Another Way Pt 3 (Patreon)

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. 

Part 4