Hostage Situation [Worm AU fanfic]

Hostage Situation

Part Ten: Ongoing Fallout

[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Shortly After Saint’s Death
Margaret ‘Mags’ Pellick

It had been a long, lonely flight back to the Dragonslayer Base. This had been made worse by the fact that tears kept blurring her vision. Complicating the situation, jets had been scrambled from air force bases in the region, combing the airspace to see if Geoff had had any backup.

Well, he’d had her, but she’d been there to drag him away rather than back him up, and she’d gotten there too late to do any good anyway. While she hadn’t quite been close enough to witness his death—where the hell did they get off, going straight to lethal force anyway?—she’d acquired enough snippets from PRT comms and other sources to assemble a partial picture of how it had gone down.

It wasn’t Dragon or even one of her drones that had killed Geoff. This was fortunate for the mechanical intelligence; if it had been even tangentially responsible for her husband’s death, Mags would’ve been activating Ascalon the moment she got back to Toronto. But no, it was a local villain—not even a hero; a villain—who’d unleashed enough force to demolish a medium-sized building, without so much as giving Geoff a chance to surrender. By the subsequent PRT chatter, there literally hadn’t been enough left to scrape into a shoebox.

As she carefully threaded her way between radar hotspots, Mags shook her head. She’d seen the lightshow from miles out, though she hadn’t known what it meant at the time. What was the world coming to when villains took a hand in heroic matters like that? And who had set those damn bombs off across the city? Everyone had been blaming Geoff, but there’d been no bombs in the loadout he took with him. Anyway, why bomb the city at all? It had only served to well and truly stir up the ant’s nest.

Flying low and slow over Toronto, keeping her thruster noise to a minimum, she was fully aware she didn’t know everything that had happened. But she knew enough. She knew Geoff—Saint—was dead, and he’d been the glue holding the Dragonslayers together. He’d supplied the relentless drive to keep them together through thick and thin, and he was the one who had planned each attack on Dragon itself. It was his intuitive understanding of the machine’s capabilities and limitations that had brought them to success every time … and now he was gone.

Geoff Pellick.

Saint, of the Dragonslayers.

The man she loved.

He’d been all of that, and more. She knew he hadn’t been perfect, but who was? He’d loved her in return, and had drawn her along in his wake as he created the Dragonslayers and equipped them with technology created by their enemy. She didn’t hate Dragon quite as intensely as he did, but she could certainly see the danger if the world’s only self-aware AI decided humanity needed to die.

Unfortunately, there had been hidden pitfalls along the path he’d chosen, and he’d fallen prey to one of them. His obsession with getting renewed access to Teacher had killed him, and now the only question left was what they were going to do, going forward. It was something she was going to have to talk to Mischa about.

The roof entry motored open, and she dropped down into the mecha-suit hangar. The jets flared at the last moment and she touched down on the dirty concrete, the suit’s shock absorbers compressing to deal with the last of her momentum. As she popped the helmet and prepared to climb out, she saw Mischa standing by the switch, looking up at the still-open roof entry.

“Close it,” she said wearily. “He’s not coming. Ever.”

“Not ever?” He stared, then hit the switch. As the roof entry started to rumble closed, he moved in her direction. “What happened? He is caught, imprisoned? We must prepare prison break?”

“No.” She shook her head and swiped her flight-suited arm across her eyes. “One of the local villains killed him. Blew the suit to pieces, with him inside it. There wasn’t even a body to retrieve. Then they just let her fly away. Fuckers.”

“Bozhe moi,” he muttered. My God. “I hear things about this place, Brockton Bay. Race gangs, drug dealer gangs, more villains in one gang than all of Protectorate in city. It is perhaps worse than stories.”

“None of that ‘perhaps’ bullshit,” she said, peeling her gloves off. “He got there right in the middle of a bombing attack on the whole city. Apparently it was another one of their local villains trying for a diversion, so they could break another one out of PRT holding, but Geoff got blamed for it when he grabbed Panacea. I have no idea why that villain went at him so hard. Maybe someone she knew got hurt by the bombing, and she bought into the idea of him being responsible.”

“Is crazy town, everyone says so,” agreed Mischa. “Heroes should stick with hero stuff, villains stick with villain stuff. Less confusion this way, da?”

“Absolutely.” Mags strode through to where the console was set up to monitor Dragon’s ongoing feed. “Any unusual activity on this front?”

“Just a little,” he assured her. “Not large amount. Have been checking in between fixing suit. Geoff wrecked many systems. Some spare parts, but may not be enough.”

“What do you mean, ‘just a little’ activity?” asked Mags carefully.

“When news went out about Geoff wanting Teacher out of Birdcage, Dragon sent signal into Birdcage, to be played on TV sets. Is not totally unusual. Has done before.” He shrugged. “Not sure what point.”

“Let me see.” Ignoring the fact that she was still wearing her basic flight suit and needed a long hot shower, Mags plopped herself down into the command seat. She wasn’t as conversant with the system as Geoff had been, but she could navigate it with a certain amount of surety. Pulling up the replay, she rewound it to where the signal was linked up to the dedicated line going into the Birdcage. While she couldn’t decipher all the code around the command, she was reasonably sure there were no actual communications aimed at the inmates included with the signal. It was just the raw TV data.

“You see?” asked Mischa. “Is no big.”

Mags leaned back in the chair and rubbed her chin. “I don’t know. There’s something more going on here.”

“Will leave you with it,” Mischa said. “See if suit can be fixed.” He trod off toward the mech hangar bay.

Barely noticing his departure, Mags leaned forward and dug a little deeper into the replay. Calling up the camera feeds from the Birdcage at the same time of the broadcast, she caught several people watching the screen, among them Marquis.

“Well, shit.” It was a cape she didn’t know, his most prominent feature being hands that were blackened to the wrist. “Kidnapping a healer to get one of us out of here? What do you reckon, boss? Think it'll work?”

Marquis stood. “I think you should get everyone together. We're going to war.” He punctuated his words with an ominous crack of his knuckles.

Jumping from feed to feed, Mags watched as Marquis and his forces efficiently and swiftly invaded what she presumed was Teacher’s domain. Marquis gave orders to go non-lethal where they could, emphasising that he just wanted Teacher alive and in his hands. A few died, but she could tell he was going by his own principle. She wasn’t entirely sure what good this was going to do; he was in the Birdcage, after all. It wasn’t like he could place a phone call once he had Teacher prisoner.

Watching the veteran crime boss in action, she was somewhat glad the Dragonslayers had never had to face him. They might have the firepower of their suits at their command, but he was a surgeon when it came to the use of his power. Nobody even came close to touching him. By the time Teacher ended up in his custody, she was starting to wonder exactly how the PRT had captured him.

And then he dragged Teacher back to the TV where he’d seen the broadcast. “Let me speak to Saint,” he’d demanded, speaking directly to the screen.

And a line opened up, sending a feed directly to the TV in question. In the meantime, the camera directly over the TV started feeding out of the Birdcage, to a device somewhere in Brockton Bay. It took Mags a moment to realise that yes, Dragon had somehow managed to arrange a one-on-one conversation between Marquis and Geoff, each with their own hostage.

Holy shit. She arranged it. She sent the footage into the Birdcage so Marquis could organise the only leverage Geoff would even recognise.

Right then, she was torn. The man she loved was dead, but it seemed Dragon had done everything she could to de-escalate the situation. Even if it meant putting Teacher himself in danger.

Mags had never held any great regard for the sweaty, ugly, arrogant little man. She had even less love for the effect his power had had on Geoff. Seeing Marquis press a bone blade to Teacher’s throat bothered her far less than it clearly did her husband.

Do what he says, she silently urged Geoff, ignoring the fact that the action was long done. He means business. This was made abundantly clear through Marquis’ body language.

Unfortunately, the conversation did not go well. Geoff was far too invested in his ‘brilliant’ scheme to even imagine failure. No matter the blatant danger to Teacher’s life, no matter the outs Marquis and the others tried to give him, he kept doubling down.

Right up until he tried to grab Panacea, with the clear intent of doing her harm. Mags leaned forward, her breath catching in her throat. No, love. No. Please don’t.

Something, somewhere, must have heard her plea, because his arm stopped working. He bashed it with the other hand; a common field tactic among the Dragonslayers for getting problematic joints working again.

The arm fell off. Mags watched disbelievingly as the entire arm detached from the shoulder assembly and landed with a crash on the concrete. Panacea took her opportunity to make a break for it right then; even with one arm out of commission, Geoff would’ve caught her in short order except for the fact that when he went to move after her, the suit’s leg failed as well. Not just ceased to work, but literally crumpled under him like it had been constructed from modelling clay.

There was a streak of motion, a gold and white blur. Panacea was scooped up by a slim figure Mags only identified by association. Glory Girl was the healer’s sister, after all. Geoff tried to make a grab for them, but they were too far away. And then the glow intensified.

Mags had known Purity killed Geoff, but she’d temporarily forgotten the fact. Now she was reminded, very forcefully, as the cape herself moved into camera view. Her image flared out half the picture, even as the camera tried to adjust. Mags was just barely able to see the spiralling blast that smashed into Geoff’s suit, shattering it and the concrete beneath in an instant. Such was the power of Purity’s attack that when she let up after just a second or so, the crater had seawater lapping into it. Even after the villain moved out of frame and the picture returned to normal, Mags could see no part of Geoff’s suit. He was gone. She doubted he’d even felt a thing.

The image cut out then. Mags put her elbows on the table and leaned her face into her hands, feeling the tears wetting her palms. It had been heart-wrenching, soul-destroying, to experience it all over again, but she had to know. Had to see.

After a while, she took a deep breath, trying to cleanse herself of the jagged emotions tearing at the still-tender wound of her loss. Another deep breath, and another; then she clicked the mouse again, looking for the next act in the story. What had Marquis done with Teacher, once Geoff was dead?

It didn’t take long to find the answer to the question. When Teacher had gotten too pushy about the idea of reparations, Marquis simply killed him. The news reporting was devoid of all but the basic content, but the message had been sent anyway. If you try to use my daughter as leverage, whoever you try to get out of the Birdcage will die.

It was a harsh message. On the one hand, she couldn’t fault it in principle. On the other, as a former law enforcement official, she had issues with the concept of one person taking on the role of judge, jury and executioner.

The next saved file she accessed was a three-way conversation between Dragon, Director Piggot of PRT ENE, and Chief Director Costa-Brown. Once she grasped the gist of the discussion, chills ran down her spine. It was Panacea who had caused Geoff’s suit to fail so dramatically? The girl had disabled the suit and opened him up to being murdered by Purity, not some Tinkertech device?

It seemed Costa-Brown was of a like mind with Mags herself when it came to this sort of capability being used at will, without so much as informing the PRT of its possibility. The Chief Director had floated the idea of Birdcaging the girl instead of simply bowing to her whims, a suggestion that had Mags silently cheering her on … only to be shot down by Dragon of all people.

The machine had already thrown a curve ball when pointing out how Marquis should not face punishment for Teacher’s execution, because the interior of the Birdcage was a de facto extrajudicial location. And now it was swinging hard in the other direction, threatening Costa-Brown with backlash against the PRT if the woman attempted to have Panacea Birdcaged for the mere potential of being able to bring the US to ruin. Worse, Piggot’s support (however lukewarm) for Dragon’s pushback against Costa-Brown (was it even allowed to do that?) had slammed the door in the face of basically doing anything to rein Panacea in.

But as shocking as the revelations so far had been, it was the last recording she watched that put the icing on the cake. Unmonitored by anyone at the Dragonslayers base, Dragon had sent its nanotech into the Birdcage once more. Mags was nowhere near as proficient as Geoff had been at reading her code, so she couldn’t really tell what the microscopic robots were programmed to do. But whatever it was, they’d done it. Marquis’s subsequent speech had the (undoubtedly intended) effect of making him seem suicidal, then he barricaded himself in his room and proceeded to break a hole in the wall of his cell.

The last Mags saw of Marquis was watching him being sucked out into the vacuum that apparently surrounded the Birdcage. This would have satisfied her as being the end of the story, especially with the supporting news articles, if she hadn’t known differently. No matter what the official story was, Marquis had been released from the Birdcage, and Panacea was suffering no punishment at all for carrying out the exact same thing Geoff had died trying to do.

Intellectually, Mags was aware Purity’s murder of Geoff probably had more to do with him threatening Panacea with harm, but this was beyond the point. Some people were allowed to break (or remake) the rules, and some clearly were not. Marquis got to walk free, while Geoff Pellick would have a closed-casket funeral for the very good reason that they hadn’t actually located more than a few fragments suitable only for DNA samples.

The inequity was stunning, as was the injustice. She just didn’t know what she could do about it.

<><>​

Marquis

First came consciousness, then came pain.

He shifted, feeling a comfortably soft mattress under him, the cotton sheets moving against his bare arms. It felt odd after ten years of the coarse weave common in the Birdcage (not to mention the silk sheets he’d favoured before then), but it also served as a reminder of something he still had more than a little trouble believing.

He was out.

Out of the Birdcage.

Released from a place he’d thought he was going to die in, someday.

And it was all because of his little Amelia. When he’d last been face to face with her, he’d been the protector. But now she was the one protecting him.

The pain was prodding at him from odd locations. It wasn’t the same as after any of his numerous battles, even the one where the Brigade had taken him down. He figured it was lingering soft tissue damage from his brief exposure to vacuum, but it didn’t feel serious.

In any case, he could live with it. It wasn’t debilitating, and he didn’t feel like his capabilities would be impaired in any way, so he decided to let things heal in their own time. The next order of business was to find out where they had him.

He opened his eyes; just a slit at first, then wider as he saw nobody in his immediate vicinity. More aches and pains awoke throughout his body as he sat up, but none seemed to be more problematic than the ones he’d already registered.

Looking around, he saw he was in a sterile white room, striking only in its lack of extraneous details. There were two doors, and a closet in the corner, but no pictures on the wall and no windows, not even so much as a TV. It could’ve been a private room in any hospital or clinic in America, but somehow he suspected not. The fact there was no call button in evidence merely underlined his supposition.

He was wearing short-sleeved pyjamas; again, more forgiving on the skin than anything available in the Birdcage while being less luxurious than what he’d had before. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stood up. The floor felt strange against the soles of his feet, and he wondered how long he’d been out to it.

Then he stopped wondering as one of the doors opened. Alexandria swept in, tall and imposing, black cape flaring behind her. She fairly radiated power as she stood, arms folded. He couldn’t really see her eyes behind the steel helmet/mask combo, but the set of her mouth gave him the impression she was unhappy with him.

“I was not in favour of releasing you.” Her voice was low and steady. “It is important that you understand this. The first step out of line—the first—will see you back in the Birdcage. And I hope you resist being recaptured. Because when and if that happens, I will break your bones so hard, even you will have trouble mending them again. Do you understand?”

It was not his way to be impolite to ladies, so he resisted the urge to scoff at the attempt to intimidate him. It was a good try to be sure, but he’d faced down Jack Slash back in the day. He knew for a fact she hadn’t, because one of the two would be dead in that case. Even to those trapped in the Birdcage, that news would’ve spread by pure osmosis.

“Not entirely, my dear.” He gave her a polite smile. “I’m sure it’s merely an oversight, but you’re being a little vague about precisely where the line is.”

Not from the slightest shift in her posture or expression did she betray that she was on the back foot, but his old instincts rarely failed him. She was, he could tell, irritated and a little puzzled as to why he wasn’t folding then and there. Still, she hadn’t given up. It wasn’t in her nature; he could tell.

“You won’t be officially on parole, of course.” She lost some of the hostile tone, but her voice was still cool. “But if you get caught breaking the law in any way, you’re done. Back to the Birdcage.”

“So sorry.” He kept his tone light, not wanting to give her the idea he was mocking her. “I’m a little hazy about how this works. What happens if somebody on the street decides to pick a fight with me, and I fight back? Technically, I’ve broken the law. Does that put me back in the Birdcage? Because forgive me, dear lady, if I do not consider this a fair and equitable bargain.”

He sensed rather than saw her eyes narrowing behind the mask. “Panacea is entirely capable of repairing any damage done to you in a common brawl, and we both know it. So no, if you are attacked in the street, you are not permitted any actions other than what constitutes pure self-defence. Are we clear?”

“Absolutely and completely.” He paused for a beat, just long enough for her to think he’d finished speaking, then he raised a finger. “And if the attacker happens to be a cape instead of some mundane street thug? For that matter, how good is Panacea’s self-healing capability?”

Her pause was almost infinitesimal, but he knew he’d asked an important question. The answer merely confirmed it. “Panacea can’t heal herself. She’s strictly a non-combatant.”

“Then if my daughter is attacked with lethal intent, whether by cape or by normal, by the law of the land, I am permitted to use lethal force in defending her. Yes?”

Her lips tightened fractionally. “In such an instance, yes, you are permitted to defend her to the best of your ability. However.” She put her finger up, possibly in conscious imitation of his previous gesture. “If you do anything to betray the fact that Marquis is out of the Birdcage, the deal is null and void. Most specifically, using your powers in public. If this happens, you go back, and we institute a disinformation campaign about a pretender. Life returns to normal, and the Birdcage continues to be inviolate. Am I understood?”

“Entirely.” He raised an eyebrow. “Of course, I refuse to accept responsibility if some other party were to reveal said fact.”

Was that a twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth? “If the revelation can be proven to be in no way instigated by you, I will not hold you responsible.” Implicit in her statement was the understanding she would find any such connection, if it existed.

He nodded to acknowledge the unspoken words, then raised his eyebrows; both, this time. “Very well; we have established that doing anything which would cause me to be arrested or revealing that I am indeed out of the Birdcage, are both grounds for returning me there post-haste. Was there anything else I needed to keep in mind, my dear?”

This time, the twitch of a smile was unmistakeable. It seemed Alexandria found it amusing, or at least interesting, when people didn’t just roll over for her. “No making contact with any of your previous criminal associates. That’s a definite.”

Frowning a little to give the impression of having to think about it, he tilted his head. “Wouldn’t such a situation be covered by the rule about letting people know I’m out of the Birdcage? And in any case, it’s effectively a non-issue.”

She nodded slowly to concede the point. “In order to contact them, you’d have to let them know who you were. Yes, you’re correct. But why would you consider it a non-issue? Surely there are still many people in the criminal scene who’ve been around since before you went into the Birdcage?”

“Remarkably few with whom I would even wish to associate,” he informed her. “My last loyal minion died mere days ago. As for the cape scene, if the Teeth even returned to Brockton Bay, not one of them would be someone I knew from the old days. Galvanate is still in the Birdcage. And if Jack Slash ever returns to Brockton Bay while I am here, we both know I’ll kill him.”

“The Empire Eighty-Eight are still in Brockton Bay,” she reminded him, with barely a pause to acknowledge his claim about Jack Slash. “I presume you associated with them, back in the day.”

He allowed his amusement at the idea to show, just for a moment. “I knew Allfather and Iron Rain, but I wouldn’t say I associated with them. While I strongly disapproved of their twisted ideology, they ran their territory efficiently and didn’t intrude upon mine, so I respected them for that at least. Kaiser was barely making his mark when I went away.”

“So I understand,” she replied, her tone bemused. “Is this likely to be a problem?”

“Not as such.” His smile widened a little. “I never gathered other capes around me, but that was from choice. The boy was always far too pretentious for his own good; this tends to grate on people after awhile. I honestly doubt any of the other capes he has around him are the ones I knew at the time. And as for Kaiser himself … I have zero desire to renew what minimal acquaintance I had with him.”

“Understood, but … wait a moment.” Her lips pursed in a frown. “I seem to recall, when reading up on the old files, there being a feud between yourself and Allfather. He swore vengeance upon you for murdering Iron Rain. You said there was respect between you and them, and I was under the impression you didn’t hurt women. Or was that just an act?”

Now, he smiled sardonically. “Congratulations. You’ve uncovered a secret that’s been hidden in plain sight for the last ten years. My disinclination to harm women or children was more than a little romanticised, even while I was active as the Marquis of Brockton Bay. Originally, it was less in the way of conscience and more a specific choice. You see, I had noted that those villain capes with a reputation for indiscriminate violence often have all the stops pulled out against them, while those who publicly exhibit consistent levels of self-control and gentlemanly behaviour—especially regarding women and children—are far more likely to be given a pass at the end of the day. Over the years, it simply became habit.”

Her lips set in a tight line. “I don’t know whether to praise you for your restraint or smack you for your sheer overwhelming cynicism. How did that work out for you? I mean, you got captured anyway.”

“Yes, well.” He let out a faintly irritated sigh. “It worked quite well; to a point. Right up until the distaff members of the Brockton Bay Brigade allowed themselves to be used as human shields during a combat with me. This was to allow their male partners to attack me with impunity.”

“And it worked. They captured you.” Alexandria tilted her head, studying him intently. “Ahh … no. I see. There was another factor involved.”

He acknowledged her insight with a fractional nod. “Yes. I was working around it, but my daughter was on site and the battle endangered her. I put myself in harm’s way to protect her, and was disabled by Brandish.” His smile reflected his genuine amusement. “And now little Amelia has lifted me out of Hell, in her turn. It’s interesting how these things go, is it not?”

“That’s a matter of perspective.” Her focus, he could see, was still razor-sharp. “We were talking about Iron Rain. Did you kill her?”

“No, as it happens.” He sighed. “There was a battle with the Teeth. Butcher got in a lucky shot in the heat of it, and she died later of her wounds. At the time, the capes of the Empire Eighty-Eight were very heavily into the twin narratives of honour and retribution. They were also a particularly violent collection of miscreants. Allfather would have been bound to go after Butcher and kill him, and become Butcher in his turn.”

“Well, that’s a no-brainer.” Alexandria shook her head. “If it’s suicide, you don’t go.”

It wasn’t often he got the opportunity for a teaching moment, especially with someone as sharp as Alexandria. “You forget, dear lady, this was the old days. The Empire was still establishing itself. Refusal would have splintered the organisation to the core, as Allfather’s capes abandoned him and the control he held over them. Nobody wanted them rampaging across the city, so I offered a compromise; I would take ‘credit’ for the killing, and he would claim the right to exact vengeance.”

“Hm.” Her expression under the mask was unreadable. “Wouldn’t that have opened you up to reprisals from one of the other Empire Eighty-Eight capes?”

He chuckled. “Certainly, but my reputation at that time was solid enough that not a single one of the Empire capes was willing to take me on personally, all their talk of honour be damned. Allfather and I were in the process of arranging a show battle, where damage would be done but nobody came out on top, when I was captured. I understand he died a few years afterward under suspicious circumstances, and Kaiser took over. The boy always was impatient to take up the reins of power.”

She made an impatient gesture as if waving away the trivia of the Empire’s methods of transfer of power. “Very well. I am satisfied you are both unlikely and unwilling to renew any criminal associations you might have once enjoyed. You will be provided with a new identity, and a basic stipend. Should you wish to augment this, I strongly suggest you take up some form of honest employment. Steal just one dollar, and you’re gone. Do you understand?”

Sounding impatient at this juncture would’ve done his cause no good at all, so he kept his voice bland. “As you have made abundantly clear, dear lady, I am to do nothing that may get me arrested or reveal my identity as Marquis, out and about in Brockton Bay. In return, I may walk in the sunlight and breathe free air. I consider this to be an extremely adequate bargain.”

After studying him for a long moment, she nodded. “That’s good enough for me. There is a washroom through the other door, and clothing in the closet. I suggest you make use of the clippers in the washroom to style your hair to something other than what you used to wear, back in the day.”

This time, he chuckled; he couldn’t help himself. “And are you going to supply me with a pair of fake glasses to hide my identity? I used to go armoured in bone. The number of people now who saw my uncovered face then would be minimal, approaching zero. And even if my face was familiar to them, they wouldn’t believe it was really me. Nobody gets out of the Birdcage, after all.”

She seemed to consider his words for a long moment. “Acceptable. If anyone does approach you, what will you do?”

“Put on my best bewildered expression and tell them they are surely mistaken,” he said cheerfully. “Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to take a shower in a bathroom that doesn’t have a floor of concrete.”

Taking the hint, she stepped out of the way. “When you are ready to leave, walk out that door.” She went to the door in question and opened it to reveal a blank white corridor. “You will be met.”

“I appreciate the courtesy.” He headed for the bathroom door. “I would say ‘see you later’, but I suspect you will see me before I see you.”

“Count on it.” Stepping out through the other door into the corridor, she closed it behind her.

Always has to have the last word. Well, it wasn’t entirely surprising.

Unbuttoning his pyjama shirt, he stepped into the bathroom. Whatever facility this was, he didn’t know if their hot water budget could be exceeded, but he intended to give it the old college try.

<><>​

Dallon Household
Panacea

I stared at the text I’d just received.

Your father will be walking through your front door in the next five minutes. Please be waiting inside.
– Alexandria

“What is it, Ames? You’ve just gone white as a sheet.” Vicky peered at my phone. “Holy shit, he’s actually out? And he’s coming here?” She hugged me tightly. “You were right!”

“What, that he was still alive?” I rolled my eyes in an attempt to conceal my jittery nerves. “A mishap in the Birdcage that just so happens to kill him, just after Teacher dies as well? I sincerely doubt that either one was as accidental as they’d like the public to think.”

Vicky frowned. “What, you think they lied about Teacher dying?”

“Oh, no, Teacher’s dead.” I spoke with absolute assurance. “Dad—I mean Marquis Dad—would never have left him alive after Saint tried to use me to get him out. That asshole wasn’t Teacher’s only cult member, you know.”

“Exactly correct.” The new voice, one I’d only heard once before, coincided with the front door opening. A familiar figure stepped through, then glanced behind himself with some puzzlement. He shook his head, frowning. “I could’ve sworn …”

“Dad?” My voice was low and breathless. I could feel my heart rate accelerating. “Is it really you?” It certainly looked like him, although his hair and beard had been trimmed somewhat. That didn’t matter, once I got a closer look at him; the timbre of his voice and the way he moved awakened memories long forgotten.

“It is, dearest Amelia.” Dismissing whatever it was that had him confused, he stepped all the way inside and closed the door. Moving toward me, he put his hands on my shoulders and stared into my face. “My God, you’ve grown.”

I pushed forward and hugged him tightly. Vaguely, I felt him patting me gently on the back. “I missed you,” I said, trying not to cry. “I didn’t know how bad I missed you, until I saw you in the Birdcage. But I missed you so bad. Vicky says I cried myself to sleep for months after they took me away.”

“Well, that’s what I remember happening, anyway,” Vicky said awkwardly from beside me. “I didn’t really know what was going on, except that I had a new sister and she was sad all the time. So I tried to make her happy.”

“And I appreciate it,” Dad said, patting me on the back again, but speaking to her. “Victoria, was it? Glory Girl?”

“I go by Vicky, actually.” She paused, apparently unsure about how to go on. “So … what do we call you? New Guy? Amy’s Dad? I’m pretty sure ‘Uncle Marquis’ is out of the question.”

He chuckled warmly. “I can see we’re going to get along just fine. No, an identity has been arranged for me. My new name is Patrick Matheson, but you can call me Patrick.”

Slowly, I unpeeled myself from my father, but took hold of his hand to keep him close. “I kind of expected them to use ‘Marcus’ or ‘Mark’. You know, keep it familiar?”

When he smiled, I saw creases collecting around his eyes. “Giveaway names like that only happen in Saturday morning cartoons. Do they still have those?”

“Uh huh,” I said immediately. “Protectorate Kids is a big favourite. They can’t put the Wards up even as parody images until they’re eighteen, but de-aged versions of the current Protectorate are fair game.”

“Yeah.” Vicky smirked. “Li’l Alexandria is so cute.”

Dad actually laughed out loud. “I am definitely going to have to watch that.”

<><>​

Dragonslayer Base
Mags

“So, have you decided what to do with Marquis data?” Mischa’s question was phrased casually, but the look in his eye was anything but.

It wasn’t hard for Mags to figure out where his thoughts lay. “I’m not going to Brockton Bay to avenge Geoff,” she assured him. “That was a fool’s errand to begin with. But I’m not going to let them off scot free either. Someone’s gonna pay for this shit.”

Mischa nodded. “Talking about pay, what is happening with team? One working suit is too vulnerable, da? Are we even Dragonslayers?”

Leaning back in the computer chair, Mags closed her eyes and sighed. “No, you’re right. We’re going to have to make some changes around here. Go and pay the men off, let them know we’re not doing active jobs anymore. Try to break it to them gently, okay? Let them know it’s not them, it’s us.”

“Will do.” She heard his heavy tread as he moved out of the room and off down the corridor.

Opening her eyes again, Mags turned to the computer system. For a moment, she was tempted to activate Ascalon anyway. An irresistible weapon to slay a dragon. Once set in motion, the program would remove the machine from consideration forever.

But the Dragon AI had never done anything to warrant its execution. Geoff had been stalking Dragon obsessively over the last few years, scrutinising its every move in the hope of finding something to prove it was the danger he had always maintained it was. He had consistently come up empty, over and over again. And in the meantime, Dragon had emulated being a hero successfully enough that people considered ‘her’ to be a real person.

There was no harm, Mags decided, in allowing Dragon to continue helping people until such time as it decided to start hurting them instead. She would keep an eye on it, monitoring its activities, providing a check on its behaviour. Protecting humanity from behind the scenes.

This wasn’t to say that either Panacea or Marquis would go unpunished. As she’d said to Mischa, someone was going to pay dearly for Geoff’s death.

Carefully, she crafted the file that would go out. It contained the footage of Panacea’s conversation with Marquis in the Birdcage, as well as each subsequent interaction that involved a mention of Marquis or Panacea. Appended to it was the code string that prevented Dragon from intercepting it or following the trail back, because she wasn’t stupid.

THESE ARE THE PEOPLE WHO WOULD CALL THEMSELVES YOUR HEROES, she emblazoned across the screen that finished off the file. Carefully, she picked out the destination addresses; mainstream news as well as conspiracy theory sites. If even one took it up and reposted it, it would go viral in hours.

Finally, there was but one thing left to do. The SEND icon lay under the cursor on her screen. Once rung, this bell could never be unrung.

Fuck you all. Geoff, this is for you.

With a cold and bitter smile, she clicked the mouse button.

<><>​

Marquis

‘Patrick’ sat on the sofa across from the adult members of New Wave. Brandish and Lady Photon sat on the sofa opposite, while Manpower and Flashbang stood behind it. His Amelia sat beside him, while Vicky perched on the arm of the sofa with her hand on her sister’s shoulder. Filling out the team, Shielder and Laserdream flanked their parents on either side.

“You’re all looking well,” he observed, taking a sip from his cup of tea. Even that tasted so much better out of the Birdcage. “Though I understand you’re all unmasked for fighting crime? Even the children?”

Brandish glared. “It was an integral aspect of the New Wave movement. Total accountability for heroes and villains alike.”

He sipped again. “You do realise, do you not, that villains will mask up anyway? That you were simply exposing yourselves and your loved ones to whatever retribution the villains would be likely to send your way?” He stopped short of mentioning Fleur by name. They were all thinking it by that point, and it was easier to let them rub the salt into their own wounds.

“Shut up.” Brandish seemed to have taken on the role of spokesperson for the team. “We’re here to talk about Amy, not your views on how we run our team.”

“Very well.” He placed the cup down and faced them squarely. “Amelia is my daughter, and she will be staying with me for as long as she and I choose. I will thank you to not stalk me or her, lest you draw unwelcome attention to me. I have given my word to her to not take up my old criminal ways again, and I intend to stand by that word. Do you understand?”

Lady Photon looked concerned. “Amy’s duties with New Wave—”

“—will be attended to at Amelia’s discretion,” he interrupted smoothly. “When and if you choose to pay her for such healing as she decides to carry out, she will be placing a higher priority on that. Until then, I will be seeing about creating a more equitable arrangement for her. In addition, I will be looking at child labour laws, to see if a lawsuit against the team has any standing. There might be serious damages accruing for the last three years. Accountability, you understand.”

At their collective stunned look, he took up his teacup and sat back, feeling truly comfortable for the first time since he had been released from the Birdcage. Once he had undertaken not to perform any overt criminal activity, those in positions of power had apparently dismissed him as harmless, unable to effect change.

They had no idea—yet—how wrong they were.



End of Part Ten

 

Hostage Situation

Part Eleven: Unearthing the Past

[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



PRT Building
Marquis

The man named Patrick Matheson sat at ease in the moderately comfortable chair, angled so he could view both the large screen of the conference room and the Director, seated across from him. Miss Militia stood behind him, deliberately out of his line of sight, in a blatantly transparent attempt at intimidation. Beside him, her hand in his, sat Amelia Claire. Even without looking at her, he could sense her trepidation.

Director Piggot exhibited no such emotion. As the collated footage ended—he was seriously impressed with what they'd managed to achieve with such tiny robots—and the final screen showed up, she turned to him. Simmering anger was displayed across her features, to the point that he suspected there were people in Boston who knew exactly how pissed off she was.

"Did you have anything to do with this?" she demanded.

He knew what answer Piggot wanted, of course. She despised him with the heat of a thousand suns, but at her core she was essentially honest. Not that she wouldn't load disproportionate punishments on his plate if she thought she could get away with it (and to be honest; she probably could. The Directorship of a hardship posting like the East-North-East region carried a few perks). No; as far as he could tell, she hated capes and everything they stood for, and punished them for it every chance she got. But she wouldn't frame him for anything. If she threw him back in the Birdcage, it would be because of something he'd actually done.

And he could respect that, he really could. He'd met people before who would dribble honeyed words of pure poison in his ear while holding him close so they could decide exactly which ribs the knife would slide in between. More than one authority figure he'd had to deal with, back in the day—superheroes and cops alike—were far more interested in looking good than doing good. They'd take bribes from powerful crime figures to come down on a less influential rival, then trumpet their 'harsh on crime' stance from the rooftops.

But not so Piggot. Her words remained unminced. Despite her antagonism toward him and his ilk, he felt comfortable dealing with her, because he knew exactly where they stood in relation to each other.

"I did not," he replied, doing his best to project a calm and relaxed manner. "Since my release, I've been spending time with Amelia here, as well as Glory Girl. Lovely child, if a little impetuous. Considering that I have next to no understanding of how computers work in this day and age, that I've had no opportunity to hire on someone with such capability, and that my daughter and her sister have been with me almost constantly, I believe it's patently obvious that I had nothing to do with it." His voice hardened. "More to the point, the footage clearly names both Amelia and Glory Girl as complicit in my eventual release. Deliberately endangering children, especially my own daughter, is a step I would never consider."

Director Piggot glared at him, even as the final message of the clip continued to display on the screen: THESE ARE THE PEOPLE WHO WOULD CALL THEMSELVES YOUR HEROES. "I would consider an anti-superhero message to be on-brand for a self-confessed supervillain. Especially one who is just back in town and would like to see the PRT weakened by poor public relations."

"On the contrary." He matched her, stare for stare. "As a newly minted law-abiding resident of this city, I would much prefer the PRT be free to anticipate and counter any threat to Amelia Claire. Your failure to keep something like this out of the public eye is on you, not me."

She hadn't given up yet. "In identifying you, that clip plays directly into your hands! You can't tell me you knew nothing of it!"

"I not only can tell you that, but I will tell you that," he stated firmly. "I had no idea it was going to happen until it played on the news. Neither did anyone else I was with." He tilted his head in amused recollection. "I will say this much; Brandish's vocabulary has expanded considerably since we last clashed."

"This is in no way a laughing matter!" Piggot was apparently trying hard not to grit her teeth. "The public is now aware that you've left the Birdcage! The fallout will be potentially catastrophic!"

"I agree. It is not a laughing matter." He afforded her a slight bow. "But thank you for confirming that I am no longer constrained from using my powers in a law-abiding manner."

If she clenched her fists any tighter, he feared for the integrity of her tendons. "Enjoy your freedom while you have it. I will be investigating the leak with every resource at my disposal. If I find just one hint you were in any way involved, you'll be back in the Birdcage so fast there'll be a sonic boom involved."

"Whoa, whoa," Amelia protested, holding up her hand. "Director, you're being unfair to my dad, here. He's already told you he didn't do it. He even explained why he wouldn't have. And now you're basically inviting someone to fake evidence to make it look like he did? Because from what you're saying, you'll take that over all the evidence saying he didn't. Why don't you just break out the witch-burning stake while you're at it?"

The Director switched her attention to Amelia. "Panacea, I'd advise you to stay out of this. Your father is a villain, and someone leaked that information to his benefit."

'Patrick' leaned forward. "And I'd advise you to not address my daughter in that tone," he stated. "She's done nothing but good for this city, and deserves a whole lot more respect than that. And as for your statement, it was not at all to my benefit." It had been a long time since he'd had to deal with anything other than the microcosm of power dynamics within the Birdcage, but it was just like riding a bicycle.

Like iron filings following a magnet, Piggot's eyes swung back to him. "Explain."

He ignored her for the moment and turned his head toward Miss Militia, arching one eyebrow.

After a few seconds, the flag-clad hero cleared her throat. "If you could please clarify what you meant by that? We need to understand."

At least she'd said 'please'. "It's simple enough, if you think about it. That leak wasn't intended to help me. Any benefit was both incidental and accidental. It was aimed at punishing the PRT for releasing me, and punishing me for being released. Nothing more and nothing less."

The Director frowned. She appeared to be toning down the aggression. "Who's alive to care that you're out, enough to punish anyone for it? You've already made it clear that all your old associates are gone, as are your adversaries."

Amelia's eyes opened wide, and 'Patrick' knew she'd hit on something. "Saint. He wanted to get Teacher out. He even kidnapped me to make it happen."

"But Saint is dead," Piggot said patiently. "And besides, your father was in custody before he ever began operations. There's no crossover. No chance of bad blood."

"Not then, no." 'Patrick' nodded to Amelia, pleased that she'd suggested this avenue. "Now, yes. I've been told a little of this Saint, and how he used to steal equipment from Dragon with ridiculous ease. What if he had … Amelia, what's the computer term for looking over someone's shoulder?"

"Backdoors into her system," she said promptly.

"I see where you're going with this, and it tracks to a point," the Director admitted. "But again; Saint is dead. He couldn't have released the footage, no matter how he got it."

"Ah, yes," 'Patrick' agreed. "But did Saint perhaps have associates who could've done it for him?"

As with any good lawyer, he knew not to ask such a question without prior knowledge of the answer. The research he'd done into Saint had been more to do with Teacher's death, but the information was still valid. There had been two other power-armoured members of the Dragonslayers, either of whom could've performed the data dump as a way of avenging their deceased comrade.

From the sour look on Piggot's face, she knew it also. "Your point is valid," she admitted grudgingly. "We'll look into it."

"As you wish," 'Patrick' said. "In the interest of fair play; if any harm comes to Amelia as a result of this, I will not rest until the person responsible has paid for their transgression, in full and with interest included." He paused. "In a totally legal manner, just in case you were wondering."

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" asked the Director, her eyes narrowing. "Believe me, Marquis, you don't want to go there."

"Neither do you." 'Patrick' stood up. "Now, if all we have left is empty posturing, then Amelia and I shall be leaving. One: I am legally no longer Marquis, so using that name is a pointless accusation. Two: you only need to fear if Amelia comes to harm, and you are personally responsible. Three: If you think I trade in mere threats, then maybe you don't belong behind that desk, after all. Good day to you." With a polite nod to Miss Militia—it was never a bad idea to be courteous to anyone with a big gun, and she had all the big guns—he headed for the door.

"Mr. Matheson!" Director Piggot's shout rang out as he grasped the handle.

Pausing in his motion, he turned his head to look at her. "Yes, Director?"

The glint was still in her steel-grey eyes, but her tone had moderated slightly. "Be careful in your dealings. This is not the Brockton Bay you remember."

Slowly, he nodded. "I shall keep that in mind."

<><>​

Panacea

I waited until we were walking out of the PRT building before I turned to Dad. "Did you really have to antagonise her so badly? I thought you were going to play it low-key, now that you're out. And what was that 'If you think I trade in mere threats' line, anyway? It sounded like something out of a second-rate crime drama."

He winced, or pretended to anyway. "Ouch. It's bad enough to be critiqued, but to be so savagely down-rated by one's own superhero daughter? Sharper than a serpent's tooth is an ungrateful child, indeed."

I rolled my eyes. "Enough with the theatrics and classical allusions, Dad. We need to have the Director and the PRT as a whole on-side to make this work. I'm fully aware you used to be a supervillain, and so's the Director. We can do without rubbing her face in it every thirty seconds."

He shook his head. "She was trying to provoke me into doing or saying something unwise, and would've continued to do so had I not pushed back. I would not be in the slightest bit surprised if she already has a report on her desk explaining how Saint's organisation was behind the whole thing, and her dumb act was just that; an act."

"But why?" I shook my head. "She's not exactly a nice person, sure, but I doubt she'd actually frame you for it."

"There's framing and then there's framing, my dear Amelia," he explained as he led the way off down the sidewalk. "I knew I was innocent of it, and so did she. But if her veiled accusations had perchance led me to presume I was about to be re-arrested with no option of a fair trial in the matter, I might well have attempted to fight my way out of the building. And attacking PRT personnel is absolutely a crime they could arrest me for and use to return me from whence I came." He made a throwaway gesture with his right hand. "Thus, my accusation of provocation."

I hadn't figured things all the way through but then again, I didn't have Dad's background. "Oh."

"'Oh', indeed," he said dryly. "I understand you're used to seeing the Director and her underlings as the good guys—so to speak—but you should never, ever forget that they have their own agendas to follow, which do not necessarily overlap with yours. As you undoubtedly discovered when you first requested my release from durance vile."

He had a really good point there. At times, my efforts to get Dad out of the Birdcage had felt not unlike beating my head against a brick wall. "Yeah, I got that."

My view of the superhero/supervillain world, originally painted in stark blacks and whites as supplied by Carol and reinforced by Vicky's attitudes, was beginning to suffer many alarming shades of grey. Worse, not all of it was centred around Dad. To find out that the Director herself was capable of such underhanded techniques made me wonder what else she'd done to thwart me in what I wanted without me being any the wiser. Knowing Dad, he'd probably be able to reel off chapter and verse on potential tactics if I happened to ask.

I didn't ask. Sue me; I wanted to preserve some illusions.

When I didn't say any more, he turned to look at me. "You look more than a little disillusioned. What do you say to a trip down memory lane to bring back fond recollections of days gone by?"

"Memory lane?" I looked at him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, gesturing toward the west, "that I would very much like to see the old homestead once more. Did anyone ever purchase it?"

I was taken aback by the question. "Uh … no … not that I'm aware of," I stammered. "Carol and Mark never said anything about it, even before I found out you were my dad, I mean. I'm thinking maybe the PRT just took it over and kept it."

"Without maintaining it?" Now he sounded aggrieved again. "Come, now. Ten years without proper care? The place may well be a ruin. That's no way to treat a house."

I shrugged. "I honestly don't know. How are we going to get out there and back, anyway?" He'd walked back into my life, not driven. I was pretty sure he didn't own a car and might not even have the funds to buy one.

"You raise an intriguing conundrum," he agreed. "Now, this is merely a request for information, as opposed to a favour … but tell me; how strong are your cousins' force fields, and how fast can they fly?"

That was an option I hadn't thought of. Before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled out my phone.

<><>​

Shielder

"I still can't believe I said yes to this," complained Eric.

"What?" asked Vicky, flying alongside. "Amy and her bio-dad need a lift, and I for one would love a tour of the old Marquis mansion."

"One I would be entirely pleased to give to you, dear girl," said the man Eric was trying to think of as 'Uncle Patrick'—because 'Uncle Marquis' was still too weird—as he reclined at his ease inside the force field bubble. "I'm not certain how much of it is left, given how thoroughly the PRT would have scoured it for every last scrap of alleged evidence of criminal activity, back in the day."

"Uh, Dad?" Amy, comfortably ensconced in Vicky's arms, raised her head. "We're all aware you used to be a supervillain and do crimes. Back in the day, as you said. I'm reasonably sure there's nothing 'alleged' about it. I'm just trusting you not to do them now."

"From your trust to my action, my dear Amelia," 'Patrick' said with a minor bow. "But my point was that the evidence itself was alleged. I was far too careful to let anything contaminate where I lived. Every bottle of Dom Perignon, every crystal chandelier, every tailored suit, I bought fair and square with money I'd very carefully laundered beforehand. Not a dirty note among them. The only reason the Brigade even tracked me down was because a disgruntled underling thought I stored cash in the house. Once he turned me in, I suspect the plan was to ransack the place for my ill-gotten gains."

"And did he?" asked Vicky, eyes bright with interest as she put on what had to be her idea of a wise-guy accent. "Or did you have da doity rat whacked from inside da joint?"

The ex-supervillain visibly winced. "My dear Victoria, nobody has talked like that for over sixty years. And I did not have him killed to set an example. That sort of thing, I never left up to another person. No, someone else caught wind of his plan and thought they'd beat him to it. From what I heard, there was a brief but ugly scuffle in one of the grimier bars of the day, involving a knife and a pool cue. Neither one survived."

"Oh." Vicky sounded almost disappointed. "That's not very dramatic. So, did you have any money stored in the house?"

"As it happens, yes," he confirmed. "Approximately two and a half thousand dollars, in a small safe in the master bedroom. Don't get your hopes up; the PRT almost certainly drilled out the lock and confiscated the cash."

"But isn't that yours?" asked Amy. "I mean, you're out again so they should give it back, right?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Really? Are they not teaching you about civil asset forfeiture these days? No? My dear, the moment the authorities get the slightest chance of claiming that something of value either has been used in a crime, is going to be used in a crime or constitutes the proceeds of a crime, they can simply take it into custody, even if no arrest has been made or charges laid. It's theirs from that moment on, to do with what they want." He tilted his head in rueful self-acknowledgement. "Of course, it's a lot easier if charges have been laid."

Despite himself, Eric found himself being drawn into the discussion. "Wait … that's not right, is it? It can't be." He was down with criminals being arrested and jailed, but having their stuff taken away just because it might have been used in a crime was a going a bit far.

"Yeah, it is," Vicky said unexpectedly. "I remember Mom telling me about it once. It's been on the books for a long time, but they kicked it into high gear to crack down on drug dealers from about nineteen eighty onward, taking their houses and cars and money and stuff. Since Tinkers started showing up, their labs have also been a big target."

"Yeah, but …" Eric huffed, irritated about not being able to find the right words for what he wanted to say. It just felt wrong, was all.

"We're here," 'Patrick' noted, pointing ahead at where a rooftop showed between two trees. "Whatever 'here' might end up being. Be careful if we go inside; the structure may be unstable."

"Hey, I'm invincible and Eric's got some pretty rockin' force fields going on," declared Vicky as they coasted in for a landing. "I wish Crystal could've come too. She'd love this."

"College does have a way of taking up one's time," 'Patrick' noted. Eric brought the bubble he was standing in down to the ground then dissolved it, depositing him on solid footing. "Thank you, lad. Well done. Have you been practising?"

The compliment, sincerely given from one cape to another, took Eric off balance. "Uh … yeah. Mom makes sure me and Crystal can use our powers properly."

"Good, good." 'Patrick' nodded as he began to pick his way up the driveway, currently strewn with leaves and branches, with a few small bushes and small trees sprouting through. "Of the Brigade, she was perhaps the one who gave me the biggest challenge when it came to beating her. Ranged attack, coupled with a strong and versatile defensive capability."

Vicky scooped Amy up and flew her over the mess, but Eric instead used a laser to cut a few of the branches in half. "Not Dad? I mean, he would've been about the strongest guy in Brockton Bay, back then. Probably still is, even now."

'Patrick' gave Eric a nod of acknowledgement and kicked aside the smoking branch-ends. "Thank you kindly. Yes, your father is strong, but that merely meant I didn't attempt to match his strength with mine. You don't attack your enemy where he's strong, but where he's weak. When he attacks you, make sure he strikes where you're strong."

"Is that Sun Tzu?" asked Vicky, setting Amy down on the steps outside the house. "It sounds like him."

"Paraphrased, but yes." 'Patrick' climbed the steps and stood beside Amy, before the front doors. "You will find that many of your opponents are going to try to use powers as a substitute for strategy. If you think through the fight before the first punch is thrown, it means you don't have to try to figure things out while adrenaline is messing up your thought process." He looked at the stained, weathered wooden doors, and frowned. "Hmm. Nobody's been here in quite a while."

"Yeah, we got that already." Vicky gestured at the branch-strewn driveway, with its own burgeoning growth. "So we gonna go in, or not?"

<><>​

Panacea

"I say we go in." I grabbed the handle and tried to turn it. It didn't budge. "Aww, it's locked."

"Here, let me try." Vicky took hold of the handle and turned it. Metal and wood creaked for a few seconds, then there was a sharp crack of something breaking inside the mechanism. Letting go the handle, she gave the door a light shove and it creaked open. "See? It was just stuck."

I rolled my eyes. This was not the first time she'd used the 'it was just stuck' excuse, and it likely wouldn't be the last. "Just stuck. Right."

"I swear." She put her outspread hands over her heart. From her expression, butter wouldn't have melted in her mouth. "It was like that when I found it."

Dad snorted under his breath as we stepped inside. Eric raised his hand, muttering something about, "now, how did Crystal do it?" before a wavering light lit up the gloomy interior. The more he concentrated, the broader the beam was.

I could easily believe nobody had been here in ten years. Long looping webs, heavy with dust, hung from every protrusion. Eric's light illuminated what would've been a gorgeous marble floor if it hadn't been for a decade of dust, rat droppings, dead spiders and God knew what else. The walls were a dark wood that had probably once been polished to a lovely sheen.

Dad raised his head and looked around; from the expression on his face, he wasn't seeing what the rest of us were. "Do you remember this, Amelia? Do you remember the house?"

I squinted and looked around again, then kicked aside some of the litter that was crunching under our feet. The pattern in the marble tiles looked almost familiar, so I kicked some more aside. Eric's light fell over it, and in a flash of memory I knew what it looked like.

Crouching down, I ran my fingers over the floor, then turned my gaze upward. It had been ten long years, but if I concentrated, I could see how the house had been before, to an adventurous six-year-old. Turning, I pointed at a staircase looming in the shadows. "My bedroom was up there," I whispered, my voice echoing in the silence.

"It was," he said quietly in return. "We won't go up there quite yet. I don't feel like falling through the floorboards. Come on through; I'll show you where the Brigade captured me. Our last battle."

That got Eric's and Vicky's attention in no uncertain terms, and we followed him through the house. Barely identifiable items of furniture, not even covered over, lay rotted and moth-eaten here and there. Several times, we had to pull aside sheets of spider-web where they'd layered up over the years.

"Wasn't there a basement of some kind?" I asked tentatively as we pushed open an unlocked (actually unlocked this time, instead of Vicky-unlocked) door into some kind of study. "I remember a cool dark room with stairs going up."

"Yes, there's a wine cellar as well," Dad confirmed. "It's more or less directly under our feet. Several feet of stone and earth, so there's little chance of it giving way under us. I had several rather excellent bottles of the fifty-four Krug down there, nicely maturing."

"Think they confiscated the wine as well?" asked Vicky. "Or would it still be there?"

Dad gave her a raised eyebrow. He was actually pretty good at it. "What do you think, dear girl?"

"Ah." She nodded in resignation. "So … this is where it was?"

I looked around. There were the remains of an armchair to one side, and a door into a dark place, sagging off its single hinge across the room. Slowly, I moved toward the door. "I was in there," I said. "With my favourite pillow."

"I remember that pillow." Vicky was beside me. "You wore that damn thing out."

"Mm-hmm." I pushed the door, and it fell off the hinge. Vicky caught it and leaned it against the wall. Inside the dark place, as Eric brought the light closer, was a largish closet.

"So … wait," Eric said slowly. "You were in there, while your dad fought our parents out here?"

I glanced at Dad for confirmation, and he nodded. "Ah … yeah, I guess? It got noisy, then someone opened the door and it wasn't Dad. He was lying … just there, where you're standing. I don't remember much else."

Eric scratched his head. "How come they attacked while you were there? I mean, one stray shot, or someone bashing through the wall …"

"They didn't know," Dad said quietly.

I'd already been aware of this, and I was pretty sure Vicky remembered the epic confrontation with Carol in the PRT building, but this was definitely news to Eric. He stared at me, and I nodded. "When they found out where Dad lived, they didn't bother finding anything else out, like the fact that he had a six-year-old kid. They just charged on in. Dad shoved me in the closet and tried to de-escalate, tried to take it outside, tried to do anything to prevent combat from breaking out right where I was, but this was the first time they'd caught him on the back foot and they were determined to push it to a fight. So … they did."

That was the gist of what Fred Jones had told me, interspersed with my own deductions of what had happened at the time. It had been bad enough inside my head but saying it out loud was even worse. Eric had a stricken expression on his face, while Vicky looked deeply, deeply unhappy.

"Well, enough of ancient history," Dad said, breaking the awkward silence. "Shall we go through to the back? I want to see how the lawn is faring."

"The forest, you mean," I muttered. "The front driveway was bad enough."

That got a chuckle from Dad and an actual laugh from Vicky. Eric looked like he was still trying to get his brain around what had happened in the study, once upon a time. Still, we kept moving, ducking past drunkenly leaning doors and brushing aside yet more intrusive spider-webs until we emerged on the rear patio. It was thick with leaf litter to the point that actual mulch had formed, but we kicked some of that aside.

It was good to see actual sunlight again, but I'd been more right than I'd thought about the state of the lawn. If I squinted, I could see how it had once been, but the carefully rolled green and the manicured bushes had exploded out of all control. Now, they were wildly growing trees, with smaller trees in between. The grass beneath was competing with weeds, along with the massively overgrown flowerbeds.

"Hm." Dad leaned against the patio rail and surveyed what he could of the landscape. "It could be worse, I suppose."

"It could be worse?" Vicky stared at him as she waved at the incipient forest beyond the patio. "That's gonna need a bulldozer before you could make a lawn out of it again. Or a flamethrower. Or a bulldozer and a flamethrower."

"Granted, granted." Dad folded his arms, then looked over at me. "Amelia, do you remember your princess phase?"

"Princess phase?" Vicky only just barely got in before Eric, both staring at me. "You had a princess phase?"

I reddened, looking beseechingly at Dad. "Please tell me you're kidding."

He raised his eyebrows, a slight smile on his face. "Not in the slightest, my dear girl. You made a wonderful princess. That was after your admittedly brief pirate phase."

Eric snorted with amusement, and I stared at Dad, willing him to tell me it was all a joke. "Now I know you're kidding."

"Once more; not in the slightest." He straightened up off the rail and looked around, then pointed at the nearest tree. "In fact, I recall you with your little toy spade, burying treasure right at the base of that bush. You were so proud of yourself. You even made a treasure map for it."

Eric looked at Vicky, then at the tree. "Amy buried treasure when she was six years old?"

Vicky nodded, a grin beginning to spread across her face. "Sounds like it."

"Nope," I said, crossing my hands in front of me in a scissor motion. "Nope, nope, nope. Don't even think about it."

Eric grinned at me. "Aren't you even slightly curious about what six-year-old you would've buried as treasure?"

"Not in the slightest." I looked him straight in the eye. "And neither should you be."

"Well, I am." Vicky launched off the patio and landed beside the tree. "Should I pull it up, or just dig alongside it?"

I sighed, shoulders slumping. Apparently, this was going to be a thing. "Well, don't kill the poor tree. I'll uh, redirect its roots so they aren't damaged by us digging."

"What are we gonna use for spades?" asked Eric. "I mean, my force field works for me, but I'm sure Vicky doesn't want dirt under her nails."

There was a muted snap-snap noise from behind me, and I turned to see Dad impassively offering me two shovels, about the right height for me and Vicky. They were bone-white and … oh. They were made of bone. I'd known Dad could do that, but I hadn't actually seen him use his powers until right now.

"Thanks," I said. "Hey, Vicky! Got a shovel for you!"

So apparently we were digging for buried treasure.

<><>​

Glory Girl

Vicky had to say, Amy's dad made a pretty good shovel. A little thicker in the blade than a metal and wood one, but it dug into the dirt real good. She and Eric and Amy took turns, carving out pieces of dirt and piling them neatly alongside, while Ames stopped them occasionally so she could reroute a particularly thick root.

"You know," said Eric, "I think we might be on the wrong side of the tree. We're two feet down, and I'm pretty sure a six-year-old kid, even Amy, wouldn't go that far down with a toy garden spade."

"You're in the right place," 'Mr. Matheson' said encouragingly. "Ten years of leaf litter makes for a lot of mulch. You're probably only getting to the original dirt now."

It made sense, especially looking at the thickness of the mulch on the patio, so they kept digging, widening the hole as they went so they could get better purchase on the dirt at the bottom. At three feet down, with the hole now wide enough for all of them to stand in, Vicky began to have her doubts. "Whatever was down here," she said, "it isn't here now."

"Yeah," agreed Eric. "Digging for buried treasure isn't all it's cracked up to be." He smirked in Amy's direction. "You probably dug it up again and forgot about it."

"Don't look at me," Ames told him. "I don't even remember burying the stupid thing."

"Well, for all of me, it can stay there." Vicky dropped her shovel and lofted up out of the hole. "I am gonna shower for like an hour after this."

Eric followed along, giving the tree a kick along the way. The leaves rustled, but that was about it. "Me too."

"Wait up." When Amy went to climb out, the edge of the hole crumbled. Vicky went to help her, but Ames jammed the shovel into the dirt to brace against instead.

Thoomp.

They looked at each other, then at the shovel blade, still half out of the dirt. "What was that?" Vicky asked.

"I dunno," Amy said, and grabbed the shovel again. Hastily, she began scraping in the dirt at the bottom of the hole.

"What was what?" asked Eric, who was twenty feet up with his eyes closed, arms out to the sides, slowly turning in the sunlight.

"Ames hit something and it made a funny noise." Vicky dropped into the hole again. Grabbing up her shovel, she started hefting the dirt out of the hole.

In the next moment, Amy's shovel scraped on something that made the sound again. Her eyes met Vicky's again.

"That wasn't a rock," she said.

"Nope, it was not." Bracing herself, Vicky snapped the handle off her shovel and dropped to her knees.

With the leverage she could generate using her strength and the width of the shovel blade, she was able to scrape the dirt off the top of what looked and felt like an expanse of white rock. They had to extend the hole a little at one end, given it was (Vicky estimated) two feet by three feet, but in the end they had the top clear. She thumped it with her fist and came back with a muffled echo. Whatever it was, it wasn't empty, but it wasn't solid either.

It was a box of some sort.

"No six-year-old buried this," Eric said, hands on his hips as he hovered over the hole, looking down at what they'd found. "Did they, Mr. Matheson?"

"Well, that depends," Amy's dad said, not moving from his relaxed posture on the patio. "She may have donated a spadeful or two of dirt. So, technically speaking, she helped bury it. Did you wish to query its provenance some more, or are you more interested in getting it out and perhaps seeing what is within?"

"You'll want to get out of the hole, Ames." Vicky flexed her fingers.

"But your nails," Amy protested, but didn't resist as Eric helped her out.

"Screw my nails." Vicky poised herself and drove her hands spear-fashion straight down into the dirt on either side of the box. Once she felt her fingertips curling around the bottom, she braced and heaved.

It didn't want to come loose, which Vicky could kinda understand. The box had been at the bottom of this hole for ten or eleven years, and the dirt had been settling around it for all that time. It had compacted, and roots had grown through it. The box was as close to being a part of the dirt as it could've been without actually dissolving into it.

She didn't give a damn.

Once upon a time, she'd picked up an entire cement truck (empty, because she wasn't stupid) and held it over her head for the reporters. This wasn't as heavy as that. It was just held in by a lot of dirt that was a lot heavier than that.

She grunted with effort and heaved harder. Something shifted. Underground, she felt a root that was strung across one side of the box as it snapped. The box shifted again, moving upward. And then all of a sudden, air got in there, and it came with a rush as the suction was broken.

Vicky flew up out of the hole with the box, trailing lumps of dirt. The other two followed her as she went to the patio, kicked more mulch aside, and dropped the box on the marble tiles. One cracked, but she didn't give a shit.

"Okay," she said to Amy's dad. "What's in it?"

He didn't move from his relaxed posture, but his voice dropped the carefree tone he'd been affecting before. "If I tell you, that presupposes knowledge of the contents. It goes from 'unknown owner' to 'potential proceeds of crime'. You know what will happen to it then." He shrugged. "As far as I know, some stranger intruded on my lawn one dark night and buried it there. It's up to you to open it and find out."

"Hm. Damn it." When he was right, he was right. Vicky crouched next to the box and saw that it had a slightly indented seam around the outside, but no lock to be seen. "Eric, I think this needs cutting open."

"On it."

They held their hands to protect their eyes from the glare as Eric carefully cut the seam all the way around the box. He wasn't as powerful as Crystal but when it came to a basic cut, he was actually pretty good. It took about five minutes, which Vicky figured was four minutes fifty seconds too long.

"Okay," he said eventually. "Vicky, I'm gonna need you to hit the lid sideways, right about … there."

"Got it." Clenching her fist, Vicky smacked the lid right where he was pointing at. It broke free and thumped onto the mulched leaf litter; score one for Eric.

Inside the box itself was a heavy plastic bag, yellowed with age, folded over. Whatever was in it came right up to the rim of the box. Around the very edge was a layer of some other material; Vicky wasn't sure what it was, but Eric's laser had only scorched it instead of setting it on fire or melting it.

"You buried it and you found it, Ames," she said, gesturing at the folded-over plastic bag. "You get to see what's inside first."

"If it's pieces of eight," muttered Eric. "I will go apeshit."

Vicky watched as her sister went to her knees beside the box, careful to avoid touching the still-hot edge. She unfolded the bag and reached inside, then apparently had to tear some kind of seal holding it closed. Reaching farther in, her fingers closed over something and she pulled it out.

It was an envelope, the flap glued lightly down. On the front, in exquisite copperplate, was the name Amelia Claire. She stared at it, finger gently tracing the letters, then looked up at her father. He nodded encouragingly to her.

Out there, in the lawn-turned-forest, the wind was rustling through tree branches, but under the patio it was so quiet Vicky heard it when Ames broke the seal on the envelope. She pulled the letter out and unfolded it. Taking a deep breath, she began to read out loud.

My dearest Amelia Claire,

If you are reading this, something drastic has most likely happened to me. If I am dead, you have been directed to dig under the tree by a letter in my will. Otherwise, if circumstances have required me to travel abroad for my health, when you reached the age of eighteen or twenty-one, my lawyer will have forwarded a similar letter to you. There are two such letters, to increase the chance of one reaching you.

No matter how you got to this point, the contents of the box are yours in perpetuity and to be put to whatever use you see fit. I cannot see the future and make no claim to be able to predict it beyond the next few minutes. Therefore, as much as I would like to say I will always be there to protect you, fate and chance delight in making a mockery of such promises.

When you came into my life, Amelia, I had no idea what to do with you. But parenthood has come easily to me and now I can think of no happier state than to be your father. As I write this, you are playing in my study, setting up a tea-party which I will be only too glad to partake of with you.

In closing, I will state that wherever life takes us both, I will always be your father, and if I cannot be there to take care of you, the contents of this box will have to do it for me.

I hope they will suffice.

Yours …

By the time she got to this point, Ames was sniffling. She stopped reading at 'yours' and hugged her dad; he embraced her in return, dirt and all. Vicky couldn't blame her for crying. She was getting a little misty-eyed herself.

"So, what's in there?" Eric pulled open the bag and reached in. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he slowly pulled his hand out again. "Holy …"

Vicky stared at the fat wad of cash in his hand. At least two inches thick, it was composed of hundreds. Just hundreds, all the way through. "… shit," she finished. "Ames. Ames! Check this out."

It took a couple of seconds for Vicky's tone to get through to Amy, but in the end she let her dad go and turned to see what Vicky was talking about. When she focused on the stack of money, her face went pale, bringing her freckles out in sharp contrast. "What? What? How much …?"

"Thousands," Eric said dreamily. "Tens of thousands." He patted the bag. "Hundreds of thousands."

Amy's dad cleared his throat. "Millions."

Vicky stared at him. "Millions?" Her voice squeaked upward at the end, but she didn't care. "Actual millions?"

He nodded austerely. "All for Amelia Claire. It was for if I was no longer able to provide for her. Not one of those banknotes is stolen. She can do what she wants with it. Go to college. Take a vacation for the rest of her life. I claim none of it." His nod encompassed all three teens. "You dug it up. You found it. Not me. Do you understand?"

Vicky took a deep breath. "Yeah, I got it. Was this … your savings?"

He chuckled darkly. "My dear Glory Girl … I was a successful supervillain, not one of the low-effort posers in Brockton Bay today. This was some spare money I decided to put aside for a rainy day."

Eric raised his eyebrows. "Some rainy day."

Amy's dad nodded, still amused. "Indeed."



End of Part Eleven

 

Hostage Situation

Part Twelve: Attending to Business

[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Glory Girl

They were lofting up and away from the dilapidated mansion when Eric cleared his throat. "I, uh, it's really none of my business, but ..."

"But you consider it important enough to raise as a topic, despite its sensitive nature," Amy's dad responded. "I would wager you are about to ask a question about the money. Go ahead and ask; you will not learn if you never question." Reclining at his ease within the force field like a potentate of old, he gestured in invitation.

And that was just one of the bizarre aspects about him. Despite her intense curiosity—Marquis was the closest thing to a living fossil that the Brockton Bay underworld had—she'd been ready to jump on him with both feet if he turned out to be an asshole, especially to Ames. However, the newly-renamed 'Patrick Matheson' had repeatedly shown both restraint and an underlying strength of conviction, especially when dealing with Vicky's parents and with Director Piggot. His consistent courtesy and willingness to treat them as equals had put him a cut above the other Brockton Bay villains she'd encountered in the past.

Eric nodded. "I was just wondering ... once the Director finds out about the money, and learns that Amy got it from you, what's stopping her from doing that asset seizure thing on it?"

"That is indeed a good question." Matheson raised an eyebrow. "I have one for you in return. Do you believe it would be fair or equitable for her to do so?"

To Eric's credit, he didn't even hesitate. "Uh, no. You gave it to Amy. It's hers."

"Indeed. And Glory Girl? Your opinion on the matter?"

Vicky shook her head firmly. "You said it was clean, and I believe you. Ames should get to keep it."

Sitting next to her father, using the box as a seat, Ames raised her head at the expressions of support. "Thanks, guys. I appreciate it, I really do."

"As do I." Matheson bestowed an approving gaze upon Eric and Vicky. "Now, to answer your question in part if not whole. There exist ways and means that, while technically not legal, are not specifically a crime to make use of. I will be instructing Amelia in their use so that the money is safe from the rapacious grasp of the United States legal system, yet still accessible to her."

Damn, this guy was making the whole concept of villainy sound cooler all the time. "So, uh, we don't get to know what these ways and means are?"

His urbane smile turned in her direction. "Plausible deniability, my dear Glory Girl. If you do not know, you cannot accidentally reveal it to the wrong people."

Or have it wormed out of me by Mom. It still irritated Vicky that her mother was a better interrogator than she was, and this was entirely achieved by way of lawyer tricks rather than super-powers. Fear only worked so far with some people, and with others it made them shut all the way up.

"Yeah, that makes sense," Eric agreed. "I think—"

What he thought would be forever lost to posterity, when his phone suddenly went off, chiming alert after alert. Vicky's was doing exactly the same; a fraction of a second later, Amy's phone joined the raucous chorus.

"Son of a bitch," Vicky muttered. If her phone was blowing up like this—if everyone's phones were blowing up like this—then something serious had to be going down. Hauling out her phone, she called up her messages.

"The bombings have started up again," Eric reported, reading off his own texts. "We're needed for search and rescue." He frowned. "One of the bombs must have taken out a cell tower, so we didn't get the alerts until now."

"Carol wants me at the hospital," Amy added, looking at her own phone. "They've got casualties coming in."

"Because of course she does," Matheson murmured. "For a lawyer, Brandish always did lack imagination."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Vicky asked, a little more sharply than she really meant to. "If people are hurt, they're going to need healing."

She wasn't quite sure how he managed it, but a single raised eyebrow made her doubt everything she'd just said. "My dear, hospitals are well-staffed with medical professionals who are specifically trained and equipped to keep people alive until they recover all by themselves. They're famous for it. I believe my daughter has a different role to play in this little drama. Amelia, if you would like to stay with me for the duration?"

"Uh …" Amy looked and sounded torn. "I want to, but … I promised a week of normal healing duties while they worked on getting you out of the Birdcage. The week's not up yet."

He sighed. "Let me guess. Alexandria?" Before she could answer, he went on. "Very well, I shall make certain to deliver you to the sweatshop just as soon as we have finished our errand together. You may then ensure that the hoi polloi return to their regular lives with little to show from their undoubtedly harrowing experiences."

"Wait," Eric said. "Where are you going to be going? What will you be doing? Mom and Dad—and Aunt Carol and Uncle Mark—are gonna want to know."

Matheson gave him the raised-eyebrow treatment next. "If I don't tell you, then you won't be obliged to conceal it from your respective parents. This way, they won't attempt to interfere when least needed."

"I don't like the sound of that," Vicky said carefully. "Ames, you don't have to do this if you don't want to."

Amy took a deep breath. "Don't care. Tell Carol and Mark that this is my choice. If we end up doing something blatantly illegal, I'll arrest him myself, but he's already promised not to, so I'm pretty sure he won't."

"Well said, Amelia dear." Matheson pointed downward. "You may set us down anywhere there, young man. Then go about your duties. Make your city proud of having such upstanding heroes."

Eric gave him a dry look. "I'm pretty sure they could tell that was sarcasm in Miami."

Matheson smiled, with an almost roguish twinkle to his eye. "Now, now. With Victoria and yourself, I was actually being serious. Amelia could not have found herself a better adopted sibling or cousin."

Vicky snorted. "I notice you don't include our parents in that."

"Astute as ever, Victoria." Matheson stood up as the force field bubble reached ground level and dissolved. "Go, save the innocents. We shall be along in good time."

As she flew off alongside Eric, Vicky turned to her cousin. "Any idea of what he's talking about?"

He shrugged. "Apart from doing whatever it is to hide the money? No clue."

"Hmm." Later, she decided, she would corner Ames and see if she could find out what was really going on.

<><>​

Panacea

When Eric dissolved his force field and flew away—not without a wave to me, which I returned—I stood up and dusted my hands off. I was still fairly grimy from digging the box out, and I wondered if there was a micro-organism I could make to act like soap or something. This wasn't the time or place to start experimenting, though. Instead, I looked around to see if I could get my bearings.

In a way, I did, but not in the manner I'd expected or wanted.

Brockton Bay had never been quite large enough for dedicated cultural or ethnic enclaves to form over decades; we didn't have a Little Italy or a Chinatown, for instance. However, there were blocks where people from the same regions had established businesses, possibly because they were related in one way or another. Looking across the road from where we were, I saw a couple of shops with pictogram writing on them that might have been Chinese or Japanese. And, because I was looking for it, I saw one other thing.

The red and green tag of the Azn Bad Boys.

I cleared my throat and looked down at Dad, who was down on one knee, examining the box. "Uh … problem." While I didn't know how big a problem it was going to be, I figured he needed to know, sooner rather than later.

He stood up fast, turning to face where I was looking, with jagged bone poking through holes in his hands. "What is it?"

I gestured at the tag. "ABB. We're in their territory." This was absolutely a problem. After all, the ABB had more or less declared war on the rest of the city. Under the cover of Bakuda's bombings, Oni Lee had broken Lung out of holding, which was bad enough. However, we'd sort of assumed that the bombings would stop once they'd achieved their objective. Seeing as they'd started up again, it looked like they wanted more. And being caught in their territory would be a problem for anyone.

"Oh, is that all?" He turned his attention back to the box. "This was deliberate, dearest Amelia. It's the one area the bombs won't be going off in. I required some peace and quiet to do what I need to do."

"Then we may have come to the wrong place," I murmured, hardly moving my lips, as three gang members emerged from a nearby convenience store. The tallest of the three was stuffing a wad of cash into his pocket. I was fairly certain he hadn't just used the ATM.

I recalled a report I'd heard Carol and Mark talking about, how the ABB rank and file were far more numerous now. They were pushing their recruitment efforts more than ever before, and they had hundreds of members on the street.

"Hey!" called the tallest of the gang members. "What are you two doing here? What's in the box?" He started swaggering toward where I stood with my father, with his two associates trailing behind. If I was reading their body language right, they didn't really want to be there, but they didn't have a choice in the matter.

"On the contrary, this too was entirely deliberate." Dad glanced my way with a slight smile, then flexed his wrists in a slow, deliberate fashion. There were no bone spikes in sight now, but that meant nothing at all. "Would you agree that we are in danger, and have a right to defend ourselves?"

"Hey!" The gang members were standing right in front of us now. "Asked you a question, old man!" Reaching out, the leader shoved Dad back slightly. It was a dominance move, older than civilisation, with a very basic thought process behind it. React or submit.

I sighed internally. Oh, these idiots have no idea what they're doing. Not that I had much in the way of sympathy for them. Dad's question had been evidently intended to elicit one specific answer, so that he could act freely in this matter. I was inclined to go along with him, because screw Lung and screw the ABB. Deliberately, I cleared my throat, drawing the gang members' eyes to me. "Yes."

"Good. I'm so glad we agree." For all his playful tone, his eyes were deadly serious. The bone spikes emerged from his hands again, shooting out and forming a cage around the importunate gang members. From every bar, wickedly sharp blades angled inward, pricking the clothing and flesh of the three young men, holding them immobile.

"Don't kill them!" I blurted automatically, then felt just a little embarrassed. If he'd wanted them dead, they would be corpses by now.

"Oh, I have no intention of doing so, unless these young louts decide to do something supremely idiotic," he said. He met the eyes of the tallest gang member. "You and I are going to do some talking, in just a moment. Your future depends entirely on the answers I get. Do I make myself abundantly clear? Don't nod; you may do yourself an injury."

The ABB member's eyes rolled sideways, looking for a way out. He twitched away from some of the foot-long barbs, but that only brought him into contact with more of them. "You got no idea who you fuckin' wit', ol' man," he mumbled.

"On the contrary, boy, I know exactly who I'm dealing with." 'Patrick Matheson' was in full Marquis mode by now. His voice, still urbane and cultured, sounded downright sinister. In another instant, a bone mask with jagged spikes forming an irregular crown had formed around his head. "Do you?"

From the way the ABB idiot's eyes widened, he recognised what he was seeing. "Shit!" His voice hit a higher note than he probably intended. "You're Marquis!"

"No, not since I left the Birdcage." The bone crown dissolved to become dust on the wind. "If I still were, I would already be disposing of your remains. We can go back to that, if you truly want to. Your choice." Dad shifted his viewpoint to another one of the gang members. "After all … I have spares."

There was a long and extremely thoughtful silence. The ABB guy blinked a couple of times. "I can talk."

"Good." Dad glanced down at the box, then covered it with another layer of bone and secured it to a convenient parking meter. "Amelia, dear, kindly wait here with these charming gentlemen while I make a few purchases. I should not be long."

I shrugged. "Okay." It wasn't clear to me yet exactly what he had in mind, but so far he seemed to know precisely what he was doing. If this was my father after ten years out of the game, what must he have been like at the top of his form? I was pretty sure I knew why nobody had messed with him.

Dad entered the shop; the little bell tinkled as the door shut behind him. I looked around and saw no more threats. The few people on the street stared at the bone cage, then turned and hurried in the opposite direction. Nobody wanted to know, nobody wanted to be involved.

"Psst! Hey!"

I looked around; it was the self-appointed spokesman for the ABB gangsters. "Can I help you?"

He rolled his eyes toward the shop door, then back to me. "You're Panacea, right? Amy Dallon? Are you his hostage?"

It was blindingly obvious as to where he was going with this, but I thought I'd play it out anyway. "I'm Panacea, yes. But I'm not his hostage. I'm his daughter. Why do you ask?"

From the look of shock on his face, he hadn't been paying attention to the news, or PHO, over the last couple of days. That was if he even had access to either one. "Uh—you—he's gonna kill us, you know that, right? You're a superhero. You can't let him do that."

I sighed. Fred had ranted about this sort of thing more than once. "You're willing to victimise and murder people, but as soon as it's your ass in the firing line, things are different all of a sudden. Riiiight." I leaned closer. "He's not going to murder you, you idiots. He's said he won't, and that's that. Unless you do something really stupid, like threaten my life. Two men have already died, doing that."

While he was still digesting that, the shop door opened again. Dad emerged, looking pleased with himself. Before I could ask what we were doing next, my phone rang.

Oh, boy. I was no kind of Thinker, but I had a good idea who was calling, and why. Reluctantly, I looked at the caller ID. Sure enough, it was Carol. "Hey," I said, putting the phone to my ear.

"Where are you, and what are you doing?" she demanded. "They need you at the hospital, healing people!"

I refused to feel guilty about what I was doing. "Right now, Dad needs me to do stuff with him. I'll go to the hospital after we're done."

"What? What does he need you to do that's more important than saving people?"

I hadn't realised Dad could hear both sides of the conversation until he plucked the phone from my hand with a murmured 'excuse me'. "Saving more people, my dear Brandish," he said, then ended the call and handed the phone back to me. "I would advise you to turn that off for the duration. She does not appear inclined to listen to our side of things, and the noise could be a dangerous distraction."

I hesitated. Ever since I officially became Panacea, I'd never turned my phone off. I'd always been on call, night and day, just in case some illness or condition that only I could deal with cropped up.

It began to ring again, Carol's name on the caller ID. With a convulsive motion of my thumb, I declined the call. Then I pressed the sequence to power the phone down. I wasn't exactly sure why Dad was concerned about 'dangerous distractions', but neither did I want to try second-guessing him.

"Phone's off," I reported, putting it away. "But you haven't yet told me what's so important that I'm likely to get guilted at for the next six months."

"One thing at a time, dear Amelia," he said, using a bone blade from his fingertip to slice open the plastic packing around the basic-use cell-phone he'd just bought. His other purchase , currently tucked under his arm, was a small roll of aluminum foil.

"Uh … didn't the PRT already give you a phone?" I asked. "A better one than that, even?"

He chuckled dryly. "I may be as the merest babe in the woods when it comes to computers in this modern age, my dear, but even I know when I'm being handed a surveillance device. If that contraption is not equipped to record all my calls, much less track my every footstep, then I will be sincerely astonished."

As he spoke, he exchanged the phone in his hand for the PRT-issued one in his pocket. The latter he proceeded to wrap in tinfoil until it was well and truly swathed.

I didn't want to think that the PRT would deliberately bug my dad, but the more I considered the notion, the more likely it sounded. Director Piggot was someone I could totally see doing it, and justifying it with the explanation that Dad was a notorious supervillain. Which he technically was, but he was also someone who had survived ten years in the deadliest human-created long-term living space on Earth. At the very least, I figured, he'd earned a bit of slack.

"Now then," he said genially to the three ABB members. "I am going to release you in a moment. You will pick up this box here and carry it to that alley just down there. You will not attempt to run off with the box, or perform any other stupidity with it. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

"Wh-what happens if we do?" asked the leader of the group.

A heavy bone band formed around his leg, just above his knee. The same happened with each of his two compatriots. They twitched, evidently aware of what had just happened, but not of its significance. To be fair, neither was I.

"That depends, young man, on how attached you are to your femoral artery." Dad was an artist at the bland delivery of a mortal threat. From his expression and tone, he may have been commenting on the weather. "You may outrun me. You will never outrun my power."

I was pretty sure he wouldn't actually do it—casual murder was one thing I would wholly object to, and he had to know it—but the way they went pale showed that they were convinced otherwise. When he dissolved the cage, they stumbled a little, watching him warily. They were probably armed—knives at the very least—but they showed basic smarts by not even attempting to pull a weapon on him.

Next, he removed the bracket holding the box to the meter. "Pick up the box and carry it," he directed them. "Put those muscles to use."

While he directed them where to take it, I kept a lookout all around. He was probably doing the same—ten years in the Birdcage would teach a certain amount of situational awareness—but I didn't want to feel totally superfluous.

Nothing happened. Passers-by carefully ignored us. Really, it was the safest option; come in on our side, and their faces would be remembered for later. Come in on the side of the people extorting them for money, and they'd have to deal with our powers. Overall, a lose-lose situation. Better to see nothing.

With the box safely deposited in the alley, Dad had them stand back and then removed the reinforcing bone, leaving just the box we'd dug up from the overgrown lawnscape. Then he took his phone out but did not immediately dial a number.

"What's up?" I asked quietly. So far, Dad had been getting everything right. I didn't like the idea that he might not know what to do next.

"I am making use of a mnemonic to recall a number I once knew," he replied, equally quietly; now that I was paying attention, I could see that he was tapping a pattern on his wrist with the fingers of his free hand, as if pressing buttons. "Pray give me a moment, dear girl."

"Okay." I went back to watching the box, the gang members and the street. Tension ratcheted inside me, and I felt my nails digging into my palms. If Lung and Bakuda learned that we'd invaded their territory … well, Dad was good, but I didn't know if he was that good.

And then he started dialling. One number after another went into the keypad; a steady, measured series of beeps. Who he was calling, I had no idea. But it was like Fred Jones had once said; back in the day, my Dad knew everyone.

"Ah, yes, hello," he said, as cheerfully as if he were speaking to an old friend on the street. "Yes, it is indeed myself. As you are no doubt aware by now, I am a free man once more. I wish to reactivate my account. Yes, a card as well would be considerably appreciated. Also, I would like to open a new account, with its own card. The funds for it are at my location. Yes, thank you. I will expect you momentarily."

Stepping from the mouth of the alley, he put his hand to the wall. Bone, spreading from his hand, became a barrier blocking off the entire entrance to the alley. I couldn't quite figure out what he was doing, and the three gang members looked equally puzzled. He'd contacted someone, and arranged a bank account for the money he'd put aside for me, but what was supposed to happen next, I had no idea.

After about two minutes had passed, we heard a distinct clack from inside the alley. Dad gestured, and the bone barrier disintegrated. Within was the box, but now it was empty. I could tell, because the lid was half-dislodged, sitting askew on the box. But that wasn't all; on top of the box lid, there were two envelopes that hadn't been there before.

"Aha." Dad stepped forward and picked them up, then smiled and handed one to me. Written on the front was 'Amelia'; when I opened it, I found a magnetic-strip card and a piece of paper. The card was blank on both sides, apart from the reader strip. On the piece of paper was a string of numbers and letters, printed with impeccable penmanship.

Holy crap. That's better service than my bank here in Brockton Bay.

Closing the envelope, I folded it over and slid the whole thing into my pocket. "Okay, I will admit to being seriously impressed. But can we maybe get out of ABB territory before Lung and the others learn we're here, and come looking?" I figured the box was the equivalent to all the birthday presents I'd missed out on since Dad went to the Birdcage. It would suck to get it all at once, then not have a chance to spend the money.

"My dear Amelia." The tone of Dad's voice changed, becoming more serious. "That was never the plan. We came here for a reason, and we will be seeing it though." Turning his head fractionally, he appeared to survey the nearby rooftops. "Place your back to the wall, now."

Dad didn't usually give me orders, but I'd found that even his suggestions were well worth following. As I moved to obey, I saw tiny shards of bone sprinkling from his hands to the sidewalk and then spreading in all directions like a light dusting of frost. As it went up the wall, I looked more closely; it was a gossamer-thin network of bone spicules, just strong enough to hang together of its own accord.

While—as previously mentioned—I could never claim a traditional Thinker rating, his words and actions gave me a severe case of unease, and I lowered my voice when I replied to him. "Why? What's going on?"

"As I expected, someone has indeed alerted Lung's cape faction." His tone was light again, possibly to make sure I didn't panic. "I just spotted Oni Lee. He's approaching carefully, to ensure that this is not a trap."

I was pretty sure I knew the answer to that one. "But it is a trap, isn't it?"

My father smiled tightly in approval. "Of course, my dear Amelia. However, I have one question to ask of you. Oni Lee is a killer, and no doubt intends to murder us in cold blood. Would you prefer I killed him or captured him alive?"

Jeez. Put this on me all of a sudden, why don't you? I knew damn well that legally speaking, we were permitted to meet lethal force with lethal force. But I just couldn't bring myself to be okay with baiting someone in just to kill them as soon as they got close enough. Also, I didn't know how he was going to do it, but there was no doubt in my mind that he could and would. "Uh, alive?"

He inclined his head briefly. "Alive it is. Now, hush. I shall be needing to concentrate."

I tried to quiet my breathing, then I wondered about the other three. They hadn't said a word in some time, and this would be a perfect opportunity for them to disrupt Dad's ambush. Carefully, I turned my head, and I realised why Dad had been speaking only to me.

They were still alive, which was a relief. He could easily have murdered them behind my back, but he hadn't. Then again, I'd asked him not to kill them, so there was that.

However, they weren't about to shout a warning. Not only were they locked into bone manacles that held them immobile, but bone gags across their mouths prevented them from making any noise above a quiet mumble. And Dad had done this while I was right there, literally behind my back while I was talking to him.

He is really, really good with his powers. Like I didn't know that before.

And then it was waiting time. I didn't know where the ABB assassin was, and I didn't know how he was going to try to kill Dad, but I knew it was going to be soon. The seconds ticked by. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck. I tried not to fidget.

If he got within arm's reach, I could put him to sleep. But he had to know that already, so there was no way he'd let me even get close to touching him. So it was all down to Dad.

I only spotted Oni Lee's attack run because I was almost looking that way, and I caught him from the corner of my eye. He appeared in the alley; Dad and I were backed up to the walls on either side of the entrance, looking out into the street. With virtually anyone else, he would've achieved total surprise.

My father wasn't just 'anyone else'.

Before I could turn my head or begin to shout a warning, before Oni Lee was able to aim the pistol or toss the grenade he was holding, Dad's power acted. From the grimy, trash-littered floor of the alleyway sprang slabs of bone, launching upward to surround and imprison the masked figure in an instant. (I'd say 'entomb', but Dad had said he wouldn't go lethal).

I finished turning my head and stared at the bone monolith that had appeared in the alleyway. "Okay," I said. "I'll bite. How did you pull that one off?"

Dad shrugged modestly, or as modestly as he was capable of, which wasn't very. "I learned a long time ago how to deal with teleporters, my dear Amelia." Holding up his hand, he exhibited more of the fine bone network, then made it vanish. "I am aware of all bone in my vicinity, especially when it is still connected with me. A fine carpet of it is almost invisible, and when the teleporter crushes it …"

"… you know where they are, and the bone walls can be grown up around them." It had been right there in front of me, but I was still impressed. "What are you going to do with him now?"

"Me?" He raised his eyebrows and placed his hand, spread wide, on his chest. "Nothing."

I wasn't sure where he was going with this. "You're just going to … leave him there?"

He spread his hands as if to show there was nothing up his sleeves. "Amelia, I have no better way to maintain him as a long-term prisoner than where he is right now. If you wish, we can get him out and you can put him to sleep, but if we just leave him there, he can breathe quite well."

"And what about food and water?" Oni Lee might be a villain, but I wasn't going to just let the man starve to death.

"I am certain the PRT will be able to supply him with both when they arrive to arrest him in a few hours." He beamed at me. "I understand that they have holding cells aplenty, which will fit their needs to a T."

I was missing something. "And what are we likely to be doing in the next few hours that will delay us from informing them of his whereabouts until then?" Dad did not strike me as being the sort of person who would sit around doing nothing for an hour out of pure spite.

"Why, Amelia." He pretended surprise. "There are villains bombing my city—our city—almost with impunity. Don't you think it would be a good idea if they were stopped?"

Oh, yeah. That was what I'd been missing. "Just gonna say, Dad, that sounds almost heroic of you. Turning over a new leaf or something?" I raised my own eyebrows as I said it; he didn't have exclusive rights to all the good lines.

He chuckled in delight. "You are definitely my daughter. No, I'm still firmly in the villain camp, though I suspect I will be trending toward rogue once I find my footing in this brave new world. Removing Lung and Bakuda from the board will not be so much a heroic act as a pragmatic one. It's hard to do business when everyone is looking over their shoulder for the next explosion, after all."

"I … guess." He had a distinct point, but it still felt weird. "How are we going to be doing this?"

Turning to look at me, he raised his eyebrows. "'We' are not going to be doing this at all, young lady. I pledged to deliver you to the hospital where you can heal the ongoing trauma cases, and that is what I shall be doing. The rest, I will do on my own."

"What?" My voice rose in indignation. "No! That's not gonna happen! Lung's the most powerful cape in Brockton Bay, and Bakuda does bombs! There's no way I'm going to let you go after them on your own!"

He paused to look at me, and tilted his head slightly. "You truly mean that. I am touched. Also, I find myself wondering if a little of your sister's tendency toward precipitate action has not rubbed off on you."

I rolled my eyes. "Leave Vicky out of this. Either we're taking down Lung and Bakuda as a team, or not at all." There was no way I was going to let him just go off and maybe die, or get charges trumped up against him by the PRT while I wasn't there to stand by him. It was as simple as that.

"As you wish, my dear." He led the way out of the alley, then casually erected a solid wall around Oni Lee's ad hoc prison. "You three; the time has come for the conversation I alluded to earlier." Without so much as a gesture, the gag on the tallest one melted away. "Let's see how short and sweet I can make this. Where might I find Lung and Bakuda?"

It looked like the guy had grown a backbone while secured, or maybe Dad had hit the one hill he was prepared to die on. "Fuck you, old man. That's where. Ain't telling you shit."

"Are you certain about that?" A bone blade grew from between Dad's knuckles, and teased across the idiot's throat. "As I said, I have spares. Once they see your fate—"

"Dad," I said in a tightly controlled voice. "Can I speak with you for just a moment?"

I was starting to get the idea of why he'd wanted me to go back to the hospital while he went after Lung and Bakuda. His methods of getting information were likely to be as brutal as they were effective, and he had to have known that I wouldn't approve. The trouble was, I was here now and he just had to lump it.

He stepped with me back into the alley and lowered his voice. "Amelia darling, please don't interrupt me when I'm working. If I am unable to elicit the correct information from one of these three morons, my task of ending the bombing spree will be much, much harder. And it's entirely unlikely that any of these three is an actual innocent."

"Yeah, I get it," I said heavily. "But I don't care. You don't murder prisoners. It's literally their job to be loyal to Lung. Is there any way we can convince them without actually committing a war crime?"

His lips pressed together, Dad seemed to ponder my words. "I can think of one way, but it will require your cooperation, and a little trickery."

Well, if he was willing to compromise, so was I. "I'm listening."

<><>​

The Villain Formerly Known as Marquis

As I rounded the corner again, I raised my voice. Our performances in this little play did not have to be perfect, just good enough to deceive three young louts already in fear of their lives. "If you do not have a better way to do this, stay in the alley!"

"But I told them you wouldn't—"

"More fool you, for making a promise you couldn't keep!"

Placing myself directly in front of the leader of this little band, I looked him squarely in the eyes. My left hand clamped onto his shoulder, so that he was less likely to notice Amelia laying her hand on his arm, from outside his line of sight. The bone blade I formed from my hand was impressively large and came to a wicked point. As I waved it hypnotically before his eyes, he gulped nervously. "You—you can't. She said you wouldn't—"

"She has no say in this," I interrupted, pricking his Adam's apple with the very tip of the knife. "Now … where might I find Lung or Bakuda?"

He gritted his teeth and shook his head. "Fuck off. Not gonna—"

"As you wish." I swiped the knife across his throat. Immediately, he began to choke and gurgle as the life faded from his eyes. A red tide spilled down his front, soaking his shirt; more trickles of red came from his mouth and nose. He convulsed a few times, then hung motionless in his bonds, his head hanging forward.

Flicking the blade in a theatrical fashion, I moved on to the next in line. He stared at me, then at his erstwhile leader. "Don't—don't kill me! Please!"

"Tell me what I want to know." I made my tone implacable. Between that, his helpless position, the threat of the blade, and his slumped-over associate, his will to resist would surely crumble.

Still, he didn't divulge the information that I sought. "I can't. We can't. She'll kill us." He was terrified, almost crying, but still holding out.

I traced the blade over his cheek and dropped my voice to a menacing whisper. It was time for a little more stick, along with some carrot. "And you believe I will do less if you keep refusing? The moment you give me what I want, I will release you, and you can go back to your tawdry little lives. Nobody need know you were ever involved."

"She'll still kill us!" It was the third one speaking up. He twisted his head around until an ugly scar was revealed, down behind his ear. "She put bombs in our heads. If we don't do what she says, we explode, or turn inside out, or melt, or something! She gets off on that shit!"

"Ah." That put an entirely new complexion on matters. "Amelia, dear? Could you perhaps apply your expertise to this problem?"

"Bombs? Really?" Amelia stepped in beside me and poked his cheek with her finger. "Okay, wow, yeah. There's something in there. Not sure what, but she's hooked up some nerves to it." She frowned. "I should be able to remove it without any problems. There's no large blood vessels in the way. Do you consent to me taking it out of your head?"

His eyes opened wide. "You can do that shit? You do that, I'll tell you everything I know!" He seemed to have entirely forgotten about his unfortunate colleague, which didn't precisely surprise me. The (shudder) 'Azn Bad Boys' did not seem to run on the concept of supporting one's fellow man, especially considering how Bakuda was doing her recruiting.

If she were to survive this episode without a Birdcage sentence or a kill order, I was going to lose what little faith I had in the integrity of the PRT as a whole. Seriously. I might go so far as to write a strongly worded letter to my Congressman.

Still, there were certain precautions that would need to be taken. Just because I had set a trap for Oni Lee did not mean we were immune to being trapped ourselves. "Not so fast, Amelia."

"What?" She turned to look at me. "Why? We've got to get this thing out."

I dissolved the bonds holding the boy's legs immobile. "And you may do so, once I have this one separated from his friend. Just in case, you understand."

Together, we walked him into the alley, where Oni Lee remained imprisoned within his calcareous prison. Everything I had read about him indicated that he required line of sight to utilise his teleport power, so I had blocked that off as soon as he appeared. New problems; old solutions.

Generating more bone, I locked our potential source to the wall of the alley and stood back. "Have at it, Amelia dear."

"Alright then." She drew a deep breath, which I judged to be more a habit than a sign of trepidation, and moved in close. I found it intriguing that while she needed to achieve physical contact to activate her power, the expression of that power was far more versatile than mine. Except, of course, in the case of affecting her own body.

"That feels weird," he muttered, squirming under her touch. "Tickling me inside my head."

"Sshh," she admonished him. "Nearly got it … uhh, is it bad that it's flashing heat?"

Alarm bloomed in the back of my mind. "Back!" I snapped, taking hold of Amelia's shoulder and dragging her bodily away from her hapless patient. Once I had line of sight on the young man, I shot a bone claw out from my hand toward the flashing red light I could see within his neck. The claw closed on flesh and bomb alike, tearing them free to the accompaniment of an agonised scream from the ABB member. As part of the same movement, I flicked the claw sideways, detaching it from my hand with a familiar stab of pain so that it flew off down the alley with the bomb and gobbet of flesh firmly clasped in its pincers.

Perhaps a second after it passed by Oni Lee's prison, it exploded. Or rather, something happened that turned the walls and floor of the passageway into a twisted mess capable of giving Mr M C Escher nightmares for a week.

Amelia and I stared at one another for a moment. "Booby trap?" she asked, somewhat faintly.

"Booby trap," I agreed. "Possibly activated by light or exposure to air. I am truly beginning to despise Bakuda." She was exhibiting all the traits that I detested in my fellow supervillains. While life was anything but sacred to me—I had killed many people, some of whom were technically heroes—I considered murder to be a means to an end, not an end in itself. Removing disloyal subordinates was one thing, but anticipating their removal by implanting bombs in their skulls was a measure of vicious pragmatism I would never embrace.

In a way, it was a self-fulfilling prophecy; if one's minions were treated so badly that they needed to have implanted bombs to ensure their loyalty, then disloyal thoughts were almost certain to be entertained at one point or another.

In this particular case, I didn't blame them in the slightest.

She returned to her patient and closed the jagged wound I had torn in his neck. It had been bleeding badly but not catastrophically; fortunately, as she had noted, there were no significant blood vessels in the way. "You could've not ripped half his throat out, you know," she observed with more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

I raised my eyebrows. "In situations like that, dear Amelia, there is the gentle solution and there is the solution that saves lives. All too often, these are not the same thing, and anyone who stops to attempt to locate the perfect solution will find it too late, if it exists at all."

"I still think you could've been nicer about it." She finished healing her patient—who still had his eyes clenched shut in terror—and stood back. "Hey, you can open your eyes now. You're fine. Bomb's out, and it didn't even kill you."

Not for want of trying, I thought, but did not say.

"Ah. Right. Um." He licked his lips nervously. "What did you want to know?"

Now we were getting somewhere. "Where can I find Bakuda and Lung? I wish to have words with them about their management practices and public relations model. They're giving supervillains a bad name and may I say, that is a rather impressive feat, given that we are sharing a city with literal Nazis."

"Yeah, I know, right?" He nodded. "Bakuda's got a workshop over on—"

<><>​

Panacea

"Hey!" called out the guy I hadn't knocked out. "Marquis! Panacea!"

Which reminded me; I was going to have to wake the other one up at some point. Dad and I had pretended to murder him in order to put the fear of God into the others, and it had worked, but now the need had passed.

"What?" I asked, stepping out onto the street. "We'll get to you in a minute." As soon as I can figure out how to get those damn bombs out safely.

"It's not that," he said, pulling fruitlessly at the bone holding him against the wall. "They're coming. She's coming. And she'll blow me up just to kill you!"

"What?" Aware I was repeating myself but unable to avoid it, I looked around. Then I listened.

That was when I heard the engine. It struck me that there'd been no vehicle traffic for all the time we'd been here, which kind of made sense; everyone was staying indoors. I wasn't a car person, but this sounded powerful, not to mention loud. It echoed through the streets, and it was coming closer.

Just as I opened my mouth to call Dad, he stepped out of the alley. "Is there a problem?" he asked.

"Yeah." I indicated the direction I could hear the engine noise coming from. "He says that's Bakuda. And she'll blow him up just to get us."

Which, now that I was thinking about it, I could totally believe.

"We need to be out of sight, Amelia dearest." Dad grabbed me by the arm and hustled me into the alleyway. "There is no sense in presenting a free target when your enemy has a ranged weapon."

"We don't know she's got ranged weapons," I protested, though I didn't resist.

"Yes, we do." His tone was grim. "Her main attack involves bombs or bomb-equivalent technology. No Tinker worth their salt would pass up the chance to put such munitions as far away from them as possible. I would wager she uses a forty-millimeter grenade launcher, or something of that nature."

"Yeah, she does," confirmed the gang member Dad had ripped the bomb out of. "Sometimes even she doesn't know what she's going to use before she uses it."

"Which makes her a loose cannon of the highest order," Dad mused. "We cannot afford even a near miss." I saw him frown, and figured that he was going through his options. What they were, except 'run away', I wasn't sure.

"They're getting closer," I ventured. As much as I wanted to tell at him to hurry up, I didn't. The last thing I wanted was to distract him.

"High ground," he said decisively. Bone steps formed a stylish spiral staircase, leading upward to the roof edge above. I started up; he followed.

I was puffing by the time we climbed onto the roof of the building. As Dad dissolved the staircase, he raised an eyebrow. "I believe we're going to have to work on your fitness, my dear girl."

Defensively, I raised my hand. "Healer. Not a rooftop runner."

"Nevertheless." Pausing, he turned toward the street, where the engine noise had become a crescendo. This close, I realised it wasn't just one vehicle, but several; a 4×4, along with a few motorbikes and a couple of sedans. Bakuda and Lung had brought backup. "Stay low, and stay quiet."

I needed no urging, though I was puzzled by what Dad was making while we hunkered down. Each the size and shape of a tennis ball, he made about a dozen of them, one after the other. Almost holding my breath, I waited.

I barely heard the crack of bone being smashed, but Dad's head came up. "Showtime," he murmured. Taking up the balls, he tossed them over the edge of the roof, not bothering to see where they went.

The next thing I heard was an almost sibilant whisper, repeated a hundred times over, followed by a chorus of shouts, screams and other sounds of pain. Dad stood up and stretched. "And that," he said, "is how you—"

I was almost caught unawares, but I turned my head at the right time and caught a silver flicker from the corner of my eye. And thus, I was able to leap forward and push Dad out of the way before Lung's huge scaly feet landed where he'd been a second ago. Also, flaming. Did I mention that Lung was ten feet tall and on fire? Because he was.

"DIE!" boomed the leader of the ABB, looming over us. His long metal-scaled tail—yes, it was on fire too—whipped around toward Dad and me.

Shoving me aside, Dad threw up a hasty bone shield ... which shattered into a dozen pieces when Lung's tail struck it. Heat bloomed around Lung's body, and I felt my skin prickling and drying just being near the draconic crime boss. Dad had it worse, as the red-hot metal sliced across his arm and chest, leaving blackened sizzling flesh behind.

Bone spikes struck upward from the rooftop, seeking to impale Lung, but the scales were too strong. I grabbed Dad while Lung was smashing the rest of the bone forest with his hands and tail, and dragged him towards the roof edge. As soon as I made contact with him, I started healing the burn damage, but it was deep and savage.

Lung started toward us again, metal talons seeking to shred and burn us, but Dad temporarily dissuaded him with a shower of bone spikes aimed at his eyes. "Over the edge, Amelia," he grunted. "Now."

It was maybe thirty feet to the ground, but I didn't hesitate. Helping Dad to his feet, I flung us both over the side. If I couldn't trust him when we were both in peril, I fleetingly decided at the back of my mind, when could I trust him?

In the event, my trust was well-founded. There was a huge network of bone between the vehicles and the building, continuing into the alleyway. Everyone had been caught up in it, held at odd angles like flies in a spider-web.

We hit the top layer and it shattered under us, but subsequent layers reduced the impact so that by the time we reached the ground, it was barely an issue. Stumbling to my feet, I picked Dad up off the ground with desperate strength. "Come on," I insisted. "We gotta go."

"C'M B'K H'R!" roared Lung, then opened his mouth and vomited a searing blast of flame at us. Dad produced another shield, and it took most of the damage, but I felt his whole body wince as more burns got added to the total.

Hastily, I healed him some more, turning crisped flesh back to undamaged skin. The bone network parted before us like a curtain as we stumbled past the mouth of the alley. I looked over my shoulder, just in time to see Lung spread a set of metallic wings and glide down toward us. Shit shit shit shit. We are so dead.

Abruptly, Dad straightened and reached toward the last ABB gangster we'd left attached to the wall. The bone claw extended from his hand, and it tore into the unfortunate guy's neck. Even as the poor guy screamed in agony, the claw emerged again with a tiny blinking object in its grasp. And then, Dad turned and threw it at Lung.

Even as injured as he was, his aim was impeccable. The thing went straight into Lung's open mouth ... and detonated. Or, in this case, un-detonated.

Lung's head was the first to go, crunching down to the size of a walnut. Then his chest and arms, reducing in a staccato rhythm that reminded me gruesomely of children's cartoons making fun of superheroes with growth or shrinking. Every part of his body was subjected to the effect, the last to go being his tail.

Glowing almost white-hot, the baseball-sized chunk of metal made a minor crater in the sidewalk. I blinked; the whole thing had taken less than a second, from start to finish. Lung, once the most feared cape in Brockton Bay, was dead.

Dad cleared his throat and indicated the ABB member he'd taken the bomb from. "A job for you, dear Amelia. And then, you may as well call your family. I imagine there is work for you at the hospital."

"And you?" I asked as I set about healing the gaping wound. It really was a good thing there had been no large blood vessels near the bomb. "What about you?"

He chuckled. "Why, I shall await the PRT. I am looking forward to seeing the expression on Director Piggot's face when she finds out who brought Bakuda's rampage to an end."

I snorted and rolled my eyes as I started on his burns. "Dad, you're just mean."

He chuckled again. "My dear Amelia Claire, I never said I wasn't."



End of Part Twelve

 

Hostage Situation

Part Thirteen: Luck is Where You Find It

[A/N 1: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Sunday Afternoon, April 17, 2011

Office of the Director, PRT ENE

As far as Emily Piggot was concerned, good news came in three flavours. First, there was the good news that stayed good. She'd never actually encountered any of that. Then, there was the good news that ended up just being 'news'. This was something she was somewhat more familiar with. And finally, there was the technically good news that still managed to leave a sour taste in the mouth.

The last type, she was extremely well acquainted with.

"Okay, from the top," she said, closing her eyes so she could hear Armsmaster's voice without having to look at the phone on the desk in front of her. "You say Lung is dead. What's the confirmation status on that one?"

"Seventy-five to ninety-five percent, depending on witness veracity." He, personally, sounded fairly sure of it. "The physical evidence is a metal ball four inches in diameter, showing signs of extreme gravitational stresses, and massing an estimated one point three five tons. I won't know for certain until we can get heavy machinery in to extricate the ball from the sidewalk. Analysis indicates organic matter inside the metal shell. No life signs detected. The metal itself matches the spectroscopic signature of Lung's scales."

"And you're saying Marquis did it?" This was going to be the sucky part.

"That's what the witnesses agree on. He did something—most of them aren't sure what—and Lung imploded. One statement says that it may have been a Bakuda bomb, implanted in an ABB minion's neck, that he tore out and threw at Lung, but the latter part of that is speculation on the minion's part, because he didn't personally witness it."

"Do you have an opinion on the matter?" She would form her own ideas, of course, but his input would be helpful to go on with.

"I'm inclined to believe it. There are two minions who are willing to testify that Bakuda implanted bombs in their necks and Marquis forcibly removed them, and several more who still have them, according to scans. Bakuda is capable of creating devices that do far more than just explode, so one that implodes is entirely plausible."

"And Bakuda herself is still alive." She wasn't sure how she felt about that.

Bakuda had been responsible for many deaths over the last few days, which put her on track to the Birdcage. Despite this being an effective death sentence, it still wasn't a kill order, so regulations had demanded they bring her in alive. It was a fine line to walk: if she'd been killed resisting arrest, there would've been no tears shed within the PRT building, but extrajudicial murder was not to be tolerated. While Emily disliked capes in general and despised villains in particular, that was a line she would never permit her people to cross.

"Correct. Immobilised until I arrived; Marquis had shot bone shards into her skeleton, and those of her minions. He used those to lock all their joints solid and cover over their eye-sockets. Once I tranquillised them, he reversed this process. Scans showed much of her equipment as Tinkertech, so I'll be studying it to see if I can shut down any dead-man switches she might've left active."

"The minions you've captured with bombs in their heads?" There was no way she was going to permit them in her building.

"We'll be holding them at Offsite Alpha, observing them remotely, until we know one way or the other." The Offsite locations were outside the city limits, guarded at a distance by troopers who knew the risks. Generally they were used for captured Tinkertech suspected of being unstable. A lot of Leet's gear had ended up there over the years.

"Probably for the best. And you managed to capture Oni Lee?" A feat she would've rated as being somewhere between 'ridiculous' and 'impossible', a day ago.

Armsmaster's tone managed to convey his agreement with this stance. "Marquis somehow trapped him in a box of bone with no direct line of sight outward. We pumped confoam in there, then tranquillised him. He was holding a live grenade with the pin out. If we'd done it the other way around, he would've died, but he possibly would've taken some of us with him."

Emily grimaced. The ABB assassin's intent was clear; if they'd just tried breaking open the box, he would've teleported at the first opportunity then released the grenade to kill his rescuers. He was that kind of asshole.

"Understood," she said, when he didn't offer any more details. "Keep me posted."

"Will do. Armsmaster, out." The call ended.

Emily heaved a ragged sigh as she leaned back in her chair. This shit never ends.

<><>​

Sunday Evening; PRT Building Conference Room A

Coil

"I called this meeting to get you all up to speed on the Marquis situation, and to brainstorm potential solutions going forward." Emily Piggot gave the impression of someone who'd been mainlining caffeine for the last six hours and was entirely out of fucks to give, not a great combination for anyone facing her. "Before we start; does anyone here have any prior experience facing him? I took over here after he was put away."

Armsmaster raised his hand. "I fought him once, thirteen years ago. It ended … inconclusively. I didn't have the training or equipment I do now, but he was also younger and less experienced. I'm not sure how it would turn out if we fought again today."

Thomas hid his smirk. Translation: he handed me my ass, and he could probably do it again.

"I'm surprised you're alive to tell the tale." Holbrook, another strike squad commander, raised his eyebrows. "He's got a reputation for being an unrepentant murderer, after all."

Miss Militia cleared her throat. "Unrepentant, yes, but not indiscriminate. I've been reading his file. He clashed with the Brockton Bay Brigade on several occasions, defeating them each time except for the very last instance. On any of those occasions, he could easily have killed or permanently crippled one or more of them, but let them get away with minor injuries. And he was careful to hold back from harming or killing women or children."

"Great," Thomas sneered. "So, he only murders men, and only when he feels like it. I feel so much better now."

"Didn't he kill Iron Rain?" asked Triumph. "I heard somewhere that he did."

"There's a question mark over that in his file," Miss Militia said. "Apparently, a recent conversation he had with Alexandria has posited a secondary scenario, which also fits the situation at the time. But as he's the only witness to the events, and the new interpretation benefits him, we're taking it under consideration rather than adopting it without question."

The Director cleared her throat as a means of getting the meeting back on track. "We're not here to discuss his past misdeeds." Clear in her tone was the inference that such a discussion could go far into the night. "We need to work out a strategy for how to deal with the current problem. In case you hadn't heard yet, he more or less single-handedly captured Bakuda and Oni Lee today, and killed Lung."

"Murdered, you mean." Thomas wasn't usually one to insist on specific wording (unless it benefited him) but Marquis' presence in the city was not something he was comfortable with, and he had zero qualms about steering the discussion in a direction hostile to the bone manipulator. "Lung was Birdcage bound, but he didn't have a kill order."

Surprisingly, it was Piggot herself who shook her head. "Lethal force is permitted to save one's life, and to save others. Lung was, by all accounts, both ramped up and on a rampage. He attacked Marquis, and was threatening Panacea. Marquis used a Bakuda bomb to end him, which argues strongly against premeditation. As much as I hate to admit it, in this particular instance, he's actually in the clear."

And there was the elephant in the room. An uncomfortable silence fell, during which Thomas continued to research (in his other timeline) ways and means of dealing with Marquis.

<><>​

Director Piggot

"So … we're absolutely certain Panacea is Marquis' daughter?" ventured Holbrook at last. "There's no doubt in the matter?"

"As certain as we can be without an actual DNA test, and Panacea has yet to agree to submit to one." Not that Emily had made the request as yet. She didn't want to alienate the girl any more than she absolutely had to, and she personally believed it was true anyway.

Everything would've been much simpler if he'd stayed in the Birdcage where he belonged, Panacea's little tantrum to the contrary. That hadn't happened. With him released, she'd done her best to keep that fact under wraps. Again, her wishes had been ignored by a capricious universe.

"Before we go any further," Miss Militia said, "I just want to make sure I'm on the same page as everyone else. Our primary aim here is to figure out a way to induce Panacea to voluntarily walk away from Marquis, correct? Once he no longer has her as a protector, he won't be able to dance between the raindrops."

Armsmaster didn't look thrilled at the idea. "The downside of her abandoning him is that he would then feel free to relaunch his villainous career. The man once faced down Jack Slash and made him leave town. Lung was about the only one of our current crop of villains that I would've seen as being able to beat him, and we saw how that went. Eleven years in the Birdcage hasn't slowed him down that I can see."

"Purity's a flying Blaster," protested Triumph. "How could he beat her?"

"He doesn't have to." Emily sighed. "She's friendly with Panacea and she's trying to distance herself from the Empire. If anything, they'd probably make common cause with one another and go after Kaiser together."

Calvert rubbed his chin. "Let's assume we can't convince Panacea to turn her back on him. What would he have to do, how badly would he have to break the law, for her to decide to abandon him of her own free will?" He looked around at the stares he was getting. "Hypothetically speaking, of course. We need to know what we're dealing with, here."

Emily wasn't sure what was going through Calvert's head, but she took the time to remind herself that the man was a snake and always would be one. "Well, hypothetically speaking, if anyone attempted to frame him for a crime he didn't commit, I would hypothetically hang that person out to dry." She met each person's eyes in turn, Calvert's last of all. "So long as we're going with hypothetical situations, of course."

As unpalatable as the Marquis situation was, the last thing she wanted was to have the local villains lose trust in the PRT to negotiate in good faith. While she would jump on any chance to have Marquis re-admitted to the Birdcage legally, she would damn well cross every T and dot every I on the way there.

"Of course," he agreed, so smoothly that she was almost willing to believe that she might've misread the subtext of his meaning. Whether she had or not, she wasn't going to take back what she'd just said. "But what do you think Panacea would allow him to get away with?"

"Anything he's legally allowed to do," Armsmaster said flatly. "Given the missteps we've gone through to get here, that's far more than it should be. But she's also asked him not to commit criminal acts and he's agreed not to, implying that if he goes back on his word, she's likely to lose faith in him."

Emily cleared her throat. "Which means that if we're going to put him back in the Birdcage, we need rock-solid evidence of him committing an unmistakeable felony that Panacea can't call entrapment on. And he needs to have actually done it. Anything short of that isn't going to fly. Are we all clear on this?"

Assault, who'd been leaning back without contributing until this point, sat forward. "Just gonna interject here. Isn't 'not framing someone' supposed to be the standard for deciding whether someone goes to the Birdcage? Or have things changed since I last checked the regulations?"

That generated a few uncomfortable looks around the room, but nobody spoke up against him. It wasn't as though he was in the wrong, after all. Emily's lips pursed as she checked her feelings against Marquis; she hated the man and everything he stood for, certainly, but not enough to break the law over.

"Nothing's changed." Her tone brooked no dissent. "You will, however, admit that the current situation is anything but normal. Marquis was legally sent to the Birdcage, and was released under highly irregular circumstances. By rights, he should be still in there."

"We're going to have to agree to disagree on that one." Assault's light tone belied the serious tone of his words. "He survived ten years in the world's touchiest pressure cooker, denied his Constitutional rights—"

"You and I both know the Supreme Court laid down the legal precedent—" she snapped, cutting off what she knew would otherwise be a lengthy rant.

He rose to his feet, shouting over her. "Because they were scared! They were weak! They feared losing control, so they went straight to fascism to snatch it back!"

"Assault, that's enough!" Armsmaster was standing now as well, even as Battery tried to pull her husband back down into his chair. "Stand down! You're out of order!"

"I'm not the one who's out of order here." But Assault had regained control of himself. His voice was still hard, but he was no longer shouting. "The Birdcage is nothing but a slow-motion death sentence. I know it, and you know it. The difference between you and me is that you're just fine with it." He stepped around his chair and headed for the door. "I need some air. The stink of self-righteous hypocrisy is really starting to irritate my sinuses."

"This doesn't get out to anyone." Emily didn't think he'd do anything stupid, but it had to be said. "Not a word."

He stopped at the door and half-turned to look back at her. "Oh, don't worry. I won't tell a soul that you're in here conspiring behind the back of a man who only got out because of his daughter's wish to know her biological father, seeking any kind of excuse by fair means or foul to send him back there. With the way bad news spreads in this city, I won't need to." Opening the door, he stepped through and closed it behind him, firmly enough that the table vibrated for a second.

Battery stood. "I'll go after him. Someone fill me in later?"

Velocity nodded. "Sure thing."

"Thanks." She darted out of the room, closing the door a little less harshly than Assault had.

Silence fell in the room once more, until Holbrook broke it. "So, I'm assuming we'll be going with some kind of surreptitious surveillance?"

Emily nodded jerkily, pleased that someone else had picked up the ball. "That's one of the stronger options we have. Armsmaster?"

"I can work something out reasonably quickly," he agreed. "Question: should I bring Dragon in on this? She's usually very good with remote units."

"Perhaps." She felt she'd answered too quickly, but that couldn't be helped now. Dragon had shown her views on potentially Birdcaging Panacea, but hopefully those didn't extend to sending Marquis back. "Just so long as she's aware that this is a precautionary measure only."

"I hate to have to suggest this …" Calvert's tone made it almost sound as though he were sincere, which she doubted on sheer principle. "… but what do we do if Panacea ends up being subverted by her father? He's reportedly very charismatic, and she's gone this far for him already. It wouldn't be the first time, or even the tenth, that a troubled hero has defected to the side of villainy."

"Jesus Christ." That was Triumph. "Don't even think about that. Panacea's solid. She's a hero."

"So was Fidelis." Velocity grimaced. It wasn't surprising he'd brought up that name; they shared a military background, after all. The cape originally known as Fidelis had been a Marine at one point, but her power had literally corrupted her to the point that she was now in the Birdcage, having rebranded under the name of Crock o' Shit.

"All the same." Calvert almost steepled his fingers like some fucking low-budget movie supervillain, but then he laced them together instead. "We have to remain aware of the possibility, and have some strategy in place to forestall the outcome if she does."

Emily took a deep breath. "I can't argue against that. If she did end up as a villain at his side, the whole city would be in trouble. But whatever we decide on, we can't jump the gun on it. With all the good she's done, she deserves the benefit of the doubt until we're absolutely certain about what's happening. Understood?"

This wasn't solely for Panacea's benefit, or even mostly so. While Dragon was in Emily's mind as being the most likely to be able to subdue a villainous Panacea, Emily hadn't forgotten the Canadian Tinker's views on unilaterally attacking the girl for something she might choose to do. Holding back until confirmation had been absolutely verified was a recipe for potential disaster, but Emily rarely got to pick and choose her battles these days, and this one had been lost before it began.

<><>​

Coil

"Of course. I wouldn't have it any other way." Thomas wasn't one hundred percent sure that Piggot was buying his assurances, but it didn't much matter.

PRT strike squad commander Thomas Calvert wouldn't have anything to do with whatever happened to Panacea. While he'd occasionally considered that it would be nice to have her permanently on hand as his personal medic, he'd never actually gone into the dedicated planning required to place her under his thumb. Conversely, if she ever had to heal him in the normal run of affairs, there was a strong chance that she'd make him as a cape.

All of which simplified the math considerably.

Panacea was of no direct use to him, and her ongoing assistance to Marquis made her a liability. Murdering her father, however many attempts it took to get it right, might just trigger a city-killing rage, promoting her from 'liability' to 'mortal danger'. Fortunately, there was an obvious solution to both: the death of Panacea.

He wouldn't do the deed himself, of course, either in his villain persona or as Thomas Calvert. But he had mercenaries in his employ, a few of whom were adept snipers. Even then, it would not do to have a captured assassin admit who he was truly working for.

The man on the street had no particular problem with supervillains hiring people to commit the crimes of theft and murder (so long as it didn't happen to them personally); this was more or less accepted as what supervillains did. But becoming known as the man who'd put a hit on Panacea's head would surely place a target in the middle of his own back. Marquis would bend heaven and earth to get a line on him, and New Wave would quite likely work with the notorious villain toward that end. And once they got their hands on him, his continued survival would be a tricky business at best.

Far better to either ensure that his shooter either never got caught, or didn't live to tell what he knew if he did get caught. Never a sentimental man, Thomas decided to plan for the sniper's demise from the outset. Besides its utility in cutting off unwanted loose ends, this plan also allowed for him to plant false leads for the investigation that would inevitably follow.

None of his sniper-trained mercenaries had sufficiently Asian features to pass for members of the ABB, so that was a no-show from the start. It might be possible, he figured, to send in a sniper who could pass for an Empire Eighty-Eight sympathiser; the backlash against Kaiser and his cretins would be something Thomas could readily take advantage of. But the most insidious concept was the one that held his attention for the longest: what if he was carrying PRT ID?

As ridiculous as the notion initially sounded, he could see it actually working to his advantage, especially in the long run. There was always a vocal minority in the city who were willing to believe the worst of the PRT; they would eat this up with a spoon. But even among the PRT's more moderate supporters, there would be that secret niggling doubt.

The concept of Panacea being taken out of the picture by a PRT covert operative because of her support of Marquis wasn't totally unbelievable, especially given some of their past fuckups. Rumours would fly thick and fast across the city, and the court of public opinion would have a field day. Best of all, Piggot would be out.

Even if the Director was cleared of all involvement (difficult at best with Thomas and his moles deliberately muddying the waters), stringent questions would be asked about how she could possibly have missed something of this nature being planned in her own building. And in the unlikely case that she defended herself well enough to keep her position, one stranger in the crowd with a pistol could put her down for good. All the shooter had to do was shout 'This is for Panacea' before he pulled the trigger, and everyone would automatically assume they knew his motives. No scrutiny at all would fall on Commander Thomas Calvert, stepping into her position in the PRT's hour of need.

Everything was an opportunity, really. The trick lay in knowing how to pull the strings in the right direction.

<><>​

Purity

Kayden relaxed on the sofa with Aster lying asleep beside her. All was right with her world.

The sound of water gurgling down the drain reached her ears, then Theo stepped out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a dishtowel. "I've finished washing the dishes," he said diffidently. "Is there anything else you wanted me to do?"

"Not right now." Kayden gestured to the armchair. "Come and sit down if you want. I've got to go out later and keep the pressure up on the ABB. If someone doesn't, Lung and Bakuda will think they can just keep …" She paused at the expression on his face. "What?"

"Hadn't you heard?" This was the most animated she'd seen him in some time. "I was looking online earlier, and they were saying that Lung's dead, and Bakuda and Oni Lee have been captured. PHO's going nuts over it. The PRT's being very close-mouthed, but nobody's actually saying it didn't happen, not even the usual ABB shills."

She blinked. "Lung's … dead? As in, actually deceased, not just beaten badly and crawled off to recover?" That last image didn't jibe with her understanding of Lung, but neither did the idea of someone being able to kill him. God knew she'd tried hard enough, every time they'd clashed.

"That's what they're saying." As far as she knew, Theo didn't share her views about how the Asian crime gang was so much worse than the Empire, but he definitely seemed happy about this. "I think the main reason the PRT is trying to sweep it under the carpet is that Marquis is the one who's supposed to have done it."

That was something else Kayden was still trying to get her head around. Panacea being Marquis' daughter was one thing—that particular revelation had given all of Amy's previous talk about her absentee villain father a lot more context—but the fact of him being out and about in Brockton Bay, released from the Birdcage by the PRT themselves, had been quite another. She'd been inclined to dismiss it as a hoax until she saw that the major news services were running with it.

When Brandish had responded to a news reporter's question on the matter with an extremely terse 'No comment', that had nailed it down for her. If he were still inside the Birdcage, New Wave would've wasted no time in broadcasting that fact. Instead, they were acting like someone had kicked all their puppies.

Her phone rang, and she picked it up before it could disturb Aster. "Hello?"

"Hello, Kayden. I presume you've heard the news about Lung's unfortunate passing?" Max barely bothered to hide the glee in his voice.

"Yes. Theo says Marquis was responsible." She kept her tone neutral along with her word choice, just in case there were unfriendly ears listening in. They'd been incautious during their last conversation, and she didn't wish to repeat the mistake. Also, she didn't actually want to give Max any kind of encouragement, even by accident.

"That's what I heard, too." He sounded slightly irritated, as though being robbed of the revelation was a personal slight. "If it's true, the city owes Marquis a debt of thanks. But have you heard the other news, about Panacea?"

She smiled to herself but didn't let it come through into her voice. If Max ever thought I was mocking him … she shuddered. Pass. "That she's his daughter? Yes, actually. It's certainly interesting news, but as far as I'm concerned, it's just more evidence that truth is stranger than fiction."

"Yes," he said patiently (or at least, patiently for him), "but it raises an interesting point. When Purity intervened with Saint to save Panacea's life, that put him in debt to her, wouldn't you think?"

She barely restrained herself from groaning out loud. He was really pushing the 'debt' angle, which was hypocritical as hell given that he only acknowledged his own obligations to people when it was convenient to him. "I'd imagine that would be a matter between the two of them. It's not like anyone who wasn't involved at the time would have a stake in the matter, don't you think?"

"If you say so." That was one of his more irritating phrases, indicating that he intended to undermine her meaning with weasel wording until it conformed with his version of matters. "The last time Marquis was in Brockton Bay, Allfather was still running the Empire Eighty-Eight. He's coming back into the city with minimal support and none of his old minions. If he's smart, he'll be forming an alliance with the strongest faction within the city."

Which of course meant the Empire Eighty-Eight, and thus Kaiser himself. Max could be amazingly subtle in some ways and about as blunt as a baseball bat to the face in others. Marquis had been a big player in the city at one point, and Max was certainly seeing the benefits of having such a well-known cape connected to the Empire by even the most tenuous of commitments.

"From what I've heard, he's not going back into being a villain." Kayden would've said something about hating to burst his bubble, but she didn't want to lie to him. "Panacea's asked him to give up crime, so that's what he's done."

"Still, a debt is a debt, and Marquis is by all accounts an honourable man." Max was nothing if not persistent. "If Purity happened to ask him to do a favour for an associate, surely he would feel duty bound to pay off his obligation to her."

"That's if she asked." She wanted to shut this down but wasn't sure how to do it without being openly rude to him, and she had no desire to open that particular can of worms. "Besides, I'm fairly certain she did it to save the girl, not to get into the father's good books."

"Any court of law will tell you that intent matters less than results." Although his voice was still smooth, she could tell he was starting to get impatient with her. "The deed was done. Saint was ready and willing to hurt or kill Panacea, and Purity saved her. If Marquis doesn't ally with someone before the next fanatic comes and takes his daughter hostage again, she may well end up dead this time. Wouldn't you agree that it only makes sense for him to work with the only people who have acted in his interest since his return?"

She wanted to tell him that he was really pushing the boundaries of plausible deniability, but that in itself would shatter the fragile illusion that they were spinning. "I have no idea, because I'm not him. Personally, I'd imagine that a reformed supervillain would do their best to keep away from any influences that might try to drag them back into the life. But that's just me."

"Let's face it." He didn't even bother acknowledging her point, probably because he didn't want to give it any kind of legitimacy. "In today's climate, any villain who tries to rebrand as a rogue or a hero is only fooling themselves. Nobody's going to cut them any kind of slack. The PRT will be waiting for him to make one wrong step, and that's if they don't manufacture some kind of wrongdoing to catch him on. To be honest, I would not be in the slightest bit surprised to learn that the PRT is actively discussing ways to separate Marquis from his daughter, so as to more easily bring him down when the time comes to lower the boom."

Her eyes narrowed. She'd heard that phrasing before, and it had always preceded something he'd learned from one of his moles within the PRT. "I … see. Wouldn't that look bad for them, if it got out?"

"Well, first it would have to be proven. And even if it was, half the public would refuse to believe it, and most of the remainder would say 'good'. After all, a villain is a villain, and doesn't really deserve the same civil rights as good solid upstanding citizens." Now Max's tone was entirely sarcastic. "And these are the same people that Purity is risking life and limb to try to be a hero for."

Kayden set her jaw. "I don't care. Now that Lung's dead and the others are in captivity, this is her chance to mop up the ABB once and for all."

She could tell that Max was smiling in that irritating way he had. "Wherever she is, I wish her luck." Before she could retort, he ended the call.

Hand clenched around the phone, she carefully put it down. Max could always get under her skin, even when she was determined not to let him put her on the back foot.

"Are you okay?" Theo was looking at her with concern in his eyes. If anyone knew what it was like to have her ex screwing with their head, it was her stepson.

"Yes. No." She grimaced. "Your father wants to make overtures to Marquis, and he's trying to recruit me to do it for him."

Theo looked doubtful in the extreme. "Panacea's a hero. Would she even agree to something like that?"

"I wouldn't have thought so." She paused to run her hand through her hair. "But he made a very good point. Saint's just the first idiot to try to use her as a hostage to get other prisoners out of the Birdcage. If Marquis cares about her as much as I do about Aster, he's going to want to protect her."

"And my father wants you to pitch the Empire as potential protectors," Theo guessed, accurately enough. "What are you going to do?"

"The only thing I can." Kayden picked up the phone again, and looked around. "Pass me my handbag, please?" The card with the number she needed was in there.

<><>​

A Little Later That Night

Panacea

"Is this really a good idea?" Vicky sounded grumpy. Unsurprisingly so; I'd called her after I got off the line with Kayden, and interrupted her plans to go and see Dean. When she'd heard what was going on, she'd given him a raincheck and come straight over. This didn't mean she was happy with the situation, or anything close to it.

"There is much about this situation that's potentially very bad," Dad noted. "The worst idea possible would be to ignore it and assume everything will turn out for the best. Purity helped save your sister, so we owe her the courtesy of hearing her out."

We'd changed locations for the occasion, going down to the Boardwalk and finding a picnic table to sit and look out over the ocean, anonymous in the evening crowd. Vicky wore a hoodie while I just rocked my usual outfit. Not one person in ten recognised me out of costume anyway; the moronic bank robbery had proven that. Even the Undersiders' so-called psychic bullshit artiste hadn't picked me out of the crowd.

"Well, should we be out in public like this?" Vicky persisted. "You're already a known villain, but if Ames and me were seen meeting with Purity in public, Mom would spontaneously develop the power to bring people back from the dead, so just she could kill us several times over."

I sighed, aggravated. "I told you, she'll be meeting with us out of costume. And don't forget, you pinky-swore not to out her."

Dad chuckled warmly. "Ah, yes, that most binding of oaths."

I stuck my tongue out at him as Vicky said, "It is, between us." She looked around. "Where is she, anyway? And if you trust her that much, why am I here? It can't be as muscle."

Just at that moment, I spotted Kayden. This time she was without Aster, but wearing the same smart clothing as before. Looking at her, nobody would've picked her as the airborne Blaster who'd been one of the Empire's biggest hitters for years.

"Not muscle," I said quietly. "As a witness, so if there's anything I need to tell Carol, you can back me up." I waved to Kayden; a moment later, she spotted me and came over.

"Oh." Vicky nodded. "I guess that makes sense." She'd had a crash course in The Universe According To Carol Dallon recently, and didn't bother claiming that I needed no such witness. Which was good, because me bursting into laughter would've confused Kayden considerably.

"Hello, Amy." Kayden stopped a few paces away. "Marquis, I presume and … Glory Girl?" She didn't back away, but I saw her tense up.

"Patrick Matheson." Dad half-rose from his seat as he introduced himself. "Or at least, that's what my new ID papers say. Amelia Claire, you already know. Her sister, Miss Dallon, is here to observe and act as an impartial witness to our conversation. Please, sit down. You have my word that there will be no undue hostilities."

Vicky nodded. "Yeah, what he said. And I wanted to thank you again for helping me save Ames from that asshole." She snorted. "There wasn't enough of him left to fit in a teacup."

"Well, that was my general plan." Kayden relaxed enough to sit down opposite Vicky, next to me. "I wasn't about to give him the chance to get off one last screw-you shot."

"Which he would've taken, if he could." Dad reached diagonally across the table and shook her hand briefly. "You did an exemplary job of removing the threat. However, you did not contact Amelia on a whim. What news did you have that is so important that you wanted a face-to-face meeting?"

Kayden took a deep breath. "Well, Kaiser called me earlier this evening …"

<><>​

Glory Girl

"… and so I called you." Purity—if Vicky hadn't spoken to her on the night they saved Amy, she would've had trouble believing the petite mousy woman was her—rounded out her tale. "While Kaiser is a narcissist and an egomaniac of the highest degree, I don't believe he was lying about any of it. And I also think he's not wrong about you being under threat from fanatics."

Amy looked pensive. "I was warned about this possibility by Director Piggot and others."

"Well, how many Teacher stooges are there out there anyway?" Vicky demanded. "I can and will punch them out as needed."

"That won't be necessary," Amy's dad said blandly. "I had words with him following Saint's … craterisation. He refused to see reason, and his existence was an ongoing threat to Amelia's wellbeing. So, I ended the threat."

Amy didn't seem overly troubled by the news, and Purity actually gave him an approving nod. "Wait," Vicky objected. "You murdered him?"

"No, I ended the threat." Marquis repeated his words in exactly the same tone. "It could not be murder, because outside laws do not apply within the Birdcage. I had no recourse to any higher authority to take him in hand, and if he'd managed to contact any of his thralls outside the facility, they would've indeed been willing to repeat the whole sorry scenario again. So, I made certain it would not happen a second time, in the only way I could be certain of it."

"Vicky, enough." Amy kicked her under the table. "Dad said the problem was dealt with, and it's not like we can wind back the clock. Dad, do you think anyone else might try it?"

Marquis frowned, running his thumb and forefinger over his chin. "There are other capes in the Birdcage who have students of a sort out in the world. I don't recall hearing of any with the same level of brainwashing or devotion that Teacher's people had, though."

"Me neither," Purity said. "But that doesn't mean anything. We'll call that a tentative maybe, for now. How about the other problem? The PRT?"

"I still have trouble believing that bit," Vicky interjected. "I know the PRT. It's their job to uphold the law. They've got whole rules and regulations about it."

Marquis raised one eyebrow in a totally bullshit move that Vicky still wasn't able to pull off in the mirror. "That, my dear, is because you've never been opposed by them. They will of course play by the rules when dealing with capes that they approve of. When it comes to the opposition, however, the exact rules and regulations have been known to go by the wayside when it comes to apprehending a problematic target."

"Yeah." Amy spread her hands. "Remember what we were talking about at Dad's house before we dug up that … well, before we did that digging? Carol and Mark and the others would never have beaten Dad if they didn't pull the bullshit they did, and they didn't even know I was there until the fight was basically over and done. Dad had to throw himself in the way of a shot to make sure I was okay."

"But that wasn't the PRT," objected Vicky. "Sure, that was Mom and Dad and Aunt Sarah and the others, but they didn't know you were there. It wasn't like they were deliberately targeting you to force Dad to surrender."

"They essentially were, but without knowing what, or rather, who was in that closet," Marquis corrected her. "They just knew that I valued whatever was beyond that door. But we were speaking of the shortcomings of the PRT, not of the Brockton Bay Brigade."

"Yeah." Amy tapped the table with her finger. "Did the PRT penalise the Brigade for playing fast and loose with the rules, and for endangering a minor? Hell, did they even try to take me away from the team who'd kidnapped me from my father? Nope. They just rubbed their hands together because they'd finally caught Marquis, and ignored the rest of the bullshit that was being pulled under their noses."

"And I suspect the current crop aren't altogether different in attitude," Marquis observed. "While there are a few sticklers for the rules here and there, the vast majority feel so overwhelmed by the new villains arising everywhere that they're willing to overlook a few irregularities here and there, so long as the desired results are arrived at. Which means that if we were to seek any kind of protection for you from the encroaching threat, we would have to look toward some other place than the PRT."

Vicky frowned. "You're Panacea. Surely they'd protect you."

"But they'd separate me from my dad at the first opportunity," Amy pointed out. "And there would be endless excuses as to why I couldn't see him right then. Once they had us apart, they'd bend the regulations into a pretzel to figure out a reason to put him back that they'd be able to spin as 'he broke the law', so I wouldn't go on a permanent healing strike."

"Okay, um, how about New Wave?" Vicky offered. "We can totally protect you."

"New Wave captured him, back in the day," Purity reminded her. "You may be on good terms with him but having faced your mother a few times across the battlefield, I will gladly tell you without any kind of bias that she never lets go of a grievance. And if she was initially opposed to his release, well …" She let her voice trail off.

"She's not wrong," Amy agreed, while Marquis nodded along. "Carol does grudges really, really well."

"So where can you go for protection then?" asked Vicky. "Not the Empire Eighty-Eight. You'd never hear the end of it. I'd never hear the end of it, just from being nearby."

"No, not the Empire," Marquis' tone was definite. "I dislike their core beliefs, as much as they have core beliefs, and Kaiser is indeed a narcissistic egomaniac. We might last a week before I'd be forced to kill him, but that's being optimistic."

"If you killed Kaiser, then the entire Empire would be out for your blood," Purity warned. "Even with me gone, they have a lot of big hitters, and they'd all be wanting to prove their leadership potential by killing you."

Marquis looked thoughtful. "That might be an interesting fight. I wouldn't endanger Amelia Claire that way, of course, and no doubt some of them would attempt to take her hostage."

"Or just kill her, to fuck with you." Vicky was pretty sure she knew what she was talking about. "There are some total assholes in that bunch."

Purity nodded. "I can't argue with that. The trouble is, we've basically ruled out everyone you can go to for protection. So, what are you going to do?"

"I have half an idea, but I don't know how you'll go for it," Amy began.

Vicky looked at her curiously. "If it's better than the alternatives, we're listening."

"Indeed," Marquis agreed.

Amy took a deep breath. "Dad … Kayden … why don't we team up together?"

As Marquis and Purity stared at each other and then at Amy, Vicky found herself undergoing a presentiment of the future. One that involved a lot of yelling.

Mom is going to go fucking batshit.



End of Part Thirteen