Another Way Pt 1 (Patreon)

2002

Boston

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<><>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Solemnly, she nodded. “Okay, Daddy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

<><>

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.” Again, the chorus.

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Now, are there any questions?”

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

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

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

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

<><>

Earlier

“Ms Beltane.”

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

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

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

“I understand that you're a cape.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think we do, sir.”

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

<><>

Mid 2004

Brockton Bay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

<><>

Boston

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

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

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

<><>

“Let us out here, Jonas.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Claire acushla?” asked Abigail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Claire nodded. “Shoes.”

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

<><>

Late 2004

Brockton Bay

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

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

BROCKTON BAY BRIGADE

PROGRESS REPORT

Patients LIGHTSTAR and FLEUR, having passed their therapy sessions, are taking the recommended Cape Law course. Their progress is excellent.

Patient MANPOWER is still undergoing therapy, but doing well. He is making progress in facing his inadequacy issues; now that he recognises them, he can move forward.

Note to self: it is odd that a man who can bench press a truck can have inadequacy issues, but perhaps other anomalies such as this exist for capes having trouble with therapy? Bears investigation.

Patient LADY PHOTON is doing well. Still has bad memories from kidnap incident in youth (see below), but she is remarkably well-adjusted for all of that. Her determination to keep pushing the Brigade forward is almost certainly rooted in an intent to ensure others do not get hurt in the same way. She has been a great help in bringing BRANDISH out of herself for the purpose of therapy.

Patient FLASHBANG was already known to suffer from chronic depression. Discovered to neglect taking medications when he feels better, and then forgets to take them when he slumps back into depression. Partly a mental problem, partly an attitude problem, placing responsibility for remembering medication on Patient BRANDISH; when she forgets to tell him, he forgets to take them. Now that we've identified the problem, we can work on it. Also recommended a slightly lower dose of medication, but with a regular reminder. Hopeful that this will work out.

Patient BRANDISH has been the most problematic of the six, being the one who needs the most help. Along with LADY PHOTON, was kidnapped at age thirteen, for ransom. Spent months in lightless environment, suffering lack of food and comforts. She identified with captors, thanking them for small favours, developing Stockholm Syndrome. When ransom payment failed, kidnappers attempted to kill both captives, causing them to trigger with powers. Part of BRANDISH's trigger event involved a feeling of deep betrayal from the man she had seen as a friend. BRANDISH has recently revealed that supervillain 'Marquis' resembles one of the kidnappers (LADY PHOTON, upon being queried about this, recalled no such resemblance). BRANDISH has presumably transferred her feeling of hatred for the attempted murder to Marquis, which might explain the repeated attempts to capture him. Progress is slow, but continues.

She paused, considering, then added in a postscript.

Perhaps seeing a little girl in Marquis' presence made her recall her captivity, and caused her to wish to free the girl from her own 'captivity'? That might be a line of inquiry worth pursuing.

<><>

Boston

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will she really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Claire smiled. “Thanks, Jonas.”

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

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

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

Part 2