Another Way (Worm AU fanfic)

Another Way

Part Three: The Making of Marchioness



Early April, 2007

“When I got my powers, it was an easier time for parahumans.”

Claire leaned back in her lounge chair and looked over at her father. “You mean supervillains, right?”

“Well, yes,” he admitted. “There was a rush of new parahumans deciding to be heroes in the early eighties, but once Vikare died, more and more people chose to go villain. But a certain subset of us were ethical, more or less. Or at least, we did our best.”

“That's why you don't hurt women or kids?”

He frowned slightly. “It goes back to before that. My father … wasn't a nice man. He wasn't much of a father, and he wasn't much of a husband. By the time he left us, he'd done everything in his power to destroy us both. With your grandmother, he succeeded. I swore from quite a young age to never emulate him. I did what I had to in order to survive, but at least I had that rule. And when I triggered with powers, I kept it. In your grandmother's memory, so to speak.”

Silence fell for a few moments; it was broken by Abigail, from where she was relaxing in her own chair. “Ah then,” she commented, pulling the conversation back on track. “There were other ethical villains?”

“More than a few.” He sipped from his wine glass. “Of course, there's also the other type. The Slaughterhouse Nine. Butcher and the Teeth. The Empire Eighty-Eight. Even Galvanate was brutal enough for them to send him to the Birdcage, but at least he didn't glory in it.”

“But you did kill. You do kill.” Claire didn't make it a question.

“Yes.” He paused. “It's been required from time to time; to keep myself alive, to keep my reputation alive. But I'm not a sadist; even when the men I killed most desperately needed it, I never made it needlessly painful.” His voice took on a certain lecturing tone. “If you have a power, you have a responsibility to use it intelligently. Not just like a brute-force club. Learn everything you can do with it, and apply that. When your enemies think they know everything you can do, surprise them with something new. Always be one step ahead.”

“Is this why you've been teaching me chess?”

“Well, that,” he agreed with a smile, “and the fact that I like a good game of chess.”

Claire smiled and drank some of her soft drink. “So what should I do with my powers?”

“As I said,” he told her airily, waving his wine glass. “Learn how to use them effectively.”

“No, after that,” she pointed out. “What should I do with them?”

"I think she's asking if she should be a hero or a villain," Abigail clarified.

“I suspect that I am the last person to be asking that question of,” he replied, somewhat amused. “I have amassed a ridiculous amount of money through the art of being a parahuman crime lord. Had I taken the hero route, you can be sure that I would not have quite as much money as I do.”

“I'm not interested in the money,” Claire retorted impatiently.

“Spoken like someone who's never had to worry about it,” he observed, still mildly amused. “I will tell you this now; if you ever decide to apply your powers for the public good, charge. People value what they pay for.”

"Never a truer word," Abigail advised. "But don't get greedy, Claire acushla. There's a world of difference between enough and too much."

Claire nodded. "Okay, I can see that."

“Also, discipline must be a part of your life,” her father advised her. “Never forget that.”

“Like Damien kept telling me, in the martial arts training?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Yes, but in all aspects. How you use your powers. How you treat people. My powers make it possible for me to ignore rules, ignore laws, to run rampant over other people. I keep myself in check, because the alternative is to lose sight of the fact that we are all ultimately human, all ultimately fallible. Those villains who exercise no self-control, the ones who indulge their every whim, do so because they imagine that they have no higher power to answer to. They couldn't be more wrong.”

Claire frowned. “Are you talking about, you know, religion? God?”

He snorted in reply. “Hardly, my dear Claire. Although if you want to take that up, more power to you. No, I'm talking about the fact that there's always a bigger, more powerful parahuman waiting around the next corner. Just for instance, I personally would not wish to try conclusions with the Triumvirate, and so I do nothing that will gain their attention. I will stick to being a medium large fish in my own little pond, thank you very much.”

“So it's a balancing act, then?" Claire looked thoughtful.

Abigail nodded. "Yes indeed. Your da is a master at using his power well, but not overmuch.”

Pleased, he nodded. “Precisely, my dear. I find it useful to practice courtesy in my everyday dealings, while maintaining a reputation of implacability for when it is needed. Once people learn that you can be worked with, but not around, they tend to keep coming back.”

“I can do that,” she allowed. “Is there anything else I need to remember?”

“Oh, many things,” he told her. “Most of which you will learn at the time. I can't teach you all about being a successful supervillain in one sitting; else, there would be far more in the way of successful supervillains out there.”

“But there are … “ she began, then trailed off upon seeing his expression. “There's not?”

“Heh, no,” he replied, once more amused. “There are some successful supervillains. But there are many more who simply haven't failed yet. It would be educational for you to keep track of which ones succeed and which ones fail, and the methods that each one uses.”

“All right,” she assented. “I can do that.”

“Good,” he agreed. “Should you decide to become a supervillain, or even if you don't, the insights will be useful.”

“I'm still deciding on that one,” she admitted. “The trouble is, I don't want to be a full-on villain. Taking stuff, scaring people … that's not me."

"It doesn't have to be," Abigail assured her. "I mean, look at myself. I'm no great villain, but nor then am I a hero. I tread the road betwixt and between."

"In other words, a rogue," Earl interjected dryly.

"Yeah, I got that," Claire agreed. "But once I declare myself as a rogue, even if I do something that's a bit heroic, like healing people, they'll still decide that I'm a rogue.”

“Especially if you charge for it,” he pointed out. “That part is important.”

“But I don't have to charge for it every time, do I? Suppose someone's in an accident, and I happen to be there? Do I wait for them to find the money before I heal them? What if they die first?”

He shrugged. “Well, you can do pro bono work, I suppose. But make sure that they know it's a one-off. The important thing is to not let them get the impression that they can tell you what to do. You are the one in control of your power. Nobody else.”

“Okay, I got that too,” she agreed. “The other problem is, if I'm accepted as a rogue, but then I show up as working with you, they'll just decide that I'm a villain, right?”

“Well, the name will definitely be a giveaway,” he pointed out. “Are you certain that you don't want to change it?”

“Positive.” She raised her chin. “I am your daughter. Nobody and nothing is going to force me to deny that.”

“Well spoken.” He raised his glass to her in a toast. “Perhaps upon seeing you doing good things as well as working with me, people will learn to not force parahumans into the categories of hero, villain and rogue.”

“Do you think that's possible?” she asked doubtfully.

He smiled and drained the glass. “Well, it's certainly worth a try.”

"To be sure, Claire acushla," Abigail agreed. "If anyone can do it, it'll be you."

<><>​

Late April, 2007

The clean-cut young man leaned out of his car window and pressed the intercom button. After a moment, the small screen lit up, to show the face of a brutal-looking man. "Yes?"

"Uh, I'm here to interview for the tutoring job?"

"Name?"

"Anderson. Uh, Geoff Anderson."

"Park your car. You will be admitted. Do not stray off the driveway." The screen went blank.

Anderson looked at the length of the gravelled driveway within the gate, then down at his immaculately-shod feet. Reluctantly, he pulled the car around into one of the parking spaces outside the gate, then got out of the car. Pulling his phone from an inside pocket, he checked it, then put it away again.

As he approached the gates again, a click alerted him to the presence of a smaller gate in the larger whole, wide enough to take a man and no more. Stepping through, he heard it lock behind him as he began his trek up toward the house.

The front door opened to show a man in his mid-thirties, with short cut auburn hair. "Mr Anderson. I'm Earl Marchant. Please come in."

"Thank you, Mr Marchant." Anderson stepped in through the front door and shook Earl's hand. "It's good to be here."

"Well, you do come with the highest of recommendations," Earl pointed out. "I presume that you've been told about the non-disclosure agreement that you'll have to sign, should you get the position?"

Anderson shook his head, frowning slightly. "I wasn't told about that. May I inquire as to why you need an NDA?"

"There was an attempted kidnapping upon my daughter a few weeks ago," Earl informed him. "One of her bodyguards was killed, and another quit. I do not believe it safe for her to resume using the regular school system just yet, so if you get the job, you will be tutoring her here, on the subjects that she needs to know. And I do not need any incidental information about the household getting out to unfriendly ears."

"Oh, I can understand that," Anderson agreed. "Certainly, I will sign."

"Well, first you have to get the job," Earl pointed out. "I think that first you should meet her. I ... value her impressions of people."

Geoff nodded. "Of course, of course."

"Through here, then." Earl guided the young man through to the living room. "Claire,” he called, “would you come in here, please?"

<><>​

“Coming, Dad.” Claire trotted in through from the back patio. While she wasn't wildly enthusiastic about having a tutor in, nor was she interested in the idea of going to school without Abigail watching her back. I'll give him a chance, she decided. It'll make Dad happy.

As she entered the living room, Jonas came in from the security office. Her father was standing with a stranger, whom she figured must be her new tutor. He looked to be in his early twenties, clean shaven, with neatly cut dark hair.

“Geoff, this is my daughter Claire,” Earl introduced him. “Claire, this is Geoff Anderson. He's here to interview for the tutor job.”

“How do you do, Mr Anderson,” Claire greeted him politely, stepping forward to offer her hand. “I'm pleased to meet you.”

Mr Anderson was already registering on her power, as he had been since before she entered the room. But as she neared him, she noted an increase in adrenaline. He's tense. Why?

“Likewise, Miss Marchant,” he agreed, accepting the handshake. “I hope that we will be able to work together.”

To Claire, Geoff Anderson was a total stranger; she didn't know him, knew nothing about him. She had no feelings about him, one way or the other. Right up until the point that he entered the two-foot-something zone around her that gave her access not just to his physical makeup, but the inner workings of his brain as well. And at that point, as they clasped hands, she knew that something was definitely wrong.

He's not thinking 'tutor' or 'potential employee'. He's thinking 'predator'. He's here to attack us in some way. He's hiding it well – the only way she could tell it from his outward behaviour was a certain tension – but he means us harm. I'm sure of it. How do I handle this?

“I'm sure we will,” she told him, shaking his hand firmly. “I just need to know one thing.”

“What's that?” he asked incautiously.

“Whether I'm the one you're here to abduct or kill, or if it's my father you're after.”

His eyes opened wide, and suddenly his hand wasn't there. It had melted from her grip, as 'Mr Anderson' abruptly became a cloud of particles, spreading out to surround her, to surround her father, and Jonas as well.

This is not good. This is not good.

Then she realised. He's around me. In my range. I can still feel his body, such as it is. I can still feel his mind.

Let's see what I can do with that.

Gritting her teeth, she concentrated; there was an inrush of particles, and 'Mr Anderson' stood before her once more, swaying, disoriented.

“What … ?” he mumbled. “How did you … ?”

Claire recaptured his hand, and this time she didn't hesitate. She bored in, laying claim to his every conscious impulse. Control of your body might not stop you from changing back to that particulate form, but control of your mind will stop you from wanting to.

Her initial rush of triumph faded.

“Dad?” she asked carefully. “Uh … what do I do now?”

<><>​

'Geoff Anderson' stood, swaying gently, his every faculty overwhelmed by the teenage girl who gripped his hand. Her father stood behind her, face grimly intent. “Ask him why he's here,” he murmured to her.

“Why are you here?” she asked flatly.

“I … I … I'm here to see if Beltane is still in the house, and to gather intelligence for a raid if she is.”

In some part of his mind, he knew that he should not be telling these secrets to these people, but another part overrode it.

“And if a raid isn't possible?”

“To see about abducting you, in order to make your father surrender her to us.”

“Do you know who my father is?”

“Earl Marchant.”

"Do you know his other name?"

"No."

“If I had been kidnapped in order to force my father to hand over Abigail, would I have been released alive?”

“Why bother? Your father crossed the Gesellschaft. He should be made to pay the price.”

Pain lanced through his body, although he wasn't able to react to it. It ceased almost immediately, however.

“So what are your orders in the case that Abigail isn't here?”

“To gain leverage over Earl Marchant, to find out what he knows about where she has gone.”

“In other words, kidnap me.”

“Yes.”

“Which I probably wouldn't survive.”

“No.”

She was prompted with another question, which she relayed to him. “Who are you, and what have you done with the real Geoff Anderson?”

“My name is Geoff Schmidt. The other tutor was intercepted. He's probably dead by now.”

A light fuzz descended over his thoughts; he wasn't able to move or even think clearly, while she spoke to her father and bodyguard. Such was the lethargy over him that he wasn't even worried that he had spilled the whole plan.

“Okay, Dad, so what do we do now?”

“With all due respect, sir, I think we should squeeze him dry then kill him.”

“I'm not sure killing him would be the best option under the circumstances.”

“How do you mean, Dad?”

“Well, if this one disappears, his entry was almost certainly recorded from outside my estate. They can call the police to search the premises. Make all sorts of trouble for me.”

“But if we release him, sir, he goes back with the information that Miss Claire is also powered now.”

“Maybe not.”

“What do you mean, Claire?”

“I mean that I have an alternative idea.”

<><>​

'Geoff Anderson' strolled out through the door, turning to shake Earl Marchant's hand one more time.

“Well, sorry about the job interview, but I hope you have better luck next time,” the older man told him.

“Those are the breaks,” Anderson agreed. “Well, I wish you and your daughter luck in finding a suitable tutor.”

He turned and started back down the driveway; it had been a thoroughly boring conversation with the Marchant family, but he'd found out what he needed to; Beltane had definitely left in a hurry. More to the point, they had no idea where she had gotten to. No reason to come back. For some reason, he was very sure of that fact.

He was all the way back to his car when he recalled that he had left his phone in an inside pocket, recording the entire conversation. I'll just check it over before I wipe it.

To his puzzlement, the phone was off, and no such conversation had been recorded. Huh. And I was sure that I had set it to record, too. With an inward shrug, he put it back in his pocket. It had been a wasted trip, anyway. I didn't even get to kill anyone.

<><>​

Early May, 2007

“Well, I think it sucks.”

Roger nodded in agreement with Lindsey's words. “It does suck, yeah. So when are you going, Claire?”

Claire, lounging against the park bench, shrugged. “Dad's still wrapping up his business affairs. A few weeks, maybe. A month at the outside, he says.”

“Crap.” Lindsey flipped herself around so that her legs went up over the back of the bench. Upside down, she looked up at Claire. “How long are you away for?”

“I have no idea.” She shrugged again. “We're moving moving, not just staying in a hotel or something, so it could be years.”

“And in the meantime, you get a vacation from school. Lucky you.”

Lindsey reached up and rapped on Roger's kneecap. “Shut it. You do know her driver was killed when they tried to kidnap her, right?”

To his credit, his look of contrition was matched by his emotions, as best as she could read them. “Shit, sorry, Claire. I didn't mean to … “

“It's okay. Dad says he never felt a thing.” I'm not so sure, but it's a reassuring lie.

“Oh hey,” Lindsey piped up. “Did you know Everett's leaving at the end of June too?”

Roger pounced on the change of subject with ill-concealed relief. “What, really? Everyone we know's just leaving Boston all of a sudden?”

“Yeah, really,” Lindsey confirmed. “He says his dad's been transferred to Chicago or something. Not even just up the road, like Claire here.”

“I'm gonna miss you guys.” Claire felt the honesty in her words. “I'll call, I promise.”

“Hey, study buddies forever, right?” Lindsey reached up. “Gimme hand. Blood's going to my head.”

Claire grasped one hand and Roger the other; together, they lifted Lindsey far enough that she could spin around and get her feet on the ground. “Whoa, whatta rush. Thanks.”

“Hey, what are study buddies for?” Claire ruffled her hair, disarranging it even more.

“Hey, I know what we can do,” Lindsey decided. “Why don't we get your big scary bodyguard -” She pointed out Jonas, who was standing nearby, pretending to observe the ducks on the pond. “- to drive us to get ice cream or something.”

“Ice cream. Is this a girl bonding thing or something?”

Lindsey wrinkled her nose at Roger. “Are you saying you don't want ice cream?”

“Oh, I'm for ice cream,” he declared. “Just wanted to know what the occasion was.”

“Ice cream,” Claire pointed out, “is its own occasion.”

“True dat,” agreed Lindsey.

As they headed for the car, Claire was already feeling disconnected from the scene. To them, she was … normal. Rich, yes. Attended by a bodyguard, yes. But she was, for all of that, normal. When in fact, she was the daughter of a supervillain, making plans to follow in his footsteps. Or at least make my own way.

They really don't know me any more. I hope we can keep in touch.

But she had her doubts.

<><>​

Late May, 2007

The costume felt odd, now that she was wearing it at last. She had carefully supplied all the measurements, and her father had sent them away for it to be made up. There were people who did this, for a price. The right people, for a greater price, carefully forgot which costumes they had made, and for whom. She didn't want to think about learning how to make clothes, sitting over a sewing machine for hours at a time. As Dad says; if you have the money, pay the people who know how to do it.

“So, may I see it?” His voice was audible from the other side of the partition.

“Just a second.” She took a deep breath, and exerted her power, completing the transformation.

“You know,” he observed with a chuckle, “costumes are made to be seen in public. It's more or less -”

He broke off as she emerged from the changing room. She moved in a slow and stately fashion, as her expensive deportment lessons had taught her, showing off the costume to its best advantage.

It was basically a gown, she knew. A dress. But it had been made of a hard-wearing fabric, then tricked out with enough lace and frills, in a tasteful fashion, to conceal that fact. The heels were a slight problem, until she reorganised the muscles and bones in her ankles to deal with that. Afterward, she moved with grace and poise and confidence.

He was staring at her, his mouth slightly open. Abruptly, he shut it, but continued to stare. “Claire?”

She tried not to let the grin get too wide. “Yes, Dad?”

“Good god. You made yourself taller.”

“Just a bit.”

“And more slender.”

“Well, yes.” She'd had to take the mass from somewhere.

“And you changed your face and your hair.” She had raised her cheekbones and made her chin a little more prominent; her previously-auburn tresses were now a midnight-black spill of hair, gathered over her left shoulder.

“It makes things a lot easier than wearing a mask,” she pointed out. “And unless I covered my hair, there's always the possibility that someone will make the connection. Now, there's no chance.”

“You … can change yourself so easily?”

“It's not easy, Dad. There's a sort of starting point, a self-image. The farther I get away from that starting point, the harder it is to maintain. My body keeps wanting to revert. This, I can keep up.”

“Well, consider me impressed, my girl,” he declared. “You win hands down at the 'keeping your secret identity secret' stakes.”

“Which reminds me,” she pointed out. “You know how you dye your hair?”

“Yes?”

“I can make that permanent, if you want.”

He blinked. “Just like that? Like you offered to change Abigail's face?”

“Just like that,” she confirmed. “It's a tiny change.”

“And yourself? Won't your self-image keep changing it back?”

She rolled her eyes, just slightly. “Apparently my powers decided that my self-image included that colour of hair. Since I got them, I haven't needed to dye my hair at all.”

Again, he looked a little startled. “So your hair is permanently auburn?”

“So it seems,” she agreed. “Unless I spend a few years dyeing it dark brown again, that is.”

“Hmm. So, have you decided on whether you're going to be a hero or a villain?”

“I'm still working on it,” she admitted. “In the meantime … “ She opened the small handbag attached to her wrist. “I'll be carrying a pistol, as well as these.”

He accepted the small cardboard rectangle. “Business cards?” Upon one side was inscribed the name 'Marchioness', in what he recognised as his daughter's best copperplate handwriting. On the other side, the words 'By Appointment Only' and a phone number.

“If I'm going to be more than a villain, then I need to have a contact number, right?”

“Telephone numbers are traceable, Claire. But you know that.”

“Not if I only turn on the phone once a day, to accept all text messages,” she pointed out. “If I can ensure that GPS doesn't transmit at any other time, they won't be able to track me.”

“That could work,” he admitted. “But why would you want a way for people to be able to make appointments with you?”

“It's part of the image I'm going to be trying to build,” she told him. “Not quite a villain, not quite a hero, not quite a rogue. My own person. Approachable, but on my terms only.”

“Ah.” He raised an eyebrow. “You've been talking to Abigail, haven't you?”

She smiled. “We did a lot of talking, before she left. It was her idea to make myself taller and do the facial changes.” The smile dropped away. “I miss her already.”

“As do I.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “She'll come back to us. I have faith in her.”

"Did she say where she was going?"

"No." He didn't look happy at the notion. "I gave her as generous a severance payment as I could get her to accept – her 'don't be greedy' notion can be irritating at times."

"She told me that she was that way because of what made her go on the run," Claire mused thoughtfully. "She took something from the Gesellschaft without realising how much trouble it would get her in."

"To be honest, even knowing might not have stopped her," he pointed out. "Abigail is very much a free spirit. Tell her she can't do something and she's likely to do it, just for fun."

"Actually, Dad," she posited, "I've been looking at Brockton Bay's cape scene. Kaiser took over the Empire Eighty-Eight when Allfather died, right?"

"Correct. I knew the boy before he triggered with powers. He's his father's son, all right."

"Okay then. The Empire Eighty-Eight's the main link that the Gesellschaft has with Brockton Bay, right? And through the Empire, the rest of New England?"

He frowned. "I think I see where you're going with this. I'm not so sure that it's a good idea."

Her face was alight with excitement. "I'm not saying we can do it overnight," she conceded. "But if we can do this, then ... "

"Claire." His voice was firm.

"Yes, Dad?"

"We make absolutely no moves against the Empire unless and until I say so. Is that clear?"

She opened her mouth to protest, then caught the look in his eye; slowly, she closed it, words unspoken. Slowly, she nodded. "Yes, Dad."

"Good girl." His smile was thin. "I am fully aware of the Empire's sins. It's time and past that they were brought down. But it's not time for us to move against them; not until we are ready. Do you understand?"

Her smile matched his. "Oh yeah. I understand."

<><>​

Early June 2007

The train chugged into Brockton Bay; Claire sat with her nose up against the window, absorbing the view.

“See anything interesting?” asked her father, from beside her.

“Not particularly,” she replied without looking around. “What's the gang tag using the M with two strokes?”

“Where?” he asked; she pointed, just before the tag went out of sight.

“Hm,” he mused, leaning back against his seat once more. “I think that might have been one of the newer gangs in the city. They call themselves the Archer's Bridge Merchants.”

“Oh, yeah. I read about them.” Claire wrinkled her nose. “Drug dealers, as far as I can tell.”

“Wonderful.” Her father's face took on a pained expression. “Most gangs deal drugs for additional money. The Merchants use it as their stock in trade.”

“Are you okay, Dad?” she asked. She knew he was physically fine; her power gave her a real-time awareness of his every life sign. He was just … unhappy.

“I'm okay, honey,” he assured her. “It's just … hearing about how my city's gone downhill is one thing. Seeing it is another thing altogether.”

“But it's okay now, isn't it?” she ventured. “I mean, we're here now. We can help fix things. After all, Boston's twice as big as Brockton Bay, and you and Accord got it running just right between the two of you.”

“That was partially due to Boston not being as full of capes as Brockton Bay, and partially due to the fact that Accord can make a plan for any eventuality. Neither of which we can rely on here. It's the two of us versus fifty or sixty hometown capes.” He raised an eyebrow. “Still sure that you're ready to take on a cape identity?”

She smiled at him. “Totally.”

Putting his arm around her shoulders, he hugged her to him. “That's my girl.”

Leaning up against her father, her head on his shoulder, Claire found her eyes still searching the skyline outside the window. It looked somehow grim and foreboding. Oh god, I hope I'm ready.



End of Part Three

Part Four

 

Another Way

Part Four: Staking a Claim

[A/N: the emergency room scene was directly inspired by the omake by edale ]

Late June, 2007

“You're not ready.”

Claire eyed the principal of the Northwest Middle School thoughtfully. Just a little closer and I could change her mind for her …

But no; Mrs Cooper was not what she and her father had agreed to be a valid target for her powers. And besides, her father was right there; he'd seen what she had done with that Schmidt character, and he would probably suspect similar shenanigans if Claire's principal suddenly pulled an about-face on the matter.

“Mrs Cooper,” he stated now, “Claire really is very bright. The only reason that she didn't finish seventh grade in school was that I couldn't allow her to attend school, following a kidnapping scare.”

Mrs Cooper stared at him forbiddingly. “You could have brought in a qualified tutor.”

“We did interview for one,” her father replied. “He was … unsuitable. I tutored her myself, after that.” That hadn't been perfect, but it had worked. After a fashion. However, as her father wasn't recognised as being qualified …

Mrs Cooper shook her head. “I'm sorry, but regulations are regulations. Your daughter is going to have to repeat the seventh grade, now that she's enrolling in my school.”

Claire raised her head. “Mrs Cooper?”

“Yes, Claire?”

“If I get good enough marks, may I skip a grade next year?”

The middle school principal frowned. “If you do well enough … then yes, that can be considered.”

Claire beamed. “Thank you, Mrs Cooper.”

<><>​

“You took that remarkably well.”

Claire looked up at her father's comment as they walked from the school. “Yeah, well, it's not like I could argue her around, is it?”

He raised an eyebrow speculatively. “The temptation to … change her mind … must have been strong.”

“It was,” she admitted. “But I realised something.”

“What's that?” He paused. “Apart from the fact that you knew I'd know about it, that is?”

“Well, that,” she agreed, “and the fact that if I'm go to be making my mark as Marchioness, I'm going to be up long hours without much time to study. Going to school in a new city, with new surroundings and a whole new curriculum, it's probably a good idea that I know at least part of the material already.”

“You do realise,” he pointed out firmly, “that if your schoolwork suffers due to your extracurricular activities, I know which of those I will be curtailing. And it won't be the schoolwork. So I expect you to apply yourself.”

“Yes, Dad,” she agreed meekly.

<><>​

Early July, 2007

“So where are we going today?” Claire looked out the window at the passing scenery, the buildings basking in the mid-afternoon sunlight. They were in the north of the city, the less affluent area. She had seen several gang tags over the last few minutes; each of them was the red and green of the ABB, Brockton Bay's burgeoning Asians-only gang.

“To see an old contact of mine,” her father replied absently. “He used to live around here somewhere.”

“Maybe he moved?” she suggested.

“Maybe he did,” he agreed. “But maybe not.” He frowned. “I don't recall these back streets as well as I should. Let's see what's down this way.” Turning the wheel, he guided the car down a narrow street, which was as much a wide alleyway as an actual vehicular thoroughfare.

“Uh, Dad?” She pointed.

“I see it.” Up ahead, a grimy dumpster had been set up, deliberately or accidentally, to block the street. Turned sideways, it left no way for a vehicle to get around it.

“Maybe we'd better back up.” She twisted and looked over her shoulder. A white van was pulling into the alleyway behind them. It stopped, and people started getting out. People wearing gang colours. Walking toward the car. “Uh, Dad?”

“I see them.” He was peering into the rear-vision mirror. Abruptly, he smiled. “Well, I suppose this is as good a time as any.”

“A good time for what?” she asked.

“To give notice that I'm back in town, of course.” He opened his door. “Coming?”

Oh shit. He's going to confront these guys.

And then she caught herself. What the hell am I worried about? He's Marquis, and I'm Marchioness. I've trained for this sort of thing.

Pushing her body into the form that she had practised, she climbed from the car. He glanced sideways as she carefully closed the door, and smiled approvingly. “Ready for this?”

Belying the nervousness in her stomach, she showed her teeth in what might have been a smile. “Oh yeah.”

<><>​

It was the first time that Yan had been allowed to come out with the actual gang members; she had listened to their boasts about how they shook people down, but this seemed even easier than they had told her. The car had stopped, hadn't even tried to ram the dumpster out of the way. When the two, the man and the girl, got out of the car, she was sure they were going to run. But they didn't; they came toward the gang members.

“Is this supposed to happen?” she whispered to Sugito, who was only a little older than her. “Aren't they supposed to be scared?”

“Shh!” he hissed back, but he looked thoughtful.

The man and the girl weren't armed, or at least their hands were empty. They were dressed in evening clothes, not uniforms or costumes. But what really worried Yan was the faint smile on the man's face. A smile that promised, I know something that you don't.

The girl wasn't smiling. She was merely … intent. Studying them each in turn. Yan wasn't sure she liked that level of scrutiny.

“Gentlemen,” the man addressed them, in cultured tones. “And lady, of course.” He had inclined his head toward Yan. “If I may have your attention?”

Oh hell yes, you've got my attention. Yan studied him carefully. Shoulder-length brown hair, tied back in a ponytail. Clean-shaven. Something in her memory twinged, and she frowned. It wasn't coming to her, so she looked at the girl. Black hair, as black as Yan's own. Wearing an evening gown and heels, no less. Strong chin, high cheekbones. I would kill for cheekbones like that.

“Yeah, what?” growled Dao. “You got something to say before you pay toll?”

“Toll?” The man chuckled, obviously highly amused at Dao's words. “Why would we pay toll?”

“You're on ABB turf,” cut in Sugito, anxious to appear tough. “You pay toll, or we take it out of you.”

“Ah yes, Asian Bad Boyz,” the man agreed. “I've heard of you. There's only one unfortunate issue here.”

Dao produced his butterfly knife, flicking the blade open in a ballet of movement. “Only unfortunate issue here is -”

He dropped the knife. He actually dropped it. In all the time Yan had known him, she had never known him to drop his butterfly knife. It was like forgetting to breathe, for him.

“As I was saying,” the man went on imperturbably, even as the butterfly knife clattered on the asphalt; the sound was loud in the alleyway, “the one unfortunate issue is that this is my territory, and all of you owe toll to me.”

Obviously torn between bending to pick up his knife, and thus losing face, or confronting the guy without a knife, Dao chose the latter. “How the fuck do you see that?” he demanded. “This is ABB turf, has been for years.”

“Let's just say that I've been away for awhile,” the man explained. “But I never ceded claim to my territory. And to be honest? You've done a terrible job at keeping it up.” Fastidiously, he toed an empty tin can away with the tip of his well-polished shoe. “So I'm taking over again. Putting my house in order. Fixing things.”

“Who the fuck are -”

Yan cut in on Dao's growl, as memory clicked into place at last. “Dao! Marquis! It's Marquis!”

Dao paused then; Marquis had been away for years, but he'd also been a scary bastard when he'd been in the 'Bay, and stories like that didn't go away in a hurry. “Marquis? Seriously?”

“Oh, yes.” Bone plates emerged from nowhere, cladding the older man in top to toe armour, giving him a ragged crown of sorts. “Very seriously indeed.”

Dao pointed at the girl, who stood unafraid beside Marquis. “So who's that then?”

The girl's unsettling gaze switched from Yan to Dao. “You may call me Marchioness.”

“Fuck you,” growled Dao, bending to scoop up his butterfly knife. “You can't tell us what to do on our turf.”

“As I said, you're on my turf," Marquis corrected him. "And I will warn you exactly once. Do not speak to my daughter again in that fashion."

"Or what?" Dao seemed to be getting bolder by the moment. "There's a dozen of us, and two of you." He held up his knife, letting the lowering sun flash from the blade. "Your armour looks cool, but how are you gonna protect her?"

"You mistake numbers for strength," Marquis retorted, his tone sharper. "Be smart. Yield. You will not be harmed. All I require of you is -"

Dao lunged forward and grabbed Marchioness by the arm. An instant later, he had her arms trapped, holding her from behind, while his blade hovered next to the hollow of her throat. "No," he snarled. "This is what you're gonna do, old man. You're gonna get rid of that armour, or I'm gonna -"

"Excuse me," Marchioness interrupted him. Yan could not credit it; the girl calling herself Marchioness was held securely, a razor-edged blade mere inches from her carotid, and she was still as calm and collected as if she were asking Dao to pass the salt. "How old are you?"

To her surprise, Dao grunted out an answer. "Nineteen."

Her expression wasn't quite a smile. "Good. I really don't like people who point weapons at me, and you're old enough to know what you're doing." And then, to Yan's utter astonishment, she stepped forward out of his grip, pushing his hands aside. He continued to stand there, arms held oddly, until she reached out and nudged him slightly; at that point, he fell over, landing heavily on the asphalt. Even then, his arms stayed in those odd positions, eyes still open, fixed, staring …

"Allow me to correct myself," Marquis stated punctiliously. "All but that one will not be harmed. Attempt something stupid, as he did, and suffer the consequences. Yield, and undertake to pass on a message for us, and you will be allowed to leave unharmed."

"Allowed to leave?" blurted Sugito. "How you gonna stop us?" He turned and bolted; before he got more than a few paces, a line of grey-white bone streaked across the ground from Marquis' feet, following Sugito and then passing him.

Yan tore her horrified gaze from Dao – I don't think he's breathing – and followed with the rest of them. Just as far as the latticework of bone that had sprung up from the ground between them and the van.

“Like that, I would imagine,” Marquis advised Sugito. He and Marchioness unhurriedly followed the abortive retreat of the ABB contingent, keeping pace with one another. “Your choices remain the same.”

“I'm pretty sure some of them are children, Marquis,” Marchioness pointed out. “And that one's a girl.”

Yan paid no attention to his reply, pushing to get to the latticework so that she could climb it, get over and away. Some capes you avoid, some capes you fight, some capes you just run like fuck.

Screams from above sounded, and everyone who had gotten more than four feet off the ground fell back, their hands bleeding. Yan looked up; the latticework now sported wicked spikes. Some of these were bloodied.

“All right, once more for the hard of thinking,” the girl spoke up. “Marquis can create and shape bone. He can make it any shape he wants. A fence as high as he wants. A fence with spikes on it. Are we getting the hint yet?”

Sugito, one of those who had fallen from the fence, got up, cradling a bloody hand. “What … what the fuck do you want?”

“For you to surrender, to stand down. Drop your weapons,” Marquis ordered. “It's not like they'll do you any good.”

“Are – are you going to kill us?” quavered Yan.

“No.” Marquis' voice was firm. “You will carry a message for me. A message to Lung. Tell as many people as you can, along the way. Promise to do that for me, and you will live.”

“Wh-what's the catch?” asked Sugito.

“Two catches,” Marquis told him. “One, in doing this, you accept that this alley is my territory, not ABB.”

Sugito shrugged. “Sure. Have it. Not my hassle.”

Marquis smiled briefly. “A man after my own heart. The second catch is much more serious. You have to survive giving Lung the message.” He paused. ”How old are you?”

“S-sixteen,” Sugito stammered. Yan blinked; she'd thought he was eighteen for sure.

“Damnation,” muttered Marquis. “I can't send a child. Lung will almost certainly kill him.” He raised his voice. “Who among you is over eighteen?”

For a moment, there was silence, then Yan pointed to Dao's still-frozen body. “Him.”

“Of course it's him.” Marquis shook his head slightly. “Marchioness, my dear?”

“Oh, all right.” Marchioness walked back to Dao's body, leaned down, and hauled him to his feet by his arm. He staggered and inhaled great gulps of air, rubbing his eyes and blinking.

Marquis walked over, leaned in to stare into his face. “You will carry a message for me.”

Dao blinked. “I'll carry a message for you, sure.”

“You will tell Lung this; rather, you'll tell Lung as soon as you can, but you'll also tell everyone else who's listening. The message is; Marquis has returned. He will be taking back what is his. Repeat the message back to me.”

“Marquis has returned. He will be taking back what is his.” Dao's eyes were glazed over.

“Perfect. You can release him now.”

The second part was obviously aimed at Marchioness; she lifted her hand from Dao's arm, and the gang lieutenant staggered, life coming back into his eyes. Did she do something to him?

“The fuck?” he demanded. “What did you do?”

“You attempted to hold a knife to my daughter's throat,” Marquis advised him. “That action has consequences. You have a message to deliver. I suggest you get about it.”

“But how -” began Sugito, even as the bone barricade began to shrink and degrade away. “Oh. Right.”

Dao didn't waste time; he headed for the van, with the gang streaming behind him. Yan hesitated, then followed. Even as she climbed in, a treacherous thought assailed her, followed shortly by another one.

I wonder if they're hiring.

I wonder if they'd let me join.

<><>​

Late July, 2007

Jonas helped Claire lift out the folding recliner chair out of the trunk of the car. Next came the rolling cooler; she pulled out the extending handle and stacked the recliner atop it.

“I can give you a hand, chick,” offered Jonas. “Make sure nobody bothers you.”

“I'll be fine,” she assured him. “Thanks for helping me this far.”

“I don't know that your father will be very pleased with me for letting you do this alone.”

“I'll talk to him, all right?” She gave him a winsome smile. “I do stuff with him; this is me doing stuff for me. I'll call when I need pickup.”

“Okay, then,” he agreed. “Be safe, chick.”

She watched him get back in the car and drive off before she took hold of the handle of the rolling cooler; with a determined stride, she set off for the nearby bulk of the Brockton Bay General Hospital; more specifically, the emergency room.

<><>​

It was an average night in the emergency room; the usual assortment of minor accidents, children with mysterious ailments, and the silently suffering. The night nurse looked up as the doors hissed open, then her eyes widened as a girl who couldn't have been more than fourteen wrestled a rolling cooler into the room.

All eyes turned to the newcomer – dressed in a fancy gown of some sort, albeit fitted perfectly to her frame – as she rolled the cooler across to what seemed to be the geometric centre of the room. Pulling what turned out to be a folding recliner from atop the cooler, she unfolded it, then arranged the cooler next to it. After that, she looked around a little aimlessly, then strolled over to the night nurse's desk.

“Can I help you?” asked the nurse. She knew the question sounded ridiculous, but she had to ask. “Are you injured or unwell?”

“Neither, actually,” the girl replied brightly. “I was wondering if you knew where the TV remote was.”

“I have it here,” the nurse told her defensively, glancing at where the TV showed the twenty-four hour news channel. “Why do you need it?”

“Because I want to watch cartoons.” The line was delivered with cheerful self-mockery, and the nurse found herself smiling. “May I have it, please?”

“All right, here you go.” She handed it over, then watched as the girl went back to her recliner. A moment later, she asked herself, why did I do that? She had never given out the remote before. But it seemed such an effort to go and get it back …

Seating herself carefully, the girl used the remote to locate the cartoon channel. Still the centre of attention, she popped the cooler and opened a bottle of soda that she had in there. Settling back with the fizzy drink and a bag of gummy bears, she proceeded to watch cartoons with the greatest of enjoyment.

<><>​

The first people to filter out were the family sitting right next to the strange girl in the black evening gown. They had two children, each with a hacking cough; within minutes, it seemed, both children had stopped coughing and were avidly watching the cartoons. A few moments later, a man sitting on the other side of her frowned as the bandages began falling off of his no longer swollen leg.

It took less than fifteen minutes before people started noticing that those sitting closest to the mystery girl – who was by now laughing out loud at the timeless antics of Road Runner – were looking better, feeling better, and in some cases, getting up and walking out. A sort of subtle Brownian motion began to occur, with people drifting toward the middle of the room, leaving the corners empty.

The night nurse got up and headed through to the examining rooms. The person she was looking for was in the second one she checked. “Doctor Harmon, can you come with me to the front desk a moment? I've got something you need to see.”

Harmon, who at that moment was wrestling with hour fourteen of a twenty-hour shift, looked around with some annoyance. “I have a patient here,” he reminded the nurse.

She didn't need reminding; she had admitted that very patient, twenty minutes beforehand. A lacerated foot, courtesy of a malfunctioning lawnmower; nasty and possibly infected. He'd be lucky to keep most of his foot.

“I know, Doctor,” she told him. “But this is something you really do need to see.”

Harmon knew her, knew that she did not say such things lightly. “Hold on for just a moment,” he told the unlucky lawnmower man, and followed the night nurse into the corridor. “What -” he began, but she ignored the question, and led the way back to the desk.

“What?” he asked again.

She pointed at the girl on the recliner. As they both watched, she handed out gummy bears to two little girls, then took a sip of some sort of purple soda. “She's been there for about fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“And she's lying on a recliner, drinking soda, and watching cartoons. In general, treating my ER like her living room. Why, exactly, haven't you had security remove her yet?”

“Because in the time she's been here, no less than thirteen people have gotten up and walked out, apparently healthy.”

Harmon stared at her, then at the girl. At that moment, the parents of the two girls got up and led them out.

“Wait a minute,” he muttered, pointing at the girls. “What was wrong with them?”

“Allergic reaction,” the nurse recited, not bothering to check her notes. “They had lumps all over them.”

“Is she … speaking to them? Touching them? Using visible powers?”

“Not that I can see,” the night nurse told him. “She's just watching cartoons.”

“Right, okay. Thanks.” He went back out into the corridor.

The night nurse, for her part, went out into the ER, to stand next to the girl on the recliner. “You like cartoons, I see,” she observed.

“Yeah,” the girl admitted. “Silly, I know, but it's a thing.”

“Uh, is it you who's doing … this?”

The girl glanced up at her. “Doing what?” she asked ingenuously. Even as the words were spoken, the nurse felt her body go from feeling worn-down to totally refreshed, as though she'd just had a hot shower and a long nap. Even her feet stopped hurting.

“I … see. Well, uh, enjoy the cartoons.”

“Sure thing.”

She pushed her way back into the corridor, to meet a wheelchair coming the other way. It was Doctor Harmon with his lawnmower victim, the vicious wound loosely covered.

“What?” he asked, misinterpreting her look. “It's worth a try.”

“Oh, it certainly is,” she agreed. “I'm not stopping you.” She sidestepped to get to the reception desk, then sat down to watch the show.

The girl on the recliner didn't look around as the wheelchair was rolled up alongside her; she did offer Harmon a gummy bear, however, without taking her eyes off the screen. Looking somewhat bemused, Harmon accepted it, then took a seat beside his patient.

The man in the wheelchair, face initially grey with pain, gradually began to pay more attention to his surroundings; he tapped Harmon on the arm, and pointed at his foot. Carefully, Harmon removed the dressing, to reveal a perfectly normal foot. Not even scar tissue marred what had previously been a mess of mangled meat.

Harmon looked up, and his eyes met those of the night nurse; the girl on the recliner didn't seem to notice at all.

<><>​

Elsewhere in Brockton Bay

“Stand down.” Armsmaster underlined the command by activating his halberd; the ominous hum was audible for several yards around him. It certainly reached the ears of the girl in the cobbled-together powersuit; she took a couple of nervous steps backward into the wreckage of the pharmacy, servos whining.

“I don't have to do what you say,” she tried to retort defiantly, but couldn't quite pull it off.

“In case you hadn't heard, yes, you actually do,” he stated flatly. “I've been put in charge of local Protectorate forces, which makes me an officer of the law. Using a powersuit to steal non-prescription drugs is definitely against the law.” He paused. “What name are you using, anyway?”

“I was thinking Traction,” she replied sulkily. “It's not fair.”

“What's not fair, Traction?” He didn't relax his stance, but if she was talking rather than acting, he'd prefer that. As an afterthought, he activated the recorder he'd built into his helmet.

“I heard about how Brockton Bay was all about the capes, how they'd fall over themselves to hire a Tinker. Had to be better than Boston, anyway.”

“What happened in Boston?”

“I tried to see Accord, get a job with him. But before I even got in to see him, I got told that I'd be better off leaving town before he had me killed. I'm too chaotic for him or something.” She sniffled. “I thought being a villain'd be easier.”

“So you came to Brockton Bay. What then?”

“I've been here one fucking day, and I wanted to figure out who to join. I'm not Asian, so the ABB won't have me. I'm not some racist, so I wanted to steer clear of the Empire.” She sniffled again. “So I decided to get something to clear my head, and you turn up. You're a Tinker too, right?”

“Yes. I am.” He hefted his halberd. “Traction, you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up this right, anything you say -”

“But if you're a Tinker, we're kind of the same,” she forged on desperately. “I mean, you could let me go, say you never saw me.”

“We are nothing alike,” he growled. “Anything you say can be taken down and used -”

“No!” she shouted. “I'm not going to the Birdcage!” She raised her arm and pointed it at him; there was the crackle of an energy buildup, and an aperture that was beginning to look rather like a gun muzzle started to glow. He went to dash forward -

Glass sprayed as a slim form smashed in through the window. Armsmaster caught just a blur of motion as his trainee slammed into Traction, driving her through a display case. The energy weapon went off, blasting away some of the ceiling. They were out of sight; he pulled aside wreckage and slashed his halberd through some more, to clear the way.

When he reached them, Traction was on her back, with Armsmaster's trainee kneeling atop her. As he watched, she punched the recumbent Traction one more time, then grabbed the arm with the energy weapon and squeezed. There was a crack, and a flash of light, and she was flung backward; Armsmaster fielded her inexpertly, then placed her on her feet.

“Are you all right, Mega Girl?” he asked.

“Uh, sure,” she replied. “My invulnerability took it.”

“Good,” he told her grimly. “Now let's see how she is.”

<><>​

Traction wouldn't have been very attractive in the first place; she had a pasty complexion, bad teeth, and ratty blonde hair, which Armsmaster rather suspected was dyed. But Mega Girl appeared to have punched clear through her faceplate, breaking her cheekbone and jaw, and embedding fragments of plastic or glass in her face. Worse, when she broke the energy weapon, it had exploded, doing serious damage to Traction's right forearm and hand. She was unconscious, which was a mercy. But her life signs were less than comforting; Armsmaster suspected internal injuries.

“What have I told you about using excessive force against unpowered foes?” he asked; his tone wasn't as harsh as it could have been, but Mega Girl still looked as though she were about to burst into tears.

“I'm sorry,” she ventured. “I – I thought she was going to shoot you -”

“I had that under control,” he assured her. “I told you to stay back and observe for a reason. Now we have a villain who desperately needs medical treatment.”

Now a few tears did trickle down her face. “I'm s-sorry,” she sniffled again. “A-are you going to kick me out of t-training? C-crystal said s-she loved it.”

“Hey, it's all right,” he told her. “No-one's dead, and this one's fixable. But you can see how this could have gone a lot worse, yes?”

Mutely, she nodded, then sniffled again. He sighed, turned to a display which held absorbent bandages, tore one open, and handed it to her. “Blow your nose, then see if you can't tell me which way to the nearest emergency room.”

<><>​

Brockton Bay General

Claire had been watched cartoons for about three hours now; in that time, several more people came in, sat near her – following not so subtle coaching from the night nurse – and then walked out again under their own steam. Other patients were wheeled out to her; she ignored them while letting her power go to work on their ailments. She began to gain an appreciation of what doctors and nurses must go through every day, just in those few hours.

She had noted something interesting about her powers, which was one of the reasons that she had decided to visit the ER. When she was relaxed, her powers seemed to relax with her, and spread out, achieving a greater area of effect. This seemed to attenuate the strength of her power, reducing the speed with which healing – or other effects – took place, but she could live with that. So long as she didn't try to concentrate on her power, it still worked, just more slowly than normal. On the upside, she didn't have to consciously direct it to heal more than one person at once when it was working like this; it just worked.

She almost sat up in the recliner when her sensory field picked up the next people coming in. One flying, one walking, one being carried. That's different. The one being carried was injured; neither of the other two were. When the automatic doors hissed open, she sneaked a peek that way, and nearly inhaled her drink.

Holy crap, that's Armsmaster!

The tall hero, clad in blue and silver armour, was an icon of Brockton Bay. He appeared on lunchboxes, school supplies, T-shirts, and she'd even heard there was an underwear line. Claire had seen him on TV, but this was the first time she'd met him in person.

In his arms was a young woman, with injuries to her face and her right arm; a roughly-wrapped bandage around the latter was heavily stained with blood. Entering behind him was a girl around Claire's own age; she was tall and slim – naturally instead of power-enforced – with blonde hair, a gold domino mask, and a grey-and-white costume. The girl didn't look happy at all; Claire wondered what was going on here. Oh well, I'm just minding my own business. Not my problem.

Armsmaster, after one sweeping glance of the room to establish any threats – no threat here, nope, no sir – gave Claire one penetrating and inquisitive glance, then quite obviously dismissed her from his priority list. Carrying the injured woman past her, he strode up to the night nurse's desk.

Claire popped another gummy bear – not here to force healing on anyone, no matter how much they might need it – took another drink from her bottle of soda, and kept watching cartoons. After a few moments, the girl – who she'd kept track of, of course – moved up beside her.

“Uh, excuse me?”

Claire looked over. “Yeah?”

The blonde looked positively hangdog. “Can I – is it okay if I sit here?”

“Sure. Take a seat. Gummy bear?” She offered the bag.

“Uh -” The girl glanced up at where Armsmaster was placing the woman on a gurney. “Sure, thanks.” She accepted the gummy bear and sat down. “Thanks.”

“No probs.” Claire took another drink from her soda. “So what's the deal here?”

The girl took a deep shuddering breath. “I – I can't say much, because legal issues, but I'm Mega Girl. I'm training with Armsmaster. That's a – a villain, I guess. We arrested her, but things went wrong, and now … “ She sniffled. “I suck at being a superhero.”

“Hey. Hey hey hey. It's all right. We all have bad days.” Claire retrieved a tissue from her bag, carefully not letting Mega Girl see the pistol she had stashed in there, and handed it over. “It'll be okay. She'll be okay.” She cheated a little, tilting the blonde's brain chemistry more toward optimism. “You'll see.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” Mega Girl blew her nose and brightened a little. “I mean, this is a hospital.” She turned toward Claire. “What's your deal, anyway? How come you get to sit here in a recliner with a cooler full of soda? Your dad the head surgeon or something?”

“Heh, no.” Claire was about to expand on the topic, when the gurney returned, Armsmaster trying to argue with Doctor Harmon and failing.

Mega Girl looked around in bafflement as the orderly parked the gurney right behind Claire's recliner. “What's going on? Why did you bring her out here again?”

“You'll see.” Doctor Harmon was positively radiating smugness; Claire could pick it up from where she was. She rather liked the doctor; he cared about his patients and really was a nice guy. She decided to let him have his fun; sipping her soda, she popped another gummy bear and kept watching cartoons.

“What's going on here?” Armsmaster must have noticed the way that the shards of plastic had pushed their way out of the woman's face, and her cuts and contusions were healing nicely. “How is this – is this you?”

Claire guessed this last question was aimed at her; she turned her head to look up at the armoured hero. “Who, me?”

“Yes, you.” His mouth was set. “Are you healing her?”

“Probably. And by the way, that old break to your left kneecap? You're welcome.” She extracted a card from her bag and handed it back up to him. “My card.”

He took it, and examined it closely. “Marchioness?”

“The very same.” She settled back into the recliner. Mega Girl was staring at her with undisguised curiosity; she wanted to giggle so very badly, but she kept herself under control.

He must have turned the card over. “'By Appointment Only'?”

“Congratulations,” she drawled. “You can read.” Mega Girl's eyes went wide, and she covered her own mouth with her hand. Claire grinned and passed her a card as well.

“Marchioness, Marchioness … “ He paused. “Female form of marquess, British nobility. Marquess is the British form of … Marquis?”

Claire could feel the adrenaline ramping up through his system; she popped another gummy bear. “That's my dad, yeah.”

"I'd heard rumours of Marquis being back in town, and how he's got a sidekick. That's you?"

"I object to the term 'sidekick' on general principles, but yes, that's me," she agreed. Mega Girl was staring at her; Claire shrugged. "Hey, it's a thing."

"And why would you decide to heal people, in that case?" Armsmaster asked.

"Because I chose to."

"When she came in here," Doctor Harmon pointed out, "this waiting room was full. We were pushed to the limit. Now look at it." As Armsmaster turned his head, looking around the empty room, the doctor went on. "We've been bringing our worse cases down from Intensive Care and Oncology. Some of them are still undergoing follow-up tests, but every one that we can clear, has been cleared." He pointed at Claire. "She cured them."

Armsmaster rubbed his chin. "Interesting. A self-admitted sidekick of Marquis spends her time healing others without asking anything in return."

"Hey, enough with the 's' word, all right?" She swung her legs off of the recliner and stood up to face him. "I'm not Marquis' sidekick, I'm his daughter. Or maybe 'associate'."

Mega Girl broke in at that point. "Oncology means the cancer ward, right?"

"Yes, it does." That was Doctor Harmon.

The blonde stared at Claire. "You can cure cancer?"

"Well, sure." Claire shrugged. "It's easier to get rid of than your boss here. Less talky, too." She paused. "In any case, I never said I'd be healing for free." She handed Harmon a card. "I meant to do this later, but when you get a chance, pass that on to whoever runs this place, so we can negotiate a price scale for when I drop in next, yeah?"

"A ... a price scale?"

"Well, yeah. You don't think I'm gonna be doing this for free all the time, do you?" She shot him a grin. "Don't worry. I'll tell my dad's lawyers to keep it fair. We won't gouge you too much."

Harmon drew himself up. "Considering the work you've just done tonight, I'm not sure that any price would be considered 'gouging'. I just hope we can afford your rates."

"Pretty sure we can work something out," she assured him.

"Will these rates also apply to healing heroes?" Armsmaster asked.

"You can discuss that with my dad's lawyers," Claire told him with a cheeky grin. "Oh, and by the way? Your prisoner's fully healthy, plus I cured her ongoing drug addiction. She's been faking unconsciousness for the last few minutes; I think she wants to make a break for it once you get her out the door."

The prisoner erupted into movement, rolling off of the gurney; Armsmaster grabbed for her and missed. Coming to her feet, the prisoner bolted toward the doors; Mega Girl levitated straight up out of her seat. Claire ducked and sat back down on the recliner as the blonde passed over her head.

Mega Girl got to the doors first, landing in front of them and spreading her arms wide. The woman recoiled, hesitating just a moment too long. Even as she looked for another way out, Armsmaster grabbed her from behind. Pulling her wrists together behind her back, he began to secure them together. "You have the right to remain silent," he panted. "If you give up this right ... "

Getting up from the recliner, Claire strolled over toward where Mega Girl was still guarding the doors. "Nicely done," she observed. "New to the Wards, I'm guessing?"

"I'm, uh, not in the Wards," the blonde admitted. "I'm actually part of the Brockton Bay Brigade. M- uh, they've got me doing my initial training with the Wards, to learn teamwork and stuff."

"I suppose that makes sense," Claire noted. "How long have you been doing it?"

"First week," confessed Mega Girl. "I was supposed to hold back and observe, and I just jumped in." Her voice lowered. "I suck."

"Well, you'll get better at it," Claire assured her. "My first week of pistol training, I was horrible."

"You get to use pistols?" Mega Girl's eyes were wide. "That's so cool."

"Actually, it's noisy, smelly, and hard on the wrists," Claire responded. "But you've got the potential. You'll get there, I bet." Again, she pepped up Mega Girl with a little more optimism; the blonde seemed to need it.

That earned her a smile. "Yeah, thanks. I appreciate it."

"No problem." Behind her, she knew, Armsmaster had the prisoner secured and Mirandised. "See you round. Keep the card. Feel free to text me if you want to chat. And one more thing."

"Yeah?"

She couldn't resist grinning again. "Tell Brandish that Marquis' little girl says hi. And that the table didn't really deserve it."

"I ... don't get it."

"Don't worry. She will."

Leaving Mega Girl staring at her back, she wandered back to the recliner. Armsmaster, determinedly ignoring her, walked his prisoner toward the doors. “Oh, by the way,” she called out to the armoured hero.

He paused, then after a long moment turned to face her. “What?”

“When they ask you, tell them that yes, I will be attending Endbringer battles. For free, even.”

He nodded once, then guided the woman out through the doors, followed by Mega Girl. She waited till all three life signs had left her range before beginning to fold the recliner.

"Oh, you're going?" Doctor Harmon looked a little taken aback.

"Yeah, sorry. Past my bedtime and all that. We'll work out that price schedule, yeah?" She handed him the TV remote.

"Uh, yes, yes, of course."

"Excellent. See you around. Have a good night." Putting the recliner up on the cooler, she headed for the doors.

<><>​

The car pulled up next to her, and Jonas got out to help her put the recliner and cooler into the trunk.

“So how did it go, chick?” he asked. “Nobody bothered you?”

“Nope, it all went well.” She climbed into the front seat and did her seatbelt up. “And Dad will never believe who I met.”



End of Part Four

Part Five