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Chapter Text

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.

"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.

Chapter Text

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​

 

"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.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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."

Chapter Text

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.

 

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.

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.

Chapter Text

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."

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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."

Chapter Text

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.

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."

Chapter Text

"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 what amounts to an allergic reaction 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."

Chapter Text

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."

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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.