Yet Another Way [Worm AU Fanfic]

[nobodez]

Excellent chapter, glad you've shared it with us.

 

[Prince Charon]

I find myself wondering how the canon BBB would react to this timeline.

 

[Ack]

Yet Another Way

Part Three: Seeds of Regret

[A/N 1: This chapter commissioned by @GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
[A/N 2: I wrote the first two parts to this story over ten years ago. Now I'm picking it up again, if only to see where it ends. Whee.]
[A/N 3: This fic will be posted in chapters of 3.5-4K, two at a time, 24 hours apart. So there will be another one in 24 hours, woo!]
[A/N 4: Trigger warning – mention of suicide.]


Friday Evening, September 14, 2007
The Raymond Household

Marquis

It started, as many things do, with a phone call.

<><>​

Marcus sat on one side of the dining table, with his three conniving children arrayed on the other. Between them sat a Scrabble game, with plastic letter tiles spelling out words here and there on the board. Eric had a dictionary at his elbow.

The adjustment in the rules had been Victoria's idea. Each of them had their allotment of tiles, but the three children were allowed to trade tiles and collude between themselves—with the assistance of the dictionary—to gain the best possible advantage over him. He pretended irritation at the chicanery, but in all honesty, he could not have been prouder of them. It was the way of the world that one had to make the very most of their situation, and teaming up to take down a superior opponent was part and parcel of that.

He'd laid down the rule that Eric had sole access to the dictionary. It was only fair to his son, and kept the lad from feeling left-out by searching for new words to use. Now he was murmuring something to Victoria, who was nodding. Taking a letter tile from each of their holders, she laid them down on the board. "'Equal' plus I-Z-E makes 'equalize', and that's a triple letter score for the 'z'," she announced triumphantly.

"Well done," Marcus said approvingly. "How many points do you get for it?"

Crystal grinned. "Doing that now." Her lips moved silently as she noted down each of the letter scores, preparatory to adding them up.

At that moment, his phone rang.

"Excuse me one moment." He stood up from his chair and started toward his study; not only was it rude to hold a conversation in front of others, but there were many things his children did not know about his business dealings. This was a state of affairs that he wished to maintain, at least for the time being. The caller ID showed that the call was coming from the Philadelphia Parahuman Asylum, which only served to raise his level of concern. "You have Mark Raymond."

Even after learning the truth about their respective parents (what truth he was willing to allow them to know at their age) they had still sent letters and the occasional photograph. Far from discouraging this, he had urged them to keep in touch. After all, what he had done to the Brigade was no punishment if its members were unable to see how their children were developing under his care.

Four years in, the first messages started coming back. Marcus gathered that the staff of the Asylum had managed to teach them Morse code, and were communicating with them that way. These messages were necessarily brief, but the children were pleased to get them all the same.

"Mr Raymond, this is Director Hargrave of the Philadelphia Parahuman Asylum. It's about Mark Dallon. I'm afraid he's passed away."

Marcus' eyes widened. This was not what he had intended, not at all. The Brigade had been supposed to live long and healthy lives, entirely unable to interfere further with the upbringing of their children—or any children at all, really—while he showed them how said children should be raised. "What happened?" he asked at last. "Was it a complication of his … condition?"

"Not that we can ascertain, no." Hargrave hesitated. "It appears to have been a deliberate act."

"What?" Marcus's spine straightened, and he gripped the phone more tightly. Hellfire and damnation! Did one of their enemies break in to finish them off? "I need more information." The growl that emanated from his throat was pure Marquis. "Now."

Something in his tone must have reached the director, because the answer came swiftly. "I – I mean self-inflicted. None of our staff would—"

"I'll be there in two hours. Have your answers ready by then." He ended the call, secure in the knowledge that this would be done. Director Hargrave and the rest of the Asylum staff knew him not as Marquis, but as Marcus Raymond, an exceedingly wealthy and generous donor to the upkeep of the Asylum. If they wanted the money to continue rolling in (and they did) then any number of rules and regulations would be twisted into pretzels in order to keep him happy.

The next call he made was to a rather more local number. "Good evening, Jennifer. I'm afraid I will be requiring your services tonight. I've been called away on unavoidable business. Quadruple pay, as per our standard arrangement, yes?"

"Of course, sir. I'll be over directly." Jennifer—'Jenny' to the children—had her own cottage on the grounds; most days she handled the cooking, housecleaning and mothering as needed, but it was understood between them that the weekends were hers to do with as she wished. Until situations like this came up, whereupon he was willing to pay well above top dollar without quibble.

Competent help, he had long since found, was worth far more than its weight in any precious metal he cared to name. "Excellent. I'll let the children know, then be on my way."

When he returned to the living room, Eric was already paging through the dictionary for the next word to use, but Crystal and Victoria were paying no attention to the board.

Crystal spoke first. "You've got to go, don't you?" Disappointment coloured every syllable.

"I'll be back before morning," he reassured them. "Something important has come up. I'm needed in Philadelphia."

Victoria perked up at that. "While you're there, could you let my father know I didn't get his birthday message last week? He's usually pretty good about that."

The breath froze in Marcus' throat; his usually glib tongue found not a word to say about the situation. "I … I'll see … what I can do." He took a moment to steady himself. "Jennifer will be over in a moment, and she'll keep you company for the evening and make sure you're in bed by a reasonable hour." A smile, feeling horribly fake, completed the masquerade. "Be good for her, please."

Turning, he hurried from the room before he could put his foot any further into his mouth. Why he'd even mentioned Philadelphia he had no idea, but even that was eclipsed by the fact that Mark Dallon hadn't sent Victoria her usual birthday wishes, and he hadn't noticed. Certainly, things had been busy over the last week, both on the criminal and the business side of things, but that was no excuse.

If I'd known, I could have … As he slid behind the wheel of his McLaren 722, he shook his head. What could he have done? Asked the staff of the Asylum to check on their patient more closely? Whatever Mark Dallon had done, it hadn't been on a whim.

The garage door opened automatically in front of him as he applied pedal to metal. His thumb found the button on the steering-wheel which enabled hands-free calling; the private airfield where he kept his Falcon 7X was less than twenty minutes away, and the standby pilots could be there in fifteen. In thirty minutes, he would be in the air.

Having super-powers was useful, but having money was better.

<><>​

Two Hours Later

Philadelphia Parahuman Asylum

Director Peter Hargrave

Peter watched as Marcus Raymond settled into the visitor's chair. Despite the fact that it was Peter's office, it was easy to tell who was in charge, and it wasn't him. Marcus didn't have a bulky physique, but he didn't need one to dominate the room.

"Tell me what happened. Leave nothing out." The words, spoken calmly, nevertheless promised a world of hurt—financial if not physical—if they were disregarded.

Fortunately, Peter had spent the last two hours digging hard into the circumstances surrounding the untimely death of Mark Dallon, aka Flashbang. He had all the facts at his fingertips; it just remained to be seen if they would satisfy Marcus Raymond.

"Two weeks ago," he began, "Mr Dallon began refusing to respond to simple requests. When staff asked what he wanted, he replied with one word: 'Carol'."

"His wife." Marcus was aware of the family's background, then.

Good; that would make this explanation marginally less painful.

"Yes. We believe she was executed by Marquis for … it doesn't matter what for. She was killed in front of Mr Dallon, seven years ago. He repeated the request several times, then became agitated. After analysis of his brain functions, his depression medication was changed. He seemed to respond, or at least become less agitated. Five days ago, he asked what the date was. When it was provided to him, he went quiet again."

"His daughter's birthday was last week." Marcus' voice was quiet. "He missed it."

Ah. Peter had been in possession of that data point, but he hadn't quite made the connection until now. "I see. Well, he resumed cooperation with staff until this evening's shift change. When the new shift noticed that his life sign monitors were flatlining, they came in to check on him. He had typed out a message on his Morse clicker, then contrived to wrap one of his support lines around his neck. Attempts were made to resuscitate him but were unsuccessful. I was alerted, and then I called you."

Marcus leaned forward, his expression almost painfully intense. "What was the message?"

Peter took a deep breath, then passed over the length of tickertape that had been extruded from the clicker. In block letters, it read: IM SORRY VICKY.

The paper crumpled in Marcus' fist as he lowered his head, eyes clenched shut; Peter could see a muscle jumping in the man's jaw. He stayed silent, judging that it was best to wait and see what Marcus wanted rather than making an assumption and being badly wrong about it.

There was genuine pain in Marcus' expression when he raised his head again. "Do the others know yet?"

"We haven't told them, but they may suspect that something is wrong." Peter grimaced. "They send each other messages over the Morse clickers. He's been uncommunicative for a little while, but they'll start asking questions soon."

Marcus stood up. "I want to see them. Now."

Peter also came to his feet. "That's highly irregular …" But he knew as well as Marcus did that he was only making the protest because it was expected of him.

Marcus looked him in the eye. "Did I perhaps stutter? Was anything I said hard to understand?"

Peter shook his head. "No, sir. I'll take you to them now."

<><>​

Marquis

The remnants of the Brockton Bay Brigade, as grotesquely malformed as he had managed to make them in his cold fury, occupied their own row of bays in the Asylum. Five lavage tanks, five net-like hammocks, five padded cushion-nests. The last one, Mark Dallon's, was empty. The other four were occupied by their sleeping inhabitants.

Marcus looked around at Director Hargrave, and the other staff who had trailed in after him. "I want to speak to them all, privately. Make it so, then leave us. No recordings. Is that understood?"

Hargrave looked like he wanted to argue for just a moment. But then he clearly came to a decision and turned to the staff members. "Get it done. Now. And double-check that the recorders are off."

Marcus waited patiently until their nest-beds had been wheeled into a rough semi-circle in front of him. Each of the patients was set up so one eye could focus on him. He hadn't closed off their ear canals, so they'd be able to hear just fine. Discordant mumbles indicated that they'd woken up and had noticed the odd activity. Fingers twitched on Morse clickers, and the displays above each nest-bed lit up.

WHATS GOING ON

WHY R U MOVING US

And then, the inevitable: WHERES MARK

As soon as the staff were finished, Marcus waved them out, the Director included. He waited until the door closed behind them, then moved forward a few steps. "Good evening. I have some bad news for you, and good news."

WHAT

U LOOK FAMILIAR

WHERES MARK

WHATS GOING ON HERE

He nodded. "For those who recognise me: yes, you are correct. I am Marquis, and I've been raising your children for the last seven years. For the record, they are thriving. Bright children, one and all. Now for the bad news. Mark Dallon took his own life earlier this evening. That's why I'm here."

Morse clickers rattled off the letters as fast as a teenager could text; they'd had a lot of practice.

MARKS DEAD

MARQUIS U BASTARD

U KILLED HIM

ILL KILL U

"If you will allow me to finish …" He paused for a moment, until the invective ceased flashing up on the screens. "Thank you. I did not intend for him to die. I've been investing quite a bit of money into your care here so that you can remain alive and healthy. But he thwarted me anyway, so I've decided to reverse your punishment. However, so that it's not too suspiciously miraculous, I'm going to stretch your reversion over several months. Once we're done, you'll be on your feet again, free to do whatever you want. Within reason."

WHAT DO U MEAN

WHAT DO U WANT FROM US

WONT CHANGE ANYTHING

WONT BRING BACK MARK

"No, true," he agreed. "It won't return your colleague to you. Neither will reverting your punishment return my Amelia to me. We all have losses we must face. What I want from you is twofold. First: that you never so much as whisper a word of my true identity to anyone. Second: that you do not attempt to take my children away from me."

OUR CHILDREN

U CANT KEEP CRYSTAL N ERIC FROM US

U MEAN IT

NOT JUST PLAYING WITH US

He sighed. It seemed that both the stick and the carrot were required here. First, the stick. "Yes, I can indeed keep the children from you. I have legally adopted them. You would have to prove yourselves competent to be parents once more, and I have sufficient contacts within the judiciary to ensure that it would be a thoroughly unrewarding process for you. An even simpler means would be to simply … not release you from your bondage, here. So do not try my patience." He paused to allow the words to sink in. "This is not to say that you cannot visit and spend time with them, once you are out and about. They would undoubtedly be delighted to see you. However. They are fully aware of the sordid details of Amelia's passing, and of your part in her death. Any attempt to sully my name in that fashion would very swiftly go astray. Do you understand?"

There was a long pause. He let them process the situation at their own pace while he calculated the easiest way of allowing each skeleton to return to its natural proportions. It would be gradual, of course, but they would be able to see the improvement as they went along.

I UNDERSTAND. That was Lady Photon.

DON'T LIKE IT BUT NO CHOICE YOU BASTARD. Manpower was somewhat more verbose.

I JUST WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE. Fleur sounded like she was trying not to cry.

LETS DO THIS. Lightstar was equally eager to take the deal.

"Very well." Now for the carrot. "Incidentally, I acquired your homes shortly after you were sequestered here, and sold them for a tidy profit. It's not as though I ever expected you to return. That money has been invested in long-term deposits; the children were to inherit those accounts when they chose to leave home. I am perfectly willing to turn them over to you once you leave here, as an added incentive to not break our deal. It will easily be enough for you to purchase new homes with a comfortable amount left over, even in the current housing market."

WE WERE RENTING, Lightstar pointed out. WHAT MONEY

"You will get the money from the Dallon house. Fear not for the children; they will be receiving an equivalent amount from my own pocket, so to speak, once the time comes. I had merely though this to be more elegant. But now there is a greater need for it."

AND OUR THINGS. Lady Photon seemed a little agitated. WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR THINGS

"In storage," Marcus assured her smoothly. "Kept safe until the children were old enough to look them over and decide what they wanted."

Again, there was a long silence, then Fleur clicked out a question. WILL U BE MAKING US DO CRIME TO PAY OFF DEBT

He had to chuckle at that. "Heavens, no. You would undoubtedly be terrible at it. Be heroes once more, for all I care. Just never interfere with me or mine, ever again. That is all I require of you."

Manpower had the last word. FINE WE LL DO IT NOW FIX US

"One step at a time." He went to each of them in turn, laying a hand on them and sinking a bone spike to reach their skeletons. At a thought, he adjusted the bones, reducing the degree of distortion for each of them, then stood back. "That's your first treatment. I will return in a month. Don't go anywhere."

<><>​

A Few Moments Later

Director's Office

Director Hargrave

"A specialist?" Peter blinked. "You can help them?"

"It's what I wanted to speak to them about. And get tissue samples for." Marcus patted his pocket and spoke with authority. "I know of a cape who may be able to assist in this matter. Up until now, I hadn't thought it worth the risk, but with the passing of Mr Dallon …" He shrugged. "I see no other way forward."

"And this cape is willing to assist?" Peter unconsciously leaned forward. "Do you know if he's able to help anyone else in the facility?"

"I can ask, but …" Marcus shook his head slightly. "I honestly can't see it happening. I've had to guarantee his anonymity just for this instance. So I will be personally escorting him into the facility and out again. Nobody else interacts with him. We will be showing up once per month, until his power cannot work on them anymore."

"Of course, of course!" Peter would not have argued if Marcus had required a marching band and a red carpet for the visiting healer. "Whatever he needs. We are at your disposal."

Marcus smiled warmly. "I knew I could count on you."

<><>​

Marquis

As he rode in the hired limo back toward the airfield, Marcus leaned back in the seat and smiled in quite a different way. He would be doing the healing, of course; the 'cape' would be one of his people, well-paid to follow the script and then refer no more to it afterward.

It should do the city of Brockton Bay no harm, he judged, to have the Brigade return after so many years away. They would no doubt be wanting to make their mark and prove their worth to a populace that had more or less forgotten them; in his humble opinion, the local criminal underground could do with a shake-up. His organisation not included, of course. He'd given them fair warning about that, and he was willing to enforce it if and when necessary.

When the limo arrived at the airfield, his jet was waiting for him, prepped to take off once more. He nodded to the pilots as he climbed on board, and relaxed in his seat for the flight back to Brockton Bay. As the Falcon rumbled onto the runway, he took out a notepad and began listing those members of his organisation he could most easily spare for the duty of masquerading as a healer. It wasn't something he had to rush into, but at the same time, it needed to be dealt with before the time came around.

Almost before he knew it, the plane was touching down in Brockton Bay. It would be attended to by his crew at the airfield, of course. They were well-paid for their time. Leaving them to it, he climbed back into the McLaren for the final stretch back home.

He'd been gone nearly five hours; by now, Jennifer would have put the children to bed. When he got home, he'd look in on them, of course. He was still mulling over what he was going to be telling Victoria about her father. Hopefully, he would be able to put it off until the light of day, when everything looked better.

The automatic garage door raised itself at his approach. He entered the garage in a much more circumspect manner than he'd left, and parked the McLaren in its usual spot. Climbing out of the car, he stretched, feeling his vertebrae click back into position. He could've done this manually, but somehow it was more satisfying to do it the old-fashioned way.

The first apprehension he had that things were not all exactly as they should be came when Jennifer met him at the door leading into the house. "Sir, thank goodness you're back! I've had a job and a half keeping her calm, and that's no lie!"

His head came up and he glanced around for signs of trouble. "Her? Who? What's happened?" One hand balled into a fist, ready to produce a razor-edged dagger at need.

"It happened not long after you left." She led him into the house, toward the living room. "We tried to call, but your mobile phone must have been switched off."

Frowning, he pulled his phone out. It was on airplane mode, and he'd been too preoccupied to turn it back. Several missed text messages and two missed calls showed up on the screen, but he shoved it away again in favour of asking the question directly. "What happened? Tell me!"

"I think it's better if Miss Crystal does." Jennifer opened the door into the living room. Crystal was there, and he immediately saw what the problem was. For one thing, she was hovering two feet above the carpet; for another, flickers of light were dancing around her hands.

"Dad?" She spoke hesitantly. "Dad, I think I've got powers."



End of Part Three