Hostage Situation Pt 11 (Patreon)

Part Eleven: Unearthing the Past

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

PRT Building

Marquis

The man named Patrick Matheson sat at ease in the moderately comfortable chair, angled so he could view both the large screen of the conference room and the Director, seated across from him. Miss Militia stood behind him, deliberately out of his line of sight, in a blatantly transparent attempt at intimidation. Beside him, her hand in his, sat Amelia Claire. Even without looking at her, he could sense her trepidation.

Director Piggot exhibited no such emotion. As the collated footage ended—he was seriously impressed with what they'd managed to achieve with such tiny robots—and the final screen showed up, she turned to him. Simmering anger was displayed across her features, to the point that he suspected there were people in Boston who knew exactly how pissed off she was.

"Did you have anything to do with this?" she demanded.

He knew what answer Piggot wanted, of course. She despised him with the heat of a thousand suns, but at her core she was essentially honest. Not that she wouldn't load disproportionate punishments on his plate if she thought she could get away with it (and to be honest; she probably could. The Directorship of a hardship posting like the East-North-East region carried a few perks). No; as far as he could tell, she hated capes and everything they stood for, and punished them for it every chance she got. But she wouldn't frame him for anything. If she threw him back in the Birdcage, it would be because of something he'd actually done.

And he could respect that, he really could. He'd met people before who would dribble honeyed words of pure poison in his ear while holding him close so they could decide exactly which ribs the knife would slide in between. More than one authority figure he'd had to deal with, back in the day—superheroes and cops alike—were far more interested in looking good than doing good. They'd take bribes from powerful crime figures to come down on a less influential rival, then trumpet their 'harsh on crime' stance from the rooftops.

But not so Piggot. Her words remained unminced. Despite her antagonism toward him and his ilk, he felt comfortable dealing with her, because he knew exactly where they stood in relation to each other.

"I did not," he replied, doing his best to project a calm and relaxed manner. "Since my release, I've been spending time with Amelia here, as well as Glory Girl. Lovely child, if a little impetuous. Considering that I have next to no understanding of how computers work in this day and age, that I've had no opportunity to hire on someone with such capability, and that my daughter and her sister have been with me almost constantly, I believe it's patently obvious that I had nothing to do with it." His voice hardened. "More to the point, the footage clearly names both Amelia and Glory Girl as complicit in my eventual release. Deliberately endangering children, especially my own daughter, is a step I would never consider."

Director Piggot glared at him, even as the final message of the clip continued to display on the screen: THESE ARE THE PEOPLE WHO WOULD CALL THEMSELVES YOUR HEROES. "I would consider an anti-superhero message to be on-brand for a self-confessed supervillain. Especially one who is just back in town and would like to see the PRT weakened by poor public relations."

"On the contrary." He matched her, stare for stare. "As a newly minted law-abiding resident of this city, I would much prefer the PRT be free to anticipate and counter any threat to Amelia Claire. Your failure to keep something like this out of the public eye is on you, not me."

She hadn't given up yet. "In identifying you, that clip plays directly into your hands! You can't tell me you knew nothing of it!"

"I not only can tell you that, but I will tell you that," he stated firmly. "I had no idea it was going to happen until it played on the news. Neither did anyone else I was with." He tilted his head in amused recollection. "I will say this much; Brandish's vocabulary has expanded considerably since we last clashed."

"This is in no way a laughing matter!" Piggot was apparently trying hard not to grit her teeth. "The public is now aware that you've left the Birdcage! The fallout will be potentially catastrophic!"

"I agree. It is not a laughing matter." He afforded her a slight bow. "But thank you for confirming that I am no longer constrained from using my powers in a law-abiding manner."

If she clenched her fists any tighter, he feared for the integrity of her tendons. "Enjoy your freedom while you have it. I will be investigating the leak with every resource at my disposal. If I find just one hint you were in any way involved, you'll be back in the Birdcage so fast there'll be a sonic boom involved."

"Whoa, whoa," Amelia protested, holding up her hand. "Director, you're being unfair to my dad, here. He's already told you he didn't do it. He even explained why he wouldn't have. And now you're basically inviting someone to fake evidence to make it look like he did? Because from what you're saying, you'll take that over all the evidence saying he didn't. Why don't you just break out the witch-burning stake while you're at it?"

The Director switched her attention to Amelia. "Panacea, I'd advise you to stay out of this. Your father is a villain, and someone leaked that information to his benefit."

'Patrick' leaned forward. "And I'd advise you to not address my daughter in that tone," he stated. "She's done nothing but good for this city, and deserves a whole lot more respect than that. And as for your statement, it was not at all to my benefit." It had been a long time since he'd had to deal with anything other than the microcosm of power dynamics within the Birdcage, but it was just like riding a bicycle.

Like iron filings following a magnet, Piggot's eyes swung back to him. "Explain."

He ignored her for the moment and turned his head toward Miss Militia, arching one eyebrow.

After a few seconds, the flag-clad hero cleared her throat. "If you could please clarify what you meant by that? We need to understand."

At least she'd said 'please'. "It's simple enough, if you think about it. That leak wasn't intended to help me. Any benefit was both incidental and accidental. It was aimed at punishing the PRT for releasing me, and punishing me for being released. Nothing more and nothing less."

The Director frowned. She appeared to be toning down the aggression. "Who's alive to care that you're out, enough to punish anyone for it? You've already made it clear that all your old associates are gone, as are your adversaries."

Amelia's eyes opened wide, and 'Patrick' knew she'd hit on something. "Saint. He wanted to get Teacher out. He even kidnapped me to make it happen."

"But Saint is dead," Piggot said patiently. "And besides, your father was in custody before he ever began operations. There's no crossover. No chance of bad blood."

"Not then, no." 'Patrick' nodded to Amelia, pleased that she'd suggested this avenue. "Now, yes. I've been told a little of this Saint, and how he used to steal equipment from Dragon with ridiculous ease. What if he had … Amelia, what's the computer term for looking over someone's shoulder?"

"Backdoors into her system," she said promptly.

"I see where you're going with this, and it tracks to a point," the Director admitted. "But again; Saint is dead. He couldn't have released the footage, no matter how he got it."

"Ah, yes," 'Patrick' agreed. "But did Saint perhaps have associates who could've done it for him?"

As with any good lawyer, he knew not to ask such a question without prior knowledge of the answer. The research he'd done into Saint had been more to do with Teacher's death, but the information was still valid. There had been two other power-armoured members of the Dragonslayers, either of whom could've performed the data dump as a way of avenging their deceased comrade.

From the sour look on Piggot's face, she knew it also. "Your point is valid," she admitted grudgingly. "We'll look into it."

"As you wish," 'Patrick' said. "In the interest of fair play; if any harm comes to Amelia as a result of this, I will not rest until the person responsible has paid for their transgression, in full and with interest included." He paused. "In a totally legal manner, just in case you were wondering."

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" asked the Director, her eyes narrowing. "Believe me, Marquis, you don't want to go there."

"Neither do you." 'Patrick' stood up. "Now, if all we have left is empty posturing, then Amelia and I shall be leaving. One: I am legally no longer Marquis, so using that name is a pointless accusation. Two: you only need to fear if Amelia comes to harm, and you are personally responsible. Three: If you think I trade in mere threats, then maybe you don't belong behind that desk, after all. Good day to you." With a polite nod to Miss Militia—it was never a bad idea to be courteous to anyone with a big gun, and she had all the big guns—he headed for the door.

"Mr. Matheson!" Director Piggot's shout rang out as he grasped the handle.

Pausing in his motion, he turned his head to look at her. "Yes, Director?"

The glint was still in her steel-grey eyes, but her tone had moderated slightly. "Be careful in your dealings. This is not the Brockton Bay you remember."

Slowly, he nodded. "I shall keep that in mind."

<><>

Panacea

I waited until we were walking out of the PRT building before I turned to Dad. "Did you really have to antagonise her so badly? I thought you were going to play it low-key, now that you're out. And what was that 'If you think I trade in mere threats' line, anyway? It sounded like something out of a second-rate crime drama."

He winced, or pretended to anyway. "Ouch. It's bad enough to be critiqued, but to be so savagely down-rated by one's own superhero daughter? Sharper than a serpent's tooth is an ungrateful child, indeed."

I rolled my eyes. "Enough with the theatrics and classical allusions, Dad. We need to have the Director and the PRT as a whole on-side to make this work. I'm fully aware you used to be a supervillain, and so's the Director. We can do without rubbing her face in it every thirty seconds."

He shook his head. "She was trying to provoke me into doing or saying something unwise, and would've continued to do so had I not pushed back. I would not be in the slightest bit surprised if she already has a report on her desk explaining how Saint's organisation was behind the whole thing, and her dumb act was just that; an act."

"But why?" I shook my head. "She's not exactly a nice person, sure, but I doubt she'd actually frame you for it."

"There's framing and then there's framing, my dear Amelia," he explained as he led the way off down the sidewalk. "I knew I was innocent of it, and so did she. But if her veiled accusations had perchance led me to presume I was about to be re-arrested with no option of a fair trial in the matter, I might well have attempted to fight my way out of the building. And attacking PRT personnel is absolutely a crime they could arrest me for and use to return me from whence I came." He made a throwaway gesture with his right hand. "Thus, my accusation of provocation."

I hadn't figured things all the way through but then again, I didn't have Dad's background. "Oh."

"'Oh', indeed," he said dryly. "I understand you're used to seeing the Director and her underlings as the good guys—so to speak—but you should never, ever forget that they have their own agendas to follow, which do not necessarily overlap with yours. As you undoubtedly discovered when you first requested my release from durance vile."

He had a really good point there. At times, my efforts to get Dad out of the Birdcage had felt not unlike beating my head against a brick wall. "Yeah, I got that."

My view of the superhero/supervillain world, originally painted in stark blacks and whites as supplied by Carol and reinforced by Vicky's attitudes, was beginning to suffer many alarming shades of grey. Worse, not all of it was centred around Dad. To find out that the Director herself was capable of such underhanded techniques made me wonder what else she'd done to thwart me in what I wanted without me being any the wiser. Knowing Dad, he'd probably be able to reel off chapter and verse on potential tactics if I happened to ask.

I didn't ask. Sue me; I wanted to preserve some illusions.

When I didn't say any more, he turned to look at me. "You look more than a little disillusioned. What do you say to a trip down memory lane to bring back fond recollections of days gone by?"

"Memory lane?" I looked at him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, gesturing toward the west, "that I would very much like to see the old homestead once more. Did anyone ever purchase it?"

I was taken aback by the question. "Uh … no … not that I'm aware of," I stammered. "Carol and Mark never said anything about it, even before I found out you were my dad, I mean. I'm thinking maybe the PRT just took it over and kept it."

"Without maintaining it?" Now he sounded aggrieved again. "Come, now. Ten years without proper care? The place may well be a ruin. That's no way to treat a house."

I shrugged. "I honestly don't know. How are we going to get out there and back, anyway?" He'd walked back into my life, not driven. I was pretty sure he didn't own a car and might not even have the funds to buy one.

"You raise an intriguing conundrum," he agreed. "Now, this is merely a request for information, as opposed to a favour … but tell me; how strong are your cousins' force fields, and how fast can they fly?"

That was an option I hadn't thought of. Before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled out my phone.

<><>

Shielder

"I still can't believe I said yes to this," complained Eric.

"What?" asked Vicky, flying alongside. "Amy and her bio-dad need a lift, and I for one would love a tour of the old Marquis mansion."

"One I would be entirely pleased to give to you, dear girl," said the man Eric was trying to think of as 'Uncle Patrick'—because 'Uncle Marquis' was still too weird—as he reclined at his ease inside the force field bubble. "I'm not certain how much of it is left, given how thoroughly the PRT would have scoured it for every last scrap of alleged evidence of criminal activity, back in the day."

"Uh, Dad?" Amy, comfortably ensconced in Vicky's arms, raised her head. "We're all aware you used to be a supervillain and do crimes. Back in the day, as you said. I'm reasonably sure there's nothing 'alleged' about it. I'm just trusting you not to do them now."

"From your trust to my action, my dear Amelia," 'Patrick' said with a minor bow. "But my point was that the evidence itself was alleged. I was far too careful to let anything contaminate where I lived. Every bottle of Dom Perignon, every crystal chandelier, every tailored suit, I bought fair and square with money I'd very carefully laundered beforehand. Not a dirty note among them. The only reason the Brigade even tracked me down was because a disgruntled underling thought I stored cash in the house. Once he turned me in, I suspect the plan was to ransack the place for my ill-gotten gains."

"And did he?" asked Vicky, eyes bright with interest as she put on what had to be her idea of a wise-guy accent. "Or did you have da doity rat whacked from inside da joint?"

The ex-supervillain visibly winced. "My dear Victoria, nobody has talked like that for over sixty years. And I did not have him killed to set an example. That sort of thing, I never left up to another person. No, someone else caught wind of his plan and thought they'd beat him to it. From what I heard, there was a brief but ugly scuffle in one of the grimier bars of the day, involving a knife and a pool cue. Neither one survived."

"Oh." Vicky sounded almost disappointed. "That's not very dramatic. So, did you have any money stored in the house?"

"As it happens, yes," he confirmed. "Approximately two and a half thousand dollars, in a small safe in the master bedroom. Don't get your hopes up; the PRT almost certainly drilled out the lock and confiscated the cash."

"But isn't that yours?" asked Amy. "I mean, you're out again so they should give it back, right?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Really? Are they not teaching you about civil asset forfeiture these days? No? My dear, the moment the authorities get the slightest chance of claiming that something of value either has been used in a crime, is going to be used in a crime or constitutes the proceeds of a crime, they can simply take it into custody, even if no arrest has been made or charges laid. It's theirs from that moment on, to do with what they want." He tilted his head in rueful self-acknowledgement. "Of course, it's a lot easier if charges have been laid."

Despite himself, Eric found himself being drawn into the discussion. "Wait … that's not right, is it? It can't be." He was down with criminals being arrested and jailed, but having their stuff taken away just because it might have been used in a crime was a going a bit far.

"Yeah, it is," Vicky said unexpectedly. "I remember Mom telling me about it once. It's been on the books for a long time, but they kicked it into high gear to crack down on drug dealers from about nineteen eighty onward, taking their houses and cars and money and stuff. Since Tinkers started showing up, their labs have also been a big target."

"Yeah, but …" Eric huffed, irritated about not being able to find the right words for what he wanted to say. It just felt wrong, was all.

"We're here," 'Patrick' noted, pointing ahead at where a rooftop showed between two trees. "Whatever 'here' might end up being. Be careful if we go inside; the structure may be unstable."

"Hey, I'm invincible and Eric's got some pretty rockin' force fields going on," declared Vicky as they coasted in for a landing. "I wish Crystal could've come too. She'd love this."

"College does have a way of taking up one's time," 'Patrick' noted. Eric brought the bubble he was standing in down to the ground then dissolved it, depositing him on solid footing. "Thank you, lad. Well done. Have you been practising?"

The compliment, sincerely given from one cape to another, took Eric off balance. "Uh … yeah. Mom makes sure me and Crystal can use our powers properly."

"Good, good." 'Patrick' nodded as he began to pick his way up the driveway, currently strewn with leaves and branches, with a few small bushes and small trees sprouting through. "Of the Brigade, she was perhaps the one who gave me the biggest challenge when it came to beating her. Ranged attack, coupled with a strong and versatile defensive capability."

Vicky scooped Amy up and flew her over the mess, but Eric instead used a laser to cut a few of the branches in half. "Not Dad? I mean, he would've been about the strongest guy in Brockton Bay, back then. Probably still is, even now."

'Patrick' gave Eric a nod of acknowledgement and kicked aside the smoking branch-ends. "Thank you kindly. Yes, your father is strong, but that merely meant I didn't attempt to match his strength with mine. You don't attack your enemy where he's strong, but where he's weak. When he attacks you, make sure he strikes where you're strong."

"Is that Sun Tzu?" asked Vicky, setting Amy down on the steps outside the house. "It sounds like him."

"Paraphrased, but yes." 'Patrick' climbed the steps and stood beside Amy, before the front doors. "You will find that many of your opponents are going to try to use powers as a substitute for strategy. If you think through the fight before the first punch is thrown, it means you don't have to try to figure things out while adrenaline is messing up your thought process." He looked at the stained, weathered wooden doors, and frowned. "Hmm. Nobody's been here in quite a while."

"Yeah, we got that already." Vicky gestured at the branch-strewn driveway, with its own burgeoning growth. "So we gonna go in, or not?"

<><>

Panacea

"I say we go in." I grabbed the handle and tried to turn it. It didn't budge. "Aww, it's locked."

"Here, let me try." Vicky took hold of the handle and turned it. Metal and wood creaked for a few seconds, then there was a sharp crack of something breaking inside the mechanism. Letting go the handle, she gave the door a light shove and it creaked open. "See? It was just stuck."

I rolled my eyes. This was not the first time she'd used the 'it was just stuck' excuse, and it likely wouldn't be the last. "Just stuck. Right."

"I swear." She put her outspread hands over her heart. From her expression, butter wouldn't have melted in her mouth. "It was like that when I found it."

Dad snorted under his breath as we stepped inside. Eric raised his hand, muttering something about, "now, how did Crystal do it?" before a wavering light lit up the gloomy interior. The more he concentrated, the broader the beam was.

I could easily believe nobody had been here in ten years. Long looping webs, heavy with dust, hung from every protrusion. Eric's light illuminated what would've been a gorgeous marble floor if it hadn't been for a decade of dust, rat droppings, dead spiders and God knew what else. The walls were a dark wood that had probably once been polished to a lovely sheen.

Dad raised his head and looked around; from the expression on his face, he wasn't seeing what the rest of us were. "Do you remember this, Amelia? Do you remember the house?"

I squinted and looked around again, then kicked aside some of the litter that was crunching under our feet. The pattern in the marble tiles looked almost familiar, so I kicked some more aside. Eric's light fell over it, and in a flash of memory I knew what it looked like.

Crouching down, I ran my fingers over the floor, then turned my gaze upward. It had been ten long years, but if I concentrated, I could see how the house had been before, to an adventurous six-year-old. Turning, I pointed at a staircase looming in the shadows. "My bedroom was up there," I whispered, my voice echoing in the silence.

"It was," he said quietly in return. "We won't go up there quite yet. I don't feel like falling through the floorboards. Come on through; I'll show you where the Brigade captured me. Our last battle."

That got Eric's and Vicky's attention in no uncertain terms, and we followed him through the house. Barely identifiable items of furniture, not even covered over, lay rotted and moth-eaten here and there. Several times, we had to pull aside sheets of spider-web where they'd layered up over the years.

"Wasn't there a basement of some kind?" I asked tentatively as we pushed open an unlocked (actually unlocked this time, instead of Vicky-unlocked) door into some kind of study. "I remember a cool dark room with stairs going up."

"Yes, there's a wine cellar as well," Dad confirmed. "It's more or less directly under our feet. Several feet of stone and earth, so there's little chance of it giving way under us. I had several rather excellent bottles of the fifty-four Krug down there, nicely maturing."

"Think they confiscated the wine as well?" asked Vicky. "Or would it still be there?"

Dad gave her a raised eyebrow. He was actually pretty good at it. "What do you think, dear girl?"

"Ah." She nodded in resignation. "So … this is where it was?"

I looked around. There were the remains of an armchair to one side, and a door into a dark place, sagging off its single hinge across the room. Slowly, I moved toward the door. "I was in there," I said. "With my favourite pillow."

"I remember that pillow." Vicky was beside me. "You wore that damn thing out."

"Mm-hmm." I pushed the door, and it fell off the hinge. Vicky caught it and leaned it against the wall. Inside the dark place, as Eric brought the light closer, was a largish closet.

"So … wait," Eric said slowly. "You were in there, while your dad fought our parents out here?"

I glanced at Dad for confirmation, and he nodded. "Ah … yeah, I guess? It got noisy, then someone opened the door and it wasn't Dad. He was lying … just there, where you're standing. I don't remember much else."

Eric scratched his head. "How come they attacked while you were there? I mean, one stray shot, or someone bashing through the wall …"

"They didn't know," Dad said quietly.

I'd already been aware of this, and I was pretty sure Vicky remembered the epic confrontation with Carol in the PRT building, but this was definitely news to Eric. He stared at me, and I nodded. "When they found out where Dad lived, they didn't bother finding anything else out, like the fact that he had a six-year-old kid. They just charged on in. Dad shoved me in the closet and tried to de-escalate, tried to take it outside, tried to do anything to prevent combat from breaking out right where I was, but this was the first time they'd caught him on the back foot and they were determined to push it to a fight. So … they did."

That was the gist of what Fred Jones had told me, interspersed with my own deductions of what had happened at the time. It had been bad enough inside my head but saying it out loud was even worse. Eric had a stricken expression on his face, while Vicky looked deeply, deeply unhappy.

"Well, enough of ancient history," Dad said, breaking the awkward silence. "Shall we go through to the back? I want to see how the lawn is faring."

"The forest, you mean," I muttered. "The front driveway was bad enough."

That got a chuckle from Dad and an actual laugh from Vicky. Eric looked like he was still trying to get his brain around what had happened in the study, once upon a time. Still, we kept moving, ducking past drunkenly leaning doors and brushing aside yet more intrusive spider-webs until we emerged on the rear patio. It was thick with leaf litter to the point that actual mulch had formed, but we kicked some of that aside.

It was good to see actual sunlight again, but I'd been more right than I'd thought about the state of the lawn. If I squinted, I could see how it had once been, but the carefully rolled green and the manicured bushes had exploded out of all control. Now, they were wildly growing trees, with smaller trees in between. The grass beneath was competing with weeds, along with the massively overgrown flowerbeds.

"Hm." Dad leaned against the patio rail and surveyed what he could of the landscape. "It could be worse, I suppose."

"It could be worse?" Vicky stared at him as she waved at the incipient forest beyond the patio. "That's gonna need a bulldozer before you could make a lawn out of it again. Or a flamethrower. Or a bulldozer and a flamethrower."

"Granted, granted." Dad folded his arms, then looked over at me. "Amelia, do you remember your princess phase?"

"Princess phase?" Vicky only just barely got in before Eric, both staring at me. "You had a princess phase?"

I reddened, looking beseechingly at Dad. "Please tell me you're kidding."

He raised his eyebrows, a slight smile on his face. "Not in the slightest, my dear girl. You made a wonderful princess. That was after your admittedly brief pirate phase."

Eric snorted with amusement, and I stared at Dad, willing him to tell me it was all a joke. "Now I know you're kidding."

"Once more; not in the slightest." He straightened up off the rail and looked around, then pointed at the nearest tree. "In fact, I recall you with your little toy spade, burying treasure right at the base of that bush. You were so proud of yourself. You even made a treasure map for it."

Eric looked at Vicky, then at the tree. "Amy buried treasure when she was six years old?"

Vicky nodded, a grin beginning to spread across her face. "Sounds like it."

"Nope," I said, crossing my hands in front of me in a scissor motion. "Nope, nope, nope. Don't even think about it."

Eric grinned at me. "Aren't you even slightly curious about what six-year-old you would've buried as treasure?"

"Not in the slightest." I looked him straight in the eye. "And neither should you be."

"Well, I am." Vicky launched off the patio and landed beside the tree. "Should I pull it up, or just dig alongside it?"

I sighed, shoulders slumping. Apparently, this was going to be a thing. "Well, don't kill the poor tree. I'll uh, redirect its roots so they aren't damaged by us digging."

"What are we gonna use for spades?" asked Eric. "I mean, my force field works for me, but I'm sure Vicky doesn't want dirt under her nails."

There was a muted snap-snap noise from behind me, and I turned to see Dad impassively offering me two shovels, about the right height for me and Vicky. They were bone-white and … oh. They were made of bone. I'd known Dad could do that, but I hadn't actually seen him use his powers until right now.

"Thanks," I said. "Hey, Vicky! Got a shovel for you!"

So apparently we were digging for buried treasure.

<><>

Glory Girl

Vicky had to say, Amy's dad made a pretty good shovel. A little thicker in the blade than a metal and wood one, but it dug into the dirt real good. She and Eric and Amy took turns, carving out pieces of dirt and piling them neatly alongside, while Ames stopped them occasionally so she could reroute a particularly thick root.

"You know," said Eric, "I think we might be on the wrong side of the tree. We're two feet down, and I'm pretty sure a six-year-old kid, even Amy, wouldn't go that far down with a toy garden spade."

"You're in the right place," 'Mr. Matheson' said encouragingly. "Ten years of leaf litter makes for a lot of mulch. You're probably only getting to the original dirt now."

It made sense, especially looking at the thickness of the mulch on the patio, so they kept digging, widening the hole as they went so they could get better purchase on the dirt at the bottom. At three feet down, with the hole now wide enough for all of them to stand in, Vicky began to have her doubts. "Whatever was down here," she said, "it isn't here now."

"Yeah," agreed Eric. "Digging for buried treasure isn't all it's cracked up to be." He smirked in Amy's direction. "You probably dug it up again and forgot about it."

"Don't look at me," Ames told him. "I don't even remember burying the stupid thing."

"Well, for all of me, it can stay there." Vicky dropped her shovel and lofted up out of the hole. "I am gonna shower for like an hour after this."

Eric followed along, giving the tree a kick along the way. The leaves rustled, but that was about it. "Me too."

"Wait up." When Amy went to climb out, the edge of the hole crumbled. Vicky went to help her, but Ames jammed the shovel into the dirt to brace against instead.

Thoomp.

They looked at each other, then at the shovel blade, still half out of the dirt. "What was that?" Vicky asked.

"I dunno," Amy said, and grabbed the shovel again. Hastily, she began scraping in the dirt at the bottom of the hole.

"What was what?" asked Eric, who was twenty feet up with his eyes closed, arms out to the sides, slowly turning in the sunlight.

"Ames hit something and it made a funny noise." Vicky dropped into the hole again. Grabbing up her shovel, she started hefting the dirt out of the hole.

In the next moment, Amy's shovel scraped on something that made the sound again. Her eyes met Vicky's again.

"That wasn't a rock," she said.

"Nope, it was not." Bracing herself, Vicky snapped the handle off her shovel and dropped to her knees.

With the leverage she could generate using her strength and the width of the shovel blade, she was able to scrape the dirt off the top of what looked and felt like an expanse of white rock. They had to extend the hole a little at one end, given it was (Vicky estimated) two feet by three feet, but in the end they had the top clear. She thumped it with her fist and came back with a muffled echo. Whatever it was, it wasn't empty, but it wasn't solid either.

It was a box of some sort.

"No six-year-old buried this," Eric said, hands on his hips as he hovered over the hole, looking down at what they'd found. "Did they, Mr. Matheson?"

"Well, that depends," Amy's dad said, not moving from his relaxed posture on the patio. "She may have donated a spadeful or two of dirt. So, technically speaking, she helped bury it. Did you wish to query its provenance some more, or are you more interested in getting it out and perhaps seeing what is within?"

"You'll want to get out of the hole, Ames." Vicky flexed her fingers.

"But your nails," Amy protested, but didn't resist as Eric helped her out.

"Screw my nails." Vicky poised herself and drove her hands spear-fashion straight down into the dirt on either side of the box. Once she felt her fingertips curling around the bottom, she braced and heaved.

It didn't want to come loose, which Vicky could kinda understand. The box had been at the bottom of this hole for ten or eleven years, and the dirt had been settling around it for all that time. It had compacted, and roots had grown through it. The box was as close to being a part of the dirt as it could've been without actually dissolving into it.

She didn't give a damn.

Once upon a time, she'd picked up an entire cement truck (empty, because she wasn't stupid) and held it over her head for the reporters. This wasn't as heavy as that. It was just held in by a lot of dirt that was a lot heavier than that.

She grunted with effort and heaved harder. Something shifted. Underground, she felt a root that was strung across one side of the box as it snapped. The box shifted again, moving upward. And then all of a sudden, air got in there, and it came with a rush as the suction was broken.

Vicky flew up out of the hole with the box, trailing lumps of dirt. The other two followed her as she went to the patio, kicked more mulch aside, and dropped the box on the marble tiles. One cracked, but she didn't give a shit.

"Okay," she said to Amy's dad. "What's in it?"

He didn't move from his relaxed posture, but his voice dropped the carefree tone he'd been affecting before. "If I tell you, that presupposes knowledge of the contents. It goes from 'unknown owner' to 'potential proceeds of crime'. You know what will happen to it then." He shrugged. "As far as I know, some stranger intruded on my lawn one dark night and buried it there. It's up to you to open it and find out."

"Hm. Damn it." When he was right, he was right. Vicky crouched next to the box and saw that it had a slightly indented seam around the outside, but no lock to be seen. "Eric, I think this needs cutting open."

"On it."

They held their hands to protect their eyes from the glare as Eric carefully cut the seam all the way around the box. He wasn't as powerful as Crystal but when it came to a basic cut, he was actually pretty good. It took about five minutes, which Vicky figured was four minutes fifty seconds too long.

"Okay," he said eventually. "Vicky, I'm gonna need you to hit the lid sideways, right about … there."

"Got it." Clenching her fist, Vicky smacked the lid right where he was pointing at. It broke free and thumped onto the mulched leaf litter; score one for Eric.

Inside the box itself was a heavy plastic bag, yellowed with age, folded over. Whatever was in it came right up to the rim of the box. Around the very edge was a layer of some other material; Vicky wasn't sure what it was, but Eric's laser had only scorched it instead of setting it on fire or melting it.

"You buried it and you found it, Ames," she said, gesturing at the folded-over plastic bag. "You get to see what's inside first."

"If it's pieces of eight," muttered Eric. "I will go apeshit."

Vicky watched as her sister went to her knees beside the box, careful to avoid touching the still-hot edge. She unfolded the bag and reached inside, then apparently had to tear some kind of seal holding it closed. Reaching farther in, her fingers closed over something and she pulled it out.

It was an envelope, the flap glued lightly down. On the front, in exquisite copperplate, was the name Amelia Claire. She stared at it, finger gently tracing the letters, then looked up at her father. He nodded encouragingly to her.

Out there, in the lawn-turned-forest, the wind was rustling through tree branches, but under the patio it was so quiet Vicky heard it when Ames broke the seal on the envelope. She pulled the letter out and unfolded it. Taking a deep breath, she began to read out loud.

My dearest Amelia Claire,

If you are reading this, something drastic has most likely happened to me. If I am dead, you have been directed to dig under the tree by a letter in my will. Otherwise, if circumstances have required me to travel abroad for my health, when you reached the age of eighteen or twenty-one, my lawyer will have forwarded a similar letter to you. There are two such letters, to increase the chance of one reaching you.

No matter how you got to this point, the contents of the box are yours in perpetuity and to be put to whatever use you see fit. I cannot see the future and make no claim to be able to predict it beyond the next few minutes. Therefore, as much as I would like to say I will always be there to protect you, fate and chance delight in making a mockery of such promises.

When you came into my life, Amelia, I had no idea what to do with you. But parenthood has come easily to me and now I can think of no happier state than to be your father. As I write this, you are playing in my study, setting up a tea-party which I will be only too glad to partake of with you.

In closing, I will state that wherever life takes us both, I will always be your father, and if I cannot be there to take care of you, the contents of this box will have to do it for me.

I hope they will suffice.

Yours …

By the time she got to this point, Ames was sniffling. She stopped reading at 'yours' and hugged her dad; he embraced her in return, dirt and all. Vicky couldn't blame her for crying. She was getting a little misty-eyed herself.

"So, what's in there?" Eric pulled open the bag and reached in. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he slowly pulled his hand out again. "Holy …"

Vicky stared at the fat wad of cash in his hand. At least two inches thick, it was composed of hundreds. Just hundreds, all the way through. "… shit," she finished. "Ames. Ames! Check this out."

It took a couple of seconds for Vicky's tone to get through to Amy, but in the end she let her dad go and turned to see what Vicky was talking about. When she focused on the stack of money, her face went pale, bringing her freckles out in sharp contrast. "What? What? How much …?"

"Thousands," Eric said dreamily. "Tens of thousands." He patted the bag. "Hundreds of thousands."

Amy's dad cleared his throat. "Millions."

Vicky stared at him. "Millions?" Her voice squeaked upward at the end, but she didn't care. "Actual millions?"

He nodded austerely. "All for Amelia Claire. It was for if I was no longer able to provide for her. Not one of those banknotes is stolen. She can do what she wants with it. Go to college. Take a vacation for the rest of her life. I claim none of it." His nod encompassed all three teens. "You dug it up. You found it. Not me. Do you understand?"

Vicky took a deep breath. "Yeah, I got it. Was this … your savings?"

He chuckled darkly. "My dear Glory Girl … I was a successful supervillain, not one of the low-effort posers in Brockton Bay today. This was some spare money I decided to put aside for a rainy day."

Eric raised his eyebrows. "Some rainy day."

Amy's dad nodded, still amused. "Indeed."

Part 12