Yet Another Way [Worm AU Fanfic]

[Ack]

Yet Another Way
Introduction: A Death in the Family

A/N: The first three sentences are taken directly from canon.


Marquis surrounded himself in plates of bone that resembled the petals of a flower blooming in reverse, and sank into the ground.

Any other day, Brandish would have followed him into the room below. A wine cellar, it seemed.

Instead, she turned and charged for the closet, creating a sword out of the crackling energy her power provided, slashing through the plates of bone that had surrounded it, then drawing the blade back to thrust through the wooden door-

Marquis emerged between her and the closet door and ducked away, trying to draw her from her target. She plunged the sword into the heavy wood and through it, smelling the smoke from the charred door. Fuck you, Marquis. Whatever you're protecting is gone.

And then she heard the high-pitched cry, cut off a moment later. From within the closet. And she smelled the burning flesh.

"NO!" screamed Marquis. He held his hand out; the bones emerged from his hand, forming into a flat-based battering ram, smashing her backward until she formed into her invulnerable ball shape. A moment later, it spread outward, forming a barrier of bone around Marquis and the closet.

Manpower stepped forward, looking at Brandish and Lady Photon. "What the fuck just happened?" he asked.

The bone barrier dropped. Marquis was revealed, but now he was carrying a burden. A girl. A toddler, not much younger than Vicky. The girl was brown haired, freckle-faced, and wore a silk nightgown with lace at the collar and sleeves. It looked expensive for something a child would wear. There was a neat burn in the nightgown, just below the breastbone.

"Daddy," she breathed, then what little life was left in her was gone forever.

"Oh, god," whispered Lady Photon. "Your daughter?"

Tears were streaming down Marquis' face, unheeded. "The most precious treasure in the world. Her name was Amelia." Lowering his face, he planted a kiss on his child's brow.

"Christ, man, I'm sorry," Manpower muttered awkwardly. "We didn't know -"

"You didn't know?" Marquis asked, his head coming up. "You didn't know?"

His left arm still supporting his dead child, the hand turned; bone shot out to strike Manpower and drive him backward, fastening him to the wall in a cage of spikes driven deep into the wall.

"Did you even look?" he raged, turning his attention to Lady Photon. "Did you even try to find out?" Shards of bone speared from the floor, surrounding her. In a moment, she was entombed in a sarcophagus, only her face showing. Her arms, visible in relief, were crossed over her chest, the palms pressed to her shoulders.

Brandish ignited her light-sword once more, then the most terrible pain lanced into her back. She screamed at the tearing agony, as the spike of bone punched out through her chest.

But he doesn't hurt women or children!

Instinctively, she shifted to her invulnerable form, then back to human, once she was away from the bone spike. But the hole through her body was still there; she dropped to her knees, coughing blood.

"Congratulations, Brandish dear," he murmured to her, stepping closer. Bone encased her hands, pulled them behind her back. "Many have tried my resolve when it came to hurting women and children. Jack Slash came the closest, but even he failed. But you … you managed it. If I had let my weapon hurt you, then we would not have come to this. I failed my Amelia once. I will not fail her memory – murderer."

Bone shards speared throughout her body, entering every organ, setting off a blaze of agony. She went to her invulnerable form once more, went to human.

They were still there.

Marquis stood looking down at her, with absolutely no pity on his face.

And then the real agony began.

<><>​

The next morning, the caretaker at the Brockton Bay cemetery found an elaborate tomb constructed of some smooth hard white material, where none had been the day before. Two angels, intricately carved, held a plaque which read:

AMELIA CLAIRE LAVERE

BELOVED DAUGHTER

TAKEN FAR TOO SOON

1994-2000

"REST EASY, MY BEAUTIFUL PRINCESS ..."​

On a much smaller plaque, out of view of the casual onlooker, there was a different message:

Don't even think about moving her – Marquis

<><>​

An anonymous phone tip led ambulance personnel to a car on the outskirts of town, which held five people. Or rather, what had once been five people. Their skeletons were twisted, partly shrunken and partly expanded, to a degree far beyond grotesquerie. That they were still alive was a tribute to the art of whoever had left them in such a condition.

Worse, they still wore costumes, or the remains of costumes, that identified them as five of the six members of the Brockton Bay Brigade. Of the sixth member, Brandish, no trace was ever found.

They were admitted to palliative care in a parahuman asylum, where they would live out the rest of their lives under the care of others.

<><>​

"Crystal, Victoria, Eric, come in please."

The three children trooped into the director's office. She had done her best to make sure that it wasn't spartan and unfriendly to children, with beanbags and a colourful play area, to which Eric headed immediately. Accompanied by their carer, Crystal and Victoria fronted up to the desk.

Director Kelly looked them over. A not unkind woman, she liked to think that she had a certain empathy with children. It had been more than a month since they had been taken into care, following the … incapacitation … of their respective parents. Crystal, a solemn eight-year-old, seemed to be bearing up well, although there were reports of her younger brother crying at night and wetting the bed. Of course, he was only four, so there were some allowances to be made.

Victoria, on the other hand, did her best to be cheerful and upbeat; Kelly knew that she cried, but only when she thought nobody could see.

Their parents hadn't died, but what had happened to them was almost as bad; they could never exist in normal society, never live without care. They were healthy and young and would be a burden on the state for many years to come. She had viewed photographs of what had been done to them, and then burned the photographs. It didn't matter; she would never forget the images.

And left behind, there were the children. They wouldn't even be allowed to see their parents until they reached the age of majority; they could send them letters or speak to them over the phone before then. Of course, the Pelhams and Mark Dallon would be unable to reply, what had been done to them had left them entirely incapable of speech or writing, or even seeing in the same direction with both eyes at once.

She didn't even want to know what had happened to Carol Dallon.

"You wanted to see us, Miss Kelly?" asked Crystal politely.

Kelly nodded. "Yes. As it happens, there's a nice man with the very best of references who is willing to take in all three of you. Jenny will be going with you, of course. She'll take care of you while you're living in his house."

She had checked over the references herself, and had been impressed. A large house, a professed tolerance of the rambunctiousness of young children, and plenty of outdoor space for them to play in.

"Can I still send letters to Mommy and Daddy?" asked Victoria.

"Of course," Kelly assured her. "We'll be sending all the photographs you have of them, so you can put them up in your rooms."

"Good," Crystal stated. "Eric, come here."

Eric looked up from bashing a plastic locomotive on to the floor, and trotted over to his big sister. "What?" he asked.

"We've got a new Daddy, and Jenny's going to be like our Mommy," Crystal explained to him.

"I don't want a new Daddy or Mommy," he whined.

"Well, they won't be our real daddies or mommies," Vicky explained brightly. "They'll just be taking care of us until our real daddies and mommies come back from their secret mission."

Kelly was mildly impressed. The children had obviously come up with an explanation as to why they couldn't see or speak to their parents, independently of the so-called child experts who regularly checked to make sure that they had 'natural and healthy development'. It wasn't a bad one, either.

She pressed a button on her intercom. "Send him in, please."

The door opened, and a tall man with long brown hair, tied back, entered the room. "Hello," he greeted them. "I'm guessing you're Crystal," he posited, pointing at Eric.

Crystal giggled. "No, silly. I'm Crystal."

The man rubbed his chin, as if in thought. "Then you must be Eric," he decided, pointing at Vicky.

Vicky shook her head, giggling harder than Crystal. "No, I'm Vicky."

The man dropped to one knee before them. "Well, I'm very pleased to meet you all, Crystal, Vicky, Eric." He looked at each of them in turn as he spoke their names.

"What's your name?" asked Vicky.

"Oh, silly me, I forgot to introduce myself." The man smiled brilliantly. "My name is Mark."


End of Introduction

Part Two

 

[Ack]

Yet Another Way

Part Two: Family Matters


2003

Marcus Raymond, supervillain and father, paused in the doorway to the living room. Crystal was reading a book on the sofa, while Vicky sat on the floor, leaning up against the sofa to watch some show on TV. In the meantime, Eric lay on the carpet, colouring in a picture with rather more enthusiasm than accuracy. Marcus cleared his throat, then waited until each of them had looked around.

"What's up, Dad?" asked Crystal.

"Has any of you seen my newspaper?" he asked. "I left it on the desk in my study."

"Oh," nine-year old-Vicky blurted, looking embarrassed. "I took it to do the crossword. I know how you hate it when we take pages out of it. It's in my room. I''ll go get it now." She jumped to her feet.

"Thank you, Victoria," he replied dryly, stepping aside to let her pass. "Next time, ask permission to go in there, all right?"

"Okay," she called back over her shoulder as she took the stairs two at a time. "Sorry, sorry."

"Slow down," he called after her. "It's only a newspaper."

"Uh, sorry about that, Dad," Crystal offered. "Vicky asked me where it was. I didn't know she'd go in there and get it."

"As if the three of you don't sneak into my study from time to time," he replied with a raised eyebrow, seating himself on the end of the sofa. "I don't go into your bedrooms without asking permission first. Is it too much to ask for you to do me the same courtesy for my study?"

"But there's so much interesting stuff in there," Eric interjected. "Skulls an' books an' pictures an' all sorts of stuff."

"Which is my stuff," Marcus pointed out. "How would you like it if I went into your room and started digging through your private stuff?"

Eric dropped his eyes and mumbled something.

"I beg your pardon?" asked Marcus politely.

"I wouldn't like it," mumbled the boy, a little more clearly.

"And so." Marcus tilted his head. "I don't mind you coming in there. Just please, ask permission first. Best if you ask me when I'm in there already. That way, I can tell you about some of the things I have."

A junior-sized elephant thundered down the stairs and Vicky dashed back into the room, a little flushed. In her hand, she clutched the errant newspaper. "Here you are, Dad," she panted. "Sorry."

He accepted it from her, but didn't take his eye from her. "Thank you for the paper. As I said, next time, please ask permission to go into my study. And to take the paper, if it's there."

Eyes downcast, she nodded. "Okay, Dad."

"Good girl." He smiled slightly, and swatted her lightly on the rear with the folded paper. "And I know you kids are young and have all the energy in the world, but do me a favour and try not to run quite so much inside the house, all right? You've got an enormous back yard and a swimming pool to work off all that energy in."

This time, it was a chorus from all three of them. "Yes, Dad."

"Good." He smiled. "So, I was thinking we could spend tomorrow on the Boardwalk, then go to the movies in the evening. Why don't you put your heads together and decide what you'd like to see?"

That got an enthusiastic response, and the three children began discussing the choices with a considerable amount of animation. He was pleased to note, as he settled down in his favourite chair to read the paper, that they weren't actually arguing; that after even just a few years of his influence, they were able to debate a point in a logical and mature fashion. Except, of course, for Eric's tendency to state stubbornly, 'But I like it!'; however, the lad was still only seven. He would learn.

He was very fond of Eric, as he was of the two girls. Where he had at first thought that he could never take to another child, they had eased their way into his heart. Originally, his taking in the children of the Brockton Bay Brigade had been a self-imposed duty as well as a take-that to the surviving members; he would raise the children better than they ever could. But it had become much more than that; as they grew used to him as their foster father, they had opened up to him. And his heart had opened up to them in return.

They will never take the place of my Amelia. But I feel that I am beginning to love them. I will raise them as well as I know how.

"Uh, Dad?"

He raised his eyes from the paper; Crystal was sitting up on the sofa. Eric and Vicky were still deep in discussion over the movie choices.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Can I talk to you about boys?"

That got his attention. He folded the paper and put it down. "Yes, you can." Oh god, what do you want to know?

Her eyes flicked sideways to her siblings, who were absorbed in their debate. "Can we talk … somewhere else?"

"Oh, yes." He got up. "I think the back patio would be a good idea."

<><>​

He settled himself on to one of the patio chairs, and waited until she was comfortable in another. "So," he began, steeling himself as any father would, "what is it that you want to know?"

She seemed to want to look anywhere but at him. "What if there was a boy at school that I liked, and I think he likes me?"

"Crystal," he replied, trying to keep his tone patient. "You're eleven years old. You shouldn't even be noticing boys at your age."

"I'll be twelve in two months," she protested.

"Still too young," he maintained.

Taking a deep breath, she faced up to him. "But what if I am noticing him?"

With the feeling of a man finding his way through a quicksand bog, he nodded. "Okay, so does this hypothetical boy have a name?"

"Uh … " For a moment, he could tell that she was considering a lie, but then she discarded it and met his eyes. In doing so, she raised herself another notch in his estimation. "Yes, Dad. His name's Jimmy Leyland. He's really nice."

Jimmy Leyland. For a moment, he felt the urge to go and locate this boy and have a stern talk with him. The sort of stern talk that has the phrase 'blast radius' attached to it. But he suppressed it; Crystal liked the boy, and so he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. For now.

"So what do you want to know?" he asked. Not the Talk, he begged silently. Please not the Talk. He had done many things in his life, things that would cause strong men to run screaming into the night, but that particular task made him cringe just by thinking about it.

She swallowed nervously. Oh good, she's just as scared of this topic as I am. "I was just wondering … what's the best way of telling him that I like him?"

He blinked. "What?"

Gathering courage, she went on. "I like him. I think he likes me. How do I tell him? If I try to do it at school, there's kids all around, and I'm scared of being laughed at. Should I text him? Send him an email?"

Finally, Marcus was on familiar ground. "No. Neither of those." He shook his head. "Sending someone a text to tell them that you like them is about the least romantic way to do it."

"Then what should I do?"

"I suggest that you write him a letter."

She looked puzzled. "But you just said that I shouldn't use email."

"No, I meant letter as in actual pen and paper. On good paper stock. Something where you can take your time writing it, and think about what you want to say. Then you put it in an envelope, and put a stamp on it, and mail it to him. The old-fashioned way."

"But that'll take days to get to him!"

"Which is why you take your time thinking about what you want to say to him." Marcus shrugged. "Are you going to feel any differently about him in a week's time?"

"No." Her expression was firm. "I won't." She took a deep breath. "Can you help me write it?"

He let out an amused snort. "No. But I'll look it over after you've finished, if you want. Unless you're thinking of saying something really embarrassing in it."

From the look on her face, she was just now realising that what she had to say might indeed be embarrassing, if read by the wrong person. "I, uh, maybe I'll be okay."

He tilted his head. "All right, then. I'd suggest that you write out a draft on ordinary paper, then I can give you some good writing paper to do the final copy on."

Her smile lit up her whole face. "Thanks, Dad." Jumping up, she gave him a swift hug. "I'll go and do that now."

Her footsteps faded away into the interior of the house; he sat for a few moments, looking out over the back yard. My little girls are growing up. How time flies.

And the ache in his heart was barely a twinge, now. Amelia would have liked them.

<><>​

"Dad, I've finished the draft."

Marcus looked up from the paper to see Crystal standing in front of him. She held a folded piece of paper in her hand, and was jittering slightly with excitement.

"Good," he congratulated her. "Now, do you recall the calligraphy lessons?"

"Oh god, I'm not going to write him that fancy a letter," she protested. "He'll think I'm trying to impress him!"

"Well, aren't you?" he asked mildly, getting up from the chair and folding the paper.

"Yeah, but I don't want him to know it!"

"Well, I suppose," he agreed. "But you can still write it neatly, and sign your name with a flourish. That should impress him without making it look like you're trying too hard."

"Maybe you're right," she conceded, following him into his study. "I still can't do calligraphy like you can."

"All it takes is a little practice," he pointed out. Leaning down, he opened a desk drawer and removed a pad of expensive writing stock; the thick creamy paper held a subtle watermark. Along with it, he pulled out his calligraphy set. "Would you like to write it out here or in your room?"

"I'll do it in my room, thanks, Dad," she replied, accepting the pad and the box of pens. Pausing, she nodded to his desk. "I've been meaning to ask. Who's that?"

He followed her gaze to the gold-framed picture that sat just under the reading lamp, where the light would most readily fall upon it. The girl in the photograph had long brown hair and a brilliant smile; she wore a princess costume, and looked a little younger than Eric. He remembered the day when he presented the costume to her; she had been so excited, so happy to be wearing it. It had been so very worth the money he'd spent to have it custom made for her.

"That's … that was my daughter, Amelia," he told Crystal quietly. Slowly, he sat down in the chair, his eyes never leaving the picture.

"What … what do you mean, was?" she asked. "Did something happen to her?"

He nodded. "Yes. I … she died. When she was six years old. I loved her very much."

Impulsively, she put the pad and calligraphy set on the desk, and hugged him. "I'm sorry, Dad. How did it happen?"

He kissed her on the forehead. "It's a sad story, Crystal. Are you sure you're ready to hear it?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"All right then. Get a chair. You might want to sit down for this."

"Okay, Dad." She pulled a chair around so that she could sit in front of him, while he leaned back in the chair and contemplated the picture of Amelia.

When he gauged that she was ready, he commenced. "What can you tell me about the Brockton Bay Brigade?"

There was a momentary silence, then Crystal frowned. "Wasn't that our moms and dads, back before?"

"That's correct, yes," Marcus agreed.

"They were superheroes who disappeared or something, a few years ago. When they didn't come back, you adopted us."

"All of that's true," Marcus told her, "except for one important part."

"What part's that?" asked Crystal.

"Well, they said they were superheroes," Marcus observed, "and people thought they were superheroes, and for the most part they did good things. But sometimes they didn't do the right thing. They were careless and irresponsible with their powers. People got hurt. And sometimes, people got killed."

"What – what do you mean, Dad?" asked Crystal. Her eyes darted to the photograph. "Did they -"

Slowly, he nodded. "I'm afraid so, Crystal."

"What happened?"

"Three years ago," Marcus told her. "The Brockton Bay Brigade came to my home and attacked me. Amelia was with me. She was killed in the attack."

"You?" Crystal's eyes were wide, now. "Why did they attack you?"

He sighed, and took her hands in his. "Because they decided that I was a bad man, sweetpea. People called me a supervillain, so they attacked me. Over and over again. And I beat them, over and over again. But then they found out where I lived and came to attack me at home."

"And Amelia got killed."

"Yes. When they attacked the house, I hid her in a closet. But one of their attacks nearly hit the closet, so I protected it. They saw that, so they attacked the closet to distract me. I wasn't able to stop them in time." His eyes dropped. "She died in my arms."

Crystal got out of her chair and hugged him fiercely. "I'm so sorry, Dad. I never knew."

"It's not your fault, honey," he replied, returning the hug. "It never was your fault. That's why I took you children in. So that you didn't have to suffer for what your parents did."

"I always thought they were superheroes, not villains." Her eyes were full of tears. "They lied to us."

"They didn't lie," he told her. "They just didn't tell you the whole truth."

"That's the same as lying," she retorted, then she paused. "What happened then?"

"What happened when?"

"After that." She was obviously uncomfortable with referring to Amelia's death. "What happened?"

"Oh. I ... I was very angry, of course. So I made sure they couldn't hurt anyone ever again."

Her eyes were wide. "Did you ... kill them?"

He shook his head. "No ... well, not all of them. Just the one who killed my little girl. The others ... I punished them. Then I made sure they went to a place where they couldn't hurt anyone."

"Did you ... did you put them in the Birdcage?"

Marcus shook his head. "No, they're not in the Birdcage. They're in Philadelphia, to be precise."

Crystal looked confused. "What are they doing there?"

"They're in a place where they can think about exactly what they did wrong," he replied steadily. "In the meantime, I'm taking care of you because they can't."

"Wait a minute ... if they thought you were a supervillain, and you were able to punish them ... who are you?"

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" he asked. "You're a bright girl. There's a clue, right there in my name."

She frowned, concentrating in thought. "Marcus ... Mark ... " Her eyes went wide again. "Marquis?"

Solemnly, he nodded. "That's me."

"But nobody's heard from him, I mean you, in the last three years either." She stared at him. "Did you lose your powers or something when you fought the Brigade?"

He noted the use of 'Brigade' rather than 'mom and dad', and was heartened. "No. My powers are still as strong as ever." To demonstrate, he held out his hand. A bone-white rose grew from his palm; he snapped it off and gave it to her, concealing the stab of pain that resulted.

Wonderingly, she examined it. "But ... if you have your powers ... ?"

"I decided to learn from my mistakes. I can't be a father and a public supervillain at the same time, not without putting you at risk. What happened to Amelia taught me that. So I stopped."

"You ... you did that for us?" Unspoken were the words The children of your enemies?

Reaching out, he placed his hand on her shoulder. "I took you in from duty, but it has become more than that. You children are more important than anything else in the world to me. I will never allow any of you to come to harm. I promise."

Again, her arms were wrapped around him. "Thank you."

His heart swelled in his chest as he returned the embrace, his arms enfolding the slender body of his adopted daughter. He wanted to hold her forever, protect her from the world.

"Dad?" Her voice was soft in his ear.

"Yes, honey?"

"I love you, Dad."

He smiled, and gave her a little bit of an extra squeeze. "I love you too, Crystal."

"Thank you, Dad. For everything."

"You're welcome, sweet pea." Gradually, he let her go, and pretended not to notice as she wiped her eyes. After all, he was more than a little misty-eyed himself. "So, about this letter you wanted to write. I've thought of a perfect opening paragraph." Clearing his throat, he assumed a gruff voice. "Dear Jimmy. This is her dad speaking. Watch it, boy. I know where you live."

"Oh, Dad!" She laughed and punched him in the shoulder. "You leave Jimmy alone."

"So long as he leaves you alone," he stated firmly.

"Yeah, okay," she agreed. "Uh, Dad?"

"Yes, honey?"

"Can I tell Vicky and Eric about ... well, the Brigade?"

"Maybe when they're a little older, okay?"

She nodded. "That's probably a good idea. Okay."


End of Part Two

 

[Ack]

Yet Another Way

Part Three: Seeds of Regret

[A/N 1: This chapter commissioned by @GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
[A/N 2: I wrote the first two parts to this story over ten years ago. Now I'm picking it up again, if only to see where it ends. Whee.]
[A/N 3: This fic will be posted in chapters of 3.5-4K, two at a time, 24 hours apart. So there will be another one in 24 hours, woo!]
[A/N 4: Trigger warning – mention of suicide.]


Friday Evening, September 14, 2007
The Raymond Household

Marquis

It started, as many things do, with a phone call.

<><>​

Marcus sat on one side of the dining table, with his three conniving children arrayed on the other. Between them sat a Scrabble game, with plastic letter tiles spelling out words here and there on the board. Eric had a dictionary at his elbow.

The adjustment in the rules had been Victoria's idea. Each of them had their allotment of tiles, but the three children were allowed to trade tiles and collude between themselves—with the assistance of the dictionary—to gain the best possible advantage over him. He pretended irritation at the chicanery, but in all honesty, he could not have been prouder of them. It was the way of the world that one had to make the very most of their situation, and teaming up to take down a superior opponent was part and parcel of that.

He'd laid down the rule that Eric had sole access to the dictionary. It was only fair to his son, and kept the lad from feeling left-out by searching for new words to use. Now he was murmuring something to Victoria, who was nodding. Taking a letter tile from each of their holders, she laid them down on the board. "'Equal' plus I-Z-E makes 'equalize', and that's a triple letter score for the 'z'," she announced triumphantly.

"Well done," Marcus said approvingly. "How many points do you get for it?"

Crystal grinned. "Doing that now." Her lips moved silently as she noted down each of the letter scores, preparatory to adding them up.

At that moment, his phone rang.

"Excuse me one moment." He stood up from his chair and started toward his study; not only was it rude to hold a conversation in front of others, but there were many things his children did not know about his business dealings. This was a state of affairs that he wished to maintain, at least for the time being. The caller ID showed that the call was coming from the Philadelphia Parahuman Asylum, which only served to raise his level of concern. "You have Mark Raymond."

Even after learning the truth about their respective parents (what truth he was willing to allow them to know at their age) they had still sent letters and the occasional photograph. Far from discouraging this, he had urged them to keep in touch. After all, what he had done to the Brigade was no punishment if its members were unable to see how their children were developing under his care.

Four years in, the first messages started coming back. Marcus gathered that the staff of the Asylum had managed to teach them Morse code, and were communicating with them that way. These messages were necessarily brief, but the children were pleased to get them all the same.

"Mr Raymond, this is Director Hargrave of the Philadelphia Parahuman Asylum. It's about Mark Dallon. I'm afraid he's passed away."

Marcus' eyes widened. This was not what he had intended, not at all. The Brigade had been supposed to live long and healthy lives, entirely unable to interfere further with the upbringing of their children—or any children at all, really—while he showed them how said children should be raised. "What happened?" he asked at last. "Was it a complication of his … condition?"

"Not that we can ascertain, no." Hargrave hesitated. "It appears to have been a deliberate act."

"What?" Marcus's spine straightened, and he gripped the phone more tightly. Hellfire and damnation! Did one of their enemies break in to finish them off? "I need more information." The growl that emanated from his throat was pure Marquis. "Now."

Something in his tone must have reached the director, because the answer came swiftly. "I – I mean self-inflicted. None of our staff would—"

"I'll be there in two hours. Have your answers ready by then." He ended the call, secure in the knowledge that this would be done. Director Hargrave and the rest of the Asylum staff knew him not as Marquis, but as Marcus Raymond, an exceedingly wealthy and generous donor to the upkeep of the Asylum. If they wanted the money to continue rolling in (and they did) then any number of rules and regulations would be twisted into pretzels in order to keep him happy.

The next call he made was to a rather more local number. "Good evening, Jennifer. I'm afraid I will be requiring your services tonight. I've been called away on unavoidable business. Quadruple pay, as per our standard arrangement, yes?"

"Of course, sir. I'll be over directly." Jennifer—'Jenny' to the children—had her own cottage on the grounds; most days she handled the cooking, housecleaning and mothering as needed, but it was understood between them that the weekends were hers to do with as she wished. Until situations like this came up, whereupon he was willing to pay well above top dollar without quibble.

Competent help, he had long since found, was worth far more than its weight in any precious metal he cared to name. "Excellent. I'll let the children know, then be on my way."

When he returned to the living room, Eric was already paging through the dictionary for the next word to use, but Crystal and Victoria were paying no attention to the board.

Crystal spoke first. "You've got to go, don't you?" Disappointment coloured every syllable.

"I'll be back before morning," he reassured them. "Something important has come up. I'm needed in Philadelphia."

Victoria perked up at that. "While you're there, could you let my father know I didn't get his birthday message last week? He's usually pretty good about that."

The breath froze in Marcus' throat; his usually glib tongue found not a word to say about the situation. "I … I'll see … what I can do." He took a moment to steady himself. "Jennifer will be over in a moment, and she'll keep you company for the evening and make sure you're in bed by a reasonable hour." A smile, feeling horribly fake, completed the masquerade. "Be good for her, please."

Turning, he hurried from the room before he could put his foot any further into his mouth. Why he'd even mentioned Philadelphia he had no idea, but even that was eclipsed by the fact that Mark Dallon hadn't sent Victoria her usual birthday wishes, and he hadn't noticed. Certainly, things had been busy over the last week, both on the criminal and the business side of things, but that was no excuse.

If I'd known, I could have … As he slid behind the wheel of his McLaren 722, he shook his head. What could he have done? Asked the staff of the Asylum to check on their patient more closely? Whatever Mark Dallon had done, it hadn't been on a whim.

The garage door opened automatically in front of him as he applied pedal to metal. His thumb found the button on the steering-wheel which enabled hands-free calling; the private airfield where he kept his Falcon 7X was less than twenty minutes away, and the standby pilots could be there in fifteen. In thirty minutes, he would be in the air.

Having super-powers was useful, but having money was better.

<><>​

Two Hours Later

Philadelphia Parahuman Asylum

Director Peter Hargrave

Peter watched as Marcus Raymond settled into the visitor's chair. Despite the fact that it was Peter's office, it was easy to tell who was in charge, and it wasn't him. Marcus didn't have a bulky physique, but he didn't need one to dominate the room.

"Tell me what happened. Leave nothing out." The words, spoken calmly, nevertheless promised a world of hurt—financial if not physical—if they were disregarded.

Fortunately, Peter had spent the last two hours digging hard into the circumstances surrounding the untimely death of Mark Dallon, aka Flashbang. He had all the facts at his fingertips; it just remained to be seen if they would satisfy Marcus Raymond.

"Two weeks ago," he began, "Mr Dallon began refusing to respond to simple requests. When staff asked what he wanted, he replied with one word: 'Carol'."

"His wife." Marcus was aware of the family's background, then.

Good; that would make this explanation marginally less painful.

"Yes. We believe she was executed by Marquis for … it doesn't matter what for. She was killed in front of Mr Dallon, seven years ago. He repeated the request several times, then became agitated. After analysis of his brain functions, his depression medication was changed. He seemed to respond, or at least become less agitated. Five days ago, he asked what the date was. When it was provided to him, he went quiet again."

"His daughter's birthday was last week." Marcus' voice was quiet. "He missed it."

Ah. Peter had been in possession of that data point, but he hadn't quite made the connection until now. "I see. Well, he resumed cooperation with staff until this evening's shift change. When the new shift noticed that his life sign monitors were flatlining, they came in to check on him. He had typed out a message on his Morse clicker, then contrived to wrap one of his support lines around his neck. Attempts were made to resuscitate him but were unsuccessful. I was alerted, and then I called you."

Marcus leaned forward, his expression almost painfully intense. "What was the message?"

Peter took a deep breath, then passed over the length of tickertape that had been extruded from the clicker. In block letters, it read: IM SORRY VICKY.

The paper crumpled in Marcus' fist as he lowered his head, eyes clenched shut; Peter could see a muscle jumping in the man's jaw. He stayed silent, judging that it was best to wait and see what Marcus wanted rather than making an assumption and being badly wrong about it.

There was genuine pain in Marcus' expression when he raised his head again. "Do the others know yet?"

"We haven't told them, but they may suspect that something is wrong." Peter grimaced. "They send each other messages over the Morse clickers. He's been uncommunicative for a little while, but they'll start asking questions soon."

Marcus stood up. "I want to see them. Now."

Peter also came to his feet. "That's highly irregular …" But he knew as well as Marcus did that he was only making the protest because it was expected of him.

Marcus looked him in the eye. "Did I perhaps stutter? Was anything I said hard to understand?"

Peter shook his head. "No, sir. I'll take you to them now."

<><>​

Marquis

The remnants of the Brockton Bay Brigade, as grotesquely malformed as he had managed to make them in his cold fury, occupied their own row of bays in the Asylum. Five lavage tanks, five net-like hammocks, five padded cushion-nests. The last one, Mark Dallon's, was empty. The other four were occupied by their sleeping inhabitants.

Marcus looked around at Director Hargrave, and the other staff who had trailed in after him. "I want to speak to them all, privately. Make it so, then leave us. No recordings. Is that understood?"

Hargrave looked like he wanted to argue for just a moment. But then he clearly came to a decision and turned to the staff members. "Get it done. Now. And double-check that the recorders are off."

Marcus waited patiently until their nest-beds had been wheeled into a rough semi-circle in front of him. Each of the patients was set up so one eye could focus on him. He hadn't closed off their ear canals, so they'd be able to hear just fine. Discordant mumbles indicated that they'd woken up and had noticed the odd activity. Fingers twitched on Morse clickers, and the displays above each nest-bed lit up.

WHATS GOING ON

WHY R U MOVING US

And then, the inevitable: WHERES MARK

As soon as the staff were finished, Marcus waved them out, the Director included. He waited until the door closed behind them, then moved forward a few steps. "Good evening. I have some bad news for you, and good news."

WHAT

U LOOK FAMILIAR

WHERES MARK

WHATS GOING ON HERE

He nodded. "For those who recognise me: yes, you are correct. I am Marquis, and I've been raising your children for the last seven years. For the record, they are thriving. Bright children, one and all. Now for the bad news. Mark Dallon took his own life earlier this evening. That's why I'm here."

Morse clickers rattled off the letters as fast as a teenager could text; they'd had a lot of practice.

MARKS DEAD

MARQUIS U BASTARD

U KILLED HIM

ILL KILL U

"If you will allow me to finish …" He paused for a moment, until the invective ceased flashing up on the screens. "Thank you. I did not intend for him to die. I've been investing quite a bit of money into your care here so that you can remain alive and healthy. But he thwarted me anyway, so I've decided to reverse your punishment. However, so that it's not too suspiciously miraculous, I'm going to stretch your reversion over several months. Once we're done, you'll be on your feet again, free to do whatever you want. Within reason."

WHAT DO U MEAN

WHAT DO U WANT FROM US

WONT CHANGE ANYTHING

WONT BRING BACK MARK

"No, true," he agreed. "It won't return your colleague to you. Neither will reverting your punishment return my Amelia to me. We all have losses we must face. What I want from you is twofold. First: that you never so much as whisper a word of my true identity to anyone. Second: that you do not attempt to take my children away from me."

OUR CHILDREN

U CANT KEEP CRYSTAL N ERIC FROM US

U MEAN IT

NOT JUST PLAYING WITH US

He sighed. It seemed that both the stick and the carrot were required here. First, the stick. "Yes, I can indeed keep the children from you. I have legally adopted them. You would have to prove yourselves competent to be parents once more, and I have sufficient contacts within the judiciary to ensure that it would be a thoroughly unrewarding process for you. An even simpler means would be to simply … not release you from your bondage, here. So do not try my patience." He paused to allow the words to sink in. "This is not to say that you cannot visit and spend time with them, once you are out and about. They would undoubtedly be delighted to see you. However. They are fully aware of the sordid details of Amelia's passing, and of your part in her death. Any attempt to sully my name in that fashion would very swiftly go astray. Do you understand?"

There was a long pause. He let them process the situation at their own pace while he calculated the easiest way of allowing each skeleton to return to its natural proportions. It would be gradual, of course, but they would be able to see the improvement as they went along.

I UNDERSTAND. That was Lady Photon.

DON'T LIKE IT BUT NO CHOICE YOU BASTARD. Manpower was somewhat more verbose.

I JUST WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE. Fleur sounded like she was trying not to cry.

LETS DO THIS. Lightstar was equally eager to take the deal.

"Very well." Now for the carrot. "Incidentally, I acquired your homes shortly after you were sequestered here, and sold them for a tidy profit. It's not as though I ever expected you to return. That money has been invested in long-term deposits; the children were to inherit those accounts when they chose to leave home. I am perfectly willing to turn them over to you once you leave here, as an added incentive to not break our deal. It will easily be enough for you to purchase new homes with a comfortable amount left over, even in the current housing market."

WE WERE RENTING, Lightstar pointed out. WHAT MONEY

"You will get the money from the Dallon house. Fear not for the children; they will be receiving an equivalent amount from my own pocket, so to speak, once the time comes. I had merely though this to be more elegant. But now there is a greater need for it."

AND OUR THINGS. Lady Photon seemed a little agitated. WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR THINGS

"In storage," Marcus assured her smoothly. "Kept safe until the children were old enough to look them over and decide what they wanted."

Again, there was a long silence, then Fleur clicked out a question. WILL U BE MAKING US DO CRIME TO PAY OFF DEBT

He had to chuckle at that. "Heavens, no. You would undoubtedly be terrible at it. Be heroes once more, for all I care. Just never interfere with me or mine, ever again. That is all I require of you."

Manpower had the last word. FINE WE LL DO IT NOW FIX US

"One step at a time." He went to each of them in turn, laying a hand on them and sinking a bone spike to reach their skeletons. At a thought, he adjusted the bones, reducing the degree of distortion for each of them, then stood back. "That's your first treatment. I will return in a month. Don't go anywhere."

<><>​

A Few Moments Later

Director's Office

Director Hargrave

"A specialist?" Peter blinked. "You can help them?"

"It's what I wanted to speak to them about. And get tissue samples for." Marcus patted his pocket and spoke with authority. "I know of a cape who may be able to assist in this matter. Up until now, I hadn't thought it worth the risk, but with the passing of Mr Dallon …" He shrugged. "I see no other way forward."

"And this cape is willing to assist?" Peter unconsciously leaned forward. "Do you know if he's able to help anyone else in the facility?"

"I can ask, but …" Marcus shook his head slightly. "I honestly can't see it happening. I've had to guarantee his anonymity just for this instance. So I will be personally escorting him into the facility and out again. Nobody else interacts with him. We will be showing up once per month, until his power cannot work on them anymore."

"Of course, of course!" Peter would not have argued if Marcus had required a marching band and a red carpet for the visiting healer. "Whatever he needs. We are at your disposal."

Marcus smiled warmly. "I knew I could count on you."

<><>​

Marquis

As he rode in the hired limo back toward the airfield, Marcus leaned back in the seat and smiled in quite a different way. He would be doing the healing, of course; the 'cape' would be one of his people, well-paid to follow the script and then refer no more to it afterward.

It should do the city of Brockton Bay no harm, he judged, to have the Brigade return after so many years away. They would no doubt be wanting to make their mark and prove their worth to a populace that had more or less forgotten them; in his humble opinion, the local criminal underground could do with a shake-up. His organisation not included, of course. He'd given them fair warning about that, and he was willing to enforce it if and when necessary.

When the limo arrived at the airfield, his jet was waiting for him, prepped to take off once more. He nodded to the pilots as he climbed on board, and relaxed in his seat for the flight back to Brockton Bay. As the Falcon rumbled onto the runway, he took out a notepad and began listing those members of his organisation he could most easily spare for the duty of masquerading as a healer. It wasn't something he had to rush into, but at the same time, it needed to be dealt with before the time came around.

Almost before he knew it, the plane was touching down in Brockton Bay. It would be attended to by his crew at the airfield, of course. They were well-paid for their time. Leaving them to it, he climbed back into the McLaren for the final stretch back home.

He'd been gone nearly five hours; by now, Jennifer would have put the children to bed. When he got home, he'd look in on them, of course. He was still mulling over what he was going to be telling Victoria about her father. Hopefully, he would be able to put it off until the light of day, when everything looked better.

The automatic garage door raised itself at his approach. He entered the garage in a much more circumspect manner than he'd left, and parked the McLaren in its usual spot. Climbing out of the car, he stretched, feeling his vertebrae click back into position. He could've done this manually, but somehow it was more satisfying to do it the old-fashioned way.

The first apprehension he had that things were not all exactly as they should be came when Jennifer met him at the door leading into the house. "Sir, thank goodness you're back! I've had a job and a half keeping her calm, and that's no lie!"

His head came up and he glanced around for signs of trouble. "Her? Who? What's happened?" One hand balled into a fist, ready to produce a razor-edged dagger at need.

"It happened not long after you left." She led him into the house, toward the living room. "We tried to call, but your mobile phone must have been switched off."

Frowning, he pulled his phone out. It was on airplane mode, and he'd been too preoccupied to turn it back. Several missed text messages and two missed calls showed up on the screen, but he shoved it away again in favour of asking the question directly. "What happened? Tell me!"

"I think it's better if Miss Crystal does." Jennifer opened the door into the living room. Crystal was there, and he immediately saw what the problem was. For one thing, she was hovering two feet above the carpet; for another, flickers of light were dancing around her hands.

"Dad?" She spoke hesitantly. "Dad, I think I've got powers."



End of Part Three