Another Way Pt 2 (Patreon)

Early 2007

Boston

The backfist came out of nowhere; it smacked into Claire's chest, sending her back on to her butt. She nearly sprawled, but rolled fast and came to her feet. Abigail stepped around her, hands up and ready. At this moment, she didn't look like Claire's best adult friend, or her bodyguard. She looked like a predator.

Damien called out from the side of the mat. “Again.”

Doing her best to ignore the multitude of aches and pains that were trying to make themselves known, Claire circled around Abigail. The blonde woman's hair was tied back, just as her own curly brown hair was, but she looked irritatingly fresh; Claire could feel sweat running down her face, and it was only the headband that kept it out of her eyes.

“Weight on the balls of your feet, Claire,” Damien advised her. “Don't get off balance.”

“Listen to him, Claire,” Abigail advised her. “It's the only way you're going to beat me.” But she wasn't smiling; even the encouragement was offered in a flat tone of voice. Her eyes were hard and cold rather than warm and friendly.

“Go.”

At Damien's command, Claire stepped in, guard up. Abigail feinted, but Claire deflected it, then snapped a kick at Abigail's knee. The older woman evaded, but this left her guard open; Claire spun and punched -

- and felt her knuckles impact Abigail's ribs, just before her own legs were swept from beneath her. She rolled better on landing, this time; the bruise on her butt wouldn't be quite as big as it was last week. Spinning her legs around, she got them under her, and regained her feet – hey, that move actually works! - ready to go again, or at least get knocked on her ass again.

“Okay, that'll do for the day.”

Claire held her pose for a moment, until Damien's words sank in. She and Abigail turned to each other and bowed slightly. When the blonde straightened up, she was smiling and relaxed; her eyes were friendly again. “Nicely done, Claire acushla,” she praised her student. “I wasn't holding back at all then. You scored on me properly.”

“And you put me right on the mat again,” Claire pointed out. “Where I've spent more time on my butt than standing up.” But she wasn't complaining; now that training was over, she was relaxing, unwinding.

“Any fighter needs to learn how to land right, chick,” Jonas advised her. “Because you're gonna get knocked down. It's a fact. The trick is falling down and getting right back up again.”

“Which you're getting better at, Claire,” Damien noted. “You were really getting it together there, at the end.”

Claire felt a warm glow of pride. “Thanks. It's … not fun, not really, but it's good to know, this sort of thing.”

“There's only one problem with learning martial arts,” Abigail advised her with a grin.

“What's that?” she asked, pulling off her headband and wiping her face with a towel.

Damien answered for her. “You won't be able to watch a martial arts movie without picking it apart.”

“Oh. Yeah. Good point.” Claire hung the towel around her neck. “I mean, I remember when you were first showing me the moves, and I was like what? I'm not Chuck Norris. I can't do those. And now it's like, yeah, I'm still not Chuck Norris, but those moves I can do.”

<><>

Earl Marchant heard the laughter as he entered the gym-turned-dojo; Abigail turned to face him first, followed by Claire and then the other two bodyguards. Claire looked sweaty but proud of herself, and Abigail looked about sixteen in the martial arts outfit, with her hair tied back. The two men just looked dangerous, which was part of their duty.

“Well, if you're laughing, she can't be doing too badly, am I right?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Damien agreed promptly. “She's doing very well indeed. To be honest, give her a couple more years of training, and she might even be competition material.”

“I don't believe we'll be going that far,” Earl commented blandly. “I do like the idea of Claire being able to defend herself, and you have proven yourselves to be worthwhile teachers, but I don't feel like tempting fate by showing anyone else just how good she is.”

“I like the way you think, sir,” Abigail agreed with a razor-edged grin. “Even if someone does get past Damien or Jonas, it's not some damsel in distress that she'll be.”

“And if they get past us, where'll you be?” asked Damien, sounding a little stung.

“Well, it's on holiday that I'll be, to be sure,” Abigail responded cheekily. “Because that's the only way any of those buggers will be getting past me.”

Earl joined in with the laughter that time; he clapped his daughter on the shoulder. “Sorry I didn't get in to watch earlier. A business call that went longer than I expected. So how are things at school?”

“Oh, pretty good, Dad,” she replied briskly. “They're still speculating about why I have a bodyguard drop me off and pick me up every day.”

“Oh, they are, are they?” He raised an amused eyebrow. “And what's the rumour mill come up with this week?”

<><>

Some Hours Earlier

“Okay, Claire, I got it.”

Claire turned around in her seat so she could look the newest speaker in the face. He was a fairly nice guy, and did well in science class. “Got what, Everett?”

“Your dad's not just rich. I mean, we all know he's rich. Dropping you off and picking you up every day? That's some kinda money right there.”

Lindsey rolled her eyes. “Get to the point, Ev.”

“My point is that Claire's dad isn't just some rich guy. He's a supervillain.”

Laughter arose at the table. People threw balled-up paper and empty drink containers at Everett; laughing, he fended them off with his arms.

“No, wait,” Claire told them. “I want to hear this. Go on, Everett. Which supervillain's my dad?”

“Well, it can't be Marquis, because he was in Brockton Bay before coming to Boston, and you don't talk with a Brockton accent.” Everett raised a finger. “So you're Accord's daughter.”

Laughter exploded around the table again, and Claire joined in this time. She had met Accord on quite a few occasions over the years, and the idea of him even considering the idea of children was … outlandish. The man was just too … finicky. No, 'finicky' wasn't nearly descriptive enough. He was obsessed with everything going just so.

“No, wait, wait,” Everett protested, even as he joined in with the laughter. “Have you seen how she writes? It's like, holy crap, her handwriting's gorgeous.”

“What?” she retorted defensively. “My dad taught me calligraphy when I was really young, and it stuck.”

“Hey, guys,” Roger put in, “we better drop this.”

“What? Why?” Everett was still chuckling.

“Because if she is Accord's daughter, then putting it out there is putting a target on her back. And you know, even if she isn't? It's kind of a dick move to make out that she is. What if Accord hears about it and takes offence?”

“Oh, yeah, right,” agreed Everett. “Sorry, Claire.”

She shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “Eh, it's fine, Ev. No big.”

“So okay, I gotta know,” Lindsey put in. “What is with the driver and stuff?”

“It's like I keep telling you guys; it's just a thing with Dad,” Claire told her. “Years and years ago, he had a kidnapping scare, so he's always made sure of my security ever since.”

“That's gonna suck when you start dating,” Lindsey commented with a grin.

“Not for him, it's not,” Claire replied ruefully. Not that I'm all that interested in dating right now, but they don't need to know that.

<><>

Claire waited patiently until her father finished laughing. “It's not funny,” she pointed out. “He only got it wrong because I don't have a Brockton Bay accent.”

“That's because you've spent more than half your life in Boston,” he pointed out. “But you're right, of course. I might need to spread rumours that I'm a perfectly mundane mobster or something.”

“How about just an ordinary rich guy?” she asked. “I'm the only kid in school who gets dropped off and picked up by a driver. I'm just glad that Abigail doesn't walk me into the school any more. The 'nanny' jokes at the last school were getting a bit old.”

He sighed. “I'm sorry, Claire. You're absolutely correct, of course, but you do understand why I have to keep you safe. In Brockton Bay, the heroes nearly killed you.”

“I know, Dad,” she agreed. “I'll just go take a shower, then if it's okay, Abigail and I can go out to the mall for awhile? Maybe catch a movie?”

“Of course,” he replied with an indulgent smile. “Feel free to buy something if you want. Get something nice for Abigail, too. Your charge card is all topped up.”

“Well, you know that I don't like acting all spoiled-rich-bitch, but I do like buying stuff,” she agreed. “Thanks, Dad. You're the best.”

“Well, I try,” he replied, with fake modesty. “Tell you what. On the weekend, we'll go out and have a father-daughter day. Just go where we want, do what we want. Have fun together. How does that sound?”

Her hug almost drove the air from his lungs; he staggered back a step. “Whoof,” he pretended to complain. “You're getting strong, my girl.”

“Yeah, Damien's got me doing weights for my training,” she told him as she released him. “It's a lot of work, but I think it's paying off.”

“Yes, yes it is,” he agreed, and pretended to hold his nose. “It's also got you all sweaty. You might want that shower sooner rather than later.”

Laughing, she flicked her towel at him, then trotted off.

<><>

“She's a good girl.”

Earl turned toward Abigail, who had been observing the byplay. “Yes, she is. And you've helped more than a bit. She likes the men, but she loves you.”

Abigail's smile was a little wistful. “She's as close to being a daughter as I'm ever likely to get.”

He glanced around, then stepped up to her. They shared a kiss; brief at first, then more lingering. “Have you given any more thought to my offer?” he asked softly.

“I have,” she replied, just as quietly. “I cannot. I am sorry.”

“I could give you a new face, a new name. A new life.” He wasn't so much arguing as repeating arguments which had been made before.

“I know, but if they track me down again, I need to be able to cut ties.” Her forehead was pressed against his. “I shouldn't even be doing this. It's totally unprofessional. I mean, a client is a client is a client.” Her words, too, were repeated from past arguments.

“We can stop now if you want.”

Her chuckle was musical. “As if we could.”

“I didn't mean to put you in this spot -”

She chuckled again, with a tinge of sadness in it. “It wasn't your fault, any more than it was mine. Mutual attraction, I suppose.” Her hand came up to caress his cheek. “They'll find me again, someday, and then I'll have to move on. But in the meantime … “

“She'll be a while in the shower. She always is, after training.” His eyes met hers.

“Yes.” She reached down, captured his hand. He did not resist as she led him away.

<><>

Brockton Bay

“Enter.”

Director Piggot stood up as the costumed heroes stepped into her office. Manpower ushered his wife through the door, then shut it behind them.

“Thank you for seeing us on short notice, Director,” offered Lady Photon.

“Let's not beat around the bush,” Piggot pointed out. “Given the difficulties that you've had in the past, when you ask for an appointment, I'm interested in finding out what you want from me.” She gestured at the chairs. “Have a seat.”

As the pair of heroes sat down, she took her own seat, and looked at them over her desk. “I presume that this has to do with your daughter triggering with powers.”

Manpower looked startled. “How did you -”

“Please.” Piggot made a throwaway gesture. “If anyone's going to find out, I am. But even if I hadn't found out on my own, a simple phone call could have dealt with that particular courtesy. So why are you here in my office today?”

Lady Photon took a deep breath. “We want Crystal to train with the Wards.”

That got Piggot's attention. “ … you want her in the Wards?”

“No, no, just to train with them,” Manpower repeated. “To get to know them, to learn the basics of teamwork, to learn how to use her powers properly. That sort of thing. She'll still be part of the Brigade.”

Piggot leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers. “You went through therapy so that you could train your offspring the way you wanted to. You've earned that right. Why are you turning your child over to us now anyway?”

“Because we've had time to think about it,” Lady Photon explained. “We work well together as a team, but that's because we've had years to get it right. We never learned tactics or strategy in any formal way, and I wouldn't know how to teach it, except by example. I'd like Crystal to get at least a bit of training with the Wards, so she learns how they do it, before she starts coming out with us.”

“Also, power testing and training is something that you can do a lot better than we can,” Manpower supplied. “There may be nuances in her power that we don't know about. Things we can watch out for, once we know about them. Better safe than sorry, you know?”

“I think that's a very interesting suggestion. Excuse me.” Piggot leaned forward and pressed a button on her intercom. “Paul, are you busy?”

“No more than usual, Director.”

“Can you come in here a moment?”

“Give me thirty seconds.”

She cut off the call and looked at the two Brockton Bay Brigade capes. “Deputy Director Renick, as you know, has authority over the Wards. I value his input on matters such as this.”

“Of course, of course,” Lady Photon agreed.

“So how old is Crystal now?” asked Piggot. “Thirteen, fourteen?”

“Fourteen in two months,” offered Manpower.

“That's early for a trigger,” noted Piggot.

“She's second generation,” Lady Photon pointed out. “Her powers take after mine, but she's weaker on the force field and stronger with the lasers.”

“Ah, of course,” Piggot replied, just as the knock came on the door; she raised her voice slightly. “Enter!”

Paul Renick let himself into the office, closing the door quietly behind him. Already greying and careworn before he had handed the Directorship over to Piggot six years previously, he was showing his age a little more now. But he performed his duties impeccably; without his assistance and support, her job would have been a whole lot harder.

“Yes, Director?” he asked diffidently.

“You know Manpower and Lady Photon, of course,” the Director noted. “And you also know that their daughter has recently triggered.” Because you're the one who told me, she didn't add; they didn't need to know.

“I know this, yes, Director,” he confirmed.

“Good. What you might not have been aware of is that they wish for her to train with the Wards, at least for a little while. To get her powers tested and checked out, before she starts going out with the Brigade.”

Renick's eyes opened just a little wider. “Indeed? They are aware that -”

“We are, yes,” Manpower stated. “We don't have to do this.”

“But we think it's a good idea,” agreed Lady Photon. “At least for a little while. We'll finish her training, but we'd appreciate it if you get her started.”

Renick rubbed his chin. “Hm. That's certainly doable. Do you have a costume for her yet?”

“We're working on it,” Lady Photon replied. “It'll be based off of mine.”

“Her powers are similar to yours, including flight?”

She nodded. “Very similar, yes.”

“Good. We don't have any fliers at the moment; it will be useful to have her for the Wards to train with, and against.”

“That sounds fine to me.” Manpower looked at the Deputy Director. “When should we bring her in?”

“Any time in the next week or so should work.” Renick frowned slightly. “Does she have a cape name picked out yet?”

“Oh, yes,” Lady Photon told him. “She's calling herself Laserdream.”

<><>

Boston

“So how are you feeling, Claire acushla?”

“Still a bit sore, here and there,” Claire admitted. “The mat's soft, but not that soft.”

“That's the idea,” Damien supplied from the front seat. “If falling down had no consequence at all, we wouldn't try so hard to stay on our feet.”

Claire smiled as she looked out the window at the passing scenery. “That's true, I guess. I -”

“Damien.” Abigail's voice cut across hers; it was hard and flat, getting her attention immediately. “We have a problem.”

Damien flipped the cover off of the red button on the dash, and slapped it. “Where?”

“Floor?” asked Claire; they had been through this drill, and sometimes Abigail had gotten her to get down on the floor.

“Not yet, no – truck!”

Turning her head, Claire saw the truck bearing down on them from the side street; she heard Damien swearing as he tramped on the accelerator. The engine roared and the car leaped forward. Claire's father had spared no expense on the car; under the hood was a V-12 racing engine. With the right tyres, it could pull truly phenomenal acceleration.

The truck swerved to try to hit them, but only barely clipped the rear bumper; Damien easily kept control. “Well, that -”

“Car!” screamed Abigail, reaching for her pistol.

Claire didn't even see where the car came from; all she knew about was a screech of brakes as Damien locked everything up, then a tremendous crash. The impact was enormous, even with the airbags deployed from the back of the passenger seat. Everything went black.

<><>

“-aire? Claire!”

Her head was spinning, and she felt sick to her stomach. Someone was pulling on her arm, which hurt. Everything hurt.

“Claire!” It was Abigail's voice. She forced her eyes open; deflated airbags lay across her lap. Her seat belt was undone, and Abigail was pulling her from the car. The crumpled car. Broken glass lay on her lap.

“Abigail.” It was a mumble. “What -”

“Car hit us. Come on, Claire acushla.”

Reality slammed into her. This was an actual kidnap attempt. What she'd trained for, with Abigail and the men. She began to clamber out of the car, at the same time as Abigail straightened her left arm, pistol in hand, and fired three shots without looking; Claire was vaguely aware of someone in the middle distance, falling over.

“Damien?” she managed to ask, once she was out of the car. It was very definitely crumpled; they had hit the other car in a head-on collision, which had slewed them across a lane of traffic. Other cars were stopped, the vehicles abandoned. This was not much of a surprise, as dark-clad men seemed to be moving in on them. Shots were fired in return, and she ducked.

Abigail didn't answer at first; she hustled Claire into the dubious shelter of two cars in a V formation, then fired three more shots over the hood at an unseen assailant.

“Damien's down,” her bodyguard told her bleakly as she dropped the magazine and reloaded in a single fluid move. “But he hit the alarm, so all we have to do is -”

She spun, firing, and two men went down. But the third brought his submachine gun up and fired back; Claire screamed as Abigail grunted, red appearing on the back of her blouse. She crumpled, more or less into Claire's arms.

“And that's that,” the third man observed. “You led us a merry chase, Beltane, but -”

Claire didn't even think. Abigail's hand relaxed, dropping her pistol; she caught it, the familiar lines settling into her grip. The man's eyes widened, his weapon coming up again. “Don't be st-”

She double-tapped him in the middle of the chest; he stumbled back, but fired in return anyway. His bullet smashed into her left shoulder; she spun backward, falling on her butt. Reflex kicked in again, and she rolled, avoiding more bullets as they cracked into the asphalt. Her left arm was useless, but her right hand came up; she fired once, blowing out his left kneecap. He toppled forward; her second shot hit him in the throat.

Even as he fell, something smashed into the middle of her back; she was thrown forward, the pistol skittering from her grip. Someone grabbed her by the hair. And then the world went away.

<><>

Jonas came awake in an instant as the key fob on his nightstand blared the sound he'd hoped never to hear outside of a drill. Not even bothering to grab his boots, he rolled off the bed, grabbed the key fob and his shoulder rig in one movement, and bolted from the room.

He met Mr Marchant as the latter emerged from the gym; his employer was wearing shorts and a sleeveless workout shirt, but looked no less dangerous for all of that. On his waistband, an identical key fob was blaring an identical tone. They wasted no words; stride for stride, they headed for the garage. Marchant didn't bother pausing to unlock the key safe; a spike of bone shot from his hand, tearing through the thin metal. Reaching in, he grabbed a set of keys, tossed them to Jonas.

Catching them on the fly, Jonas pressed the unlock button; one of Marchant's several cars bip-bipped as the lights flashed. They ran for it. Jonas got to the driver's side door first, wrenched it open, and dived in. Even before Marchant got to the passenger side, he was jamming his thumb on to the garage door remote. As the door began to grind upward, he slid the keys into the ignition and pulled his door shut. The engine roared to life as Marchant slammed his own door.

They took an instant to fasten their seat belts, then he slammed the car into gear and let the clutch out. The V-12 engine had a gearbox that worked on two modes; normal driving and pursuit. As the vehicle burned rubber out under the still-opening door, he wasn't using normal driving mode.

<><>

Claire blinked her eyes clear; the burning pain in the back of her head indicated that she was still being held. Her left shoulder was on fire; she could feel blood running down her arm. In front of her was Abigail; the woman's eyes were still open, still tracking, but she was fighting for breath. A huge patch of red across her stomach and chest bubbled air occasionally.

She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. And then she opened her eyes again.

“Okay, bitch, it goes like this,” a voice grated from behind her. “We're here for Beltane, but you're our bonus pay. We get extra if you're alive to be handed over, but I won't cry if you act -”

But Claire wasn't listening any more. Her awareness was expanding by the instant; first herself. Mild concussion, fractured ribs, broken shoulder, penetrating wound to shoulder, moderate bleeding. Then the man behind her, his left hand tangled in her hair, knuckles touching the back of her neck. Late thirties, very fit, several healed limb fractures, many microfractures, very angry, ready to kill. Wants to kill both me and Abigail.

Then Abigail, fingernails scrabbling at the asphalt as the life flickered from her eyes. Two bullet wounds in left lung, one in heart. Sucking chest wound. Bleeding copiously. She was dying before Claire's agonised gaze.

There were more, closing in now; Claire counted three, with one more dying and two wounded. One of the unwounded ones was close, with two others farther away. Damien, in the car, didn't register as anything at all. He's already dead.

After awareness came control.

The man behind me has a pistol; he intends to kill Abigail. She felt searing hatred building up in her heart; it was directed at the man holding her hair. Her awareness of his body snuffed out along with his life; there was a wet splattering sound as what remained of him fell to the asphalt behind her.

The control was already working on her shoulder; she felt the click as the bone re-set itself. There was no pain; her nervous system was already under her explicit control, and she was only feeling what she needed to feel. The blood vessels were sealing and the wound closing over, but she wasn't paying attention to that. Her attention was on something much more important. Abigail.

Her eyes locked on to Abigail's as her hand found the older woman's shoulder. Life was almost extinct, hanging on by a mere thread; she had stopped breathing, her lungs filling with her own blood. Death was mere moments away.

Not if I can help it.

Her power had already cut the pain, had begun to seal the smaller blood vessels. She could tell almost to the instant when Abigail realised that something was going on; for a moment, she looked puzzled, then her eyes opened wide. Wounds healed, lungs emptied of blood, the air drained from her chest cavity, her heart restarted, Abigail took a long, shuddering breath of life-giving oxygen.

I could have done it at distance, realised Claire, but touch is surer and quicker.

There were still enemies around; she could feel them, closing in. She concentrated, exerting her newfound power. Everyone within her range who was moving with intent, holding automatic weapons, screamed and dropped their firearms as if they had been burned. One was close enough to be dangerous; the danger, however, went both ways. Even as he pulled a pistol from its holster, he screamed anew as the very skin began sloughing from his hands. The scream died in a gurgle as she wreaked havoc on his internal organs, disrupting his lungs and then his heart. He fell to his knees, then slumped on to his side. The two further away, their hands still burning with agony stared; after another moment of hesitation, they fled. She let them go.

<><>

Abigail inhaled again – oh blessed, beautiful air! – and sat up; she had gone from down and dying, choking on her own blood, to hale and hearty. All in just a few seconds. She felt no pain from the wounds, not even a residual ache. In fact, she felt fantastic. Her eyes were clear, her hearing sharper than ever.

Absently picking up the pistol, she looked wonderingly around her. “Claire acushla, what happened?”

“I … I think I happened,” Claire explained. “I must have triggered. With powers.”

“Your shoulder,” Abigail exclaimed, ignoring the fact of her blood-soaked blouse. “You've been shot!”

“It doesn't hurt any more,” Claire told her; when Abigail pulled the sleeve up, all they found was bare, unmarked skin, albeit liberally coated in blood.

“You healed yourself. As you healed me.” Abigail touched her stomach. “Not even a twinge.” She looked past Claire's shoulder. “Oh my holy God.”

Claire looked around, to see the jellified remains behind her; the only indication that they had ever been human was the clothing in which they were encased. “Oh. Yeah. That was the guy who had hold of my hair. I think he kicked me in the back.”

“And you did that to him?” Abigail's eyes were wide.

“Yeah. I didn't like him at all.”

“And me … you healed me. Saved my life.” She knew of healers; she'd never heard of any that good. Save for the really big guns, of course.

“Well, yeah. I like you, a lot. I wanted you to be okay, so … you're okay.” She hugged Abigail, ignoring their respective bloodstains.

“Well, it's glad I am that you got your power when you did,” Abigail told her. “Good shooting on that one, by the way.”

“He had a vest,” Claire noted as she got up. “I should've gone for a head shot after I double-tapped him.”

“Careful!” hissed Abigail, pulling her down again. “There might be hostiles still.”

“Not inside a hundred feet,” Claire assured her. “Anyone still inside that distance is either unconscious, dead, or keeping their heads down.”

Abigail stared at her. “You can sense people out to that distance?”

“If I concentrate, yeah,” Claire confirmed. “The bad guys all ran away. The ones that could.”

Abigail looked down again at the remains of the man who had been holding Claire. “So I see.”

“Who were they, anyway?” asked Claire. “They said they were after you, but they were also being paid to get me for someone else.”

“We can talk about that later,” Abigail advised her. She tilted her head to the sound of oncoming sirens. “Do you have your phone on you?"

<><>

Earl hung on as Jonas drifted the car around a corner and accelerated into the straightaway. The key fob didn't have enough of a readout to give GPS coordinates; he wouldn't have been able to read it at this speed anyway. What it had was a compass-style digital arrow; that he could read. For distance, the arrow flashed on and off; the faster the arrow flashed, the closer they were. He estimated that they only had a couple of miles to go.

And then his phone rang; he had shoved it into his pocket before bolting out of the gym, but every attempt at calling either Claire or Abigail had rung out. Pulling it out, he saw that it was Claire calling; relieved almost beyond words, he swiped the screen to answer it. "Claire!" he exclaimed. "Are you all right?"

"Dad?" It was Claire's voice; she sounded deeply relieved. "I'm okay. Abigail's with me. She's okay too. All the bad guys are dead or they've run away."

"And Damien?"

There was a long silence, long enough that he knew what the answer was to be. "He's dead, Dad. I ... I couldn't get to him in time."

He wasn't even sure what the last bit was supposed to mean. I'll ask her later. "But you're both all right?"

"Yeah, we're all right. Dad, can you get here quick please? I ... I killed someone. And the police are coming. I can hear sirens."

Earl could hear sirens too, over the phone. "I'm on my way, honey. We'll be there soon. I promise. In the meantime, I want you to do exactly what I say, all right?"

"Okay, I will. I love you, Daddy bear."

It had been years since he'd heard that one from her. "I love you too, Claire-bear. Now, I need you to give the phone to Abigail."

<><>

The street was a mess. Two cars had impacted in a head-on collision; one of them was an expensive sedan while the other looked like a cheap clunker. Both cars had slewed sideways, impacting with other vehicles, until no less than seven cars were caught up in the initial pileup. The driver of the sedan did not seem to have survived the impact.

And then someone had started a firefight, using H&K MP5s on one side and a single Beretta 9mm pistol on the other. Amazingly, it looked like the pistol had won the day.

Or at least, that was what it looked like at first glance to Lieutenant Detective Rob McAllister, BPD. As he instinctively mistrusted first impressions, he took care to look twice. In the middle of it all were eight men wearing similar clothing, dark in colour; or at least he thought there were six men. Two were wounded and were currently being disarmed and treated, four had been shot dead, and two were … he had no idea what had happened to them, but he had officers establishing a perimeter around the … remains.

The only other people on site were two women, or a woman and a girl; the woman had had possession of the aforementioned 9mm pistol, which she had voluntarily given up to officers upon request. She had been handcuffed and was being held on suspicion of having shot the six men who had actually suffered bullet wounds. Both the woman and the girl wore clothing liberally covered in blood, but neither acted as though they were injured. And the girl had a phone.

“Uh, hi?” the girl addressed Rob as he approached them. “Are you in charge?”

“Lieutenant Detective McAllister. Yes, I'm in charge here. Your name, miss?”

“Claire Marchant,” the girl replied. “You're wanted on the phone.”

“I'm … what?”

“My dad wants to talk to you,” she explained. “He's on his way, but … “ she pointed at the lines of blocked traffic and shrugged.

“Fine. Give me that.” He took the phone from her. “Lieutenant-Detective McAllister. Who's this?”

“Ah, Lieutenant,” he heard. The voice was cultured, but a little breathless, as if the other person were walking briskly. “My name is Earl Marchant. You got that phone off my daughter Claire, am I correct?”

“Yes, I did, Mr Marchant. What is your connection to all this?”

“Apart from Claire being my daughter? Well, the other lady, Abigail Belmont, is in my employ as a licensed bodyguard for my daughter. My car, which I understand to have been wrecked, contains the body of her driver, Damien. Both are, or were, licensed to carry concealed. I am on my way to your location as we speak, so we can talk in person.”

“Good. Great. I'm in need of a great many answers. Such as who these clowns were who were waving around MP5s in my city.”

“Oh, I can answer that one for you. I think you'll find them to be affiliated with a terrorist group called Gesellschaft, based in Germany. They've got connections in America which they use for acts of domestic terrorism.”

Hitting speaker on the phone, he held it and his notepad in the same hand as he wrote down what Marchant was telling him. “Ges – what?”

Marchant patiently spelled it out for him. “It means 'society' or 'group'.”

“Right. Okay. So what's this Gesell-whatsit group doing attacking your car?”

“Lieutenant, I am a very rich man. Claire is my only family. I think you can connect the dots from there?”

“Kidnap, ransom, gotcha. Okay then.” He turned to a new page. “Maybe you can tell me what would melt a guy, or make one look like he was half melted, without touching his clothes or his boots.”

“Powers, obviously.”

“Oh shit. You employ a powered bodyguard?” He looked around at where the blonde stood with her hands cuffed behind her back. She gazed back at him blandly.

“Well, she's obviously powered now. Perhaps the trauma of being shot triggered her powers. I understand that both my daughter and her bodyguard are showing signs of being wounded but are no longer injured. Classic protective instincts. I would strongly advise not separating her from my daughter.”

“Yeah, well, your kid's apparently threatening lawsuit to anyone who tries.”

“Whatever she threatens, I'll be backing her up.” The threat was not lost on McAllister. “Do you have any more questions for me?”

“Yeah. How do you know that thing about the Gesellschaft?” He was fairly sure that he'd gotten it right this time.

“They've proven problematic to me in the past. Ah, there you are.”

“Sorry, what?”

“To your left. I'm the one waving to you.”

McAllister glanced to his left, and sure enough, a tall man in jogging clothes was holding a phone and waving. He headed in that direction.

“Mr Marchant?”

“One and the same.” Earl Marchant's voice was even smoother in person. “Very pleased to meet you, Lieutenant Detective. Would I be able to see my daughter now, please?”

“This is still a crime scene -”

“Lieutenant Detective. My twelve year old daughter has just survived a car crash and a firefight by the grace of God and the skill of her bodyguard. I would like to speak to her. Now.”

It wasn't much of a decision to make; Marchant quite likely had the sort of influence that could make life difficult for a lowly Lieutenant Detective, and it wasn't an unreasonable request. So he raised the tape, allowing Marchant entry.

“Thank you,” Marchant acknowledged him politely. “I'll have my daughter's phone, too … thank you. Jonas, wait here.”

“Sir,” growled the huge guy who had been standing next to Marchant; McAllister tried not to flinch. Christ, you wouldn't need a vest around him. He looks like he can stop bullets with his biceps.

He watched as Marchant went over to greet his daughter, then returned his attention to running the crime scene. Someone had called the news crews, and they were just now arriving. Awesome, just what we need.

<><>

“Dad!” Claire ran forward and hugged her father.

“Claire!” He returned the embrace, just as tightly. “Oh god, I was so worried.”

“I didn't have time to be worried,” she told him honestly. “Terrified, yes. Angry, yes. Worried, no.”

“So you're all right? Really all right? Because if I didn't know better … “ He touched her sleeve, still covered in blood.

“Really all right, Dad,” she assured him. “Honest.”

“Good,” he told her. “Because I'm taking you and Abigail home right now, and you're going to tell me everything that happened.”

“I think the police want to arrest her for, well, being the last one standing,” she noted.

He smiled. “Challenge accepted.”

<><>

That Evening

Abigail, showered and dressed, leaned back in the lounge chair and sipped at her glass of wine. “I cannot thank you enough for getting me away from that,” she told Earl.

“Hey,” he replied. “You saved my daughter. It's only fair that I save you.”

“You both saved me,” she pointed out soberly. “Right, Claire acushla?”

“Well, I guess,” Claire admitted; she was also cleaned up from the afternoon's adventures. “But it wasn't me, not really. It was the powers I got.”

“Which you used to save me,” Abigail pointed out.

“You'd be better off accepting responsibility for them, Claire,” Earl advised her. “Make them yours, so you can learn how to use them better. Smarter.” He paused. “Just by the way, is it you that's making me feel like a million dollars?”

“You too?” asked Abigail. “I've been feeling like this more or less since Claire brought me back from the dead.”

“Well, I guess, yeah,” Claire admitted. “I love you both, so my power wants to help you. So it's making you feel rested and alert and stuff.”

“And people you don't like?” Earl looked interested.

“Well, I didn't like the guys who were attacking us, so I made their hands hurt, so they dropped their guns.” She lowered her eyes. “And then there was the one who was holding my hair.”

Abigail nodded. “I can tell you really didn't like him.”

“I wanted him to die. So he died.” Claire looked at her father. “Is that all right?”

Earl Marchant, also known as Marquis, smiled. “Some men, my dear Claire, need to die. He was going to kidnap or kill you, which put him in that category. You've got nothing to worry about on that score.”

Abigail drew in a deep breath. “Which brings us on to our next topic. I've got something to worry about now. The Gesellschaft have tracked me down. I've got to move on.”

“No!” The word was torn from the throat of father and daughter alike.

Abigail's words were soft. “I'm sorry, Claire acushla. I'm endangering you just by being here.”

“But you can't go!” Claire's eyes were full of tears. “I love you! Dad loves you!”

Abigail glanced at Earl, perplexed. “I didn't tell her.”

“Well, I certainly didn't,” he replied. “Claire?”

“It was obvious, now that I've got my powers,” Claire pointed out. “Abigail, I can use them to change your face, so nobody knows it's you.”

She shook her head. “Still too risky. But I'll take you up on a face change anyway. Maybe I can circle back around, once the heat's died down.”

Earl nodded. “I would like that very much.”

“So what are you going to do in the meantime?” asked Abigail. “I mean, you've just lost two bodyguards. And your daughter's a parahuman.”

“My concerns here are running smoothly,” Earl told her. “I think it's time we returned to my hometown. Now that Claire is able to take care of herself against any would-be kidnap artist.”

Claire's eyes lit up. “Are we going … “

“Yes.” Earl nodded. “We're going back to Brockton Bay.”

“Wow,” she marvelled. “It'll be so weird. I was what, six when we left? I won't know where anything is.”

“You'll have one other concern, too,” her father told her. “Your cape name.”

“Hmm.” Claire rubbed her chin. “What do they call the daughter of a marquis?”

“Claire?” suggested Abigail disingenuously, to general laughter.

Claire shook her head, still giggling. “No, a female version of the title.”

“Oh,” Earl observed. “That would be 'marchioness'.”

“Then that's me,” Claire stated. “You can call me Marchioness.”

Abigail raised her wineglass. “Agus d'fhéadfadh do naimhde a fhoghlaim a eagla d'ainm.”

“Wow,” Claire replied. “I don't know what you just said there, but it sounded awesome.”

“It means, 'and may your enemies learn to fear your name'.” Abigail smiled at her. “It's a traditional toast in my family.”

Earl raised his glass. “I'll drink to that.”

Claire raised hers too, for all that she was only drinking soft drink. “Brockton Bay, here we come.” 

Part 3