Prodigal Daughter Pt 9 (Patreon)

Part Nine: Preparing for Action

[A/N: this chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Frankie and I went our separate ways shortly after that. I got his cell-phone number and told him I’d be buying one shortly. With the assistance of my blue field, he didn’t find that overly unusual. I also told him that I’d want a holster for the Anaconda the next time we went out together. He could pay for it with his money, and I’d reimburse him for it..

Carrying a backpack full of money through the night-time streets of Brockton Bay is more boring than it sounds. Barely anyone tried to mug me; I only had to break two wrists and a collarbone. The almost legendary ability of the Brockton Bay underworld to sniff out a dollar from two streets away seemed to have deserted them tonight. As Broken Wrist #2 staggered away, I wondered idly if I should’ve been waving around a neon sign saying ‘I am carrying a lot of money!’. Still, my wrist-breaking technique seemed to be getting along nicely. The guy with the collarbone? Boy, did he complain. Probably because I didn’t break his wrist instead. It wasn’t my fault he had no idea how to block a swing.

When I got home, I snuck in through the back gate then dug my key out of my pocket. We had a spare key under a fake rock, but I’d made damn sure I knew where my key was. Pausing, I ran the iron bar under the hose to get rid of any incriminating bloodstains, then dried it on my hoodie. Then I headed for the back door. Once inside, I snuck upstairs and stashed my backpack under the bed. It took a couple of hard shoves, but I finally managed it.

I must’ve made more noise than I thought, because footsteps sounded in the hallway outside my room. “Taylor? What’s going on?”

Well, fuckburgers. The eyedrops I’d gotten for this purpose sat on my dresser. I produced a loud and probably unconvincing snore as I grabbed them and hit each eye with a drop. Even if my mirror hadn’t told the tale, the fading away of my night vision would’ve clued me in that my eyes were going back to normal. It was the work of a moment to grab the toothpaste tube on the dresser and squeeze a little on to my finger to smear over my lips and teeth. Toothpaste killed the bacteria just as fast as mouthwash did.

“Taylor, you don’t snore.” I couldn’t tell if he was angry or amused. I needed visual cues to read him that closely. But doing this would require him to be in the room, which was exactly what I didn’t need right now. “I know you’ve been out. Open the door. We need to talk.”

The alcohol wipes sat next to the toothpaste. I started scrubbing my face clean. While it was technically possible to explain what I’d been doing to Dad and not have him attempt to ground me for the term of my natural life, I couldn’t see any way to actually do it without overclocking my blue field (and I wasn’t even sure about that). I didn’t want him to ground me, because I’d ignore it and either he’d try to stop me (and I’d probably have to hurt him) or he’d want to talk to me a lot more, and I had no idea what answers would make him happy. Apart from promising I’d never do it again. I could never do that, of course. Keep such a promise, I mean. If I thought nobody was going to check on me, I’d make promises like that all day long. But I knew damn well he would check on me, and find out I was doing what he’d told me not to. Which would make him unhappy, which in turn would cause issues for me down the road. Not for the first time, I reflected on how morality was a self-defeating algorithm.

TL; DR: There were no good outcomes if he found out.

“I just went for a walk, Dad,” I called back through the door. The downside of applying the drops early was becoming abundantly clear to me, even if nothing else was. The minimal light in the room made it impossible to see whether I’d wiped all the greasepaint off. “It’s no big deal.”

“Taylor, it is a big deal.” I heard the handle turn, and realised I’d neglected to lock the door. It wasn’t as though I could be blamed, of course; my understanding of the social contract in the household specified that so long as different excuses were employed, the parent was stalled from taking meaningful action. He’d bypassed all that and opened my door as if it held no specific significance.

“Jeez, Dad!” I injected anger into my voice as I tossed the wipes into the trash can beside my dresser. “I could’ve been getting changed here or anything! How about you ask permission first?”

He sighed. “If you’d been getting changed, you would’ve said so.”

Note to self. Use that one next time.

He was still talking. “And we’re way past me asking permission to look in on you. The topic is you leaving the house and going for a walk without asking if you can, without even telling me where you’re going.”

“Okay, sorry,” I said, hanging my head to approximate guilt. “I won’t do it again.”

He shook his head. “Not good enough, Taylor. I need to know why you’re going out. If it’s important to you, if it’s a good enough reason, I can take you there and make sure you’re safe. But I can’t do anything unless I know what’s going on.”

This was getting irritating. With an internal sigh, I locked the white bubble to the blue field and pushed them out to cover Dad. “It’s really nothing,” I said. “I was just going for a walk to clear my head. I had something to protect myself with, see?” Letting the iron bar slide out of my sleeve, I held it up to show him. I knew there was a reason I washed it before I came inside. I definitely didn’t show him the clasp-knife in my pocket. Fortunately, it was too dark for him to see the rips and tears in the hoodie from the fight in the Empire stash house.

“Huh.” He took the bar and hefted it a couple of times. “It’s definitely heavy enough to do damage. Sure it isn’t too heavy for you?”

I snorted in genuine amusement. That piece of rebar and I had been partners since long before I got powers. “I’m stronger than I look, Dad.”

“Yeah, well, just so long as you don’t turn around and tell me you’re a cape as well.” He returned the iron bar to me. “I don’t like it when you go out like that, but the offer’s still on the table for me to drive you where you want to go, just so you get there and back safely.”

Okay, that was new. I had no idea Dad had anti-cape feelings. Was it because he had some vague awareness that I was the daughter of a cape? It didn’t feel like that was the case, mainly because he hadn’t actually come out and said it.

“What’s wrong with capes?” I asked, trying to sound innocent. “Don’t they protect us?” At least, that was what the average person seemed to think. Inasmuch as the average person thought at all. Between TV, beer and regularly staged cape fights, any given Brockton Bay citizen probably didn’t have an original idea from one month to the next.

He turned his face away from me and lowered his voice. “I … your mother,” he said reluctantly. “I … didn’t tell you before, because you were too young. But …”

What was he getting at? Had Mom been a cape somewhere in between getting pregnant to Jack Slash and marrying Dad? There’d been nothing in the diaries about it. Had she died in a cape fight instead of a car crash?

“What about Mom?” I asked, rare emotion stirring my voice. “How did she die?”

He looked at me soberly in the dimness. “A cape killed her.”

“Uh … you said she died in a car accident.” I was pretty sure the newspaper had also reported it that way. Her being killed by a cape wasn’t exactly something that needed covering up. Was it?

Dad sighed. “She was in her car, driving. A cape did something that made her crash. The police would never tell me which one, probably because they didn’t want you to end up as an orphan because I tried to get revenge.”

“So why didn’t they arrest him and charge him with murder?” Or had they done it in secret?

“Because they didn’t quite have enough evidence to make it stick. Only supposition. I guess the PRT just added it to the list of crimes he’d have to face once they got their hands on him. Whichever one it is.”

 Okay, this was just plain bullshit. “So capes get to murder my mom in broad daylight and then walk away? That’s not fair. Where’s the justice?” I was fully aware that I’d ordered a murder just earlier that night and probably condoned another one, but that was different. None of those guys was my mom. Besides, they were assholes. They asked for it.

“Exactly what I said to them, then.” He clenched his fists at his sides. I didn’t see any indication that he was going to attack me, so he was probably remembering the anger that he’d felt at the time.

I didn’t get angry. I got even.

<><>

With the assistance of the blue field, I managed to manoeuvre Dad into extracting a promise from me not to go anywhere at night without adult supervision, and not to do anything stupid while I was out. Frankie was an adult, so I was covered there. And of course, I wasn’t about to do anything stupid. Everything I’d already done was according to a carefully-devised plan. Though I was thinking road flares for my next act of monetary arson, rather than lighter fluid and matches. If the match had gone out, I would’ve looked like an idiot.

Satisfied, he went back to bed. Once the bedroom door was closed, I turned on the light and inspected myself more closely. I’d gotten nearly all the greasepaint, though there was a large patch on my forehead that I’d missed. Fortunately, the shadow from my hair had concealed it. I finished cleaning up, took a quick shower, and went to bed myself.

<><>

The next day, after Dad went to work, I spent a couple of hours online, then took the bus to the Lord Street Market. My backpack came with me, but I left the Anaconda at home. Somehow, I doubted that the enforcers would look kindly on a fourteen-year-old girl carrying a pistol that looked like it weighed about as much as I did. At the very least, they’d be jealous.

I’d never fired a gun before, but the online research I’d done had familiarised me with how they worked, how to load them, and common mistakes to avoid when using them. There were even videos on how to disassemble, clean and reassemble them. I knew that I wouldn’t be an instant expert when I did get around to firing it, but at least I wasn’t starting from a position of total ignorance.

Half the money I’d liberated from the Empire was now stashed in a plastic bag at the back of my underwear drawer. I figured I wouldn’t need it all to get what I wanted. Rather than go to a mall and raise eyebrows by pulling out wads of cash for everything, I decided to make use of the Lord Street Market’s rather more laissez-faire attitude toward that sort of thing. Also, the type of second-hand clothing I was looking for, I probably couldn’t get at the Weymouth or Hillside malls.

What I wanted wasn’t in the high-end area, anyway. I meandered through the market, making sure to keep my hands in plain view (though my trusty iron bar still resided up my sleeve, because why not) until I found the thrift shops. Given that I was dressed in ratty jeans and a hoodie slightly less well ventilated than the one I’d taken to the Empire fight, nobody looked twice at me. Which was exactly my intention.

It took a bit of looking, especially since I didn’t know what I wanted till I saw it. In the end, I went through three shops before I found what I was after. Two things, which became three when something caught my eye at the last minute. I considered a ratty green wig, no doubt left over from some long-ago St Patrick’s Day, but decided not to risk sharing it with creepy-crawlies. Bugs, I can handle. Bugs on my scalp, not so much. Still, the idea of green hair stuck with me.

The shop assistant, a kid about my age with terminal acne and a nametag that said ‘Hello my name is GREG’, looked up from his comic book when I marched up to the counter carrying my bounty. The first thing I laid across the counter was a huge red coat with tattered gold brocade on the sleeves. I guessed it was from a marching band or something. It was somewhere around what I figured Frankie’s size to be, and would go a long way toward covering his tattoos. I didn’t remember if he had any on his hands, but gloves would fix that.

I’d looked for a matching one in my size, but I was out of luck. The closest thing I could find was a velvet coat in faded purple. It wasn’t really my colour, but it definitely didn’t shout ‘Taylor Hebert’, so it went on the pile too. The buttons had come off of it, but there was an assortment on the counter so I’d have to get some of those as well. Some big plastic faux-gold ones caught my eye. I figured they’d clash horribly with it, which was just the effect I was after.

The last thing I slapped on to the counter was a wide-brimmed straw hat. It totally didn’t match anything else I was going to be wearing, which made it perfect. I’d tried it on, and it slipped down a bit on me, but I figured I’d stuff some newspaper up inside. The idea was that it would cast a shadow over my face, to make the glowing eyes and lips and teeth really stand out. The more I could weird out my opponents before shit went sideways, the more chance I had of kicking their asses.

The kid looked over the assorted purchases and his forehead scrunched with the effort of thought. “Uh … cash or card?” he asked eventually, then yawned.

Way to go, kid. Present a totally professional outlook to the world. That’s the way to get ahead in this utterly boring dead-end job. I shrugged as I matched the amount of spark and interest in his voice. “Cash, I guess. How much?”

He fumbled through my picks until he’d found all the price tags, then went through the laborious process of entering each price in turn on the geriatric cash register. When he hit the Enter key, it ruminated for several seconds, then popped up a price. It was less than fifty bucks, so I was good with that. To make things easier for him, I grabbed a selection of the buttons to push it as close to fifty as I could. Then I handed over the money and waited for him to figure out my change. Which he did on a calculator, because apparently fifty minus forty-seven fifty is a difficult sum.

I ended up spending two more dollars on a cloth bag to carry my purchases, because they didn’t have plastic bags big enough to fit Frankie’s coat in. That was fine with me. I left Hello-my-name-is-GREG perusing his comic book once more, secure in the knowledge of a job well done. That kid definitely had a future in retail. You go, Greg. Read that comic book. Improve your mind.

In comparison, getting a cell-phone was simplicity itself. I got the cheapest model I could find, not because I couldn’t afford anything better, but because there was a good chance it would get broken. With that thought in mind, I bought three. The guy selling them didn’t even raise an eyebrow, though he did manage to sell me chargers—one and a spare—and a case.

Walking out of the Market, I heaved a metaphorical and literal sigh of relief. Half an hour more in there and I would’ve been seriously considering committing some sort of atrocity just so people would leave me alone. I know I don’t do people well. I mean, I can handle people. I just can’t handle being around people without being able to tell them to go away. I’m still not sure why they haven’t made it legal yet to maim idiots for getting in your face. Maybe if I set an example, people would see the light.

Next stop was a place I’d been before. There wasn’t a huge demand for theatrical supplies in Brockton Bay—a haven of the arts, it ain’t—which meant I couldn’t shop around. Predictably, the counter attendant recognised me. “Hi!” she said brightly. “How’s the play going?”

“Things are getting done,” I said, totally truthfully but in a way that had nothing to do with the question she’d asked. “Just added another part so I need a few new things.”

I picked up another tub of greasepaint—that stuff was so handy—as well as more alcohol wipes, then I started looking at other options. At first I was thinking of some sort of washable hair dye, but the shop assistant happened to mention that applying it then removing it repeatedly would damage my hair. Hair’s hair, but even Dad would think it was strange if my hair started falling out or something. So I decided to think laterally, and picked up two wigs, one in curly black, one in curly white, as well as a washable dye. I was pretty sure I could find some way to soak the white one.

All this together came to somewhat more than the purchases in the Market, but that was fine. Money was just money. There was nothing special about it, and I’d certainly be able to get more. We were just finalising the price when I saw one more thing that I wanted to add to the list. The shop assistant blinked when I put it on the counter, but then she shrugged and rang it up anyway. “That must be some play you’re putting on,” she observed. “Let me know when you’re ready for opening night, and I’ll come buy a ticket.”

“It’s just a private thing,” I said, stowing my purchases in the backpack. “But sure, I guess.”

I escaped from the shop, swearing under my breath that I’d have to find another place, or maybe use my blue field more often when I was out in public. The last thing I wanted was for some normal person to take notice of my preparations.

Nothing untoward happened all the way home, and I spent the afternoon sewing buttons on the velvet coat while the white wig soaked in a bath of green hair dye. Washable it might be, but I wasn’t going to be washing it if I could possibly help it. By the time I had finished my tailoring efforts, the coat was adorned with horribly mismatched gold buttons.

Dad came home in due time and seemed faintly relieved, probably due to the fact that I was actually at home, and not out and about somewhere. We had lasagne for supper; I’d taken the time to put that on while checking on the wig. I just had to hope that Dad wouldn’t wonder why the bathroom wash-basin had a faint green tinge to it before I had a chance to scrub it clean.

Dad went to bed, and so did I. Pretending to be the dutiful daughter, I pulled the covers up and faked sleep. Following Dad’s comment from the night before, I didn’t try to snore.

Sure enough, about an hour later, I heard the floorboards creaking as he came out of his room. My bedroom door eased open and he leaned in. I didn’t open my eyes or move, because he might’ve seen something. I’d made sure to leave one arm on top of the covers, so he could see it was me and not some made-up dummy. After a while, he closed the door again and went back to bed. I waited another fifteen minutes before I moved.

Pushing the covers back carefully, I climbed out of bed and put the dummy I’d made up in my place. The black wig, I carefully arranged on the pillow. When I went to apply the powder to my eyes, I stopped and frowned. I knew I couldn’t hurt myself that way, but the instinct to not touch my own eyeball was so strong it usually took me several tries. With a little thought, however, I found that a cotton swab would do the trick just as well, making it easier to get dressed. After that, I put the rest of the makeup on, then tucked my hair up under the green wig and pulled the hat on. With the extra bulk of the wig, it sat just right.

With the Anaconda—fully loaded, now—and the money in the backpack, I picked up the bag with the stuff for Frankie and climbed out through my bedroom window. It was a short drop to the ground, and I found myself absorbing the impact with no trouble at all. After I let myself out through the back gate, I pulled out the phone and sent Frankie a text.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up at the location I’d designated; a small park several blocks from my house. He was my minion, but I didn’t want him and Dad meeting. Dad would probably get the wrong idea, or even the right one. Either way, he wouldn’t be happy.

“Boss.” Frankie got out and opened the passenger side door for me. I spotted a large empty duffel bag in the back seat. Frankie had his head screwed on right.

“I like the way you think,” I said. “What do you think of my new look?” I already had the smile in place.

He looked me up and down. “You look fuckin’ terrifying,” he said judiciously. “I like the coat and hair. It really sells the whole ‘unhinged sociopath’ vibe you got goin’ on.”

I gave him a giggle and watched him shudder. I still had it. “Thanks, Frankie. You say the nicest things. Did you get the holster?”

“Yeah, I did,” he told me, opening the back door and reaching in. “Also got me some heavy artillery, just in case we needed it next time.”

I took the holster and admired the pump-action shotgun and assault rifle that he’d acquired. “Good boy. You’re thinking ahead. I like that. I got something for you, as well.”

He took the bag I handed him, then pulled out the coat. Taking off his jacket, he shrugged the coat on in its place. “Nice fit,” he said. “A bit gaudy, but I can live with that. What else did you get?”

“Greasepaint, like mine,” I said. “And one other thing.”

“A clown nose?” he asked, when he found the ‘one other thing’ that I’d picked up at the theatrical supply place.

“Sure,” I said, and giggled again, just to remind him who the psycho in the room was. “Anyone looking at you is going to be seeing ‘bald clown’, not ‘Frankie Knox, ex-Empire goon’. The nose just makes that a lot more certain.”

He looked down at the coat he was wearing, and shrugged. “Well, I already look like a clown in this, so why not?”

“A rich clown,” I pointed out.

He brightened. “True. So, I’m basically wearing a costume. Does this make me a supervillain, too?”

I giggled and patted his cheek. “Not quite. You’re perfect as a minion. Leave the villaining to me, okay?”

“Okay.” He started applying the greasepaint while I figured out the holster. By the time I had it arranged properly, so the gun would draw across the front of my body, he was all kitted out, including the clown nose. “So what are we doing tonight, boss?”

“The same thing we’ll be doing every night, Frankie.” I giggled. “Taking over Brockton Bay’s underworld, one asshole at a time. But to begin with …” I paused to draw the tension out. “How do you feel about paying the police a visit?”

He grinned and racked the slide on the shotgun. With his pure white face, clown nose and red coat, he looked both ridiculous and scary. In other words, perfect. “Love to.”

Getting a minion was definitely one of my better decisions.

 Part 10