter, but you're a hero."

Marchioness paused. "Not … as such," she said at last. "I heal people, but usually I get paid to do it."

<><>​

"Brandish, kindly calm down a moment," Marquis urged. His expression was polite, but Sarah got the distinct impression that he was enjoying himself hugely. "You're not arresting myself or my men tonight. We both know that. If you take away who's actually paying these men, they've performed a public service here. These people were saved from a mugging. If anyone deserves arresting, it's the gang members."

"Two of whom are dead and the rest injured to one degree or another," argued Brandish. "They're in no state to defend themselves, physically or verbally."

"They were injured and killed by my men, who were defending others from their attack," Marquis reminded her. "I am, as I told you once before, ridiculously rich. I can and will pay for the very best lawyers to defend them. You would end up as a laughing-stock."

Sarah took Carol's arm once more. "Leave it," she murmured. "He's got you, and he knows it. Now he's just playing with you."

"Yeah, but he'll just get to walk away," gritted Carol in an undertone. "Again."

"But he's done nothing wrong, here," Sarah reminded her. "And in fact, his men did come to the rescue of these people. And his daughter apparently saved that man's life."

Carol turned and looked at where the girl in the evening dress was speaking to the rescued family. "His daughter?"

"That's what he said."

"Well, that's not right."

"What?" But Sarah was speaking to empty air; Carol was already making her way over to where the four people stood.

<><>​

"- but I usually get paid to do it."

For Claire, it felt just a little weird to be speaking to Taylor via her Marchioness identity. She and the other two had become fast friends in the time they had known each other. It felt as though Taylor would see through her deception at any second, but of course she would not. In this persona, she was a few inches taller and a little more slender; her face was different, her hair was different and even her voice was different.

In fact, the oddest part was the look of hero-worship on Taylor's face. She was used to Taylor grinning, crossing her eyes, wrinkling her nose or sticking her tongue out at her. Acting as though she were just a normal person, in fact. Being treated as something special by her made Claire feel just a little uncomfortable in the role for the first time.

She felt Brandish approaching from the back, but did not react. I don't like her, but don't do anything to her. However, when the hand grabbed her shoulder to pull her around, the skin to skin contact overwhelmed the tight restraint she was keeping on her power.

"Ow, Christ!" blurted the superhero, jerking her hand back as though it had been burned. And in fact, large red welts were rising on the skin of her palm and fingers. "What the fuck did you do?"

Claire looked her up and down coolly. "Nothing. You performed an act of assault on me. Please don't do it again."

Lady Photon caught up with Brandish and captured her hand. "How the heck did you do that? Acid?"

"No." Claire told her bluntly. "She touched me without my permission. I'm a healer, but healing isn't all that I do."

"Leave her alone!" Taylor told the heroes. "She wasn't doing anything wrong. She saved my dad's life."

"She really did," Mega Girl said. "She's not a villain like her dad." But her body sang with tension; if this turned ugly, not even Claire knew which way she would jump.

"Everyone, calm down," Annette urged, and Claire mentally blessed her. She sent a wave of her power out; the words affected them, making them actually want to calm down. "I'm sure that it was just a mistake. Marchioness, can you heal her?"

"I can," Claire replied. "But I don't know if I should. The swelling will go down overnight, but she'll be reminded to not grab me ever again." She looked at Brandish. "Why did you grab me, anyway?"

Brandish was clutching her stricken hand with the other, but her eyes on Claire were intent. "Because you're not who you say you are."

Claire blinked. Oh boy. "I'm Marchioness. Who should I be?"

Brandish pointed her uninjured hand at Marquis. "Not his daughter, for a start."

Marquis raised a cultured eyebrow. "Preposterous."

"Uh, yes, I really am," Claire assured the older woman.

"Uh, where are you going with this?" asked Lady Photon.

"You remember when we last faced Marquis?" snapped Brandish. "He brought his daughter out. Her face was different, her hair was different. This is not that girl."

"Yes. I am." Claire's voice was definite. "I remember that night. I was holding my favourite pillow. You were the shouty one."

Lady Photon did her best not to snicker. "Well, she's got you there," she murmured.

"But your hair, your face. You're different!"

Claire raised her eyebrow in imitation of her father. "And what's to say that I'm not allowed to change my look? Say, because a bunch of superheroes are likely to burst in and try to kidnap me?" She turned to Taylor. "Does that sound like a good reason to you?"

"Uh, yeah," Taylor replied. "Wait, did that actually -"

"Yes. Long story, sorry. Otherwise, I'd love to tell you all about it." Claire looked over at Brandish. "So yes, I am Marquis' daughter, but even if I wasn't, it seriously wouldn't be any of your business."

Mega Girl cleared her throat. "Um, I've been meaning to ask. What was that about the table … ?"

Marquis hid a smile; Claire snickered outright. "Oh god, yes. We have a videotape that we pull out and watch every Christmas." She saw Brandish's eyes widen, the anger building in her once more.

But it was Lady Photon who spoke. "You … have a tape?"

"Why, yes, dear lady," Marquis replied genially. "Along with the burglar alarms, I had a whole series of security cameras installed, hooked up to a bank of video recorders. It took a little while to cut and splice the action, but I assure you, it was well worth the effort."

The look of dawning horror on both adult members of the Brigade made it quite clear that both of them recalled far too much of that event to be comfortable with knowing that there was a physical record of it.

Once again, Lady Photon spoke up. "Uh … with that tape in your possession … it's potentially quite damaging …"

"Oh, it would be horrendously damaging to the Brigade in the wrong hands," Marquis agreed cheerfully. "But in case you're wondering why I never tried to use it against you? The answer is quite simple. In order to do that, I would have to first consider you a threat."

His delivery of the line was perfect, the sting in the tail biting deep. Both Brandish and Lady Photon winced; Marquis' expression never shifted, but he managed to look quite pleased with himself all the same.

Lady Photon rallied first. "About these gang members," she managed. "Some are still alive. Marchioness, it's your duty as a healer …"

"Let me stop you right there," Claire cut her off. "I'm not a medical professional. I have exactly zero obligation toward men who got hurt trying to harm or kill innocents. More to the point, I don't like them. However, to save your sensibilities, the ones who are still alive are going to stay that way. But I won't actually heal their injuries for them. Let 'em do that the old-fashioned way."

"And thank you for the reminder, Marchioness dear," Marquis cut in. He stepped over to the Heberts. "Sir, I believe that you contracted with my men for protection just before you were attacked?"

Danny nodded. "Uh, yes. Sir. Thank you for your assistance."

Marquis made a throwaway gesture. "Think nothing of it. Really. The point here is that you were attacked and injured while under my protection." Reaching up to his lapel, he removed the tiny gold "M" pin that normally resided there. "Wear this while you're in my territory. Any of my men who see it will be required to offer you all assistance and protection." He gestured to Annette and Taylor. "Your wife and child are included, of course."

Danny's hand closed over the pin. "I … thank you." He paused, looking at the superheroes. "This doesn't break some kind of law, does it?"

Brandish sighed, aggravated. "No. It doesn't."

"Well then." Marquis took Danny's unresisting hand and shook it. "Take care, Mr Hebert."

He was just turning away when Danny spoke up. "Wait. I never told you my last name."

"No. You didn't." Marquis met Danny's gaze. "I know people who know people. And those people say that you're trying to fix this city. I approve."

Turning, he offered his arm to Claire. "Marchioness."

She took it. "Marquis."

"Shall we go?"

A smile. "It's a lovely night for a walk."

Together, flanked by the men, they walked off. Inside, Claire was mentally bracing herself.

Oh boy, when Taylor gets back to me about this, she's gonna talk my ear off.

And you know something? That's okay.


End of Part Nine

Part Ten

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Ten: Escalation



[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Marquis

Claire leaned back against the car seat as Jonas pulled the vehicle away from the curb. "That was … kind of weird."

"In what way, Claire-bear?" asked Earl. He removed the long brown wig from his head and ran his hands through his shorter auburn hair to lift it off his scalp. As he did so, the bone structure of his face gradually reshaped itself. She gave him a suspicious look as he leaned forward, pulling his bottom eyelid down slightly. He began to wonder if she had gotten wise to his trick of using her pet name to put her off guard.

"You know what way, Dad."

"Certainly," he agreed as he licked the tip of his pinky finger. Carefully, he dabbed at his left eye, coming away with a contact lens which he carefully deposited in its container. He didn't like to use the things, but the Earl Marchant identity was one that he wanted to protect. "But I think you need to talk it out. Tonight was the first time you've encountered someone in your powered identity who also knows you in your unpowered identity."

"You know, I could help you with that," she said as she watched with interest.

"It's a little late," he pointed out as he repeated the process with his right eye. "The crisis is over."

She chuckled, as if he'd made a joke. "No, I meant I could've made the lenses just jump out on to your hand if you wanted. Here, check this out." She waited until he was watching, then flexed her hand. Fur grew, to be replaced by scales and then feathers, emerging from her hand and melting back into it just as quickly. "Or how about this?" Her next alteration left her with midnight-black skin from the wrist down, on an emaciated-looking hand. Her nails retracted, then re-emerged as inch-long razor-edged claws of the same ebon hue, with an oddly glittering sheen to them.

"That's … impressive," he said, eyeing the dangerous-looking talons with respect. "And yes, I'll remember that for next time. But where did you get the idea of that from?" He could guess where the fur and feathers had originated from, but he had never heard of any creature with that combination of skin and terrifying talons.

"Remember the Aliens marathon we watched last week?" She grinned, clicking the tips of the talons together, then scraping them against one another. It was an exceedingly unsettling sound.

"Right. Well, now I'm definitely impressed. So, what's it for, exactly?" He wondered if she had any idea how scary it looked.

"I'm working on a theoretical form designed for high-intensity combat," Claire explained seriously. She flexed her index finger, then held up the claw to the light. "I've figured out how to weave carbon nanotubes into my skin to reinforce it, and I've done the same for my bones. I've also figured out how to make nerves that are much more efficient than this clunky old setup that evolution left behind for us, and I've put nanotubes into the connective tissue so it's nowhere near as fragile." She paused, looking at him. "Um, you know what nanotubes are, right?"

"Assume I haven't been following all the literature," he suggested. He didn't know a damn thing about them, but he wasn't about to admit that to Claire.

"Okay," she said. "I read out about nanotubes in Popular Science, and I've been experimenting to see if I can make them. Apparently I can." She made that unsettling noise with the nails again. "They're amazingly strong for their weight. I've blended diamond and nanotubes to make the nails, and with the edge only one molecule thick, it's scary sharp. Plus, behind each nail, I've got a reservoir filled with liquid – get this – batrachatoxin." She grinned again, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Say that ten times fast."

"I think I shall pass, my dear," he said austerely. "What does that mean, anyway?"

"It's a South American poison arrow frog venom. The nanotubes actually deliver it to the edges of the claw." She flexed the finger slightly; as he watched, a thick liquid started to bead in the light around the edges of the claw. "There's enough there to kill about fifty people, more or less. And with enough muscle behind it, I figure that I could put it through the skin of a mid-level Brute."

"And now you can put that away right now, young lady," he stated firmly, carefully watching the glistening liquid. Sitting in a moving car next to the equivalent of several dozen bullets aimed at his heart didn't appeal to him. Not that he disapproved of her initiative. Being defensive with her powers was one thing. It appeared that she could be extremely offensive as well, if she needed to. Good. She's growing into her powers. However, as tempting as it was to go into an in-depth discussion of exactly how to optimise her ability to modify her own body, there was still the previous topic to discuss. "We still need to talk about what just happened."

"Sorry, Dad," she said, flushing slightly. A moment later, she had reversed the metamorphosis; as he watched, the inky black faded away into normal pink healthy skin. The talons went next, retracting into Claire's fingertips. Underneath were her normal nails, with a peach-coloured sheen over the top.

If I didn't know better, I'd swear that was freshly applied nail polish. She's good. "That's all right. You're working out new tricks with your power. That's a good thing. But as I was just saying, this was the first time you've met someone as Marchioness who knows you as Claire. Am I correct?"

"Yeah." She leaned back and sighed, allowing her body to ease back into what she considered to be her base form. Her midnight-black hair retracted into her scalp, to be replaced by curly auburn locks growing at a vastly accelerated rate. When the process was done, she was a little shorter, a little stockier and a little plainer. She looked over at her father. "That ever happen to you, back in the day?"

"Very rarely," he admitted. "I didn't have so many … civilian contacts who were also likely to come into contact with Marquis. But this isn't about me. It's about you. How do you feel about what just happened?" He knew it had to be a little jarring, which was why he was bringing it up. Claire needed to acclimatise herself to the idea.

"Like I said, it's weird," she said frankly. "I've known Taylor since school started. Her dad's a good guy and her mom's really sweet. I'm used to them treating me in a certain way. Taylor sees me as a person, as a friend, not as a hero. But tonight … well, she was looking at me as though she wanted to be me. Or, you know, study at my feet or something. Like I was something bigger and better than I really am. I felt like a fraud. That part sucked." Her eyes searched his, looking for affirmation. "Do you ever get used to it?"

"I did, years ago. I had to, given that it's part and parcel of being a cape," he explained patiently. "When we put on our costumes and go out there, we project an image. We show ourselves as larger than life. It's what those tights and bright primary colours are all about."

"So she wasn't looking at me-me," she said, realisation lighting up her face. "She was looking at the image I was projecting."

"Precisely," he agreed, pleased that she was understanding this so quickly. "The reason we're comfortable with showing this image to strangers is because we have no baseline of experience with said strangers. It's when we encounter our mundane friends that the cognitive dissonance occurs. As you've noted, we're used to being treated a certain way by those we know well. When someone you know treats you like a totally different person, that can cause things to feel, as you so succinctly put it, weird."

"Yes, exactly," she agreed. "That's totally how I feel. How do you deal with it?" The look she gave him suggested that he should know exactly how to solve the conundrum; if not age-old, it was certainly older than she was.

Amused, he snorted. "That's the big question. Some people rather enjoy the feeling, and so the problem is moot for them. Others do their best to avoid their friends and relatives, to keep the two worlds separate. Some, of course, let their nearest and dearest in on the secret. But if you're unwilling to do any of that, or if you've already met your friends while in costume …" Then things can get convoluted.

"As we just did," she pointed out with a mischievous smile.

He tilted his head to acknowledge the point. "Exactly. In this case, I suggest that you cultivate a certain mental division of identity. Be sure to remind yourself which face you are showing before you blurt out something potentially revealing. Having Marchioness ask Taylor if she's finished her English assignment probably won't end well for your secret identity. And if you ever decide to start sharing it, it's essential that you keep track of who knows it and who doesn't."

"Oh." Her face fell somewhat. "I thought there was going to be more to it than that. A power thing, maybe. Or some cool secret cape technique."

With a chuckle, he playfully ruffled her hair. "You should know by now, my dear Claire, things are not always easy. Our powers can't be used to solve everything, even though yours are very useful indeed."

She batted his hand away. "Which reminds me. Do you always carry a disguise kit in the car?"

"Certainly," he said cheerfully. "You didn't always have your powers, you know. And even now that you do, I'm not so foolish as to depend on you to always be on hand. I used to carry a kit to make me look like Earl Marchant at a moment's notice. Now I carry a kit to make me look like Marquis." He touched his cheekbone. "And before you ask, yes, it hurts, but I can do it. It's just not as easy as you make it look."

"That's because I change the shape of the muscles and skin at the same time as the bone," she informed him dryly. "For me, it looks easy because it is. My power does all the heavy lifting. All I've really got to do is tell it what I want the end result to be."

"Hm," he replied, intrigued. "So, that combat claw you showed me. Do you have an idea of what the whole body would look like, and would it be viable to apply it to another person for an extended amount of time?" The suddenly thoughtful look on her face had him smiling. Oh, yeah. Haven't thought of all the tricks yet.

"Um, kind of," she said after a moment of consideration. "Anyone I made the change to, I'd have to be on hand to change them back or they'd starve to death in only a few days. Because it's a purely combat form, the digestive system is just more organs to be damaged in a fight, so I'd leave them out altogether. For myself, I can simply add nutrition as needed, but that doesn't work for anyone else."

Earl frowned. "That's not … it usually takes weeks to starve. Why would it take days?" Claire, he knew, did not make definitive statements like that on a whim.

"Because along with the enhanced reflexes, I 'd be boosting the metabolism through the roof," she explained. "I could possibly make the skin solar absorbent, but that wouldn't totally solve the problem, and the skin structure would be compromised as a result." She grinned impishly at him. "Besides, dead black skin means nobody would see me coming at night, and in the daytime I'd be scary as heck."

He raised his eyebrows, interested in how far she had thought this through. "I'm presuming that your face would be unrecognisable."

Earnestly, she nodded. "Well, yeah. I'm thinking of a predator head type, with a muzzle, like a lion or a wolf. I'd make it a little bigger than mine, with a secondary braincase. Connective tissue and shock absorbent fluid between the main skull and the braincase. Lots of teeth. Same sort of deal as the claws, with a layer of enamel just to show up against the blackness and make it look even scarier. You think glowing eyes would be too much?"

He snorted, imagining the effect of meeting such a fanged, clawed nightmare would have on the average street punk. "I suspect that you would utterly cure some people of the bad habit of hanging about in dark alleys."

"Oh, good," she giggled, obviously pleased at his praise. "This is more a thought experiment than anything else, of course. I mean, it's not something that I'll really be able to apply to any of your guys long-term, and as for myself, I prefer the Marchioness form. I'm not really interested in being a scary vigilante of the night. But I've already thought of some useful applications for Jonas' next body upgrade." She raised her voice slightly. "I think you'll like them, Jonas."

"I'm sure I will, chick," the bodyguard's voice rumbled from the driver's seat.

"Well, however you think of it, I suggest you keep working at it," Earl said honestly. "Your power is extremely versatile; in my honest opinion, you should never throw away the option of being able to utterly terrify your enemies." His smile was a little nostalgic; thinking back, he recalled putting the fear of God into more than one adversary over the years. Which was well and good; if they backed off, he didn't have to kill them.

"Well, I suppose so," she conceded, then shot him a grin. "Mind you, there's something that no amount of power is going to save me from."

One arched, elegant eyebrow rose. "Oh? What's that?"

<><>​

The Next Night
The Hebert Household
Claire

"Seriously, Claire, you should've seen them!" Taylor rose on to her knees on her bed, face flushed with excitement. She waved her hands to emphasise her words. "They were badass as hell!"

Claire nodded, working at keeping the awe-struck expression on her face as she sat cross-legged on the bed, leaning back against the wall. Emma sat at the other end, with Taylor between them. "Wow, Taylor. I wish I'd been there." She paused. "Well, maybe not there there."

Beside her, Emma nodded vigorously. "Being mugged like that. Brr." Claire could tell that her shudder was not entirely an act. "I have no idea what I'd do in a situation like that. Scream and run away, I think."

"Yeah, but no, I mean after Marquis and Marchioness showed up." Taylor's voice was alight with enthusiasm. Claire was close enough to her that she was able to feel the currents of emotion in Taylor's brain; amazingly enough, although there was still a little buried trauma, she was bouncing back fast from the majority of what had happened to her.

Claire tilted her head. "So why didn't you? Run away, I mean? I mean, you can run faster than anyone I know." She knew why, of course, but Taylor needed to talk it out, even if she didn't know it.

Taylor shook her head. "I couldn't leave Mom and Dad. And I might have run into more of them. So yeah. But wow, Marquis was all cool and so totally in charge of the whole deal. His men were pretty cool too, in a really-scary-but-on-your-side type of way, you know? Soon as Dad pulled out the money, they were all about protecting us. I mean, Dad got hurt, but I got to save his life." Her voice had dropped to a whisper, as if she couldn't believe what she was saying.

"Yeah, wow, that's all kinds of awesome," Emma agreed. "I mean, how many people out there can say they've saved their dad's life?" The look that she gave Taylor was partly envious and partly sympathetic. "Though it must have really sucked at the time."

"Well, from what you told me, you really did save his life," Claire said. "I've done first aid courses, and one of the things they tell you is that keeping pressure on a wound until help arrives is one of the really, really big things you can do to keep someone alive." She acted out a shudder. "Even if blood is kind of icky and gross."

"Yeah, I thought so too," Taylor confided, looking at her hands as if seeing them anew. "But I didn't even think about taking my hands away, you know? I mean, it was Dad. Mom was busy keeping him awake and so I had to do it. And I was all kinds of scared that I was doing it wrong, but now I'm really glad I did it. I want to do first aid too."

"Yeah, me too," Emma chimed in. "Being able to save someone's life with it … wow." Her tone was definitely admiring.

"So what happened then?" Emma was sitting forward expectantly, her eyes alight with interest. "I mean, sure, we know your dad's all right, but how?"

"Okay." Taylor tucked her knees under herself. "This is where it gets insane. So the Marquis guys have totally wrecked the Empire assholes, right? Mom's talking to Dad, I've got my hands on the stab wound. Next thing, the Brockton Bay Brigade showed up. Mega Girl, Brandish and Lady Photon. Brandish is all 'Imma arresting you' to the Marquis guys, right up until Marquis and Marchioness drive up. Marquis just walks on over and goes 'no you're not'. At least that's what I think they were saying. I kinda had my hands full."

"So was there a fight?" Claire felt a little bad about interrupting the story, but she could tell that Taylor was enjoying herself hugely. "I read somewhere that before he left the city, he beat them lots of times."

"Nope, no fight, sorry." Taylor glanced from Claire to Emma and back again. "You know how I said it got insane? It got insaner. Marchioness is like nineteen or so, and her costume's an evening gown. She walked up and stood there chatting to Mega Girl, who's actually pretty cool too, and Dad's stab wound basically closed right up. I thought it was something really bad, like his heart had stopped or something, but it turned out that she'd just healed him. Like a frickin' boss."

"What, without even touching him?" Emma looked deeply impressed. "That is actually kinda awesome."

"You're telling me?" Taylor fell over backward on to the bed. "I was there and I'm still not sure if I believe it." She raised herself on to her elbows and snorted. "Oh, god. Then Brandish came over and started getting in Marchioness' face. She was saying something about Marchioness not being Marquis' kid, or something. They shut her down pretty hard on that one, then they just … strolled off. I think Brandish wanted to go after them, but Lady Photon wouldn't let her."

Claire hid a snicker at the memory. Lady Photon and Mega Girl had both accepted pretty quickly that they weren't going to get anywhere. The look on Brandish's face when she realised the same thing had been a thing of beauty.

"So what was Marquis like?" she asked. "I mean, he's like forty or fifty or something, isn't he?" A movement at the doorway caused her to look over that way; she saw her father standing there. She raised her eyebrows questioningly. He shook his head slightly; if she was reading things right, they weren't going quite yet. Casually, she went on, "Some say he might even be sixty." If she had any doubt that he hadn't heard what had gone before, this was dispelled by the sharp raising of his eyebrows. She grinned impudently at him and went on. "He left Brockton Bay like more than ten years ago, didn't he?" With a look that promised future retribution, he turned and left, unnoticed by both of the other girls. She didn't snigger, but it was an effort.

"God, no," Taylor said, rolling her head from side to side on the covers. "He wouldn't be any more than thirty or maybe a young looking forty. He hasn't got any grey hairs. Well, maybe he dyes it or something. Definitely not any older than my dad or yours, or yours, Emma."

Claire made a mental note. Maybe Dad needs to start showing signs of age. Even if they are only cosmetic. In his non-Marquis form, anyway.

"So, the really important question," Emma said firmly. "This is life or death, Taylor. Did you, or did you not, get Mega Girl's autograph?" She stared at her taller friend expectantly.

Taylor sat up abruptly, as if she were propelled like a spring. "I knew I forgot something!" she exclaimed. Bounding off the bed, she retrieved her purse from the top drawer of her dresser. "Check it out." With a flourish, she snapped the purse open and delved into one of the pockets. Claire wasn't quite sure what to expect, and so she was mildly disappointed when Taylor produced what looked like a simple business card.

"Umm …" began Emma. "Is that signed? Because I can't see." Claire could hear the curiosity in her tone.

Taylor grinned widely and turned her hand. Claire saw that there were actually three cards there; when Taylor fanned them out, it became obvious that all three had been autographed. "Oh yeah," Taylor told them triumphantly. "I am such a good friend, I got my besties one each as well. So do I rock or do I rock?"

Emma's eyes opened wide, and she let out such a high-pitched squeal that Claire automatically adjusted her ears to protect herself. "Holy shit, Taylor! For reals?"

"As real as it gets, Ems," Taylor declared, swaggering over to the bed. She handed Emma one card and gave another to Claire, before plumping herself back down.

"You do kind of rock," Claire admitted, looking the card over. On the one side was scribbled 'Mega Girl' and on the other was a printed toll-free number for the Brockton Bay Brigade. "And she just signed these for you? Just from you asking?"

"Hey, she seemed a bit surprised that I even asked," Taylor said. "But once I convinced her that I wasn't joking, she asked me how many I wanted." She shrugged, then grinned. "So of course I thought of my two besties. She said something about getting cards printed with her signature on them, like Marchioness does."

"What, really?" Emma paused in her gloating over the autograph to stare at Taylor. "Marchioness is giving out autographs too?"

Um. Crap. Claire tried to think. Did I make a mistake in presenting my image? For the most part, she didn't think so; when consulted, her father had not second-guessed her decisions. Spandex was not something that suited the image of Marchioness, daughter of Marquis, and so she had gone with the evening dress. Culture and refinement were the watchwords that she and her father were aiming for, and she'd thought they had succeeded. Except that I overdid it with the cards. She'd been intending to appear 'cool and interesting' by handing out cards with her signature printed on them … and now, one of her best friends was describing them as 'autographs'. Dammit.

"Oh, yeah," Taylor said cheerfully. "Mega Girl had one. She showed me. Said it was the coolest thing she ever got." Which cheered Claire up a little, but not by a huge amount.

"I think it would be weird to get an autograph from a supervillain," Emma mused. "What do you think, Claire? You're awful quiet over there." She gave Claire a bright, inquisitive look.

"Well, from what Taylor's been saying, I dunno if you'd even call Marchioness a villain," Claire ventured. Don't lay it on too thick, now. "I mean, she healed Mr Hebert. What villain does that?"

"Fair point," conceded Emma. "Tails? You've met Marchioness. Hero or villain?"

Taylor fell back on the bed once more. "Dunno," she said from her prone position. "Her dad's a villain, and she stood by him. I mean, from what I saw. Brandish really wanted to bust his balls, so I think there's some history there. She came out and healed Dad, so that's kind of heroic. And Mega Girl said something about her being paid to go and sit in the waiting room of the Brockton Bay General, so that's kinda rogue-ish?"

"Right," Claire decided, as dryly as she could manage. "So what we have here is a heroic villain who's kind of like a rogue. Yeah, that clears it all up."

Emma threw the pillow at her.

<><>​

Dallon Household
Victoria

The front door lock clicked; without hesitating, Victoria Dallon levitated straight up from the sofa and performed a mid-air twisting backflip to land on her feet in front of the door. "And what sort of hour do you call this to come home, young lady?" she asked mock-sternly as the door opened.

Her mother was the first one in. She looked a little better than she had that morning, but there were still lines of stress around her eyes. She gave Victoria a weary hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Nice try, dear, but not the time," she advised her daughter. "I'm going to have a shower and go to bed."

"You do that, honey," Mark Dallon said. "I'll be up in a little while." As his wife climbed the stairs, he turned to Victoria. "Have you eaten?"

She nodded. "Yeah, Dad. Microwaved an instant meal out of the freezer. Then I stole one of Mom's pudding cups." She paused, listening. When there was no call from upstairs, she went on. "Wow, she must be really out of it. Normally when I say that, she yells at me from three rooms away."

"As she said, it's not the best time to tease her," Mark said. "Last night kicked over some buried issues, and she spent more time than I'd like stewing over it after it was all done. So she's had to go see her therapist again today, and I took her for a meal on the Boardwalk afterward, to decompress from the therapy."

Victoria grimaced. "A bit rough, huh?" She knew how her mom's issues could be; the therapy had helped a lot, but there were still some deep-seated issues that that she was dealing with. She could keep things together for the most part, but when certain buttons got pressed, her old problems had a habit of showing up again out of the blue. I know Mom hates Marquis. I'm just not sure why. It can't be just because he's a villain. She doesn't act this way around other villains.

"Rougher than it's been for a while," he admitted, running his hand through his hair. "I'm pretty wiped too, and I'm just the one who sat there and held her hand."

Victoria raised an eyebrow. "Mainly so she wouldn't pop a blade and cut the guy's desk in half?" Mark gave her a wry grin. "I refuse to confirm or deny. Anyway, she only did it the once."

"Yeah, but once is way too many times for most people." Victoria gave her father a hug. "You're doing good work. Saving the world, one desk at a time."

Returning the hug, he snorted a laugh. "I guess I've heard worse battle cries. Listen, I'm going to wait for your mom to finish her shower before I have one myself and go to bed. Try not to stay up past nine, okay?"

"I was about done here anyway, now that the parental units have returned." She floated up and kissed him on the forehead. "Night, Dad. Give Mom a hug for me."

"I'll do that, Vicky girl. And before I forget, thanks." Taking her hand, he squeezed it.

"For what? Waiting up for you?" She shrugged, trying to figure out how to put it into words. "You guys are the most important people in the world to me. Think I'd just go to bed and forget about you?"

He smiled at the compliment, although she'd really meant it as a statement of fact. "Well, that and how patient you're being with me and your mom, with the stress she's going through right now. We really do appreciate it."

"Well, given that I lack a magic super-power just to make you feel good out of the blue, this is gonna have to do," she told him, squeezing his hand right back. "Night, Dad. Love you."

"Night, Vicky girl." Letting go of her hand, he headed up the stairs.

She watched him go, then started to tidy up, humming softly to herself. Mom's gonna be okay. Me and Dad are gonna make sure of it.

<><>​

Claire stretched out in the back of the limousine and kicked her shoes off. "That was nice. Thanks for letting me make sure that they were okay." She wriggled her toes, enjoying the sensation.

Earl nodded seriously. "They do seem to have come through it remarkably intact. Although, if I'm not much mistaken, Annette's going to be wrapping Danny in cotton wool for quite some time to come." He chuckled. "He seems to be torn between enjoying the attention and being annoyed at the over-protectiveness."

"I saw that, yes," Claire said with a giggle. She sat up, tucking her legs under herself. "Taylor's doing well, too. In fact, she wants to meet Marchioness again, so she can get some of the signed business cards." Leaning back against the seat, she smiled. "Mega Girl autographed some of the Brigade's cards for her. She was rapt, and I think Emma's going to frame hers."

Earl raised an eyebrow. "I'm reasonably sure that you didn't come up with the idea of the signed card as a way to give out autographs."

"Hah. No." Claire rolled her eyes. "But if that's the way they're taking it, I guess that's the way it's going to happen. It's not like I can stop them from thinking that way." She caught her father's amused glance. "Well, okay, yes I can, but I'm not about to do that. Not to Taylor and Emma. It's harmless, and they're my friends."

Leaning across, he put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently. "I'm very proud of you, Claire. You're really showing maturity and restraint with your powers."

She put her hand on his and returned the gesture. "I had a good teacher. Several, in fact." Turning to him, she let her voice become more serious. "So how did the discussion of the Boat Graveyard initiative go?"

He sighed. "The mayor's office is still being problematic. Even if the city doesn't have to pony up quite so much money to make it happen, I'm reasonably sure that there are people in that building who have a vested interest in making sure that the ferry doesn't run. If only because it would interfere with their own pet projects." A look of irritation crossed his face as he laced his fingers together behind his neck. "It almost makes me wonder if it's worth it to pay some of them a midnight visit."

"To convince them or to disappear them?" asked Claire with interest. "And if you do, can I come along?"

He shot her a startled glance. "Claire-bear, I was only making small-talk. It was a joke."

"Dad, I've known for years what sort of things you used to do back in the day," Claire said patiently. "Just like I know what nearly happened to me the night the Brigade broke into our home. You never told me up front, but I figured it all out." She gave him a winning smile.

"Well, I don't do that sort of thing any more." He heaved an aggravated sigh. "And in any case, I'm not about to drag you into it. You're only thirteen, for God's sake."

"Yeah, I'm thirteen." She rolled her eyes, to go along with the sarcastic tone. "I'm not a little kid any more. I've killed people. Made their bodies break down and fall apart. Like it or not, Dad, I've already been dragged into it by the guys who killed Damien. Remember?"

His tone was pleading as he spoke again. "Yes, but I don't want you to jump into it feet-first. I want you to go to school, have fun with your friends, and actually enjoy your teenage years. Too many capes just don't get to do that."

"Sure, but I can do that and still help you out," she argued. "We can call it a 'father-daughter social project'." The concept struck her as funny. "Though I'm pretty sure the school won't put it toward my academic credit."

"If it did, I'd be strongly considering transferring you to another school," he retorted, sounding somewhat amused. Then he sighed again. "Very well. You may accompany me if and possibly when I seek to alter the attitude of any of the more intransigent of the Mayor's colleagues."

"You know, I could do it more easily than you could," she pointed out guilelessly. "And they wouldn't even need to remember that it had happened."

He raised his eyebrow, giving her a very dry stare. "You do realise, you're taking all the joy out of being a ruthless crime lord. Striking terror into the hearts of those who oppose you is part of the fun of the job."

I suppose he's got a point. "So you scare the people who need to remember not to mess with you," she suggested. "I can handle the ones who just need to have their attitudes changed a little."

She'd meant it more light-heartedly than anything else, but he seemed to take the concept seriously. "I do believe that you might have something there," he said slowly. "On that note, I have a meeting scheduled at Somer's Rock tomorrow with Kaiser. If you wish to attend, I can contact the school and advise them that you are ill."

"Really?" She leaned toward him, eyes alight with interest. "Is he looking to apologise for sending his men into your territory?"

"Not as such," he admitted, expression pensive. "He flat-out denied that they were even members of the Empire, though he did suggest that some of them might have been ex-members. This meeting is so he can look me in the eye and assure me that he's not intruding on my territory. I'd like you along so you can advise me of the truth of his assertions. If he's telling the truth, we find out who's trying to provoke us into a war and deal with them."

"And if he's talking through his ass?" Claire raised her eyebrows, trying to imitate her father without cheating by way of activating individual muscles.

Her father's face set into harsher lines than the normal; unusually for him, he did not rebuke her for bad language. "Well then, Claire-bear. We show him the error of his ways."

The expression on Claire's face might have been called a smile by someone who had never seen one before. "And not a moment before time."

They both settled back to contemplate their thoughts; Claire began to wonder if it would simply be easier to alter the Empire leader's attitudes. Of course, it would have to be subtle so that nobody around him noticed the difference until it was too late. A minute passed, the only sound in the car coming from the muted noise of tyres on asphalt.

"Speaking of time." His voice was softer now, with an amused undertone. "I believe I have something to raise with you, regarding how old I was supposed to be as Marquis. Was it fifty or sixty that you finally settled on?"

Ah, crap. Talk fast. "I was just kidding around, you know? They don't know I'm Marchioness, and they definitely don't know that you're Marquis. It was just a joke."

"So I see." Claire could read the pattern of emotions in his brain; even though she could tell he was more amused than angry, she wasn't exactly sure that this was a good thing. "Never let it be said that I don't appreciate a good joke. Why, I'm falling over laughing on the inside."

She eyed his deadpan expression, and failed to be reassured. "So, uh, you're not mad?"

"No, I'm not angry." His expression had not changed. Nor had the tone of his emotions. "But if you do it again, you may just find out that you're not too old to be spanked. Or grounded. There is a certain amount of respect due to one's father, after all."

Spanked? Really? Claire had not been spanked in years; if she thought about it at all, she'd decided that it was because she hadn't earned any punishments. He's joking, right? "You wouldn't. Would you?"

"Oh, Claire." He chuckled lightly. "I thought you were familiar with my earlier career. Do you know how many people used those exact words to me? And what happened to them thereafter?"

She hadn't dug that far into his past, but from what she had seen, it wasn't hard to connect the dots. Challenging him in that fashion was apparently a very bad idea. Then a brainwave occurred to her. "But … you don't harm women or kids. It's one of your things. And I'm both."

"Also true." His smile widened slightly, and the amount of amusement he was feeling adjusted upward just a little. "However, I'm an old-fashioned sort of man. I don't believe that appropriate discipline meets the definition of 'harm'."

"Oh. Um." She paused for a long moment. "Then, uh, would a sincere apology be in order?" Watching her expectantly, he didn't say a word. "Uh, right. I'm sorry that I made fun of your age in front of Taylor and Emma. I won't do it again."

"Apology accepted, Claire-bear," he said quietly. "And no, I'm not mad. I could never be angry with you." Reaching out, he clasped her hand. "Discipline, yes. Anger, no."

She could tell that he was speaking the exact truth. "Thanks. I'll try to be good from now on."

The burst of amusement startled her. "'Good' be damned, young lady. Be smart. Plan your battles accordingly, or the last opponent you face will be someone who's better at planning than you."

She blinked, a little taken aback by the shift in attitude. "Is that from Sun Tzu?" She'd been reading The Art of War now and again, more because it was on the bookshelf than for any other reason.

"Hm? No, that's all me." He squeezed her hand. "You do realise that there is no physical discipline that I can inflict on you that you would not be able to stop me from doing with a wave of your hand?"

He was, of course, entirely correct. However … "But I couldn't do that to you, Dad. I mean … you're my dad."

Even if she hadn't been monitoring his brain, she probably still would have caught the wave of love and affection that washed through him. "And you're my Claire-bear," he replied gently. "And I will do my damnedest to make sure that you never have to use your powers to fight, ever again."

Impulsively, she undid her seatbelt and scooted across to sit next to him. His arm went around her shoulders, and she leaned into him. "Thanks, Dad. I appreciate it."

"That's okay," he said softly. "Just do me a favour, and don't cast aspersions on Kaiser's age when we meet with him tomorrow, all right? Because if you do that, I don't think I'll be able to keep that promise."

She giggled. "I'll try."

<><>​

Medhall Building
Max Anders

"You're certain there's no other way?" Max hated feeling like he was on the back foot. Events were moving a little faster than he was comfortable with. "We can't come to some accommodation with the man?"

Krieg, in full costume, paced back and forth on the other side of the desk. "With all due respect, Max, you never saw just how good Marquis is. He left Brockton Bay before you took over from your father. I don't know why, and I'm not holding out much hope for being able to make him leave again."

Max frowned. He knew exactly what the phrase 'with all due respect' really meant. "I heard that he was good at what he did."

"That's an understatement, Max." Krieg came to a halt before the desk, his hands flat on the polished wood. "He held his own, with no super-powered assistance, against the worst that the PRT, the Teeth, Galvanate, the Brigade, the Nine and the Empire could throw at him. When he did leave town, it was on his own terms. And now he's back, with parahuman assistance."

"They say she's his daughter," Max said, if only to take back the initiative in the conversation. "Perhaps pressure could be put on him that way?"

"I didn't mean just her," Krieg stated flatly. "Some of the men he's got working for him have low-end Brute and Mover ratings. And not one of the moles we've slipped in to his organisation has been able to find a single actionable piece of information on him, the girl or anyone else. If I didn't know better, I'd think they've got all of them isolated so they can't find anything out."

"I'm going to assume you tried bribery," Max said, starting to get irritated. He disliked being pushed into a corner, and that was what this felt like.

"Of course we tried bribery." Krieg snorted. "Nobody who accepted knew anything. The rest reacted really badly, to the point that we lost people. His organisation's a black box. One that hits back hard."

Max spread his hands. "That isn't a good reason for going overboard like this."

"It really is." Krieg leaned forward slightly. "The Merchants are gone. He walked in and took over without even breaking stride. We know he's stomped on Lung's toes already. It seems to me that he's looking to push everyone out."

"We could broker a deal," Max suggested. The vibe he was getting off Krieg was that once they set events in motion, there was no way back. He wasn't scared as such, but he didn't want to commit himself without checking out the options first. "Work the city as partners, once he's forced the ABB out of town."

Krieg chuckled, as if Max had said something funny. "Certainly we could do that, but we'd have to curtail some of our business practices. Drugs, for one. The man doesn't believe in them. And if we kept our streetwalkers, he'd insist on improving their working conditions and giving them the option of moving up and out of the business. Also, no more beating up on women and kids. No matter what colour they were."

Max blinked a few times, trying to assimilate what he was being told. "Please tell me that this is some sort of joke in extremely bad taste. How the hell can anyone make a profit like that?"

"Apparently, being a one-man organisation cuts way down on overhead," Krieg suggested dryly. "That was how he ran things back in the day. I see no reason to believe that he's changed his ways."

"And we'd have to fall into line with his way of doing things?" Max couldn't see how that would work. "If we do that, it'll bleed us dry. We can't do it."

Krieg nodded, his voice intense. "Exactly my point. We've got two options. Cooperate with him or kill him. Whichever one we choose, we have to go all-out with it. Because if we half-ass it either way, we get him on our case, and I don't want to be the one reacting to what he's doing. Because that way, we will lose."

Max grimaced. "And we can't afford to kowtow to him. It would cut the Empire's throat. Father would rise from the grave just to strangle me in my sleep." He was reasonably sure that he was joking. Sighing, he nodded to Krieg. "So, we kill him." He paused. "Except that …"

"Except that if we're seen to kill him too visibly, that paints a target on our backs," Krieg agreed. "The trouble is, he's really good, and if we're too careful there's a good chance that he'll see it coming, pull out a counter, and then we've got Marquis on our case." He paused, waiting for Max to ask the obvious question.

It seemed that there was a catch there, but Max wasn't the type to back off from a challenge. "So what's the solution?"

"It's simple." Krieg didn't quite look smug, but he was certainly somewhat pleased with himself. "We blow up Somer's Rock, with him inside."

A certain number of factors became suddenly clear to Max. "Those men – they were ours, weren't they? You set this up." He stood up and leaned over the desk. "I told Marquis that I didn't know whose they were. You made me look like a fool."

"No." Krieg smiled coldly. "It's called 'plausible deniability'. I actually sent those men after Daniel Hebert. It was supposed to be a 'robbery gone wrong', as the saying goes. It's just irritating that they were dealt with before they disposed of him." He gestured toward Max. "And because you knew nothing of it, you could claim ignorance, with no chance of giving the game away."

"What?" Max stared at Krieg. "Seriously, what the hell do we have against Hebert? Or rather, what the hell do you have against Hebert? Because I know the Empire hasn't got a beef with him."

Krieg stared back at him unrepentantly. "I was contacted by a certain someone from the Mayor's office. They were willing to pay twenty large under the table to ensure the death by gang violence of Daniel Hebert. Or some guy called Earl Marchant, but Hebert was easier to get to."

"What … the … hell?" Max couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Why the hell would you take a job like that?"

"Why not?" Krieg's tone was matter of fact. "Twenty thousand, in the hand. A one-off job, and there's always the chance of blackmailing the Mayor's office later, so I took it."

"And failed." Max's voice was hard. "Don't forget that little aspect."

"This time. The cops think it was a robbery gone wrong and the guys who actually had the order to kill Hebert are dead, so nobody's looking at us. We can try again. Armed robbery at the Dockworkers, for instance." Krieg's tone was confident.

"No." Max slapped the desk. "We're putting that one on hold until I've had a look at it. And in the meantime, you can explain to me why you think blowing up the one neutral meeting place in Brockton Bay is a fucking good idea."

"For one thing, nobody will know it was us." Krieg spread his hands. "And for another, nobody will be sad to see Marquis wiped off the map. He's too damn pushy, and you know it. So we build another neutral meeting place. No big deal. In the meantime, Marquis is fucking dead."

"He's not dead yet," Max reminded him harshly. "And if anyone finds out that we arranged this assassination in a neutral meeting place – well, actually, they'll suspect the fuck out of us no matter what we do. But if anyone comes up with any actual proof, we're fucked. The Empire's name will be shit from one end of New England to the other."

"I took precautions," Krieg assured him confidently. "The bomb was put together by an explosives expert from Boston. Not a Tinker, just someone who's good at making things blow up. He's going to suffer a sudden and very explicable accident in his lab sometime in the next few days."

Max was starting to get his composure back. There was such a thing as initiative, but Krieg was seriously overstepping the mark, here. "So was there anything else you've neglected to tell me?" he asked, injecting a certain amount of sarcasm into his voice. "Or have you decided to remove me entirely from the decision-making process of the Empire Eighty-Eight?" He tensed, just in case that was truly Krieg's intention.

"No!" If the surprise and concern in his lieutenant's voice were faked, then Krieg was a better actor than Max had given him credit for. "You've been busy over the last few days, so I thought I'd get proactive with the Marquis thing before it got on top of us."

"And it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, hmm?" Max gave Krieg a very dry look, noting the man's wince with internal satisfaction.

"Something like that," Krieg admitted. He glanced at Max, possibly trying to gauge how angry he was. "Are you calling the plan off?"

"Not yet." Max leaned back in his chair. "Fill me in on the rest of it."

Krieg seemed to relax slightly. "Hookwolf, Stormtiger and Cricket will be accompanying me to the meeting, and we'll be a few minutes late. Once the bomb goes off, we'll do any necessary clean-up, plant clues pointing at the ABB, and so forth. Then we'll leave the cops to come and pick up the pieces."

Max nodded, waiting for Krieg to continue. When the older man didn't say any more, Max leaned forward and placed his hands on the desk. "So, what do you have planned for the girl?"

Krieg shrugged. "Once Marquis is dead, she'll need somewhere to go. A healer as versatile as she is will be in great demand. We can supply a refuge for her."

"And if she's unwilling?" Max considered that to be the more likely scenario. "If, for instance, she suspects us of being complicit in her father's death?"

"Well, if she insists on being unreasonable about it, there's always re-education." Krieg's voice was casual, but Max knew he was being serious. Krieg's parent organisation, Gesellschaft, had the wherewithal to brainwash and reprogram capes, enforcing total loyalty at the cost of anything resembling a normal personality.

Max considered the idea. Being rid of Marquis was a distinctly positive outcome; gaining a ranged healer into the bargain was a serious bonus, even if she did need to be re-educated before the Empire Eighty-Eight could make use of her. He nodded. "That sounds reasonable."

"So the plan is a go, then?" Krieg seemed to have grasped the extent of his previous faux pas; while the relief in his voice was difficult to pick out, it was definitely there.

"It is." Max opened a folder on his desk and waited till Krieg was at the door. "And James?"

Krieg looked back on hearing his name. "Yes, Max?"

Max gave him a cold smile. "Don't fuck this up. And if you blindside me like this again, there'll be a new opening in the chain of command."

The door shut behind Krieg; Max closed the folder once more.

<><>​

The Next Morning
Claire

"So if Kaiser's lying, I don't say anything," Claire said carefully. "Do I nudge you or something?"

Marquis looked out through the tinted window of the limousine as it rolled down the dingy street. "No. He might notice. Can you make the nerves in my hand twitch?"

"Easily." She grinned mischievously at him. "How bad do you want the twitch to be?"

"Enough to notice, but not enough to make my hand move." He lifted his hands and flexed them. "Two twinges on my right hand to say that he's telling the truth, and two on the left to say that he's lying."

She nodded, thinking about that. "Makes sense. And if I don't think he's actually lying, but what he's saying might not be the truth anyway, I'll twinge both at the same time."

"Exactly." He beamed, showing the pride that she knew he felt for her. "If I'd had you at my side in the old days, we would have owned the whole city."

"Think we can do it this time around?" She was relatively sure of the answer. "Or do we even want to?" That one, she was less sure of. Ruling a whole city sounded like work.

"Oh, we can do it, no question whatsoever," he stated confidently. She couldn't read his thoughts, but at this level of proximity she could sense the ebb and flow of his emotions, and he was very sure of himself. "Of course, your point is valid. Far better to establish overall ownership then ensure that the city will run smoothly, and leave it to do just that. People just need to learn to adhere to certain rules, and we will all get along just fine."

"Nothing that hurts women or kids, gotcha." Claire nodded. It was a time-honoured mantra of her father's, and one that she had no trouble grasping.

"Precisely. And it seems that we are here." Marquis leaned forward slightly. "Jonas, pull up around the corner. Once you've dropped us off, circle the block and park an inconspicuous distance away. We should not be long."

"Yes, sir," rumbled the large man. He began to slow down, preparatory to turning the corner. "I'll have eyes on the front doors."

"Good man." As the car pulled to a halt, Marquis opened the door. Climbing out, he offered Claire his hand, assisting her from the car. The moment he closed the door once more, Jonas pulled away from the curb; from start to finish, the entire process had taken no more than thirty seconds.

Reaching into his fob pocket, Marquis produced an antique watch, which Claire had given to him for his birthday the previous year. To her delight, he had stopped wearing wristwatches thereafter. Popping the cover, he checked the time. "Splendid," he declared, offering Claire his arm. "We're two minutes early. Shall we walk?"

"I believe that we shall," she replied, doing her best to emulate his cultured tone. Taking his arm, she strolled alongside him toward the unprepossessing front doors to Somer's Rock. At the same time, she pushed her senses outward, scanning the local area.

"He's not here yet," she murmured, barely moving her lips, as they came up to the doors. "Nobody's in the main area."

Marquis' smile was brilliant, with just a chilly edge to it. "If he chooses to make me wait, I will be taking it out of his hide." Pushing open the door, he scanned the room beyond, then stepped inside. Claire followed in his wake, wondering just how bad Somer's Rock's business was that nobody was in here on a weekday. Or maybe Kaiser told them to chase everyone out for this meeting.

Marquis produced his pocket-watch once more as he moved toward the nearest table. "Thirty seconds to nine," he noted with satisfaction. "Shall we take a seat?" Pulling out a chair, he offered it to Claire.

She paused, looking around. Something's not right. "Where's the waitstaff?" she asked. "The last time we were here, there was a guy behind the counter and a waitress."

Her father frowned. "That does seem odd, yes."

Claire directed her power inward, enlarging her sinuses and retasking the sensory regions of her brain. Her eyesight dimmed a little and became black and white, while many of the overtones of the sounds around her died away. She inhaled deeply, cancelling out familiar scents as she encountered them. Herself, smelled many times. Ignore. Her father, almost as well-known. Ignore. Wood. Dirt. Stale food. Ignore. Blood, not fresh. Almonds, fresh. That's odd. No, that's not just odd. Something's very wrong here. She turned to her father. "I smell a body. Someone died, and bled, a few hours ago. And I smell almonds, and no other fresh food smell at all."

Marquis' eyes opened very wide indeed. Claire saw the sparking of realisation as his higher faculties caught up with the situation. "Trap! Bomb!" Changes cascaded through his body as adrenaline production went into high gear. Scooping her up in his arms, he began to armour them both in bone as he made a dash for the door.

In that split second, Claire accessed Marquis' body systems. She was upgraded to a certain extent, but her Marchioness persona became harder to maintain with each non-standard alteration to the body. Non-human upgrades made things that much harder again. However, her concern was with her father; while she had improved him by a certain amount, he was nowhere near as durable as she could make him.

Carbon fibre, easier and quicker to make than nanotubes, snaked around his bones and bonded with them; while it was still possible to break them, it would now take much more effort. More fibre began to weave throughout his skin, forming a subdermal layer that should absorb and spread out kinetic attacks. Even as she finished his skin, she began on his organs and spine, to prevent -

She didn't see the flash of the bomb going off. The shockwave reached out and smashed her flat against the inside of the bone pod in which her father had encased her. Almost immediately, she was torn from his arms and sent spinning end over end. Something large struck the bone capsule, shattering it; an instant later, tearing agony blasted through her torso. She whirled over and over, dimly aware that she should do something to avoid dying.

Something through right lung. Lung impaired, blood vessels ruptured. She set her power to determining the extent of the damage, then sealing off the damaged veins and arteries. At a thought, carbon fibre began to lace through the area immediately surrounding the impaling wound, reinforcing it against the inevitable damage that would occur when she landed.

There was only a fraction of a second left before she impacted with the ground. Curling into a ball as much as she was able with the metal bar sticking out of her chest, she armoured her skull and spine as well as she could. If only I'd done all this sooner. If only I'd realised it was a trap sooner. If only I'd -

The smashing impact drove her into blackness.

<><>​

Returning to consciousness was not an immediate process. The pounding in Claire's head was in serious competition with urgent messages from the rest of her body, reporting greater and lesser levels of injury. She found it hard to focus her thoughts; even when she opened her eyes carefully, one refused to function at all and the other was alarmingly blurry.

She knew that there was something that needed to be done, but she could barely understand her own thoughts, swimming as they were in an ocean of agony. Dying. In pain.

Her one good eye closed as she attempted to drive a single thought through the universe of suffering that made up her entire being. No. Pain. Just to concentrate on that was like lifting a ton-weight over her own head; as breath hissed past her lips, she ground her teeth and fixed her entire will on that one command.

And then the agony vanished, as if it had never been. She was still aware of the damage that had been done to her body, but now she was able to concentrate … concentrate … why was it so hard to concentrate? There was still something wrong with her. Con … concussion. Hard to think.

Carefully, she started to deal with the bruising and swelling. With each stage of the reconstruction, her head cleared a little, making it easier to do the next one. Halfway through, she realised that her skull was fractured; once that clicked back into place, the pressure on certain parts of her brain eased right off. She also had the high-end olfactory modification still in place; as it was no longer needed, she brought her visual and auditory cortices back to full capacity. The ringing in her ears, which she hadn't even noticed, died away. When she opened her eyes – both eyes, this time – the world was clear and sharp, if she discounted the dust and smoke.

There was also rubble, and lots of it. Some of it pinned her lower body to the ground. Now that her brain was back in working order, she was able to sort through the damage messages more easily. Fractured leg, fractured spine, metal bar through lung, crushed pelvis, fractured arm, multiple contusions, minor bleeding, perforated eardrums, profound deafness from damaged inner ears …

The moment her attention was drawn to her ears, she realised that the buzzing she could hear was the equivalent of white noise. She exerted her power and felt the almost infinitesimal movements of the tiny bones as they reassembled themselves and her eardrums healed over. Sound returned to her world.

" … saw what happened! I can't believe that someone would bomb Somer's Rock!" The voice, which she didn't recognise, came from behind her. She tried to roll over but couldn't, even after she fixed her spine and arms. This was partly because of how her hips were pinned by the debris, and partly because of the metal bar that was still firmly lodged through her chest.

"It is rather a turn-up for the books." That was her father's voice, sounding a little pained but still as cultured as ever. "I would count it as a real favour if you could search for Marchioness, and perhaps help me out of this small difficulty." Reaching out with her senses, she detected her father, along with four others. He was prone, as she was; as far as she could see, the others were upright and unhurt. One was a woman, while the other three were male.

Grasping the bar, she opened up the flesh around it, then drew it out with relative ease. Once it was clear of her body, she set the wound to closing. She could rebuild her lung and rib later; for now, she was happy with their basic functionality. However, now that she was free of the bar, she rebuilt her spine for maximum flexibility, then twisted her upper body ninety degrees so that she could see what was going on.

Her father lay under more rubble, perhaps thirty feet away. Four Empire Eighty-Eight capes stood next to him; if Claire was correct, these were Krieg, Hookwolf, Cricket and Stormtiger. They must be here for the meeting. Why isn't Kaiser here? Already uneasy, she began to get a truly disastrous feeling about this.

While she wasn't close enough to affect him, she could feel her father's injuries. Like her, unsurprisingly, he was dazed, quite possibly to the point that he was having a hard time directing his abilities. Chunks of bone lay alongside him, evidence of his unsuccessful attempts to use his power to lever the rubble off of himself.

"Of course we can do that," Krieg stated. "Cricket, Stormtiger, look for Marchioness. Hookwolf, with me." He crouched beside the largest chunk of concrete and fitted his hands under it. "Ready?"

Hookwolf went to the other side. Metal slid from his skin, changing his right arm into a large grasping claw. "Ready. Three, two, one …"

With slightly detached amusement, Claire saw Cricket and Stormtiger start to walk in the wrong direction. That didn't matter to her; of much more importance was the fact that Hookwolf's left hand, out of Marquis' view, had formed a wicked-looking blade. She tried to call out, only to realise too late that the damage to her chest had affected her vocal chords. It was just the work of a moment to fix them, and she drew breath to scream a warning …

"Go!" snapped Krieg. Hookwolf's arm snapped up and down again; Marquis tried to form bone to deflect it, but he was taken off guard. The heavy blade smashed downward with all the force that the Empire Brute could muster. It smashed through the bone shield and severed Marquis' hand at the wrist. Lifting it again, Hookwolf struck a second time.

Claire screamed, too late. Far too late. The heavy blade struck Marquis in the neck; it passed all the way through and bit deeply into the concrete below. As his head rolled free of his body, Cricket and Stormtiger looked in Claire's direction, then started started toward her.

Time slowed, almost to a halt. Intellectually, Claire knew that this was due to her fight-or-flight mechanisms overclocking her adrenaline production; while this could be a problem in the long run, she wasn't considering that right now. She saw her father's head roll to a stop, his eyes still open and staring at her. Even as his body twitched its last, she saw him focus on her. His lips shaped one word.

Run.



End of Part Ten

Part Eleven

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Eleven: Retribution



[A/N: this chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Claire's powers had always had a distinctly emotion-linked aspect to them. Up until this act of utter betrayal, her feelings toward the Empire capes had consisted of no more than mild disdain, verging occasionally on actual dislike. That all changed with one action; now, she was far beyond merely 'angry' with them. Carol Dallon had suffered minor skin burns because Claire simply didn't like her; if what Claire currently felt about these four capes was put into words, it would not be printable in any language known to mankind. Run? Hell with that.

Her father had just been decapitated in front of her. His brain had between two and four minutes before it suffered permanent damage. Her legs were still trapped, and four hostile capes stood between Claire and her goal.

Rage burned in her core as she struggled to release herself from the rubble that pinned her down. Barely able to recognise that she was doing it, she began to change her form. Delicate skin went dead-black as subdermal production of carbon nanotubes went into high gear. She felt her skeleton begin to reshape itself as the ribcage expanded to make room for her auxiliary lungs and hearts.

The air itself became thick and soupy, and her lungs ached from trying to draw in enough oxygen to serve her needs. Blackness crawled around the edges of her vision; Krieg watched her carefully from a prudent distance. Beside him, Hookwolf held a viciously razor-pointed spear that was as yet incomplete. If he hits me with that, I'll definitely feel it.

Blood thundered in her ears. She struggled to complete the transformation, but her labouring lungs could not drag enough oxygen from the air. Helplessly, she watched as Hookwolf drew back the monstrous spear. He wasn't going to miss; even from her angle, Claire could see that he wasn't a novice with the weapon.

That was when the car roared in from nowhere and collided with both Krieg and Stormtiger at high speed, knocking them flying. Cricket leaped nimbly out of the way, while Hookwolf went up and over the vehicle, smashing the windshield on the way. He landed behind it as it ploughed into rubble and stopped with a grinding shudder. But the air no longer stuck in Claire's throat; drawing in a deep breath, she forced the rest of her body through the metamorphosis. It was as she had described to her father, with the impromptu addition of slashing blades on her forearms and a long, wickedly barbed tail.

She began to kick free of the rubble trapping her lower limbs; with the increased strength of her now-digitigrade legs, she was moments from freedom. However, the Empire capes seemed determined not to give her that chance. Hookwolf advanced on her, another spear forming off the end of his arm, while Cricket made for the driver's side door of the car.

Before the Empire villain got there, the door burst off its hinges. Like a hugely muscled avenging angel, Jonas dived out, pistol in hand. He rolled and came up on one knee, then fired five shots in two seconds. Two missed Cricket by the barest of margins, while the other three hammered into Hookwolf, who stopped and turned slightly in annoyance. Cricket advanced on Jonas, who tried to get to his feet, then staggered back, shaking his head. Unfortunately for Cricket, she was now on Claire's 'extreme prejudice' shit-list. Worse, she was inside Claire's body-reading range, so Claire knew exactly what she was doing and how. Also, how to fuck her over.

The battle form had an enhanced larynx, designed mainly to do what Cricket was doing, but within the audible range. Claire modified it on the fly, going for a particular frequency, one that Cricket was optimised for hearing. Then she repurposed one of her sets of lungs, removing the alveoli and adding serious muscle banding to allow sudden and violent constriction. This was going to be all about volume.

When she let out the screech, ninety-nine percent of it went above normal human range. Dogs started howling for blocks around. The remaining one percent, a piercing shriek that went right through the head like a bandsaw on steroids, caused both Jonas and Hookwolf to clutch their ears and stagger back. Cricket, on the other hand, dropped her weapons and screamed as she tried to get her hands inside the cage that enclosed her head. Blood ran freely from her ears, eyes and nose. By the time Claire let up on the scream, the female Empire cape was curled up in a foetal position, either unconscious or catatonic. Claire didn't care which.

With a metallic snarl, Hookwolf recovered enough to shake his head and heft the spear once more. He took one step toward Claire before Jonas cannoned into him from the side. They traded blows, the enhanced human slugging it out with the parahuman blender. While Jonas' punches didn't do much, they still staggered the Empire killer; in return, Hookwolf's blades broke Jonas' skin but slid off of the subdermal armour with which she had gifted him.

Kicking away the last of the debris, Claire came to her feet in a smooth, lethal movement. Flexing her fingers, she felt the razor-edged claws slide into place. Her priorities were clear. Save Dad. Kill the Empire.

Adrenaline hummed through her veins; almost absently, she redesigned her cardiovascular system for greater efficiency as she moved to skirt the fight. While she had every intention of helping Jonas take down Hookwolf, for the moment her bodyguard seemed to be holding his own, and her priority was getting to her father's head before time ran out. This didn't stop her power from acting on its own, however; while she didn't get close enough to cause Hookwolf serious injury, he did falter and stagger back as she passed by. On the other hand, Jonas' wounds closed over, and the burly South African lunged forward with a burst of extra energy.

How long has it been? She couldn't tell; somewhere along the line, her watch had gone missing. It had been perhaps thirty seconds. Dad doesn't have much more time. The car was directly in front of her; not wanting to waste even a single second, she leaped on top of it, the snap and pull of her new muscles handling the jump easily. One stride forward, and she caught sight of her father's head, just before her instincts screamed danger! Not questioning them, she dived forward off the car on to the rubble-strewn ground.

Even while she was in the air, something hit her left leg, smashing her sideways. Something else hit the car, shattering one of the windows. Femur fractured. She hit the ground rolling, ignoring chunks of concrete under her ribs as she told the femur to woman up and stop being such a little bitch. The fracture healed itself, and she irritably set her body to start putting another couple of layers of nanotubes over her bones. What the fuck was that, anyway?

Coming up on to all fours, she pushed her senses out, increasing her eye size and ear sensitivity to detect her attacker more effectively. Only the whisper of wind warned her and she dived out of the way as a sharp detonation cratered the concrete where she'd been. I must've heard that before, but didn't know what it was. Now I do. Fucking Stormtiger.

One of those attacks could obliterate her father's head; if the Empire cape knew she was going for it, he might kill Marquis for good, just as a parting fuck-you. Carefully, she didn't look in that direction; instead, she raised her tail like a scorpion's as she grew an eye on the tip. Another series of organs took shape there as well, one that was only found in a certain type of insect. An inbound warbling hum warned her to dive aside; her powers, it seemed, were zeroing in on the audible signature of the asshole's powers. Which was useful, because it allowed her to figure out where he was sniping her from.

Even as she evaded the shot, her tail swung in that direction. The eye finally picked him out; he was lying partly covered in rubble and dust, not far from Krieg. Both had their heads raised, watching her. She brought the attack mechanism to maturity, then locked and loaded. Apertures opened just behind the eye, and high-speed darts shot out, each accompanied by a burst of steam. It hadn't been all that hard to adapt the defence of the bombardier beetle, using it to shoot bone darts.

The darts lanced out toward the Empire capes. Her aim was good, but both men apparently used their powers, brushing the darts aside before they came close. Claire had planned for this; she used that respite to lunge over to her father's body and scoop up his head. Even as another shot hit the ground at her feet, she dived behind the end of the car so that she could concentrate on what she was doing.

He was still alive, she could tell, but his brain was beginning to run out of oxygen. At a silent command, her abdomen split open, exposing a cavity where her digestive system had once resided. She shoved her father's decapitated head into the empty space, immediately cushioning it with surrounding tissue. The skin closed behind it, making her look somewhat pregnant. Not that she cared about her outward appearance right now. She set about hooking up the appropriate nervous and circulatory connections. Air had gotten into some of the veins and arteries; working as fast as she could, she replaced that first with basic saline and then with her own blood. Dedicating one heart and one lung to the head, she left her autonomous systems to complete the connections while she took care of business.

Jonas was still duking it out with Hookwolf. Her bodyguard was a little the worse for wear, but as far as she could see, he was standing his ground. Good. That left her free to take on Krieg and Stormtiger.

Of course, given that they were both ranged attackers, able to keep her at a distance beyond which her powers could really have an effect on them, this was going to be … interesting. She raised her tail to investigate the situation, just as a series of strikes smashed into the side of the car and the ground below it. Shards of concrete struck her, but they made no impression on her steadily thickening hide. Then she realised where she was going wrong. I need to change things up. Turning fast, she skittered around the car toward where Jonas and Hookwolf were still going at it.

The Empire cape sensed her and shot out a rain of metal shards; almost casually, she brushed the few that might have been dangerous out of the air with her tail. Jonas took the opportunity to land some heavy body blows which dented metal and drove his opponent back a few steps. From everything Claire could see, he was actually enjoying himself; since she had started upgrading his body, he hadn't had an opponent against whom he could truly let loose.

~I am going to have to give that man a raise.~

The thought wasn't hers; while she was familiar with the tone, hearing it inside her own head was a new experience. ~Dad?~ If this was indeed her father, then her power must have acted on her subconscious needs, and given him full access to her sensorium.

~The same, Claire-bear. Am I to understand that you're currently keeping me alive?~ His mental 'voice' was warm and approving.

~Hopefully, yes.~ She kept going, her power giving Jonas another boost as she passed by. Hookwolf staggered again, giving Jonas the opportunity to smash him to the ground. The metal-clad cape came to his feet almost immediately, but Jonas wasn't letting up.

Claire's tail-eye kept watch on the fight as she reached Cricket; taking hold of the cage around the woman's head, Claire ripped it asunder, then unhinged her jaw. Lifting the woman slightly, she bit off her head.

~My dear! Your form is making you more savage than normal.~ It didn't seem to be quite a condemnation; rather, he appeared to be making an observation. If a little queasily.

~A little, sure. But I need her powers.~ She let the head slide down her gullet, where it lodged in a niche she opened up for it. As she did so, she stripped away everything except the brain itself, then sent arteries, veins and nerves invading it. This was a different sort of connection than her father had; Cricket was a prisoner, not a guest. ~Also, biomass. Among other things, this will be useful for when I'm giving you a new body later on.~

~Really?~

~Don't think too deeply about it, Dad. Nature does it too. I'm just taking a shortcut.~

Taking hold of the body, she took great bites out of it, dissolving the mass into protein as soon as it hit her throat. Her body expanded as if it were a balloon being inflated under pressure.

Her tail-eye alerted her to the danger even before Hookwolf let out a roar of rage and loss. With Cricket's left leg still in her grasp, she turned as she came up in a rising lunge. Hookwolf, his exterior a whirling maze of razor-sharp blades, came hurtling at her. He was sporting four arms and each of them was a weapon; he had an axe, a sword, a hammer and something with far too many pointy bits for her to readily identify. Jonas, for once caught on the back foot, was in hot pursuit.

Her body-sense picked out exactly where in that mass of metal was Hookwolf's core. She didn't try to avoid his attack, but instead lifted her hand, preparing to slam a spike through -

~My dear. If I may?~

She wasn't sure what he was intending, but she trusted him. ~Go for it, Dad.~ She completed the connections, giving him nominal control over her body.

From her hand, instead of a spike, burst … bone. An endless stream of it. Hookwolf struck it, shattered it, but was slowed down. Each individual piece seemed to explode into clamps that locked around Hookwolf's body. He broke them again and again, but breaking them only made for more pieces, which then expanded once more.

~What the fuck is this? Where am I?~ The mental voice was thoroughly enraged, and slightly deranged. Claire could see exactly what was wrong with Cricket. She began to tweak, even as her father continued to work his bone shards in between Hookwolf's layers of armour.

~Oh, hi, Cricket. Guess what. You helped kill my Dad, so you get to loan me your powers for the duration.~

~Like fuck I am. My powers are MY powers, bitch. Nobody uses them but me.~

Claire sighed internally and brought Cricket to a mental even keel that would have required hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of therapy and medication to achieve in the normal run of things. ~We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The easy way is you do what I say. The hard way is I shave away everything from your brain that makes you 'you' and I just keep the part that controls your powers. Your choice.~

Cricket considered this. ~And what exactly do I have to do?~

~Help me take down the Empire.~

~I'm not turning on Hookwolf.~

~We'll spare both of you so long as you help out.~

~Deal.~

~Excellent. How's it going there, Dad?~

His voice was satisfied. ~He's a tricky one, but I think I've got him locked down.~ Before her was a mass of bone over eight feet tall and ten feet across. From within, Hookwolf's life-signs pulsed brightly.

~What if he digs his way out?~

~You forget, my dear, that was my favourite trick in the old days. He's got two yards of solid bone under him as well.~

~Sweet. We'll be back for him. Right now, it's time to take out the trash. Cricket, if you will?~ She turned and bounded over the car, her new sonar ability mapping out everything before her. Three pistol bullets and an explosive burst of wind came back at her; while she dodged two of the bullets and the wind attack, a shield of bone stopped the last bullet.

~Dad, you know I can survive bullets now.~

~There's no sense in taking chances, princess.~

Even as the lightning-fast exchange took place between them, she felt the air become thick and soupy once more. Her responses felt sluggish, the very air impeding her motion. She opened her jaws and roared; while impressive, the audible part of the roar was the least part of what she was doing. Also included was an ultrasonic squeal, courtesy of Cricket, that disabled the inner ear and induced extreme vertigo. That held them up just long enough for Claire to get within a few yards of them, and then they were asleep.

Unsurprisingly, both men had sustained broken bones and other injuries from to the collision. Not that this would change matters in any way; biomass, after all, was still biomass. Picking up Krieg, she unhinged her jaw and began to eat him, making sure to keep the brain intact.

<><>​

Jonas approached her as she finished off Stormtiger's legs. Politely, she turned to face him. Something crunched under her foot as she did so; looking down, she realised that she'd just crushed someone's cell-phone. Crap, we might've been able to use that. "Yes?" she asked, tuning her voice to resemble what it had been while she was still human. She didn't blame Jonas for being just a little cautious; as it was, her current form was a nightmare of jet-black armour plate, fangs and razor-sharp claws. Having added the mass of three adult bodies to her own, her size was now equivalent to that of a grizzly bear. Of course, in any physical contest, said hypothetical bear would end up very dead, very fast.

"Ah … is that you still in there, chick?" he asked diffidently. "Just asking."

She nodded. "It's still me, Jonas," she assured him. "I'm just … upgrading. The Empire's declared war on us, so I'm going to show them exactly what a bad idea that was." She flexed her spine, and another row of spikes extended alongside the first.

"Ahh … right. It's just that … well, I can't find your father's head." He grimaced. "I wanted to give him a proper burial … to show my respect, and all …"

~If I can speak to him, princess?~

~Sure thing, Dad.~ She adjusted the vocal chords a little, then handed over a certain amount of control to him.

"That's all right, Jonas," he said, in a reasonable approximation of his own voice. "I'm currently alive and well. It turns out that our dear Claire is extremely … versatile. She acquired my brain before it expired." He nodded toward the burly man. "Though the gesture of respect is greatly appreciated."

When Marquis started speaking, Jonas' eyes opened wide. To his credit, he didn't back away, but waited until his boss had finished.

"Right then, sir," he declared. "So will you be, uh, coming back, then?"

"Claire assures me that it won't be much trouble to make me a new body," Marquis said, sounding somewhat bemused. "But in the meantime, I agree that now is the time to end the Empire once and for all. So if you can take my body home and put it in the large freezer, we'll be home soon. We can talk about a burial ceremony then."

Jonas nodded firmly, apparently relieved to have something concrete to deal with. "And what about the asshole inside that bone block, sir?"

Claire made her mouth smile; or at least, she bared her teeth. This time, Jonas did step back. "Oh," she said in concert with her father. "We'll deal with him."

<><>​

Brad Meadows struggled to burst out of the enclosing block which held him prisoner. Every time he forced the bone to crack, it immediately fixed itself, robbing him of the leverage he had just used. Metal spikes and blades pushed their way into the bone, which then solidified around them, trapping his weapons. He was just lucky that the bone was porous enough for him to breathe …

A shudder ran through the block, and he thought he heard a crack. He heaved, and felt part of the block shift. Fuckin' yes, he exulted. The cavalry has arrived. He just hoped that whoever it was wouldn't gloat too much over his predicament. And that they'd left some part of that … whatever that bitch was, so he could shred it for killing Cricket. They'd slept together a few times, but it wasn't romance. It wasn't even a relationship. At most, they were battle buddies with benefits. But nobody kills my battle buddy.

The bone in front of him crumbled and fell apart, and he flexed his arms, bringing new blades to the fore. Image was everything, and he intended to show the image of a warrior ready for anything. "About fuckin' time …" He stopped talking as he took in what was waiting for him. The Brute he'd been fighting – and for a total unknown, the asshole could really land a punch – was standing back a ways, arms folded and a look of satisfaction on his face. His totally unscarred face. Okay, that just wasn't fair; the guy was a Brute and a regenerator?

All of this passed through his mind in a heartbeat. Then he raised his eyes to take in the horror looming over him. Eight feet tall if it was an inch, a much larger version of whatever it was had eaten Cricket, and it was right there.

And he couldn't move.

The thing brought its head in very close to his; the vaguely reptilian muzzle was plated in something black and shiny which he suspected would be proof against anything he could do to it. "Hi," it said, in the voice of a teenage girl. "You cut my Dad's head off while he was still alive. While he was still awake. I'm gonna return the favour now, mmkay? Just so you know what it's like."

His vocal chords unfroze, and he found that he was able to speak. Taking a shuddering breath, he stammered, "F-f-fuck you, bi-"

The monster struck.

<><>​

Claire watched the car drive away down the street. The chassis had taken surprisingly little damage from the collision with rubble, and the tyres were still whole. After shoving it back on to the road, she had ripped the smashed windshield out of the car; Jonas had assured them that he could take it from there.

Of course, there was the other problem she had to deal with now.

~ … no fucking way I'm working with that bitch. She killed you! She killed me!~ Even with the mental reconditioning she'd given him, Hookwolf was still obnoxious.

~I worked out a deal with her. We help her, we get to leave town.~ Cricket, on the other hand, seemed more than anxious to please.

~You're shitting me, yeah? You made a deal with her?~

~Yes. We can't beat her. It can't be done.~ Certainty coloured the woman's mental voice. ~We do this, she lets us go. Together.~

~If you're about finished?~ Claire prompted. ~We've got places to be.~

[Now, now. Give them a little more time, princess.] Her father's voice, communicating on the private channel she had set up, was a little amused. [They've got a lot to get used to.]

[Okay.] She let the argument between Cricket and Hookwolf slide into the background. ~So, James. May I call you James? This was all your idea, yeah?~

~It was.~ Krieg's voice was resigned. ~I see now that it was a mistake. I think I should have used a much larger bomb.~

Fury blinded her for a moment, and she caused his pain centres to flare. ~You want to die, you son of a bitch?~

[Princess, you said we needed him. Remember what I said about the difference between torture and killing?]

[And what if I haven't decided which way I want to go?]

[Then decide. Now.]

~Gah. Ahh. I stand corrected. That was … singularly unpleasant. What do you want from me?~

~Just one thing, and it gets you a second chance.~

~And that is?~

~Help us take down the Empire. Use your powers when and where I direct. And once this is over, you get to leave Brockton Bay forever.~

~I … I have family here.~

~Then take them with you. Just never come back.~

~That's it?~

~That's it,~ she agreed.

~Then I accept.~

~Good. Stormtiger?~

~Did you fuck with my brain?~ The villain's voice was abrupt.

~Yes. You had a few mental issues. I removed them. I wanted you thinking clearly when I presented the deal.~

~You had no fucking right to do that.~

~You had no fucking right to blow up Somers Rock and cut my Dad's head off. Yet, you did it. I'm really not seeing your high moral ground, here.~

~But - ~

~Listen,~ she interrupted him. ~I've got many options for making sure I get what I want. This is the one where you get to walk away with your mind intact. Now, deal or no?~

~What's the difference to you?~ He sounded resentful.

~I want to be able to look back and say that I gave you every chance before I just took what I wanted. Do you really want me to go that way?~

~Oh, for fuck's sake!~ yelled Cricket. ~Take the fucking deal already! She's got us over a fucking barrel!~

Claire saw the moment when Stormtiger's stubbornness collapsed. ~Fine. Deal.~

~Excellent. And just in time, it seems.~ She tilted her head; at long last, sirens were becoming audible. ~Took them long enough.~

At the back of her mind, her father chuckled. ~It's only been ten minutes, princess. Give them some credit.~

~What happens now?~ That was Cricket. ~You're good, but if we tangle with the PRT and the heroes, this gets a whole lot harder.~

~If we're going after Kaiser and the Empire, we'll have to evade the forces of law and order first.~ Krieg was surprisingly matter of fact over the whole thing, which made Claire wonder exactly what he'd seen and done in his time. ~I suggest we take to the sewers.~

~Fuck the sewers, fuck the PRT and fuck the heroes too. Put me in the driver's seat and I'll show you how to do serious damage.~ It appeared that Hookwolf was also in a mood to cooperate … for a given definition of 'cooperate'.

~I don't see the problem.~ That was Stormtiger. ~We can barrel past the PRT while they're still pulling their thumbs out of their asses.~

~Heroes are the problem, dumbass,~ Hookwolf said. ~They'll slow us down long enough for the PRT to get involved.~

Stormtiger was unfazed. ~So we just eat them, too.~

~That way lies a kill order. Also, my darling daughter doesn't want me killing heroes. Thus, we don't kill heroes.~

~Technically, it's not killing if we let them go later,~ Krieg pointed out.

~I doubt very much that the PRT will hold the same opinion. So we don't go there.~

Claire smiled. ~It's okay. I've got a plan.~ She began to reshape the shared body.

~The fuck?~ That was Hookwolf, half a second ahead of the others.

~Whoa, what are you doing?~

~Not a tactic I would've considered.~

~What the fuck?~

Rising over the babble, Marquis' voice came through loud and clear. ~Need a hand there, princess?~

~No, I got this,~ she said. ~So long as everyone does their part.~

As the first emergency vehicles turned on to the street, the massive midnight-black leonine creature leaped into the air. Enormous wings, braced with steel and feathered with bone, unfurled and flapped thunderously. Buoyed up by telekinetic force and following winds, the creature gained altitude at a startling pace. Banking around in a long turn, it set course for the downtown area of Brockton Bay.

~So, James. Where can I find Kaiser?~

~Do you know where the Medhall building is?~

She smiled again, baring her teeth to the wind.

<><>​

Max Anders

Max tapped away at the computer on his desk. From time to time, he glanced at the clock on his desktop. The time had just passed nine o'clock, which meant that the trap at Somers Rock should have been sprung by now. It's a pity that we have to blow up the meeting place, but I suppose James is right. It's worth it to get Marquis out of our hair.

Time dragged on; thirty seconds became a minute. And then his cell-phone rang. He snatched it up and hit the answer button. "James. Give me the good news."

The first clue he had that something was wrong was in the very tone of Krieg's voice. Normally urbane and collected, the Empire lieutenant was breathing raggedly and sounded as if he were in pain. The second clue came in the first four words.

"Max, we fucked up. We killed Marquis, but the girl isn't just a healer. She's a Changer. And they've got another cape, a Brute. Hookwolf's taking him on right now. Cricket's out of the fight. I'm injured, Stormtiger as well. And the girl – there she is! Get her!"

Krieg's voice was cut off by the sound of several gunshots, followed by a monstrous roar that strained the capacity of the speaker on Max's end. From the sounds of it, Krieg's phone then clattered to the ground. Then Max heard what had to be heavy footsteps. Far heavier than a teenage girl should be able to make. What sort of Changer is she? he asked himself. The next sound turned his stomach, but he forced himself to listen anyway. It was the sound of teeth crunching through gristle and bone. It was the sound of someone being eaten. The sounds went on for a minute or so before a sudden burst of crackling static ended the call.

Max Anders grimaced. If his surmise was correct, he'd just heard two members of the Empire Eighty-Eight die. Worse, Krieg was an important link to Gesellschaft. At worst, he had to assume that the Empire had just lost four capes to an unspecified Changer and an unknown Brute. That made her … formidable. The only good news in all that was Marquis' death. Of course, this also had a downside, in that the girl was now angry at the Empire. Quite a downside.

On the upside, she had no way of knowing where he was. The worst she could do was harass his people; given adequate lead time, he could set up an ambush relatively easily. A Brute could only do so much to protect her; hit the Changer hard enough and she would go down.

He nodded and raised his desk phone. "Alert all operatives in the building to report to my office immediately." Without waiting for a response, he put the phone down again. The Biermann sisters were in school at the moment, which was a pity; they would have enjoyed this mission. However, even without them, the Empire could certainly muster enough firepower to contain this situation.

Purity was the first to arrive, shooting him a quick smile. He made sure to return it; while he wasn't ready to begin courting her quite yet, that time would be soon.

Next in the door was Justin, or Crusader as he was calling himself. The Empire's newest recruit, Justin was only seventeen and cockily sure of his capabilities. Max was interested in seeing how well he did against this new menace.

Geoff and Dorothy arrived together, strolling in side by side as if stepping out of a fifties sitcom. Max was only just now getting over the shudder that went down his spine whenever he saw them. Behind that immaculate grooming and those empty smiles was … something horrible. But they were loyal to the Empire, so he ignored his own feelings about them.

Panzer was a little tentative about entering, in her reimagining of a World War Two tanker's uniform, with the goggles pushed up on her forehead. She sidled into the room and stood at the back of the group.

Last to enter was Alabaster, still buckling on his shoulder holster. He stepped over to the group and stood there, waiting.

Rather than bid them sit – there weren't enough chairs – Max stood. "We have a problem," he stated flatly. "You people are the solution."

Justin looked around, surprise creeping over his expression. "Uh … aren't there normally more people here? Like Hooksy and Cricket?" He glanced toward Max, and something about the latter's expression caused him to belatedly add, "Uh,sir?"

Max decided to ignore the disrespect, this time. "That's the problem. Krieg, Stormtiger, Hookwolf and Cricket went out to make a deal with Marquis. Unfortunately, Marquis attacked them, along with his daughter, and an unknown Brute." The lie rolled easily off his tongue. "I've lost communications with them. As far as we know, they're either dead or in captivity. I want you to go to the site of Somers Rock, and evaluate what happened there."

"Somers Rock?" Purity looked stunned. "That's truce territory. Marquis would never have violated a truce, especially with Marchioness along. He always respected that sort of thing."

Why can't people just believe what they're told? Max kept his expression tightly controlled. "I got a call from Krieg. He said something about Somers Rock blowing up. He and the others only just got out in time, then Marquis' people attacked. There was also something about Marquis being dead and the girl being a Changer, then he was cut off." He pointed in the general direction of north. "I don't know any more. Go. Find our people."

There was a general exodus toward the door, though Purity stayed behind a moment. "I hope you're right about this, Max," she said softly. "I've never heard of Marquis doing something like this."

"He's been away for years, Kayden," he said smoothly, exerting all of his charm. "Then he came back and found out that his old territory had been taken over. Are we surprised that he's taking shortcuts to get it back?"

Reluctantly, she nodded. "I guess." Turning to the window, she opened it. As she climbed on to the sill, she looked over her shoulder. "I'll let you know what happens." Arching forward, she dived clear of the building, on what looked for all the world like a one-way trip to the pavement far below. But one second later, she lit up and rocketed away. Max walked over and closed the window.

Maybe I need to work on her a little more. She really should've just accepted my word.

<><>​

Kayden Russel

I'll be there long before the others. Kayden felt a twinge of smug superiority as she blasted across the city. She knew that Max was singling her out for special treatment because he recognised her worth. She was one of the Empire's hard hitters; as a flier and a blaster, she could stay out of the reach of most enemies while hitting them with attacks that could level buildings. Which meant, of course, that she wouldn't be so stupid as to land before the others got there. Air support stays in the air.

Brockton Bay had very few other fliers; while she'd heard that the Wards were fielding a kid who could fly and take a hit, she doubted that he'd be opposing her any time soon. Thus, she was concentrating mainly on the ground to make sure she didn't lose her way. Which made it a considerable surprise when she swept around a building and came within twenty feet of colliding with … what the hell was that, anyway?

Pulling sharply upward, she arched backward in a classic Immelmann turn, then rolled over to look at what she'd nearly run into. While she got a good view, it didn't help her confusion any. It was … a tiger? Or maybe a mountain lion? Whatever it was, it was also about ten or twelve feet long, with enormous wings keeping it aloft. The wings and eyes were the only thing about it that broke the darkness of the rest of its body, the former apparently composed of steel and bone and the latter a glaring yellow.

If it was any consolation, the creature … thing … whatever it was, had been just as badly surprised by the near-miss as she was. It was only just now recovering; belatedly, she realised that it was turning, beating its wings strongly to gain altitude toward her.

She didn't recognise it as an enemy, but nor was it any ally that she knew about. She considered calling Max to ask him, but then she recalled that he didn't know any more about this than she did. Still, she was now sharing airspace with a truly bizarre creature, and she had time to spare. If I can recruit it, Max will be thrilled.

"Who are you?" she called. "Can you understand me?" This is gonna suck if it can't understand or speak English.

The creature's mouth opened, and what came out was English, but she needed a few seconds to comprehend what had been said. "It's Marchioness," she heard. "We met at Somers Rock. I was with my father."

What?

She took a moment to stare at the creature before her. It had to weigh half a ton at least. Against all sane logic, it was supporting itself in the air on a pair of massive wings – that weren't, she realised after a few seconds, even moving. This did not fit her memory of the slender girl in the evening dress. But Max did say she was a Changer. Wow, some change. Reflexively, she backed off another few yards. "Are we gonna fight?" she asked cautiously. "Kaiser says you attacked his men. Where were you going?" All of a sudden, she felt a lot less smug about being a flier, especially given that the others could give her minimal backup from the ground.

"Kaiser blew up Somers Rock with us inside it!" shouted the … the girl. "Then Hookwolf cut my dad's head off! He was gonna kill me too! So yes, we attacked them!"

What.

"No, no, that can't be right," Kayden protested. "Max would never do something like that." The Max she knew, and occasionally fantasised about, was a better man than that.

Isn't he?

She knew how stressed he was getting about Marquis' return to Brockton Bay. He could be extremely ruthless if he had to be; she knew this. But would he break the neutrality of Somers Rock to be rid of an enemy like Marquis?

"It wasn't his idea," Marchioness shouted back. "It was all Krieg. He just went along with it."

To her dismay, Kayden found that to be more believable. That sort of move was very Krieg. Especially if he set it up first and only told Max afterward.

Kayden took a deep breath. Marchioness didn't seem to be attacking just yet, and it didn't seem as though she could gain altitude as fast as Kayden could, so she didn't have the upper hand in a potential fight. Which meant that Kayden could afford to talk. "Okay, so tell me what happened." While I compare it with what Max told me. "Where did the Brute come from?"

"The Brute?" Marchioness seemed a little confused. "Oh, you mean … ha. No, he's not a Brute. He's just … really strong and tough. He's one of Dad's men. He hit Krieg and Stormtiger with the car, and saved my life."

Kayden was pretty sure that 'really strong and tough' was more or less the definition of Brute, especially someone who could pick up a car and hit someone with it, but she let that go. "Where are they now? How badly are they injured? And what about Hookwolf and Cricket? What have you done with them?"

"They're … alive," Marchioness answered, just a little evasively. "I had to, uh, resort to extreme measures. But they tried to kill us!" Indignation coloured her tone. "I thought Somers Rock was neutral!"

"It is," Kayden assured her. "But Kaiser said you blew it up." She tensed, building up energy in case the tiger-thing decided to attack her.

"What?" Marchioness sounded confused. "I told you, Krieg blew it up. I smelled the explosive, but Dad and me still got caught in the explosion. Then they attacked us so we had to fight back."

"Wait, what do you mean by 'extreme measures'?" asked Kayden suspiciously. "And where are they?"

"Before I answer, I need you to promise that you won't freak." If a half-ton pitch-black flying tiger could be said to look shifty, this one did. "I mean it. It's gonna sound really weird."

We have super-powers. I can fly and shoot blasts of energy. My boss can make metal appear from nowhere. I think 'weird' is our ground state, right now. "Okay," she said cautiously. "You've warned me. How weird are we talking?"

"Um, I ate them?"

For a long moment, Kayden thought the girl was kidding. But when no laughter was forthcoming – although she wasn't sure that she wanted to see this thing laugh – she began to take the statement seriously. "You did what?"

"Okay, I didn't exactly eat them. Not all of them. I kept the brains alive, inside me. The rest of them I used for biomass. But they're alive. You want to talk to 'em?"

The girl's voice was matter of fact, even as she said things that Kayden just knew would keep her awake in the early hours of the morning. I kept the brains alive, inside me. "Wait, what? Talk to them?"

"Sure." The girl's voice changed then. "Purity. Do you recognise my voice?"

"Krieg?" Kayden didn't know whether to be relieved or horrified. "Is that really you?"

He seemed to sigh. "Yes. We miscalculated badly. It was all my idea, but … I really had no idea what resources Marquis could call on. Once Marchioness recovered, the battle was lost."

The tone, the word use, everything he was saying seemed to be pure Krieg. But this could be a trick of some kind. "Tell me something only you would know."

"My name is James Fliescher. Hookwolf's name is Bradley. The second letter of Kaiser's surname is N." His voice was resigned. "Purity, we can't win. She's got all of us in here. She's got access to our powers. We broke the truce. We blew up Somers Rock."

This was too much for her to handle at once. "What does she want? Where's she going?"

"It's me again." Marchioness was speaking now. "It's really simple. The Empire attacked us. Your boss declared war on us. I'm gonna take the war to him, and I'm gonna put an end to the Empire. I thought you were nice when we first met, so I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt here. You didn't know they were gonna do this, did you?"

Kayden grimaced. "I didn't know anything about it." She paused, a question occurring to her. "Why were you even meeting there? Whose idea was it?"

"I'll let Dad explain that one." Marchioness' voice shifted again. "My dear Purity. Radiant as ever, if you'll excuse the witticism."

"Marquis." She would have recognised his cultured tones anywhere. "I thought you were dead. She said Hookwolf cut your head off."

"He did." The tiger's head nodded. "But my daughter is quite ingenious. She saved me, just as she saved the brains of the others. However, that's neither here nor there. A few nights ago, some Empire men attacked people under my protection, in my territory. I contacted Kaiser over the matter, and he claimed that they weren't Empire. He offered to meet at Somers Rock to discuss the situation. I took the offer in good faith. But apparently it was a trap. So here we are."

"Okay." She rubbed at her temples. "You say they're alive, but they're just … brains, now? What happens when you're finished with them?" She had a horrifying image of a pile of human brains ejected on to the ground, unable to see, hear or even feel what was happening to them.

"My daughter will be supplying them with new bodies," Marquis stated. The sky is blue, water is wet, Marchioness can make new bodies for disembodied brains. "They will, of course, be required to leave Brockton Bay and never return, but this does not seem to pose a problem for them, given the alternative."

Why am I not surprised, when the other option is sharing a city with something that can eat their bodies and use their powers? "Right. So you're going to confront Kaiser now, I take it?" Max, she decided, was not going to be happy with this.

"Sure." It was Marchioness again. "Krieg might've thought of the idea, but he signed off on it, so I think it's only fair. Are you gonna try to stop me?"

There was just one chance to avert this. "Do you even know where you're going?"

"Yeah. Krieg told us. The Medhall building. This means that Kaiser's Max Anders, right?" For a half-ton flying tiger, Marchioness was being amazingly chirpy.

There goes my chance of talking to him alone. Kayden sighed slightly. "Yes."

The tiger's head tilted a little. "So, are you gonna try to stop me?" she asked again.

Kayden considered her options.

<><>​

Max Anders

"No, I don't know where she is. I thought she was with you." Max gritted his teeth. "She was supposed to scout out the area and report back to you. You haven't seen her at all?" Why couldn't people just do what they were told?

"Not a peep," Alabaster said. "We got cops and fire department all over the scene at Somers Rock, though, so we couldn't stop. PRT's out in force, too."

"So what did you see?" demanded Kaiser.

There was a muted discussion, then Alabaster got back on the phone. "Somers Rock's totalled. Wreckage everywhere. Big-ass chunk of bone stuck in the ground; looks like the PRT's gonna have to truck it away."

"Marquis." Max put his hand over his eyes. I thought Krieg said he was dead.

"What we thought, yeah," agreed Alabaster. "Also, some big-ass bloodstains with forensics guys crawling all over them. I counted five. One was on the chunk of bone. So maybe that's where Marquis bought it?"

"We can only hope. Anything else? Bodies? Pieces of bodies? Body bags? Were they questioning anyone?" Max knew he was grasping at straws here, but he had to try.

"Nope, no bodies. They were talking to a couple people, but nobody looking like a Brute or that little girl," reported the albino. "Looked like local street trash, to be honest."

"Right. Stay in the area. See what those people do once the cops have finished talking to them." Max leaned back in his chair. It was a long shot, but it was the best one he had. "Call me back the moment you've got something."

"Gotcha, boss." The phone went dead. Max put it down again, closed his eyes, and rubbed at his forehead with his fingertips. What the hell's going on? Where is Purity?

As if in answer to his question, there came a tap at the window; at the same time, light impinged on his closed eyelids, turning his world pink. "Finally," he snapped, leaping from the chair and striding over to the window. Undoing the latch, he flung the window open, holding up his arm to shield his eyes from her glare. "Where the hell have you been?"

She stepped inside, abating her glare as she did so, and that was when he realised that something was very wrong. For behind her, hovering soundlessly on outstretched wings of steel and bone, was an oversized tiger, wrought in utter blackness. Its burning yellow eyes focused on him as Kayden spoke.

"Max, we need to talk."



End of Part Eleven

Part Twelve

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Twelve: Home to Roost

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



"Max, we need to talk."

The utter banality of the words caused Max's brain to stutter to a halt for a split second, before he focused once more on the apparition hovering outside the window. Wind blasted in through the opening, while the flying beast's wings moved not at all.

Max Anders was not a stupid man, nor a naïve one. He'd been brought up at his father's knee with the full expectation that he'd take over both family concerns when the time came. To learn how to manage Medhall efficiently, he'd studied business administration in college. Running a criminal empire required a rather more esoteric skillset, one which Allfather had taken it on himself to teach Max—Kaiser, once he'd triggered—in their spare time.

A significant part of that education had to do with potential betrayal from within the ranks. Backstabbing, after all, was almost written into the villainous lifestyle. The conscientious supervillain not only learned how to deal with it effectively and efficiently, but also how to spot it before it became a problem. While Max didn't know what this thing was, he had a very strong suspicion that it wasn't friendly. Also, that Purity was on its side rather than his.

At a thought, metal blades sprang from the floor between him and Purity. One in particular, he aimed at her. Before the gleaming curtain walled off that side of the room, he had the grim satisfaction of seeing the shocked look in her eyes as the blade punched in through her lower abdomen. She was not the first person he'd done this to; once the blade burst out between her shoulder-blades, her remaining life expectancy could be measured in minutes. But he neither gloated nor took it on faith that the midnight-black thing would long remain outside the window. Nor did he blindly accept that his metal wall would stand against it for long.

Lunging for his desk, he threw himself over it to land on the floor beyond. The noise of a thunderous blow followed him over, and metal shards smashed into the sturdy wooden barricade. Ordinarily they would have torn clear through the desk, but Max had planned ahead and concealed heavy steel plates behind the decorative panels.

But this was only a temporary refuge, and he knew it. Up under the edge, right where a seated person might find it, was a prominently displayed button. He reached up and jammed his thumb on it. Seconds seemed to stretch into hours as the wall panel behind the desk slid aside with a low hum to reveal a cramped elevator. Giving the area around the desk another layer of razor-sharp blades, he lunged out from under the desk and into the elevator. Once inside, he slapped his palm on the lower of the two buttons, and the door slammed shut once more. The elevator dropped away, leaving him scrambling for a handhold, for there were no stops between his office and the sub-basement where he was bound. Had he more warning, he would've warned the pilot to warm up the helicopter on the roof, but no such luck. In any case, an unarmed helicopter had no chance against a hostile flyer, such as the tiger-thing seemed to be. On the whole, he judged it better that he take the underground route to a safe location. One that only his trusted lieutenants knew about. And to think I was considering Kayden for that position. Absently, he wondered what inducement she'd been offered to change sides.

Mere seconds before the elevator reached its destination, he heard the first explosions from above. This was a mixed blessing; on the one hand, it meant that the motion-sensors in the elevator shaft were working. On the other, it meant that the tiger-thing had fought its way through his blades and gotten to the elevator shaft already. Shaped charges, triggered by the sensors, would be blasting columns of molten metal across the shaft, destroying anything foolhardy enough to try to follow him. The elevator itself was safe from the explosions; while it wasn't Tinkertech, it had been designed to not need anything so failure-prone as a cable.

It juddered to a halt and the door whisked open just as metal fragments began to patter on its roof. Striding out confidently, he slapped the panel which would send the elevator upward as fast as it could travel. As satisfying as it would've been to have it loaded with explosives, that would make his initial trip in it fraught with peril, especially if his enemies had access to the detonation codes.

More detonations sounded from above, but he was still moving. A heavy set of blast doors barred his way, right up until he pressed his palm to the reader, whereupon they opened with a hiss. Stepping through, he traversed a short length of corridor, the raw concrete unadorned save for fluorescent tubes affixed to the ceiling. Behind him, the blast doors slammed shut once more. Ahead, another set of doors slid open and interior lights came on, illuminating a pair of seats situated side by side in a small capsule. Extravagantly padded, they were equipped with five-point restraint harnesses.

When he'd had this built, the possibility had crossed his mind that he would be bringing along an essential personal assistant, or even a wife or child, so he'd had the second seat installed. In the event, he was glad not to have someone else along; in time of crisis, so many people argued. If they'd all just do as he said and kept their questions for later, things would go much more smoothly.

Taking one of the seats, he swiftly fastened the restraints, then pressed the button on the wall beside the arm-rest. The capsule doors slid silently closed, fastening with a definite clunk. He felt himself being pressed back into the padding by the acceleration as the capsule started off along the magnetic-levitation track. It had been expensive for a section of sewer line to be written off the city council's books. Having an escape capsule built into that section of sewer line had cost a lot more, but he'd never begrudged the cost. As powerful as he was, as powerful as the capes he commanded were, he'd always acknowledged the possibility that someone would penetrate his secret identity and attack him when he was out of costume, despite the unspoken rules forbidding that very act.

Of course, he'd always thought Kayden too loyal to backstab him like that. A wry grin twisted his lip as he mused on the fact that I thought my minions were loyal could be placed on the headstone of many a deceased villain. The important fact of the matter wasn't that she'd led the enemy—whoever that was—to his very doorstep, but that she'd been punished for the crime. With any luck, the winged tiger-creature had either been sliced to ribbons by the blades in his office or immolated by the shaped charges in the elevator shaft. In any case, flyers rarely had a way to track their prey through solid earth, so he was almost certainly free and clear and ready to plan his return attack. Which reminded him; he had yet to contact his loyal minions.

Something he couldn't do without his phone. As he recalled, he'd left it sitting on his desk when he went over to open the window for Kayden. An unwise move, in retrospect. But then, if it were so easy to spot traitors in advance, nobody would have that problem. So be it. He'd just have to wait until he got to his destination before contacting the team.

It seems that the most careful of planning can still outsmart itself. He'd ensured that the capsule, although well underground and travelling as fast as a car on the streets overhead, could still transmit a cell-phone conversation to the towers above. Unfortunately, he'd assumed that he would still have a phone on him with which to hold said conversation. I should've had a phone system built in.

Still, no harm done. There was a perfectly functional landline where he was going, as well as a latest-model cell-phone in the wall safe. If his precautions had been carried out as planned (and if not, heads would roll) all the data on his phone's SIM card as of a week ago would be on it. Max Anders was a man who planned for every eventuality.

Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he was beginning to analyse the events that had taken place in his office. Krieg said Marchioness was a Changer. What if that flying creature was her? Dispassionately, he considered the idea. If that was the case, then his actions had probably saved his life; the girl almost certainly held a grudge over his part in the events that led to the death of Marquis.

It didn't really matter. As powerful as she was, his four remaining loyal capes would almost certainly be a match for her and Purity both. They came at me through my civilian identity. I'll see them dead for that. Whatever identities Marchioness and Marquis had been using, he would trace back until he knew where the girl called home, then deal with her once and for all.

At least I put an end to Purity. He still found it hard to believe that she had turned against him so readily, until something occurred to him. What if Marchioness is a Master as well as a Changer and a healer? The disquieting thought made no kind of sense at all, but since when were powers supposed to make sense, even at the best of times? If this were true, Purity had never truly been disloyal, which he strongly wanted to believe. This would also make it a pity that he'd had to kill her, but a Mastered minion was just as dangerous as an actual traitor.

The capsule bumped to a stop. Max checked his watch; it was just twelve minutes since he'd hung up on Alabaster's call. He released the restraints and stood up as the doors opened automatically. Stepping out of the capsule took him into a squarish room constructed of the same raw concrete as the other end of the escape tunnel. Heavy metal doors faced him; he laid his hand on the palm-scan pad and watched it turn from red to green. The doors slid open, revealing the stairwell beyond.

Ten minutes later, he panted up the last flight of stairs to his destination. He liked to keep fit, but this was ridiculous. From thirty feet underground to eighty feet above, up a stairwell that was barely ten feet on a side, he was utterly sick of the endless grind of concrete steps.

It was a block of upscale townhouses, of which he was the ultimate owner. During their construction, he'd quadrupled the going rate to ensure that a relatively small square area of each floor was marked 'load-bearing' and not looked at too closely by the building inspectors. As a result, he had a secret stairwell from underground to the top floor, unsuspected by all but a very few. Krieg had known about it, of course, although nobody else did, not even Hookwolf. Max had planned to take Purity to this place once they became a little closer, but was now quite pleased that things hadn't progressed that far. And now they never will.

He paused to catch his breath, wishing now that he'd ignored Krieg's advice and installed an elevator instead of the stairwell. Never mind that this would've blown out the number of bribes that he needed to pay (and bodies he needed to hide), it would've been so much more convenient. A silk handkerchief sufficed to wipe the sweat from his brow, and he tapped in the code to enter the townhouse proper.

The doors hissed open and he stepped out into the master bedroom. This consisted of acres of fluffy white carpet, surrounding a bed that only escaped the designation of 'king size' by being even larger than that. Max looked back over his shoulder with satisfaction to see two sections of apparently ornamental carved oak slide back together. Hopefully I never have to use that goddamn stairwell ever again. The walk-in closet, he knew, held a selection of suits tailored to his specifications. There was food in the refrigerator, the freezer and the pantry. A single phone call would have the townhouse staffed to his satisfaction within an hour.

But first, he knew, he had to disarm the alarm system. Then he could contact his capes and inform them exactly how badly the situation had gone sideways. He started toward the bedroom door, then paused, sniffing. He made a point not to come here too often, and only a trusted few had access to the place … so why did he smell steam from the en-suite bathroom?

There was no way that this could be connected with what had just happened. Even if Purity knew about this place, and had survived being almost classically impaled, there was no way she'd fly here just to have a shower in his bathroom. Which meant that there was someone else in his bathroom. Someone who'd broken in, gotten past his top-of-the-line security system, and had just had a shower in his personal en-suite!

Almost unbidden, metal slid out from his Rolex, swiftly covering his hand with a flexible gauntlet of steel. From this, a foot-long blade sprang forth. Whoever this was, they'd made a very bad mistake by invading his personal space right at this time. Normally, he might have called the police, but now he had some personal issues to work through, and they were in the exact wrong place at the exact wrong time.

He started toward the door to the en-suite, blade at the ready. Whoever was in there, if he questioned them in the tub, it would make it a lot easier to dispose of the blood. Two steps on, however, the door opened, spilling a wave of steam into the bedroom. The intruder stepped out, dressed in one of Max's monogrammed bathrobes, drying his hair with one of Max's Egyptian cotton towels. "Why, hello, Max," said Marquis. "I do like this place. Amazing bathroom facilities. Although I may have depleted your shampoo somewhat. Terribly sorry."

Max had seen parahumans do a great many strange things in his life. However, the only one he knew of who could recover from a decapitation was Alabaster—that had been a frankly stomach-turning power demonstration—and Marquis was no Alabaster. How is he even alive?

He never saw the tentacle that slid up behind him and coiled around his ankle …

<><>​

Twenty-Three Minutes Ago

Claire

Purity stepped through the open window and powered down, her glow fading to nothing. Before her stood a handsome blond man, whom Claire assumed was Max Anders. He gave the order to kill Dad. Her power wanted to shred him, to make him die screaming in his own filth, but she held it back.

[Good girl. Self-control is a good thing in this situation.] Her father's mental 'voice' was calm and collected, in spite of whatever feelings he might have had about the situation.

Internally, she grimaced. [I really want to screw his day up.] It would be so easy. While she couldn't kill him or even mortally injure him from this distance, she could certainly slow him down until she got within killing range. But her father wanted to give Purity a chance to speak to Max, so she held back.

"Max," Purity said. "We need to talk." The wind-rush generated by Stormtiger's power was keeping them airborne, but it also threatened to drown out the spoken word. Fortunately, Cricket's power was able to overcome this problem, so they heard the woman's words clearly.

~Oh, fucking hell.~ That was Hookwolf. ~Can she get any cornier?~

~If it works, does it matter?~ Krieg sounded amused.

The flickering lightning-fast conversation—speech was much easier when transmitted over dedicated neural circuits—was interrupted by Max's next move; specifically, he sent a forest of blades lancing up from the floor, hiding him from view. Claire's life-sense didn't need line of sight to detect him moving away from them and leaping over something, possibly his desk.

That put him just on the edge of her range for temporary conditions, but she was distracted by something much closer and more dire; one of the spikes had punched into Purity's stomach and out between her shoulder-blades. The real problem was that some of the blades were blocking the window, so that she couldn't get close enough to give Purity the assistance she needed. ~Purity's been stabbed.~ She shared her life-sense image with everyone.

~Purity!~ That was Krieg. ~God damn it, Max.~

~Can you help her, Marchioness?~ Her father's voice was unexpectedly urgent.

~Yeah, but I have to get closer.~

~Leave that to me. May I have control?~ He sounded as though he knew what he was doing, so she passed the 'reins' of the shared body to him. ~Thank you. Stormtiger, Krieg, make sure none of the glass hits her. Hookwolf, more metal in our claws.~

~Of course.~

~Sure thing.~

~You got it.~

She felt the massive body brace itself and swing its paw, even as newly strengthened razor-sharp claws extended outward from the appendage. The blow struck the glass and the metal behind it, shattering both into a thousand flying pieces of shrapnel. None of those pieces, however, hit Purity; they all either curved around her or fell short. Now that the main obstacle was out of the way, she clambered in through the window, pushing aside the few metal blades that got in her way. The woven nanotube composite making up her outer skin barely even dented before the metal bent and broke.

Now that she had access, she extended a tendril from her shoulder toward the stricken woman. It wrapped around Purity's arm and she started healing the damage as fast as she could diagnose it. Purity, who'd been slipping into shock a moment before, blinked her way awake and looked around. "Fuck," she said. "I never thought he'd do that." Then she looked down at herself, at the length of steel currently anchoring her to the floor. "Fuck!" Furiously, she looked around. "Where is that asshole?"

"He went over there." Claire gestured to the desk, where several shards of metal had embedded themselves into the wood panelling. "But—"

She got no farther as Purity raised her hand and fired off a helical blast that carved its way across the office, eliminating the desk and part of the wall. A secondary explosion shook the office from a cavity in the wall.

"—as I was about to say," Claire said, after the echoes died away, "he's taken an elevator downward. He just left my range." She made her tone severe. "Now, I need you to hold still. I've got your wounds closed, but that's still a very sharp blade inside you. Move and you could slice yourself open again."

"Right." Purity held very still. "What are you going to do?"

"Let me check something." ~Cricket, how solidly is the blade attached to the floor?~

~Give me a burst of sonar and we can find out.~ The pit fighter seemed intrigued.

~Okay.~ Claire opened her mouth and let the inaudible sound-waves strike the base of the blade. ~How's that?~

~Perfect. Not strongly attached at all. Figure you can rip it off the floor, no problem.~

~Excellent. Thank you.~ Claire turned her attention to Purity. "Okay, we've got good news. We can probably lever this blade off the floor. That'll make getting it out of you a lot easier." She made her voice upbeat, trying not to think about the penalties for slipping at the wrong moment.

~A suggestion, Marchioness?~ Even now, her father was unfailingly polite.

~Anytime.~

~Widen the wound channel, and I'll coat the blade with bone to dull the edge. That should make it somewhat less perilous for the young lady.~

Once it was suggested, the concept was obvious. ~Good idea. Let's do it.~ "Okay, just to warn you, I'm going to widen the, uh, wound channel. This might feel weird, but I'll be moving your vital organs to go around it." She pre-emptively lowered Purity's epinephrine levels, and flooded her bloodstream with endorphins to make her more relaxed and less jumpy.

Purity's initial nervousness began to melt away. "I'm good with anything that saves my life right now. Just so long as nobody makes jokes about long hard things sticking into me."

On second thought, Claire decided, she may have overdone it just a touch.

Even as she opened up the channel the blade had punched through Purity, making sure to keep blood vessels intact and organs functional, she could feel Marquis following through, layering bone on the steel to cover the edge and make it both blunt and smooth. In fact, the whole process took rather less time than it had to describe what she was going to do. "Okay, done. Now, power up."

Almost immediately, Purity began to glow with an almost intolerable brightness. Claire closed her main eyes and opened another pair designed to operate under this level of light. "Good." Extending the toes of her paw into fingers, Claire took hold of the blade and tore it free from the floor. "Now, lean back and just let yourself drift out the window."

"Okay." This was accompanied by a giggle. Purity, stoned as she was, followed orders perfectly. Claire tilted the blade to follow her movement, watching carefully as foot after foot of bone-coated metal emerged from the hole in Purity's abdomen. The process only took seconds, but it seemed like hours to Claire.

"Right," Purity said, now hovering outside the window sans blade. "Where's that murderous prick? I wanna shove that fucking blade so far up his ass he can polish it with his toothbrush. Or something." She started forward.

~That's a bad idea.~ Krieg spoke dispassionately. ~He's got the elevator shaft booby-trapped.~

"Purity, stop!" Claire called urgently. "Krieg says there's booby-traps."

"Well, how the fuck are we supposed to fuck his day up?" Purity stopped and came back to her. "Ask Krieg where he's going."

~That's easy.~ Krieg somehow managed to convey a cold smile. ~And the best bit is, we can get there before him. Provided that Purity doesn't slow us down, of course.~

<><>​

Purity

"Woooohoooo!" Purity hung on for dear life as the flying tiger arrowed its way across the city. Even though she wasn't feeling quite as amazing as she had when Marchioness took the blade out of her guts, she was still rocking some serious adrenaline. Marchioness had formed a weird saddle thing on her back, along with hand-holds; these came in very handy, given that they were going a lot faster than her normal top speed. Apparently Stormtiger's power when combined with Krieg's and applied to a half-ton flying tiger equalled about three hundred miles per hour for airspeed.

It had felt very weird when Marchioness closed the wound through her torso, without so much as a lump of scar tissue to show for it. She was sure she should've been feeling more pain, but there hadn't been so much as a twinge. The girl … tiger … whatever … was good at what she did.

At some unseen signal, the tiger slowed dramatically and swooped down toward a block of townhouses. Flaring its wings, it came in for a four-point landing on an outdoor patio. Purity slid off to the ground, still grinning widely. "That was awesome!" A frown crossed her face as something occurred to her. "Though people probably saw us coming here …"

The tiger's massive head shook from side to side. "I used bio-pigmentation to paint our underside blue. We just looked like a little piece of sky moving really fast." It turned toward the keypad next to the door barring entry into the townhouse proper. "Krieg says the security code's five eight five eight five." It snorted. "Creative."

Purity rolled her eyes in agreement. The Empire Eighty-Eight's initials interspersed with Hitler's? Imaginative it isn't. She went over to the panel and tapped in the numbers; a moment later, the red light on the door turned green and it clicked open. Grabbing the handle, she pulled it all the way open, then looked at the bulky tiger. "Uh, you might need to fold your wings or something …"

The tiger—Marchioness—chuckled, a girlish sound which was extremely odd under the circumstances. "It's okay. We've got this." A moment later, the steel and bone 'feathers' fell from the wings and clattered to the concrete of the patio; the wings then melted back into the tiger's body. Then it began to stretch in a most disturbing fashion. When its shoulders were barely the width of a muscular man's, it eased forward into the townhouse. Purity followed, closing the door behind her.

"So, you sure Max is coming here?" she asked as the elongated tiger prowled through the living room. She watched as a massive paw reached out and delicately turned the handle of a door into what seemed to be a well-appointed bedroom. Marchioness began to enter, the odd layout of her current body form making the operation quite a protracted one.

"Sure," she called back over her shoulder. "He just showed up. Ten stories down. It'll take him a while to climb this far." There was the click of another door opening. "Oh, perfect. Just what we need."

"Perfect? What's what you need?" Purity followed Marchioness into the bedroom, her feet sinking almost to the ankle in the fluffy white carpet. She had to detour around the bed, which seemed large enough to host a volleyball game, along with the cheerleaders and the spectator stands. Marchioness was head and shoulders through the next door, blocking Purity's view into the room. "What's in there?"

"A bathroom." Marchioness' voice did have a certain echo to it, reminiscent of floor to ceiling tiles. "More specifically, a tub. A big one. Or maybe a small pool, I can't quite decide which. Anyway, it's perfect for what I need."

"Perfect for what?" asked Purity, frustration growing as she tried to peer past Marchioness' shoulder. "And Max is on the way up, so whatever you're going to do, do it!"

Marchioness chuckled. "He's not feeling so fit. The poor guy's gonna have to take a few rest breaks. We've got time. Oh, and if you've got a weak stomach, I'd go and turn the TV on. Just saying."

"Why? What are you doing in there?"

Purity didn't know what she expected, but Marchioness' answer wasn't it. "Decanting Dad."

This was followed by a sound both familiar and horrifying. Purity wasn't a cat person, but she knew people who were, and she'd once been subjected to the experience of having a cat bring up a hairball in front of her. At the time, she'd thought the animal was dying. Even being assured that it was going to be fine didn't make her feel any better. The sickly choking noises had haunted her nightmares for weeks afterward.

Marchioness' shoulders hunched and those same noises echoed from the bathroom, only magnified and enhanced by a factor of fifty. Purity stood it for about ten seconds, just long enough for another round of nausea-inducing noises to start up, then she fled into the living room, closing the bedroom door firmly behind her. Looking wildly around, she saw that Max had a well-stocked wet bar; better yet, it was unlocked. She pulled it open, then took a glass and a bottle of something that looked both alcoholic and obscenely expensive, and poured herself a generous shot. The first sip burned all the way down, but it wasn't too bad, so she took another one.

Whatever mess she makes in there, she told herself firmly, I am not cleaning it up.

<><>​

Marquis

Marquis opened his eyes. He was curled in a foetal position on a hard cold surface, encased in some sort of translucent sac. Uncurling, he felt the sac tear; warm liquid ran out and cool air rushed in. The sac retracted, pulling back from around him as he opened his mouth and took his first breath of air in what seemed like days. Looking at the world with his own eyes, smelling the air with his own nose … it felt almost strange.

His daughter looked back at him with a jet-black tiger's face. She raised one eyebrow. "Now will you let me give you improvements?" she asked, a certain touch of asperity in her tone.

"Would improvements have saved me from decapitation, Claire?" he asked, carefully climbing to his feet. Belatedly, he realised that he was very naked. Grabbing the shower curtain, he held it in front of himself.

Claire chuckled. "Seriously, Dad? I just made that body."

"Irrelevant," he grumbled. "There are proprieties to uphold."

Of course, considering the number of times she'd reformed his body between Earl Marchant and Marquis ('the classic model', as he thought of that version) it would've been astonishing if she didn't have the wherewithal to recreate him cell-by-cell. Seeking to change the subject, he added, "About those improvements?"

"They would maybe have worked," she said defensively. "The subdermal armour definitely would've saved you from a lot more damage if I hadn't had to start from scratch about two seconds before the explosion."

He sighed, knowing when he was beaten. "Fine. Once we're done here, you may do it." His nose wrinkled, partly because of the smell of the fluid he'd been surrounded in. "Did you have to make that horrific noise?"

Claire giggled. "Nope. But it got rid of Purity so we could talk. Anyway, you need to shower, and Kaiser's about seven minutes away. And knowing you, you're gonna want to make an entrance. I'll make your left eyelid twitch when it's time to finish the shower." She began to withdraw from the bathroom.

"Claire—" he began. She stopped, looking attentively at him. He shrugged awkwardly. "Thanks. For saving my life."

Her grin was one hundred percent smartass teenager, for all that it was on a tiger's face. "Anytime, Dad." Then she was gone, the bathroom door pulled shut behind her.

Marquis shrugged, a wry smile of his own crossing his face. Every day, she rewards me for being her father. Someday, I hope to be worthy of that. Turning on the shower taps, he braced himself against the Niagara-like onslaught of water that blasted down at him, scouring his body of the lingering traces of whatever Claire had formulated in place of amniotic fluid. He reached for the shampoo. Kaiser's on his way up, hmm? Well, I'd better hurry if I want to be presentable when he arrives.

<><>​

Marchioness

~I cannot believe that you used us—our bodies—to remake your father.~ Krieg was less than pleased. ~Could you not have consumed a side of beef or something similar before bringing him back from the dead? Max has one in the freezer, if you'd just asked.~

~Listen,~ Claire replied testily. ~The moment I ate you, it became my biomass, my body. Reclaiming it for you would've been like pouring a cup of water into an aquarium then trying to scoop that same cup of water out again. There's no point.~ She turned her attention to Max. He was puffing steadily now as she added lactic acid to his muscles and artificially induced a higher level of fatigue. Still, it looked like he'd be here in another minute or so; reaching out with her powers, she triggered the nerves in her father's left eyelid, making it flutter and twitch.

~Wait a goddamn second.~ That was Hookwolf. ~What about my ink? Those tattoos took days to get just right. You saying I gotta get all that shit done again? What if I forget something?~ He actually sounded legitimately upset, more so than when he'd been eaten.

~And my scars,~ chimed in Cricket. ~Scars are a badge. If you're not showing scars, you're not saying who you are. What you've done. Who you've beaten.~

~Okay, everyone shut up.~ Claire's patience was at an end. ~You'll get your tattoos and scars back. I can't guarantee everything will be perfect, but give me an idea of what you want and you'll get it. Geez.~

Crouched in the walk-in closet, she didn't move a muscle as the secret doors slid open. Concealed in the carpet, the fluffy eyeball on a stalk observed as Max stepped into the room. She made her father's eyelid twitch again, to let him know that it was time.

Max seemed to realise that something was going on, even before her father opened the door. By the time Marquis stepped out, the leader of the Empire Eighty-Eight had a metal gauntlet on his left hand, along with a wicked-looking blade in that same hand.

As she snaked a pure-white tentacle out of the walk-in closet, she listened with half an ear to her father's words. He'd never been anything but on point. Presentation, he'd always told her, was the fine line that divided supervillains from mere powered criminals. Even back when his methods were somewhat harsher than they were now, he'd never ceased to portray himself as a cut above the common herd.

Kaiser managed to shake himself free from the stunned shock, and his brain started to show the same activity that she had noted a moment before, when he summoned the metal glove and sword. If Claire was any judge of matters, he was about to use his powers again. The smart money was on something to do with her father. Not on my watch.

The tentacle wrapped around Kaiser's ankle, latching on tightly. Even without the close contact, she would've been able to exert some influence over his brain; with it, her control was absolute. Every ounce of self-will he had dropped away, leaving him utterly suggestible and unable to even consider hostile action. He still knew who he was, and who Marquis was, but he didn't care. Claire could've put him before a table stacked high with delicacies and he'd starve to death before he took a bite … because he wouldn't care one way or the other.

In the back of her mind, Stormtiger stirred. ~Okay, that's just fucking terrifying.~

~Fuck yeah,~ agreed Hookwolf. ~If I'm gonna go, I don't want it to be like that.~

~He's not dead, you idiots,~ Claire told them with a little irritation. ~Just … on hold.~

Nudging the walk-in closet open, she stalked out into the bedroom. Kaiser stood there, eyes dull, sword drooping. He didn't react to her unexpected appearance, nor to Marquis' approach.

The older villain studied the younger for a few moments, then shook his head. "I have to say, that's slightly unsettling. Is he still alive in there?"

"Sure," Claire said cheerfully. "I've just got the part of him that wants to kill you locked away. I'll be changing it back before I release him." She turned to Max and said clearly, "Come with me to the living room."

Oblivious to the fact that he'd just been addressed by a jet-black tiger, Max obediently started toward the living room. Claire padded alongside him while behind them, Marquis entered the walk-in closet. Before she closed the door, Claire saw her father holding up a suit against himself in a speculative fashion.

<><>​

Purity

Alcohol wasn't Purity's forte. In fact, she rarely drank. But in this case, she'd downed about half a glass of Max's really expensive stuff before Marchioness—a little reduced in size—accompanied a puppet-like Max into the living room. She didn't miss the white tentacle protruding from the tiger's shoulder and wrapping around her ex-boss' ankle. Nor was she oblivious to the blank look in his eyes and the way he moved at Marchioness' direction.

"What did you do to him?" She put the glass down, but not too far away. More alcohol might be needed at any moment, after all. "Is he dead?"

Marchioness rolled her eyes. "Why does everyone assume that? No, he's not dead. His higher functions are just temporarily suspended for the moment. Otherwise he'd probably be filling this room with razor-sharp steel. We've already seen how that goes." She sighed. "I'll turn him back on in a moment, but first we need to take precautions. Max!"

He turned his dull eyes toward her. "Yes?" he asked, with the barest inflection in his voice to indicate a question. Purity had to suppress a shiver from going down her spine. Max had tried to kill her—the blood-stained holes in her costume were ample proof of that—but now he looked empty. As if the man she had once harboured serious fantasies about had been cored out, and all that was left was his shell.

Marchioness fixed her burning yellow eyes on Max's. "Once you are able to think for yourself, you will follow my orders to the letter and the spirit. Do you understand me?"

"Yes." The word may well have been uttered by a zombie.

"First order." Marchioness's voice was harsh. "Don't use your powers. Second order. Don't attack anyone. Third order. Don't ever lie to me. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Again, the only part of Max's body that moved was his mouth.

"Good. I'm giving your mind back now." She withdrew the tentacle; for a long moment, nothing else seemed to happen.

Then, Max's body seemed to fill up from the inside. His eyes opened wide, then blinked, and he looked around. As his hands clenched together convulsively, he drew a deep breath of air into his lungs. "What the fuck did you do to me, bitch?" he grated harshly.

"Don't speak to me like that," Marchioness chided him; as gentle as the words were, he flinched back. His hand went momentarily to his throat as she spoke again. "Now, sit down."

Almost as if moving against his will, he sat down in a comfortable armchair, opposite where Purity sat on the white leather sofa. His eyes fixed on her. "What—how are you still alive?" The confusion in his voice was clear.

"Marchioness saved me," Purity said simply. "You're lucky I'm not blasting you into little tiny pieces right now." Part of her wanted to, very badly.

"You turned on me!" The animation and agitation she saw was all Max. "You led the enemy to my door! I had no choice!" He leaned forward. "What did they offer you?"

Purity shook her head, frowning. "Nothing. We spoke. They told me that you'd had Somers Rock blown up. You set a trap in a neutral part of town. This is all on you, Max."

"Seriously, Purity?" His voice rang with sincerity. "You chose to believe them over me?" His chuckle sounded almost natural. "They played you. But we can still—" He broke off, choking, fighting for air.

That was both a lie and an incitement to attack Marchioness, Purity realised. Wow, those orders are nasty. She took a deep breath. "You don't get it. She's subsumed Krieg and the others who killed her father. They spoke to me and verified the story." She pointed at Marchioness. "Tell her that it's all a lie. I dare you."

Max glared at her, furious, but didn't speak. A damning silence passed, broken only when the bedroom door opened. Marquis stood there, immaculately clad in one of Max's best suits. He strode forward with a nod toward his daughter, then seated himself on the sofa beside Purity.

"Now, it seems, we're getting to the nitty-gritty," he announced. "So, Maximilian, has my darling daughter outlined the terms of your surrender, or are we still in the process of beating around the bush?"

"Bush, I think," Purity commented when Max stayed silent. "Though I think we're about done." She raised her eyebrows. "Terms of his surrender? I'd think that terms were superfluous by now. He's defeated, well and truly."

"The rules of conduct—" began Max, before Marchioness silenced him with a shake of the head.

"Don't apply," she finished for him. "You struck first. You've forfeited your right to appeal to them. Be glad we're leaving you alive. As for what happens next, you'll obey Marquis' orders as you would mine."

Purity saw the fleeting smile cross Marquis' face before he began to speak. "Max Anders, otherwise known as Kaiser. You will dissolve the Empire Eighty-Eight in such a way as to make the dissolution seem natural and normal. You'll tell anyone who asks that it's your idea. Then you will leave Brockton Bay, never to return. You will never use your powers or influence to direct, assist or even suggest any hostile action against myself, my daughter, our associates or our holdings. You will never pass on to anyone what happened to you today, especially Marchioness' part in matters. Is any part of this not understood?"

Max shook his head jerkily. "I understand all of it."

"Good." Marquis' voice was like a razor hidden in silk. "Next. You will transfer ownership of all your properties in Brockton Bay into my name, or into holdings that I will name for you. You will likewise transfer all liquid assets into my control, save for … hmm. One percent. You can keep that much, I suppose."

Purity saw the pain in Max's eyes as every word went home. She'd thought her time in the Empire had inured her to the suffering of others, but this was the first time she had seen a man killed by degrees without a hand being laid on him. Any pity she might have felt for him was overwhelmed by the memory of his blade stabbing through her.

"I'll need a computer," Max replied, his words slow and reluctant. The compulsion to follow orders was pushing him, and his will was pushing back. Unfortunately for him, his will was nowhere near strong enough. "There's one in the study."

"Good. Be a good boy and carry out your orders, if you don't mind." Marquis rubbed his hands together as Max rose from his chair. "Next on the agenda. Krieg, Hookwolf, Cricket and Stormtiger. I'll be offering you a choice. Stay here in Brockton Bay under my command—and I will expect absolute loyalty—or leave forever." He looked expectantly at Marchioness.

There was a long pause, then the tiger spoke in Krieg's voice. "I believe I shall be leaving with my family. There will be too much to explain, otherwise."

"That's your choice." There was a glint in Marquis' eye. "The same prohibitions will apply to you as to Kaiser, of course."

The tiger seemed to choke slightly, then nodded. "Of course."

"Very well." Marquis looked at the jet-black beast expectantly. "Does anyone else have anything to say?"

When it spoke next, it was in Marchioness' voice. "The other three have agreed that they want to leave as well. To quote Hookwolf, Brockton Bay won't be the same without the Empire."

"Well, that's true," Marquis agreed. "Personally, I see it as an improvement, but that's only my opinion." He showed his teeth in a smile. "Fortunately, it is the opinion that counts at the moment."

"And what about me?" asked Purity, unable to stay quiet any more. "What happens to me? Am I to be given the same ultimatum; swear loyalty to you or leave Brockton Bay forever?"

Marquis turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised quizzically. "My dear, I had no thought of inflicting that choice upon you. You, of all the Empire capes, have shown that you are a person of integrity and honour. You may stay or leave as you will. I make no demands upon you."

"Oh." She felt somehow unbalanced, as if she'd been geared up for a fight that never eventuated. "So … I can just … go?"

"Well, if you wish, certainly." He smiled at her, then reached out and took her hand. "Or, alternately, there may be a place in my organisation for you. If you're interested in working with me, that is." The words were almost careless, but the gaze that accompanied them said much more. She felt herself flushing slightly.

"I, uh …" She swallowed. "Can I think about it?" The room was rather warm at the moment. She had been on the receiving end of charming offers before now, especially from Max, but she didn't feel as though Marquis wanted to conquer her. Or if he did, it would be very much a two-way street. Either way, she intended to take some time, and a cold shower, before she gave him his answer.

From his response, it was as if he'd expected nothing else. "Of course," he said at once. "Take all the time you need."

<><>​

One Day Later

Claire

The breeze was a little brisk today; Claire put her hands into her jacket pockets and hunched her shoulders slightly against it as she stood outside the bus depot. She could've simply adapted to the cold, but she preferred to do it this way.

"So how does it feel?" Her father's question sounded slightly amused. She turned to him, to see the faint smile at the corner of his mouth.

"What, being back to normal?" She shrugged. "No different, really. It was kinda weird sharing my head with five other people for a while there, but I never actually felt that I was the wrong shape at any time. I guess my brain adapted on the fly or something?"

His smile became introspective. "That's a very useful capability, Claire-bear. Along with the rest of them. You got me out of a very bad place yesterday. Which only proves that once the time comes, you are definitely the person to take over my organisation." He put his arm around her shoulders, and she snuggled in to him. Moments like this made it all worthwhile.

"That's not gonna happen for a very long time," she said bluntly. "I'm happy being who I am for the foreseeable future. You aren't gonna get sick, and so long as I'm around the PRT's gonna be hands-off. And if anyone else tries the crap the Brigade pulled back before we left Brockton Bay, I'll send 'em back tied into pretzels." She hoped it wouldn't be necessary, but sometimes it just was.

"Well, granted," he agreed. "All of which is true. But at some later date, I may simply wish to retire. Or something else might happen to me, while you aren't there to save my life." He paused. "Ah, there they go." His smile stretched into almost gleeful humour. "I wonder how long it'll take them to realise what you did to them?"

"Oh, I set the mental blocks to gradually dissolve over the next few days." Claire let her smile match her father's. "About two days from now, they'll wake up, look in the mirror and realise exactly what I did." The reactions, she decided, would be epic.

Together, they watched through the glass wall as four people boarded the bus to Chicago. There was a Jamaican man with long dreds and an assortment of tattoos on his brawny arms, a diminutive Asian woman with several serious-looking scars on her face and neck, a broad-shouldered man of Middle Eastern appearance, and a tall handsome African-American.

As the bus door closed behind them, he sighed, sounding wistful. "I do wish I could see their faces when it happened."

"Well, I can give you the addresses where they'll be," she offered. "You've got a couple of days to arrange for cameras to be put in place."

He snorted with laughter. "I think I just might. And Krieg?"

"He'll be out of town in a couple of days." She shrugged. "Moving family takes longer. Who knew? I didn't change his face, but in a couple of days he's going to realise that he just doesn't have the same dedication to the cause as he used to. Maybe he'll find a new line of work." Personally, she didn't think so, but there was always a chance.

"We can only hope." He turned to walk away; she followed him. "And talking about our earlier subject, I notice that you haven't pushed me any more about installing improvements. Are you less worried about my safety than you were before?"

One corner of her mouth quirked up slightly. "In a manner of speaking." Figuring it out in three … two … one …

On 'one', the penny dropped. "Why, you sneaky little minx! You already did it!"

Her expression became a full-fledged grin. "Well, I was rebuilding you from scratch anyway …"

They reached the limo where it was waiting by the curb, with Jonas beside it. The big man opened the back door; Claire climbed in, but Earl paused. "I am shocked. Shocked, I say. That my own flesh and blood might sneak around like that. Jonas, do you have any idea what my daughter's done?"

"Yes, sir." The South African's voice was a pleased rumble. "And not before time, sir."

Marchant rolled his eyes as he got in. "I am beset from all sides. And you say that you don't want to run the organisation. You've already suborned Jonas away from me."

Claire giggled, highly amused at her father's ham acting. "Hardly, Dad. You know he'd die for you." Which couldn't be disputed, after the events of the day before.

"Hmm. Well. Yes." He gave her an exasperated glance. "Well played, Claire-bear. Well played, indeed."

Jonas got into the driver's seat. "Oh, and before I forget, sir. While you were out of the car, Miss Russel called, accepting your offer of dinner tonight. Did you want me to lay out your evening clothes when we get home?"

Her father leaned back in his seat. "That would be splendid, Jonas." He waved a languid hand. "Home, and don't spare the horses."

As the limo pulled away from the curb, Claire looked out the window at Brockton Bay. That's the Empire down. Now just the ABB to go.

She could hardly wait.



End of Part Twelve

Part Thirteen

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Thirteen: Relative Innocence

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Tuesday Afternoon, October 2, 2007

Claire

"The Empire Eighty-Eight is no longer in existence as a coherent organisation," announced Earl Marchant grandly. "This calls for celebration." He poured a glass of champagne for himself, and another for Kayden. She smiled and murmured thanks as she accepted the glass, then moved back to the sofa. Claire, already seated in an armchair with her legs curled under herself, nodded to Kayden and raised her glass of lemonade slightly in a gesture somewhere between a salute and a toast.

"So soon?" asked Kayden. "That's moving kind of quickly, isn't it?" She nodded in return to Claire and took a sip from her glass. "I mean, I know you told Max to dismantle the organisation, but surely the others had more loyalty than that?" Clear in her tone were the unspoken words, I would have stayed longer.

"Apparently not," Earl replied as he placed the bottle back on the sideboard. Crossing the room, he sank on to the sofa next to Kayden. "Not everyone has your sense of honour and loyalty, my dear. It appears they were either in the team because of Max's charisma and persuasiveness or for the money. Lacking a strong leader and a regular paycheck, as well as parahuman backup, it seems the Empire rank and file are slipping away into the night. Any capes that aren't leaving town are keeping their heads well down. Or so my contacts are telling me."

"Except myself, of course." Kayden raised her eyebrows as she took another sip. "Or are you no longer counting me among their number?" Her voice sounded amused. Claire was pretty sure the woman was teasing her father.

Earl's voice, by contrast, was deadly serious. "You were no longer one of them the moment you decided that their perfidy was something that needed to be addressed. An organisation that deals in treachery and backbiting is one that doesn't deserve any level of respect." He reached out and took Kayden's hand, then kissed it gently. Unexpectedly, she blushed.

"Ahem." Claire said the word rather than clearing her throat. "Am I going to have to tell you two to get a room?" She smirked as they both turned to look at her, their faces showing surprise. "What? I've been here the whole time."

"Ah, yes." Earl chuckled a little self-consciously. "My apologies. I let myself become sidetracked. As I was saying, while the Empire itself is no longer a going concern, we have two other problems to deal with. So we must not allow ourselves to become complacent."

Claire frowned. "I'm guessing Lung's one of them. What's the other one?" Lung, the leader of the ABB, had to be making plans for dealing with Marquis, given that the latter had already claimed some of his territory. While dealing with Lung was theoretically easy—all she had to do was get close enough to the guy—she wasn't allowing herself to become complacent quite yet.

"The attack on Danny Hebert," Earl said, to his daughter's surprise. "That wasn't as random as it seemed. After you gave Fleischer his body back, I spent a little time chatting with him. He revealed he'd been paid to have Danny Hebert killed." He let the pause draw out a little, then dropped the bombshell. "By someone connected to the Mayor's office."

"Wait, what?" blurted Claire; on the sofa, Kayden looked almost as shocked. "The … the mayor tried to have Mr Hebert murdered?" Now this was sounding like the plot of a bad movie.

"Hardly." Earl shook his head. "No matter his private feelings on the subject, I doubt Mayor McAuley would stoop so low. But there are others working in that office who benefit by having the Boat Graveyard right where it is. Since I threw my financial weight behind Danny's efforts, I doubt very much that they are at all pleased."

"But wouldn't that mean they were coming after you as well?" Kayden's tone was sincere, and not a little concerned.

"It would." Earl shrugged. "Apparently I was the secondary target, because I'm much harder to get to than him. We can thank Jonas for that." He looked around. "Where is Jonas, anyway?"

"On the way here," Claire reported. "He's in a hurry."

"And so he should be," Earl said firmly. "I left orders to be here at this time. I'm willing to cut him a large amount of slack, but I hope he has a good excuse for his tardiness." He sipped at his glass, then turned toward the door as the burly South African entered. When he spoke, his tone was just a little sarcastic. "Ah, Jonas. So pleased you could take time out of your busy schedule to join us."

Despite the improvements Claire had made to his cardiovascular system, Jonas was breathing hard, which meant that he must have run all the way from his rooms. "Sorry, sir," the bodyguard replied. "Saw something on the news you needed to know about, so I watched it all the way through, just to make sure I had it right."

Earl's head came up. "You have my attention. Please continue."

Jonas grimaced. "Someone just robbed Brockton Bay Savings & Loan," he said. "Someone with bone powers just like yours, sir. Unless you went out this afternoon without my knowledge, you're being framed for it."

By the time Jonas had finished speaking, Earl was on his feet. "I most certainly did not," he declared. "Are you certain that the powers exhibited by this imposter were identical to mine?" His demeanour was outwardly calm and collected, but Claire could tell from the flaring in his nervous system that he was far more angry than he seemed.

"As far as I could tell from the footage, yes, sir," Jonas confirmed. "Whoever it was struck the bank about two hours ago. There was a couple of mooks, both masked. They didn't have anyone filling in for Miss Claire. But the security cameras did get a good solid shot of your Marquis face, which looked deliberate to me."

"Damnation," snarled Earl, turning sharply to Kayden. "You're more well-informed about Brockton Bay's cape scene than any one of us here. Are there any Changers or Trumps in the city that I'm unaware of?" His knuckles began to whiten around his glass.

"Uh, Dad," Claire interjected, nodding toward the glass. "Might want to put that down before you break it."

Startled, he looked down at the glass. Through his nerves, Claire could feel the strain of the muscles in his hand as they clenched on the receptacle. "Right," he said shortly, and put it down on a side-table, before beginning to pace across the room.

Kayden blinked, looking thoughtful. "Uh, there's no Changers or Trumps that I know of," she admitted. "Especially not one who could mimic your appearance and your powers, all at once."

"This may be a little out of left field," Claire suggested, "but what if the guy pretending to be you wasn't even the cape? What if those two 'mooks' with him were the capes?" In this case, it would be a perfect cover, she imagined.

"What are you saying, chick? That they made him look like he had powers, and look like Marquis?" Jonas nodded slowly. "Gotta say, Mr Marchant, I've heard of a lot weirder things."

"Actually …" Kayden sat up, her expression clearing. "There is one possibility, but I don't want you jumping to any conclusions yet."

Marquis turned toward her, his expression becoming even more intent. To Claire, anger radiated off him like heat-waves, but he kept his voice level. "Very well. You have my undivided attention. Please continue."

"Well," Kayden said carefully. "There's a guy in town called Blasto who's a cloning Tinker. He mainly tends to keep his head down and create hybrid minions, but bank robberies are where he makes his bread and butter."

"Blasto." Marquis' voice promised dire retribution to the absent Tinker. "Where might I find this … Blasto?"

"You said you wouldn't jump to conclusions," Kayden reminded him. "It's only a strong possibility, not a definite."

"So noted." Marquis' tone was cool and controlled, in contrast to the dark turmoil of his thoughts. "And where might I be able to find him? For the purpose of a friendly discussion, of course." He put his hands behind his back. Outwardly, it seemed he was simply clasping his hands together, but Claire noticed through her power that his right hand was clenched into a fist, with the left covering the knuckles. Friendly, my ass.

"He maintains a series of safehouses over near the College," Kayden said. "Though from what I've heard, he's careful about covering his tracks. Doesn't have anyone working for him, except for his creations." She gave him a steady look. "What are you going to do to him?"

Marquis gave her a thin smile. "Someone has crossed me, and besmirched my reputation in the process. If this Blasto has nothing to do with it, he has nothing to fear. If, however, he knows who it might be, I'm willing to compensate him for his time." Claire was quite aware that her father had deliberately omitted the final option; from the expression on Kayden's face, so was she.

Draining her glass, Kayden placed it down. "I'm fine with that," she stated coolly. She really was, Claire realised. "Now, from everything I've heard, he needs a DNA sample of some sort. Which raises the question; if he cloned you, where did he get the material from?"

"That's the easy one," Claire said with a roll of her eyes. "Seriously, Dad, you leave bone everywhere we go. I guess it was only a matter of time before we ran into someone who could do something with it."

Earl frowned. "Which gives us a whole new set of problems to work around. To begin with, I'm going to have to shred any bone I create, to ensure that nobody else tries to pull this sort of stunt. As well as having to postpone our plans in order to deal with the current situation, of course." He glanced at Claire, who could read the grim purpose in his brain functions. "Are you ready to do what needs doing, Claire-bear?"

"Do you really need to ask me that, Dad?" Claire raised her eyebrows. "If this Blasto's trying something on you, he's trying it on me too. We're a family. I didn't bite Stormtiger's head off just to let some pretender screw us over at this stage." Privately, she grinned at Kayden's mildly shocked expression.

"That's my girl," Earl declared. He took up his glass, drained it, and set it aside. "Of course, before we go and speak with Blasto, we're going to need to make another stop. Jonas, go and get the limousine ready, if you will?"

"Right you are, sir," grunted the big South African. He turned and left the room, his footsteps almost silent.

Kayden watched him go. "Is it just me, or is he way too quiet?" she asked in a low tone. "Don't get me wrong; I like the guy and he's been nothing but polite to me. But he's so light on his feet it's more than a little creepy."

"Don't bother keeping your voice down," Claire said cheerfully. "He can hear what you're saying from three rooms away. I upgraded his hearing, his balance and his proprioception on the last go-around. Now he can hear a safety catch come off at twenty yards, and he'll never stumble, trip or shuffle ever again." With a shrug, she looked up at Kayden. "It's helpful in a fight." She then brightened. "I could always upgrade you too, if you want. Better reflexes, maybe? And subdermal armour; that's always useful." There was a certain amount of sarcasm in her tone; through her power, she knew that her father had caught her meaning.

"Now, now, Claire, ease off." Earl's tone was chiding, but there was an undercurrent of amusement to his thoughts. With a definite target in mind, she could tell that he was more cheerful. "She's only had a couple of days to get used to you. I'm trying to ease her into getting to know us without frightening her off altogether." He rubbed his thumb across the back of his other hand. "And of course, with my power, total coverage of subdermal armour makes it harder for me to produce bone when and where I need it." He turned to Kayden. "To return to the previous topic, would you like to come along with us? If you intend to make our alliance public, it never hurts to show a unified front."

From Kayden's expression, she was a little taken aback by the rapid-fire banter between Claire and her father. To her credit, the petite woman rallied quickly. "Oh, um, where are you going, exactly?"

"The PRT building," Marquis stated firmly. "I find that going to the top is the best way to get things done." Absently, he rubbed his chin. "And I never did get to visit it, the last time I was in town."

Kayden looked a little confused. "Uh, I get it that Earl Marchant is rich, so they're likely to give you and your daughter a tour, but I'm not sure how you'll explain having me along."

Claire shook her head, a grin beginning to spread over her face. She wasn't a hundred percent sure as to what her father's plan was, but if her guess was at all correct, this was gonna be awesome. "Nope," she said cheerfully. "We're going as Marquis and Marchioness, right, Dad?"

Graciously, he inclined his head in her direction. "Entirely correct, my dear. If I am correct, between our lack of hostile intent and your unique status as an area-effect healer, we should pass unscathed." His smile became slightly more razor-edged. "Though I must admit, taking the opportunity to tweak the noses of those in authority is a guilty pleasure of mine."

"But I'm a known villain," Kayden objected. "Would they leave me alone just for being in your company?" She sounded dubious in the extreme; Claire didn't blame her.

"Sure," Claire told her. "My power is something the PRT would pay literally any amount of money to have on side. Unless I'm totally misreading things, they're willing to bend over backward a really long way to make sure I'll be attending Endbringer attacks if and when necessary. So long as we're not actually attacking them at the moment, I'm pretty sure that you and Dad can both skate by on that."

The math was really simple. Endbringer conflicts invariably ended with maimed and dead parahumans by the dozen, if not the hundreds. Claire's power could save lives, put wounded parahumans back on their feet, and heal crippling injuries in moments. Better yet, she didn't even have to concentrate on one person at a time. Or rather, she could do just that to make things go faster or to get a specific end result, but even when she wasn't concentrating, her power served to bring the subject back up to their normal level of health anyway. And if the PRT and Protectorate weren't willing to make some allowances to get access to that level of capability, she'd be greatly astonished.

"Okay, I'll take your word for it," Kayden said. "But if they try to capture us, I will be blasting my way out. Fair warning and all."

"Understood." Earl nodded briefly. "While I don't believe that it'll be necessary, I do understand the caution."

"Time to get changed?" asked Claire as she got up from her sat. Linking her hands together and stretching them over her head, she began to push her body into its 'Marchioness' form. Her bones reshaped as her auburn hair retracted into her scalp, then grew out again in midnight black. She could feel her clothes hanging differently on her as she became taller and more slender.

"If you don't mind, Claire dear," Earl said, holding out his hand courteously. She took it and began the alteration on his body, even as she finished off her own transfiguration. Both sets of changes included the internal improvements she'd devised. While entirely human-looking from exterior appearances, both Claire and her father ended up rather stronger and more durable than any normal person.

Kayden shook her head as Claire completed her alterations. "That's the second time I've seen you two do that, and I still have trouble believing it. Don't you feel weird? At all?"

"Not in the slightest," Marquis said, his voice slightly lower in timbre than in his other persona. Claire had ensured a change in the vocal cords that would invalidate even Tinkertech voiceprint analysis. His hair was long and curly, and he was taller than 'Earl Marchant'. "At first, I had problems with the different bodily proportions, but my dear Claire smoothed that out after a little testing." He tilted his head and a smile quirked one corner of his mouth. "In fact, how would you like to feed the PRT some disinformation?"

<><>​

Kayden

While Kayden had no great love for the PRT, she'd learned from her association with Max to never simply agree to a proposition before learning the details. "I'm listening," she said cautiously.

"What Dad's suggesting is that I change your looks so that you can come along to the PRT building with us unmasked," Marchioness filled in. "They'll pretend not to notice, but as soon as you're gone you can bet they'll be carefully scrutinising every frame of the security footage and trying to figure out who you really are." She grinned; it didn't take Kayden long to get the joke.

"And coming up blank." Kayden smirked. "Oh, that's mean. I love it." She paused uncertainly. "Uh, does it hurt, and can you change me back afterward?"

"It won't hurt at all," Marchioness said firmly. "I'll have total control over everything, including pain impulses. In fact, I like you a lot, so my powers won't want to cause you pain. And as for changing you back after, I shouldn't have any trouble, but I'll take some photos for reference anyway." She reached into her pocket for her phone. "Oh, and did you want defensive modifications like we were talking about before? Nanotube laced bones, subdermal armour, stuff like that? Basically impossible to spot without really good scanning, and it makes you a crapload harder to hurt."

Kayden blinked. The revelation that Marchioness' powers were linked to her emotions actually explained quite a bit. "Is that why I've been feeling so upbeat since I joined you and your father?" Another, more worrying thought crossed her mind, and she blurted it out without thinking. "Have you been making me want to be here? Making me loyal to your father?"

Marchioness burst out laughing, but to Kayden's ear it was the carefree mirth of a good joke rather than the sinister chuckling of a master manipulator. "Haha, no," she managed, wiping her eyes. "You wanted to be here, and you were already going to be loyal. My power is being nice to you because you and Dad like each other, not the other way around." She gave a violent shudder. "Not that I'd interfere with that in any way, because eeeewwww!"

"Ah, there you are," Kayden said cheerfully, feeling somewhat more on familiar ground now.

Marchioness blinked. "What do you mean?"

It was time for Kayden to grin. "The thirteen year old. I was wondering if you were still in there."

"Indeed." Earl's tone was dry. "I have wondered that occasionally myself."

In reply, Marchioness stuck her tongue out. It occurred to Kayden that the girl could be playing her even now. What if she's making me think she's telling the truth? She searched her memory, trying to find any point where her attitudes and thoughts had changed direction in a dramatic fashion. The only one she could locate was when Marchioness, in the guise of a flying creature out of nightmare, had informed her that it was Max who'd violated the sanctity of Somers Rock. The shock and anger she'd felt then had been real enough, but even then she hadn't made the decision to leave Max's employ. That had come later, after Marchioness had saved her life. Every move she'd made after that point had proceeded logically, or at least reasonably for her. "Yeah, I guess it would be." She took a deep breath and thought about the offer. It was more or less unprecedented in her experience, but she was doing a lot of new things these days. And the idea of causing the PRT irritation did rather appeal to her. "Sure. Let's do this thing."

"Okay, hold still." Marchioness held the phone up, obviously framing her face with the camera. Kayden heard the electronic shutter-click sound as she looked straight ahead. She kept her position as the teenage girl moved around her, taking photos at intervals. "Okay, that should be enough." The girl stopped taking pictures, and started swiping through the ones she'd already taken. "Yeah, that's good." Shutting down the phone, she put it away. "Right," she said briskly. "What do you want me to change?"

"Oh, uh …" Kayden's mind went blank. "I don't suppose you could make me taller?" As it was, she was currently shorter than Marchioness' altered form.

"Heh, nope." Marchioness grinned. "I suppose I could add an inch or two, but I'd be astonished if the PRT didn't already have a really good estimate of your height. Better to do something with your hair or eyes or skin. Well, scratch that last, because I doubt we could sell the idea that the Empire was more ethnically-diverse than it really was."

Kayden grimaced. Marchioness had a point, even if it wasn't aimed directly as a dig at her. "Okay then, we can still change the shape of my face, right? And my hair?" Even though she'd gone masked as a matter of course, she'd never powered down where unfriendly eyes could see her. It was a tiny piece of institutional paranoia that had served her well in the past.

"Hair, sure." Reaching out, Marchioness touched the end of Kayden's hair. "It's a bit easier than your face, but only by a matter of degree. Let me know what you want and I'll see if I can deliver."

When she was younger, Kayden had had a certain look in mind, but she'd never had the features to pull it off. On thinking about it, she began to wonder about her taste at the time. "Um … I had an idea, but I'm not so sure now."

"Well, whatever it was, I'm sure Marchioness can manage it." Earl bent a benevolent gaze upon his daughter. "She's nothing if not versatile."

Kayden felt a flush begin to creep up her cheeks. "I always wanted to be a tall blonde Valkyrie, even before I met Max. Tall, strong, someone that nobody dared to mess with." She carefully did not mention the inadequacy she felt regarding her bust line; as an adult, it was up to her to deal with that.

"Hmm." An intrigued look crept over Marchioness's face. "Well, we can't change your height, for obvious reasons. But I can certainly do long blonde hair, maybe with a bit of a wave?" She paused, waiting for Kayden's nod. "Okay, cool. And your face, how did you want to change that?"

Bringing her hands up, Kayden cupped her face, pushing her cheeks up. "I'm not exactly striking, you know? I've got a round face. Nobody looks twice at me. A thinner face, a stronger jaw, higher cheekbones … I mean, nothing ridiculous, but …" She flushed again. "I'd like for those superheroes to look at me and for at least one of them to think, 'Whoa!'. Is that stupid?"

With a chuckle, Marquis put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a brief hug. "My dear, you already make me happy to know you, and I appreciate your looks to the fullest, but if you wish to do this, I have no problem with it." He chuckled. "In any case, there's nothing wrong with making a hero consider changing sides, even briefly."

Kayden leaned back against his chest. With Max, it had always felt as though she were trying to earn his regard. Marquis simply made her feel accepted. They hadn't gone past a certain level of physical intimacy yet, but she wasn't ruling anything out at this stage. His words, whether they were sincere or just intended to make her feel more confident, gave her a much-needed boost.

"Thanks," she said, leaning around to give him a kiss on the cheek. Stepping forward, she held out her hand to Marchioness. "Think you can do something with that?"

"Sure, I can try." The slender dark-haired girl took her hand; her eyes went distant for a moment. "Okay, got it. This will probably feel a little weird."

While she wasn't certain what Marchioness meant by 'a little weird', Kayden quickly found out. Her scalp crawled as her hair retracted into it, then she felt the very odd sensation as her facial bones reconfigured. Even her lower jaw changed shape. Before she could really register all of it, there was a slithering feeling as hair extended from her scalp once more, sliding down over her shoulders.

"Okay, done," announced the biokinetic briskly. "Dad, what do you think?"

Marquis gazed at Kayden's remodelled face for long enough that she began to flush once more, then he nodded. "Very nice. I believe the superheroes will indeed be saying 'Whoa!'. If they do not, I shall be questioning their orientation."

"Okay, enough," Kayden said. "I have to go see for myself." She set off toward the nearest bathroom—because, of course, Marquis' house had more than one. Following some kind of unspoken agreement, Marchioness accompanied her while Marquis stayed behind.

Entering the bathroom, Kayden stared into the mirror, and gasped. Her eyes had been a light hazel before; now, they were a deep sapphire blue. The rest of her features had been similarly altered, changing her look utterly. Her button nose now had an aristocratic arch, while her chin was stronger and her cheekbones higher. Her eyebrows, more defined and several shades lighter than before, rose in wings rather than petering out, and her hair …

"Oh, wow," she murmured, running her hands through the luxurious blonde waves. She'd always resigned herself to straight boring brown hair; this was outside of her experience. Turning side-on, she looked at the mirror from the corner of her eye, taking in the way the hair draped over her shoulders. "This is me?"

"It is now," Marchioness confirmed. "Anything you want touched up while we're in here? Feeling comfortable with everything?"

"Um … wow," Kayden said, turning face-on to the mirror once more. "I can't see anything I don't like. Though … uh, I didn't ask for blue eyes. I thought we were trying to get me away from the Empire background?"

"As Dad would put it, I don't believe eye colour will affect their view of you, either way." Marchioness shrugged. "Those who want to believe you're still a neo-Nazi will hold to that, no matter what you look like. But this way, we're playing into their preconceptions, making them more likely to accept that these are your original looks."

"Huh." That made a certain amount of sense. Still, there was no harm in trying out other options. "Would you be able to show me what other eye colours look like? Just in case I like something else better?"

"Sure." Marchioness moved up alongside her, arms folded and one hand supporting her chin thoughtfully. Despite the fact that there was no skin contact, Kayden felt a vaguely odd sensation in her eyes. She stared into the mirror to see her irises transitioning from blue to green and then to a molten gold.

"Holy crap," she blurted. "I didn't know you could do something like that without touching." In the mirror, her blonde hair brought out the gold irises; somehow, Marchioness had made them slightly reflective. It made her look both striking and dangerous, like a powerful visitor from another world. "Oh. Oh, my."

"Sure." Marchioness grinned. "My range isn't great, but it's better when I actually like the people I'm doing it to. You like it? It looks really cool."

"Oh hell, yes," Kayden blurted. "Can I keep it?" Then the rest of what Marchioness had said caught up with her. "What about people you hate?"

Marchioness snorted. "The range goes up again, but my power tries to do bad things to them. If I really despise someone, I find it hard to do serious healing on them. When I was rebuilding Krieg and the others, I had to keep reminding myself that I was gonna screw them over totally with the whole skin colour thing, or they would've ended up with boils or some nasty skin condition or something." She rolled her eyes. "I actually had to fix Kaiser something like three times. His immune system kept crapping out on him."

"Right." Kayden tried not to shudder. Claire was a sweet girl, whether she was in her normal form or her Marchioness identity, but it was a good idea to remember that she would also make a horrific enemy. As Max and the others had discovered, the hard way. "Remind me to never piss you off that badly."

"Hey, it's okay." Marchioness gave Kayden a hug, startling her. "I like you. My power would never do anything mean to you. And I know you'll never do anything bad to me or Dad. It's just not in you."

That was actually reassuring, in a very weird way. She wasn't certain if Marchioness was reading her thoughts or just her emotions, but the fact that they were communicating meaningfully (without any stupid mind games—thanks, Max!) was nice. Also, it was good to know that the girl liked her for herself. Kayden tended to return the sentiment, even if she wasn't sure she was ready for the whole 'mom' role quite yet.

Which brought up something that had been niggling at the back of her mind. When she looked at herself and Marchioness side by side in the mirror, they looked like mother and daughter; apart from the hair and eyes, their facial features were almost identical. The cheekbones, the shape of their faces, even down to the waves in their hair; it had to be more than a coincidence. Though the revelation of the emotional side of Claire's powers made her wonder. Was this deliberate, or is her power reacting to a need for a mother figure?

Was it true, or did she have matters all wrong? What do I do if I'm right? She was certain Claire would never harm her with her powers, but she didn't want to hurt the girl's feelings anyway. It was something she'd have to think about.

"Well, I'll do my best," she said, returning the hug. "I'm just grateful you gave me the benefit of the doubt after Max's idiocy."

"That's okay." Marchioness gave her a final squeeze, then let her go. "Time to go get costumed up, or Dad'll start making veiled comments about women taking forever to get ready." She grinned at Kayden. "I'm glad you like the eyes. They make you look awesome." Turning, she headed out of the bathroom.

With a smile of her own Kayden looked over her new face in the mirror again, marvelling at the golden hair and eyes, and how easy Marchioness had made it seem. It seemed her life had turned upside down since encountering the flying creature over Brockton Bay, but she didn't regret a moment of it. She shuddered to think how it might have turned out if she'd attacked Marchioness; whoever won, it would've gone badly. Learning the true nature of Max Anders was a wake-up call that she'd fortunately survived, but only with the girl's help.

She could have stayed there all day, exploring the nuances of her new face, but she didn't want to be left behind. Not that she thought Marquis would do that, but he was capable of a certain level of sarcasm when necessary. Leaving the bathroom, she went to the room in which she now kept some of her clothes, as well as a spare costume. The one damaged by Max's steel spike had not yet been repaired; she kept it that way to remind herself of the incident.

It only took her a few moments to change into the pure-white costume. By habit, she pulled on the cloth mask that covered the upper half of her face, then stopped herself. Removing it once more, she dropped it on the bed. Her new appearance would serve to conceal her identity more than a flimsy piece of cloth, after all. She wondered if any superhero teams had gone unmasked in this way, but none came to mind. Of course, any such team wouldn't have someone like Marchioness to conceal their identities.

By the time she got back to the living room, Marquis and Marchioness were there, each dressed in their trademark evening wear. As she entered, Marquis began to turn toward her. "Ah, there you are. Actually, I was thinking that if you were agreeable, we could switch out your name and costume for something more in keeping with our current theme. Does that seem worthwhile to …" His voice trailed off as his eyebrows rose toward his hairline. "Well. I am impressed. That will certainly draw attention." She suspected that he saw more than the gold eyes, from the glance he flickered to his daughter and back to her.

All the same, she was pleased by the praise. "Thanks. It was Claire's idea. Um, can we hold off on the new name and costume till we see how the PRT reacts to me like this? If they go all rabid, we might have to rethink the whole idea. Because even if we do that, they'll still know it's me the first time I power up."

He inclined his head. "I understand completely, my dear. Are you ready to go?" Courteously, he extended his elbow in her direction.

"Not really, but let's do this anyway." With a smile that she hoped showed none of the butterflies in her stomach—she was about to walk into the PRT building!—she linked her arm through his. Marchioness took her father's other arm and they headed toward the garage.

<><>​

Marquis

At Earl's side, Kayden looked around with a faint air of nervousness. She was seated between himself and Claire, but the vehicle was roomy enough that the space was in no way cramped. In the front of the car, Jonas guided the large car through Brockton Bay's afternoon traffic with practised ease.

At the passenger side window, Claire cleared her throat. "So hey, Kayden, did you want defensive mods, or should we leave it off for the moment?"

A little surprised, Earl looked across at his daughter. "You haven't already dealt with that?" he asked. Claire was usually much more on top of matters than this.

"I kinda forgot, and then I had to get ready," Claire admitted, looking slightly embarrassed. "That's why I'm bringing it up now."

"Um, I do appreciate the time to think about it," Kayden put in. "But yes, Claire—I mean Marchioness, sorry. Yes, Marchioness, I would like whatever modifications you think I might find necessary." She paused and added hastily, "Uh, I'll still look like me, won't I?"

Marchioness snorted. "Well, for a given definition of 'you' to look like, sure."

"Oh. Yes." Kayden put up her hand to her face; a most becoming flush mounted her cheeks. Earl would've bet quite a large amount of money that she'd temporarily forgotten she was wearing a new face. "All right, thanks. What are you going to do?"

"Just the basics, really." Claire took hold of Kayden's hand. "Subdermal carbon nanotube armour, bone strengthening, and reinforcement of your vital organs. It'll only take a minute. I'm pretty good at it, now."

"If that's the basics, what's the more advanced stuff?" asked Kayden, quite possibly to take her mind off the fact that a thirteen year old girl was working to reinforce her organs and bones. "Is it that stuff you were talking about with Jonas? The proprioception?"

"That, and partial replacement of the bones with nanotubes, rebuilding and moving organs to be less vulnerable and more efficient, improving the sensorium and reflex triggers," Claire said absently. "Jonas gets to test out stuff like that for me. He's also got a secondary braincase, with shock-absorbing gel between the inner and outer layers. And he can lift nearly half a ton."

"Holy shit," blurted Kayden, looking forward to where Jonas bulked in the front seat. "So you really weren't kidding when you said he took on Hookwolf."

"No, ma'am, they were not." Jonas' deep voice rumbled through the speaker. "Excuse me for the interruption, sir, but we're nearly there."

"Thank you, Jonas," Earl said smoothly. "Ladies, if you're quite finished?"

"Just about," Claire replied almost immediately. "And … done. I doubt they're gonna attack us, but that should give you protection against small-arms fire anyway. A rifle bullet will punch through your skin, but probably won't break bones or do more than bruise an organ. As far as I can tell, anyway. I'm not gonna make any predictions against powers."

"Oh. Right." Kayden flexed her fingers. "I really can't tell the difference. Though I could kind of feel something while you were doing it."

Claire smiled. As Marchioness, she had a good line in enigmatic smiles, which Earl of course encouraged. "If you could, I'd be disappointed in myself. I touched up your joints a fraction, but otherwise you shouldn't really notice any difference in how your body works."

"Okay, thanks." Kayden looked around as the car came to a halt. "Uh, I hate to make things difficult, but I think I want to start with a different cape name. I mean, I know they'll figure out I'm Purity anyway, but why borrow trouble right this moment? The trouble is, I have no idea what name to go with."

Claire blinked. "Uh, I hadn't thought of one. Dad?"

Earl resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Well, of course, dearest Marchioness. How does Palatina sound?" Opening the door, he climbed from the car and closed it once more. Normally, Jonas would have performed this function, but Marquis didn't want the big man to be a link between Earl Marchant and Marquis.

Rounding the rear of the car, he opened the passenger side rear door. Claire slid out, expertly arranging her evening gown. Then she stood by as Earl reached in and assisted Kayden from the vehicle. Once they were both out, Earl closed the door firmly; the car moved off and merged with traffic moments later.

"Okay," said Marchioness as they turned toward the imposing frontage of the PRT building, "I'll bite. What's a Palatina?"

"It's derived from a title dating as far back as the Roman Empire," Earl informed her as he led the way to the bastion of law and order. "The Palatine Hill was where the Emperor had his residence, which was where the words 'palace' and 'palatial' came from. A 'palatine' was a high-level official who spent a lot of time on the Palatine Hill, attending to the Emperor. The title stayed in use even after the fall of Rome; you may have heard the term 'paladin', which is also derived from it. It basically means someone who has power just below that of the monarch." He smiled at Kayden. "Thus, my second in charge."

She blinked, whether at the revelation of her new status or the impromptu history lesson, he wasn't sure. "Uh … but what about Marchioness? I'm not, uh …"

Ah, so it was the status she was concerned about. This made him more certain that he'd made the right decision. "Don't be worried about that. She's not exactly in the chain of command. Sometimes I tell her what to do, and sometimes she tells me what to do. I trust her judgement." There was the occasional flare-up of teenage misbehaviour to deal with, but he considered that they had quite an adequate understanding of boundaries there. At least at the moment. When Claire started noticing boys, and they started noticing her, he was going to have to brush up on his subtle—or not so subtle—death threats. The issue was simple; nobody was worthy of his little girl.

"Oh, okay." Kayden shut up as they reached the thick automatic glass doors, which slid aside to let out a gust of chilled air.

"Dad," Claire said rapidly, "you did call ahead, right?" She was good with her powers; even as his tongue pressed into the roof of his mouth to begin shaping the word 'no', she huffed and stepped in front of him. "Right, got it. Stay behind me. No sudden moves. Yeesh."

A little amused by Claire's irritation, he let her take the lead.

<><>​

Marchioness

Claire opened her throat slightly and reinforced her diaphragm as she stepped forward. The inner doors swished open in front of her and she moved forward into the lobby of the PRT building. "Excuse me, everyone?" she called out, making sure that her amplified voice reached everyone in the room. "Please stay calm. My name is Marchioness. Marquis and I are visiting peacefully. We are not hostile." It took a few seconds for the import of her words to reach everyone, and by then Marquis and Palatina were in the lobby as well.

"Kindly heed Marchioness' words," Marquis said, his voice carrying just as much as hers had. "We bear no hostile intent."

There were four guards spaced around the lobby; two were armed with containment foam sprayers, while the other two had grenade launchers. She almost hoped that they'd try to foam her; if it was organic, she was confident of finding a way of dissolving it. As soon as she began to speak, all of them had brought up their weapons; on hearing her name, they had lowered them again. It's like Dad and I thought; the word's gone out to leave me alone. Now to see if it works for Dad and Kayden as well.

There was a moment of frozen silence, broken only by the teens in the gift shop, peering out to see who was talking. Then one of the PRT men stepped forward. His weapon, a grenade launcher, wasn't quite raised far enough to point at them. "What do you want here, Marquis?"

"To talk to someone in authority, actually." Claire felt her father nudge Kayden, then he moved toward the officer. His hands were in plain view, but that meant nothing; she knew he could produce bone from any part of his body he needed. She kept pace with him, while Kayden did the same on the other side. "I wish to make a statement about the bank robbery this afternoon."

While Claire couldn't see the man's face with her eyes, she could read his body's reactions like a book. His eyes widened in what appeared to be surprise. "You want to turn yourself in?" the man asked, not sounding as if even he believed the answer would be in the affirmative.

"That, I'm afraid, is not the case." Marquis sounded amused, even though adrenaline was singing through his veins. "I really would rather speak to one of your superiors, though, unless you want this conversation to take place in such a public arena." His smile was that of a man who knew he held all the cards. "I rather suspect that your superiors would not appreciate that happening."

Though no sound was audible from where she stood, Claire knew that the soldier was hearing something over the radio in his helmet. Unfortunately, she was only able to tell this from the regular vibrations in his eardrums; deciphering the speech would require her to be close enough to lock on to his brain activity. It was far too soon for anyone to be giving orders, so she assumed that one of the other soldiers was reporting on the situation.

She heard a clicking noise and looked over to see that the teenagers were taking pictures of the standoff; feeling just a little mischievous, she smiled and waved. The soldier's hand tightened on his weapon, but he didn't raise it. She guessed he was irritated at the interruption. Her father, on the other hand, stood with his hands folded before him in a supremely relaxed pose that she knew was almost entirely feigned. Kayden was feeling nerves in a big way; Claire eased off the older woman's production of epinephrine, trying to help her relax slightly.

Something else came across the radio; the soldier's neck muscles twitched, as if he wanted to nod. Instead, he spoke, softly enough that it didn't carry out of the helmet. Some kind of selective sound dampening? Claire had no idea how to tell. However, she could tell what he was saying.

"Grant, here. There's three of them. Marquis, Marchioness, and a woman in white. None of them are masked. I've never seen the woman in white before. About five foot two. She's got a face you don't forget, and her eyes are gold. The irises, I mean. Uh, they haven't done anything aggressive. They just want to talk to someone in authority, about the bank robbery." A pause, while someone spoke to him. "I don't know. Marquis said that you wouldn't like it if he had to say it in public." Another pause. "Wait, you're going to actually—uh, I mean, yes, ma'am. I copy. Conference room three, roger. I'll escort them up. Grant, out."

Claire hid a smile as he turned his attention to them. "All right, then," he said out loud. "You'll have your meeting. I'm going to need you to come with me and hand over any … uh."

"If your next word was going to be 'weapons', I believe you need to rethink your request," Marquis interjected, his voice filled with amusement. He broke off the bone knife which had grown in his hand, then let it dissolve into dust. Claire winced inwardly at the stab of pain that went through him, but decided that if he wasn't going to say anything about it, nor was she.

"Why don't we just go up?" Claire asked jauntily. "Conference room three, wasn't it?" She probably shouldn't have felt amusement at his start of surprise, but she did anyway. She was, after all, her father's daughter.

"Yes," growled Grant, shooting her a look of deep suspicion from behind his faceplate. "Come on, then. This way." He led the way toward the bank of elevators at the back of the lobby. Claire followed, making sure to stay close to her father and Kayden both; she didn't want to give the PRT even the slightest chance to split them up. In the process, she got close enough to Grant that she could pick up his mental processes.

He was apprehensive and determined in equal parts, but she could detect no deceit from him. This wasn't a trap; or if it was, he wasn't part of it. She had to admire how he was hiding his dislike of the situation he was in; if she couldn't see it for herself, she'd never have known it.

"Is there a problem, Lieutenant?" asked a voice over his radio. It sounded like a woman, maybe in her forties.

"Not a real problem, ma'am," he answered out loud. "Addition to the file: Marchioness appears to be a Thinker, able to hear through soundproofing."

"Understood, Lieutenant. All other units, switch to alternate frequency Delta. Over."

Claire blinked, suddenly wishing she hadn't shown off. All it had done was make them suspicious of her, without any real gain. Neither the flare of irritation in her father's mind nor the sharp glance he sent her way were really necessary to make her realise the significance of her blunder.

It was only moderately crowded with all four of them in the elevator, the majority of the bulk coming from Grant's containment foam tanks. The button panel was actually a digital screen, Claire noted. As she watched, both it and the floor display went dark. However, this didn't seem to be a glitch, because the lights stayed on in the lift and the doors interleaved together in a way that screamed 'Tinkertech' to anyone with any experience of capes in pop culture.

There was only the slightest jolt as the lift began to move, and barely any sensation of movement at all after that. The only way Claire knew they were travelling at all was the way she could sense people in the building outside the lift, dropping away below them, rather faster than she would've expected.

The trip in the elevator would've been awkward, but it was over too quickly for that. When the doors opened again, she felt a jolt of surprise from both Kayden and her father. Grant must've seen something in their faces, because satisfaction flared in his brain and he smirked slightly inside his helmet before stepping out of the elevator.

"Come on out," he said. "If you wander off, it will be taken as a hostile act." His tone wasn't exactly aggressive, but he wasn't giving an inch either. Claire didn't really blame him.

"I assure you, not one of us would dream of it." Marquis stepped aside to leave Kayden and Claire a clear path from the elevator. As he did so, she noted another person approaching, one who seemed familiar. Stepping to her father's side, she looked around to see she'd been right. It was Armsmaster; unlike the last time she'd met him, he was holding his trademark halberd.

"Uh, hi, Armsmaster," she said, determined not to repeat her earlier faux pas. "You're looking well. I saw Mega Girl the other night. She seemed to be doing well too."

"Marchioness," he acknowledged her, but his attention was on Kayden. "I don't know you. Please identify yourself." Despite the courteous phrasing, the tone of his voice made it an order.

"Uh, I'm Palatina," Kayden replied. Claire silently let go the breath she'd been holding; there'd been the very real chance that she'd use her previous name.

Armsmaster held still for a moment, his eyes roving over a heads-up display. Claire could see it, but she couldn't share his understanding of what it meant, especially as the display changed faster than she could keep up with. Then a line of text popped up: VOICE ANALYSIS: NO MATCH. Claire schooled her expression into blankness; the alterations she had made to Kayden's larynx were subtle, but had obviously done the job.

"You're not in our files," Armsmaster announced. "Why are you even involved with Marquis?" His tone was slightly harsher now, and more adrenaline was going through his system. Not surprising, as he was facing what, to him, was an unknown cape.

"Kaiser blew up Somer's Rock and tried to kill Marquis and Marchioness," Kayden said, truthfully but unhelpfully. "I was in the area, and decided to help them out."

Surprise flashed through both Armsmaster's and Grant's brains, but the armoured hero recovered first. "We're going to need more details on that," he stated. "Such as details on exactly who died there."

Claire shared a glance with her father. This was not what she'd expected they'd be talking about when they went into the PRT building. "Only the wait-staff at Somer's Rock died," he said, saving her the problem of having to figure out what to say to that. "Now, I believe you were showing us to a conference room?"

Armsmaster's lips thinned, but he nodded. Frustration radiated from him like heat shimmer over an asphalt road at midday; she didn't even need her powers to spot it. Turning, he led the way down the corridor. Marquis followed along, with Claire and Kayden behind him; Grant brought up the rear. Several office doors, all devoid of identifying nameplates, went by before Armsmaster opened a set of double doors and stepped inside. Claire could easily detect the PRT troopers in the offices. Each one was feeling a mixture of determination and apprehension, but none of them were worked up to the point where they were about to attack.

With Kayden at her side, Claire followed her father into the conference room. It was equipped with a long table, lined on each side by chairs; the wall at one end was mostly taken up by a huge screen. Marquis pulled out chairs for each of them, then took a seat himself. Armsmaster, followed by Grant, moved around to the far side of the table. The Brockton Bay Protectorate leader took up a foursquare stance with his halberd still in his hands; after a moment, Grant emulated him.

The screen came to life, showing the head and shoulders of a woman with a careworn face and dark brown hair starting to go grey here and there. From the suit she wore and the discreet insignia on her shoulders, Claire gathered that this was the regional Director of the PRT East-North-East.

Emily Piggot was not a regular TV personality, and from the expression on her face, it wasn't hard to figure out why. Piggot didn't treat her position as Director as a vehicle for fame; she was here to do a job. And from her glare, Marquis wasn't making it any easier on her.

"Ah, good afternoon, Director." Her father was definitely pouring on the charm. Claire could read wary respect in his mind, so she decided to treat the Director in the same way. "So very kind of you to host us today. We have some good news for you."

"You realise that I could have you all detained and arrested right now." Piggot's voice was flat and hard. "Marquis, you have enough crimes against your name that you would be remanded immediately to the Birdcage. Palatina, be aware that you are associating with a criminal with a very long rap sheet. Now that you know this, also be aware that further association could very easily lead to arrest and criminal charges."

Claire read apprehension and the beginnings of anger from Kayden; reaching over, she pressed the older woman's hand. Wait. Kayden subsided, just slightly.

"Oh, you could try." Marquis leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. He could only have appeared more relaxed if he had his feet up. "But you won't, will you? All this is merely a show, an attempt to intimidate us. The unofficial policy regarding myself and Marchioness is 'hands off', isn't it?"

"You seem very certain about that." Armsmaster's voice was harsh. "I've encountered many criminals who thought they couldn't be arrested. Most of them are in custody." He was once more too far away from Claire to read his brain activity, but from the way he was gripping his halberd, he wasn't happy.

"Oh, it wasn't hard to determine this." Claire could almost feel the waves of smugness coming off of her father. "We encountered the Brockton Bay Brigade just the other night. My men had intervened to protect some civilians from Empire thugs in my territory. While Brandish was determined to arrest my men, neither she nor the rest of the Brigade tried to to arrest me." Carelessly, he buffed his immaculate nails against his coat, then continued. "Now, this may be because they know they don't stand a chance against me, but that's never stopped them before. Which means to me that they've been warned off. And perhaps the only person who could successfully warn them off, and make it stick, would be …" He waved a courteous hand toward the screen. "Yourself, dear Director. Am I perhaps getting warm?"

He'd done more than get 'warm', Claire decided. The Director looked as though she were sucking on a lemon, and had been doing so for the last week. "Be that as it may," she grated. "You came here to give us some information. What is it?"

"Ah, ah, ah, my dear," he admonished her, waving a nonchalant finger. "Before we commence, there is first the matter of Palatina's status; specifically, that she is recognised as being affiliated with Marchioness and myself, and thus enjoys the same immunity from arrest. Are we agreed on this?"

There was the sound of something snapping off-screen; Claire fancied that it might be a pencil. Jerkily, Piggot nodded. "Agreed, on the provision that this conversation goes no farther than this room." She sat forward. "Now. The information on the bank robbery."

Marquis straightened in his seat, casting off the careless air. "That's quite simple. I didn't do it."

"You expect us to believe that?" Armsmaster stepped forward, until his halberd bumped one of the chairs. "We have footage showing your face, you bastard. You've done far worse in your career. Why are you denying your involvement in this, of all things?"

"For a start, Armsmaster, unless you wish to match off with me again, I would advise you to keep this discussion civil." Marquis' tone never lost its cultivated air, but there was the hint of something darker behind it. "I am saying it because it happens to be true. Be aware that I'm already ridiculously wealthy. Unless the haul from this robbery were several magnitudes higher than I suspect it was, I simply would not be interested." He tilted his head. "Asking from curiosity, how much was taken? To the nearest thousand will do."

Armsmaster glanced at the screen. Director Piggot hesitated, then nodded almost imperceptibly. "Two hundred and thirty-three thousand dollars," she replied. "In addition, a security guard was badly hurt, and two hostages and a bank teller were slightly injured."

Marquis' expression sharpened. "Women and children?" he asked, his tone flat.

"One of the injured hostages was a woman," Armsmaster supplied. Claire wondered what was going through his mind; whether he was actually coming around to the truth, or if he was just playing along with Director Piggot's line.

"I … see." Marquis opened his coat and reached inside. Armsmaster stepped back and levelled his halberd, while beside him Grant did the same with the foam sprayer. Raising one eyebrow, the bone manipulator slid a leather wallet from the inner pocket of his coat. "Really?" he asked, eyeing the weapons currently aimed in his direction. "You do realise that if I were to pull out a gun, you would be substantially safer than if I decided to use my powers, correct?"

Armsmaster was the first to raise his weapon; Grant followed suit. Inside his helmet, the PRT officer had a look of mortification. Claire decided not to point this out.

"Good," murmured Marquis. "Now we have that settled …" Tapping his fingernail down the row of cards contained in the wallet, he selected two and skimmed them across the table. "Consider this a declaration of my innocence in the matter."

Stepping forward once more, Armsmaster eyed the cards with (Claire could tell) deep suspicion. "What are they?"

"Welcome to the world of high finance, dear boy." Marquis put the wallet away and waved a negligent hand. "They contain the access details for funds held in escrow. The red one with white lettering holds a quarter of a million dollars. Reimburse the bank with that. The green one holds a hundred thousand dollars. Pass that on to the victims, to cover their medical bills. Is that easy enough to understand?"

"Wait, you're giving money away?" Director Piggot didn't seem to be able to comprehend the concept. "You're a villain. Why?"

Marquis shrugged. "As I said before, I happen to be ridiculously wealthy. This sort of expenditure is literally pocket change for me. I wouldn't even consider robbing a bank for less than ten million. It simply wouldn't be worth my time any more. And I will not permit my name to be connected to any endeavour where women or children were harmed. Is that understood?"

The lines on Director Piggot's face deepened, as if she were in pain. "It's understood. Of course, I can't say anything officially, but I'll do what I can unofficially."

"If you didn't do it, who are you accusing of doing it?" asked Armsmaster. His voice didn't give away much, but Piggot's agreement had to have had some effect. He didn't sound quite as hostile as before, which had to be something.

When Marquis smiled, his eyes were hooded. "We'll leave that for later. You wanted to know about Somer's Rock? The details there get a little more complicated."

"Our analysts found five separate blood traces, as well as a mass of bone. Your work?" The question from Armsmaster was almost polite. That is, as polite as anything asked by a man holding a halberd can really be.

"The bone, yes," agreed Claire's father. "The blood, no. We were attacked by four members of the Empire after they killed the wait-staff and blew up the venue in an attempt to assassinate us, on Kaiser's orders." The smile he bestowed upon Armsmaster and the PRT personnel was downright chilling. "What happened next was pure self-defence."

"What did happen next? Who did you kill?" Piggot's face was even closer to the camera.

"As it happened, nobody." Marquis smiled sardonically at the look on her face. "But the upshot of it was that Kaiser dissolved the Empire Eighty-Eight. He's left town, as have Krieg, Hookwolf, Cricket and Stormtiger. All hale and hearty, if not the most thrilled."

"Do you have proof of that? Any evidence at all?" Armsmaster leaned forward expectantly.

Marquis chuckled as he pushed his chair back and stood up. "Do you take me for a hero? If I don't have to follow the rule of law, I'm certainly not obliged to follow the rules of evidence. I'm telling you this, and you may choose to believe it or not, as you will." Courteously, he pulled out Kayden's chair, then Claire's. "Ladies, if you will, we shall be leaving now."

"Wait." The Director sat back in her chair. "We hadn't finished talking about who robbed Brockton Savings and Loan."

"True; we had not." Marquis inclined his head politely toward the screen. "I have a strong idea as to who has stolen my good name. Now, I intend to go and get both it and my money back. This is my last word on the subject."

"But who is it?" Armsmaster was nothing if not persistent.

Marquis smiled indulgently. "And give you the chance to get there first? I think not. You may read about it in the papers tomorrow. Now, are you going to escort us out or do we have to make a hole in the wall? Your choice."

As Lieutenant Grant led them from the room, Claire waved to the screen. The Director did not return the gesture.



End of Part Thirteen

Part Fourteen

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Fourteen: Clash of Titans

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Tuesday Afternoon, October 2, 2007
Marchioness

"Okay," Palatina stated as the automatic doors hissed shut behind them and they walked away from the PRT building. "That was … harrowing."

"Oh, come on," Claire said with a grin. "Admit it. It was fun."

Palatina rolled her eyes. "Sure. Fun. As in fundamentally unsettling." She gave Marquis a look that Claire interpreted as mixing respect with exasperation. "One of these days, you're going to push their buttons a little too hard and someone's going to do something that you don't expect."

"Like Kaiser and Krieg did," Claire reminded her father. She'd certainly enjoyed the sight of Armsmaster and Director Piggot fuming over not being able to arrest her father, but it was only possible to push people so far before they pushed back. "And I'm not at all sure I could pull off that particular stunt again, especially not in the PRT building."

"Well, no," Marquis agreed. "Starting a fight on the enemy's home turf, where they can control the terrain and bring up troops faster than you can knock them down, is almost invariably a losing move. I believe the relevant quote is 'never fight a land war in Asia'. As for Kaiser … well, it was an unexpected gambit. Of course, he himself would never have come up with it on his own. But desperate men will adopt desperate strategies, and the loss of Somer's Rock must have seemed worth the benefit of wiping me off the board."

"I'm still shocked that Krieg even thought of it," Palatina said. "I mean, it's Somer's Rock. Villains—and one or two heroes—have been meeting there since forever." She shook her head. "I've seen deadly enemies be polite to each other—well, at least they didn't try to kill each other—while sitting in the 'Rock. It's just …" She trailed off, shaking her head at the apparent impossibility of expressing what she was feeling.

"You're forgetting a fundamental aspect here," Marquis pointed out as they strolled down the street. While he spoke, Claire kept a lookout all around, ready to warn the others if she spotted any kind of danger. To her mild surprise, barely anyone was even paying attention to them. Palatina's costume was noticeable as such, but its very plainness worked in their favour. The lack of any kind of logo or theme apparently made her look less interesting. Those few who spotted her unusual irises gave her a second look, but it wasn't as if they were going to recognise her as Purity.

"What aspect is that?" Palatina was also apparently aware of the scrutiny, or lack thereof. Claire was just close enough to get a hint of confusion and wary acceptance from her. It obviously wasn't her usual thing to walk past the PRT building in full costume, even with the rest of her team in attendance. The Empire, as bold as they had been, probably hadn't been that audacious.

"He wasn't from Brockton Bay," Marquis said bluntly. "We all are. From the moment you set foot in the cape scene, you were made aware of how sacred it was. Krieg was sent to America by Gesellschaft, to forge a connection with Allfather's Empire, back in the day. You'll note that even though he was nominally an outsider, he was made a second in command of the Empire. That was part of the agreement with Gesellschaft. But he was never really a Brockton Bay cape, not where it counted."

"That … actually makes a lot of sense," Palatina admitted, enlightenment washing through her brain. It looked kind of pretty, Claire decided. "He was always just a bit standoffish, especially after Max started paying attention to me. I'm curious now if he thought Max might replace him with me." She sounded a little wistful.

"Wondering about what might have been?" Marquis raised a practised eyebrow. "Believe me, if I mourned every lost opportunity, I'd never get anything done. As far as I'm concerned, it's better to look ahead for the opportunities in the future than spend all your time in the past."

"Well, this is true," Palatina conceded, giving Claire's father a half-smile. "Besides, I doubt I'll ever really forgive him for stabbing me like that." Her voice was calm, but underneath her thoughts were in turmoil. The release of tension stemming from walking out of the lion's den was making her just a little giddy, which contributed to the heavy-lidded gaze she sent Marquis' way. She didn't speak, and Claire wasn't actually able to read thoughts, but the subtext was extremely clear: I know you wouldn't do that to me.

"Seriously, am I gonna have to tell you two to get a room?" Claire pretended exasperation. "Or are we gonna go after Blasto and explain to him why he shouldn't be making copies of my Dad?" She looked from one adult to the other. "Because I'll happily go looking for him myself, just so long as I'm away from you two making goo-goo eyes at each other." She was pleased that Kayden and her father were interested in each other. While she missed Abigail, she knew he was lonely, and Kayden was nice. As the saying went, there was a time and a place for things like that.

"We are not making goo-goo eyes at each other," protested Palatina, but she coloured heavily at the same time. "We were just making polite conversation."

"Uh huh," Claire said sarcastically, noting that her father had not weighed in on the matter. While his face showed nothing, his thoughts indicated a certain amount of amusement. "So, any ideas about how we're gonna track down Blasto?"

"Steady down," Marquis advised her. "He's a very strong suspect, certainly, but all we have at the moment is circumstantial evidence." He clasped his hands behind his back as he strode along. "The fact of the matter is that we don't know if he's behind it. It could be that someone is framing him. In which case, we need to be careful with our approach. If he's actually innocent of the charge, a clumsy approach means we've just made an enemy needlessly."

"Kaiser wouldn't have had a problem with that," Palatina offered. "Or Lung. They aren't known for letting defeated enemies go if they have a chance to kill them instead."

Marquis didn't react outwardly to that, though Claire read the determination in his mind. Curious as to whether this was a universal trait in the villains of Brockton Bay, she turned to Palatina. The older woman misread her expression and shrugged. "What? It's true."

Claire had seen direct evidence of that, but she still had to ask the question. It would make her sound more than a little naïve, but she wanted to get things clear in her head. "Aren't there kind of unspoken rules against killing downed enemies, stuff like that?"

"Certainly," Marquis agreed. "The truth is, most of us agree to abide by them. But there's always those who think they're above such things. Case in point: Somer's Rock."

Palatina cleared her throat, apparently a little uncomfortable with the topic at hand. Claire figured she was thinking about the Empire's role in the matter. "But Marchioness has a point. How are we going to find him?"

"By a process of elimination," declared Marquis. "Blasto is a Tinker of sorts, which means he needs a sizeable base and resources to work with. We simply take away all the places he can't be based in, then we investigate the remainder."

"Oh." Claire was a little taken aback. "For a moment there, I thought you were going to pull out some cool trick that lets us go straight to his lair. I was totally ready to be thoroughly impressed."

"Well, compared with the Saturday morning cartoon method of wandering around aimlessly until you accidentally stumble across a clue, I think that actually counts as a cool trick," Palatina pointed out. "Either that or wait to be attacked, then follow the villains back to their lair."

"Does that ever happen in real life?" asked Claire. "Just being attacked out of the blue?"

Behind them, a loud metallic clang sounded. All three turned as one, to see Lung climbing out of a manhole. The cover lay nearby. Lung was a good eight feet tall at this point, and a heat shimmer danced around his body as he squeezed through the narrow (for him) opening. His mask looked a little different from normal; Claire wondered if the original had been damaged or something.

"Apparently, more often than you'd think," Palatina replied, her voice oddly calm. Claire could tell she was forcing her fear down. She didn't know if Purity had ever fought the Asian crime lord—it wasn't a topic of conversation that had actually come up—but it was a contest that could only end badly for the loser.

"Is there anything we need to know about him?" asked Marquis, as Lung finally gained his feet. "Particular vulnerabilities or immunities? Apart from fire, that is?"

Lung turned to look at them. In response, Marquis coated himself from head to toe in living bone. An elaborate trident formed itself in his hands, but he made no move to attack. Behind him, Claire was working hard on herself and the other two, doing her best to fireproof them. It wasn't easy, but she had a few ideas. And if worst came to worst, she'd take on the combat form she'd used to such great effect before.

After giving them a long look, from which Claire could swear she felt the air heat up around them, Lung abruptly turned away. He started toward the front doors of the PRT building, silver scales sliding into place on his skin and flame dancing around his hands.

"Okay, I have a question." Claire wondered if she was missing something. "Why is Lung attacking the PRT building, alone?" Because there was a singular lack of ABB members climbing out of the manhole, or converging on the doors from other directions. And surely even Lung didn't consider himself so powerful that he could take on the PRT in a direct confrontation and win. It was a spectacularly unstrategic move.

"I find myself asking the same question," mused Marquis. "More to the point, we've been antagonising him almost from the day we arrived back in the 'Bay. Why would he choose to attack them over me?"

Amused despite herself, Claire snorted. "A little hurt pride there, Dad?" However, her father's point was valid. Lung had to know what Marquis looked like, and had the reputation of never turning away from a fight. Despite having never met him, she was sure this was extremely out of character for the man.

"Forget your male pride," Palatina said bluntly. "What do we do? Shouldn't we just … well, walk away?" She sounded as though she meant it. Even in her mind, she was singularly uninterested in testing herself against Lung. "It's not our fight. If Lung wants to take on the PRT, that's his problem."

Sirens began to sound from within the building, and shutters rattled down into place just as Lung reached the doors. He took hold of the shutters and let out a grunt of effort that Claire heard from where she was. With a screech of tearing metal, he tore them out of their runners and hurled them out into the street. Then he took hold of the glass sliding doors and tried to pull them apart.

Marquis rubbed his chin. "I think that it's a good idea to keep your enemy guessing," he decided. "In the interests of confusing the good Director Piggot, we shall assist them today. Because unless I miss my guess, Lung is going to flee just before sufficient forces arrive to take him into custody. And I don't want that happening."

Claire frowned. "I can see he's not acting like himself, but …" And then she clicked. The fact that Lung was alone was one thing. However, add in the factors that he wasn't attacking Marquis on sight and he was doing something absolutely guaranteed to get the PRT and Protectorate even more interested in arresting him, and there was only one reasonable conclusion. "He's a clone too, isn't he?"

"That's my guess, my dear Marchioness," Marquis agreed. They heard the sound of shattering glass as Lung took his fists to the barriers, destroying them with a few solid punches. Claire was impressed. She was sure that had been no ordinary glass. He glanced around. "The lobby of that building is no place for a protracted battle. In addition, there are innocents within. Palatina, take Marchioness to the roof and request access to the elevator, to get you down to the ground floor. Blow him out of the building. Can you do that?"

"I can get us up there," Palatina agreed, a little dubiously. "Why are they going to let me use the elevator, again?"

"Because I'll be with you," Claire said, grasping her father's plan at once. "Come on. It'll be fun."

"Fun. Yes. I'm beginning to wonder about your definition of the word." Palatina was definitely feeling misgivings, but she didn't hesitate as she wrapped her arms around Claire. "Up we go."

If Claire had thought the glare was bright before, it was utterly blinding now that she was right next to the source. So she shut her eyes and braced herself for the upward acceleration. It was actually quite brisk, considering that Palatina was having to lift her mass as well. The modifications she'd done to the older woman to increase her strength were helping. Still, it seemed like minutes before they reached the rooftop, although it had to be only a few seconds.

As Palatina set her down, shouts rang out across the broad expanse. "PRT! Hold it right there! Move and we'll shoot! Purity, power down now-now-now!"

"Oh, shit," muttered Palatina. "I hope your dad knows what he's talking about." Fear washed through her system, spiking her adrenaline levels, but she didn't seem to be about to do anything stupid.

"He usually does." Claire kept her voice soothing. As Palatina's glare faded, they both turned toward the guards, who had rifles aimed and ready. She couldn't read their bodies from this range, but they had to be ready to fire at the slightest provocation. "Just remember, you're mostly bulletproof," she said without moving her lips. Slowly, she raised her hands.

"'Mostly' isn't 'totally'," Palatina pointed out, but she followed suit. "What now?"

"Follow my lead." Claire raised her voice. "Excuse me," she called out. "I'm Marchioness. You may have been briefed on me. Palatina and I would like to use your elevator, if you don't mind."

There was a moment of silence across the rooftop before one of the guards replied. "Wait, what?"

"Never mind that," snapped the other guard harshly. "Secure them, fast. We're needed to help with that maniac tearing up the lobby."

"That's what we're here for." Claire tried to project all the reasonable logic into her voice that she could. She kept her hands up because the approaching guards still looked as though they had their fingers on the triggers. "We're here to help. Lung is attacking your building, and we want to stop him."

"Shut up." It was the harsh-voiced guard. "On your knees. Hands behind your heads. Purity, if you even begin to light up, I will fill you full of lead. I shit you not."

This was beginning to look like a bad idea. "No, listen," Claire tried again. "Call the Director. Tell her it's Marchioness. We were talking to her five minutes ago!"

"The Director's got other problems," the guard said flatly. "You must've thought it was a golden opportunity to attack us from the air. Well, surprise, cupcake. Dunno what a 'Marchioness' is supposed to be, but I know who Purity is, and she's got warrants in her name from here to Boston. So you're both under arrest, and that's just for starters." He gestured with his gun. "On your knees, I said. Now!"

Well, crap. I had to run into the only two guards in the building who don't know who I am. Claire sank to her knees. Beside her, Palatina did the same.

Claire was starting to foster a real dislike for the harsh-voiced guard, which extended her range relative to him, even though he was farther away. However, she couldn't do anything to his thought patterns, just to his body. The other one was coming closer, his rifle at the ready.

"Don't do anything stupid now," the closer one said. "Nobody needs to get hurt …" And then he stepped inside the range where she could exert positive, precise control over his body. Almost casually, his hand dropped to his waist, where grenades hung from clips. Each one carried on it the symbol for containment foam.

"Stop wasting time!" snapped the one she didn't like. "Get them secured! We need a bag on Purity's head, asap!"

The closer guard's adrenaline spiked in fear as he realised he'd lost all conscious control over his body, but Claire made his movements smooth and fast. Hooking the grenade from his belt, he flicked the pin off and tossed it toward his comrade before she froze every voluntary muscle in his body. The other guard realised what was going on, just as the grenade landed at his feet. "Fuck!" he yelled. "Master!" Levelling his rifle at Claire, he made to fire, but she was two steps ahead of him. She couldn't exert the same control as she could over the closer guard, but she could numb his hands and make him drop the weapon. Then the grenade went off, engulfing him in an ever-expanding blob of yellow foam.

Claire came to her feet and darted over to the guard whose body she'd commandeered. "It's okay," she said soothingly, laying her hand on his arm to get close enough for mental adjustment. "Everything's going to be fine." At the same time, she reinforced her words with the belief that what she was saying was absolutely true. "You just have to let us go down in the elevator, and we'll be out of your hair."

"But—but what about him?" asked the guard, pointing at his comrade. Or rather, at the blob of foam which was wriggling slightly with the man's struggles. "I foamed him!"

Claire stepped in front of him to block his view. "He was going to shoot me. I'm Marchioness. You know, the healer? You heard about me somewhere and remembered that I wasn't to be hurt, so you foamed him to protect me. You'll be a hero." As she spoke, her power continued to influence him to accept her words as gospel.

"Oh, that's right," the guard said shakily. "He's gonna be pissed at me, though."

"That's all right," Claire said. "The Director's gonna be happy with you. But we really have to get downstairs quickly."

"Sure, I can let you in," the guard agreed hastily. "But the elevator is locked down because of Lung. You'll have to use the fire stairs." He led them to the doors that opened on to the roof, and tapped in a code. They hissed open, then he tapped another code into the panel next to the fire stairs. Pulling that door open, he stepped aside. "There you go, ladies. Sorry about the misunderstanding from before."

"That's okay," Palatina said, her voice just a little dubious. She glanced at Claire, then at the guard, as if she wasn't quite able to get her head around what the teen was doing. Heading into the stairwell, she lit up and levitated over the rail. Seconds later, she was out of sight, with only the light flaring up from below to show where she was.

"So, I'm curious," the guard said as Claire prepared to follow her. "Is Purity a good guy now? Because I didn't know that."

Claire sighed. "It's … complicated." She set the disbelief blocker to dissolve in a few moments—the guard didn't deserve to automatically accept everything that everyone told him for the rest of his life—and hurried down the stairs after Palatina.

It's a good thing I'm as fit as I need to be.

<><>​

Kayden

Flying down the stairwell was a pain. Kayden would've been much happier if it had been an open-plan staircase that she could just drop down the middle of, but no, they had to go with the classic switchback pattern. This meant she had to swerve back and forth across the centreline for each floor. Worse, she had to time each swerve just right, which meant she couldn't go too fast. It crossed her mind that she could've just blasted their way in through a ground-floor fire door. Of course, doing so would draw official attention … ugh.

Left … right … left … right … left … right … She was concentrating so hard on the stairs that it took a moment for her to realise that she was at the ground floor, mainly due to the sounds of combat permeating through the door from the building proper. With a sheepish grin, she flew back up one flight of stairs—they seemed to go all the way into a basement level—and got to the fire door. Which was locked. Because of course it is.

Gritting her teeth, she cupped her hands around the handle and loosed the weakest bolt she was capable of producing. Her power flared and blasted a foot-wide chunk out of the doorframe, and blew the door clean off its hinges. Well, I tried … Glowing and levitating, because there was no way she was going to be stealthy after that, Kayden flew through the doorway.

The other side was … chaos. Piles of containment foam lay everywhere, some looking decidedly scorched. The gift shop was piled high with the stuff, for what reason Kayden had no idea. Around the room, the cameras and TV monitors had all been destroyed, and the main counter had been mostly destroyed. Quite a bit of the place was on fire. The clone of Lung, standing at least twelve feet tall, looked around from where he was seconds away from breaking through into the office spaces. Beyond the barrier, Armsmaster stood with his halberd in a guard position.

'Lung' looked around and saw Kayden; with a roar, he sent a gust of fire at her. Almost instinctively, she returned the blast, then shielded her face with her arms as the flame washed over her. It stung, a lot, but the pain was neither crippling nor even agonising. While her blast sent 'Lung' flying back to smash against the opposite wall, she felt that she was barely scorched. Though I think my eyebrows are AWOL. Until Claire can grow them back, that is.

'Lung' pulled himself out of the hole he'd made in the wall. Kayden found herself somewhat impressed at the structural strength of the building. Of course, it was the PRT building, so a certain amount of effort had no doubt gone into its construction. But this wasn't getting her job done. She flew forward, skimming by the ruined counter.

"Purity!" That was Armsmaster's bellow. She'd know it anywhere. "You're in on this, too?"

"It's Palatina!" she shouted back. "And I'm saving your ass!" She saw the clone preparing to launch another fire blast and yelled, "Duck!"

Bellowing something even more incomprehensible than normal, the silver-scaled monster sent another blast of flame at her, but she heeded her own advice and got out of the way. This one, she felt, might have actually hurt. It washed past her into the office spaces, and she thought she heard cries of fear. When she glanced back, Armsmaster was still standing there, though his armour showed signs of scorching. Crap, there's still people down here. That's why he hasn't retreated. Well, time to pull up my big-girl pants and show this cheap copy how a real cape does things.

"Lung," she shouted, then paused, trying to work out a suitably dramatic line. Nothing came to her, so she just yelled, "Fuck off!" He lunged at her, steel claws outstretched. She let him almost get to her, then triggered as powerful a blast as she dared use inside the building.

The spiralling lines of force smashed into the hulking form and blasted it out through the open doorway. His outstretched arm took a sizeable chunk of wall with it, but she didn't care. Coughing a little from the smoke, she flew out after him, ready to hit him again if need be. However, Marquis had been waiting for this moment. By the time she got clear of the building, 'Lung' was thoroughly encased in bone, with more accreting on him with every second that passed. There was a distinct lack of traffic, due mainly to the bone barriers that blocked the road in both directions.

"Is that it?" she asked, then coughed again. "Did we get him?"

"For the moment," he said, then looked around. "Where's Marchioness? We need her to finish this."

"She's coming down the stairs," she replied. "We couldn't use the elevator." Then she saw the two men on the otherwise-deserted street beyond Marquis. They were both wearing the red and green of the ABB. Worse, they were carrying firearms. "Shit, look out!"

He turned fast, the bone armour on his body thickening as he flung out his arm to generate a wall of bone between herself and the gunmen. Only a second or so later, the distinctive sound of gunfire echoed from the frontage of the PRT building; at the same time, she heard the impacts of bullets against the bone wall.

She wasn't sure whether she should be pleased that he'd made it a priority to protect her or annoyed that he thought she needed protection. Claire, after all, had made her somewhat more durable than before. She'd even gotten through a close-quarters fight with the Lung knockoff without losing more than her eyebrows.

No more shots came their way, so she powered up and rose above the barrier to see what was going on. Marquis stood with one hand outstretched, a line of bone reaching down the road. At the far end, it had formed an enclosure which he was just now closing off at the top. "That should deal with you," he said with satisfaction.

"I thought this was a clone," Kayden said, frowning. "Those guys were ABB. Why are they following a clone?"

"Kindly note that there are only two of them, and they looked rather young," Marquis replied with a certain amount of good cheer. "I'm willing to bet that they match the body types of the two goons who showed up with my ersatz duplicate at the bank robbery." He looked around. "Ah, my dear Marchioness. Decided to join the party at last?"

Claire, in her Marchioness form, exited the PRT building. She seemed skinnier than normal, and her arms and legs looked longer. As she crossed the street to join them, her limbs reduced in length and her body filled out. "You try getting down all those stairs in a hurry, while wearing an evening gown," she snarked back at him. "You get him?"

"To a point," Marquis allowed. "He's still growing. I'm adapting the bone casing, but soon it just won't have the structural strength to hold him." As if to emphasise his words, the mass of bone cracked briefly and flame spurted out before the cracks sealed over again. Marquis' voice took on an intrigued note. "Hm. That's interesting."

"We've got the extremely pissed-off clone of a powerful cape currently outgrowing our attempts to hold him in," Kayden said tensely. She powered up to give herself the best chance of a pre-emptive shot should 'Lung' burst free from his confinement. "I'd say that's more than just 'interesting'."

"That's not what I was talking about," Marquis replied lightly. "Now that Marchioness has joined us, his rate of growth seems to have increased. Perhaps his power ramps up more when there are capes nearby?"

"That's kind of a frightening idea," Kayden said bluntly. "I know it's pretty hard to fight him even with cape powers, but if he just gets tougher when capes are involved, I can see why he hasn't lost many fights."

"It is somewhat of a game-changer, yes." Marquis nodded to Marchioness. "Can you get close enough to put him to sleep?"

"I've been trying," she said. "Physically, I should be able to, but his regeneration keeps overriding the order to become unconscious. I'd be able to knock him out with access to his brain, but I can't do that with all this bone in the way. While I don't like Lung, I know this isn't him, so I haven't got much in the way of feelings about this guy. I mean, I know he tried to kill people, but that was because Blasto ordered him to. If anything, I'm sorry for him."

Marquis grimaced. "I'd been wondering when the emotional aspect of your powers would come back to bite us. It appears that today is the day." He sighed. "Very well. I shall weaken some of the bone. This should give him the chance to break an arm free. Will that work for you?"

<><>​

Claire

"That should be perfect," Claire said. While she could sense the pseudo-Lung's body easily, and even control some of his autonomic responses, his power no-sold a lot of the more subtle stuff she could do to people. Which meant she had to get a lot closer than normal. She leaned in, knowing that she was protected against most of what he could do as well, but still not wanting to tempt fate.

A circle about a foot wide inscribed itself on the bone surface in front of her, then acquired dozens of subtle cracks across its diameter. She waited, feeling the movement of the clone as it attempted to burst out of its osseous bonds. Through her power, she knew it had just felt the bone give way in a particular direction. It lunged, steel-taloned fingers reaching to grasp and tear.

Small chunks of bone flew every which way as the clone's arm smashed its way free of the barrier. However, Claire had been waiting, and she'd tuned up her reaction time for this exact purpose. Even if the clone had been able to see what was happening, it still wouldn't have been able to pull its arm back in time. Her hand blurred forward and slapped around the clone's wrist. Fire licked and curled upward out of the hole, but that didn't matter either; her skin was remarkably fire-resistant right then. Assuming control over his brain, she dived in to see what was going on and how to manipulate it for her own use.

Three seconds later, it was done, and she released the clone's wrist. "Okay, you can let him go, Dad," she said cheerfully, dusting her hands off. "He won't be any trouble." As she spoke, she was making the requisite changes to her own skin to carry off her next trick.

"Wait, what did you do?" Palatina stared as the bone holding 'Lung' captive cracked and then began to crumble to fine powder. The clone stood up and brushed himself off, then turned to Claire and stood waiting. She noted that it had been thankfully provided with bicycle shorts that were both stretchy and (apparently) fireproof. "One minute he's trying to kill us all and the next he's fine with us? I thought it took longer to subvert someone?"

Claire loved moments like this. "Yeah, normally it would. But this guy was built with a hyper-effective vomeronasal organ, which provides a ready-made source of control. I just subverted that. Much easier." She looked over toward the large cylindrical bone shape that had planted itself in the middle of the street, not far away. "I'm guessing there's someone in there too?"

"Certainly," Marquis confirmed. "Two idiots who attempted to interrupt us. Let me know when you're ready, my dear."

"Wait, wait," protested Palatina, who apparently hadn't noted the significance of the term Claire had used. "What's a vomero-whatsit, and how does it let you control him?"

"Pheromones," Claire explained succinctly. "His reaction to them is about as sensitive as a moth's. Certain pheromones cause predetermined actions, and right now I'm putting out the one that signals to stand down, the fight's over." She headed over toward the bone prison. Her power told her that there were two young men imprisoned within, just as her father had said. The sense she had of their bodies told her that they were holding guns. Not for long.

"But can't Blasto, or whoever, just engineer something that'll put out stronger pheromones?" asked Palatina. Claire had to hand it to her; she was definitely thinking this through. "The first we'll know about it is when he turns on us."

"Well, yeah, that is a concern," admitted Claire, her expression serious. She couldn't keep it up for long, though, and her face lit up with a mischievous grin. "Or it would be if I hadn't retuned his receptors to accept different pheromones, anyway." She triggered an uncontrollable shaking in their hands that caused them to drop the guns. That small task accomplished, she slapped at the bone wall before her. "Knock knock."

If someone had responded with "who's there", it would've made her day. Disappointingly enough, nothing of the sort happened. A doorway-shaped section of bone crumbled inward and slumped to the ground, but she knew that was her father's doing. Within were the two people she'd sensed, their hands still shaking.

"Hi," she said cheerfully. "Who wants to be first?"

<><>​

Marquis

Earl Marchant watched his daughter march up to the bone box and smiled proudly. She's far more confident than I was at that age, he knew. Leaning across to Palatina, he murmured, "Who's on first?" His power served to weaken enough bone to effect an entry, as Marchioness obviously wanted.

The blonde caught the Abbott & Costello reference just as the first of the Lung-clone's minions decided to try to rush his way out. Her snort of amusement was cut short as her eyes widened in alarm. This was understandable, given that the lad in question outweighed Claire by about half again. But before either of them could react, Earl's delicate little girl bodily grabbed the boy, hoisted him over her head and slammed him down on to the asphalt.

"Stay," she ordered the headstrong lout, then turned toward his comrade. "Next?" she offered sweetly. Earl was reminded once more of her strength of will. And, more importantly, the fact that she could rebuild her body as needed. Right then, it seemed, she'd needed the ability to perform a move that would've gotten a standing ovation from any pro-wrestling audience.

"You really aren't going to be worried when she starts dating, are you?" asked Palatina, a smile lurking on her lips. She had relaxed somewhat, but he could tell she was still scanning the surroundings. Which was a smart thing to do; Protectorate reinforcements had to be incoming.

"I must admit, any importunate young man trying anything on her will probably undergo a more stringent punishment from her than from me," he said lightly. "After all, I would only kill them. Or perhaps slowly emasculate them. My dear, sweet, innocent daughter can do much, much more to them." He watched as Claire stepped aside from a wildly-thrown punch. Almost as if they'd practised, she grabbed the boy's wrist, causing him to freeze in his tracks.

The corner of Palatina's mouth lifted in acknowledgement. "That makes a lot of sense," she agreed. "She'll be about the safest teenage girl in the United States. The closer they try to get to her, the more power she'll have over them, and the more insight she'll have into their motivations."

"In a perfect world, she'd never get into a situation where she had to use her power in such a way, but this isn't a perfect world," Earl pointed out. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he hit speed-dial. "Jonas, we're ready for pickup. If you can meet us one block west from the PRT building, that would be appreciated. We will have three guests with us. Speed will be of the essence."

"Very good, sir." Even as the call ended, Earl heard the car engine rumble to life. He put the phone away, turning his attention to his surroundings once more. It really is very good to have people I can depend on.

"It's time to move," he announced, raising his voice so that Claire could hear him. "This way."

At that moment, Armsmaster emerged from the front doors of the PRT building. He was limping slightly, but his stride was implacable, and he held his halberd in a position of readiness. "Lung! Purity!" he bellowed. "You're under arrest! Stand down or I will use lethal force!"

"I'm sorry, Armsmaster," Marquis called back. "There's two problems with that statement." He gestured in the direction he needed the others to go in. "Go on. I'll catch up."

"This is none of your business, Marquis!" snapped Armsmaster. "I'm arresting two known criminals!" He limped closer, but Earl stepped into his way.

"No." Long ago, Earl had perfected a tone which conveyed all the elements of no, you will not do that without requiring him to raise his voice. "I don't believe you are." He watched Armsmaster, and just as the armoured hero opened his mouth, he cut in once more. "Tell me, who do you think you are arresting?"

Caught short, Armsmaster stopped and turned his helmet toward Earl. If the veteran villain's understanding of body language was in any way accurate, Armsmaster was glaring at him almost hard enough to melt holes in his own visor through the sheer force of his anger. "Purity and Lung," he bit off.

"Well, there you're wrong," Earl corrected him lightly. "That's not Purity. That's Palatina. As you may have ascertained from the connotations of the name, she's my second in command. And that … is not Lung."

Armsmaster did a manful job of swallowing his anger at being corrected over Palatina's identity. Earl could tell that he wanted to arrest her anyway, but the stricture had already been applied, and so he could not. But he wasn't yet done. "Of course that's Lung!" he snapped. "He's still wearing the goddamn mask!"

"Language, Armsmaster," Claire chided him with just the right amount of fake outrage in her voice. "I am a minor, you know." She waved her hand toward 'Lung' as the clone followed Palatina down the street. "That's not Lung. He's a clone of Lung, but he's not the original."

"He still attacked the PRT building!" Armsmaster took a step toward Earl. "I'm warning you. I won't arrest you, but I will stun you and step over your body." He paused. "Wait, a clone?"

"He's not going to do it again," Claire said, entirely reasonably. "And yes, he's a clone. We're going to find out who sent the clone—probably the same person who sent the clone of Marquis to the bank—and ask him very politely never to do it again." Her tone was sweet reason itself, right up until the last five words, upon which it acquired a pitch and a spin that would've made a strong man take a step back.

To Armsmaster's credit, he did no such thing. "Blasto." His voice was thoughtful. "You're talking about Blasto."

"That is our supposition, yes," Earl agreed. He wasn't thrilled that the PRT had even this information, but such things happened. In any case, he had what he needed. "Don't worry; by the time we're done, he will no longer be a threat to Brockton Bay."

"I do not condone murder!" Armsmaster snapped. "Even a villain has the right to due process!"

"I do not condone people using my face to mar my good name," Earl returned bluntly. "I'm certain Lung would not be overly happy about it, either. I'm doing you a favour. Once I clear us both, you can go back to prosecuting Lung for the crimes he has committed. You wouldn't want any cases to be thrown out of court on a technicality, would you?"

"And Blasto will be alive when we give him to you," Claire piped up. She tilted her head slightly. "For a given definition of 'alive', that is." She looked Armsmaster right in the eye, or where his eyes would be. "And as my father has said, he's a villain. He doesn't have to follow the law."

"Everyone has to follow the law." Armsmaster's tone should have scraped sparks off the concrete pavement between them.

"We don't." Claire gave him a cheeky grin. "Because it's more convenient for the Director to let me heal people than to deal with the fallout from you trying to arrest my father. Or Palatina. Or anyone else we decide to recruit."

Momentarily, Earl wondered if Armsmaster's armour had a blood-pressure readout. If it does, I think Claire just broke it. "The agreement was for Palatina," Armsmaster snapped. "Not Lung, and not for … who were the other two, anyway?"

"As Marchioness pointed out, that's not Lung. And as for who they are … well, that's one of the things we're interested in finding out," Earl said cheerfully. "Now, I'd like to say that it's been enlightening chatting to you, but we really do have to go. The crime in Brockton Bay's not going to clean itself up, after all." He turned toward the end of the block, where the car had just turned the corner. Palatina would be in it, along with the other three. With a thought, Earl dissolved the rest of his creations in the area, allowing the dust to blow away in the wind. With nothing to impede its progress, the car rolled slowly toward them.

"I can't let you leave." Armsmaster stood defiantly before the car, his halberd pointing directly at it. "I'm not arresting you, but you will be detained until we have answers."

Earl sighed and took his phone out of his pocket. He tapped in a number, and then put it on speaker. It had been well worth the ridiculous amount he'd paid to get the private numbers of all the movers and shakers in Brockton Bay.

"Hello? Who is this?" Emily Piggot's voice sounded suspicious.

"This is Marquis," Earl replied, doing his best to sound like he was being entirely reasonable against all odds. "Armsmaster is being difficult. Would you kindly order him to allow us to depart before I lose patience with him and leave him hanging upside down from your flagpole, minus his armour? Because that can be arranged."

"Director—" Armsmaster tried to get a word in edgeways, but didn't quite make it.

"Armsmaster." Piggot's tone was that of someone whose last nerve was being tap-danced upon, and who didn't appreciate it in the slightest. "Stand down immediately."

So then, of course, Armsmaster proved himself entirely incapable of reading the most obvious of vocal cues. "But I—"

"Don't make me repeat myself. Allow Marquis and Marchioness to leave. Get a damage and casualty report. That's an order."

It wasn't a blood pressure reader that Armsmaster's armour needed, Earl decided. It was a pressure scale reader for his teeth. If the man gritted them any harder, he'd be able to compress graphene into diamonds. "Orders received and understood, Director." There was probably a hate-filled glare in there somewhere, but the visor rendered such things null and void. Turning on his heel, Armsmaster stalked off back toward the PRT building.

"Ouch." Claire's tone was low, pitched only for Earl's ears. "That had to hurt."

"Indubitably." Earl opened the door for his daughter, then got into the front seat. This was not his practice, but the back seat looked distinctly cosy at the moment, even with the spare seats. "And that is why I would never subjugate myself to the whims of another. A man must be the master of his own destiny. If he must follow another, then he should pick someone who thinks the same way as he does. Otherwise, it's his own problem. Don't you agree, Jonas?"

The burly South African nodded briefly. "Sure thing, sir." He glanced into the back seat, which was indeed somewhat crowded. "Where to, sir?"

Earl leaned back in the car seat. "Home," he decided. "We have information to gather and plans to make."

Blasto, after all, was not on the same scale as the Merchants had been. With his genetic creations, he was potentially much worse.

As the car moved off, Earl allowed himself a slight smile.

Finally, a real challenge.



End of Part Fourteen

Part Fifteen

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Fifteen: Closing In

[A/N: this chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]


Earl

Jonas pulled the car to a halt in the garage. Earl got out of the front seat, then opened the back door for Claire. On the far side of the car, Jonas was doing the same for Palatina. With a smile at her father, Claire alighted from the vehicle then leaned in to look at the Lung clone and the two ersatz ABB gangsters. "Out you get," she said firmly. "Follow me. Don't do anything silly, hmm?" Turning to Earl, she raised an eyebrow. "Basement?"

"Basement," he agreed.

Obediently, the three men climbed from the car and fell into line behind her as she headed for the door into the house proper. Earl shared a glance with Jonas, who gave the faintest of shrugs as he pressed the fob to re-lock the car. Don't look at me. She's your daughter.

Kayden had less in the way of self-composure. "Is it just me," she murmured to Earl as they followed along behind, "or is that creepy as hell?"

Earl held out his arm, and she linked hers through it. "Possibly," he conceded. "But you have to admit, it's also extremely impressive. I couldn't be prouder of her. She's coming into her abilities very effectively indeed."

"True. What's she going to be like when she's twenty?" She sounded curious rather than apprehensive.

"God only knows." He chuckled. "Probably allowing the President to keep his job because she can't be bothered doing the paperwork."

"Will you be needing me, sir?" asked Jonas.

Earl considered the question. "I shouldn't think so, Jonas," he said. "Though refreshments might be in order. Perhaps a light lunch?"

"Very good, sir." Jonas headed for the key safe.

As they went out the door, Kayden laced her fingers through Earl's. "Where did you find him?" she asked in a low tone. "Max never got that level of loyalty without either brainwashing people with the Cause or paying large amounts of money. Or both. Claire told me about how he went toe-to-toe with Hookwolf, to buy her time to save you. I don't know anyone else who would've done that."

"Well, I do pay him what he's worth," Earl pointed out. "But apart from that, he's been with us for years. Claire loves him like an uncle, and I consider him to be more of a good friend than an employee." He quirked a grin. "And of course, there's the fact that Claire is offering the best health care in the world."

"There is that," she agreed dryly.

As they reached the basement stairs and proceeded down them, his thoughts went back to Kayden's earlier comment. Creepy, nothing. She's terrifying. But she's my kind of terrifying.

It was an oddly comforting thought.

<><>​

Claire

The more Claire saw of the pseudo-Lung, the more she hated Blasto. Before, when he'd just been the guy who'd framed her dad for robbing a bank (and oh, the memory of the look on the Director's face when he just casually paid it all back was amazing) she'd just disliked him. Despised, rather. But not hated. Hate was an emotion she reserved for people she could easily kill, if they gave her a reason.

She didn't hate him for framing her father. She hated him for creating a living being that had just enough sapience to be used as a robot, as a slave, but not enough that they could live and survive on their own. That was something she swore to herself she'd never, ever do. Some lines should never be crossed, after all.

The human brain was a wondrous place. Full of beautiful interactions and feedback loops, creating the emergent status occasionally referred to as 'self-awareness'; Claire was often in awe of it. No two brains were exactly alike. While the underlying chemical mechanisms were the same, the way each person processed data and came to their own conclusions was subtly different. The pathways formed by life and experience were different in every case. Every brain was an artwork, a da Vinci or a Rembrandt, full of exquisite detail, almost fractal in nature at times.

By comparison, the clone's brain was a finger painting. There was no subtlety, no delicacy. A series of mental states: attack, flee, do-what-I-say, a few others. A language centre that allowed 'Lung' to understand spoken commands. Virtually all higher thought processes were replaced by inputs via the vomeronasal system. He had no real thoughts about what was happening. No curiosity, no apprehension. She was pretty sure he didn't even understand that she and her father were nominally the enemy.

The two gang thugs, on the other hand, were fully aware that she was the enemy. Initially, she'd taken away their ability to have any say about what was going on, leaving their brains working just fine. After a few moments, though, she'd been forced to take measures to damp down the internal screaming. If she let them flail around inside their own heads for too long, they might drive themselves insane, and that would be a pain to fix. Now, they still knew she was the enemy; they just didn't care.

She pointed at an empty area of floor. "Sit." Obediently, the three sat. Looking around toward her father, she raised an eyebrow, silently asking if he wanted to take over. He shook his head, then crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. The message was clear: she was in the driver's seat. Kayden hesitated, then followed Earl's lead.

All right, then. The knowledge wasn't as daunting as it might have been. When she'd first reached Brockton Bay, there had been the undercurrent of worry that she didn't really know what she was doing. But now, after what had already gone down, she had much more confidence in herself. She had the measure of the opposition, now.

Questioning the Lung clone would reveal nothing of use. Even if he knew anything, from what she could tell, he was only barely verbal. However, his two cohorts had both the knowledge she wanted and the means to convey it to her. She turned to the guy on the left. "You. What's your name?"

"Sugito," he said dully. His brain activity showed that he was being truthful, mainly because he didn't feel strongly enough about the matter to lie about it.

"Okay, Sugito," she said. "What was this about? What's the point of having a clone of Lung attack the PRT building?"

"Blasto wants the PRT to arrest Lung," Sugito replied simply. "If the clone killed people, Lung would get the Birdcage. That would take Lung out of Brockton Bay permanently."

Which pretty well agreed with their assumptions so far, and confirmed that Blasto was behind it all. Still, there were a few things Claire wasn't certain about. "Why are you working for Blasto? I didn't know he had human minions."

"When Lung killed Dao, we had to run for it because he was gonna kill us next. I had one of Lung's scales and some of Marquis' bone, so Blasto let us work for him."

"Which is how he made a clone of Marquis to rob that bank," Claire stated. It wasn't exactly a difficult guess.

"Yes," Sugito confirmed. "On the next bank robbery, Marquis will take hostages and slaughter them all before escaping."

Earl stepped forward off the wall at that point. "Really," he hissed. "Why didn't that happen, this time?"

Sugito looked at Claire and said nothing. She repeated the question.

"There weren't enough people, and Pak and me thought it was best to go before the capes showed," Sugito explained in the same deadpan voice. "Blasto was angry. He told us to wait longer, the next time."

"When will the next time be?" asked Claire.

"This afternoon."

Claire met her father's eyes, then looked back at Sugito. "Where?"

"Brockton Bay Central Bank," Sugito said.

"But you're here, not there." Claire felt a burst of hope. "This means it's not going to happen."

Sugito shrugged. "If we're not back in time, Blasto will probably send someone else."

And people will die. Claire didn't have an overriding sense of the sanctity of human life—there were people who needed to die, after all—but casual murder wasn't something she approved of. Especially when it came to framing her father for that same murder. "How many people is he likely to send, and how heavily will they be armed?"

"I don't know," said Sugito. "Three or four, maybe, with guns or knives. But they won't use them unless they're attacked. The whole idea is to show Marquis as a mass murderer."

"How do you give him your orders?" asked Claire. Having the supposed minions telling the boss what to do during the robbery wasn't exactly the height of discretion.

"We say things in certain ways normally," Sugito explained. "Like, 'maybe it would be a good idea to do this, boss'. But we had gas bombs to drop when we wanted him to go all murderboss."

Pheromone signals, right. "And Blasto sprayed you with something before you went out?"

"Yes." His emotions were flattened almost to non-existence, but he looked at her with as much curiosity as he was able. "How did you know that?"

"Lucky guess." It hadn't been hard to figure out. Blasto wouldn't want his minions shredded by the fake Marquis, so he'd sprayed them with something that would cause the clone to treat them as friends. She turned to her father. "Okay, we've got a problem."

"Yes, we do." He frowned heavily. "This is becoming more and more ridiculous. First, we had to save the PRT from Lung. Now, we must act to prevent a bank robbery."

"On the upside, this will confuse the Director even more," she pointed out. "And then we can go and smack down Blasto."

"Something I will probably enjoy far more than I should," he declared. "But for now, let's focus on preventing a massacre." He turned to Kayden. "I know this probably isn't what you signed up to do. You can come with us, or stay out of it. Your choice."

"You have to be joking." Kayden stepped forward. "Of course I'm coming along. I'm part of this team now, aren't I?"

"You most certainly are," Earl agreed warmly. "Now, as for these ones …" He cast an unfavourable eye over the seated trio. "What should we do with them?"

"We don't have to make that decision right now, Dad," Claire pointed out. "I can leave Lung two-point-oh here, and make sure that Dumb and Dumber don't wander off while we go make sure you don't get blamed for something else you haven't done."

"Yes." He turned to Kayden. "Could you please find Jonas and let him know we're heading out again? The light lunch is going to have to wait."

"Sure," she said, then leaned in and gave him a peck on the lips. "Don't leave without me." She headed up out of the basement, taking the stairs two at a time.

Claire hid a smirk at her father's momentarily startled look, and turned toward the three prisoners. "Right, then. You two. Don't leave the house. Don't steal or damage anything in the house. Don't try to communicate with anyone outside the house. Don't try to give this clone any orders. Unless you need to go to the bathroom or get a drink of water, stay in this basement. Don't make a mess. Do you understand me?"

Sugito nodded, and his friend followed suit. "Yes," said Sugito.

Satisfied, Claire turned to the clone. "Sleep," she said firmly, giving him a dose of the appropriate pheromones to reinforce the order. His physiology was robust enough that he wouldn't need to eat or relieve himself for the next few hours. Or even the next day, if it came to that. Obediently, he subsided on to his side and closed his eyes.

"Okay, we're done," she told her father. "Dumb and Dumber will follow the last orders I gave them. The clone will sleep until I wake him up. Let's go."

"It seems a little … cold," he said after a moment's thought. "Calculating. Treating people like robots. Go there, do that."

She snorted with laughter. "Dad, seriously? You're a supervillain. You've killed people before. I've killed people before. I can't believe you have a problem with this. Especially with people who tried to frame you."

"Killed, certainly," he agreed. "Not made into puppets. Making people suffer is inefficient, unless the whole point is to make an example of them. And we have nobody here to make an example of them to. On the whole, I prefer to dispose of people quickly and cleanly."

"Oh, they're not suffering," she said hastily. "I've turned down their emotions so they can't feel much of anything. And I'm pretty sure the clone can't suffer. He doesn't know how."

"And is this 'turning down of emotions' permanent or temporary? Just out of curiosity."

"Permanent, until I reverse it," she said. "We don't want them snapping out of it at the wrong moment. Also, until I did it, they were on the way to driving themselves into psychosis. Right now, they just don't care."

"Just so long as you don't decide to keep them in this state, afterward," he said. "I may be a ruthless killer, but there are some things we don't want the PRT knowing about you."

"I suppose you have a point," she agreed. By now, they were at the car, which was sitting with its engine running. The back door was open, with Kayden already in the back seat, waiting for them.

Without pausing, Claire slid into the car beside Kayden, then Earl got in after her. Pulling the door shut, he began to fasten his seatbelt. "When you're ready, Jonas."

"Right you are, sir." Jonas hit the garage door opener, and set the car moving.

"So, you two were having a very animated discussion just now," Kayden noted. "Was it about how we're going to dispose of our unwanted guests?"

"In a way," Earl said. "How did Max handle things like that?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Usually by dressing it up as an execution with honour or something like that. Or he got Hookwolf to kill them, then chop them up into small pieces. If he wanted to hide the fact that a murder had happened at all, the remains got dissolved in acid or dumped out at sea. Otherwise, the remains would be dumped in the territory of whichever gang they came from."

"Yay." Claire kept her voice absolutely deadpan.

"Actually, I'm not sure why you're even asking," Kayden said. "I mean, you're Marquis. You pioneered the art of disappearing minions who displeased you. Not to mention the occasional opposition cape. You even killed Iron Rain."

Earl chuckled lightly. "My dear, I believe it's time I let you in on a little secret. I didn't kill half the people who have been ascribed to me."

Kayden blinked. " … what? No, no, that's not right. Max told me all about you. You were the boogeyman of Brockton Bay. Nobody crossed you, if they could help it. Even Jack Slash left town rather than get on your bad side."

"Just as planned," he said. "If people already believe you're a heartless killer who'll snuff you out in a moment, they tread very lightly around you. Oh, I have killed before, and I'll kill again. But I didn't kill Iron Rain, and I never murdered any minions simply for disappointing me."

She frowned, then. "But Max said …" Slowly, she trailed off.

"Max was repeating what his father told him," Marquis explained. "The Teeth were in town at the time. They murdered Iron Rain, but at the same time, they were having trouble with a couple of intrusive Protectorate capes. So they hired the Nine to come in and deal with the problem. The Nine did it, but they had a habit even then of turning on their employers. I was going after the Teeth at the same time, ironically enough because I disapproved of them murdering a woman in my town. Between us, we whittled the Teeth down to Butcher … Seven, I think, who fled town. I told the Nine to leave as well but they refused, so I killed Psychosoma and Nice Guy. Jack Slash got the message after that, and did as he was told."

Claire smiled slightly. She already knew this story. It never failed to amuse her when people simultaneously considered her father to be a stone killer while acknowledging the fact that he'd tussled with the Brockton Bay Brigade on several occasions without ever killing a single one of them. People saw what they wanted to see, she figured.

"What happened then?" asked Kayden, her voice almost a whisper.

"Well, then I spoke with Allfather. We agreed that I would publicly wear the blame for Iron Rain's murder and that he'd swear vengeance, but would never follow through with it. This way, my reputation as a heartless killer was enhanced, and he didn't have to publicly admit that he owed me by acknowledging that I'd avenged her. The Nine got the credit for smashing the Teeth, and all was right with the world."

"Okay, wow." Kayden shook her head. "So you never killed Iron Rain. What about your minions? That story had to start somewhere."

"Oh, it did." Earl leaned back in his seat. "This one goes back a ways, to when I first began my rise as the Marquis of Brockton Bay. After my first few victories, I began to fancy myself as a mentor of sorts to up and coming young villains. I took a couple of them under my wing and began to show them the tricks of the trade. However, it didn't pan out exactly as I'd envisaged."

"They turned on you," Kayden guessed. It wasn't exactly a difficult conclusion to reach.

"They turned on me," he confirmed. "It was after our first big score. I'd led them though it by the numbers, showing them how easy it could be, done properly. This was most likely a mistake. They didn't think they needed me any more, and all that money was a potent lure for treachery. I killed them, of course, then put the word out that they'd 'disappointed' me. By betraying me, was what I meant. But the subtleties were lost on the Brockton Bay underworld. Not long after, some of my normal minions were killed in a clash with the Empire. To make it appear that I'd lost fewer men than I had, I disappeared those bodies as well, and proclaimed that they, too, had disappointed me. It didn't take long for the story to take hold that anyone who disappointed me vanished forever." He smiled dryly. "It led to a certain level of loyalty among the men. Nobody joined me who didn't mean to give one hundred percent to the cause, and I rewarded them accordingly. Of course, that was also my downfall."

"Your downfall?" Kayden sounded utterly fascinated. Claire had been too, when she'd heard this for the first time.

"Yes." Earl frowned. "The Brockton Bay Brigade latched on to my reputation as a murderous psychopath and used that as an excuse to hound me relentlessly, or as relentlessly as they were able. While, at the same time, benefiting from the known fact that I never go after women or children. I strongly suspect that my men began to use my reputation to haze the new hires, and it backfired when one of them failed me in some minor way. He didn't know what the rest of them knew, that the 'disappointment' story was merely a canard, so he bolted to the heroes and sold me out to save his own skin."

"And nearly got me killed in the process," Claire rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Being a new hire, he probably didn't know about me. When the Brigade came to the house, they were shooting blasts everywhere. Dad had to show them I was there before they'd stop." She still vaguely recalled the incident, mainly because she'd been over it with her father several times over the years.

Kayden shook her head. "This is … wow. This is not what Max led me to expect from you."

One corner of Earl's mouth quirked upward. "Disappointed that I'm tamer than the expectations?"

"Hardly." She smiled in return. "I've spent the last few years in the company of people who strive to make people think they're more dangerous than their reputations would suggest. It's a breath of fresh air to have you explain that the opposite is true."

Before Earl could comment on this, the car pulled to a halt. "Brockton Bay Central Bank is one block ahead, sir," Jonas said. "There's nothing on the police scanner as yet, but that doesn't mean anything." He turned to look back at Earl. "Will you be needing any assistance, sir?"

"I'd like to say 'no', but considering recent events, that's tempting fate." Earl rubbed his chin. "Stay on alert. If we do need you, we'll need you fast."

Jonas nodded briefly. "Very good, sir." From the glovebox, he pulled out a balaclava and a large pistol. "I'll be contacting reinforcements and moving them into the area, just in case."

Earl got out of the car, then assisted Claire and Kayden out as well. Nobody commented on Jonas' preparations. The big man had been a capable soldier of fortune well before joining Earl's employ. As far as Claire could tell, Brockton Bay was just another battlefield for him.

Once again, nobody seemed to take any particular notice as they made their way down the sidewalk. This was almost certainly due to the fact that only Kayden wore anything resembling a typical costume, being skintight and pure white. For herself and her father, the evening dress was a little unusual as it was still broad daylight, but not hugely so. If they'd skulked along and attempted to conceal their presence, everyone would be paying attention to them. As it was, a few people took photos with their phones. She wondered how many of them recognised her father for who he really was.

"Marchioness." Her father's tone was sharp. He inclined his head, indicating four figures who had just gotten out of a car outside the bank, still half a block away. One was taller than the other three. Even at this distance she could recognise the profile of her father's face, or rather that of his clone. "I believe we should hurry."

"I think I can get them before they get inside," Kayden said tensely, a glow building up around her hands.

"Chase them away from the bank, if you can," Earl said. "Don't shoot if you can avoid it." It was obvious to Claire why he'd added that; Kayden's blasts were vigorous, to say the least. A direct hit would smear a normal across the street.

"Got it." Kayden powered up fully, and launched herself forward. Claire adjusted her eyes toward the low infrared; she could still see what was going on, but Kayden's glare wasn't blinding her any more.

Earl started forward with Claire at his side. "Let's try to capture rather than kill," he said, breaking into a run. The high heels and evening dress would normally have hampered Claire in attempting to match his pace, but she'd reshaped her knee and ankle joints to overcome this difficulty.

She was fully aware that it was not mercy that drove his request, but the need to find out any information about Blasto. In this, she fully agreed. Once they had Blasto, the first order of business was to destroy all the samples he had of her father's DNA. The second was to make absolutely certain the gene-Tinker didn't pull this stunt ever again.

One of the four turned to look down the street as Kayden blazed toward them, glowing brightly. He shouted and pulled a gun. One of the others grabbed 'Marquis' by the arm and tugged him up the stairs toward the bank doors. The third one also pulled a gun, while the fourth ran back down the stairs and dived into the car.

Claire considered changing into her battle form, but decided the occasion wasn't worth losing her dress over. She ignored the pop-pop-pop of shots being fired—Kayden was absolutely capable of shrugging off pistol fire by now, even if they were able to hit a moving target—and concentrated on getting there as quickly as possible. "There'll be hostages," she warned, timing her words for the exhale.

"Yes." Her father's response was almost curt in its brevity. "Keep casualties. To a minimum."

The car's engine roared to life. Kayden swooped in at the two guys shooting at her, and flew between them. At the last second, she stretched her arms out to each side and neatly clotheslined both of them at once. Claire heard the double impact from where she was. If she'd cared about their welfare, she might've winced in sympathy. Well, she's certainly making use of the improvements. It was doubtful she could've pulled off a move like that before Claire had enhanced her physiology.

"Nicely done." It appeared that Earl agreed, though Claire wasn't sure who he was congratulating.

As the car began to pull away, the last man obviously choosing to abandon his compatriots, Kayden pulled up and around. Other vehicles swerved and screeched to a halt, the drivers probably unnerved by the brilliant glow, but the getaway car began to accelerate, swerving around the others. Right up until Kayden loosed a spiralling blast that blew the front end clean off the car, destroying the engine and sending one wheel bounding down the road. The car began to skid to a halt, sparks flying as metal ground against asphalt.

Oh, shit. Claire could see what was going to happen next, and ramped up her adrenaline production for a burst of extra speed. But it was too late. The fuel line had been ruptured, allowing gasoline to escape in a spreading pool, and one of the sparks came close enough to ignite the vapour.

Whoomph.

Flame ran across the ground as the car finally stopped, enveloping it in seconds. Claire knew the fuel tank wasn't likely to explode—that happened far more often in Hollywood than in real life—but the driver was still in extreme danger. Even if the fire didn't get into the interior of the car—and it would—he'd still cook alive from the heat generated all around him.

Kayden had obviously worked that out as well. Dropping to the ground alongside the car, she reached through the wall of flames, opened the door and wrenched the driver out. He hit the ground rolling, mainly from the force with which she'd thrown him, but it still managed to put out the small flames on his clothing. As Claire and Earl ran up, she patted down the smouldering sleeves of her costume and looked at them. "What now?" she asked. "The clone's inside with the last one."

"In a moment, my dear Palatina," Earl said. "Well done, by the way. Marchioness, can you make sure of these reprobates? I need to attend to this."

"Certainly, Marquis," Claire replied with a grin. She went to each of the mooks in turn, checking their vitals and ensuring they wouldn't die before she had a chance to question them. Each of them she left in a dreamless slumber, to ensure they'd still be around to question afterward.

When she turned around from the last one, she saw that the once-burning car was now a dome of white bone. The smell of smoke was heavy in the air, but the fire was definitely out.

"What do we do now?" she asked. "They'll have had time to get set up."

"True," he agreed. "But the 'Marquis robbed a bank and slaughtered all the hostages' narrative is dead in the water now. And however they've trained that clone, he won't know nearly enough about bone control as I do." He paused, rubbing his chin. "Which means he'll have the hostages between us and him. He might even be trying to pass as a hostage. And if we make a frontal attack, the hostages will get hurt."

"I have a novel idea," Claire mused. "Why don't I try to talk to him?"

"Because he'll almost certainly see it as a trick?" replied Kayden.

"If he starts killing hostages, we're going to have to go in anyway," Claire pointed out. "And if I can get close enough, I'll change his mind for him. I need to be in that bank."

Earl shared a glance with Kayden, raising an eyebrow interrogatively. She shrugged. "Don't look at me. I've never had to deal with a bank siege situation, either."

Heading up the stairs, Claire blinked as the sliding doors opened before her. The guy must be rattled if he hasn't had anyone lock them. That was both good and bad.

"Hello?" she called out as she stepped inside. Her hands were raised over her head, and she did her best to look non-threatening. "I'm just here to talk."

The lights were off inside the bank. Nostrils flaring, she expanded her sense of smell. Her vision, already angled toward the infrared, stayed that way.

The smell of sweat hit her, tinged with the sour stink of fear. She could also smell gun oil, perfume, cologne and a few odd scents. What she couldn't smell was blood, for which she heaved a silent sigh of relief.

In front of her, huddled in groups on the floor, were about two dozen people, faces glowing with the heat of their blood. She couldn't see the clone or his handler anywhere.

"So talk." The voice sounded young, teetering on the knife-blade of terror. In the darkness, amid the multitude. Normally, she would never have been able to pick him out, but her enhanced vision spotted him peeking out from behind a pillar off to the side. It was certainly big enough to hide him and the clone at the same time.

"I know you work for Blasto," she said. "And I know that's not really Marquis with you."

"What?" He sounded badly startled. "That's not true! Who told you that?"

"I'm Marchioness," she said patiently. "Marquis is my father. The real Marquis. Who is just outside, and so long as you're talking to me, he's not coming in here. Do you understand?"

"If you don't fuck off right now, all these people are gonna die!" His voice was nearly hysterical. "Do you understand that?"

She stepped behind a pillar of her own, and kicked off her shoes. Her skin went a dull black to match her dress, and her hands and feet splayed out. She'd never given herself gecko-grip soles before, but there was always a first time. Placing her hands on the pillar, she pulled herself upward, then reshaped her hips and knees to make this kind of movement more natural.

"We don't have to go down this path," she said soothingly. "Nobody has to get hurt today. You don't have to get hurt, I don't have to get hurt, and the people in this bank don't have to get hurt." As she spoke, she scuttled up the pillar, moving faster and faster as she got more used to it. She made sure to keep her face close to the pillar so it would make it harder to tell where the sound was coming from.

Reaching the top of the pillar, she eyed the ceiling panels dubiously. She was certain she could cling to them, but could they support her weight? Better not risk it. Crawling around the pillar, she sighted in on the one the guy was hiding behind. Her leg muscles shifted, becoming all fast-twitch, and she reinforced her ligaments and tendons to support a single huge effort.

"If you don't fuck off now, a lot of people are going to get hurt, and it'll be your fault!" He sounded on the edge.

Taking a deep breath, she sprang off the side of the pillar with all the power with which she was capable. Over the gap between pillars she soared, twisting in mid-air so that she could attach securely to it when she landed. The impact was bruising, or it would've been to any normal person. She clung to her landing spot, looking around. Nobody was looking up at her, which was a good start.

He called out again. "Did you hear me? What are you doing back there? Why aren't you saying anything?"

Her ventriloquistic skills were rudimentary at best, and she knew he'd know where she was if she called out. So she stayed quiet, scrambling around the pillar. There. He stood directly below her, the clone of her father standing silently behind him. In one hand, he held a pistol. That posed a minimal danger to her, but a rather greater danger to the crowd. In the other … she wasn't certain that he was holding anything at all, but from the way his fingers were loosely closed, she wouldn't bet on it.

It's got to be the murder-pheromone. If that was released, 'Marquis' would snap and use his bone control powers to kill everyone who wasn't dosed with the 'friend' pheromones.

"Hey!" he shouted. "I'm talking to you!"

Time was running out. He was getting more and more suspicious, which meant she had to act now. Lifting her left hand away from the pillar, she formed the battle-claw, but instead of pure batrachotoxin, she infused the claws with a mix of that and ketamine. Hopefully, she decided, it would be a knockout dose rather than a kill-shot. Of course, either way, she'd be happy with 'out of the fight'.

Kicking free of the pillar, she dropped. Her legs easily took the twenty-foot drop, and she landed in a crouch. Her battle-claw was already in motion, slashing across the top of his left wrist, where he held the small object. With a cry of pain, he dropped it, but she'd already positioned her right hand under his, featuring broad pads of fingers and numerous tiny hairs with which to take advantage of the van der Waal effect. The tiny globe fell into her hand, was trapped there, and she wrapped her fingers around it.

"What—" The idiot tried to bring his gun up, but the toxin was already in his bloodstream. She kicked him under the kneecap and slashed his gun hand to make him drop the weapon. It clattered to the ground, and he followed it shortly thereafter.

Then she turned to look up at the other combatant. The far more deadly one. In her hand, cushioned safely, was a globule of death; breaking it would spell doom for everyone in the bank. Of course, she didn't know what he'd been conditioned to do if his designated 'friends' were attacked. Would he default to 'kill everyone' mode? Or would he just stand there?

An instant later, her question was answered in no uncertain terms. His hand came up, and a bone blade extended from it. The clone slashed at her with a speed and power reminiscent of her father, driving her to hurriedly duck out of the way. Diving over the supine gang member, she ignored the discarded pistol and inhaled deeply, pulling in every whiff of the pheromone with which this guy had been doused.

Why didn't I take the clone down first? she raged at herself. It would've been so easy to come down on him like a bolt from the blue. To take him out before the other guy even knew she was there. But even as she leaped to the side to avoid another swing, she knew why. Because he looks like Dad.

Bone armour, cruder than her father's but still perfectly adequate, covered the faux-Marquis from head to toe. Another blade extended from his other hand, and hellishly sharp spikes and hooks extended from every surface. Even getting close would be dangerous.

Deep within her sinuses, she finished the analysis of the pheromone, and began to replicate it. The glands she'd used to make the last batch were in place; all she had to do was repurpose them. While fighting for her life against a clone of her father.

He was fast. With each failed strike, he seemed to gain more skill, pressing her ever closer to her limits. And then he began to throw up barriers, to make it harder for her to dodge. If she could get close enough to affect his body, the fight would be over, but he was all too good at playing keep-away.

The blades merged to form a massive hammer, which hummed through the air as he swung it two-handed. When he struck other jags of bone that had already been laid down, they shattered and sprayed through the air. She wasn't worried about being hurt by them, but if one got close enough, he'd be able to expand it to trap her. He'd be able to do it, too; already, he was using far too many of her father's tricks for comfort. He's just a clone! How is he this good? Against her father, he would of course lose, but her father was in a class of his own.

Finally, it seemed that he had inhaled the pheromones that she was now exuding from her pores. The massive hammer sank to the ground. Taking a deep breath of her own, she stepped in close. He didn't attack. Reaching out, she took control of his body and mind, and put him to sleep. And only then did she relax.

"Whew," she muttered, changing her battle-claw back to a normal hand so she could bend over and put it on her knee. "Some days it's just not worth getting out of bed."



End of Part Fifteen

Part Sixteen

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Sixteen: Following Up


[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]


Claire

"Um … miss? Are you a superhero?"

Claire turned to look at the hostages sitting on the floor, all staring at her in the dimness with varying levels of trepidation. Before, they hadn't gone anywhere because of the threat of the Marquis clone, but that didn't seem to be what they were worried about right now.

Oh. Right.

One by one, she began undoing the changes she'd made in herself for the battle. Dead black skin faded back to pink, high-agility joints reshaped themselves almost to normal, her gecko-grip right hand altered shape to become recognisably human, and her muscles regained a more natural blend of fast-twitch and slow-twitch fibres. As soon as she was sure she wouldn't freak the hostages out, she gave them a smile.

"Not exactly," she said dryly. "As you just heard, my name is Marchioness. I'm here to help. Is anyone hurt?"

"Only the security guard," said a middle-aged woman. "I think everyone else is okay. Are you really Marquis' daughter? Isn't that Marquis just over there?"

Claire sighed. If people would just pay attention once in a while, their lives—and everyone else's—would be so much easier. "No, it's not. That's a clone. My father's just outside." Belatedly, she added, "Where's the security guard?"

"Here." The painful wheeze was masculine in timbre. "You sayin' it wasn't Marquis who put me down?" Oddly enough, he sounded almost disappointed.

"That is indeed the case!"

Claire didn't have to look around to know who it was that had spoken, his dramatic tones ringing through the darkened space. In the next moment, light flooded across the interior of the bank, causing her to cast a shadow across the hostages. I love you dearly, Dad, but do you really have to ham it up like this? She didn't even need to voice the question out loud. The answer, as long as she'd known him, was 'yes'.

With the extra light, she was easily able to pick out the wounded guard. He looked like he'd been nailed in the right shoulder and left leg by the clone. Makeshift bandages had been wrapped around his wounds, but they were soaked through with blood.

She was close enough now that she was able to single him out with her power, and she set it to work repairing his wounds. Glancing around, she confirmed her guess that her father was striding forward like a conquering hero, with Kayden hovering behind him. The effect was … pretty impressive, actually. The hostages, already getting to their feet, were shading their eyes and watching him with a certain amount of awe.

"All is well here, Marchioness?" he asked as he reached her, placing his hand on her shoulder. Claire could see at least one cell-phone in the crowd, and she figured she knew what the front page picture on tomorrow's edition of the Brockton Bay Bulletin was going to be. "Did you have any difficulty with the clone?"

"It's all good. Once I figured out how to put him down, it wasn't hard." She deliberately spoke in obscure terms, to make sure nobody in the crowd figured out how she'd done it. As Marchioness, she was known as a healer, not as a biokinetic and definitely not a Changer. While some of the hostages would've seen a little of what she'd done to take down the last minion and the clone, the darkness would've obscured a lot of the useful detail. She hoped, anyway.

"I had every faith in you, my dear." Even ignoring the overacting, she knew he was serious. It had to have been a wrench for him to let her go in solo, but she'd won. "And the other item?"

"Got it right here." She held up her right hand, opening it just far enough for him to see the vial peeking through. "You want to deal with it?"

"I would like nothing better." She felt him pluck the vial from her fingers. Seconds later, he had encased it in a smooth shiny capsule of bone, the better to ensure that it wouldn't break if dropped.

With that off her mind, and out of her hands, she turned her attention back to the security guard. He was sitting up now, with his wounds almost completely healed. The rest of the people who'd been in the bank—specifically, the customers. The staff had obviously retreated to the rear of the building—were keeping back, probably out of a combination of fear and respect.

"Hey," said the guard. "You're villains, right?"

He sounded more puzzled than accusatory, but Claire felt it was necessary to correct his misapprehension. "My father's a villain," she said. "I'm not. I'm not a villain, a hero, a rogue, or any of that. I'm me."

"Yeah, that's what I'm wondering about," the guard replied. "If you don't mind me asking … why did you stop the bank robbery? I mean … that's what heroes do. Not villains and … well, whatever you are."

Maybe a little lighter on the endorphins next time, Claire decided. This guy was posing questions that he probably wouldn't ordinarily have asked in a hundred years. It was almost certainly the fault of the hormones she had running through his system so he didn't panic over what was going on.

Still, he'd been polite about asking. "This wasn't a bank robbery," she explained. "It was made to look like one, but the whole idea was to send the Marquis clone into a murderous rage so he killed you all, then use the security footage to frame my father for mass murder. I happen to like my father without a kill order on his head, thank you very much."

Carefully, the guard climbed to his feet. "So wait, if they hadn't been planning to kill us all, you wouldn't have intervened?" He sounded almost offended.

"My only concern was that they were using my name in vain, " Earl put in from behind Claire. "Saving your lives was merely a collateral effect. Bank robbery is a time-honoured activity of imagination-challenged criminals; far be it from me to nip such a venerable practice in the bud." He nodded toward where his clone and the last Blasto minion were resting peacefully. "If you're finished tending to the unwashed masses, my dear, I believe it may be time to leave. With, of course, those persons of interest to us."

"Wait, you're just taking them and going?" Now the guard looked confused. "Aren't you going to wait for the cops or anything?"

Earl stepped up alongside Claire and gave the man a full-on are you kidding? look. "In case you'd forgotten, the appellation 'villain' literally does mean I'm not obliged to cooperate with the forces of law and order." He raised his hand slightly; the guard flinched. "Of course, if you're unconvinced, I can always bind you before we leave."

Both of the guard's hands were raised in surrender. "No, no, I'm good. Take 'em and go. And … well, thanks."

"Whatever for?" Earl turned away, obviously putting the man from his mind as irrelevant. Claire gave the guard a nod of acknowledgement before following her father.

<><>​

"I'm not entirely certain as to why I was the obvious choice for carrying this miscreant." Despite his words, Earl's voice was bemused rather than annoyed as he carried the teenaged thug from the bank. "Surely your internal modifications make you capable for the purpose."

"Yeah, well, I coulda carried him," Claire confirmed. She hadn't quite given herself the same level of modifications Jonas was currently enjoying, but what she did have would've been well within the requirement to support the boy. "But it raises fewer questions if you do it." She had considered getting the clone—now shuffling along behind her—to do the heavy work, but she hadn't wanted to get into fiddly commands while people were watching, even with Kayden there to dazzle them. Both literally and figuratively.

"I see," he replied, in the tone of voice he used when he was admitting she was right without actually saying so. "Do not imagine for a moment that this will be a regular state of affairs."

"Well, duh." She grinned at him as the car pulled up in front of the bank. "That's what Jonas is for."

"What'm I for again, Miss Marchioness, ma'am?" asked Jonas as he opened the door and got out.

Claire smirked. She should've known Jonas would hear that comment, given the improved sensorium she was testing out on him. "Heavy lifting and punching people really hard," she replied cheekily. "Got another clone to deal with. And a prisoner for interrogation."

"Well, I can't argue with that job description." Jonas opened the back door to allow Earl to dump his burden inside on the floor. With a touch of pheromone and a spoken order, Claire had the clone climb in as well, then she put him to sleep. That left just Kayden and Claire to get in.

As they did so, Earl eyed the three mooks lying peacefully on the steps of the bank. "Do we really need these as well? Or is one enough?"

"One's plenty," Claire said as she got comfortable, using the recumbent clone as a foot-rest. "We can leave the others for the cops. They'll wake up in about half an hour. Sooner, if someone jostles them around."

"Very well." Earl turned to look at the white bone dome covering what had been the burning getaway car. He gestured idly in its direction, then climbed into the front seat of the limo. Behind him, the dome began to disintegrate, the hard shell flaking off and wafting away in the breeze. "When I see Blasto," he muttered, "I will be sure to thank him for making my life that little bit harder."

"I think we've all got a bone to pick with him, Dad," offered Claire from the back seat, then she grinned at the round of groans. "Oh, come on. That was a good one."

Earl looked up at the rear-vision mirror. "On that, my dear, we have a difference of opinion. And we still have to speak about how you didn't take out the clone first."

Claire huffed in irritation. "He looked like you, okay? I had a hard enough time attacking him in the first place. Besides, I wanted to make sure the murder-pheromone wasn't at risk."

"Hmm," he said. "I'll let it go … this time."

She poked her tongue out at him, then turned to Kayden. "Comfortable?"

"Sure," the older woman replied with an eye-rolling grin, as she stretched her legs out and rested them on the Marquis clone as well. "Couldn't be better."

"You two are using my clone as a foot-rest, aren't you?" Earl asked suspiciously.

Claire and Kayden immediately moved their feet from the clone on to the mook. "No," they chorused. Exchanging mischievous smirks, they settled back to enjoy the ride.

<><>​

"All right then."

The basement was cool and quiet. Claire stood, eyeing their prisoners. The clones stared blankly back, while the three mooks watched her with varying degrees of terror. She'd removed their various compulsions, leaving just five behind.

First: don't move without permission.

Second: don't speak without permission.

Third: do what I tell you to do.

Fourth: don't try to give orders to the clones at all.

Fifth: give the absolute and total truth when asked a question or told to speak.

One of the things she'd given back was the ability to care about what was going to happen to them. She wanted them to care. She wanted them terrified. Pure, gut-wrenching fear was a better loosener of tongues than any number of mental compulsions.

She wasn't alone in the cellar, of course. Earl and Kayden were standing back a few steps, while Jonas loomed in the background. The belated light lunch sat on a tray nearby. Claire took a slice of apple and chewed on it while she considered the questions she was going to ask.

"I'm going to ask questions. If you know the answer to any of the questions, put your hand up. Once the question has been answered, put your hand down. Do not lie by keeping your hand down if you know the answer. Is that perfectly clear?" All three mooks put their hands up. Claire looked at the first one. "What is the answer?"

"Yes, it is clear." The mook put his hand down. So did the other two. This puzzled Claire until she realised she hadn't specified that they had to answer the question before they put their hand down, just that the question had to be answered.

She repeated the question with the other two mooks, getting the same answer each time. Okay, so that works. Taking a sheet of paper from her purse, she unfolded it to reveal the list of questions that she and the others had brainstormed over for the last fifteen minutes.

"Question number one: how many people does Blasto have working for him?"

All three hands shot into the air.

<><>​

Blasto

Rey Andino had a bad feeling about the way the day was going. Not only had the massacre at Brockton Bay Central Bank not made the news yet, but his Lung-clone wasn't back from the PRT building. In fact, both clones and their attendant minions may as well have fallen into a hole, as far as their existence was concerned.

The PRT HQ had been attacked, he knew that much. But far from trumpeting the move by Lung to the skies and swearing to bring him in and avenge his victims, the PRT was saying … very little indeed. What news footage there was showed a barricade set up around the entrance of the PRT building, with both fire trucks and police cars nearby. A statement had been given by a tight-lipped PRT public-relations guy, which boiled down to "something happened, but we're not going to talk about it".

What the hell's going on here?

When he first came up with his master plan, the idea had been to sit back and watch the chaos unfold all around him. As each gang was weakened in turn, he would slowly but surely expand his territory in that direction, until the true ruler of Brockton Bay's underworld ended up as none other than he himself. And all without using self-reproducing creatures; he had no desire for that pre-signed kill order to come into effect. The PRT may have hobbled him but they'd left loopholes, which he fully intended to exploit. And if a few civilians died in the process, who cared? It wasn't like he'd get blamed for the deaths.

But still, something was going on. His latest masterpiece was still maturing, so he left it to continue growing and absorbing nutrient matter at a steady rate. It wouldn't need his attention for another ten minutes or more. In the meantime, he had something he needed to do.

He had to admit, however grudgingly, that the ex-ABB youths had held up their end of the deal. As he ducked past the curtain into the kitchen area of his lair, he saw one mopping the floor and another stirring something that smelled delicious on the stove. The place had never looked cleaner; all the surfaces sparkled, dishes were washed and put away, and they'd even managed to get rid of whatever had been growing in the fridge.

"You two," he said. He'd never bothered learning their names; why should he? People were far less interesting than his beautiful monsters, after all. "Have you been watching the news?"

"No," said the girl who was stirring the pot. "What's happened? Where are the others?"

"They aren't back yet. And neither are my clones." His tone made it clear which was more important to him. "You've heard nothing from any of them?"

"No, sir," said the kid with the mop. "Not even from Sugito."

Rey looked at him. "Sugito," he repeated, gesturing for the street rat to make some kind of sense.

"He went out with the Lung clone," the girl clarified. "He should've been back hours ago. Or called. Or something."

"Would he have gone to the authorities? Or back to the ABB?" He was beginning to regret taking the kids in altogether. People were just so unreliable.

The girl snorted. "Fuck, no. Lung—the real one—woulda killed him. And Sugito wouldn't have gone to the cops. That's just not him. We're his people. He wouldn't flip on us."

Her words rang with sincerity, which paradoxically made him more uneasy, not less. There was a potential problem here, much worse than simple betrayal. "Get your weapons," he said. "You're off cooking and cleaning duty and on guard duty. Something's wrong."

"What? What's wrong?" asked the girl, but she was already turning the stove off and putting a lid on the pot.

"If I knew what it was, I could do something about it." Having exhausted his store of patience for human interaction for the day, Rey turned and hustled back toward his lab.

If his creations had been captured, their ingrained instincts were to fight their way free. Separated from their human sheepdogs, they would return home. They hadn't come back, with or without the teenagers he'd sent out to accompany them. Which meant that someone had captured or killed his creations without it making the news …

Right on cue, the TV he had fixed to the wall played an alert tone.

"We interrupt with a breaking news bulletin. The Brockton Bay Central Bank was the scene of a bizarre villain attack earlier today, where someone initially appearing to be Marquis entered the bank and took hostages. Shortly thereafter, the new cape known as Marchioness engaged both the false Marquis and his teenage accomplice and disabled them, claiming that this was merely a clone of the infamous villain. Marchioness has claimed to be the daughter of the real Marquis, and this was borne out when he entered the bank as well. They took the clone and the accomplice with them, after Marchioness healed the hostages of their injuries. Witnesses at the scene report that—"

That couldn't be right. Rey wasn't exactly an avid follower of current events, but even he'd heard of the healer called Marchioness. She'd made waves by establishing herself at the Brockton Bay General Hospital on a semi-regular basis and curing all comers of their ailments. He hadn't heard that Marquis was her father, though. But that begged the question of how a healer took out the clone and its minders.

I bet she went in to try to defuse the situation, then her father took out the clone and the idiot minions. He'd probably handed her the credit just to confuse matters. Who'd take her on, after all, if they thought she was some kind of badass? It wasn't like healing was a particularly scary power.

But in any case, he'd heard enough. Moving to where a chain hung from the ceiling, he yanked on it. Immediately, a pre-mixed pheromone jetted from the re-purposed fire sprinkler system, spreading in clouds through the air. When his guard-beasts inhaled it, they got up from where they were resting and moved toward the exterior wall of the building, peering out through peepholes. Growls rumbled in their chests. Others scaled ladders to higher vantage points on the upper walkway.

That was the main reason he preferred working with his own creations. Given the right stimulus, his creatures would instantly go on to high alert without him having to talk to them.

He turned his attention to his latest project. Almost fully grown, it would be ready for decanting in just a few minutes. He didn't know that the base would be coming under attack, but it was the safest assumption to make. If anyone did attack, he intended to make them severely regret it, then use their genetic material to build the next generation of his creatures.

Unless it was Marquis, of course. He already had Marquis' genetic material, so he'd just kill the man and dispose of the corpse, unwritten rules be damned. The daughter—Marchioness, wasn't it?—might yield some interesting insights, so he'd probably keep her alive long enough to see what she could do before he got a sample and disposed of the rest of her.

He was fully aware that normally he was a lot more cautious than this, but dammit, he'd been keeping his head down for far too long! The gold ring was within sight, and he was damned if he was going to turn back now! By the time he was finished, Brockton Bay would understand that Blasto was a force to be reckoned with—

Someone knocked on the door.

His internal monologue came to a screeching halt and he looked around, not at all sure what was going on. If someone was going to attack, they normally didn't knock first. He checked on the project; less than a minute to go. Picking up one of several spray-bottles he had sitting around, he liberally doused himself with a specific pheromone; not unlike the one he'd given his minions, it made all his creations see him as someone to be respected and obeyed. To them, he was basically God, which wasn't all that far from reality if he stopped and thought about it.

The knock came again.

Selecting the nearest guard-creature, he pointed at the door. "See who it is!" As the guard hulked its way toward the entry, Rey pulled open a drawer and took out the pistol it contained. He didn't like using firearms—as far as he was concerned, they were far less reliable and versatile than his creations—but they were an effective force multiplier in tight situations. He hurried after the guard, positioning himself by the door so that when it opened he'd be able to hear the conversation.

The guard clumsily manipulated the locking mechanism, then pulled the door open. There was a short pause. "Who you?" it grunted.

"Hi," a voice answered. Rey wasn't the best person for determining age or even gender by voice alone, but if pressed he would've pegged this as a young woman or a teenage girl. One who sounded quite pleased with herself. Annoyingly so, even. "The name's Marchioness. I'm here to give your boss one chance to surrender before Marquis brings this place down around your ears and Palatina makes a crater out of it."

The guard-creature obviously tried to absorb all this, but eventually it shook its head in confusion. "Uh?"

"Oh, you poor thing." Marchioness' voice was immediately full of compassion. "Did he do the same thing with you as the other clones?"

This had gone on long enough. Rey pulled the door open a little farther and pointed the pistol at … huh. It was a teenage girl, after all. Wearing an evening dress and heels, with a little wrist purse even. She was done up to the nines, looking for all the world like she was going out to a high-society function with her parents, not standing on a supervillain's front doorstep. "All right," he snapped. "Who are you really, and what do you want?" The name 'Marchioness' did seem to be familiar from the news just before, but he'd learned not to believe everything he saw on TV.

"Oh, good." She smiled at him. He'd seen smiles like that before, on creations he'd made that owed a lot to shark DNA. "I was worried that I'd have to come find you. So, the offer to accept your surrender expires in one minute. My father and Palatina have this place surrounded. Dad is all kinds of pissed that you tried to drag his name in the mud, and Palatina isn't thrilled with you either."

So many things about this weren't adding up; he grasped at the first straw that came to hand. "Palatina? Who's he?" It wasn't a cape name he recognised, and it didn't exactly make it obvious what the cape's powers were. If it even was a cape. For all he knew, it was someone's surname.

She gave him a pitying little smile, as if he'd missed something very important. "Palatina's a she, not a he. She's very nice, unless you upset her. Then she blows things up a lot. She's the newest member of our team, and she's currently waiting to see if I ring her and say you've surrendered."

Palatina was a name Rey hadn't heard before. It was another point in favour of the theory that Marchioness hadn't been the one to take down the crew in the bank; if Marquis had had another cape on hand to deal with them, there was no way he'd be sending the healer in to do the job. Which meant the media had gotten things wrong yet again. In any case, even if her healing was scarier than it sounded, he had a gun and his guard-beast was sufficiently big and scary to make the average linebacker wet himself in terror.

"Grab her," he said to the guard-beast, gesturing with the gun. As the creature complied, he gave Marchioness a nasty little smile of his own. "Once they see you with a gun at your head, they'll be the ones surrendering, not me."

He was mildly surprised when she didn't try to avoid the guard-beast's grasp, but figured that she hadn't expected him to try this ploy. Not that it would've helped her; with these beasts, he'd coded high-speed reflexes and brute strength into one remarkably effective package. She didn't struggle to get free, probably because she recognised the uselessness of pitting her muscles against the highly tuned physique of the creature holding her.

He'd been kind of expecting her to scream as the guard-beast dragged her across the threshold and he slammed the door behind her, but she remained eerily silent. And unless a faintly worrying smile was her version of a rictus of terror, it wasn't fear that was keeping her quiet.

I've got the upper hand here, he reminded himself firmly. I've got my gun, I've got my guards, and I've got my masterpiece. If she thinks she can overcome that, she's delusional.

"So that's a 'no' on unconditional surrender, then?" The girl's smile had, if anything, become more worrying. Delusional she might be, but there was a certainty about her that would've made him reconsider his life choices if he wasn't pointing a gun at her face.

"Don't be a fool," he told her roughly. "Your father and Palatina, whoever that is, can't help you now. They aren't here. I am. And unless they do exactly what I say, things are going to go very badly for you. Call them up and tell them that."

Her smile widened slightly and she looked past him. "Oh, hi!" she called out. "How are you doing?"

Backing off slightly, in case she made a grab for the gun, he glanced in that direction, wondering who or what he had in his base that she addressed so familiarly. The two kids were standing the doorway to the kitchen area, staring at Marchioness with the level of horror that she should have really been showing toward the guard-beast.

"Shit!" yelled the boy, half a second ahead of the girl. "What's she doing here?"

Wait, they know her?

"That bitch got Dao killed!" the girl clarified. "Is Marquis here? We are so fucked."

"Wow, you're really good at picking sucky bosses, aren't you?" Marchioness sounded positively amused. A corner of her smile sharpened. "If I was you ... I'd run."

Rey turned his full attention back to her and raised his pistol slightly. "What's going on? What are they talking about?" At the back of his mind, he wondered if he shouldn't just shoot her—

Now her smile was fully predatory. "This." And then she snapped her fingers.

When the guard-beast began to growl, he didn't immediately realise what the problem was. Then he did; the thing was looking at him, thin lips peeled back to reveal razor-edged dentition. It released Marchioness' arm and took a step toward him, the thick brush of hair on its hunched shoulders starting to bristle in an unmistakable fashion. It was just seconds away from attacking and from all the indications, he was the target. Which was ludicrous. Never in his career had any of his creations defied their pheromone-induced state of servitude.

"Gotta love an easily-adjustable vomeronasal system," she observed casually, a wicked expression dancing in her eyes. A casual hand on the monster's arm stopped its forward advance.

His eyes widened as her words hit home with all the force and shock of a half-brick impacting the back of his head. "You didn't!" he protested. "You couldn't have!" But either she'd wrested control of his creation—carefully engineered to be as strong, fast, durable, vicious and implacable as he could manage—from him, or somebody else had. Somebody who was guiding it to attack him.

He'd figure out the whys and wherefores later. Aiming the pistol two-handed at Marchioness, he squeezed the trigger before he could talk himself out of it. If she was indeed calling the shots, killing her should end the problem.

The shot echoed loudly across the huge room as the weapon bucked in his hands. Burnt cellulose irritated his nose and his ears rang painfully, but Marchioness didn't even stagger. With a mildly irritated frown, she looked down at the dark hole that had appeared just above the 'V' of her evening gown. Placing her finger and thumb on either side of the bullet wound—which had yet to start bleeding—she squeezed inward. The next moment, the pistol slug popped out of the hole and she caught it, then brushed the same hand over the wound. After her hand had passed by, the skin was once more unblemished, as if he'd imagined the whole thing.

"Idiot," she said with the same level of exasperation as if he was a puppy that had just peed on the carpet. "I'm not guiding him to attack you. That's down to the pheromones you're wearing. Right now, they make him want to rip you apart. I'm the only thing holding him back. Five." Lifting the palm of her hand from the creature's arm, she left just the fingertips in contact with its skin. And then she raised her pinky, leaving four points of contact. "Four."

There had to be a way around this. "If he kills me, the rest of them will tear the two of you apart," he bluffed. Inserting a deadman switch like that had been tempting, but he didn't want them massacring their way across the city if he was injured. That sort of thing would get him Birdcaged or worse.

He didn't even consider shooting the guard-beast. The way he'd designed them, bullets would merely irritate it.

Her eyes narrowed and she shook her head. "Nice try. I know how they're programmed." Up went the next finger. "Three." The creature growled again, long and low and menacing.

Rey's nerve broke. He backed off, away from the unnerving teenager and the suborned guard-beast. Only when he was next to his workbench did he look away from the girl and the creature, and that was to locate the big red button on the side of his cloning tank. The Emergency Decant function had only been used a couple of times, but he'd really needed it. Just like he needed it now.

The girl lifted her hand free of the guard-beast's arm, and it roared with the excitement of the hunt. Powerful haunches launched it toward him, ropes of drool hanging from its wide-open jaws as it closed the distance shockingly fast.

He slapped the button. Several things happened at once.

Within the tank, the newest creation opened its eyes wide as the nutrient feeds dumped epinephrine into its system. Another nutrient tube gave it a dose of pure glucose, to give it a head start on the blood sugar it was going to need for energy. Tiny explosive bolts blew the casing off of the cloning tank, and his latest masterpiece surged upward, already looking for an opponent.

Rey cringed back from the oncoming guard-beast, eyes clenched shut. There was a massive meaty thud, and a howl of rage and frustration from the guard-beast. With his arm still upraised in a futile attempt at warding it off, he cracked one eyelid to see what was going on.

Barely two yards from him, his freshly-created masterpiece had intercepted the oncoming creature in the middle of a leap. He was impressed despite itself; the newly decanted creation was already eight feet tall and covered in silvery scales. As he watched, it threw the guard-beast off it then fired a burst of flaming bone spikes out of its hands. These struck the suborned creature, sinking deep and eliciting another howl of rage and pain.

He scrambled away as the clone of Marquis and Lung—with some honey badger and wolverine mixed in, because why not—enveloped itself in flame and grew another twelve inches in height. It seemed to be hefting a spear made of bone, the flame around the tip so hot it was painful to look at.

The guard-beasts watching the outside were finally coming to realise that something was wrong within the building. Several were venturing over, probably trying to figure out which of the two they should attack. It was fortunate their pack instinct was almost non-existent, or they would probably be already attacking the newest clone. As it was, they were diffident in the extreme.

It wasn't hard to figure out why. His guard-beasts were horrifically effective, but they had normal animal instincts where it came to dealing with fire. That is, they didn't do it at all well.

Backing off some more, he looked around to see where his human minions had gotten to. They were nowhere to be seen. Now that he came to think about it, he seemed to recall frightened voices saying something along the lines of "fuck this shit, I'm out" when Marchioness pulled her reveal with the guard-beast. And there was a back door out of the kitchen, to allow for the dumping of trash.

Fucking cowards. I'm better off without them.

Not that Rey was interested in taking on the rogue creature by himself. Fortunately, he had his newest clone doing all the heavy lifting on that front. As tough and strong as the guard-beast was, the Lung/Marquis clone was wiping the floor with it. Twelve feet tall, with silvery metal talons and flaming bone spikes driving deep into the guard-beast's vitals, the clone was justifying every minute of the long hours of effort he'd put into getting it just right.

The next problem of course, was that Marquis and someone called Palatina were somewhere outside his base. This was in no way an ideal situation. In fact, it was very bad indeed. However, he also had his guard-beasts (which were in turn slavishly loyal to him, so long as Marchioness didn't get to turn any more of them) and his hybrid clone, which he'd back against either Marquis or Lung in a straight fight.

Where was Marchioness, anyway? He'd gotten over the shock of shooting her to no real effect, and was wondering if multiple shots to the head would be more effective. It occurred to him that he was contemplating the murder of a teenage girl, but then he weighed this against being Brockton Bay's next pre-eminent crime-lord, and it became less of an issue. And even if his gun didn't do the trick, he'd call in the rest of the guard-beasts. Surely they'd be able to tear her apart faster than she could do whatever she did to corrupt them.

The trouble was, she was nowhere to be seen when he decided to enact his plan. Pistol up and ready, he began to stalk around the interior of the base. Each time he came close to a guard-beast, he called it to him. He didn't intend to take any chances when he finally caught up with her.

But I definitely want that genetic sample now. Whatever powers she's got, I can use.

<><>​

Claire

As the fight escalated, Claire slipped out through the main doors and shut them behind her. The hyena-gorilla hybrid creatures were tough, but she had a feeling that whatever Blasto had let loose was even tougher. From her initial observations, she had an idea she knew what (or rather, who) had contributed DNA toward it. Mission accomplished. Now to let Dad know what's going on.

Moving away from the doors, she gave the thumb's up toward a nearby rooftop. Once she judged herself to be a safe distance away—though the fight inside the base was still audible—she pulled out her phone and dialled a number.

Her father answered immediately. "Marchioness, are you all right? I heard a shot."

"I'm fine," she replied with a roll of the eyes. Had he forgotten who'd pulled his ass out of the fire not all that long ago? "He tried to shoot me with a nine-mil Beretta. My battle armour stopped it cold. Just FYI, he's definitely not surrendering."

"No surprise there," he agreed. "So did you manage to provoke him the way you wanted to?"

" … yeah, you're not gonna like this," she said. "The big guy? I know who went into it."

"Me?" She heard what might have been a bitten-off swearword. "Seriously, that man is irritating. How many of me are we going to have to deal with? And who's the other me fighting, if it isn't you?"

Claire took a deep breath. "Uh … not quite of you. There's some kind of animal mixed in. Whatever it is, it has anger issues. Oh, and the other half is ... Lung." She braced herself for the explosion.

There was silence for several seconds. "Lung." His voice was almost serene in its lack of emotion. "Damnation. He mixed my DNA with Lung's. That man is the loosest of loose cannons, and now my powers will be associated with him? By all that's holy, by the time I'm finished with Blasto, he'll be begging for death."

"We're gonna need a good plan for this one. Knocking on the front door isn't going to work twice. The clone is up and aware, and is already able to use its powers effectively. And then there's the rest of the guards. Individually, they're pretty wimpy compared to the hybrid clone, but en masse they could cause problems."

"Sounds like the old line about quantity having a quality of its own," her father mused. "Incidentally, while you were in there, his last two human minions ran out through a back door. Palatina intercepted them and has ascertained that they are two of the people who …"

"Who we met in the alley, yeah." Claire smirked. "I think we made an impression. Sucks to be them."

"We did more than make an impression, my dear." Her father's tone was firm. "Apparently our actions in the alley led directly to the situation we're in now. Including the fact that Blasto now has my genetic material, and Lung's, to play with. Which means even if we wanted to walk away now, we can't."

"Ah." She saw his point immediately. He wasn't chastising her directly; instead, he was ensuring she understood the consequences their actions were having. And that if they walked away at this point, Blasto's creations would be even more formidable when they finally did choose to confront him. "Yeah, I get it."

"So who is the hybrid clone fighting? Or rather, was. I believe the sounds of battle have died down now."

"Yeah, like I thought, I was able to turn the guard-thing against him." Claire felt a pang of regret for the passing of the guard-beast. It'd never had a choice, or a chance, to be anything but a puppet to its orders. First Blasto had created it and set it going with a series of immutable commands and urges, then she'd subverted these which led to its inevitable demise. At least it went down fighting. I think that's the only time those things feel happy. "He activated the hybrid to protect himself, like we planned. The hybrid must've killed it. That thing's pretty impressive, from what I saw. Basically, a seven foot humanoid honey badger with Lung's powers and yours overlaid on it. And it ramps up fast. Also, shoots spikes of flaming bone from its hands."

Her father paused for a long moment. "That's … impressive, yes. Which means Palatina can't just stay out of reach and blast it into submission."

"Uh, you did realise that once he ramps up far enough, he'll be able to fly anyway, right?" Claire's question was tentative. There was no way her father would've forgotten that little aspect.

"Of course." He sounded almost impatient. "I was hoping she could put the thing down before it got that far."

"Yeah, two problems with that." Claire grimaced. "He's kind of ramped up already, and he did it pretty quickly. I don't know how fast he could come up with wings, but I don't want to bet that she can smear him before he does."

"And of course, as per your plan, Blasto is aware that we're out here. So our chances of sniping the creature by surprise are now minimal." She heard a sigh over the phone.

"So what are we going to do?"

He chuckled warmly. "You should know by now that I always have at least two backup plans, my dear Marchioness. It's the secret of my success."

"I always thought the secret of your success was being better at using your powers than the other guy."

"That, my dear, is Plan A." She could hear the smugness in his voice.

"So, did you have a plan B?" The question was almost immaterial.

"I thought you'd never ask."


End of Part Sixteen

 

[Ack]

Intermission: Planning Process

[A/N: this covers the planning process that went into Part 16, because some people are never happy unless they get told every detail.]
[A/N 2: The last part of the previous chapter has been rewritten somewhat to fit.]

Claire spread her carefully-written notes over the table, and Earl leaned in to examine them, with Kayden at his side. "Very impressive, my dear. I've questioned many men over the years, but getting them to give me the correct information has always been the greatest challenge."

Jonas nodded from his side of the table. "He's right, chick. With you boosting their memories, it was just a matter of making them slow down long enough to get the information we needed. I'm pretty sure not even Blasto knew how much they saw. Down to the fact that he owns just one firearm, and it's not even Tinkertech."

Claire fought the blush rising on her cheeks. "It's just my powers," she protested. "They're kind of ideal for this sort of thing."

"That they are," Earl declared. "Now, with all this, I'm wondering if we should go with a slow and careful infiltration or a hard and fast strike. Each approach has its merits and drawbacks. It goes without saying that any plan we have is going to maximise the merits and nullify as many drawbacks as possible."

Claire tilted her head to one side, the facts and figures fitting themselves into one formation after another. "I think we should go with option C. I walk up, knock on the door, and give him the chance to surrender."

Earl and Jonas shared a long glance with Kayden, then all three adults turned toward Claire. By silent agreement, Earl spoke first. "That's an interesting approach, my dear. Also bold, daring and audacious. I would applaud it, save that I would be inclined to also call it foolhardy and risky in the extreme."

Jonas nodded in stolid agreement. "We can't trust him to be civilised, chick. The man is a Tinker. He tried to frame your father for mass murder. He could do anything to you, and we wouldn't be able to stop him in time."

"Not 'anything'," she pointed out. "A lot of things, yes, but there are some things he's incapable of doing. And I'll be able to guard against most of the rest. And for the remainder …" She turned to Jonas. "Do you still have that anti-materiel rifle I got you for your birthday?"

A slow grin began to spread across the ex-mercenary's scarred features. "I believe I see your line, chick. You want me as overwatch."

"Well, duh," she said with an answering grin. "Who else?"

The rifle had been a custom job, built by a skilled gunsmith to Brute standards. Not by coincidence, to the Brute standards that Jonas could achieve. Despite a very effective gas-recoil system, it still packed a kick that would break a lesser man's shoulder. Claire had watched Jonas literally explode blocks of concrete with the rifle, through the sheer kinetic force of the bullet. It came with an IR scope and a high-powered parabolic microphone.

Earl eyed his daughter suspiciously. "Did you get that for him because you thought something like this would turn up?"

"'Would', no. 'Might', yes." Claire shrugged. "It's better to have the sniper rifle from hell and not need it …" She trailed off, knowing she didn't have to finish the statement.

"Indeed," Earl noted. "Well, that alleviates quite a few of the concerns I held regarding your plan. How is it supposed to culminate? With his capture?"

"No, actually." Claire tapped one of the pieces of paper. "We know he doesn't do anything smaller than the naked eye can see. In fact, he's never made anything smaller than a cat. And he has no other cape clones in his base. But he's making something now, and he's taking a lot of time about it, according to this. And it's big."

"And you want me to snipe it, chick?" Jonas rolled his head on his neck. "Not sure if I can get a sight picture through the wall with the scope, but I'll do my best."

"Well, it'd be great if you could," Claire told him with a grin. "But I'm thinking of going in like a bratty teenager who's got more arrogance than brains, and starting something that makes him use the big guy. That's when I pull back, leaving him wondering what the hell I was even there for."

"Provoking him may not be the best idea," Kayden pointed out in a masterful understatement. "He is a Tinker. He's undoubtedly got many ways to hurt you if he really tried."

Claire held up her hand and it morphed into the battle-claw she'd used on the fateful day the Empire crumbled. The razor-edged talons retracted, and skin crawled up over the black integument. "I can run my skin and hair as a semi-separate organism outside my battle-armour," she said. "Even better, if he grabs a sample, it'll clone out as an octopus or something. In the meantime, I look harmless and I can still affect everything around me. While still being bulletproof, immune to poison and able to regenerate any damage that gets through the carbon outer shell."

"So why not just take him on?" asked Kayden. "Take him out in one hit? Or draw him out so Jonas' rifle can make his head into pink mist? It's what we're here to do, isn't it?"

"The solution isn't quite so simple as that, dearest Kayden," Earl said, putting his arm around her waist. "I believe I see where Claire is going with this. Should Blasto have installed a deadman switch in his creations, killing or even disabling him could cause the other twenty-five beasts he has as guards to run amok about the city. While we could certainly chase them all down and dispose of them, I suspect they would rack up quite the body count before we did. And once more, I face being accused of mass murder. Damnation."

"Exactly," Claire agreed. "I need to have some face time with one of his guard-thingies. If he controls them with pheromones, like he did the clones we captured, I can get a good idea of what pheromones I need to produce to make them think I'm the guy in charge. Hell, if they don't have the kill-order in them, I can make it go after him because of his own pheromones."

"I find the concept of Blasto being torn asunder by his own creations to be oddly compelling," Earl observed. "Alternatively, if you can suborn all of them under his nose, that would be even better."

Claire waggled her hand back and forth. "Difficult," she admitted. "Yes, I can probably infiltrate the building, but I don't know where they're situated, and the guys confirmed that the guard-things have a high-end sense of smell. It would be virtually impossible for me to totally negate my scent, and they would raise the alarm. There's every chance I could get close to one, but by the time I had him turned, the others would know something's up. I'm good, but anyone can be dogpiled. I'd rather not see if they could pull me to pieces before I could turn them."

"A most unpleasant outcome," Earl agreed. "So you intend to test the waters, so to speak, before we commit our full strength?"

"Yeah." Claire tapped one of the papers. "Like I said, he's making something big. If I send a guard-thing rampaging after him, what's he gonna do?"

"He'll use the big creation to defend himself," Jonas answered slowly. "It's what I'd do, anyway."

"Yup." Claire grinned. "And that way we find out what it can do. It's like Abigail taught me. When attacking an opponent of unknown strength, lead with a feint." At Earl's almost imperceptible wince, Claire put her hand on his arm. "Sorry, Dad. Didn't mean to bring up old problems."

"It is of no moment," her father protested, though he had to know she knew he was lying. "So you wish to manipulate him into showing what cards he's holding, whilst acting like a foolhardy, risk-prone teenager?"

"Basically, yes." Claire nodded. "With Jonas as overwatch and Palatina providing an eye in the sky." She smiled at her father. "You did say we'd be minimising the risks."

Earl nodded. "I did indeed. The plan has merit. Let us run it past all the facts we have, and plug any holes before commencing. Just in case."

Claire nodded again. "Just in case."


End of Intermission

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Seventeen: Dealing with Blasto

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]


"Well, now I'm asking." Claire loved her father dearly, but he really did enjoy showing off how smart he was. "What does plan B consist of?"

"The first thing we need to do," he said, all business now, "is to keep them off-balance. Blasto has let the genie out of the bottle and if it's got Lung's powers it'll be somewhat larger now, so he won't be able to put it back where he was keeping it. But that won't stop him from trying, and while he's concentrating on that, he won't be overseeing external security. And given that you suborned his guard-creature so easily, he won't want to let them out of his sight, either."

"Got it so far," she agreed. "So, we hit them from the outside? Keep them reacting?"

"That is correct, my dear Marchioness. While you were in there, did you get a read on how he controls his creatures? He seems to have a penchant for using pheromones. If so, that will be his weakness."

Claire grinned savagely, her body already morphing into her full battle-form. "I like the way you think. And yes, you're right. His guard-creatures are all attuned to react to a series of pheromones. I can give you the appropriate emitters, if you want."

"We don't have the time," he said. "I'm coming in, and Palatina will be overhead, but I need you to get close and see what havoc you can cause. The more things that are going wrong with his creations, the harder it will be for him to be proactive rather than reactive."

Beside her, Jonas cleared his throat. "I can accompany her as well, sir," he offered diffidently. "Unless you want me out here instead."

"I think we'll maintain you on overwatch for the moment," her father decided. "After all, one never knows when one needs someone's skull to be converted into a cloud of pink mist."

Claire was barely listening anymore. She slithered out of the evening wear, leaving it in a neat pile with her shoes on the rooftop she was currently sharing with Jonas. Her form was now as sexless as it was sleek and efficient, and owed more to nightmare space movies than anything related to humanity.

The modifications she was making to herself had their basis in the adjustments she'd taken on when the Empire tried to kill her father. However, this time she'd had much more time to think about it, and there were a few optional extras she'd decided to try out. Case in point: her exoskeleton was a glossy black, laced with carbon nanotubes in such a way that bullets would simply bounce off. But with a little thought on the matter, the nanotubes were realigned and set up to contain chromatophores. As a result, her carapace went rainbow-hued, then shifted colour schemes to produce an ever-changing transmission of light 'through' her body. When she moved quickly, she knew the distortion would give her away. But if she held still …

This time, when she smiled, she didn't open her mouth. Transparent covers over her eyes allowed her to see and yet not be seen. "See you later, Jonas."

"See you later, chick." Jonas didn't look up from the sights of the enormous rifle. "Give 'em hell."

"Oh, I intend to." Moving with a sinuosity matched only by snakes and particularly agile cats, she slithered over the side of the roof and down the wall, holding on with a combination of sharp claws and gecko-pads where necessary.

When she'd modified the guard-creature earlier, she'd gotten a complete read on its vomeronasal system and what pheromones had significant effects on them. Including the pheromone that they all emitted, which translated as 'friend; do not attack'.

She smiled an extremely toothy grin. Time to go and have fun.

<><>​

Blasto

Rey Andino was not having a good day. He was down one guard-beast, and all the others were on edge. Worse, while his newest creation had already healed the damage it took in the fight, it was very much on edge (because the other creations were unhappy) and he didn't have time to settle it down. It was also about eleven feet tall at the moment, and didn't seem likely to be getting any smaller. Damn and blast that Marchioness!

If he'd captured her, it would've been somewhat worth it. But from the way his surviving guards were snuffling around the door, it seemed she'd slipped out during the fight. Which left no fewer than three enemies at large that he didn't know the whereabouts of; Marchioness, Marquis and the as-yet unseen Palatina. And of course, his human minions had cut and run at the first opportunity. Which only proved (once more) that the only good underlings were the ones he created for himself.

For a moment, he wondered if he hadn't bitten off more than he could chew. Marquis was formidable enough on his own, and with Marchioness and this 'Palatina' at his side, he could only become more dangerous. And that was before Lung himself got into the mix.

No. I can take them both. He'd knuckled under to the other gangs in the city for long enough. With the Lung/Marquis hybrid at his command, he could meet any threat and overwhelm it. Between the hybrid's regenerative capability, its command of bone and fire, and the sheer ferocity granted it by the animal components (and of course, Lung himself wasn't known for his quiet and retiring ways), he would back the beast against any cape in Brockton Bay. Even Marchioness would be eviscerated and incinerated before she could repeat whatever stunt she'd used to turn the gorilla/hyena guard-beast against him. And if Marquis himself attempted to use his vaunted powers against the hybrid Blasto had made with his DNA, the creature would meet bone with bone, then trump him with fire.

Gradually, he began to relax. His newest creation was prowling around the interior of his base, glowering at the guard-beasts when they came too close. The beasts themselves were on high alert, especially since one of their number had been skewered with bone, roasted from the inside and then torn apart before them. But they hadn't been given the signal to attack, so they were doing their best to keep their distance from the brand-new hybrid.

It seemed more and more likely that Marchioness had been acting on her own; had her father been in the vicinity, he would almost certainly have intervened when Rey shot her at close range, no matter how little effect the bullet had on her. A stupid teenager pulling a stupid stunt. It wasn't as though there was a lack of those in the world at any given time. And now she was going to sneak back to her father and pretend nothing had ever happened.

On the downside, he'd had to decant the hybrid early, a day before he would've judged it properly mature. On the upside, it had been field-tested and come through with flying colours. He'd seen footage of Lung in action; his creation would ramp up faster, do more damage and be impervious to the hottest flame the Asian cape could muster. And once both Lung and Marquis had been vanquished, in the absence of the Empire, Blasto would be the pre-eminent supervillain in Brockton Bay. With his hybrid at his side (perhaps two or three of them, just to be safe), nobody would dare undersell him anymore.

Still, it didn't seem like a good idea to simply decide everything was going to be fine. Complacency had to be earned, not assumed. He directed several of his guard-beasts to perform another perimeter check, to make sure the building was secure. While they were doing that, he went over to his lab equipment and started the process for creating a second Lung/Marquis hybrid. He had enough samples of the first one to get it right, after all. And this one would be grown to full term; it would be the one he sent out on missions while its older (and less matured) brother stayed at home to maintain base security. The new one's first mission, he decided, would be to track that annoying little girl back to wherever she and Marquis called home, so that they could see what it felt like when somebody else invaded their base.

Two of his guard-beasts let off their howl that meant 'all is not right', at the same time. Jerking his head up, he swore inventively. The problem was, he hadn't given them different alarm-howls, so he had no idea what was going on. Putting the lab gear into automatic for the moment—the tricky bit would come later, calculating exactly what sort of nutrients and how much to feed it at critical stages in its growth—he pulled his pistol again and went over to investigate.

The first guard-beast he came to pointed its clawed digits at a trio of its packmates, which were lying sprawled in a darkened corner of the warehouse. At first he thought they were dead—the way he'd built them, they were virtually impossible to knock unconscious via either chemical or physical means—but then one of them shifted and let out a long rattling snore.

What the absolute living fuck?

That was impossible. It was literally impossible. His guard-beasts didn't get tired in the normal sense. They could stay up for thirty-six hours at a stretch, if he needed them to. They did have a sleep-state they could enter, but only if they encountered a certain pheromone, over a certain level of concentration. Which he hadn't released, even when that one beast had been induced to attack him.

And yet, here were three of them, asleep. Muttering under his breath, he told the guard-beast to watch them until he returned. He had a 'wake-up' pheromone he could dose them with, but that was back in his desk. For now, he needed to check on the second alarm. Still with the pistol in hand, he headed in that direction.

Which turned out to be the rear door to the kitchen, sitting ajar.

He stared at the door (which he'd made certain to lock and bolt when initially securing his base), and at the neat half-circle that had been cored out to remove the entire lock mechanism. There had been no power tool use that he'd heard, and yet the thick wood had been sliced through with terrifying precision. For God's sake, there wasn't even any sawdust on the floor! Whoever had done it had cheekily left the piece of door (with the lock and bolt still engaged) on the counter beside the doorway. It was as if they hadn't cared about being detected.

Which was worrisome. People with that attitude were invariably either so good they really didn't need to worry about such things, or thought they were, which bespoke a lack of forethought that could lead to other really bad decisions. Decisions that it would be up to him to clean up the aftermath.

Unfortunately, he'd already met someone not half an hour ago who matched that description to a T; a teenage girl who had thought nothing of invading his base and throwing out unfounded threats, before just waltzing out again. It was looking very much like she had returned to plague him once more. Well, this time he was ready for her; his hybrid was a match for anything she could throw at him. And once the hybrid had finished tearing her apart, he could use the remains as a basis for creating his own version of her.

Though he still had no idea how she'd removed the lock so neatly. Even the hybrid wouldn't have been able to do that. Destroy the door utterly, yes. Rip the lock out and reduce the door to splinters, definitely. But carve out the lock so neatly, without leaving any debris on the floor? Not a hope in hell.

With that in mind, he turned to the guard-beast, his mouth already opening to issue orders for it to guard the door until he got back with something more sturdy to secure it.

The beast was slumped on the floor, asleep.

Looking around wildly, he backed up to the far end of the kitchen area and brandished his pistol. With his other hand, he reached into his pocket for a specific vial. Lifting it over his head, he threw it to the floor, where it shattered. The liquid within sprayed over the floor, then started to rapidly evaporate. From all around the base, he heard answering howls from his guards.

"To me!" he yelled. In an immediate response, three of the creatures showed up at the entrance to the kitchen, looking around wildly. Their claws flexed at the air as they snuffled at the air. One of them lashed out at a cabinet, reducing it to kindling, then came up with a very surprised rat. Muscles flexed; the squeaking, struggling rodent was crushed to a bloody pulp.

That particular pheromone was designed to put them on extreme alert. Anything alive within the base that didn't match the scent parameters of 'friend' (specifically; him, their fellow guard-beasts, or the hybrid) would be attacked in a berserker fury and torn to shreds. He'd tried keeping the previous generation of guard-beasts in that state on a permanent basis, but even when they didn't attack one another by accident, it led to problems like not eating and (in some cases) walking into walls because they were concentrating too much on their sense of smell.

If you're in this base, you little twit, you're dead. Clenching his hand around the pistol, but taking care to move his finger off the trigger first (he couldn't guarantee that the smell of gunshot residue wouldn't result in a terminally embarrassing false positive), he stalked out of the kitchen area. On the way, he touched a guard-beast on the arm and gestured; come with me.

With the beast at his back, he headed over toward where he kept the 'wake-up' pheromone. As he moved, he kept his head up, eyes scanning from side to side. It wasn't like a girl in an evening dress would be particularly inconspicuous, after all. And if I see her before the creatures do, I won't bother shooting her in the chest this time. He wasn't a really good shot, but he understood that a bullet in the head usually worked. And if one didn't, five or six might.

As he pulled open the cabinet where he kept the pheromone, he heard the guard-beast behind him start to sniff more deeply than normal; glancing over his shoulder at it, he saw it staring suspiciously at a point in mid-air … just before it collapsed to the ground. Then something moved, and he saw the wavering outline of a person that wasn't quite there.

No, not a person. Whatever it was, it wasn't human. He was an expert on human proportions, and that thing didn't have them. Which meant it certainly wasn't Marchioness, leaving the question wide open as to who (or what) it really was.

Not that he was in the mood to ask right then; bringing the pistol around, he braced it in shaking hands. Before he could fire, the hybrid let out its attack call, a rumbling roar that shook the building. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw it charging … right at him. Flames billowed around its metal-clad body as it generated weapons of fiery bone.

With a yelp of terror, he dropped flat. Whatever it was that had invaded his base, he didn't want to get between it and his hybrid. 'Death by out-of-control minion' was about the most embarrassing way a crime lord could go.

The hybrid never even looked down at Rey as it leaped over him, the heat of its flames washing over his back. Turning his head, he saw it slash with a huge sword-like weapon, flames trailing behind the blade. The shimmery form of the intruder seemed to backflip out of the way, faster than humanly possible. Certainly faster than Rey could've managed on his very best day.

The hybrid kept advancing, slashing with its blade and launching more flaming bone spikes; at any minute, Rey expected to hear a death-scream and see a limp body falling to the floor. Preferably in two or more pieces. But nothing of the sort happened. It attacked, over and over again, to no result. He'd specifically designed it to bore in after hard-to-hurt opponents and overwhelm them with damage, and this was what it was trying to do.

As the chase went on, he came to the realisation that this wasn't really a fight. The intruder wasn't retaliating or even standing its ground. In fact, it was retreating as fast as it could, bouncing off the walls and launching itself in unexpected directions. As far as he could tell from the flickering, high-speed movements, it merely wanted to disengage. But the hybrid kept slashing, kept pursuing, growing in size, despite the fact that no return attacks were coming back its way. Every failed attack merely seemed to further enrage it.

Roaring its anger, the hybrid kept after the intruder, now shooting more of the flaming bone spikes. These appeared to miss; three lodged in the wall, still burning, while the fourth punched into a hapless guard-beast. The stricken creature howled as it was impaled by the bone weapon, then fell back as the hybrid slashed it on the way past. Rey looked around wildly for other guard-beasts so that he could order them to assist the hybrid in cornering the intruder, but there didn't seem to be any around. In fact, the only guard-beast that seemed to be still on its feet was the now-injured one.

Oh, come on. Rey shook his head in impotent fury. How did it put all my beasts down? How the fuck did it know how to put them to sleep?

He began to climb to his feet, wondering if he should try to revive the fallen guard-beasts, or do something to assist the hybrid in catching its prey. Whichever it was, he realised he should do it quickly; while the furious hybrid had yet to hit with any of its attacks, those that missed were taking their toll on the interior of his base. Several flaming bone spikes were now sticking out of the wall and support pillars, and the hybrid itself—fifteen feet tall and still growing—was doing even more incidental damage by way of the flames that billowed from it and surrounded it on all sides. With each fruitless swipe of the tremendous flaming blade, slicing through structural members and furniture alike, the interior of the base was looking more and more like a war zone.

Then, with a start, he realised that the chase had turned back toward him. The flickering almost-invisible intruder, darting back and forth, was heading in the general direction of his lab gear, the gestation chambers, his storage … and him. "No!" he shouted, holding out his hands uselessly. "No!" He didn't even consider trying to shoot the intruder; if he missed (and he probably would) then there was a good chance he would strike the hybrid, and he didn't want to do that while it was in full battle mode.

An epiphany burst upon him, full-formed. The intruder wasn't fleeing from the hybrid, and never had been. All it had to do was stay ahead of the monstrous clone, leading his most dangerous minion on a merry chase, so that it wrecked his base while trying to catch up with its perceived prey. The intruder's doing this on purpose. Using my own weapons against me. And now he had maybe five seconds before it lured the hybrid into stampeding clean over the top of his lab gear and specimen storage, destroying everything he'd worked so hard for.

There was a way out, of course. He never built a dangerous clone without installing some way to prevent it from turning on him. The sleep pheromone he'd engineered into the guard-beasts would not suffice in this case, but he had something that would. Hands moving with desperate haste, he yanked open a drawer and reached inside to grab the ultrasonic module.

High-pitched sound waves—not just any high-pitched sound waves, but those of a specific frequency and strength—would serve to disrupt its inner ear functions in a way that its innate regeneration could not easily combat. Swinging around toward the oncoming hybrid, he jammed his thumb on the button. Inaudible sound waves lashed out, and the hybrid faltered—

"Yoink!" The intruder flashed past, giving him an extremely close view of glowing eyes and a grinning mouth full of far too many sharp fangs. He recoiled, then reacted far too late to the tug against his fingers. With growing horror, he stared at his empty hand. Oh, shit. It took the module.

The hybrid roared, no longer afflicted by the debilitating ultrasonic assault. It leaped forward, once more in hot-pursuit mode. Faced with the choice of getting out of the way or risk being trampled by his own creation, Rey dived to the side. Not even bothering to leap over precious lab gear and storage drawers, the hybrid smashed on through. The sound of his gestation chambers shattering brought tears to Rey's eyes, while flames licked over everything. Whatever hadn't been trampled and crushed was set on fire; he stared in anguish as his life's work burned.

There was nothing more for him here. His samples were all—or almost all—destroyed, and none of his painstakingly assembled machinery was salvageable. His only option now was to sneak out while the intruder was busy baiting the hybrid into destroying the rest of the base. And when I get set up again, I'm going to build the most vindictive assassin-beast I can manage, and I'm going to send it back to Brockton Bay to kill whatever the living fuck that thing is. As well as Marquis and Marchioness, just because I can. In his pocket were still the metal scale from Lung and the shard of bone from Marquis; with these he would craft his vengeance.

Thoughts hot with retribution, he began to crawl away toward the kitchen area, keeping low. This served not only to keep him out of sight—so he hoped—but also to keep him below the worst of the smoke that was beginning to gather in the now-burning building. It scratched at his throat, forcing a cough from his lungs.

With a sound like thunder, the roof blew away, smashed sideways into rubble by a golden spiralling beam of destruction. Eyes wide, he rolled on to his back as the smoke billowed upward and out of the tremendous hole thus created. He knew that blast, and whose signature attack it was. Marchioness had called her Palatina, but only a blind man would mistake the glowing figure now hovering over the hole for anyone but Purity, of the Empire.

Not that he spent more than half a second wondering what Purity was doing with Marquis and his certifiably insane daughter (not to mention the semi-invisible thing that had just incited his hybrid into destroying his base). Rolling on to his stomach once more, he began to crawl even more urgently toward the escape route offered by the open back door. Escape now, payback later.

He was almost at the doorway into the kitchen area (and the sleeping guard-beast there) when the hybrid bellowed in agony, falling to the ground not so far away and clawing at its ears. Even now, it was too dangerous to approach; over twenty feet tall and covered both in flame and vicious bone spikes, it was a hazard in and of itself. The very concrete beneath it was starting to blacken. He quickened his pace.

"Uh, uh." The rasping, hissing voice came from directly in front of him. "You aren't going anywhere, mister." As he stared, what he'd thought to be a distortion due to smoke solidified, then cast away the flickering camouflage to become …

Whatever it was, it wasn't human. He'd noted that once before, but now he was in a position to truly appreciate its form (for a very loose definition of 'appreciate'), he could see everything that made it other. Digitigrade legs, leading to a triple-toed foot armed with nasty-looking gripping claws; a semi-crouched posture that evoked images of raptors or other predatory dinosaurs; a long whippy tail that appeared almost prehensile; oddly-jointed forelimbs that looked even more flexible than human arms, armed with three-inch razor claws; claws that could fold back out of the way so that it could hold his ultrasonic module and use it; last but not least, a lizard-like muzzle filled with extremely sharp-looking teeth (currently grinning at him), and glowing red eyes. All of which was clad in a flexible carapace of glossy black material.

He coughed due to the smoke, then cleared his throat. When he spoke, he had to raise his voice over the agonised howls of the hybrid, not so far behind him. "What … what are you?" This was the epitome of what he'd been trying to achieve with his minions. With a dozen of these, he could rule the city. "Who engineered you?" Because there was no way in hell someone had stumbled on a Changer form like this by pure luck. That form was designed to terrify. And to kill.

"I engineered me," the creature said coolly, its voice changing to that of a teenage girl. One he'd heard very recently.

"M-Marchioness?" he stammered, coughing again. "How—?"

She sighed. "Everyone looks at the cute girl in the evening gown and doesn't look any further. Your human minions knew better. They've met me before, you see. They get a second chance. You don't." Despite the nonhuman configuration of features, he read dispassionate death in her eyes.

Moving forward with an effortless speed that left him no chance to dodge, it lashed out with its free hand. He cringed, anticipating those wicked talons tearing into his flesh, but all it—she—did was lay an oddly-warm palm against his cheek. In the next second, he felt a weird sensation, as though he'd just been doused from head to foot in chilled water. Desperately, he tried to move, to roll aside, but nothing happened. "Wh-why?"

"You tried to kill me," she said. "But I would've been inclined to forgive that. Except that you cloned my dad and tried to frame him for mass murder. And then you cloned him again." She nodded toward where the hybrid was still thrashing on the floor. "It seems you just don't learn. You'll keep trying things, and people will get hurt, and we'll have to clean up your mess. It's easier this way."

With the same flicker-fast speed, she broke contact and stepped away from him. He moved, scrambling to his feet. Belatedly, he recalled the pistol he still held, and raised it to point at her. "Give me the module," he rasped. "Or I will shoot you in the head." He was about close enough to have a good try at it, anyway.

She sighed. "Feel free. I just swapped scents with you." While his brain was still parsing that, she raised the hand with the module in it … and effortlessly crushed it. As pieces of plastic fell to the floor, she leaned forward slightly, red eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "You better run," she whispered.

Silence fell in the base, broken only by the crackling of flames. Rey looked back over his shoulder, to see the hybrid hauling itself upright. Its rage-filled eyes were fixed not on Marchioness, but on him. A long inhalation of air through its nostrils inflated its chest, and it began to growl. Then it lunged forward. Far too late, he turned and ran.

He didn't get very far.

<><>​

Marchioness

"I thought I told you to distract him and keep him busy until we moved into position." Earl's voice was only mildly censorious as they stood and watched the warehouse burn. "Not engage the hybrid which, from all accounts, would've given the entire local Protectorate a run for its money."

"I didn't engage it," Claire (clad once more in her evening dress) pointed out in a reasonable tone. "It spotted me putting a guard-beast to sleep, and once it fixed on me, I couldn't shake it. So, I decided to make use of it, instead." She put a hand on Jonas' arm and nodded to Kayden. "Thanks for the assists, by the way, guys. It definitely kept things from getting too fraught." She was pretty sure Blasto had been unaware of the fact that every time the hybrid had gotten close to catching her, Jonas had put a high-velocity round through the wall of the warehouse and into the centre mass of the pursuing beast. It would've taken more firepower than even that monster of a rifle to put it down, but the shots had certainly hampered it.

"My genuine pleasure, chick," the South African rumbled.

"What I want to know is how you even got in there without them spotting you at once," Kayden said. "From what you're saying, even if they couldn't see you, they would've caught your scent. And it's basically impossible to remove all scent."

"Yeah, it is." Claire smirked. "But I had a read on the guard-thing I turned. So I basically took on its scent signature. I used a monomolecular claw to remove the lock, and they never even paid attention to me once I was inside. The right pheromone put them to sleep, and once the big clone was busy with Blasto, I made sure to give them all a painless end." She didn't say anything about Blasto's death being painless. It had been quick, but that was about it.

"All very fascinating," mused Earl. "But the fact remains that there's a creature in there that bears my DNA. I don't know the PRT will take a sample, but I don't know they won't, either." He paused. "How did you beat it, anyway?"

Claire flexed her hand, then snapped her fingers. "Once it finished eating Blasto, I got close enough to lay a hand on it. I put it to sleep, then dissolved it down to the molecular level. There's nothing left of it to get anything out of."

"Which is definitely something we're going to be leaving out of the narrative, when and if we say anything to the PRT about this," Earl decided. "Director Piggot doesn't need any more ulcers, and you don't need a kill order on your head."

Claire nodded thoughtfully. "I'd rather not get on the PRT's bad side, if only for their sake," she agreed.

"Precisely what I was thinking," Earl said. "They fulfil an important role in keeping Brockton Bay orderly. I'd rather not have to take that on as well, at this stage in my plans."

Some may have considered the implication that he could remove the PRT from the equation to be pure boastfulness. Nobody who truly knew Earl Marchant would have been included in that number.

<><>​

Director Piggot

Emily sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "So Blasto's dead?" And good riddance, she thought, carefully not allowing the sentiment to show on her face. The cloning Tinker's capabilities had plagued her nightmares ever since she'd found out about them; he wasn't Nilbog, but even a minor correlation was enough to make her grit her teeth when she thought about him. And the resemblance between his capabilities and Nilbog's had been anything but minor. There was a reason he'd had a pre-signed kill order waiting for him if he ever got out of line. The order hadn't actually been her idea, but if she'd had full authority in the matter, she would probably have found an excuse to activate it before now.

"We salvaged a hand from the wreckage," Armsmaster reported stoically. "DNA analysis is inconclusive, but we got three good fingerprints, and they match his. The remnants of the Tinker gear in the base also match what he was capable of." He shook his head. "It was bad. Whatever it was, it ate him. The teeth and claw marks were unmistakable. Also, his remains were severely burned, when there was no direct evidence that they'd been in contact with burning parts of the building."

"Burned?" Emily shook her head. "Are you saying Lung ate him? Or his clone of Lung ate him?" Personally, she suspected she was getting close to the mark. Lung would've been extremely irate if he heard about the clone that Marquis and Marchioness had captured and abducted from the attack on the PRT building. Perhaps not to the point that he would literally eat the Tinker in question, but …

Armsmaster shook his head. "We have insufficient evidence to determine the exact sequence of events. While we found shards of metal in the vicinity that show a fifty to seventy-five percent match with the scales Lung grows over his body, we didn't find any corpses that matched Lung's physique, even partially." He huffed in dissatisfaction. "There was also a large amount of undifferentiated biological material that had been baked into the concrete, but I'm not sure what that means."

Emily snorted. "In other words, the typical aftermath of a clash between two or more unknown capes. Too many questions, not enough answers." Letting out a gusty sigh, she asked the important question. "Was there any evidence, any at all, that would put Marquis, Marchioness or Purity on the scene?" How Armsmaster answered was going to be very important. Marquis had essentially said that he would be going after Blasto for cloning him; Blasto was now dead. But he wasn't dead from being impaled by multiple spikes of bone (as she imagined Marquis might deal with the matter) but from being burned and eaten. On the one hand, she strongly suspected the osteokinetic to be far too intelligent to accidentally leave traces of his presence at the scene of a murder; on the other, he was entirely likely to deliberately leave them, as a message to those who could see it.

"The roof was blown off in a way I could see Purity achieving," Armsmaster said at once. "But she didn't attack anything inside the building. There are spikes of something that could once have been bone nailed into the walls and structural pillars, but those have been burned to the point that even that's conjecture. To answer your question, ma'am; they could easily have been there, but they did not kill Blasto. That's the only bit I'm sure about."

She nodded. "All right, then. Submit your report, with all evidence included, but keep the case open. I have a feeling this isn't going to be the last time something like this happens."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And one more thing before you go," she said. "The reports from the bank that Marchioness turned herself into some sort of creepy horrorshow to fight the clone of Marquis?"

He nodded, showing that he already knew the question she was asking. "All true, ma'am."

She sighed. "Thank you." It was just one more crappy fact in an already crappy day.

He turned and left her office, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

As the door closed behind him, she slumped back into her chair. First the Merchants, then the Empire, now Blasto. The villains are dropping like flies, stopping bank robberies or just plain vanishing. But why does even good news make me feel like there's another shoe just ready to drop at any time?

And what am I supposed to do with the knowledge that Marchioness, the nice safe healer, can alter her form at will?

The answers to both those questions, she knew, would be likely to bother her for quite some time.

<><>​

Marquis

"Okay, so that's the last of his minions given a mental scrub-and-polish," Claire reported briskly. "Nobody will remember a damn thing about us, and only bits and pieces of working for Blasto." She dusted her hands off. "Those guys will come to in six hours, plus or minus fifteen minutes, so that's plenty of time to go dump them someplace they can wake up and wander off from."

Earl nodded, pleased. His daughter's powers made things so much more convenient. "Good. That's good." He pointed at the two of Blasto's ex-minions who were lying separately from the others. "What about them?"

"Oh, while I had them under, I dug down to their most basic motivations and asked them if they'd be loyal to you if we recruited them. Those were the only two who showed up as full positives, no matter what stresses I put them under." She raised an eyebrow at him. "I was going to wait for the okay from you before I gave them the final treatment."

"Hm." He nodded, somewhat amused. "That's one way to make sure your people are loyal from the beginning. Certainly; once you wake them up, I'll give them the spiel then turn them over to Jonas for induction."

"Sure." She nodded, then led the way to the last room, where a young man in his early twenties slept peacefully on a bed. "This is the clone of Lung. I've de-aged him and given him a total face and body makeup."

Earl's eyebrows tracked toward his hairline. "So I see." The clone didn't look at all like Lung anymore, but that meant nothing at all. "You do realise that as soon as he uses his powers, people are going to start speculating about his connection to Lung. More to the point, Lung is going to take notice as well."

Claire nodded. "I thought about that, and I thought about how his powers manifest. And I did some deep digging in his brain while I was giving him a personality and some rudimentary memories. I can't turn his powers all the way off or even change what they are, but I think I managed to adjust the way they show up. It's a work in progress, anyway."

"Really?" This was a true surprise to Earl. "You can actually do that? How are they going to show up, then?"

She shrugged, apparently unwilling to commit to an actual description. "Less like a dragon with metal scales, more like … I dunno, a knight in armour with a flaming sword? I guess?"

Earl's eyes widened as he looked at his daughter. "I'm going to need to see that in action before I judge, but if you've pulled it off, I will be very impressed indeed." This was the best thing about being a father, in his expert opinion; he never quite knew how Claire was going to surprise him next.

"Thanks, Dad." She gave him a grin, which faded shortly after. "Of course, I'm not quite sure how we're going to deal with your clone …"

And there went his good mood. "Ugh, yes." He didn't want her remodelling the clone as she had Lung's, and asking her to euthanise it just felt wrong in a way that killing the hybrid had not.

There had to be a third option, but he had no idea what it was.


End of Part Seventeen

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Eighteen: Friends and Family

[A/N: this chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N 2: if anyone has not yet heard, my first novel has been published. It can be found here or here.]


Robert

Vivid dreams swirled across his mind's eye. An urgent voice was telling him that he had to be a dragon, and for the longest time he believed it. But then another voice intervened, saying that he was there to slay dragons, not be them. None of it made any sense, but he somehow knew it was all exactly as it should be.

He drifted. Sleep was like being submerged in a deep pool of not-water, with the fragments of his dreams flitting by like brightly coloured fish. Or maybe tiny dragons.

Robert, the voice who had told him to slay dragons whispered. It's time to wake up.

He resisted the impulse to obey the voice; it was nice and warm and comfortable in his dream, and he didn't have to do anything except watch the dragons go by.

Wake up, the voice insisted. If you don't wake up, you'll never know how the story ends.

Oh, well, that was different then. He stopped resisting. The dream fragments scattered like autumn leaves or startled dragons as he began to move. He ignored them, kicking for the surface.

Opening his eyes was harder than he'd thought it would be. Light was a lot brighter than it was inside his head, too. He blinked, bringing up his arm to shade his eyes. That was harder, too. It felt heavy as lead, though there was nothing restraining him.

"Uh," he grunted, and realised for the first time that his mouth was horrendously dry and that there was a foul taste in it. "Blagh."

A face swam into view above his; a girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen? He wasn't good at telling age. There was a dash of freckles across her nose, while frizzy auburn hair was tied back in a businesslike ponytail. As far as he could tell, she was wearing a hooded jacket. Her hand slid under his head and helped him sit up, then a squeeze-bottle came into view. He accepted the tube into his mouth and sucked greedily at the pleasantly cool water. She let him take a couple of mouthfuls, enough to clear out the horrible aftertaste and re-hydrate his tissues, before she removed it again.

"Better?" she asked, letting him lie back again.

"Yes, thanks." He nodded to her, then realised her didn't know her face. Didn't know her name. There was a lot he didn't know, in fact. "Uh, what …?"

She did something out of his view, and the bed smoothly elevated him until he was half-sitting, looking across at her rather than up at her. "My name is Claire Marchant," she said, as if she'd plucked the question out of his head. "You're in my father's house. Do you remember your own name?"

"Robert," he ventured. It sounded right, anyway. But there was something missing. "Robert … Robert … uh, why can't I remember …?"

"Your last name? Don't worry." She gave him a reassuring smile. "It'll come to you in its own time. There was a car crash."

"Uh, car crash?" He frowned. "What car crash?" Something had happened, that he was sure of. He vaguely remembered … flames? "Did it catch fire?"

"It got pretty hot for a while there," she confirmed. "We were nearby and helped you get out of the situation after you lost consciousness."

Far from putting his mind to rest, her answers were only generating more questions. "If I was in a car crash, why am I not in the hospital?" He looked down at the swathe of sheet covering him. Surreptitious twitches proved that his legs and other arm were present and correct, and there were no obvious messages of pain coming back. However, something that wasn't present was any kind of IV leading into his arm. "How badly was I hurt, if I was unconscious?" He put his hand to his head. There were no bandages there, which only confused him further.

"Something needed to be done immediately," she said, her tone serious. "But there were two reasons why we brought you here instead of to a hospital. First, you're a parahuman. Second, no hospital can match what I can do, so it made sense to cut out the middleman."

"Wait, what again now? I'm a parahuman?" He stared at her. "Are you sure?"

"Mm-hmm," she said cheerfully, nodding to add emphasis. "As far as I can understand things, you manifest some sort of metallic scaled armour, along with a flaming sword. Pretty sure that's something ordinary people can't do."

"… oh." He looked down at himself. There was a certain lack of scaled armour and flaming sword, but somehow he knew she wasn't pulling his leg. Then something else she'd said came back to him. "What do you mean, no hospital can match what you can do?"

"Oh, that?" She chuckled warmly. "This would be extremely awkward to keep secret, so I'm going to need you to stay quiet about this." Reaching up, she pulled the hood up, tucking her hair into it. "Just one moment …" Giving him a smirk, she turned her back to him.

Not entirely sure what was going on, Robert continued to lie on the bed. It was warm and comfortable, and Claire seemed to know what she was talking about. Admittedly, she was being a bit mysterious right now, but teenagers loved their drama. He wondered absently how he even knew that, when he didn't know his own last name.

"Ta-dah!" She turned around again, pulling the hood back down. Midnight-black hair, long and wavy, spilled out over her shoulders in a glossy tide. He blinked, registering the fact that she was taller and had a different face, and even her voice was subtly more musical. "Marchioness, at your service."

"… wow, that's a good trick." Robert was very impressed; but more than that, he knew that name. Once again, he didn't know how he knew it, but Marchioness was definitely a name that had lodged in his memory. "You're the healer, right? Marquis' daughter?"

"That's correct." She gifted him with a cheeky smile. "Though one day I think it would be pretty cool if someone called Dad 'Marchioness' father'."

"I wouldn't object to that, so long as they said it with the appropriate respect." The new voice belonged to a tall man with neatly styled brown hair. He was dressed casually enough, but there was a glint in his eye that told Robert he would be far better off never crossing this man. Moving over to the bed, the man held his hand out. "Earl Marchant. Also known as Marquis. You've met my daughter already, I see."

"Ahh … yes, sir." Robert grasped his hand and shook it. "I'm pleased to meet you, and grateful that you're helping me … but I still really don't know why I'm here. Is it because I'm a parahuman?"

"Essentially, yes." Marquis indicated Marchioness, who nodded to acknowledge the gesture. "As Marchioness already mentioned, she had to perform extensive work on you. Work that would've been beyond any hospital. But on top of that, your status as a parahuman would've been outed not long after you went in through the front doors, and the PRT would've been all over your case in very short order. No matter how that turned out, you would be on their radar. And do you really want to trust their information security to keep your identity as a parahuman secret?"

"Um, okay." It made sense in a sort of bizarre, backward way. Of course, he'd never had to worry about a secret identity before. Or at least, he didn't think so. "So, uh, why are you unmasking to me like this? I mean, you barely know me."

Marchioness fielded that one. "Because if we tried to keep our identities secret from you while you were living in our house and we're trying to do our thing, the cover stories would rapidly grow out of control, and we'd lose sight of which lies we'd told last. Dad and I both think you can be trusted; and besides, we both know your secret. Fair's fair, after all."

"Your thing …" Robert blinked, then looked at Marquis. "You're a villain, but you've been out of town for some years." He switched his attention to Marchioness. "And you're a healer, but you're also his daughter. How do you even make that work?"

"Because, despite their best efforts to convince the world otherwise, the PRT isn't actually run by drooling idiots," Marquis said dryly. "With a little luck and a lot of chutzpah, my darling daughter engineered a confrontation with Armsmaster himself inside the Brockton Bay General Hospital. Everyone left peacefully, and Armsmaster undoubtedly had a lot to tell Director Piggot when he got back to the PRT building. Including the fact that she would be attending Endbringer battles as an area-effect healer, for free. That makes for a great deal of goodwill, which I am entirely willing to capitalise on."

"Oh. Right." That made a lot of sense. Which only raised the next question. "Okay, so where do I fit into all this? I mean, now that I'm healthy, do you want me to move out? Am I expected to join your team? What's the situation?"

"Neither." Marquis waved his hand around the room. "You may stay as long as you like. I will make enquiries as to your true identity, if you so wish. My only condition is that if you leave us to become a full-fledged superhero, that you do not invade our home to capture us. That has happened once before, and did not turn out well for the team that attempted it."

"Wow, nope." That sounded like a totally dick act to Robert. "I'd never pull something like that. But yeah, if you can look into who I really am, that would be great."

"I will set the ball rolling the moment I leave this room," declared the supervillain. "My best wishes for your speedy recovery, young man." He exited the room, leaving Robert more than a little bemused.

A feeling of lethargy stole over Robert. "Um, I think I need to get some more sleep," he confessed to Marchioness. "If that's okay with you, I mean."

"That's fine," she assured him with a knowing smile. "You've been through a lot. Sleep's a great healer." Reaching out, she placed her hand on his forehead. It was cool and comforting. "When you wake up, you should feel a lot better."

As he drifted off to sleep, he didn't even consider doubting her words.

<><>​

Claire

"You impress me more and more every day, Claire-bear," declared Earl. Leaning back in the sofa with his arm around Kayden, he raised his glass of champagne. "How did you create that young man from the faux Lung that we fought?"

"It was easier than I thought it would be, Dad." Claire sipped at her fruit juice. On the one occasion that she'd tried champagne, she'd coughed so hard bubbles came out of her nose. As far as she was concerned, any drink that required a physical upgrade to enjoy wasn't worth drinking. "I mean, Blasto was a total butcher. Sure, he could clone literally anything, but the hack job he did in giving the poor guy his mindset was like scribbling with crayons where you and I are like a book. Well, I'm like a book. You're like a stack of encyclopedias."

He gave her a suspicious glance. "Are you accusing me of being old again?"

"I prefer to call it 'rich with experience'." She smirked at him. "I couldn't give him the required life experience, not without basically leading him through fifteen years' worth of pretending to do stuff, so I cheated. I dumped a bit of my actual knowledge in there, then filled in around the edges with memories of memories of having done stuff. Then I covered over the rest with some retrograde amnesia. So when he does something he knows about, he gets a few tag-along memories that I planted there, but for the most part, he'll blame not knowing stuff on the car accident. And I made sure to give positive reinforcement for some things he 'remembers' doing, and negative for other things."

"You're right about it sounding easier than I thought it would be," Kayden commented. "Is it going to stick? Will he revert to being 'rawr, Lung' after a while, or if he gets traumatised?"

"No more than you're gonna revert to being a ten year old child if you're traumatised," Claire said. "He didn't have any underlying memories or personality that are likely to crop up. What I laid in there is like ripping the middle pages out of a comic book and gluing in a doctoral dissertation. It's a lot more sophisticated than what he had before, and it's not going anywhere."

"So, is he going to join us?" Earl held up his glass and studied the bubbles. "I didn't want to queer your pitch in there, so I played it by ear."

"I don't know," Claire confessed. "He's definitely inclined to be loyal to us, and there's a good chance of it, but I'm going to leave the final decision to him. Maybe if you 'find' information that he doesn't really have much of a family to go back to, that will tip his hand."

"That's certainly doable," her father declared. "Let me get back to you on that. But speaking of clones, how is the other one doing?"

Claire took a deep breath. "I've still got him in stasis. While I've more or less planned out what I want to do with him—specifically, de-age him and make him my younger brother, so we can both watch over him as he grows up—I want to observe Robert and make sure nothing goes dramatically wrong with the personality implant or anything else before I start working on your clone."

That got her father's attention. "Your younger brother? You intend to make him my son?" He shook his head slightly, as if to dislodge something inside. "That's … I never even thought that would ever happen."

"Should I be jealous, Dad?" Claire's dig was accompanied by a cheeky smile. "I barely mention the idea of you having a son, and you've already gone all goo-goo eyed."

He snorted. "Not jealous. Never jealous. You are my firstborn, and my only daughter. Raising you has been a privilege and a delight. With a son, I can do that all over again. And this time, I can actually teach someone how to use their powers without feeling like I'm making it up as I'm going along."

Kayden chuckled. "For someone who spent so much time as a solo act, you're certainly gathering a team around yourself now."

"And that is in no way a bad thing." Earl clinked his glass with hers, while Claire sipped at her juice.

<><>​

A Few Days Later

Mega Girl

I've got every right to be here, Vicky told herself as she swooped in for a landing at the Brockton Bay General emergency room. I'm a hero and she's doing good things. We're colleagues, comparing notes. And the paper did post the times she'd be here, so it's not like I'm stalking her.

Still, as she walked in through the doors, she couldn't help feeling nervous. Marchioness was an unknown quantity in more ways than one. She was the best healer Vicky had ever heard of, and she was at the same time the daughter of an infamous supervillain; one who had severely embarrassed the team Vicky called her own. The first time they'd met, she'd known basically everything about Vicky, while Vicky had known nothing about her. But she was so nice to me. And that was the deciding factor, here.

"Oh, hey, Mega Girl." Vicky could've sworn Marchioness had been looking in totally the wrong direction to see her come in, but she was already sitting up on the folding recliner and turning around in greeting. "Good to see you again. You're looking well. No casualties this time, I hope?" The smile, which could've been mean, was broad and welcoming, with just a hint of cheekiness from the question. As Vicky approached, she stood up.

Vicky felt her apprehension melt away. "No, no casualties this time," she assured Marchioness. "That was a real wakeup call for me. I'm a lot more careful, since then." She grimaced. "Though Traction never made it to prison. The Empire Eighty-Eight attacked the transport, murdered some of the guards, and broke her out." She wasn't quite sure how many of the guards had been murdered, but it had been at least one.

"Huh." Marchioness suddenly looked introspective. "That's kind of funny." Blinking, she met Vicky's eyes again. "Not funny ha-ha but funny weird. Dad and I had a run-in with the Empire not long ago, and we kind of dispersed them. But Traction wasn't among the ones we dealt with."

"Oh. I see." Vicky had been aware of the way the Empire Eighty-Eight's presence had been fading away from the Brockton Bay gang scene, but it hadn't occurred to her to ask exactly what had happened to a gang that strong. Now, unless Marchioness was pulling her leg hard enough to dislocate the hip joint, she was looking at one of the people who had happened to it. And while Marchioness clearly enjoyed the hell out of being enigmatic and just a little silly, Vicky hadn't caught her in any lies yet.

"Yeah. Thanks for that. I'm gonna mention it to Dad when I get home, so we can look into it. We don't want any remnants of the Empire sidling around here under the radar and causing trouble. Look at the hassle they made for everyone when we could see what they were doing." Unbidden, Marchioness gave Vicky a hug then waved her to a seat on the recliner. "Want a soda? Gummy bear? I've got plenty. So, how'd your mom take things, the last time we met?"

Vicky took the seat, accepted the soda but declined the gummy bear. Marchioness sat down beside her and opened one for herself, observing Vicky expectantly.

"In a word … badly." Vicky grimaced. "She's still very unhappy about what happened back then, I think. I mean …" She glanced around and lowered her voice, even though the emergency room was more or less empty. "She's gone through therapy, and I think she's a lot better than she used to be, but … some things still trigger her. And by 'some things' I mean any mention of your dad." She popped the cap off the soda and took a long drink in an attempt to cover the awkwardness.

"Ew. Um." Marchioness raised an eyebrow. "Is this gonna be a problem? I don't want it to be a problem. I want us to be friends."

"It shouldn't be a problem," Vicky hastened to say. "We'd already been to see Deputy Director Renick, and he said that your dad's off limits so long as you're around, and she seems to accept that. Most of the time." She paused a moment later, as the realisation that she probably shouldn't have said that crossed her mind. "Um. Crap. I'm bad at this."

"Hey, it's okay." Marchioness grinned and draped an arm around her shoulders, giving her a side-hug. "We'd basically figured that one out already. It's why he hasn't been going out without me, unless he really has to. And he hasn't been committing crimes … well, not against normal people, anyway. We did kinda mess up the Empire when they tried to kill him, but nobody died. And hey, we recruited one of them."

Vicky blinked. From 'dispersing' the Empire Eighty-Eight to 'messing them up' was a big step, but the other one was pretty big, too. "Wait, what? You recruited one?"

"Yup." Marchioness beamed sunnily at her. "Everyone's gonna figure this out pretty quickly, but me and Dad have a new team member. Probably more than one, soon. She used to be Purity, but now she's calling herself Palatina, and she's not a Nazi anymore, so you're not allowed to call her that."

"You recruited Purity?" Vicky was severely impressed, despite herself. Purity was—had been—one of the big hitters in Brockton Bay, short of Lung himself. He was tougher, but she had flight all the time and her blasts had much longer range. Of course, her stealth was non-existent, but she couldn't have everything. "How'd you pull that one off?"

"Kaiser was a dick," Marchioness said airily. "She realised that, so when we made him leave Brockton Bay, she stayed behind and joined up with us. She's a really nice person, once you get to know her."

Vicky shook her head. "Do you mind if I tell the rest of the Brigade about this? It feels like something they should know."

"Oh, totally." Marchioness nodded earnestly. "I'm not telling you anything that I don't think your folks should hear. Unless you want to keep some of it to yourself, like us being friends and all. I mean, I'm not a villain, but I'm not so sure your mom would see it that way, seeing how I help Dad out with stuff sometimes. And I don't want you getting into trouble."

"Aww, thanks," Vicky said. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in like, ever. Well, except for all the other nice stuff you said when we first met." She leaned against Marchioness slightly, enjoying the company of someone who really got her. "I'm glad you're not really a villain. I'd hate to have to arrest you."

Marchioness snorted. "What would the charges be? Reckless healing?"

That got a giggle from Vicky. "Being suspiciously nice to people?"

"Loitering in the emergency room?"

"Healing for fun and profit?"

"Making heroes look silly?"

Vicky was laughing too hard now to keep going. She wiped her eyes, snorted with laughter, and wiped them again. "Oh, man," she said once she managed to get herself under control. "I so needed that. Thank you."

Putting her soda bottle down, Marchioness booped her on the nose playfully. "You're welcome. I've got friends here, but you're my first friend in costume who's my age. It's nice to talk to someone who gets it, you know? What it's like to be a kid with powers."

"Aww." Vicky put her arm around Marchioness and hugged her right back. "I'm totally good to talk about that all day long if you want." She shifted a little with discomfort and put the empty soda bottle on the floor. "Though I'm gonna have to get up. Bathroom break."

"That'd be right. Abandon me for your bodily needs." Marchioness rolled her eyes as she let Vicky go. She pointed at a discreet door in the corner of the room. "It's through there."

"Oh, thanks." Blessing the fact that her costume had been designed with ease of access for this specific instance, Vicky headed into the bathrooms.

As she settled down to do what needed to be done, she reflected that this had been a really good idea. Marchioness was fun to be around, and there was even stuff she could tell the rest of the Brigade. She'd heard stories about heroes having unofficial backchannels with villains and vice versa, but she'd never understood how that worked without the hero compromising their ideals. Now, she was starting to get a better idea of it.

Of course, Mom might be harder to convince. She was just starting to try to work out exactly how to elide over this specific instance without actually lying when there was a tremendous crash that shook the building.

What the hell was that?

<><>​

A Few Moments Earlier

Panzer

"Okay, there she is. Right where the newspaper said she'd be." Sherrel tapped a control and the screen zoomed in. Inside the glass sliding doors of the hospital emergency room, a slender form lay on a recliner, soda bottle in hand. She bared her teeth in atavistic glee. Fuckin' take away my drugs will you, you little bitch?

"You sure this is the best way?" asked Crusader over the radio link. "I mean, my ghosts could've gone straight in there and dragged her out, and she couldn't've done a damn thing about it."

Sherrel puffed out an aggravated sigh. "This is the best way because I fuckin' said it was the best way, capisce? That little skinny cow fucked with my high. Nobody does that. So we're grabbing her my way. Because I know my way works." She checked to make sure she was broadcasting to everyone at once. "Does anyone else have a problem with that?"

Alabaster's voice was the epitome of no-fucks-given. "Ain't no skin off mine. Grab her how you want to grab her."

Night and Fog didn't even bother answering. She'd made it clear that she wanted Marchioness alive, so eventually they'd stopped volunteering innovative ways to kill the girl. Once she had the little bitch in her clutches, she had no doubt they'd move on to suggesting how best to torture her. She was definitely on board with that aspect of matters.

"Okay, good," she said. "You can start your distractions now."

This time, there was a round of replies in the affirmative. She waited until the scanner reported that BBPD and PRT units were responding to all three incidents, then made her move. Under her direction, the stealthed tank rolled off the main road and across the grassy verge before it clattered down on to the asphalt of the parking lot. She could've used the armoured vehicle to shove cars out of the way, but she didn't want to give away her hand too early. Using careful hand movements, she guided it between the rows of cars until the entrance to the emergency room was dead ahead, the only obstacle a few scrubby little bushes.

Taking a deep breath, she rammed the control forward. "Woo hoo!" she yelled as the image of the emergency room doors loomed large on the screen.

<><>​

Marchioness

The first Claire knew of what was going on was when the emergency-room doors, along with part of the wall, shattered inward with a tremendous crash. A large metallic prow with 'FUCK YOU' painted on it, with a hand flipping the bird between the two words, protruded through into the room. Heavy caterpillar tracks ground forward, pushing the large vehicle further in.

"Marchioness!" The voice was feminine, despite the distortion from the speakers. "Surrender right the fuck now, or I kill everyone here!" Giving substance to the threat, a turret motored upward from the top surface of the tank, and a gun barrel rotated to line up on the nurse's station. At the same time, a large horizontal hatch dropped open at the front of the tank. Within, there was a cavity about the same shape and size as a coffin, with heavy padding. "Get in, or else."

Claire looked at the gun. She didn't know all that much about them, but that one looked like it meant business. The nurse was currently hiding behind her desk, but against something that size, mere wood and glass would do nothing. And even if it missed her, there were people farther back in the building who were at extreme risk.

"You realise if you go through with this, the Birdcage will be the least of the problems you'll be facing." Keeping her voice calm, she pushed hard on her power, trying to find whoever was driving the tank. "My dad will make whatever the PRT does to you look like a gentle pat on the wrist." She was coming up blank on the 'people inside the tank' thing. Either there was nobody in there, or they had it somehow cloaked against her power, in the same way she'd neither heard nor seen it until it busted through the door. Which meant she couldn't oppose them directly.

The gun angled around, then fired. On the wall, the TV exploded in a shower of sparks, but that was nothing to the shockingly loud sound inside the confined area. Claire felt her ears ringing, and fixed the minor trauma. If she was going to get out of this, she needed to have all her faculties at top capability.

As the gun motored back around, the voice spoke once more. This time, the menace was far more than a mere suggestion. "Get in the damn capsule, or I kill everyone in the damn hospital."

Jonas, Mega Girl, where are you? Not daring to even glance toward the bathroom door, Claire went over to the front of the tank. Once she was inside the capsule, she could become her battle form and maybe even burst out. Though, from the thickness of metal, it looked unlikely. Someone was going all-out on capturing her; from the looks of it, they weren't taking any chances.

The question was, who? The Merchants hadn't had any Tinkers, and they were shut down anyway. The gun jiggled impatiently, and she carefully climbed into the capsule. Was it the Empire, maybe? She and her father had broken the gang up pretty good. Though …

Oh, shit. As the capsule closed around her, the padding pressing in from all sides, she realised what was going on. Traction. She was recruited into the Empire, and we never mopped her up with the rest of them.

The capsule clicked shut and locked, and the tank's engine revved, preparing to reverse out of the hole. She felt the jolt as it went over some rubble. Then it lurched again, swerving sideways and jamming in the side of the hole.

<><>​

Mega Girl

With the bathroom door barely cracked open, Vicky watched as Marchioness climbed into the capsule of her own accord. The girl had guts, she had to admit. Willingly allowing herself to be taken hostage to save others was something that even heroes had trouble doing. Normally, she would've been out there taking on the tank from the word go, but there were far too many things to go wrong. Whoever was driving the thing clearly had their finger on the trigger right now, and she didn't want to cause another live-fire incident. The next one might go through people.

She watched as the tank began to rumble backward out of the hole it had made, the cloaking field settling over it again to make it almost impossible to see or hear. Then it stopped, swinging sideways, and she heard the tracks grinding uselessly against the concrete.

Okay, it's hung up somehow. This is my chance, while the driver's distracted. Wrenching the door open, she launched across the room and out through the hole. The gun barrel was pointing in entirely the wrong way, and it had only just started to swivel to her before she grabbed it and tore it out of its mounting with a loud screeching of metal on metal.

That was when she realised there was someone climbing on to the back of the tank; a big man, wearing dark clothes and a balaclava. Staring at the guy, she opened her mouth to ask questions but the person driving the tank got in first.

"What the fuck? Where did you come from? What's going on here?"

<><>​

Jonas

Sitting in the driver's seat of the town car with nothing to read, and only soft music on the radio to listen to, might have been terminally boring to some people. Jonas Hart knew better. He'd lived through incidents in Africa that would've made the worst of Brockton Bay look like a Sunday afternoon picnic at the beach.

As it was, his entire job was to watch over his little chick and ensure that no harm came to her. She'd forbidden him to come into the emergency room and keep people away from her, so his only other option was to stay outside, as close as he could manage, and keep tabs on her. She was tough, he knew that much; any normal person trying to pull shit with her was going to end up on the wrong end of a lot of hurt before Jonas even got to them. But it was the powered ones that promised to be problematic, so he kept an especially sharp eye out for them.

Which was why he was horribly shocked and surprised when he heard a rending crash from the direction of the emergency room doors, after glancing away for just a few seconds. Before his disbelieving eyes, an entire small tank had materialised, ramming its way into the emergency room door, right where his little chick was. Swearing luridly at himself—you had one goddamn job, you useless fucking idiot—he grabbed the balaclava from the passenger seat, checked that the pistol was safely in his shoulder holster, and leaped from the car.

Not that he thought a pistol would do a goddamn thing against a fucking invisible tank, but who knew; he might need it.

Sprinting across the parking lot, he paused at a Yield sign and grabbed it. With a powerful twisting heave that would've left the old Jonas slack-jawed with disbelief, he tore it from the ground, then kept running. Distantly, he could hear the demands of the tank driver for Marchioness to surrender. He hoped she would remember the words he'd drummed into her for if she was ever kidnapped, over and over again.

Do whatever it takes to stay alive, chick. I will come for you, and I will get you back.

Then he heard the metallic clank as something closed up, and the engine note changed; it was about to go into reverse. You're not getting away, not if I can help it.

Bracing himself, he took hold of each end of the pipe holding the sign and heaved. The mild steel bent like putty in his hands, and he crimped it into a hairpin shape. Then, just as the tank began to move, he shoved the bent pipe into the gap between the tracks and the road wheels. The tank moved a grand total of two feet before the pipe got jammed up against the road wheel. A single pipe may have been able to deform enough to make it past the obstacle, but with two it had no chance. The tracks ground to a halt and the tank began to swivel on the tracks until the nose jammed against the far side of the hole it had made.

Just as he leaped up and began climbing up the back of the tank toward a promising-looking hatch, he heard a rending screech. For a second, he thought the tracks had somehow chewed up the pipe he'd used to jam them, but it had come from the front of the tank. Then a familiar face came into view over the top of the tank; or at least, a familiar costume.

"What the fuck?" squawked the speakers. "Where did you come from? What's going on here?"

The blonde teenage girl facing him looked as though she had the same questions in mind. He got in first. "I'm an ally, Mega Girl. Where's Marchioness?"

"Down in the front," she said automatically. "Some sort of holding space."

"Get her out. I got this." He grabbed hold of the edge of the hatch he'd been crawling toward, and wedged his fingers underneath. While he didn't pretend to understand the specifics of what Miss Claire had done to his physiology, he knew what was strong and what was weak. His bones and tendons were tough, but his fingernails and his flesh were weak (though subdermal armour took care of the former for the most part). So he didn't try to claw it open; he just set himself and heaved.

Bolts gave way, one after the other, and he tore the hatch off, holding it in front of him as a shield, just in case whoever was inside decided to start shooting. No such thing happened. In fact, as he looked down into the tank, he could clearly see there was nobody in there. The interior of the tank contained a lot of what he suspected was Tinkertech … and something that anyone would recognise. A blinking red readout, counting down. One minute thirty on the clock.

"Self destruct!" he bellowed, tossing the hatch aside and leaping forward over the front of the tank. Just as he landed, Mega Girl forced a hatch open with a crunch of bending metal. His little chick climbed out, looking as healthy as ever, and he heaved an inward sigh of relief. But there was still the other problem.

"Self destruct?" repeated Mega Girl. "I hate those things! How much time?"

"Minute twenty," he told her, glancing at his watch and dropping ten seconds off the time that he'd seen. "I can help you push it into the parking lot …"

"No, I got this." Stepping forward, she put her hands on the nose of the tank and shoved, driving it backward out of the building with a sound of metal tearing at concrete. Jonas had no doubt that this would be an expensive interlude for the hospital, or at least their insurance provider. He also had no doubt that his strength was simply no match for hers.

Once the tank was clear of the building, Mega Girl lifted it up over her head and took off; not straight up, but angling toward the east. As if drawn by a magnet, they followed her out into the parking lot. Marchioness looked up in the sky, while Jonas kept a close eye all around for any attempt at a repeat performance.

"How long?" she asked.

He checked his watch again. "Thirty seconds, chick."

"Thanks for being here, Jonas."

"My pleasure and my job, Miss Claire."

"Do you think she'll be okay?"

He checked his watch again as he answered. "Mega Girl has shown she can take a hit before, miss." Fifteen seconds.

"Yeah, but this is an exploding tank. Who makes an exploding tank, anyway?"

"I'm certain your father and I will find out, chick."

"Actually, I'm pretty sure—"

The splash was distant, only made audible by the quiet of the night. About a second later, there was a long drawn-out eruption of sound. Jonas fancied he saw a brief glow in the sky to the east.

"Did you hear that?" asked Claire, pointing. "I think it just went off."

"I believe it did, chick. She threw it in the bay first."

"Oh. Good. Hey, look!" She raised her arm and pointed. Jonas saw it immediately; a grey-clad figure, vaguely illuminated by the city lights, flying back toward them. Side by side, they waited for her.

Mega Girl came in for a slightly wobbly landing, looking absolutely bedraggled. Her hair was a mess and had seaweed in it, and her costume was drenched.

"Wow, you got a bit close to the explosion there, huh?" asked Claire, the devil of amusement dancing in her eyes.

"WHAT?" asked Mega Girl. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

Claire sighed and stepped forward. She laid her hand on Mega Girl's arm, and the blonde blinked. "Wow," she complained at a more normal tone. "Never gonna do that again. I thought my ears were gonna be ringing forever."

"Well, I can fix your ears," said Claire with a smirk, "but you're going to have to deal with the rest of it yourself. Love the seaweed, though. Really sets off your 'drowned rat' effect."

Mega Girl blew a raspberry at her, then grinned. "Mom's gonna have absolute kittens, but I don't care. I had a good time tonight. Even with the exploding tank. Who do you think sent it?"

"I'm thinking Traction," Claire decided, rubbing her chin. "She's the only Tinker I know of who might have a grudge against me. The trouble is, how do I track her down if she's gonna be using stealth tanks?"

"We'll figure out a way." Mega Girl pulled her into a sudden hug, ignoring the squawk of outrage as her evening dress got soaked with the seawater still dripping from Mega Girl's costume. "In the meantime, I'm glad you're okay."

"Pfft, get off," protested Claire, shoving her away ineffectually. "Yeah, I'm glad you're okay too, you great lummox. Thanks for being here."

"Hey," said Mega Girl. "What are friends for?"

<><>​

Panzer

"Well, that was a waste of time and effort." Crusader rolled his eyes. "Great timing there, Sherrel. You showed up at exactly the same time as Mega Girl did."

"What I want to know is, why didn't you blow the tank as soon as you saw it was over?" asked Alabaster. "It's what I'd do."

"Because Tinkers who don't allow for timers on their self destructs are otherwise known as 'casualties'," Sherrel told him tartly. "We always need a chance to shut it off, in case some smartass figures out a way to remotely activate it."

"Well, what are you gonna do now?" Justin leaned back and swivelled on his chair.

Sherrel sneered at him. "Set up another tank, of course. It was bad luck that screwed me up this time. She has to be lucky every time. I only have to be lucky once."

"Says every failed gambler ever," jibed Alabaster.

"Screw you," Sherrel told him without heat. She aimed her finger like a gun at the frozen image of Marchioness on the screen. "I'll get you. Sooner or later, you little cow, I will get you."



End of Part Eighteen

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Nineteen: Taking Care of Business

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Robert wasn't at all sure where the sword came from, but when he summoned it, it grew out of his hand. Much like the armour that covered his body, it was there when he needed it, and vanished when he didn't. He had trouble remembering more than vague details about the world, but he was reasonably sure that people didn't ordinarily extrude metal armour from their skin, or cause long metal blades to grow out of their hands. Even without the armour, he was particularly durable and strong, but with it … he would've said he was unbeatable.

Except that he wasn't.

"Attend to your guard, boy!" Even as the words cracked across the training room, a bone club came whistling past his sword and smacked into the side of his head, sending him sprawling. The steel helmet protected him from the worst of the impact, but his vision wavered and his ears rang with the impact. "Don't look at where my weapon is! Focus on where it's going to be!"

"I'm trying!" he protested. "You keep changing your weapon!" He'd thought he just about had the hang of the bone sword Marquis was using, until it became a club and the veteran supervillain totally changed his fighting style.

"It's true," Marquis agreed. "I do. It's one of the ways I keep my opponents off-balance."

"Well, it's sure working on me," muttered Robert. "Every time I think I know what I'm doing, you change the rules."

Marquis made the bone club disappear. "On the contrary, the rules never change. You're simply unaware of which game you're trying to play. It's very simple: don't get hit."

"You've been doing it for a lot longer than me." Robert tried not to sound like he was whining. "No matter what I try, you hit me."

"Would you rather I allow you to think you were more skilled than you are?" Marquis raised an eyebrow. "That kind of shoddy training gets people killed."

"Yeah, I know." Robert tried to muster a coherent argument. "But you're so much better than me. It's like you're doing stuff you think I should know how to react to, but I'm not even up to the level you're dumbing it down to."

"Hmm." Marquis rubbed his chin between forefinger and thumb. "You may be correct. Very well; we shall change opponents."

"Don't look at me," Palatina advised over the rumble of her treadmill, next to the wall. "I'm best at ranged combat."

"We are going to have to address that at some point," he noted. "But not today." He looked across the gym to where Claire in her Marchioness form, wearing a martial-arts gi, was sparring with the scary man-mountain who pretended to be their bodyguard.

Robert had watched Jonas bench half a ton without breaking a sweat earlier. He was no weakling himself, but that was a level of power he knew he couldn't match. One punch from the big guy, he knew quite well, would probably put him clean through the wall.

He wasn't quite sure if Jonas was hamming it up for the boss' daughter or if she really was that fast, but each time one of those huge fists lashed out, it connected with nothing but air. In return, she was beating on him like a punching-bag, though her punches and shin-strikes seemed to be having little effect.

"Claire!" called out Marquis. "Cease playing patty-cake with Jonas. Robert needs tuition in the basics before I can get back to teaching him how to stay alive in a fight."

"Just a second, Dad!" Claire moved aside smoothly from a piledriver blow from Jonas, took hold of the arm, then spun and twisted in a very specific way. To Robert's astonishment, Jonas' feet left the mat as he somersaulted up and over, landing on his back with a muffled crash.

Claire didn't let go his arm; a brief but fierce scuffle developed between the teenage girl and the burly 'bodyguard' that ended up with Jonas face-down on the mat. His arm was angled up behind him at what looked like a very uncomfortable degree, and Claire was sitting on his back with her left foot wedged in behind his left ear. "Give?" she called out.

Jonas grunted and tried to throw her off, but lacked any kind of serious leverage. She ratcheted up the tension on her hold a few degrees. After a few more seconds, Jonas slapped the mat with his free hand. Claire immediately released his arm and rolled off his back, coming to her feet in a single lithe move.

"I might have to increase the play in your shoulder joints a little," she said as she offered a hand for him to get up. "I'm thinking I took you down a little too easily there."

"Could be, chick," the big man rumbled, accepting the help. She braced herself and heaved him up. "Are you getting faster, or am I slowing down?"

"You're not slowing down," she assured him. "I'm experimenting with a different neurotransmitter-analogue. Maybe fifteen percent faster reactions. But it would have unpleasant side-effects on any human system that hasn't been tailored to accept it." Reaching up, she slapped him on the shoulder. "But we can talk shop later. Let's go see what Dad wants."

"Fifteen percent?" asked Marquis as Claire and Jonas approached. "Really?"

Claire shrugged. "It ranges from fourteen to sixteen, so I went with fifteen. It's a work in progress. Anyway, what's up?"

Robert could see the writing on the wall. Marquis was going to tell Jonas to spar with him. It didn't matter that the man was technically unarmed; nobody who had been within reach of those fists would use that particular term about Jonas with any degree of seriousness. It was bad enough when he got hit by whatever bone weapon Marquis was favouring at the moment. He was reasonably certain that Jonas was capable of putting his fist through a brick wall without doing himself appreciable damage. And he wasn't at all certain he was fast or strong enough to evade or block a blow from the enhanced bodyguard.

This is going to suck, big-time.

"Young Robert has raised the excellent point that I'm too far out of his league to teach him properly," Marquis said without the slightest hint of irony in his voice. "Claire, you're the one here who's learned self-defence techniques most recently. Do you think you could tutor him until he's got a basis we can build upon?"

"Sure." Claire shrugged, then glanced at Robert. "If that's okay with you?"

"Uh, sure." Robert glanced from Jonas to Claire, recalling the ease with which she'd thrown the much larger man. "Just go easy on me, okay? I'm pretty sure you're stronger and faster than me."

She grinned, and he could've sworn her teeth got a tiny bit sharper. "No promises."

Well, it's still probably going to suck, Robert reflected. Just not quite as much.

<><>​

Lung

Kenta stared at the footage. If he hadn't known for an absolute fact that he was not the one in the imagery being blasted out through the front wall of the PRT building, he would've been taken in by the masquerade. The flames and metallic scales were hard to mistake for anyone but him.

On the screen, the impostor hit the asphalt and rolled over several times, then snarled and began to climb to his feet. On his chest, the area of scales that had been blasted away by the energy beam began to grow in again, thicker and heavier than ever. Except that he never made it all the way; an off-white barrier sprang up around him, then filled itself in faster than he could break out. By the time the glowing woman emerged from the hole, the other Lung was thoroughly encased.

What was Purity doing inside the PRT building? A moment later, he dismissed the question as irrelevant, as he had every other time he'd watched this video. The answer would come out, or it wouldn't.

His eyes narrowed and heat built up around his hands when he saw the red and green colours worn by the minions of the fake Lung. If he was not much mistaken, they had fled his service after badly failing him. Running away was bad enough, but they were still purporting to be members of the ABB. This was a mortal insult; if he ever found them again, he would do to them what he'd done to their craven leader.

The sound on the phone video was so bad as to be not there at all, so he could only guess at what was said between Marquis (for who else could it be?), the girl in the evening gown, Purity and Armsmaster. He would've given a great deal to know exactly who Marquis had called to make Armsmaster back off; was the veteran supervillain now working with the PRT?

As the car drove off, tinted windows and obscured license plate making it impossible to garner any clues about its ownership, Kenta leaned back in his chair and thought about what he'd just seen. The girl was almost certainly Marquis' daughter, the rogue known as Marchioness. She had to have a Master rating by the way she'd managed to gain ascendancy over his ex-minions or even his own doppelganger, because they'd walked to the car without the slightest fuss.

Which meant that something was going on behind the scenes. Possibly more than one 'something', given the number of strange events that were happening around Brockton Bay at the moment. The disappearance of both the Archer's Bridge Merchants and the Empire Eighty-Eight from the underworld scene, save for Purity, who appeared to have taken up with Marquis. The strange story of the bank robbery both perpetrated and foiled by Marquis. The explosive immolation of a warehouse in the Docklands, the area now sequestered and shut down by the PRT.

Stripping away all the inconsequentialities, this spelled a potential opportunity for Kenta and the ABB, both to expand in operations and to gain revenge for the insult inflicted by Marquis. He was fully aware of the fact that with allies, Marquis was stronger than he ever had been before, but he didn't care. The bone-manipulator would die for crossing him and claiming ABB territory, and for turning his previously-loyal followers against him.

As for Marquis' allies, Kenta wasn't overly concerned. Purity's blasts were powerful but she couldn't take the same sort of damage that she could deal out. He could weather a few of her shots until he got in close, then he'd deal a killing blow. Likewise, it seemed that Marchioness needed to be close to her victims to make her Master ability work. His flames could easily fry her from a distance, before she could ever lay a hand on him. No, the real danger was Marquis and his osteokinesis; fortunately, Kenta was strong enough to smash through barricades and tough enough to take a hit from any bone weapon the older man wished to try on him. It would be a tough fight, but the leader of the ABB knew he would win. He always had.

He vaguely recalled hearing that apart from her Master ability, Marchioness also healed people at the Brockton Bay General Hospital. Being able to heal was useful, but there was nothing she'd be able to do to bring Marquis back from what Kenta intended to do to him. Let's see her heal a pile of ashes.

The idea of capturing her from the hospital to use as leverage to bring her father out of hiding occurred to him, but he dismissed it almost at once. As one of the two major criminal capes in the city, a move like that would almost certainly bring down unwanted attention on him and the rest of the ABB. Especially considering the odd influence Marquis seemed to possess with the PRT. He, himself, could stand the heat, but if the authorities took to arresting his minions as fast as they showed their faces, the ABB would not last long. Also, he couldn't think of a way to kidnap her that didn't involve getting close enough for her to Master his minions, or even himself.

Having his minions attack Marquis' footsoldiers seemed a valid tactic. From what he'd heard, the men were competent but didn't include any actual capes. They were advancing into what had been Empire territory, and shooing drug dealers out of Merchant turf, with little in the way of opposition. Moving into ABB territory, they were being a little more circumspect, but so far they were having things all their own way. A few judicious defeats, he decided, should both send the right message and draw out Marquis to deal with the problem.

Whereupon Kenta would intercept him and deal with his problem, once and for all. Deprived of their natural leader, Marchioness and Purity would be relatively easy to mop up.

Half-closing his eyes, Kenta allowed a predatory smile to cross his face. Once that happened, the ABB would be the undisputed cape gang in Brockton Bay. They would rule, and draw tributes, from Captain's Hill to Lord Street; from the Forsberg Gallery to the Docks. And if anyone else tried to muscle in on that action … well, there was a reason they called him the Dragon of Kyushu.

He started the video again from the beginning.

<><>​

PRT ENE Building

Director's Office

Armsmaster

Colin wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Normally, he maintained a strictly professional relationship with the Director because she was the Director. Her dislike of capes was an open secret within the local PRT and Protectorate, but for the most part she seemed willing to step back and let the heroes sort things out. Until she wasn't. When she decided that the Protectorate or Wards had overstepped the line, she wasn't the type to send a passive-aggressive memo suggesting that they clean up their act. No, she wasn't that sort of person at all. Emily Piggot was ex-military, formerly a front-line officer, and it showed.

When she was pissed at someone, she didn't get passive-aggressive at all. She just got aggressive.

"So, a tank," she said flatly.

"Yes," he confirmed.

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Heavy, covered in armour, big gun on the front, caterpillar tracks, slow and noisy … that kind of tank?"

"That's the description we got from Marchioness, Mega Girl, and the staff who witnessed it, yes," he said. Internally, he winced at the phrase 'slow and noisy'. Those three words did not bode well for his immediate mental well-being.

"Where did it come from, and why was it not detected before it came within half a mile of the hospital?" she asked, as if to a child. Colin hoped that she never had children, if only for the sake of her putative offspring. She wasn't a bad person, but 'good' did not equal 'nice', especially in her job.

Fortunately, he'd done some looking around in the aftermath of the attack on the hospital. Marchioness had answered his questions, but with a certain amount of blunt sarcasm. She was also a little vague on how she'd avoided being abducted, claiming that Mega Girl had been there to save the day but only giving a few basic details.

Mega Girl had been a little more forthcoming, reporting that 'a big guy in a mask' had assisted her with disabling the tank before she flew away with it. No, she'd never seen the big guy before. No, she had no idea who he was. He was a Brute, she'd told Colin, but everything had happened so fast. No, when she got back to the hospital, he was gone …

Backtracking the tank itself, he'd discovered that the tracks ran out alongside one of the major roads, about two blocks from the hospital. "At my best estimation, it was dropped off by a large truck of some sort," he said. "As for why we didn't notice it before it hit the hospital itself, especially given that it passed by several security cameras, none of which saw anything significant, I'm going with a cloaking device for the time being."

"Anything significant?" she asked, proving that she was paying attention. "Was there something not significant that they picked up?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, glad to have something positive to report. "The tank left trackmarks in the roadway, which gave us a timestamp for each camera it passed by. Enhancing and examining the footage of those cameras, we were able to detect a distinctive fuzziness, as if the tank had been photoshopped out of the footage. By measuring the movement of the camera, we were also able to detect the vibration caused by the tank going past, even though it cancelled audible sound. I am reasonably certain I can devise a drop-down filter that will allow me to spot the next such cloaked vehicle."

The look on her face showed that she was not enthralled by his pronouncement. "The next such cloaked vehicle?"

"Well, yes." Despite his best efforts, his voice took on a didactic tone. "This Tinker dislikes Marchioness personally, but only knew enough about her personal habits to attack her at the hospital …" His voice trailed off as facts connected themselves together in his head to make a brand-new picture. "Wait … of course …"

"Of course what?" snapped Piggot. "Have you worked out a machine that will track this goddamn Tinker down and disable the next invisible tank he Tinker builds?"

Her tone was mainly sarcastic, but he didn't mind. "Not yet, ma'am, but I've been trying to work out who could be behind this. Marquis and Marchioness have only been back in Brockton Bay for a short while, and we have a distinct lack of villain Tinkers as it is. But I just remembered. You may recall my report about Traction, the powersuit user who got injured while I was giving Mega Girl a training run?"

She nodded, an expression of enlightenment crossing her face. "The Bailey woman, correct? She was broken out of prisoner transport by the Empire Eighty-Eight. There were casualties. You think she's our culprit?"

"I do." It was good to be on the same page again. "She showed all the signs of being a habitual drug user, and in fact was attempting to steal pharmaceuticals when she was apprehended. Marchioness was in the emergency room at the time, and not only healed her but cured her addiction and alerted me to the fact that she was awake and playing possum."

Piggot considered that. "Well, she's definitely a Tinker, and for a motive I suppose she might be holding a grudge against Marchioness for warning you that she was about to escape."

"Not even that, ma'am," Colin told her. "Marchioness forced her to go fully sober. Removed all the chemical cravings from her body. She's having to face the world as it is for the first time in a long time. Worse, if there's anything I've learned from going against the Merchants, it's that addiction can be in itself an addiction. Even when they're totally clean, addicts still crave that perfect high. I would bet my halberd that Marchioness made it so she can't just get straight back on the drugs, and that she's pissed at Marchioness for taking that from her."

"In other words, no good deed goes unpunished." Piggot grimaced and shook her head. "It makes sense. God knows I wish it didn't, but it does. Where in a sane universe does someone build a goddamn stealth tank to abduct the person who cured their addiction … and what did she want with Marchioness once she had her?"

Colin figured the first question was rhetorical, so he felt safe in answering the second one. "If I had to guess? Revenge, or maybe to try to force Marchioness to take away whatever's stopping Bailey from getting high. And then revenge."

Piggot nodded in understanding. "That definitely ticks all the boxes. Cape names aren't the best way to determine someone's powers, but a Tinker calling herself Traction sounds like someone who could build a tank, to me at least. Motive, means and opportunity." She drew a deep breath. "We got lucky this time, that Mega Girl and this unnamed Brute were nearby. No indication on who he was? Security footage?"

"I looked for that, too." Armsmaster shook his head. "Whoever it was knew how to evade security cameras. He wore a balaclava and dark clothing. About my size, maybe a bit heavier through the shoulders. We don't have very good imagery of him and once the action was over, he left the area covered by the cameras without even looking back. Apart from the fact that he can apparently bend metal in his bare hands, I would've taken him for a wannabe non-powered vigilante."

"So, another newbie on the scene who hasn't taken the time to get a proper costume together, who happened on the scene and helped out," Piggot summarised. "We'll almost certainly see him around and about at some point in a proper costume, unless something happens to him. At least he seems to have the right instincts, which doesn't always happen. Either way, he helped us dodge a bullet. This time."

"Yes, ma'am." Colin didn't need that to be explained to him. "The question is, now that we know someone has a definite motive to attack Marchioness, is Marquis going to do the smart thing and keep her undercover until we've got Traction stuffed in the Birdcage?"

The look she gave him then would've made him snort if he was inclined to be amused at times like this. "Now, now, Armsmaster. We both know that they haven't yet convened the trial to see if Traction is Birdcage material, and the law of the land says she's innocent until proven guilty."

"Of course, Director." He kept his voice deadpan, eliciting a very faint smile from her. "Whatever happens to Traction, there are several reasons we don't want Marchioness getting hurt; her status as a potential game-changer at Endbringer battles is just one of them."

"I concur." The humour was entirely gone from her voice now. From the sound of things, Piggot wasn't hopeful about Marquis doing the smart thing. "She might be the daughter of a notorious supervillain and murderer, but she's still just a teenage girl. More to the point, if she were to be hurt or killed, I shudder to think about the revenge Marquis would wreak upon whoever he considered responsible." She interlaced her fingers and clenched her hands together. "Which is why I'm going to be taking a very risky step, hopefully to avert an even riskier outcome."

"Ma'am?" This conversation was going places Colin hadn't expected it to. "What do you have in mind?"

Piggot looked up at him, her face set in determined lines. "We both know Marquis isn't the type to step back from adversity. He moves forward, faces it and overcomes it. The only reason he left Brockton Bay was the threat against his daughter before she had powers; he came back because she now has powers of her own and can take care of herself. Do you concur?"

"I do." He nodded cautiously. So far, her logic seemed to be holding up, but he wasn't sure he liked where it seemed to be leading. "Which means …?"

"Which means I'm going to have to authorise PRT and possibly Protectorate surveillance on Marchioness whenever she's seen in public," the Director stated firmly. "No information gathering, of course no attempts to hinder her or take her in. Call it an informal protection detail. If anyone tries anything against her, that's when our people step in."

"And if she makes us?" Colin considered it a distinct possibility. Marchioness had come across as being very sharp, and that didn't even factor in what training her father may have given her in counter-surveillance.

Piggot's expression soured. "Then we're going to have to come clean. The absolute last thing I want is for Marquis to get the impression that we're lurking around with the intent to abduct his daughter. But unless that happens, we have to stay discreet; the second last thing I want is for the news organisations to find out that we're offering free protection to the kids of supervillains. That shitstorm would go thermonuclear faster than Behemoth playing with plutonium."

"I don't like it." Colin shook his head. "Marquis is very good at what he does. If he spots the surveillance crew, gets the wrong idea, and goes in for the attack, we could easily lose people. The man is utterly ruthless and damn near unstoppable when he wants to be." He took a deep breath. "I agree that we need to put people on her … but we're also going to have to inform Marquis about it before we do."

If Piggot had given the impression of sucking on a lemon before, now she looked like she'd just gone through half a dozen of them. "I like that even less. If he chose to alert the press …"

"I don't think he'd actually do that," Colin said with a shake of his head. "All it would achieve is to draw unnecessary attention to Marchioness, and he won't want that." A brief grimace crossed his face. "I can see him critiquing our technique or telling us to back off, but I can't see him making a public song and dance about it."

"As much as I hate to admit it, I could live with that," the Director agreed. "If we're seen to be making an honest effort to protect her and he tells us to back off, then whatever happens afterward will not fall on our necks. It would be a pity and a crying shame if she got hurt, but we can't save every cat from every tree." She took a deep breath. "I'm going to find out from the hospital when she's due to be in there, and have a rapid-response crew nearby on those dates. It'll be slightly more problematic if she chooses to go out and about in public with no prior warning, but we'll work something out."

"I can change up the rosters so we've always got a member of the Protectorate or the Wards ready to detach from regular duties and 'patrol' the area she's in, if that happens," Colin decided. "Perhaps we can bring Mega Girl in on this; she seems to be building a rapport with Marchioness."

"That's not a terrible idea," agreed Piggot. "Now, one last hurdle. Contacting Marquis and letting him know what our plans are before we set all this in motion. As much as I hate to be giving a supervillain a heads-up on our movements …"

"It's a good idea in this case." Colin liked it no more than she did, but extraordinary situations required extraordinary measures. "And fortunately, we have a phone number for Marchioness." He reached into a belt pouch and produced a copy of the card the girl had given him. The original had gone through so many tests and analyses that it had essentially fallen apart.

"That's probably going to be the only convenient thing in this whole damn case," Piggot muttered as she took the copy.

"I hear that, ma'am. I'll get started on the roster change." Colin turned and headed for the door.

"You do that."

The last thing Colin saw in his rear-view camera before the door closed behind him was Piggot staring at the number on the card as if it were a bug she really, really wanted to squash.

<><>​

Marchioness

"And that's how you deal with someone who tries to grab you from behind," Claire said cheerfully as she helped Robert get to his feet. Off to the side, her father was still sparring with Jonas, full-power blows thwacking into bone shields and hardened subdermal armour. Both of them, as far as she could tell, were enjoying the workout. She didn't go that hard into the full-contact stuff until she'd added on some body mass, but she was good at evading attacks even when she was at her normal weight.

"I see." Looking self-conscious, Robert rubbed at his butt. "I know I'm hard to hurt and I heal fast, but you've been putting bruises on me faster than I've been getting rid of them. Maybe I should've been wearing the armour."

"Nope," she said definitively, and tilted her head toward the bench where her stuff was laid out. "Let's hydrate. Wearing the armour would've been bad, because it protects you."

"Isn't that the idea of armour? To protect me?" He followed her over to the bench and took the bottle of Gatorade she handed him.

"You need to learn," she pointed out. Twisting the top off her own bottle, she chugged down a few mouthfuls. "You don't learn if there's no incentive. Bruises are an incentive." Her phone was on the bench, so she sat down and hit the power button.

"How did you learn?" He gestured in her general direction, then took a long drink himself. "I mean, you're naturally fast and armoured, right?"

She nodded. "Yeah, but Dad's had me doing martial arts for years, since before I got powers. There was one teacher I had who made me look like I was standing still on my best day." A little sadly, she thought of Abigail, wondering where the Irish cape was now. With a deep breath, she shook herself out of the mood. "Once I've got you up to speed with the basics, Dad and Jonas can start applying the tougher stuff. By the time they're finished, you'll be able to handle anything anyone out there can throw at you."

"Yeah, but that's because they'll be throwing it at me in here," he said, looking just a little rueful.

"That's the way it goes," she confirmed, then looked down as her phone pinged. "Huh. Two missed calls and a text." She opened the text and her eyebrows rose.

Marchioness-

I need to speak to your father about ensuring your safety, especially regarding the hospital incident. Please have him contact me at his earliest convenience.

-Emily Piggot, PRT ENE Regional Director

"Dad!" she called out across the gym. "I just got a text from Director Piggot! It's for you!"

That got his attention to the point that he put up his hand to stop Jonas as he turned to face her. "That's a first," he remarked. "Okay, training's over for the day. Robert, Jonas, hit the showers. I've got to take this."

As the other two headed out the door, he went over to where Claire was holding out the phone. "I confess, I'm intrigued as to…" He stopped, re-reading the text. "What, really?"

"I know, right?" Claire asked. "They're so worried about my well-being that they're actually willing to do something more than passively-aggressively snipe from the sidelines?"

"Oooh," observed Kayden as she stepped off the treadmill and swiped a towel over her forehead. "Burn."

He raised an eyebrow and smiled at Kayden's sally. "I tend to agree. It would be a change, yes. Of course, it may be a little premature to think about celebrating just yet. So, once we've showered and changed, we shall be taking a drive around Brockton Bay so that we can make a call."

"'We' as in me too?" asked Claire, though she already knew the answer. It was only polite to ask.

"Well, of course." He smiled. "It's about you, after all."

<><>​

Apparently Abandoned Warehouse

Backup Empire Eighty-Eight Base

Crusader

"Are you really going to make this about you?" asked Justin. He scratched the back of his head as he looked over the chassis of Sherrel's latest creation.

She hadn't wasted any time since losing the remote-controlled tank, getting straight back into the workshop. In all honesty, it was a little daunting. Was every Tinker this driven, or had they picked up a particularly obsessed member of the fraternity? Or was it sorority? He couldn't remember. All he knew was that, despite the fact that she was the most recent recruit after himself, Alabaster and Night and Fog, she had somehow ended up calling the shots.

Sherrel looked around, her glare razor-sharp despite the fact that she had to flip up the light welding goggles to make eye contact. He involuntarily took a step back at the intensity of her gaze. "Of fucking course it's not about me," she snapped. Reaching out, she turned off the welder and set the welding rod down. "But I don't see any of you clowns making a move to do something about the skinny little cow who murdered three-quarters of the Empire Eighty-Eight in cold blood."

Justin grimaced. "Well, we don't know for a fact that it was her … I mean, Marquis …" He'd joined the Empire after Marquis had left Brockton Bay, but the stories that the older hands had told him had stuck in his head. The man had run his turf on his own, with no cape backup, and nobody crossed him if they wanted their skeleton to be in the same shape when he was finished. He didn't know exactly what had happened at Somers Rock or at the Medhall Tower, but if anyone had killed that many capes, his money would've been on the bone controller, not some healer chick.

"Marquis does bone, you idiot!" she snapped. "Not great big black flying tigers, or whatever the fuck it was that they saw flying around Medhall! So either it was Marchioness, or some projection of hers, or maybe some friend of hers from out of town. But no matter fuckin' what, Marchioness is the one behind it all. So we are gonna grab her. End of story. Unless you've got something better to do while we wait for Marquis or Lung to push their territory this far."

Justin was no longer wondering how she'd managed to take over the small group. He had no real idea how to lead (even if he'd possessed the ambition for it), Alabaster couldn't be bothered, and Geoff and Dorothy didn't have the initiative to break out of their self-created ruts. "No, no, you're right," he said. "I'll just leave you to it."

"Sure. Good. Hey, before you go, grab me a beer, would you?" She gestured at the bar fridge beside the workshop door. "See if that shit's worn off yet."

"No problem." Justin wished his ghosts could manipulate non-living matter. In the absence of that ability, he went over to the fridge and took a beer out, then handed it to her.

"Thanks." She popped the cap off and took a drink …

… and sprayed the mouthful all over the wall. "Fuck!" she screeched, as the mostly-full bottle sailed across the workshop to shatter against the far wall, the glass shards joining a deepening heap there. Old, dried beer stains bore mute testimony about previous attempts to see if she could handle booze again. It was apparent that today was not going to be the day.

Backing out of the room, he closed the door behind him. He was going to have to see about getting more beer into that fridge. In fact, now would be a good time—

Turning, he bumped into Alabaster, who raised a sardonic eyebrow toward the extremely illustrative cursing emanating from beyond the carefully shut door. "Still can't drink, huh?" the other man asked with a smirk.

"Gah!" Justin was almost certain that the white-skinned man had snuck up on him on purpose. "Yeah, still tastes like shit to her. Listen, maybe you can talk to her. Make her see sense."

"See sense in what?" Alabaster had a shit-eating grin a mile wide on his face.

"This!" Justin gestured broadly. "All … this. We're getting in too deep. Going after Marquis' kid? This isn't what the Empire does. We're here to—"

Alabaster took bunched his fist in Justin's shirt and slammed him against the wall beside the door. "The Empire isn't here anymore," he growled. "Because of whatever bullshit Marquis and his kid pulled. Killed them, ate them, disappeared them, whatever they did. Purity's defected and Kaiser along with everyone else … vanished. Now, we can scuttle back into our hole and whine about how it's not fair, or we can bring the fight to them. We can't take down Purity without taking on Marquis, so we take him down. The best way to do that is to have his kid hostage. Make him come to us."

Justin did his best to inhale. Alabaster was a lot stronger than him, and he knew better than to try to fight the older cape. No matter how many ghosts he summoned to grab Alabaster, the guy wouldn't go down and he wouldn't stop fighting. "You know they're gonna Birdcage her," he managed. "Attacking a hospital? If they get their hands on her, her feet won't have time to touch the ground. Hell, if she keeps going, it might even end up as a kill order. And us with her. You really want it to go that far?"

Shaking his head, Alabaster let Justin down. "You just don't get it. This is the big leagues we're playing in here. Hookwolf went for years with a Birdcage sentence hanging over his head. Think that stopped him from going out and doing his thing? Like fuck it did. If we backed away from something just because the authorities might not like it, we'd never fucking get anything done." He slapped himself on the chest. "And if they want to kill-order me, let 'em fuckin' try."

Yeah, but what if they succeed? Justin didn't say that out loud. "Right," he said, trying to sound convinced. "I think I might go and check my armour over. If we're gonna be going hard, I need to be prepped."

"Yeah, good thinking." Alabaster slapped Justin on the shoulder. "Wouldn't do to have your whiny bitch ass shot or stabbed, just because you got too close to the action."

There was nothing Justin could say to that without sounding either defiant or whiny, so he kept his mouth shut. As he headed off to where he kept his gear, he could feel the jaws of the trap closing in on him.

What can I do? Talk to Geoff and Dorothy? It would be an even worse idea than trying to talk sense into Sherrell. Those two would do whatever she said.

If he turned on the team, they'd kill him. If he tried to walk away, they'd track him down and then kill him. If he stayed where he was ... shit was going to go sideways.

No matter what he did, he was screwed.

Fuuuuck.

<><>​

Marchioness

Claire leaned back in the car seat as her father carried on the conversation over speakerphone. The route Jonas was driving allowed the big man to watch for tails and in general make sure that the PRT wasn't pulling a fast one. Not that she or her father thought they might, but he hadn't lasted so long in the villain business by assuming everyone would follow the rules.

From the tone of her father's voice, he was slightly irritated but mostly amused. Also from the sound of it, Director Piggot had not been in control of the conversation. Claire had had to cover her mouth a few times to avoid giggling out loud at some of her father's comments.

"In conclusion, Emily," he said, "while I cannot prevent you from deploying your fine men and women when and where you choose, and I am not in the least bit averse to extra protection for my daughter ..."

He paused meaningfully.

After a few seconds, Director Piggot prompted him. "Yes ...?"

Marquis leaned forward, despite the fact that she couldn't see him. All humour was gone from his tone. "If your men screw up in any way and these idiots get to her because of it, I will not rest until I've gotten full restitution from them and you. Is that perfectly understood?'

There was another pause before Piggot answered. "Absolutely."

"Good." He cut the call, then turned to Claire. "Well, Claire-bear, it seems you're going to have a whole new level of security."

She frowned. "But you threatened her. Wouldn't it be smarter for her to stand back, now that you've said that?"

"For most of us, yes," he agreed with a chuckle. "For the good Director, a threat works like a red flag. She can't let it go by. And in addition, this means the Protectorate and PRT will be focusing on you."

Her frown turned into a look of suspicion. "And what will you be doing while they're concentrating on me?'

He smiled, showing his teeth. "Tracking down Traction, of course."



End of Part Nineteen

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Twenty: Socialising and Scouting

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Northwest Middle School

Taylor

"Emma, Taylor, hey!" Claire's voice sang out behind them in the corridor. Taylor turned first, with Emma just half a beat behind. Her eyebrows raised as she saw her other best friend forging her way through the crowd, towing a slightly younger male black-haired version of herself (albeit skinnier and a little less self-assured) by the hand.

"Hi, Claire." Taylor nodded toward the boy. "Who's this?"

"This is my cousin Marcus," Claire said happily. "He's just transferred in from Boston, and he'll be staying with us for awhile. I just thought I'd introduce him to you guys before I took him to the office and got him straightened out."

"Well, hi, Marcus." Emma beamed at him. "It's good to meet you. Don't listen to anything Claire tells you about us—"

"—because it's all true," Taylor interjected. "But we'll deny everything to our dying breath. Do you like sports? I like sports. Track and field, mainly. You look like you can run." She tilted her head to the side musingly. "Or are you a swimmer? We've got a great swimming pool here—"

"Okay, okay, wow," broke in Claire, laughing. "Give him a chance to get a word in edgewise, will you?"

"It's okay, cuz," Marcus said with a grin. "They're your friends, not mine. I don't really want to intrude."

"Nuh uh," Emma declared. "Until you get your own friends, we're adopting you. It's the rules. Because we're gonna be coming over now and again—"

Taylor rolled her eyes. "Mainly because Emma and her swimsuit have fallen in love with Mr Marchant's heated swimming pool, am I right?" She held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Taylor Hebert. How do you feel about frogs?"

Marcus raised an eyebrow questioningly. "We have an agreement. I don't pick them up and they don't pee on me. Why?"

Taylor shuddered theatrically. "We're supposedly dissecting them today. Last time I did that, I threw up."

Emma waited until Marcus had shaken Taylor's hand, then held out her own. "Emma Barnes. We did frogs yesterday. Mine got away from me. Jumped out the window."

Claire snorted with amusement. "It had help. There was at least twenty feet between your desk and the window."

"What?" asked Emma, with badly-feigned innocence. "Frogs are good jumpers. Everyone knows that."

"Especially when they start wriggling around after you pick them up, huh?" Claire had the light of mischief in her eyes now. "You guys should've seen it. She let out this shriek that should've busted all the windows, then just threw it."

Taylor felt bad about laughing, but then she saw Emma was chuckling too, even as her face turned almost red enough to match her hair. "I thought it was dead," Emma claimed. "Then it just woke up all of a sudden and started croaking. You'd throw it away, too."

"Okay, yeah, that would've been funny to see," Marcus said. "Would've been funnier if you'd hit someone else with it, but the window is still good."

Taylor smirked, then she and Emma looked at Claire. "He'll do," they said in well-practised unison.

"Oh, good." Claire looked at each of them, then shook her head. "Congratulations, Marcus. My crazy friends approve of you." She tilted her head in the general direction of the admissions office. "Come on, before they decide you aren't showing up today and give your stuff to someone else."

Marcus grinned again. "Coming." He gave Taylor and Emma each a smile. "Nice meeting you. See you around."

"Bye, Marcus," Emma and Taylor chorused as he followed his cousin into the teeming crowds of students. Then they looked at each other and giggled.

"You threw the frog out the window?" Taylor snorted with laughter.

"Well, wouldn't you?" Emma shook her head. "I just, you know, did it without thinking. Marcus seemed nice. And he didn't zone out when you started up your motormouth."

"Excuse me?" Taylor's voice rose with well-simulated indignation. "I do not have a 'motormouth'. I have a well-tuned sense of word placement, which allows me to speak extemporaneously and at length while lesser beings are aimlessly wondering what they're going to say next. You may as well say—"

"How can I say anything?" Emma retorted. "Like Claire said, you barely let anyone get a word in edgewise."

Taylor sniffed haughtily, elevated her nose a few extra degrees in the air, and decided to try a line her father had used once. "I'll have you know, I resemble that remark."

"Well, yeah … what?"

"You heard me."

Still amiably bickering, the two friends wandered down the corridor toward their respective home rooms.

<><>​

Danny

The construction machinery was visible from several blocks away. Danny tried to pay attention to the road but it was difficult; the closer he got, the more curiosity he felt. Finally, he pulled up at the entrance to the new compound that had been set up since the last time he'd been there. The guard stepped out of the shack with a clipboard in his hand and approached the window of his car.

"Good morning, sir," he said. "I'm going to need to ask for your name and your reason for coming onsite today." Despite the polite tone of his words, Danny could see the metal speed hump just inside the drop-barrier with the row of holes on top; if anyone tried to bull on through without being cleared first, the pop-up spikes would almost certainly eviscerate their tyres.

"I'm Danny Hebert." Danny gestured at the narrow section of the Boat Graveyard he could see through the open gateway. "I'm with the Dockworkers' Association. Earl Marchant called me and asked me to come over."

"Ah, yes, Mr Hebert." The guard ticked something on the board. "I was told to expect you. I just need to see your ID and you can go right in."

Feeling somewhat surreal, Danny pulled his wallet out and showed the man his driver's license.

"Perfect." The guard made another notation, then gave a high sign to whoever was still in the guard shack. "Just take a left after you're inside. Park next to the site admin shack. They'll outfit you with a hard hat and a high-vis vest, and let Mr Marchant know you're on site."

Danny nodded. "Gotcha. And thanks." He waited until the barrier rose far enough then rolled on through, his wheels bumping over the speed hump. Following the instructions he'd been given, he turned left and parked alongside a row of other vehicles.

Moments later, after he'd introduced himself to the admin staff, they'd outfitted him with the promised hard hat and vest. When he stepped outside, he was greeted by the sight of Earl himself, striding over from what looked like the direction of the most activity, also wearing a hard hat and vest. Unlike the others, Earl's hat and vest had the word 'BOSS' stamped across the front in large letters. Several men and women trailed in his wake.

"Danny, glad you could make it," Earl said cheerfully. "Come on, let me show you around."

"Uh, sure." Danny fell in beside Earl, the others automatically making room for him. "So, what's going on here exactly?"

"Well, I looked at various ways we could get these ships out of the way and most of them are prohibitively expensive or would take too long. But there's one or two ways that will work within a reasonable timescale." Earl gestured at the waterfront, where various machinery was being installed. Out on the water, derelict ships rocked slowly at anchor, while others were visible only by way of their superstructures protruding above the waterline.

"I'm guessing these ways are also costly," Danny said. He vaguely wondered what Earl saw as 'prohibitively' expensive. What he was already seeing looked way too rich for his blood.

"Yes, but in my line of work you have to give a little to get a lot," Earl said. His tone was definitely upbeat, which Danny saw as a good sign. "So, we're assembling winches and cranes onshore, to drag the ships out of the water. From there they'll go onto cradles where they can be moved out of the way and disassembled at our leisure. On the water, we'll have salvage vessels and tugs as well as a dredge, to get the ships to where they can be dragged out of the water then clean up after them. The biggest ones are going to have to be pulled in close, cut up in place, and removed from the water piecemeal. With me so far?"

Jesus Christ almighty. This is like a major military operation. "Yes," Danny said faintly. "At least, I think so. Where do I come in?"

Earl smiled. "I was hoping you'd ask me that. You see, I've got all my employment slots filled, except for the part where the ships get dragged out of the water and torn down to their component pieces. I was wondering if the Dockworkers had anyone free who had the appropriate heavy machinery tickets."

Danny blinked. He scanned the machinery that was in the process of being installed. "Uh … how many people do you need?"

"I don't know." Earl's smile turned up at the corners, as though he was enjoying an enormous joke. "How many can you supply?"

In that moment, Danny knew that Earl was aware of exactly how many Dockworkers there were on the Association's books, and was intent on supplying full employment to them all. How the man had gotten that information he had no idea, but he hadn't asked for this favour and Earl hadn't overtly offered, so it slid past his radar. Just barely, but it slid past.

"I'll have to check the books to see who's got the right qualifications and get back to you on that," he prevaricated. He wasn't about to sign off on the Dockworkers being used for criminal purposes—that way led to the Association being virtually owned by the gangs, which he'd fought against for the whole of his adult life—but this was good honest paid work. If Earl wanted to employ everyone, he didn't want to supply either an undercount or an overcount before they even started. He was going to play this straight down the line.

"Absolutely." Earl beamed at him approvingly. "Do you have any idea how refreshing it is to work with an honest man? I was speaking with Mayor Christner and some of his councillors just the other day and when I floated a trial balloon about this project, you should've seen all the agendas appear out of the woodwork. Not a one of them would so much as offer verbal support unless I agreed to help fund their little pork-barrel side ventures, or promise a make-work job to their useless cousin-in-law. I swear, if I'd let them have their way I would've ended up financing half their pension plans and three of their mistresses."

This wasn't in the least bit surprising to Danny. What he did wonder, though, was how this worksite was being allowed to go ahead without official interference if Earl hadn't agreed to pay their thinly disguised bribes. "Did you have any problems getting the permits?"

Earl rolled his eyes. "I see you've had to do business in this town before. Fortunately, this is not my first rodeo." He buffed his already-perfect nails on his vest and inspected them. "I have been known to be persuasive from time to time."

"So you got the permits." Danny made it not quite a question, but it was a definite invitation for an answer. Needing work or not, he wasn't going to put the Dockworkers into a situation where the Association could be fined for sending people onto a worksite without the appropriate permits.

"I did," Earl assured him. "I had to speak a little plainly to some of them, and one or two may have found reasons to leave town after the fact, but our overhead expenses were remarkably low, considering the situation. Everything is above-board and legal on this worksite. The requisite paperwork has already been couriered to your office. All it needs is for you to sign off on how many men you're willing to send over."

Translation: they tried to put the screws to him, and he intimidated them into playing ball. Part of Danny wished he could've been there but the rest of him was glad he hadn't, if only because he could remain officially ignorant of his new business associate's methods of persuasion. He'd have to keep a close eye on any further deals he made with Earl, though; while their current business situation might all be on the up-and-up, there were no guarantees that this would remain the case.

"Got it," he said out loud. "What progress have you made on the ferry?"

"Oh, once we're up and running with the Boat Graveyard, we can get right on that," Earl assured him. "I got the permits for that signed at the same time. Same people, even."

Danny raised his eyebrows. "And they didn't try to roadblock you with the gangs?"

"What gangs?" Earl spread his hands disingenuously. "The Azn Bad Boyz—and if that's not a ridiculous name, I've never heard one—are the only group causing problems at the moment. And I hear even they are keeping their heads down right now."

"We've still got Marquis," Danny reminded him. "His men are going around collecting protection money." The tiny gold M was on his nightstand at home; he didn't quite have the nerve to wear it around in the daytime.

"True," agreed Earl. "I can't claim to know the man well, but I've associated with his organisation before. I do know this much about him; if he pledges protection, protection will happen. Causing trouble is not what they do."

Danny nodded, recalling that one night. "Yeah, I can't argue with that." He paused, blinking, as an idea occurred to him. "Actually, I wonder …"

"Yes?" Earl raised an eyebrow.

Speaking slowly, Danny worked his way through the idea. "Marchioness is a seriously capable healer. I'm wondering if we could arrange a kind of ongoing insurance arrangement with her, if she's agreeable of course, to have her able to show up to deal with any workplace injuries while this work is ongoing."

"Well." Earl chuckled dryly. "You have hidden depths, Danny. Asking to hire on a supervillain's daughter as your medical insurer takes balls, I'll give you that."

"Well, she did save my life not so long ago, so I know what she's capable of," Danny pointed out. "And I've heard a rumour that she's being paid just to show up at Brockton General and heal people. If they're doing business with her, I don't see why we can't." Worry began to nibble at the edge of his confidence. "Do you think he'd get pissed off at us if we asked?"

"I'm certain he thinks the world of his daughter," Earl assured him. "But if the request was made with all due respect to her wishes and needs, I can't see why he would become angry."

"Well, I'd be prepared to arrange for whatever entertainment she enjoys to be set up," Danny said. "Out of my own pocket, even. TV, computer game console, fridge with snacks, whatever. Over and above whatever we pay her, of course." He looked at Earl. "I've only met them once. You sound like you know them better than I do. Think you could reach out to him and make the request?"

After a moment, Earl nodded. "I believe I can handle that, yes. Leave it with me." He held out his hand.

Danny shook it, feel better about the whole deal already. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

Earl smiled. For once, the expression reached all the way to his eyes. "No. Thank you."

<><>​

Claire

The rumbling of the car into the garage would have gone unheard by any normal person, but Claire had long since relinquished any claim on the word 'normal'. Getting up from where she'd been watching TV with Robert and Marcus, she wandered on down to meet her father.

"Hey, Dad," she said, and gave him a hug. "How was your day?"

"Fruitful and interesting." He ruffled her hair playfully. "How did your introduction of Marcus at the school go?"

"Well, Taylor and Emma think he's nice," she said, batting his hand away. "After I spoke to the principal, she agreed that his grades were good enough that he didn't have to stay back a year. He says his day went okay after I went to my classes."

Earl raised his eyebrows. "Spoke to her, hmm? Was that all you did?"

As much as she would've liked to lie through her teeth, he could somehow pick up on when she was doing that, even when she suppressed all her tells. It was very unfair. "I may have depressed her critical thinking capability and made her a little suggestible. It didn't take much." She glanced over her shoulder, but her 'cousin' hadn't followed her to the garage. "The grades we faked for him were pretty good to start with."

"Well, he is a bright lad," Earl noted without any irony at all. "In other news, I may have secured you some extra after-school employment, if you're interested?"

She raised her eyebrows. "I'm already doing Friday and Saturday evenings at the hospital. What else did you have in mind?"

His mouth stretched in amusement. "Danny Hebert has advanced the idea of paying you a stipend to be on-call for injuries at the Boat Graveyard worksite. He's also willing to spring for a TV and a snack fridge for your exclusive use while you're on site."

"Sure—" She paused as he raised a finger. She knew what that gesture meant. Slow down and think about it. "Uh, depending on the size of the stipend, I mean. But yeah, I like Mr Hebert, and Taylor's pretty cool too. So as long as they're not trying to rip me off, I'd be happy to do that. Besides, it helps your thing along if the work goes smoothly, yeah?"

He nodded; she could tell he was pleased at her evaluation of the situation. "It does, yes. We haven't discussed the exact size of the stipend, but given the medical insurance payments that we would otherwise be shelling out for an operation of that magnitude, there's definitely some wiggle room in the budget."

"Okay then, let's do it." She looked up at her father. "Whose idea was it to bring in the TV and snack fridge?"

"His, actually." He shrugged. "I'll say this about Danny Hebert. He's not stupid."

"Well, that's true. Taylor's pretty smart, too." Claire grinned at him. "It was weird the first time, meeting Taylor when she only knew me as me, but I think I can handle it."

"I'm sure you can, Claire-bear." Earl raised an eyebrow. "So, I've got a few ideas where Traction, or Panzer, or whatever her name is, might have gone to ground. Interested in coming out and scouting the locations with me?"

She brightened right up. "Definitely. Are we bringing the boys with us?"

"Robert, yes," he decided. "Marcus … not yet. At least, not until he's had all the tutoring I can give him in dealing with bone."

Claire pursed her lips slightly. "That might cause morale problems later. If Marcus gets the idea that he's being sidelined because of his age, he might act out. After all, he's as strong-willed as you, and doesn't have nearly the life experience to teach him not to do something stupid like that."

After a moment or two of contemplation, Earl grimaced. "Damnation, you're right. I would do that exact thing, at his age. In fact, I did do something remarkably similar when I was only a few years older than he is now. The end result could have been very messy, extremely fatal or both. Fortunately, the blind luck that looks out for fools and drunkards saved me, though it did teach me a salutary lesson about paying due care and attention to what I was doing. There's no guarantee that the boy will even survive to learn the same lesson."

"So what are we going to do?" Claire had no illusions that her father was going to reverse his ruling on Marcus coming out with them. As unfair as Marcus might accuse his 'uncle' of being, Earl very rarely changed his mind once it was made up, and only when he was presented with an extremely good reason for doing so.

"Well, I was thinking of inviting Kayden out on the scouting mission," Earl mused. "Do you think she would be overly upset if I asked her to stay home and keep Marcus company?"

"Probably best if she did," agreed Claire. "She's not exactly stealthy at the best of times, and Marcus likes her." She had trod lightly when it came to arranging the memories for her father's clone. After reducing his apparent age to a year below hers, she'd given him an edited version of her own impressions of Boston, along with vague impressions of parents, now deceased. Taking her cues from how Robert had reacted to his mental implants, she'd ensured that Marcus' own brain did the heavy lifting on interpreting the memories she'd installed, filling in the gaps as needed. This ensured that he never ran into an actual amnesiac block, but always figured that the details of a particular event or person had slipped his mind.

Kayden, as an official member of the team, was a near-constant visitor to the house, and had been accepted by Robert and Marcus as being equal to Earl and Claire in authority. In Claire's opinion, she filled the necessary role of 'team mom' for the boys, which Claire didn't really feel qualified to perform.

"I shall speak with her about it," decided Earl. "She gets a say in this as well, of course. Where might I find her?"

"I'm pretty sure she said she was going to take a nap," Claire said. "I think she wanted one of us to come get her when you got home."

"Well, then, I shall attend to that myself." Earl shook his head slowly. "I'm still not sure what Kaiser was thinking when he turned on her. Or if he was thinking."

Claire grinned as they started through the house. "Well, his loss and our win. Apparently, treating someone with respect and decency pays off. Who knew?"

"I know you think you're joking," he retorted. "Far too many people have tripped up on that very respect. Fear or feelings of inadequacy are altogether too common as a controlling tactic in villain gangs."

Claire rolled her eyes. "And more than one hero group, I bet."

Her father raised an eyebrow. "Once again, I suspect that you think you're joking." He strode off toward the rooms that had been set aside for Kayden's private use; both he and Claire made a point of ignoring the fact that they adjoined his rooms.

Claire headed back to the main lounge room, a grin on her face. Capes were dysfunctional in so many ways; heroes were probably no different, in the long run.

<><>​

Crusader

"Okay … a little more … more … nearly there … perfect. Now hold it!"

Justin grunted and sweated, his hands hurting where they gripped the cable, as Panzer gunned the engine of her new tank and trundled it under the suspended gun turret. Alabaster seemed to be able to do this all day—because of course he can—while Geoff barely seemed to be trying. To Justin, it felt like he was carrying the whole thing all by himself.

"Okay!" yelled Panzer. "Lower away! Slowly!"

He wasn't sure if he could handle 'slowly' right then, with his hands on fire as they were, but he did his best. This was exactly what he wasn't good at; his ghosts were only capable of interacting with things that were alive, like people. Inch by inch, his feet trying to skid on the floor, he paid the rope out with the others as the turret slid into place on the tank.

With the last metallic clank signalled that it was properly seated, he let the rope—now slack—drop from his hands. They were red and sore, and he was almost certain he could see a couple of blisters in the process of forming. "I did not sign up for this," he muttered.

"What was that?" called out Panzer, looking around from where she was crouching on the hull of the tank, inspecting the turret.

"I said, I'm going for a shower," Justin replied, deciding a straight lie was the best idea. Besides, he actually needed one. Between his abraded hands and aching back, he'd had enough manual labour for the one day. So much for the life of luxury and ease Kaiser promised me when I joined the Empire Eighty-Eight.

"We still got another turret to put in," she called after him.

He didn't so much as break step. "Then get everyone out of the room and have Night drop it into place in her monster form. I need a shower."

"I thought of that. She's not manually dextrous enough. She's nothing but blades in that form!" Panzer actually sounded angry about it.

"Well, I'm still done for the day." He left the room, closing the door behind him.

I seriously do not need this shit right now.

<><>​

Panzer

Sherrel huffed as she put her hands on her hips. "Fuck," she growled, staring at the closed door as though she could force Justin to come back through with sheer pissed-off willpower. Unfortunately for her, all of her talents lay in the region of building shit, so her glare accomplished nothing of note.

"Want me to go get him?" Alabaster cracked his knuckles. He looked as fresh as when he'd started, for obvious reasons. "I can fetch the little pussy easily."

"No, don't bother," she said, waving him off. "You could bring him back but you can't make him actually pull on the damn cable. And I need all three of you to do the lifting."

"So why don't you have a winch to do the lifting?" he asked pragmatically.

"Because I dismantled it to help build the last tank," she said acerbically. It hadn't really been her fault; Mega Girl had been the one to toss the tank in the bay, not her. She'd expected to be able to use the thing for months, and in the meantime she could've bought herself a new winch.

"So what are we gonna do until he feels like helping again?" He looked at her as though she might give him a job that involved going out and hurting someone.

"Well, I dunno about you, but there's other things I can build." She turned toward the large and very cluttered workbench. "I'm thinking a scout drone of some sort. If we can follow Marchioness remotely, we can pick and choose the spot to grab her. At the same time, we can identify who her friends are, and grab them too. I can just tell she's the unreasonable type."

Alabaster grinned. "Hostages solve so many problems."

"I'll take your word for it. Okay, where'd I put that microturbine?"

Tuning out Alabaster, she set to work on the latest project. Sure, her tech might be clunky as fuck, but she could take actual scrap and make a working tank out of it. Or, in this case, a scout drone. She just had to remember to allow for a mass and power budget for the cloaking unit she was going to have to build into it. Otherwise, her scout drone would rapidly become a skeet drone.

So of course, thirty seconds later a motion sensor alarm went off.

<><>​

Robert

The car rolled silently down the darkened street. Some of the streetlights had been damaged, and some had apparently stopped working altogether, leaving no artificial illumination except for the headlights. Robert could have easily believed he was in a ghost town, for all that Downtown was thriving only a few miles away.

"It looks a little run-down," he said, peering out the window at the grimy, cracked brickwork and the boarded-up windows of the buildings beside them. He braced himself as the car jolted through a pothole. It wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last, though Jonas was avoiding most of them.

"Run down? It's gone to hell." Miss Claire shook her head. "How can they let it get this bad?"

"Politicians feathering their own nests," Mr Marchant announced, disgust in his tone. "With the bribes they tried to offer me to give them favourable deals on the port renewal, half of City Hall must have their hand in the till. And infrastructure is one of the first things to go. Once our venture is properly established in this city, there will be some changes around here."

"So run for Mayor," Miss Claire suggested, her tone joking. "You can't be worse at it than the idiot they've got in charge right now."

Slowly, he turned to look at her. A smile spread across his face. "Do you know, I just may do that. See if they can handle actual cut-throat politics."

"I didn't really mean it," she protested hastily. "I mean, what if they look into your background?"

"Earl Marchant has an established background," he pointed out. "It just so happens that he attended a school that was conveniently destroyed when Behemoth attacked New York, though of course I have copies of his purported scholastic records. The trail is fuzzy enough that anyone looking into me will blame the passage of time rather than deliberate obfuscation."

"We're almost there, sir," Jonas noted from the front seat. "The location is just up ahead."

"Good. Pull over here." Mr Marchant looked at the other occupants of the back of the car. "Time to get your game face on, Robert."

"And remember, in costume you're Knight Errant," Miss Claire reminded him. She, of course, had already made herself over into her Marchioness persona.

"Knight Errant, gotcha." Robert took a deep breath as metal slid out of his skin to form the distinctive helmet and armour. "I still can't really believe you're actually letting me come along like this."

"All the training in the world means nothing without time in the field," Marquis—no longer Mr Marchant, Robert reminded himself—intoned as he opened the car door and got out. "You've got to get your feet wet someday, boy. If you get in trouble, cover up as we've shown you, and one of us will come to your assistance. They may try to separate us. Do not let that happen."

"Don't get separated, right." Robert waited to allow Miss Claire to get out before him, then climbed out as well. He had no illusions about being there to protect her, despite his noble-sounding codename. If anything, they were there to protect him.

From the car behind, four men got out. They wore the long black coats and discreet 'M' badges that marked them out as Marquis' men, and had an air of quiet assurance. While they didn't look the same, they still gave the impression of somehow being cast from the same mold. This was probably due to the way they moved in unison with each other.

"Gentlemen." Marquis gave them a nod.

"Sir." One of the men stepped forward and returned the gesture, bowing his head slightly deeper. "Orders?"

Marquis pointed at a large building farther up the street. For all Robert could tell, it might have housed a factory, a printing plant or a supervillain's lair. From the outside, there was no way to tell. "We're going to investigate that location. You are to watch the perimeter and provide backup if we call for it."

The man nodded again. "Understood, sir."

Together, they moved up the quiet street. The men in black fanned out, hands in coat pockets and eyes checking everywhere. Robert was aware that they had some of the same modifications Miss Claire had performed on Jonas, though he hadn't seen them in action yet. They seemed outwardly confident and competent though, and this heartened him.

When they reached a point across the road from the building and down a ways, Marquis stopped to study it. Robert cleared his throat tentatively, then regretted it as all eyes fell on him.

"Yes?" asked the veteran supervillain.

"Uh … what about underground? Like, through the sewers?"

Marquis looked down at the cracked concrete sidewalk and rubbed his chin. "Hm. You have a point. I can't see Panzer driving her machinery through a sewer tunnel, but if she's in there, it might be annoying for her to escape that way."

"I'll go down and look," Miss Claire suggested. "Knight-Errant can come with me as backup."

It took Robert a couple of seconds to realise that she meant him. "Uh … me?"

"Yes, you, boy." Marquis raised an eyebrow. "Unless you're scared of the dark."

"Well, no, I'm not." Robert was pretty sure about that, at least.

"Good. Give me a moment." Miss Claire went over to a manhole cover, crouched down, and lifted it one-handed with no real sign of effort. Still holding it up on one side, she slithered down into the darkness, much more easily than her evening gown should have allowed her to do. The manhole cover clinked gently back into place.

Robert glanced at Marquis, not entirely sure what he should be doing. Had she decided not to take him along? The crime lord didn't seem overly worried as he studied the building across the road.

Then the manhole cover lifted again, and a black clawed hand emerged holding the bundled-up evening gown. "Come on down," hissed a throaty voice that sounded vaguely like Miss Claire's if he listened very carefully.

"Uh, right," muttered Robert. He took the gown and passed it on to Marquis, then lifted up the manhole and climbed down himself.

Almost immediately, he was glad that Mr Marchant and Miss Claire had made him perform such esoteric actions as climbing ladders and doing calisthenics while wearing the armour, because without that practise he would have been a lot less sure in his movements. Step by step he descended, pulling the cover over the hole until he was encompassed in total darkness. All he had now was his sense of touch, and that was curtailed by the metal plating over every part of his body.

Eventually his feet found level flooring, though it felt unpleasantly squishy underfoot. He looked around for Miss Claire, his eyes wide in the darkness as if that would help him see better.

It really couldn't.

"Miss Claire!" he whisper-shouted. "Uh, Marchioness! Where are you?"

From directly overhead, an amused-sounding voice hissed, "Ceiling lizard iz watching u …" followed by a snicker.

Tilting his head back as best he could, he stared upward, unable to see anything until suddenly two glowing opalescent eyes faded into existence, along with a great many sharp teeth in a very pointed grin. And then, they were gone again.

Oh, wait, he told himself. I can do stuff too. Holding out his hand, he summoned his sword. As always, it seemed to grow out of his skin as if extruding from his body. When he gave the mental command, it lit up, flame crawling along the length of it.

This illuminated the sewer tunnel he was standing in, showing that he was all alone. The ceiling above was empty, which made him wonder where Miss Claire had gotten to.

"This is not funny," he muttered.

And then, right where he was looking, the eyes opened again and blinked twice. The razor-sharp teeth made a reappearance as well, still grinning.

"Oh, I think it's hilarious," Miss Claire murmured, her outline showing as she skittered briefly to another part of the tunnel roof. As soon as she stopped, she seemed to flatten onto the brickwork and the patterning on her body changed to suit her surroundings. Even knowing exactly where she was, Robert could not make her out. It was a decidedly creepy feeling, and he was glad she was on his side.

"I'm sure you do," he said softly, knowing she could hear him perfectly well. "What's 'ceiling lizard' about, anyway?"

"Oh, it's a meme from a story I read about online," she replied just as quietly. "I'll show you later. Let's get scouting."

"Okay." He lowered his flaming sword a little, so he could see where he was walking. There was no way in hell, he knew, that any amount of light would pick out Miss Claire if she didn't want to be seen.

They proceeded onward at a cautious pace while he tried to limit the noise he was making. Miss Claire was sometimes visible and sometimes not, but never more than a shadow out of the corner of his eye. The sewer didn't smell all that bad as far as he was concerned; or at least, it could've been much worse. He supposed he should be thankful that this area was in disuse, or everything might have been a lot … fresher. So to speak.

At one point, he stopped at a Y-junction, waiting for Miss Claire to come and show him which way she'd gone. When she did appear, she actually showed her entire head and shoulders outlined in greenish phosphorescence. Without speaking, she lifted a single claw to her closed mouth, then pointed down one of the tunnels.

He got the message, dimming down his flame even further until he could just barely see the sewer floor in front of his feet. As quietly as he could, he followed along behind her, noting with gratitude that she'd chosen to leave a line of glowing green footprints on the roof of the sewer tunnel. He didn't know what she'd found, but he figured she didn't want him just charging in, so he took extra care.

And then he heard the voices. At the same time, a long black tail swung down out of the darkness and nudged his sword with the tip. He doused the flame immediately, then realised why she'd done it. Up ahead, barely visible even in the pitch darkness, there was a dim square of light in the ceiling of the sewer tunnel.

"Because I said so, that's why!" yelled a female voice. Robert had never heard it before, but he guessed it might be Panzer. "I don't care if you're going for a shower! Something just tripped the motion sensors in the sewer, so you're going to go look!"

There was a pause as somebody answered, but so far away as to be inaudible.

"Because Alabaster and Fog don't go into sewers, and if Night runs into someone she'll be helpless!" The shouting woman sounded angry by now. "You don't have to go down yourself, you little pussy! Just send a couple of your stupid fucking ghosts! Make yourself useful for once!"

Again, there was a near-inaudible answer. The woman didn't do any more shouting. Instead, there was muttering and clanking and a few noises that Robert couldn't place.

Miss Claire's hand appeared before Robert's face, once again outlined by phosphorescence. She made a gesture of turning around, then another of walking. Robert agreed wholeheartedly with the plan; let's get out of here before the scary ghost cape shows up. He was uncomfortably aware that inside his metal armour, he was all too squishy.

With Miss Claire in the lead, he began to retrace his steps, trying even harder to make no noise whatsoever. It was twice as tense now, the nebulous threat of someone in the tunnels giving way to the very real threat of something that knew they were there.

Onward he crept, twice flattening against the wall to avoid the notice of a drifting ghost. On the second incidence, he was almost certain he'd been seen, but it didn't turn its head. It didn't help that he was thoroughly lost by now, and had no idea where he'd come up if he climbed out of the sewers now.

Also, he wanted a shower so badly.

And then, the worst happened. He turned a corner just as a ghost dropped out of the ceiling, directly in front of him. Staring at him. Their eyes met, and he realised he was dimly illuminated by the radiance coming off the ghost itself.

Busted.

He knew damn well he couldn't do a damn thing to the ghost, but the long spear it carried was seriously worrying to him. It could skewer him a dozen times while he was regenerating the first hit, and it could keep stabbing him until he was dead. Worse, there was nothing he or Miss Claire could do to stop it. The best she could do was keep him alive, and even that would be problematic if it called in reinforcements.

Eyes wide, he stared at the intangible form before him. Drawing in a deep breath and ignoring the dank air of the sewer, he prepared to run as fast as he could. Even in armour, he was fast—not as fast as Miss Claire, but she was a special case—and maybe he could outpace it until he could find an exit from the sewer?

And then, it deliberately looked away from him and moved off down the sewer tunnel.

It had seen him. He knew it had seen him. Why had it ignored him? Why was it letting him go? Was this some kind of trick?

"Well, come on," hissed Miss Claire from directly above him. "Don't just stand there. Let's go."

Obediently, he stumbled onward, following the phosphorescent footprints in the ceiling once more.

As he went, one thought kept worrying at the edges of his mind.

Why did he let me go?

<><>​

Crusader

Justin dismissed the last of his ghosts, then opened his eyes to look at Panzer, who was glaring at him from three feet away. "What?" he snapped.

"Well, what's down there?" she demanded.

"Nothing." He tried to make his tone off-handed.

"No, it's not nothing." She prodded him in the middle of his chestplate with her forefinger. "Something down there set off a motion sensor. Twice."

"Well, I didn't see anyone." He knocked her arm aside. "Must have been a rat."

"The sensor was halfway up the wall!"

"A big rat."

"They do get pretty damn big in the sewers here," Alabaster offered, sounding amused. "Less so since Blasto stopped dumping stuff down the drain, but still damn nasty. Why do you think I don't go down there? Renewal's all well and good, but some smells you never get out of your clothes."

Panzer drew air in through her nostrils, then let it out again in a frustrated huff of annoyance. "Fine. Go have your fucking shower."

Before she could change her mind, he went. It wasn't until he had the door of the bathroom closed and the shower running that he allowed himself to think about what he'd seen.

An armoured hero, scouting out Panzer's base. Here to take the out of control villain down, once and for all.

Closing his eyes, he let the spray run over his face.

And not before time.



End of Part Twenty

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Twenty-One: Panzerfaust

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Marquis

Earl rubbed his chin between thumb and forefinger. "Crusader's ghost saw you, but didn't attack you or try to raise the alarm?" He sounded dubious about the concept. "You're certain it wasn't just looking in your direction?"

The young man he'd renamed Robert after his change at Claire's hands shook his head earnestly. "Totally. He was looking right at my face. I could see him, and he could see me. I thought I was dead, right then. But he just turned his back on me and went away. So me and Miss Claire got out of there."

"That, at least, was the correct move," mused Earl, thinking hard. He pulled the handheld radio from his pocket and clicked in the push-to-talk button. "Marquis here. Any movement on the perimeter?"

"One here. Nothing on north side."

"Two responding. Nothing on west side."

"Three here. All clear to the south."

"Four here. Street looks clear."

He knew Four was on the rooftop almost directly above them, and that the man's eyesight and hearing were vastly beyond human norm. The same went for the other three. They were also physically boosted, with strength and reflexes that would bring tears of envy to the eyes of an Olympic athlete. This was par for the course with any one of his loyal troops.

The disloyal troops, on the other hand—those who had joined under false pretences, usually as moles from the PRT or the other gangs—he had placed in a division of their own, so they could chase their own tails and inform on each other.

A smile creased his face in the darkness. Claire's powers had come at a cost, as did everything valuable in life, but she had truly made him proud with her capability and judgement.

"Dad?" she asked now, bringing him back to the present. At the moment, she wore her Marchioness form, including the evening gown, for ease of communication.

Though it consisted of just one word, the question had several layers inherent in the asking. Most centred around the two aspects of Do we have a plan and How are we going to do this?

"We have one major priority here," he stated, addressing his words to both Claire and Robert, though they were meant mainly for the latter. "Removing Panzer as a threat to Marchioness. How we do this is not yet set in stone, though I would be satisfied with the Kaiser solution. As for her allies, we are looking at varying levels of danger. Do not attempt to face Night and Fog on your own, and if you get into melee with Alabaster, go on the defensive. If you exert yourself trying to beat him, he will wear you down."

"What about Crusader?" asked Robert hesitantly. "He didn't attack me …"

"The reasons for which I refuse to speculate," Earl said flatly. "To assume he's automatically on our side is to leave ourselves open for betrayal. He may well have assumed you were a hero, and was unwilling to attack you for one reason or another. Once he finds out you are working with me, his priorities may well change. We will not overtly attack him unless and until he strikes at us, but we don't turn our backs on him or his ghosts."

"If I can get close to him, I'll see if I can figure out his motives," Claire offered.

"Not a bad idea," Earl allowed. "Just be careful. Your organic carbon fibre armour might stop his ghosts' spears, and it may not. We do not want him suddenly getting the idea that we're betraying him, and turning his ghosts on us unexpectedly."

"Yeah, no, pass on that," agreed Claire.

"As for the attack itself," Marquis said, "I believe a dynamic entry from the front will work for both Knight-Errant and myself, while Marchioness finds a roof entry and gains access that way. A two-pronged attack from an unexpected direction is far more likely to work than a simple frontal approach." He looked to Robert. "We will work in concert, flanking any opposition we encounter. Alabaster we will nail to the ground. With Night and Fog, your job will be to deal with Fog while I keep Night honest."

More than a little surprised, Robert stared at him. "M-me?" he stammered. "But you're much better at fighting than I am."

Earl nodded. "Yes, but your regeneration will keep you safe from his acid touch, and your flaming sword will likely cause him more than a little discomfort. It may even ignite him like a cloud of flour."

"Okay." Robert nodded. "And Mi-uh, Marchioness? She'll be alone. What happens if she runs into Fog?"

Claire grinned, showing a few too many teeth. "Oh, Fog and I are old friends," she purred. "I might just have to remind him of that fact, though."

Earl's smile was all proud father. "That's my girl."

<><>​

Marchioness

Claire had to remind herself that overconfidence was a killer. And while she herself was as physically capable and resistant to damage as she could manage, that did not also apply to her father and to Robert. The clone of Lung was certainly tough, with a level of regeneration that rivalled the leader of the ABB, but his combat capabilities were still at a relatively basic level. It had taken Jonas years to get her to where she was now, and having three people willing to train him did not allow him to learn three times as fast.

It had been relatively easy to get to the building under cover of her optical camouflage, then crawl up the wall and approach the crudely-wired security camera from above. Her options had been to either snip the wires or block the lens with a mixture of snail mucus and octopus ink, and in the end she'd gone with snipping the wires. It was fast and easy, and the people inside were going to figure out things had gone wrong soon enough; no sense in delaying her entry by trying to be fancy.

Once the camera was out, she slithered down to the doors themselves, then modified one of her claws into a narrow monomolecular blade and sliced through the wood, coring out the lock neatly. It was a trick she was quite proud of, not least because it looked badass as hell. Her father and Robert were already on the way over before the lock hit the ground, so she turned around and went straight up the wall.

It had only been common sense to expect a camera covering the roof access, so of course there was one. Fortunately, this camera had the same problem with exposed wires as the other one had, and snipping the wires with a purpose-modified pair of claws was but the work of an instant.

Getting in was another problem altogether. The roof access door was made of metal; while this would not pose an impossible obstacle, it would also be a lot noisier than cutting through wood. So she improvised. A tentacle the thickness of a shoelace, though vastly stronger, slithered out of her fingertip and around the door jamb. It felt around the inside of the door until it felt the push-bar, then braced itself and went as rigid and unbending as a steel rod three times its thickness. Claire put one hand against the doorframe and pulled sharply on the other end of the improvised lever. With a clunk, the door came open.

Venturing inside, she let the door click shut, then pushed her camouflage back to maximum and made her way down into the building. Initially, she was just scouting, looking to locate the bad guys before she opened hostilities on them. Her feet secreted a fine powder that was more or less imperceptible to the naked eye, but which her enhanced senses could pick up just fine, so she wouldn't end up scuttling in circles.

Up ahead, she heard a sound like a hundred knives dancing on their blade-points, but when she snuck her head around the corner, all she saw was an open door; within, a woman examining her hands. The woman wasn't trashily dressed or currently building some death machine, so Claire presumed it was Night. The ex-Empire cape was reputed to turn into a mobile blender when she was unobserved, which explained the noises Claire had heard just before she actually looked to see what was going on.

Do I take her down, or leave her for later?

The temptation was almost palpable in nature. Night would never see her coming, and so long as Claire kept eyes on her, the fight would be over before it began. One hit, and the woman would be down and out to it.

Except therein lay the next problem. Once Claire took her down and secured her, she would have to keep the woman in sight from then on. If she didn't, reports suggested that she would recover from any and all damage when she changed forms. They didn't mention the possibility of metabolising knockout toxins, but that wasn't something Claire was willing to gamble on.

Which left two options. Either kill Night outright, or apply a change to her brain so that she was no longer an enemy. Claire had trouble with both of those options, for differing reasons.

For the first one, she was certainly physically capable of executing Night before the woman ever saw her. But she liked to think of herself as a good person, or at least a person with good intentions. Jumping straight to the cold-blooded murder of an unsuspecting adversary smacked of the kind of villainy that her father spoke out against. There was no style to it.

Changing Night's brain permanently was also something she was quite good at doing by now. But there were two ways to do it; the slow and careful way where she knew she wouldn't leave a gaping hole in the command structure she was putting into place, and the quick and dirty way where such flaws were almost inevitable. Right now, she didn't have time to do more than a quick and dirty job, and she wasn't certain that Night's Changer recuperation wouldn't even fix that. She certainly wasn't banking on Alabaster being vulnerable to such things.

So she left Night to her own devices—hearing the hundred-knives chorus on the floor as soon as she turned her back—and set out to explore more of the base. She'd just come out into the main workshop area, and had just had time to register holy crap, that's one fuck-off big-ass tank when the fire alarm started shrieking.

<><>​

Panzer

"Hey, Panzer." Alabaster's remark was cut in half by a yawn. This had to be from boredom, because as far as Sherrel could see, the man never got tired. She wondered if he even slept, or if his resetting power took care of that too.

"What is it?" She put the soldering iron down and popped her goggle lenses upward so she could look at him. Deep down, she felt the craving, not for drugs but for the feeling the drugs gave her. It drove her, made her want to finish the tank so she could have another crack at Marchioness, to get her ability to be addicted back. Still, Alabaster rarely screwed around so she was willing to find out what he wanted.

"Your shitty-ass security cameras are on the blink again." He gestured back toward where she'd set up the rudimentary console. "Can't see the front door for dick."

"Fuckin' what?" She'd double-checked the connection on that one. "Go outside and see if a bird crapped on it or something. I'll look at it from this end."

"Get Crusader to go check on it," he said, not quite ignoring her order but skating very close to it. "His ghosts can fly, yeah?"

"Crusader's just about stomped on my last nerve," Sherrel snapped. "I tell him to do that, there's every chance we'll get into a ten-minute argument about how he's too tired to do it or some shit, or you go and do it right the fuck now and save ten minutes of fucking around."

Alabaster folded his arms. "Ever think maybe he's acting like a pissy little whiny bitch so you won't tell him to do shit? You're basically rewarding him for being lazy."

Sherrel advanced on him. "I. Don't. Give. A. Shit," she snarled. "You got out of sewer duty because you don't wanna get your clothes dirty. Fine. This isn't sewer duty. This is walking outside and looking at a camera." She stomped past him to the makeshift security console. "The sooner you do it, sooner you can get back to doing crosswords, or whatever it is you pass the time with."

"Fine." He threw up his hands dramatically. There might even have been an eye-roll involved, but Sherrel wasn't looking. She heard him leave the room; while he didn't slam the door, exactly, he did close it with a certain amount of force.

I need to finish the tank soon, she decided. If we don't get out and capture Marchioness in the next few days, we'll be at each other's throats. Closing her eyes, she imagined the pleasure spreading through her veins, once Marchioness was forced to reverse the change that had been made to her physiology. Of course, once the little shit did the job and put things back the way they were supposed to be, she was gonna die. Nobody fucks with my high.

Dropping into the chair, she looked over the screens that related to the security setup. Rear entrance was fine, side entrance showed no problems, roof exit … wait, what the hell? She glared at the screen that was supposed to be portraying the roof exit, but was just … blank. Just like the front door camera.

This was looking less and less all the time like a simple equipment failure (always a potential aspect of being a Tinker) and more like someone was fucking with them. There was a big red button taped to the table beside her, with a clear cover over it. The person on security console detail was supposed to hit it if they saw any shit going down on one of the cameras. It was connected to the fire alarm system (she'd disconnected the sprinklers first, and made use of the tubing in the process) so if someone hit the button, everyone would know about it.

"Panzer." Dorothy entered the room, looking … not nervous, she didn't have the imagination for that, but unhappy. "Do you have a camera in our room?"

"Why the fuck would I have one there?" demanded Sherrel, just wanting this stupid fucking conversation to be over already so she could find out from Alabaster what was wrong with the front door camera, and maybe get Crusader to get over himself already and check the roof exit feed.

"I don't know." Dorothy looked directly at her. "But I was in there just now, and I changed back to human when nobody was there. Someone was looking at me."

Sherrel flipped up the cover and slapped the button.

<><>​

Marquis

Alabaster, Earl decided, was a very irritating person to fight. They'd been easing into the base, giving Claire time to get to the roof and effect her own entrance, when he came down the corridor and almost literally bumped right into them. All of Earl's efforts had immediately gone toward preventing the paper-white neo-Nazi from raising the alarm, which meant he'd disabled Alabaster's pistols first before attacking the man himself.

Right then, Alabaster had opened his mouth to call out a warning; fortunately, Robert had showed the presence of mind—or perhaps he'd just panicked—to stab the man through the chest. And the diaphragm, as it happened. While such an injury would be likely to prove very quickly fatal to the normal run of humanity, on Alabaster it merely served to shut him up for a few seconds.

Those few seconds had been invaluable, though. Earl had sent a spray of bone that clamped onto Alabaster and locked around his face to form a solid gag, forcing the Empire villain to breathe through his nose, and silencing any outcry he might make. It did not, however, convince the white-skinned lunatic to give up. In fact, if anything, it exacerbated his efforts to break away from them.

It very quickly became clear that Alabaster was a highly capable and versatile close-in fighter, made only more so by his ability to utterly ignore any wounds he might suffer and by what seemed to be the ability to ignore any level of pain. He was not above breaking his own limbs to escape any attempt to cage him in, and anything grown from his own bones vanished when he reached the reset point. While he wasn't beating Earl and Robert, he wasn't losing either, and that was all he had to do. Endlessly regenerating, he would not tire or make mistakes, while his opponents eventually would.

Or at least, Earl knew that he would, whereas Robert's regeneration had the possibility of keeping him fresh through a gruelling combat. But for all of that, Alabaster could also regenerate, albeit in a different fashion to Robert or even Claire.

Three times Alabaster made a break for freedom, and three times he almost made it. Twice, Earl caged him in with bone. Alabaster battered at the barrier, shattering it with his fists and feet and revealing what had to be a minor Brute level of strength.

On the third attempt, Robert tackled the Empire cape full-on, bringing him down with a tremendous thud. Utilising a move Earl could've sworn Claire had taught the clone, Robert rolled to his feet with the still-winded Alabaster's throat clutched in his hand. But they had to move fast before he recovered and the fight began all over again.

Slamming Alabaster against the wall, Robert ran his sword through the man's chest and into the plasterboard beyond, pinning him there. Earl was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth; within half a second, he had Alabaster encased in bone as white as his skin, arms and legs firmly pinned by the rock-hard carapace. But he wasn't satisfied with simple bonds. Alabaster had proven himself a highly tenacious and altogether too persistent opponent so, once Robert had withdrawn the sword, Earl thickened the bone sarcophagus to a foot thick in all directions, leaving only his head protruding from the top.

"Well done, son," he said with a congratulatory slap on Robert's shoulder. "Let's go."

Just then, the fire alarm went off.

<><>​

Crusader

Standing under the pounding spray of the hot shower, Justin wasn't quite sure what to do with himself, now he knew enemies (not his enemies, but enemies to the group) were gathering outside. He wanted the other side to win, but he didn't want to go to prison. Panzer had seized control of their little group, mainly because Dorothy and Geoff needed direction and Alabaster didn't give a damn.

He himself didn't have the temperament to be a good leader. At best, he'd flail around and screw everything up; at worst, he'd try to treat everyone like his ghosts, and they'd all just walk away from him. But Panzer seemed intent on forcing a confrontation with Marquis, which in Justin's mind was a huge fuck NO!

The worst bit was, the other three were just fine with this. He couldn't discreetly assassinate her (even if he was inclined to do so) because then he'd have three people on his case that he was damn sure he couldn't kill in a hurry. Except maybe Dorothy, and she would only die if he watched her all the way to her last breath and beyond. As soon as she was free of observation, she'd transform immediately to her monster configuration, fully healed. (Which, just saying, was only slightly less bullshit than Alabaster's four-seconds-and-change reset capability).

And while his ghosts were capable of at least slowing down Alabaster and Dorothy via repeated stabbings, Geoff suffered under no such limitation. In fact, Justin knew damn well there was nothing he could do to stop Geoff from murdering him at will, at any time. This was one of the reasons he hadn't raised too loud an objection to Panzer's plans to date; if she ordered Geoff to dispose of him, there was a very good chance the man would do just that with no hesitation whatsoever.

It was almost as if the universe were deliberately finding reasons for him to regret working with brainwashed Nazi supervillains or something. Not that they were any better than working with enthusiastic new recruits; or rather, unstable new recruits. Who had somehow ended up in charge.

I want out but even if I do get out, I'll have zero friends and a lot of enemies, some of whom will be my former friends.

Fuck my life.

He was just starting to wash the soap off when the alarm shrilled through the base, grabbing his attention and holding it. For a moment, he thought the place really was on fire, until he belatedly recalled how Panzer had ripped out the copper piping and rewired the alarm system. Still, that probably meant the guy he'd seen before was assaulting the base. Hopefully with about two dozen PRT as backup. He hadn't recognised the costume, but with the gleaming silver armour and sword the guy had looked heroic as fuck; and with Kaiser just plain vanished, they didn't have access to the latest Protectorate rosters anymore.

Still, he hastened to get out of the shower, because if someone came looking for him, the last thing he wanted was for anyone to suspect he was in on the raid somehow. Also, it would be the height of irony for someone on the other side not to have gotten the memo that Crusader was one hundred percent okay with the base being raided, and to come in shooting. The best outcome right now was that he armoured up and got the fuck out of Dodge while everyone else was (hopefully) being beaten down and arrested by sword-guy and his Protectorate and PRT buddies.

In any case, it was a good idea to find out what was going on, so once he had pants on he sent out a couple of ghosts to scout the area. This was because the ghosts were an exact copy of him at the moment he produced them, and he didn't feel like flashing anyone right now. There was nobody in the corridor outside, and no sound of fighting, at least not anything that could be heard over Panzer's fucking repurposed fire alarm. So he pressed onward, even as he hurriedly pulled on the rest of his costume.

As luck would have it—because fuck my life. Again—the first person one of his ghosts saw was Panzer, in the area near the security console. Worse, she saw the ghost at the same time.

"Get dressed and get out here!" she shouted, putting the finishing touches on a gun he knew she hadn't possessed that morning. It was big and ugly and lumpy, and he was sure he saw parts of the toaster sticking out of it. This made it a Tinker gun, which meant he had no fuckin' idea what it did, and there was a good chance she wouldn't either until she fired it. Mentally assigning it an equal chance of firing Mach 1 slices of toast or high-powered microwave lasers, he made the ghost perform an elaborate salute—no sense in letting her know he was rooting for the other side—and had it drift out through the wall.

The other ghost, which he'd sent toward the area of the front doors just to see if they'd been kicked in yet, found them idly swinging on their hinges with the lock altogether missing. He didn't bother spending time trying to figure out what had happened to it, because one: he really didn't care, and two: Alabaster was only a few yards inside the doors. The guy was alive (duh) but not going anywhere at all, mainly due to being encased from the neck down in what looked very much like either white stone … or solid bone. About a foot thick, if Justin was any judge. More bone had been used to form a very effective gag, leaving him just his nose to breathe through, which he was doing so at the moment, snorting like a steam-train and glaring at Justin's ghost. Vague sounds emanated from within the enclosing calcitic prison; with a lot of effort, Justin figured Alabaster was trying to shout, "Get me out of this, you fucking idiot!"

Much as he was doing right then with Panzer, he had the ghost nod earnestly (they both knew his ghosts couldn't touch nonliving matter, so attacking the bone was a no-go) and head off through the wall with an air of I'll be right back with help. Because that was where he was going. Right after he stopped for coffee … in Boston.

Still, that had been a turn-up for the books, as he'd once heard someone say. There had only ever been one bone manipulator in Brockton Bay, and although Marquis had left the city before Justin ever got his powers and moved to the Bay to join the Empire Eighty-Eight, his reputation preceded him like a Mack truck on steroids. The older capes he'd spoken to, the ones who'd been around when Marquis was still a power in the city, had told stories about why you did not fuck with the guy.

And now he was back, and although Justin didn't know exactly how he'd managed to deal with Kaiser, Krieg, Hookwolf and the rest all in one afternoon, it was obvious this was his work. Which just served to raise a question about the guy with the sword. That had clearly not been Marquis. He'd seen pictures of the guy in action, and he went for bone armour and elaborate bone weapons that he basically pulled out of his own body. Not silver plate armour and a metal sword.

Okay, Marquis and armour guy. At least. He didn't know if this was a good thing or a bad thing. Villains were less likely to arrest everyone in sight, but they had been known to murder everyone in sight. He tried to recall what he'd been told about Marquis' tendencies in that regard, and got back a vague memory of being told if someone really really got up in his grille, that person just … vanished. Like he'd never been.

Which is what Kaiser and the others did, he belatedly realised. Both the getting in his grille thing and the vanishing thing. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Okay. Rule number one, don't get up in Marquis' grille. I want to walk out of here in one piece.

Honestly, the more he learned about what was going on around here, the less he wanted to be any part of it whatsoever.

Swearing under his breath, he continued to strap his armour on.

<><>​

Fog

Geoff Schmidt was not what anyone would call a deep thinker. He had his priorities, and he attended to them. When not attending to them, he usually awaited further orders. He and Dorothy had their rituals that filled in the time while they were awaiting orders, although being displaced from their apartment meant Dorothy could not cook for Geoff and the others, and he could not sit at the table with the paper while she cooked.

This was moderately unsettling for him. He preferred to be able to go through the comforting motions, rather than think about what to do next. He didn't like thinking. Thinking was painful, and brought back memories of things he did not want to think about.

Being given explicit orders he could follow to the letter; that, he liked. Whether these orders were to kill someone messily or to walk to the post office and retrieve a parcel, he would carry them out precisely. If anyone attempted to stop him from doing what he needed to do, he could react and deal with the problem. Reacting wasn't something he had difficulty with. In some distant part of his mind, he was aware that he lacked initiative and the capacity for independent creative thought, but another part of his mind told him this was perfectly okay, so it was alright.

So long as he and Dorothy had someone to tell them what to do, they'd be fine. Panzer liked telling them what to do, so they were happy. Not as happy as they'd been in their apartment where Dorothy could cook for them and he could sit at the table with the morning paper, but happy enough.

Panzer had pressed the button that made the fire alarm go off, and she had told Geoff to go up to the roof exit and if he found someone on the way that wasn't part of the team, to kill them messily. He hadn't heard the orders she had given Dorothy, but this didn't matter. As Night and Fog, they never missed and they never lost. Once he had killed everyone he found at the roof exit, he would rejoin Dorothy and perhaps she would be able to cook for them again.

Going upstairs in his particulate form was difficult, so he was walking. Panzer believed enemies were breaking into the building, so he was carrying a pistol. One technique he had been shown for when he wasn't being backed up by Dorothy was to pretend to be an ordinary person and fire off a shot from behind cover, then go to fog and overwhelm the opposition while they were returning fire. That was a solid plan, so he was going to do it first.

He reached the roof exit and frowned. It was closed, which meant there were enemies inside the building that had somehow gotten past him. This meant he hadn't carried out his orders yet. Fortunately, he was now at the top of the stairs, which meant he could assume his Fog shape while pursuing the enemies. He could not carry heavy things like pistols in this form, but that did not matter to him. When he rolled over them, they would die screaming. They always did.

Leaving the pistol on the top step, he changed to fog and began to drift down the stairs once more.

<><>​

Panzer

Gritting her teeth in aggravation, Sherrel jammed the last component into place and picked up the large screwdriver. It seemed everything and everyone was conspiring to piss her off today, and she couldn't even get high to let it all go over her head. When I finally get this bitch to give me my high back, Imma get blitzed for about a month straight. After I feed her her spleen for putting me through this shit.

Holding the gun with one hand, she expertly tightened the screw. Her thumb depressed the power-up switch and she felt the coils start to energise. Pulling her top lip back from her teeth, she let out a snarl of triumph. These fuckos might think she was helpless because she was a vehicle Tinker without a vehicle, but she also made weapons for her vehicles. True, it was only just light enough to carry, but it was designed to fuck up other vehicles, so it would make an absolute motherfucking mess of any person it hit, cape or otherwise.

"Hey—"

Reacting without thought, she turned and threw the screwdriver like a knife. It turned end over end and hit its target, the blunt plastic handle bouncing hard off Crusader's helmet.

"—what the fuck?" he yelped, ducking and covering his head with his hands as she swung the accelerator cannon toward him. "Hey, cool it with that thing!"

"Don't fuckin' sneak up on me, then," growled Sherrel. "What took you so long?"

"Normally, I get help to put my armour on," he explained lamely. "It's a lot quicker that way." He waved his spear. "But I'm here now. What do you want me to do?"

"Fuck, do I have to think of everything myself?" she yelled. "Send your ghosts around and see what the fuck's going on!" She paused. "Hey, did you send a ghost into Dorothy's room? She said she changed to her human form earlier, and nobody was there."

He blinked rapidly, then took a deep breath. "Uh, yeah, that was me, sorry. It took a wrong turn. No harm, no foul, right?"

Wait, what? So all this bullshit is because Justin was peeking at Dorothy? Motherfucker!

"Son of a bitch!" she yelled, and stomped through into the security area. Reaching under the table, she flipped the switch that turned off the incessant fire alarm. "I should seriously let those two take you apart like a fuckin' pita wrap. I thought for sure we were under attack, you insensitive perverted cocksucking asshole!"

As if drawn by her tirade, Dorothy came into the room, carrying her bandolier of smoke grenades and wearing her specially prepared cloak. Sherrel knew it had hooks on the outside, so Dorothy could throw it over an opponent's head and it would latch onto their costume, preventing them from seeing her. The smoke grenades were of course intended to bring about the same effect via a totally different mechanic.

"Why has the fire alarm stopped?" asked Dorothy.

"Because we were never under attack!" yelled Sherrel. "Crusader did something stupid and made me think we were. Because he's a fuckwit." Gritting her teeth, she set the cannon down on the table, because it was too fucking heavy to lug around for too long. And if she kept it in her hands for much longer, she'd be tempted to shoot Justin with it.

A brownish-grey fog roiled into the room then reformed into Geoff, looking vaguely puzzled. "We are not under attack?"

"No, we're not," snapped Sherrel, but even as she said it, a doubt assailed her mind. Wait a minute … where's Alabaster? He should've reported back by now.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," purred a voice from the corridor leading toward the front door. "But don't mind us. Do carry on."

Sherrel spun around, eyes going wide. Marquis stood in the doorway, fully armoured in bone with an elaborate battle-axe in his hands. Beside him was a younger man, armoured in silver plate, holding a longsword that had flames flickering up and down the blade.

Fuuuuck.

<><>​

Marquis

It was a calculated risk to make a grand entrance, but Earl had a soft spot for such theatrics. It wasn't enough to beat one's opponents, so much as it was often necessary to prove to them that they'd never stood a chance in the first place. Stepping out and posing with Robert beside him was pure gold, morale-wise; and besides, he knew something they didn't.

"You." Panzer's voice was a low, almost animalistic growl. She didn't look away from Earl, but her hand felt back behind her toward where she'd left the oversized rifle.

"As you say," Earl responded lightly. "Me."

He wasn't quite sure why—his grounding in human psychology was entirely self-taught from hard experience—but responding to anger with cheer always seemed to awaken a much deeper anger in those he tried it on. It was a useful tactic, and one he employed whenever it seemed necessary.

An angry opponent, after all, was one who wasn't thinking straight.

"Where is she?" If the 'you' had been a growl, this was a straight-up snarl. "Where's that bitch?" Her hand fell on the rifle and she scrabbled for the handgrip. He wasn't worried yet, as it was too heavy to lift one-handed. Besides, he had other concerns.

"Are you referring to Marchioness?" His tone was still light, but had a distinct steely edge beneath it. "I'll thank you not to call my daughter such names. For your own sake, rather than her sensibilities. The last person who truly got her angry was Kaiser, and you probably don't wish to find out what happened to him."

As he'd instructed Robert, the boy was watching their backs while he kept an eye on Crusader, who was observing the whole interaction as if frozen with indecision. He still didn't trust the ghost Master fully, but so far he seemed to be unwilling to step up. Good. Every enemy we can sow doubt with, the better.

"Night!" screamed Panzer. "Fog! Crusader! Get them!" At the same time, she swung around to the table and snatched up the massive rifle.

Several things happened in very quick succession.

<><>​

Marchioness

"Where's that bitch?"

Clinging to the ceiling of the room, more or less directly above Night and Fog, Claire bristled. I'll show you bitch … bitch. But before she could decide what action to take, her father spoke. His answer, she had to admit, was far classier than any that she could've thought up on her own.

And then Panzer started the fight. Claire didn't worry about her father or Robert; they could take care of themselves. She was more concerned with the Gesellschaft duo, as Fog dissolved into a cloud of particulates and Night stepped into the middle of it, effectively concealing her from view.

Except from me. Claire grinned as she shifted her vision to the far ultraviolet, allowing her to spot Night through the obscuring fog. Then she dropped into it herself. Growing a third eye to allow for three-sixty degree vision was child's play for her by now, and she barely paid attention to it as she delved into Fog's mind. While she couldn't read his thoughts, she could certainly look at the shape of them and do something about it. Turn back and fall asleep, she ordered him, impressing the requirement on his brain like a red-hot poker.

As he reverted to human form and slumped to the ground, she reached out her tail toward Night, who was staring at her shifting, camouflaged body in confusion and what might have even been anger. The purpose-grown fang at the very end plunged into Night's side and injected a potent soporific before the woman even thought to dodge.

"What did you doooo?" mumbled Night, even as she fell over.

Yeah, I'll answer that one later, if at all. Making sure her third eye had a clear view of Night, Claire looked to see how the rest of the fight was going.

<><>​

Crusader

Panzer aimed the massive rifle at Marquis but just before she fired, he pulled up cloaking bone on all sides. She pulled the trigger anyway, spitting out what seemed to be a series of razor-edged metal discs that blew the middle three feet of the bone column into shards and dust. Justin yelped and ducked away; some of those discs had come perilously close to him.

"Fuckin' do something!" she screamed at him, repositioning her aim toward the guy with the flaming sword.

As if in slow motion, Justin saw the bone column rise up from the floor behind her, open up, and Marquis stepped out. Reaching out, the osteokinetic flowed bone all over the gun and over Sherrel herself, encasing her in an instant.

"And that will be enough of that," he stated firmly. He looked over toward Justin. "Do you stand down?"

Realising he was still holding his spear, Justin nodded and let it clatter to the ground. Carefully, he raised both hands to shoulder height. "This wasn't my idea," he said. "None of it was."

Marquis nodded gravely. "Of course, you will understand if I seek a second opinion."

"Um, sure?" Justin had just watched Marquis and his people take down several horrifically dangerous capes in quick succession. He wasn't going to argue with anything the man said.

The creature that stalked toward him was barely visible; if he squinted just right, he could see a flickering outline. It reached him and put a clawed hand on his shoulder. Just a moment passed, then it spoke … in a warm feminine voice. "He's sincere."

And just like that, the fight was over.

<><>​

Marquis

"So … what happens now?"

Earl looked around at Crusader's question. With Panzer and Alabaster properly secured, Claire was back in her human form, consolidating her influence over Fog and instituting the same with Night. Apparently her worries about the monster cape reverting mental conditioning were groundless, as Earl himself could have told her; after all, Gesellschaft had managed to brainwash the couple in the first place.

"That depends," he said, taking the opportunity to think about what to say next. "You can stay in Brockton Bay as an independent, or you can join my group. There will be a rebranding if that happens, of course. Or you can leave town. Those are your options."

"Wait, you'd let me join?" Crusader looked taken aback at the idea. "Just like that?"

"If you were sincere, certainly." Earl tilted his head. "There are certain … ideals … that you will have to let go of, but we can help with that. However, Kayden has made the transition with little in the way of problems, and you have capabilities that would be useful when we take the fight to Lung."

"You're going after Lung?" Crusader blinked. "What, really?"

Earl showed his teeth. "Of course. How else am I supposed to show that I'm serious?"

"Well, shit." Crusader scratched the back of his neck. "How can I say no to that? I'm in."

Chuckling, Earl slapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome to the team."



End of Part Twenty-One

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Twenty-Two: Developments

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Director Piggot's Office

PRT ENE

Emily Piggot raised her head at the knock on the door. She knew what this was; word had come down the chain of command that she was getting another strike squad commander to boost her numbers. However, the nameless bureaucrat who had drafted the memo had neglected to add any details. Whether this was due to some kind of obscure grudge, pure forgetfulness, or an assumption that she didn't care about such details, she didn't know. The upshot was, she had no idea who was on the other side of that door.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

"Come in," she called.

The door opened, and her new officer marched in. Neither one saluted; being uncovered and indoors, that wasn't a thing. But as he came to a halt before her desk, he offered a nod of respect for her rank. She returned it without even realising it, because she was in the process of rising to her feet. Her damaged legs allowed her to walk, and she was able to get along with just one cane these days, but it was still painful. However, she wanted to stand, so on her feet she was.

"Lieutenant Calvert, reporting for duty." He was tall, even skinnier than she recalled from their first meeting, but still looked fit enough. Unlike her.

"Calvert," she said, trying not to let her voice become a hiss as her eyes checked over his uniform. Those were PRT undress blues, and the rank tabs on his shoulders were indeed those of a lieutenant; just as they'd been before the powers that be had cashiered him.

Quietly, of course. Nobody in the PRT wanted any of the details of the Ellisburg debacle reaching the general public. How he'd made it back in, she absolutely wanted to know. But she also knew without a doubt that she'd have to be subtle about questioning him. Her impression of him—first, last and always—was that of a twisty snake.

"Director Piggot," he replied with just as little emotion. "It's good to see you again."

Even if the sentiment had been genuine, the feeling wasn't mutual. "I'd heard you were out. Civilian contractor. A little surprised you accepted this kind of pay cut." Nobody joined the PRT to get rich on what a lieutenant took home.

He offered an almost-shrug. "I disliked being a contractor more than I thought I would. No matter your prior experience, they see you as an outsider. Not one of them. And too many times, I saw my advice being discounted because of that. I don't know if people died because of it, but I figure it was only a matter of time. So when they offered me a commission again, I took it."

He was lying. She didn't know what the lie was, or why he was trying to pull the wool over her eyes, but there was bullshit floating in the air right now. However, it wasn't her place to call out her newest subordinate on a perceived untruth. Not until she could prove the bullshit, anyway.

Shortly before she'd met him for the first time, he'd shot his commanding officer because the man wasn't climbing the ladder into the chopper fast enough. In her opinion, this should be enough to give any of his future commanding officers a permanent itch between the shoulder blades.

They hadn't been managed to quite convict him on criminal charges, given that the situation at Ellisburg had been remarkably fraught, and nobody behind Calvert had made it off the ground at all, which his defence lawyer had parlayed into a case of temporary insanity due to overwhelming danger. As the only other survivor of that particular clusterfuck, she'd been called in as an expert witness.

Personally, she thought Calvert should have gotten a more stringent punishment than the Other Than Honorable discharge he'd ended up with but the PRT wanted the whole mess swept quietly under the rug, so they'd allowed his legal counsel to negotiate a (relatively) favourable deal in exchange for zero publicity.

The judgement should have disqualified him from ever wearing the uniform again, but here he was. Back in her ambit, as a strike squad commander no less. She managed not to glare at him, though he could probably feel her distaste from across the desk by now. "Why were you posted here? I didn't request anyone new."

He cleared his throat. "I understand that you've had an upsurge in cape violence in recent weeks. Plus, it seems that a fairly notorious villain has resurfaced. Things are likely to be unstable until they reach a new normal. I'm here to help keep a lid on things."

"Old news." While she wasn't totally happy with the current situation (translation: fuck that shit!) there were some high points here and there. "The major situations have been resolved. Our biggest mover-and-shaker gang has basically been gutted, and the remnants have gone underground or moved on. Most of the others seem to be staying under the radar until they can figure out what's going on. Cape crime is actually down from what it usually is, this time of year."

She could see from his expression that the conversation had taken a turn he wasn't expecting. "But … Marquis is back in town. Wasn't he one of Brockton Bay's biggest hitters, ten years ago?" Why isn't he making his mark, he didn't quite ask.

"From what I understand, yes. That was before my time." She lowered herself into the chair again, carefully. "He's also an exceedingly infuriating man. Also, not to be underestimated. And that's not even counting his daughter."

"I'd heard he had a kid." Calvert nodded. "Marchioness or something, wasn't it? Scuttlebutt says she's some kind of healer. She any good?"

Emily drew in a deep breath. "She's got an ongoing deal with Brockton Bay Central Hospital. She shows up there and sits in the emergency room watching cartoons and eating junk food, and people sitting nearby have their injuries healed and diseases cured just by being in the same room. I've watched the footage. Assuming what's going on there is genuine, she's very very good."

One of Calvert's eyebrows twitched upward. "Interesting. Have you thought about organising a grab? Once we impress on her that aiding and abetting a known criminal figure is a crime in and of itself, we might be able to flip her—"

Emily's legs complained as she came to her feet again, but she didn't care. This was the sort of shit she needed to nip in the bud, as of fucking yesterday. "Lieutenant Calvert! You will stand at attention and you will listen to every word I have to say!"

The harsh tone of her voice brought him up short, as she'd intended. He stiffened to attention, thumbs alongside the seams of his uniform trousers. "Ma'am, yes, ma'am!"

Taking the cane, Emily stalked out from behind the desk, letting the thump of the heavy wood against the carpeted floor act as a kind of punctuation. Slowly, she began to circle him, still talking. "Marquis is indeed a problem, but not one that can be solved by the simple act of attacking him head-on. Doing so—and let me tell you, kidnapping Marchioness would be a fuckup of the highest order—would ensure that all his attention was on you when it came time to deciding who to murder horribly first. Are we on the same page so far? Say 'yes, Director Piggot'."

"Yes, Director Piggot!" His eyes didn't move from a point on the wall over her desk.

"Good." She moved around in front of him. "Second point. Marquis is currently expanding his territory by leaps and bounds. Crime against individuals is dropping off hard in that area, because he has his men circulating and providing protection. For a price, of course."

Calvert's lips twitched, then stilled.

She nodded to him. "You have something to say?"

"Protection rackets are old hat," he said, his tone barely removed from an outright sneer. "Not exactly high-end criminal activity. Hardly what I'd expect a top-drawer supervillain like Marquis to get into."

"Protection rackets, yes." She shook her head. "It's not a racket if you're not just shaking them down for the money. If you're actually providing the required protection, it's called a security operation. His men are, by all accounts, horrifically well-trained and sporting significant body armour. They're also courteous and polite, and they take their jobs extremely seriously. They don't have to threaten anyone to get people to sign up."

He raised his eyebrows. "I bet that's caused more than a bit of a backlash."

"The opposition has tried, and failed." Emily knew she should not be cheering on the employees of a supervillain, but she still felt a certain amount of satisfaction in saying so. "Anyone who's gone after these guys, individually or en masse, has gotten curbstomped so hard it's ridiculous. After the first few incidents, the local business owners have been falling over each other to sign up for a protection plan. And by all accounts, it's working. The few times the criminals actually get away with their crime, he personally reimburses the business owners for their losses."

By now, Calvert had a frown on his face. She nodded and gestured for him to speak.

"So what you're saying is, he's not performing any grandiose acts of supervillainy?" It was partly a question and partly a statement. At her nod, he went on. "Because I could've sworn I read a report about him robbing a bank just recently. Or doesn't that even make the radar around here, anymore?"

Her nostrils flared at the implied slight, but she answered him anyway. "Old information. That wasn't him. Or at least, if it was, it's the best bait and switch I ever saw. He walked into the PRT building, along with Marchioness and another associate, and requested to see me."

"And you didn't have him foamed and arrested on the spot?" Calvert didn't seem to be getting it.

"No. I didn't. Because he had Marchioness along."

"The healer? I fail to understand."

Emily resisted the urge to rub her forehead. "The extremely capable area effect healer, who has stated that she will be attending Endbringer attacks for free. That healer."

It was as though she'd flipped the switch on a twenty thousand watt spotlight. Calvert's confused expression cleared right up. "Oh. Oh."

"Yes." Emily gritted her teeth. "Oh. Now you can see why I've been forced to treat him with extreme care. Fortunately, he's made it easy for us by not actually doing anything that puts him into direct conflict with us."

"I can understand that, yes." Calvert tilted his head slightly in query. "So what did he have to say when he met with you? Or did you meet with him?"

"I did it via remote screen," she confirmed. "He inquired about the amount that was stolen, along with information about how many people were hurt, and handed over escrow cards that supplied enough cash to cover everything, including medical costs, with some left over. If it was him who'd robbed that bank in the first place, the amount reimbursed would've left him severely out of pocket. So I believed him when he said he didn't do it."

"What the hell, ma'am?" Calvert's confused expression was back. "I can see a supervillain disclaiming responsibility for a particular crime, especially if it goes against their 'code'." Still standing at attention, he couldn't use finger quotes. Emily heard them anyway. "But to actually pay money back for a crime he didn't even commit in the first place?"

Emily shook her head. "When you figure it out, Lieutenant, be sure and let me know. In the meantime, were there any other questions about why you don't mess with Marquis that you needed answered right this second?"

<><>​

Coil

"Just one," Thomas said. He had more than that, but he was asking those questions in the other timeline, and getting the answers he needed. That version of Emily Piggot was a lot less happy with him. "You mentioned an associate. He has a team now?"

"So far it's a team of three, including him," Piggot said. "The associate, I'm almost certain, used to work with Kaiser in the Empire Eighty-Eight. The rest of them have just evaporated after some kind of cape battle that was over before we got there. She calls herself Palatina at the moment, but I'd lay odds that she used to go by Purity. How and why she joined Marquis and rebranded, we're going to have to leave in the 'what the hell is going on out there' drawer for the moment."

"And of course, Marchioness has extended the same protections over her as over Marquis." It seemed a no-brainer to Thomas, anyway.

"Correct." Piggot gave him a hard stare. "Now, you're on the same page as the rest of us as to why Marquis and his crew are a hard hands-off for the moment. Do you have any problems with this?"

There was only one correct answer. "No, ma'am. No problems."

"Good." Her eyes dropped to her paperwork. "Dismissed. The Deputy Director can take you down and introduce you to the men."

"Ma'am." He turned and marched from the office, closing the door carefully behind him. Despite his calm demeanour, he was seething. It wasn't supposed to be like this!

When he first got his powers from Cauldron, he'd decided that he needed a suitable location in which to build his powerbase, one with more than its fair share of chaos and unrest. Being able to pick and choose between outcomes was all well and good, but he needed somewhere that his powerset could provide a large enough thumb on the scales. New York or LA, despite the thriving population of villains in each one, would be too hard to manipulate due to the influential heroes also living there; in addition, he needed to be a medium-sized fish in a medium-sized pond, not a tiny fish in a huge pond.

Brockton Bay, with its disproportionate number of capes in a relatively low overall population base, seemed more suited to the task than most. What had really nailed it down for him was the fact that Emily Piggot was the Director there. He hadn't spoken with her since their brief meeting after Ellisburg, but he knew that if he had suffered the kind of injuries she had, forever denying her the chance to be who she'd clearly wanted to be when she joined the PRT, he would be depressed at best and suicidal at worst.

(This was presuming that she hadn't done what he had, and purchased powers from a certain underground organisation. Which she wouldn't have, given her extremely vocal views on capes and powers. Technically speaking, her views could be a cover … but Piggot wasn't exactly a subtle individual. He couldn't see it.)

Which meant that she should've been a prime target for careful manipulation and gaslighting; building himself up as both her most trusted subordinate as Thomas Calvert, and her most feared adversary as Coil. Given a free hand, he would've been essentially running the local branch of the PRT within six months, and the city itself within twelve. Never the man in charge, unless he was pressed for options. He much preferred having several layers of deniability between himself and official scrutiny.

But all that was gone by the wayside now. It was never going to happen. At least, not as quickly as he'd hoped and expected. Far from being the weak and quivering wreck he'd anticipated, the Piggot woman was standing on her own two feet, driven by a will that almost rivalled his own. She would never operate in the field again; that was for certain. But she'd somehow made the transition into the desk job without losing the fire he'd seen in her on that fateful day, the fire that had allowed her to survive Ellisburg.

As he headed for Deputy Director Renick's office, he gritted his teeth in annoyance. It was becoming abundantly clear that Emily Piggot would never be his patsy. Much of his planning would have to be either scrapped or reworked. Worse, if her analysis of the situation was correct, even the ongoing low-level chaos in the city was far lower than he'd expected.

It was hugely ironic that while he had come to Brockton Bay with the intent of capitalising on the unrest and adding to it as needed, an actual supervillain was in the process of calming down a good deal of that same unrest.

Goddamn it, Marquis. Why couldn't you just be a villain like everyone else?

Now he was going to have to find a way to form some sort of alliance with the man, or neutralise his influence on Calvert's affairs in some other way. Of course, if the daughter was as good a healer as Piggot claimed, perhaps some use could be made of her in his organisation, when he got around to building one. He'd never had much to do with children, but surely they were easier to manipulate than adults?

It was something to think about.

<><>​

Lung

Kenta was … not frightened. He was never frightened. Even when fighting Leviathan, he had never felt fear. Anger, yes. Frustration, certainly. But fear had never entered into the equation. So what he felt now could not be quantified as fear.

Still, there was something wrong. Something subtly off with the undercurrents of crime in Brockton Bay. If he was a fish in the ocean, it would be the sense that something large and dark and currently unseen (perhaps unseeable?) was prowling out there in the deep, occasionally circling near, but never quite coming into sight.

So he felt … uneasy.

There had been the instance with the challenge from Marquis delivered by way of one of Kenta's own henchmen, now dead. That gauntlet, once thrown down, had never been picked up. Marquis had not moved against him, and he'd found no target belonging to the bone-shaper that he could attack in turn.

Kenta had told himself that the challenge was merely posturing, that Marquis had neither the power nor the will to step up and confront the Dragon of Kyushu on his own territory. But then he'd heard of the clash with the Empire Eighty-Eight. Somer's Rock, destroyed in a massive explosion. It was an assassination attempt, he was sure. But of whom, by whom?

Had that been Marquis trying to decapitate the leadership of the Empire, in one fell swoop? Or was it one of the neo-Nazis, deciding that the loss of a neutral meeting ground was worth it to destroy a potential rival? The subsequent battle—more hinted at than witnessed—had proven that at least some had survived from both sides, though the sightings of a huge flying cat-like creature had confused everyone immensely.

As if that wasn't bad enough, there had been the other incident that had hit rather closer to home. He'd been astonished, then outraged, when he turned on the news to find that someone bearing a remarkable resemblance to him had attacked the PRT building. This had returned to astonishment when the clone (or whatever it was) had been handily defeated by someone looking a lot like Purity, working in conjunction with Marquis and Marchioness.

Finally, there were the men belonging to Marquis who had spread out through what had originally been Merchant territory and then into what had been Empire turf. They wore no costumes, flaunted no obvious powers, but they were strong and fast, and very organised. Every clash between them and his men had left the ABB people lying on the ground nursing a variable number of broken bones. And word was spreading; when the Marquis men take your money to protect you, they protect you.

The time to wonder was over, he decided. He had waited long enough for Marquis to make a move against him, but the veteran supervillain had stayed his hand. Kenta chose to believe that the man had repented from his initial intemperate statements; however, they had been made, and the piper was due his payment.

He would not strike at the man's child; at first, anyway. The fact that an attempt had been made to kidnap her, and it had gone badly for the kidnappers, indicated to him that there were hidden safeguards in place against such a thing. Besides, he didn't wish to bring the wrath of every cape from Brockton Bay to New York down on his head for attacking a hospital. That way lay the Birdcage at best and a Kill Order at worst.

No. He would strike at Marquis' territory, at his men, and draw him out that way.

And then Brockton Bay would truly see the measure of the man called Marquis.

<><>​

Crusader

Claire's heel impacted Justin under his sternum and drove him back harder than any teenage girl had a right to do so. He staggered, the wind driven out of him, then landed on his ass with an undignified thud. Two of his ghosts moved to lift him to his feet as he held up his hands in surrender.

"I give, I give. How did you even do that?"

Marquis' daughter barely seemed to be breathing hard, despite the fact that they'd been sparring for over an hour. Her movements as she came closer were catlike, almost alien in their precision. When he looked at her eyes, he shuddered; they were feline, slitted vertically with gold on either side. As he watched, nictitating membranes slid across and back, faster than he could blink.

"Part of it's training, and part of it's remaking my body to do what I want it to do," she explained. Her voice, at least, was normal. "I've had a lot of practice with that, over the past few years. My bones aren't calcium, my nerves don't work the way yours do, and my skin is as bullet-resistant as I can make it and still be flexible."

"That should still leave your internal organs vulnerable to blunt force trauma." He straightened up painfully and shook his head. "They aren't. I've had my ghosts pummelling you and it hasn't done a damn thing."

"Well, no," she admitted, taking a towel from where it hung on the rail. "I've rearranged and remodelled them for greater efficiency, as well as rebuilding them out of much sturdier materials. Carbon fibre, for instance. I've had to carefully juggle my metabolism so my body can naturally renew my new organs, but it's a thing. Even one of your spears won't do much more than puncture my epidermis." Tossing the towel to him, she took another one and wiped her face with it.

"Just don't question it," advised Robert, heading past on the way to the showers. From the way Jonas had been throwing the other young man around, he should've been showing more wear and tear too, but only his exercise outfit was exhibiting scuff marks. "Miss Claire takes the normal rules, folds them into a paper plane, and tosses them away."

"I do not." Claire sounded amused. "I take note of the ones I choose to follow at the moment, then fold them into a paper plane and toss them very accurately. Some rules need to be followed, even if I don't have to." She gestured across the gym to her father. "Isn't that right, Dad?"

"That is correct, Claire." Marquis—Justin was more or less okay with thinking of Marchioness as Claire, but his new employer would always be Marquis—stepped away from Kayden and offered her a brief bow of acknowledgement. They had been sparring just as strenuously as Claire and Justin had, only without the use of powers. "There is such a thing as the uncanny valley. While your Marchioness persona offers many options, you need to be sure not to stray into it. Very well, everyone; that seems to be a wrap. Refresh yourselves, and I shall see you all in the morning."

Claire nodded to Justin. "See you later. And remember to work on that disengage. It doesn't matter if you're wearing body armour, or even if I've got you reinforced like I do everyone else; being tagged is always bad."

He nodded ruefully, quite aware that he was being schooled in hand-to-hand capabilities by someone who had to be ten years younger and fifty pounds lighter than him. "I'll do that. And thanks for giving me a chance."

"Eh, it's all good." She offered half a shrug. "Dad says we need good people around us." She strolled off in her father's direction, leaving him staring after her. Did she just call me a good person? After everything I've done?

Kayden came past him, heading for the exit. "Hi, Justin. How are you finding it? Working for Marquis, I mean."

He fell into step beside her. "Is it a bad thing if I say 'weird'? I mean, I never knew Kaiser's real name until I'd been with the Empire for years. But I know everyone's real names here. Are they that certain I'm not going to turn them in, or simply out them to all and sundry?"

A chuckle escaped her lips. "You don't see it, do you?"

"What?" He couldn't figure out why she was so amused. "See what?"

She flicked a glance back over her shoulder. "Marchioness. Claire. She's the secret. She can read people. I'm not sure how thoroughly she can do it, but any new hires get to meet her before they get shown anything of value. Some get told everything, some get told only what they need to know, and some … well, there's one division of Earl's organisation that never quite seems to go anywhere or do anything interesting. Those guys know nothing at all."

"Plants." It wasn't hard to make that connection. "Informants. Ringers."

"Got it in one." She smiled. "From what I understand, the first time around he was betrayed by a disgruntled minion. This time … the people who are likely to do that are in a place where they can't. They don't even know the location of this house, let alone what Earl's name is."

"And in the meantime, they're reporting on each other to their respective bosses, and not getting a single idea about what he's really doing." Justin shook his head in admiration. "That's actually some kind of impressive. If you can pull it off, of course."

"Apparently, she can." Kayden tilted her head slightly. "Did you want to know anything else? I do need to shower."

"Just one thing." He grimaced. "Why me? How could they know I wouldn't betray them? How can they just … trust me?"

Her gaze on him became intense. "Well, are you about to betray them?"

"No." The word popped out before he had a chance to think about it. "No, I'm not. It's not the Empire—"

"No, you're right. It's not." Kayden looked amused. "It's run by a man who's a damn sight smarter and more visionary than Kaiser ever was."

"If you'll just let me finish." He wrinkled his nose at her. "It's not the Empire, and that's a good thing. There, people like Bradley and Melody were always kind of sneering down at me, pushing me to be purer than pure because I wasn't as tough as they were. It was almost like being in a cult, only I didn't see it at the time."

"It was exactly like being in a cult, because that's what it was." Kayden's voice was quiet, introspective. "I only saw it myself after I got out, after Max tried to murder me. Does Claire have you doing the mental exercises, too?"

"Uh, yeah." They weren't easy, but he pushed his way through the exercises whenever he had a chance, forcing himself to see different people as different, not wrong. Somehow, Claire knew whenever he wasn't keeping up with them, and her disappointment was almost palpable, so he tried all the harder. "Does it get easier?"

"Eventually, yes." She patted him on the shoulder. "Well, I'm going this way. Have a good night."

"Night." He headed off to the showers. There was a lot for him to think about, but the future was brighter than it had been in awhile.

<><>​

Lung

It was possible to tell when the small motorcade passed into the Marches, as Marquis' territory was called by the locals. The streets were cleaner with far fewer potholes, all the street-lights were operational, and there was no graffiti on the walls. Even the stylised 'M', gold over blue, was affixed to street signs instead of being hastily sprayed onto buildings. That spoke of a man who had made his claim over an area and did not intend to leave in a hurry.

We will see about that.

From time to time, Kenta spotted a man (or possibly a woman) in a black long-coat, a gleam of gold on one lapel. These people were often standing in the shadows, occasionally on a rooftop, and every single one turned to watch as the ABB contingent drove past. If Kenta had been of a superstitious bent, he would've found it creepy as fuck. But he wasn't, so he didn't.

At least, that was what he told himself.

Fewer buildings were boarded up, and it seemed that shops were staying open later at night instead of locking the goods up behind multiple metal screens and going home. This was because people were up and around; not adolescents out and about to cause mischief, but those he assumed to be workers, going to and from late shifts. While he'd heard that muggings were almost unheard of in the Marches, it was something that had to be seen to be believed.

Of course, all they'd had to contend with up until now were ordinary people who couldn't put up a proper fight. They hadn't had to deal with someone like him before. Well, he was here now.

Up ahead, he spotted what would be a good enough target for the night's exercise; a small group of shops including a convenience store, an all-night grocery and a liquor store. "Stop here," he ordered.

Obediently, the driver pulled the car over to the side of the road. The other two vehicles parked behind his, and the men in them got out. Some watched the alleyways, while others scanned the rooftops. He thought their caution was a little overblown, but they were the ones who'd had to deal with Marquis' men, not him.

Slowly, almost leisurely, he emerged from the car. Looking around, he spotted three of the black long-coats; one on the rooftop, speaking on the phone and the other two on the ground. Of those two, one was standing and watching him and his men, while the last one seemed to be hurrying the people out of the stores. Out of harm's way.

It was a sensible precaution, he supposed. It was difficult to get protection money out of dead people.

"You," he said, indicating ten of the fourteen men he'd brought along. "Watch behind. Make sure we are not attacked from surprise. The rest of you, with me." Stepping off the curb, he advanced across the street, his men trailing behind him.

The one Marquis man stood watching him until he was halfway across, then held up one hand, palm outward. "That's far enough."

Bemused, Kenta stopped. He saw no weapons being trained on him, and no laser designators were visible in the night air. "You do know who I am, yes?"

"Yes. You're Lung." The man didn't seem hugely impressed to be standing in the presence of the one man who had fought Leviathan to a standstill. Or, more to the point, someone who could fry him to a greasy smear on the pavement with barely a thought. "You're also outside ABB territory. I haven't been told that you're here with permission, so I'm requesting that you leave."

"I do not ask permission." Kenta spat the word out. "I go where I please. And I say that where I stand is Azn Bad Boyz territory. Which means that you are trespassing."

"Marquis hasn't told me this is your territory." The man in the long-coat was still speaking as though he were discussing the weather, as if Lung were not already bulking out and emanating heat. "Until he does, I'm going to assume otherwise. I suggest you take your men and leave."

There was a shout of alarm from one of Kenta's men. He half-turned his head to see black-clad figures moving on the rooftops. It was then that all became clear to him. The man on the ground; talking, visible, being politely obstructive … was stalling. Every member of Marquis' corps must have started moving the moment his cavalcade went out of sight, and now they knew where to come.

Kenta gestured to his four men and pointed at their sole adversary. "He offends me. Remove him from my sight."

This was a calculated move. Would the man fight or retreat? Would more join in to assist their comrade, or would they hang back to observe? He didn't know their tactics, how they fought. They had a certain reputation, so they couldn't be too incompetent.

The four moved forward, readying their weapons. A steel pipe whistled as it was swung through the air. Yellowing fluorescent light glinted off a switchblade. Metal links clinked as a chain was shaken out of a sleeve. The last man, bigger than the rest, grinned as he settled a pair of knuckledusters onto his hands.

As they neared their adversary, he stepped backward, up onto the curb. Just for a moment, it seemed that he was retreating, but then his retreat ceased and he went from reacting to acting. Moving almost in a blur, he moved on the man with the steel pipe, took it away from him, and hit him with it. Even as the first man began to go down and the others reacted, the man in the black long-coat attacked again and again. Kenta decided there and then that the man had some level of super-speed; nobody normal could move like that. Worse, between the whistling crunch noises and the bone-deep thuds, it was clear his men were taking a thrashing.

Less than three seconds later, four ABB men were down, not having scored a hit on the Marquis man. Kenta considered himself no stranger to violence, but he had to admit he was more than a little impressed. Of course, the man had to be a cape. Probably a combat Thinker with a little bit of Mover, from the way he was fighting.

"Last chance." The man hadn't so much as broken a sweat. He just stood there, swinging the pipe idly forward and back, forward and back. "Pick up your trash and go. We don't abide littering around here."

Littering? LITTERING?

Kenta flung his arm forward, sending a burst of fire slashing toward his black-clad target. To his astonishment and anger, the man entirely evaded the flame, as though he'd been trained to do exactly that. More shouts of surprise came from behind him, but he didn't care. This annoying little insect had stood in his way, and so he was going down.

As he drew back to throw another burst of flame, the man darted toward him, not away, until it would be virtually impossible to dodge the fire a second time. Kenta barely had time to wonder why he was so intent on committing suicide, when the black-clad man's aim became clear. Specifically, the pipe he was holding, aimed at Kenta. Repeatedly.

Moving turning, kicking, striking, the man danced around Kenta like a dervish. As the leader of the ABB and possessor of a basic Brute rating even when not ramped up, Kenta could take a hit. But the rain of attacks landing on him were more than just a hit. They were hammerblows, leaving welts and almost driving him to his knees with the incessant assault. His head rang and he staggered from side to side. When he brought up one arm to cover his face and head, what felt like a tree-trunk drove into his short ribs, knocking the wind out of him.

This destroyed his balance, and he went down anyway. But he had one last fuck-you up his sleeve. As he dropped to one knee, he gave his growing anger an outlet, bursting out with flame in all directions. There was a brief scream from in front of him and he bared his teeth in triumph.

But when he opened his eyes, Marquis' man was still on his feet, albeit a dozen yards away. His own downed men were the ones who had cried out; in fact, it seemed that their clothing was still on fire. Were he any other man, Kenta would have felt more than a little embarrassed at that point. But he was Lung, and Lung was never in the wrong.

Another member of Marquis' men stepped out of the shops, bearing a bulky red cylinder. Kenta tensed, wondering if Marquis had in some way managed to get hold of containment foam. But it was just an ordinary fire extinguisher; a few quick passes put out the burning clothing.

The man who had attacked Kenta tossed aside the bent pipe; it clattered to the roadway. "Lung, you're done here. You've done more damage to your men than to us. Take them and go."

Kenta snarled under his breath. Even now, the injuries dealt him by the hail of blows were healing, the aches and pains gradually fading away. So what if four of his weakling minions were down? Big deal. They were expendable anyway. They all were. He, Lung, was the important one.

"Fight me," he struggled to say. While his jaw hadn't separated yet, it was getting there, making it hard to speak clearly. Metal scales slid out of his skin, and he felt flames dancing around his body. "Fight me and die … or bring Marquis here."

The silence that fell then was broken by a single repetitive sound.

toc

toc

toc

Kenta looked around as Marquis rounded the corner, an elegant white cane made of bone in his hand, striking on the pavement with each step. "I'm here, Lung." He came to a halt, hands crossed over the top of the walking stick while he eyed his potential adversary. "You, however, will be leaving."

Angered past the point of casual banter, Kenta opened his mouth and let out a blast of fire in Marquis' direction. It washed over the street, lighting up the night; when it died down, he saw that a curved shell of bone had taken his place. Despite the heat of the flame, the bone only seemed mildly scorched.

The little man thought to hide from him! How dare he! Kenta roared and leaped at the barrier. Grabbing it with massive clawed hands, he ripped great chunks away, tearing it to pieces.

And that was when he discovered there were not one, but two people on the other side. Marquis, of course, and a golden-eyed woman in a gold and blue costume. The woman was crouched down, grinning up at Kenta.

"Hi," she said, and flared into incandescent light. Kenta had time to form one brief thought—Purity—before she hit him at point-blank range with her spiralling blast. Firing upward as she was, she launched him bellowing into the air. He had barely enough time to register that the remainder of his men were down and secured—it had happened behind his back, while he was focusing on the one man beating on him—before the entire tableau was out of sight.

The landing was going to hurt, but the knowledge that he'd been forcibly ejected from Marquis' territory, leaving his men behind, was going to hurt his pride even more.

This is going to suck.

<><>​

Marchioness

Claire strolled around the corner with Robert and Justin, to join her father and Kayden at the site of the abortive battle. "Well, that was brief," she observed. "I'm guessing you did it this way to cut down on collateral damage?"

"I did," agreed Earl. "We'll meet again, someplace where I don't have to worry about people's livelihoods. And then we can make a crater with him. Several craters."

Robert frowned slightly. "I wonder how well I'd go against him," he mused. "I mean, he does fire and I do fire. He does armour and I do armour."

Claire put her hand on his arm. "You'd beat him."

"And you know this how?" asked Justin, watching bemusedly as the shop owners crowded around Marquis, thanking him for his intercession. The Watchers, as Claire privately called them, had melted back into the shadows from whence they came.

"That's easy," Claire said airily. "Didn't you know? The knight always beats the dragon."

Justin facepalmed.



End of Part Twenty-Two

 

[Ack]

Another Way

Part Twenty-Three: A New Viewpoint

[A/N: this chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Monday Morning, December 10, 2007

Two Months After the Lung Ejection

Abigail Beltane leaned against the window of the train and stared out at the landscape going by. Boston was as far north as she'd ever been in New England, but Brockton Bay was where Earl had said he was taking Claire, and so that was where she was going now. The past eight months had been interesting, necessitating her to live by her wits more than once, but now it was time for a change.

Over the last two of those months, she'd noticed a distinct lack of Gesellschaft assassins after her blood. Her inquiries into the matter—necessarily discreet and roundabout in nature—had eventually garnered for her the intriguing information that the US hub of contact for the German cape organisation had been located in Brockton Bay … specifically, past tense had. At some point following Earl's relocation to that city, the Empire Eighty-Eight (a more pretentious name Abigail had trouble imagining) had simply … ceased to be. The head of the gang (Kaiser) as well as all but a very few of its core members had vanished like a puff of smoke on a windy day. Which meant that, while Gesellschaft could still insert capes into the US, they didn't have the ease or freedom to do it that they'd had before. Or, for that matter, a local base to work from.

As for the 'very few', those had either gone into PRT custody, or reappeared under different names—working for Marquis. Palatina, sporting a blue and gold pseudo-military costume, was almost certainly Purity rebranded, while Legionnaire (wearing the armour of a Roman soldier, carrying a shortsword and a spear) had clearly been Crusader once upon a time. But somehow, despite the fact that Marquis was now the head of the most powerful cape gang in the city (she was mildly interested in finding out how he'd ended up recruiting Knight Errant), the local PRT never moved against him.

Lung was apparently still a power in the city. Abigail had vaguely heard the name before, but wasn't quite sure who he was until she looked more deeply into the matter. When she made the connection with Kyushu, she was much more impressed … and yet, there was a disconnect between the cape who had survived the fight with Leviathan and the would-be crime lord of Brockton Bay. Especially since he'd clashed with Marquis once before (or twice; sources were uncertain) and come off second best all the way. Whether it was one defeat or two, he'd been notably reluctant to attempt any reclamation of his former 'unbeaten' title. If anything, there seemed to be an unspoken truce between the two. How long it would last was anyone's guess.

As for young Claire, her little acushla was making waves for herself as well. The girl's Marchioness identity was well-established in the city by now, though the various commentators weren't quite sure what to make of her. While the children of parahumans were known to often take on a variation of their parents' powers, those children usually either debuted working alongside their elders, or (very much more rarely) took up an adversarial role. Claire had done neither; while she'd been entirely transparent about her parentage and her ongoing affiliation with Marquis, she had also made it a regular event to attend the Brockton Bay General Hospital. Not even bothering to go upstairs, she chose instead to park herself in the emergency room and watch cartoons while everyone in the emergency room was healed of their various ailments around her. This included the patients that the medical staff wheeled in from their various wards. While Claire herself apparently paid no attention to what was going on around her, choosing instead to eat candy and drink soda from a rolling cooler. Because of course that's how my Claire acushla would play it.

There had reportedly been one attempt to abduct her from the hospital, unanimously decried by everyone in the city who chose to speak up about it. This attempt was foiled by Mega Girl, newest member of the Brockton Bay Brigade (ironically, the same team that had tried and failed to capture Marquis, back in the day). The cape responsible (a Tinker called Panzer, leading a remnant of the ill-fated Empire Eighty-Eight) had been captured and handed over to authorities by none other than Marquis and his allies.

Abigail could've told the idiot that they'd been extremely lucky. While going up against Marquis in the normal run of matters was no more deadly than any other cape clash, defaulting straight to lethal measures was extremely likely to draw the same in response. More to the point, posing a serious threat to his daughter's welfare could be seen as an elaborate way to commit suicide; the only way she could see that moron surviving to be handed over to the PRT was if they'd been a woman.

As the train rattled into the station, she got up and pulled her luggage off the overhead rack. She never travelled with more than she could pack into a single carry-on bag; waiting around for her luggage to be unloaded was a prime way to set herself up for a sniper shot. Still, she was adept at making do, and she'd never been much of a fashionista anyway. When it came to clothing, bargain bins were perfectly acceptable.

She stepped out onto the platform, scanning for the usual signs of danger without even thinking about it. People paying attention to her while pretending not to was a moderate red flag; doing so while talking on the phone much bigger and much redder. An earpiece, with or without the connecting cord, blew the signal all the way out to 'get the fuck out of Dodge'. It was possible to get a false positive, but she was very good at telling the gaze of someone who had made her as a person of interest from that of some guy who just wanted to massage her ass with his eyeballs.

Within thirty seconds, two potential problems cropped up. Tall, well-built fit men, each wearing a black long-coat over similarly coloured pants and shirt, with a tiny gold badge on the lapel. She wasn't close enough to make out what the pin read, but these guys were cutting through the crowd like a pair of sharks in a school of minnows, eyes everywhere. From the way they moved, they were extremely adept at handling themselves in a close-quarters situation, and she wouldn't have bet against skill in firearms either.

Just about the time she realised that they were both wearing earpieces, one of them glanced her way. Instinctively, she froze and let her eyes drift away from his, though she strongly suspected the guy wasn't fooled. Time hung in the balance while she debated internally whether to saunter away casually or make a break for it before the place could be surrounded—then the guy acted, just not in the way she'd expected.

Flicking his eyes away from hers, he reached out and grabbed a youngster of seventeen or eighteen from the crowd and smacked him face-first against one of the pillars holding up the roof. His free hand swooped down to catch what turned out to be a wallet, then his partner tapped someone else on the shoulder. The person turned, saw the wallet, and expressed shock and surprise.

Abigail decided it was best to absent herself from the scene before the long-coat guys decided they needed come and talk to her as well. Using the crowd as cover, she strolled out of the station, wondering exactly what that was she'd just seen.

Not cops, not PRT, and they weren't masked so probably not capes. What's going on here?

Before she made any important moves in Brockton Bay, she decided, she needed answers. And the person she figured who would have the most answers was probably Earl himself.

Now, how do I track down the most dangerous man in the city?

<><>​

Thirty minutes later, she paid the cabbie off and climbed out of the car. Slinging her carry-bag over her shoulder, she looked up at the imposing house before her and nodded to herself. That's definitely a place Earl would live in, to be sure. Practised eyes picked out subtle hints of a high-end security system and she grinned to herself. From what he'd said to her, he'd never really forgiven himself for allowing the home invasion that had nearly caused Claire to get hurt, so it made sense that he'd double down on his security in the here and now.

Of course, anyone getting past all that would then be forced to deal with Earl himself, Jonas, the deceptively dangerous Claire, and of course the other three people Earl had brought into the team while she'd been away (she had no real idea of their capabilities but knowing Earl, they would be no pushovers). She doubted anyone seeking to break into the house of rich entrepreneur Earl Marchant—she'd found his name in the phone book, of all the ways to locate someone—would be quite ready for that level of punishment. And even if, by some fluke of bad luck, they were aware of his secret identity … they still wouldn't be ready for it. Especially now that I'm back.

She headed up the front steps to the wide portico, considered knocking for a moment—I'd probably need a sledgehammer to make myself heard through it, so I would—then spotted the doorbell button and pressed it. The deep and stately tones were barely audible through the door, but at least the thing worked. She waited, presuming that anyone coming to answer the front door would likely need a little time to get there.

The lock clicked and the massive door opened inward with nary a creak. Jonas stood there, as imperturbable as ever. "Hm," he observed. "Miss Beltane. It's been some time. Are you well?"

The words weren't all he greeted her with. She noted that his right hand was hidden behind the door, and his left was held in a certain way, asking a question. That was part of a repertoire of hand-signs they'd used back when she'd still been employed by Earl, as a way of asking if the other person was under duress. She couldn't really blame him for wondering, given that she'd just now turned up out of the blue after eight whole months of radio silence.

"'Course I'm well, Jonas, you great lummox," she said happily. Her free hand formed the sign all is good. "Is it me, or are you even bigger than I remember you being? And for God's sake, call me Abigail. Anything else makes me feel old."

"It's not you, Abigail," he responded, a smile threatening to crack his grim visage. "There's been changes made. Come on in. Does Mr. Marchant know you were coming?"

"Well, if he did, it's because he's just that good," she said cheerfully. "I only got off the train maybe an hour ago. What do you mean, 'changes'?"

Jonas opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching down the wide marble staircase. "Abigail? Is that you?" The voice was familiar, as was the girl who came into view a second later. Eight months had been kind to her, it was readily apparent, as she bounded down the final stretch, taking five and six steps at a time. Abigail's heart leaped into her mouth as she half-expected Claire to trip or stumble at any moment, but the girl made it to the bottom unscathed.

"Claire acushla! You've grown, so you have!" Abigail dropped her bag and opened her arms, then braced herself. It was good that she had, because the Claire that came in for a full-on glomp had a few inches and a few pounds on the girl she'd left behind. But even that didn't matter, because even as she spun Claire around, she felt all the myriad aches and pains that had built up over the last few days just wash away.

Ahh, yes. I'd forgotten about that little detail. Being Claire's friend was literally good for a body.

"Abigail, it's so good to see you!" Claire's face was alight with happiness as she reluctantly disentangled herself from Abigail's embrace. "How have you been? Where did you go? Are you back now, or are you just visiting? Dad's gonna be so thrilled—did he know you were coming? Have you ever been to Brockton Bay before, or is this your first time? Are you okay? I mean, you were away for so long!"

Abigail laughed out loud as she took Claire's hands in hers. It seemed her young charge had begun to open up and come out of her shell in the older woman's absence, if the torrent of questions was any indication. It was good to see her so exuberant, not to mention confident.

"Well now, Claire, I've been around and about and no mistake. I've met bad people and good, and I'd like to think I was one of the good, so I would. And yes, if your da will be having me, I'd like for me to be back. Is he in the house, or busy?" The other questions she decided to shelve for the moment. There would be time enough for that later.

"Oh, he's upstairs," Claire told her happily. "We're just now going over strategies for dealing with any new villain gangs that might come to town. Also, for undermining Lung on his own turf."

"Lung," she said carefully. "That's the dragon man who fought Leviathan, yes? I have read some things about him. They say your father beat him once, or maybe twice."

"Oh, only the once. The other time was a clone." Claire started for the stairs, towing Abigail with her. "Come on up. See you in a bit, Jonas."

The big man nodded once. "I'll see you then, chick."

Bemused, Abigail allowed herself to be drawn along in Claire's wake, admiring the house as she went. "Your da actually fought that great lump of a monster? And what do you mean, the other was a clone? I always thought that sort of thing was aught but rumour and tales."

"Well, it would've been," Claire acknowledged. "But we had a villain called Blasto who specialised in that sort of thing. If he'd kept his head down, everything would've been okay. But he just had to make clones of Lung and Dad to frame them both for stuff, so we had to step in before things went too far sideways."

Abigail considered Claire's blithe explanation. There was a lot not being said, she suspected. "And how did matters turn out for this Blasto?" Having both Earl and Lung annoyed at him, she decided, would not have been a great career move.

"Oh, he had a hybrid clone of Dad and Lung maturing right then and there. It kind of broke out of his control ... and, well, ate him."

"Really?" Abigail would not have been the thief she was without being able to read people. And as good as Claire was at hiding her tells—she was already almost supernatural at it, and in another few years would be basically impossible to catch out in a lie—Abigail was just that little bit better. So far. "Just so happened to break out of his control, hmm? Might it have had a little help, there?"

The dirty look Claire sent in her direction made her day. "How do you always do that?"

"Never try to con a con artist, my dearest Claire." Abigail reached out with her fingertip and booped the girl gently on the nose. "So what happened to the hybrid clone after it feasted upon the unfortunate Blasto? And could he not have picked a better name? That one makes it sound like his capability should have been grenades instead of genetics, so it does."

Claire's expression lost its exuberance. "I … well, I had to subdue and dispose of it, after. A clone of Lung, sure. A clone of Dad, I could deal with. But a clone of both? I've got to draw the line somewhere, right?"

Abigail tilted her head to one side at Claire's words. "You speak as though you didn't simply dispose of them down the nearest available open elevator-shaft. I detect a secret."

Oddly enough, Claire glanced evasively aside at that. "I'll, uh, fill you in later." Before Abigail could press for more details, she turned the polished brass handle on an elaborately carved door and opened it. "Hey, Dad," she said cheerfully as she entered. "Guess who just showed up out of the blue."

As Abigail followed Claire into the room, she saw the people there were dressed in casual clothing, with most of them seated in comfortable chairs in a rough semicircle around a large whiteboard. Looking as fit and healthy as he ever had been, Earl stood at the whiteboard, while the chairs were occupied by a petite woman with mousy brown hair, two young men, and a teenage boy. They all turned to look at her and she noted that while she'd never met any of them before, the boy bore a distinct likeness to Earl himself. Which was odd, because he'd never spoken of any young male relatives before.

"Good God," Earl said after half a second of what she judged to be stunned silence. "Abigail. When did you get back into town?" Abandoning his position at the whiteboard, he ducked past the chairs and came straight over toward her.

"Just an hour or so ago, leannán," she said, taking his hands in hers. But as she leaned in for a kiss, she noticed an unexpected hesitation on his part. Glancing past him, she saw that the woman's eyes were narrowed in a somewhat displeased fashion, so she diverted her aim and kissed him on the cheek instead.

So, that's the way of things now, is it? It wasn't as though she could exactly blame Earl for moving on; she was the one who had walked away from him after all, without leaving any specific length of time to wait for her. It had also been her choice (albeit for his protection) to cut off all communications; to his perceptions, she would've disappeared into the void eight months ago. Calling him 'lover' immediately on her return had been, she admitted to herself, a little precipitous. Also, more than a little risky, given that the woman was probably Purity (now Palatina), whose blasts could reportedly level small buildings.

"Well, it's very good to see you again." The enthusiasm in his voice was unfeigned as he turned to the others in the room. "Everyone, this is Abigail Beltane, a good friend of mine and previous bodyguard to Claire before she had to move on due to … complications."

"Wait, I know that name." Both the woman and one of the young men had reacted to Earl's introduction, but it was the man who spoke up. He was in his late teens or early twenties with sandy brown hair and the unconscious arrogance of someone who is good-looking and knows it. "Kaiser had us on the lookout for any mention of you maybe six months, a year ago? He never did tell us why."

"He told me," Palatina said bluntly. "Gesellschaft wanted her in their hands or dead because of something she stole from them, and they weren't picky which one it was. When she left town, he figured it wasn't our problem and left them to it." She addressed her next words directly to Abigail, with the barest hint of a challenge. "It looks like you're sneakier than they thought."

"As they say in the old country, it's better to be a coward for a minute than dead for the rest of your life." Unconsciously, Abigail bounced lightly on the balls of her feet. "Anyone here still interested in collecting that Gesellschaft bounty?"

"Absolutely not." Earl's voice, harshly no-nonsense, cut across the almost-banter like a chainsaw. "Even if Abigail were not a valued comrade, she is a guest under my roof and I won't countenance even a joke about turning her in for whatever those people are offering."

His words hung in the air just long enough for the silence to become uncomfortable before the teenager scrambled to his feet. "Wasn't about to, Uncle Earl. Hey, Ms. Beltane, isn't it? I'm Marcus. Claire's told me all about you."

Abigail gave Earl a dry look—wow, really?—before giving Marcus her full attention. "Of course you are," she said warmly, holding out her hand. "But you can call me Abigail, fear óg." Between the name and the family resemblance, she figured she was talking to one of the clones Claire had alluded to earlier. It was eerie to say the least, looking into the face of someone who had been created more or less from whole cloth less than a twelvemonth ago, and yet walked and spoke as one who had lived life for more years than that. "It's good to meet another member of the family." And Claire did this? My little acushla's more talented than I gave her credit for.

He shook her hand firmly, showing both strength and restraint. "It's good to meet you too, Abigail. What's 'fahr-ohg' mean?"

"Ah. Hm." She smiled broadly. "'Tis Irish for 'young man', so it is." She nodded toward the other seated people. "Would you do me a kindness and introduce me to your friends, then?"

"Oh, sure." Marcus didn't seem to have noticed the earlier awkwardness, or perhaps he'd chosen to ignore it. Either way, he indicated each of the others in turn. "That's Ms. Russel, that's Robert and this is Justin."

"Ahh, to be sure." Abigail smiled at each one. "I'd wager your names in costume are Palatina, Knight Errant and Legionnaire, then? 'Tis in the news you've been on occasion. I'm impressed." Right up until the handsome fellow spoke up, she wouldn't have known which of Legionnaire or Knight Errant he was. Fortunately, he'd given her the clue to his original allegiance when he spoke up earlier, so she was able to get it right without having to guess.

"That's us." Palatina gave her a calculating stare. Though her tone wasn't quite as hostile as it had been before, it still didn't give Abigail any confidence they'd be sharing girl talk any time soon. "We haven't heard anything about you. In fact, this is the first I've heard of you from anyone other than Earl or Claire."

"And that's the way I like it," Abigail assured her. "Not for me the big splash. I wear no mask, take no cape name. I just take … things. Usually, unique things. Usually for pay. On occasion I steal reputations, set up situations to leave people looking bad. But I leave no calling card, and I do not ever spread my name willy-nilly. I prefer for my successes to be their own advertisement."

"Sounds to me like you'd make a great assassin," Legionnaire observed. "Not that I've got anything against it. You do you."

"Sure, I could do that and all." Abigail gave him a measured nod. "But I choose not to. Not because I consider life to be sacred or anything so pointlessly abstract. There are many out there whose lives undoubtedly need to be cut short as soon as someone can arrange it, and well we all know it. No, I just know I'd be good at it, and I worry I would become somebody I do not like overmuch if I began to consider killing to be an acceptable option for … well, anything other than saving my own hide, or another life."

"That's … actually a really good point." The broad-shouldered black-haired man whom Marcus had introduced as 'Robert' looked thoughtful. Abigail was strongly inclined to suspect he was the other clone Claire had alluded to. If Marcus was derived from Earl's DNA, then Robert was the genetic derivation of Lung, remodelled. Metal armour and flame were a somewhat unusual juxtaposition of power effects, after all.

"To be honest, I can't disagree with your analysis of the matter." Earl stepped to the side so it was clear he was addressing the whole room rather than just Abigail. "I've killed in the past, and not just to save my life. At the time I considered it wholly necessary, but over the last few years I've found myself wondering if it needed to be so very black and white. Yes, if your life is in peril and the only way out is by killing your aggressor, then you can assume they understand this, and you're not murdering an innocent. But sometimes … I didn't necessarily need to kill someone but I did it anyway, just to ensure that they wouldn't get up and try to kill me when my back was turned."

"Heroes, too?" That was Legionnaire. All eyes turned to him, and he put his hands up defensively. "Hey, I'm just saying. Sometimes Hookwolf would get into stories from the old days, things he'd heard from before he joined the Empire." He nodded to Earl. "To hear him tell it, you were death on two legs when it came to anyone who got in your way. Heroes, villains, it didn't matter. You had a reputation. Even Jack Slash chose to walk away rather than get in your face when you refused to play his sick little games."

Earl snorted softly. "Everyone should live long enough to hear the stories told about what they used to be like. I didn't have one reputation, boy. I had several. As for the one where I killed any hero who got in my face, you're aware of the Brockton Bay Brigade, yes?"

Abigail knew exactly where this was going. Snagging a spare chair, she pulled it off to the side and sat down to enjoy the show.

"Well, yeah," Legionnaire said. "They've been around since …" His brain finally caught up with what he was saying, and he stopped. "Oh."

"Yes. Oh." Earl raised his eyebrows. "They attempted to take me in on multiple occasions, and I sent them packing each time. While they had a rudimentary idea of teamwork, there were gaps in their technique one could reverse an eighteen-wheeler through without touching the sides, and I exploited those repeatedly. They never learned, though. Right up until they invaded my house. Claire was six at the time."

Palatina—Abigail had to get into the habit of calling her that, rather than Purity—sat up. Apparently, she'd never heard this story before. "And you didn't kill them then? They threatened your child!"

Well, now. Interesting, indeed. Abigail made a mental note. Far from being a hardened Nazi killer, it seemed Palatina was a real momma-bear type when it came to the little ones. She was starting to see what Earl saw in the woman.

"Oh, if they'd deliberately threatened her well-being as a means of getting me to surrender, this would be a whole different conversation." Earl's voice was suddenly cold; Abigail half-expected to see puffs of white breath around the room. Then he smiled, the mood lightened, and he went on. "But they didn't. They agreed to take it outside, I sent Claire upstairs, and I proceeded to explain to them why their tactic of using their female members as human shields was still not the game-changer they'd thought it would be."

"Okay, so you didn't kill them." Legionnaire didn't seem to want to let this go. "But you did kill heroes. What's the difference between them and others?"

"It's simple." Earl smiled faintly. "Those so-called heroes weren't trying to arrest me. They were doing their very best to murder me straight out of the gate. Which I found to be the height of rudeness, seeing as I was doing them the courtesy of keeping my attacks on the non-lethal side. So I reciprocated in kind, and of course was painted as a bloody-handed psychopath almost immediately. Despite the fact that those self-same heroes had a collective body count of villains they'd faced and murdered for the fame and glory of it; villains who had done nothing to earn a death sentence. They identified as heroes, so they got a pass. There's inequality for you, right there."

"Okay, just gonna say, wow." Marcus half-raised his hand. "Now I want to hear about Jack Slash."

Earl rolled his eyes and threw a tolerant grin in Abigail's direction. "See what you've done? We were having a perfectly productive session of tactics and techniques against current threats, and now we're discussing ancient history."

She refused to be baited out like that, as he had to have known she would. Lounging sideways with one leg thrown over the chair arm, she threw a smartass grin right back at him. "'Tis shocked and surprised I am you have not yet explained all this to them, your closest allies even. Claire and Jonas and I have the knowing of it, but does your Palatina or any of the others?"

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I should know better than to get into an argument of this sort with you. No, you're correct; they don't. But we'll leave off that particular history lesson for another time. I get the impression you wouldn't have bothered me if it wasn't important. What's the matter?"

"There are folks out and about in this city that have me confused and puzzled," she explained, getting right to the heart of the matter. "In the train station, I saw two of them stop a pickpocket before he'd taken two steps past his mark, almost as fast and smooth as I might have, were I inclined to do so. They wore all black with coats that fell to the knees and beyond, and something gold in the lapel right here." Her thumb touched her shoulder. "I saw no masks, no badges of office. Who might they be?"

From the dawning expressions of amusement around the room, she knew she was missing something, but it was Earl who spoke first. "Those would be my men," he said, a hint of pride in his voice. "They provide protection and security to the general public … for a price, of course. I call them the Mercia; it's Old English."

"For 'men of the borderlands', aye," she agreed, seeing the whole concept all at once. The title of Marquis went to one who was responsible for defending a borderland region against invasion, after all. "And it likely does not hurt that the name sounds a little like 'mercy', am I wrong?" Further aspects she considered but did not speak of revolved around where Earl had found so many talented and capable people to work for him. Her eyes flicked to Claire, and the final piece fell into place. Found … or made?

Oh, my. Oh, my. Claire acushla, you have come a very long way in these last eight months, so you have.

Earl chuckled warmly. "A little preventative psychology goes a very long way. When you add in Claire's regular visits to the Brockton General emergency room, my organisation has a better reputation in this city than some hero teams have had in the past."

Abigail swung her leg off the chair arm and sat up. "I find myself impressed, sure and I do. You've done well, Earl Marchant, and that's a fact." Left unspoken was the regret for what she'd missed out on while she'd been away. "I have to ask, though. Is there still a place here for such as myself?"

Earl rubbed his chin seriously. "Now, that's something I can't tell you," he said. "I would like to say yes, but that would be my own personal feelings, not a measured judgement. Why don't you take a few days to figure it out for yourself? We have a spare room for you to crash in for as long as you'd like."

"Also, a heated swimming pool," Claire put in. "I know you were always more into parkour than swimming, but it's amazing to be able to swim all year round if you want. Please say you'll stay." She put on a 'puppy-dog eyes' expression that was even more heart-wrenching than the last time Abigail had seen it.

"Mercy, mercy!" Laughing, Abigail threw her hands up in surrender. "I'll be staying for the moment, I promise. If you can point me in the direction of this room of which you speak, I'll be going there and getting out of your hair."

"I can do that," offered Claire at once. "Come on, Abigail. I can't wait to hear all about what you've been doing while you were away."

"Thank you kindly, Claire acushla." Abigail stood up from the chair and retrieved her bag. "It does my heart good to see you once more, Earl. And 'twas grand to meet the rest of you. Fare well until we meet again." Turning to where Claire was waiting at the door, she followed on.

The house was, as she had already noted, large and well-appointed. It would likely take her a little while to learn the layout, though by all appearances Claire was well used to it. "'Tis a nice place you have here," Abigail offered. "Do you have many visitors, or just your da's allies?"

"Oh, there's a few people who drop over from time to time." Claire smiled happily. "There's the Heberts; they're nice. Mr. Hebert's an important man with the Dockworkers' Association, and Mrs. Hebert's an English professor at the college. They've got a daughter called Taylor who's a year younger than me, but we're in the same grade because the principal decided I should repeat a year. Taylor loves to talk a mile a minute, and her friend Emma's pretty cool too. Emma's teaching me stuff about makeup I never knew."

Abigail blinked. "I'm thinking this chatterbox Taylor might be rubbing off on you a wee smidgen, so she might."

"What, on me? Nahh." Claire shook her head definitively. "Next to Taylor, I barely say a word all day. Anyway, before I take you to see your room, there was something I wanted you to see. Something I've been working on that Dad knows about, but the others don't."

God in heaven, how much does this Taylor talk? Though it's good and all that Claire has friends her own age. "Sure, and I'd love to see what new craziness you've come up with."

"Cool!" Claire grinned broadly, evidently pleased that Abigail wanted to know about it. "Come on, it's down this way."

She led Abigail down a side corridor, which led to a set of back stairs. At the bottom of the steps, Claire led the way into what had once been a greenhouse, but which now had half the panes missing. As they stepped inside, Abigail felt soft yielding soil under her feet instead of concrete.

Occupying the almost-greenhouse, making absolutely certain that the 'green' aspect was well represented, were plants of every description. Big ones, small ones, some that were actively growing up through the open gaps in the roof of the greenhouse and others lying dormant.

Abigail looked around with interest and admiration. "This is a proper garden and no mistake. All grown with your power?" She leaned in to look more closely at a brilliantly coloured flower. There were a few odd spots on the leaves that she figured were some kind of plant disease; Claire would have that cleared up in a moment or so.

"Oh, yeah, but that's not what I brought you here to see." Claire reached up to the nearest growing thing to her, a kind of shrub. As Abigail watched, one of the branches bent, lowering itself until the tip was just over Claire's open hand. A bundle of leaves grew with startling speed, swelling as though Abigail was watching it through time-lapse photography. Then a small object was deposited in Claire's palm and the branch retracted itself again. If that wasn't weird enough, Claire promptly popped the thing into her mouth and swallowed it.

"Uhhh … Claire acushla? What exactly was that, and why did you eat it?" Events were moving faster than Abigail was used to, never a pleasant sensation.

"Oh, that was just an information seed. I asked Mr. Green to let me know what's been going on, so he did." Claire took on a distant expression. "Hmm. Well, there's nothing drastic going on at the moment, so that's good."

"Mr. Green? Who might that be? Are you using the plants to communicate with someone?" Instead of clearing matters up, Claire's answer had only served to raise more questions.

Claire grinned. "Nope. This is what I brought you here to see." She waved her hand at the greenhouse. "This is all Mr. Green. The plants in here, plus all the ones outside, all across the city. A few weeks ago, I started playing with the plants right here, connecting them together via their root systems to make them one giant organism. It was easy enough to do, so I started spreading the connections outward."

This was starting to sound ominous. "Claire, exactly how far out did you spread them?"

"Oh, only out to the city limits," Claire explained blithely. "Dad said I should keep it inside that, for the time being. Somewhere along the way, I came up with a more effective connection fibre, designed to improve information transfer back to me, and had the root network evolve into it. I'd read about eyespots on some micro-organisms, so I figured out how to make them using chlorophyll and wrote them into every plant in the network as well. Now I can use every tree, every bush, every lawn as a compound eye. The hairs on leaves also make a good substitute for eardrums, so I can get sound too."

Abigail considered that, pleased that the girl had at least consulted her da. There appeared to be something missing, though. "So … how do you assimilate the information and input from every leaf and blade of grass in the city, or is there something you're not telling me? Because it sounds to me like that should be one mass of noise rather than any kind of coherent picture, so it does."

"Well, yeah, it was." Claire shrugged. "I was getting ready to toss the whole idea, to be honest. But then Mr. Green came along."

"You have not yet explained who exactly that is, Claire acushla." Abigail raised her eyebrows.

Claire's grin widened, and she gestured at the greenhouse. "All of this. Across Brockton Bay. It's all Mr. Green. The special connection fibre reached a certain limit, and he kind of became aware, and started talking back to me. He's not human, or anything close to it, and he thinks really slow, but he can take in all that information I've been telling you about and make it into packages of coherent images and sounds that I can skim through when I eat one of those information seeds."

Abigail swore softly in Gaelic. "So … what you're saying … is you've created a giant plant brain? With eyes and ears across the city? What's stopping it from going monster-movie on us all? Because surely it cannot be pleased with the idea of us chopping parts of it down, pulling parts up to eat as food, burning parts for light and heat, and trimming our grass on a Saturday afternoon, so it cannot."

"Two reasons. The first is that Mr. Green doesn't think like that," Claire explained patiently. "I've talked to him about all this stuff and more. Because he's all the plants at once, he doesn't really care if some of them get damaged or pruned. I mean, would you go to war if you found out your skin mites were clipping your toenails for you?"

"Well, okay then." Abigail could see her logic, after a fashion. "I might consider it a tiny bit creepy, to be sure, but that's just me. And you mentioned a second reason."

Claire chuckled. "He's a plant-based intelligence, more like a computer than a person. Did I mention he thinks real slow? He can't really move with any speed, because the vast majority of plants don't, and I've made damn sure the genomes of any plants that can move fast aren't incorporated into any part of this plant mass. Also, I'm the only one who can make adjustments to his 'body'. The special connecting fibre doesn't replicate until I tell it to. If I ever went away and didn't come back, Mr. Green would gradually fade away again as connecting plants died off or were replaced with non-connecting ones." She grinned, showing her teeth. "Though if I was ever forced out of this city, I might just make the connecting fibres self-replicating and give Mr. Green some of those genomes. Let whoever took the place over deal with a pissed-off plant monster the size of a city."

Abigail shuddered. "Well now, that would a sight to see and no mistake. From a great distance, to be absolutely clear on the matter. Maybe low earth orbit."

Claire nodded and was about to say something when Jonas knocked on the doorframe behind them. "Excuse me for interrupting, chick, but your father needs you upstairs right now."

"What?" Claire frowned. "What's the matter now? Is the ABB making a move?" She headed out of the greenhouse with Abigail right behind her. As pretty as the plants were, somehow Abigail didn't want to be alone with them anymore. Like, ever.

"No, miss. It's worse than that." Jonas gave the teenage girl a serious look. "The PRT just contacted your father. Leviathan's on track to attack Orlando, Florida."

"Oh, shit." Claire met Abigail's eyes. "Well, time to put my money where my mouth is."

Abigail frowned. "What do you mean, Claire acushla? It's not like Florida's anywhere near here."

"I mean, I already told the PRT I would attend Endbringer battles." Claire quickened her pace. "Looks like Marchioness is going to Florida."

And all Abigail could do was stare at her. Well, shit.

I expected to find any number of weird things when I got to Brockton Bay, but I never expected this.



End of Part Twenty-Three