Work Text:
The Iron Father
Fontaine was beautiful even when someone was trying to destroy it.
At two thirteen in the morning, a black-and-gold luxury automobile tore down the coastal avenue at a speed that would have made any sensible traffic officer resign on the spot. Three unmarked aircraft descended behind it. Their black-clad occupants fired bursts of energy that carved glowing trenches through the cobblestones.
A citizen walking his dog watched the pursuit for three seconds. Then he picked up the animal, turned around, and decided that he had seen absolutely nothing.
The automobile skidded between two fountains, launched itself over a flight of steps, and passed beneath a bridge with barely a finger's width between its roof and the stone. The aircraft remained close behind.
“I am tired of this,” one of the pursuers growled. “Activate the plasma cannon.”
The central craft opened its lower hatch. A blue core began to spin, producing a hum so deep that the windows along the avenue trembled.
“Let us see if this stops you.”
The shot split the night.
The automobile turned at the final instant. The beam grazed one of its wheels, hurled it into the air, and sent it rolling three times through trees, bushes, and a statue of questionable artistic value. The vehicle landed on its side, shrouded in smoke.
The pursuers descended, convinced they had won.
They did not see the blonde figure who had leapt from the automobile before the impact.
From the shadows beneath the trees, the woman brushed a leaf from her shoulder, straightened her black suit, and put on a pair of dark glasses despite the fact that dawn was still hours away. A screen of light unfolded from her wrist. Maps, school photographs, class schedules, and the face of a student appeared before her.
TARGET LOCATED.
The woman studied the image for several seconds. Then she opened a metal case packed with mechanisms, tools, and devices whose use was prohibited in at least seven nations.
“Good,” Sandrone murmured, wearing a dangerously satisfied smile. “It is time to meet the boy who keeps following my daughter.”
Several yards away, the automobile exploded to erase the evidence.
Sandrone did not even blink.
* * *
The Boy awoke with the peace of someone who had not yet learned that he had been designated the target of a parental operation.
He got up, yawned, and opened his wardrobe in search of his uniform. Between the shirts, he thought he saw a flash of blonde hair, a pair of black glasses, and the silhouette of a motionless woman.
He closed the door.
He opened it again.
There was no one inside.
“I need more sleep,” he muttered.
Then he felt someone breathing behind his shoulder.
“Silence,” a low voice said. “You will answer only one question.”
The Boy turned slowly. Sandrone stood less than a step away, her hands folded behind her back and her expression so calm that it was far more threatening than a shout.
“Why are you so interested in my daughter?”
“Your daughter? What daughter? Who are you? How did you get into my house?”
Sandrone tilted her head as though she had just confirmed a disappointing theory.
“Too many questions. Poor discipline.”
The bedroom door began to open.
Sandrone touched two fingers to the Boy's temple. A small, precise, and completely unnecessary electrical charge ran through his body.
When the Best Friend entered, he found the Boy sitting motionless at his desk, eyes wide open and hair standing on end from the electricity.
“Brother, you stayed up doing schoolwork again,” the Best Friend said. “I warned you that studying could be dangerous.”
The Boy fell face-first onto the keyboard.
Sandrone had already disappeared.
* * *
Hours later, the teacher wrote formulas on the board while the Boy stared at his notebook without understanding a single word.
A woman had entered his bedroom. She had asked about her daughter. He knew many girls at school, but only one accompanied him almost every day: Luna Guillotin-Hyposelenia, his best friend, who happened to be absent that morning for “family reasons.”
The Boy looked toward the window to clear his mind.
Sandrone stood on the other side of the glass, balanced on a ledge barely four inches wide.
With one finger, she wrote across the misted window:
THE HUNT BEGINS.
Then she stepped backward and fell into the void.
“AAAAAH!”
The entire class turned toward the Boy.
The teacher placed the chalk on the desk.
“Would you care to share something with us?”
The Boy pointed at the window with both hands.
“There was a woman out there! On the ledge! She jumped!”
The students looked outside. No one was there.
“Sit down,” the teacher ordered. “And reduce your consumption of detective novels.”
The Boy grabbed the Best Friend by the shoulders.
“You are always looking out the window. Tell me you saw her.”
“I saw nothing.”
“She was in my bedroom this morning!”
“That explains many things, none of which I wish to discuss in front of the teacher.”
“I am serious!”
The Best Friend studied his desperate expression and sighed.
“Fine. I believe you.”
“Really?”
“No, but you look as though you need to hear it.”
“You are awful.”
“Supportively awful.”
* * *
On the upper balcony of the building, Sandrone studied the classroom through a small blue visor. The school's head of security appeared behind her, one hand on her communicator and the other ready to draw her regulation weapon.
“You are not authorized to enter these grounds,” she declared. “Identify yourself and surrender every dangerous device in your possession.”
Sandrone switched off the visor.
“Your uniform.”
“Excuse me?”
“Give it to me.”
The security chief blinked once.
“Listen, gear-head, I do not know what circus you escaped from, but I will not allow you to—”
A sonic explosion rattled the building's windows.
Five minutes later, the security chief awoke in the surveillance room, wrapped from head to toe in an emergency curtain. A note written in immaculate handwriting rested on her chest:
UNIFORM REQUISITIONED FOR OPERATIONAL NECESSITY.
Beneath it, Sandrone had added:
THE BOOTS ARE UNCOMFORTABLE.
* * *
Elsewhere in Fontaine, Columbina received a call from the Guillotin Company.
“Lady Columbina,” a nervous voice said, “we regret to inform you that your wife left the facility during the night.”
Columbina held a cup of tea. She smiled sweetly.
“Sandrone does not leave places. She declares them inadequate and departs. Did she say where she was going?”
“She mentioned making a father-daughter visit to the school. Then she reviewed the security recordings, found a human who accompanies Lady Luna, and... prepared the field arsenal.”
“I see.”
“We attempted to stop her.”
“That was brave.”
“And useless.”
“That was predictable.”
The voice on the other end swallowed.
“We have sent agents to intercept her.”
Columbina placed her cup on its saucer.
“Recall them. When Sandrone has an idea, the safest option is to let her finish being wrong.”
“And the student?”
Columbina rose and calmly adjusted the ribbons of her dress.
“I will go and greet him as well.”
The call ended.
For a moment, the employee thought he heard a soft laugh before the silence returned.
It did not reassure him.
* * *
At recess, the Boy left the classroom to get some air. The corridors were empty. He could hear only his own footsteps and the faint hum of the lamps.
An empty can rolled out from around a corner.
The Boy stopped.
Another can fell behind him.
The corridor lights went out one by one.
Click.
Click.
Click.
He switched on the flashlight of his device and aimed it toward the lockers. Nothing. Toward the windows. Nothing. Toward the ceiling. Nothing.
He backed away slowly until he struck something solid.
“I do not want to look,” he whispered.
He looked.
Sandrone stood behind him in the security uniform. The disguise fooled no one: metal shoulder plates protruded beneath the fabric, and one button appeared to be negotiating for its freedom.
Beneath the dark glasses, blue eyes shone—beautiful and terrifyingly focused.
“Interrogation pending,” she said.
The Boy ran.
He ran so hard that, for several yards, his feet seemed to forget the ground existed.
When he turned the corner, he collided with the Best Friend.
“The blonde woman! The one with the glasses! She is chasing me!”
“Breathe. Speak slowly. Are you being pursued by the woman in a security uniform who is walking behind you like an execution machine?”
“Yes! Her!”
The Best Friend looked over his shoulder.
Sandrone was already gone.
“There is no one there.”
“She was right there!”
“You need rest.”
“Stop saying that!”
The Best Friend straightened with pride.
“You should learn from me: composed, calm, and always alert.”
He turned around.
Sandrone stood four inches from his face.
Both boys screamed and shot down the corridor.
“That uniform is crying for help!” the Best Friend shouted as he ran.
“Stop analyzing the stitching and run!”
“I will not allow a blonde woman in sunglasses to intimidate us!”
“Five seconds ago, you wanted to hide!”
“I have matured!”
The Best Friend pulled an experimental launcher from his backpack, built for the school science fair.
“Why do you have that?” the Boy asked.
“Academic planning.”
“That is a cannon.”
“It comes with a grading rubric.”
He fired.
A capsule exploded in front of Sandrone and filled the corridor with black smoke. The school alarms began to ring. Doors and windows opened at once as teachers and students were evacuated into the courtyard.
The Best Friend raised both arms.
“Victory for scientific education!”
Two blue eyes ignited within the smoke.
“I withdraw my statement,” he added.
Sandrone emerged without a single mark. The stolen uniform had been scorched and now hung in strips over her true black hunting suit. She brushed a burned sleeve from her shoulder and continued forward.
“Alternative plan,” the Best Friend said. “Orbital strike.”
“You do not have an orbital strike.”
“My family believes in preparation.”
He activated a communicator.
Far above Fontaine, a small satellite turned toward the school.
“That cannot be legal,” the Boy said.
“It is legal at altitudes where no one can read the fine print.”
A plasma beam descended from the sky and struck the courtyard with a blinding crash. A decorative section of the building collapsed amid clouds of dust. The Best Friend began to laugh.
“See? My family is truly—”
Sandrone appeared in front of him.
She caught him by the collar, spun once, and threw him against a padded wall used for athletic practice. The boy remained stuck there with his arms and legs spread wide like a human decal.
“I am fine,” he announced weakly. “My dignity is not.”
The Boy backed away until he struck the lockers.
Sandrone seized his shirt and lifted him several inches from the floor.
“Final opportunity. Explain your intentions toward my daughter.”
“I... she... we are...!”
“RELEASE THE STUDENT, YOU HIGH-HEELED PILE OF SCRAP!”
Sandrone turned her head.
A metal maintenance container flew through the corridor and struck her with the force of a train. Sandrone was hurled through a door and embedded in the courtyard wall.
Principal Fenix Scott advanced through the dust.
She was a woman with purple hair, a long coat, and a gaze so fierce that even the alarms seemed to lower their volume. Teachers and students cheered behind her.
“These are my students,” she declared. “No one hunts them, interrogates them, or turns my school into a testing ground without completing the appropriate paperwork first.”
The Boy raised one hand.
“Principal, you saved me.”
“Of course. I am also charging you for the window you broke while running away.”
Sandrone stepped out of the wall and adjusted her glasses.
Fenix Scott smiled, showing her teeth.
“So you are the lunatic who destroyed my north wing.”
“The north wing already displayed structural deficiencies.”
“I am about to introduce a structural deficiency to your face.”
“Inefficient threat.”
The courtyard fell silent.
The Best Friend, still stuck to the wall, whispered:
“That was personal.”
Fenix attacked first.
Her fist struck Sandrone's face with a metallic sound that echoed through the entire school. Sandrone did not move. The principal hit her again. And again. Each impact created a wave of air that whipped through trees, uniforms, and disciplinary paperwork.
Sandrone caught the next punch in one hand.
“My turn.”
She twisted Fenix's wrist, lifted her over one shoulder, and threw her into a row of lockers. The principal bounced, landed on her feet, and answered with a kick that split the ground. Sandrone blocked it. The collision opened a circular crack beneath them.
Fenix grabbed a fire extinguisher and emptied it over her. The courtyard vanished beneath a white cloud.
“Are you finished?” Sandrone asked from inside the mist.
“I am only warming up.”
The fire extinguisher struck Sandrone's glasses and sent them flying.
For the first time, the inventor smiled.
“Acceptable.”
They charged at the same moment.
Fist against palm. Knee against forearm. Metal against brute force. Every collision produced flashes of green and gold. Fenix released an emerald aura, and her eyes glowed red like embers. Sandrone answered with golden light that coursed through the mechanical joints of her body while her blue eyes turned almost white.
The students watched the battle with a mixture of terror and admiration.
“Can the principal always fly?” one asked.
“Only when she is extremely angry,” another replied. “Or when they cut the maintenance budget.”
Fenix and Sandrone rose above the school, exchanging blows at impossible speed. Two trails—one green, one gold—crossed the skies of Fontaine. The clouds opened around them.
The principal gathered all her energy into a fist wrapped in emerald flames.
“THIS IS THE END FOR YOU, YOU INSUFFERABLE MACHINE!”
Sandrone did not block.
She took the blow head-on.
The explosion illuminated the city. A blast of wind swept across the courtyard and forced everyone to cover themselves. For several seconds, nothing could be seen.
When the light faded, Sandrone was descending slowly with Fenix Scott in her arms.
The principal's uniform was torn, her hair disheveled, and her expression one of absolute indignation. Nevertheless, she showed no serious injuries. Fine threads of blue light closed the last scratches on her arms.
Sandrone landed before the students and set Fenix on her feet.
“I will make this easy for you, Principal Scott,” she said. “Next time, aim three degrees lower.”
Fenix released a tired laugh.
“You were very lucky, Mrs. Guillotin.”
“Show-off.”
Fenix attempted to take a step, lost her balance, and was caught by Sandrone before she could fall.
“I am fine, children,” the principal announced. “This madwoman healed me while taking my final attack.”
The students became even more confused.
“Efficiency does not require hostility,” Sandrone replied.
Then a young voice cut across the courtyard.
“WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE ABYSS ARE YOU DOING AT MY SCHOOL?!”
Everyone looked toward the entrance.
Luna Guillotin-Hyposelenia, fourteen years old and the only daughter of Columbina and Sandrone, marched forward with clenched fists and a face red with embarrassment. Columbina walked beside her, serene and smiling, as though she had arrived for a tea party rather than the partial ruins of an educational institution.
In that family, Columbina was Mama. Sandrone, by a domestic arrangement that no one outside the household entirely understood, was Father.
“Father Sandrone!” Luna repeated. “Look at me when I am speaking to you!”
Sandrone turned her back with suspicious rigidity.
“I had administrative matters at the school that required my attention.”
...
The Boy looked at Sandrone, then at Luna, and finally at Columbina.
“This is the first time I have met my best friend's father,” he said.
The entire courtyard fell silent.
Luna covered her face with both hands.
Sandrone raised her chin slightly.
“The boy understands the family structure.”
Columbina hid a smile behind one hand.
“I am afraid it was already too late to prevent that.”
Luna approached the Boy.
“I am sorry. My father believes that anyone who walks beside me for more than three streets is planning to propose marriage, kidnap me, or sell industrial secrets.”
“The probabilities are not zero,” Sandrone pointed out.
“We are friends!”
“Several spies made the same claim before being interrogated.”
“He is not a spy!”
Columbina approached Principal Fenix Scott and handed her a bag of Mora so heavy that the ground creaked.
“This should cover the repairs, the replacement of the lockers, and any paperwork my wife neglected to complete.”
Fenix looked at the bag, then at the destroyed north wing, and finally at Sandrone.
“It does not include compensation for insulting me.”
Columbina added a second bag.
A third bag dropped beside the others.
The principal nodded.
“I accept your apology.”
“Sandrone possesses extraordinary social skills,” Columbina said.
“In the sense that no one understands how they continue to grow worse,” Fenix replied.
Luna released a groan of defeat.
With the tip of her shoe, Columbina traced a glowing seal across the ground. Teleportation light surrounded the family.
“We are leaving,” she announced. “Before Sandrone decides to interview the faculty as well.”
As the seal began to swallow them, Luna pointed furiously at Sandrone.
“When we get home, you are going to explain everything. No reports. No diagrams. No interrogations.”
Sandrone remained silent until only her head and one arm protruded from the light. Then she looked at the Boy, raised her thumb, and declared with absolute solemnity:
“I will return.”
“YOU WILL NOT!” Luna shouted.
The seal closed.