Another Way (Worm AU fanfic)

Another Way

Prologue, Part Four

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

March, 2001

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

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

“Thank you. Inform me when she arrives.”

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

Finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“Renick.”

“Her vehicle just pulled in, sir.”

“Good. Bring her right up.”

“Will do, sir.”

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

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

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

The office door opened, and Emily Piggot stepped inside.

<><>​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh, thank you, ma'am.”

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

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

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

“Put it on speaker,” she ordered.

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

“Renick,” he stated out loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Does this sort of thing happen every day?"

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

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

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

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

<><>​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course, ma'am."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's good to have you here."

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

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

<><>​

Two Weeks Later

“So, are the Wards behaving?”

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

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

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

“You like them, don't you?”

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

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

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

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

Her lips thinned. “Deputy Director Renick.”

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

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

“Of course, ma'am.”

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

“I have, yes, ma'am.”

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

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

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

Taken aback, he blinked. “Christ.”

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

“Even the heroes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused. “You've found the file.”

She nodded. “I found the file.”

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

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

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

<><>​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The girl came into the picture,” Emily stated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<><>​

A Few Days Later

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

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

“What's that supposed to mean?” asked Brandish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Photon cleared her throat. “No. We did not know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Piggot's expression hadn't changed. “It's a start.”


End of Prologue Part Four

Part One

 

Another Way

Part One: Progress Reports


2002

Boston

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<><>​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Solemnly, she nodded. “Okay, Daddy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

<><>​

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

“Gentlemen,” he addressed them. “You know who I am.”

“Yes, sir.” They spoke almost in unison.

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

“Yes, sir.” Again, the chorus.

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Now, are there any questions?”

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

Earl tilted his head. “What about her, Damien?”

“Shouldn't she be here for this briefing?”

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

<><>​

Earlier

“Ms Beltane.”

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

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

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

“I understand that you're a cape.”

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

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

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

“Impressive,” he murmured. “Anything else?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think we do, sir.”

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

<><>​

Mid 2004

Brockton Bay

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

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

“Pleased to meet you,” he responded. “Take a seat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stared. “Please tell me that you're kidding.”

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

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

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

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

Renick tilted his head. “Managing crises. Keeping things in hand.”

“There must be a lot of stress on her.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm.” Mrs Yamada didn't comment further.

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

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

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

She nodded. “It seems remarkably bold to me.”

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

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

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

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

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

She raised her own cup, and smiled. “Thank you.”

<><>​

Boston

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

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

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

<><>​

“Let us out here, Jonas.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Claire acushla?” asked Abigail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Claire nodded. “Shoes.”

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

<><>​

Late 2004

Brockton Bay

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

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

She paused, considering, then added in a postscript.

<><>​

Boston

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will she really?”

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

“Yes, sir, I believe that she will,” Jonas answered.

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

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

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

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

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

“How are you going to do that?” asked Claire.

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

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

Claire smiled. “Thanks, Jonas.”

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

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

“Yay, homework,” Claire replied, totally deadpan. They all laughed.


End of Part One

Part Two