Wake-up Call – Chapter 69 – Parenthood

[Danny Hebert Is Still Disliked]

Watching Lisa rush away on her bike with Taylor clinging to her from the backdoor of my kitchen is, somewhat, a tad less disorienting than when she did so by herself, flipping me the bird right after dropping the engagement bomb.

Somewhat.

"Every parent thinks they have it the hardest. That their kids are, somehow, the most troublesome of anybody else's. It's somehow comforting to realize I was objectively right," I can't help but ponder.

And Pam, the beautiful woman who somehow looks prettier with her hair messily undone and her face clear of artfully applied makeup, chuckles.

"I think I've gotten you beat on that one," she trails off, her eyes still following with mild concern the form of the rapidly dwindling speed demon.

Taylor explained to me how Lisa's power makes her a safer driver when she's recklessly treating the streets as something out of a videogame than most people would be while strictly adhering to driving regulations.

I know that is objectively true.

It doesn't keep me from clenching my fists.

"You may," I say. "But I really, [really] doubt it."

And then Lisa takes a corner fast enough that her knee almost brushes the asphalt, and her bike skids into the lane rather than drive into it, and they are suddenly out of my sight.

So Pam turns toward me, a half-smile on her lips and a twinkle in her eye.

"Tell you what: we exchange our most hair-whitening anecdotes and see who's right. It would give you plenty of blackmail to fight back the next time my daughter decides to try and bully you."

I answer the quirk of her lips with one of my eyebrows.

"I thought you disliked me?" I tell her.

Her smile turns slightly bitter, and then, for a single moment, despite the jewelry and the expensive clothes, she fits just right against the backdrop of peeled, aged white paint on the door and the house's siding.

"Nobody likes to look too deeply into a mirror," she says.

And, despite the brief burst of pain in my chest, I nod.

***

[Colin Wallis Is Not That Oblivious]

Lisa is brilliant.

I know brilliance. I have worked side by side with some of the greatest minds in this world, people whose achievements dwarf the half-glimpses into greater truths that my power grants me. People who have actually done the work, whose knowledge is all born out of effort, discipline, and nothing else.

And so I know there are different kinds of intelligence. I know mine is the methodical kind, one that can only glean new things out of the painstaking effort of taking grain after grain of smaller truths that are already known and building something with them.

I know Dragon is different. That she has an intuitive grasp of things that perfectly complements her own painstaking methodologies. That she can follow a hunch and turn it into a guiding light for her efforts. That she's smarter than me, and in ways I am not.

And I know that Lisa is…

Herself.

Because she has that power of hers, yes, the one that acts as both eidetic memory and pattern recognition enhancement, but…

But I look at the scattered parts of the machine occupying two-thirds of my workbench, and I realize I wouldn't have come up with something like it even if I had had months to study the problem it's meant to solve.

She's still a bit stupid at times.

"I assume that smirk of yours means you've come across another problem to solve?" Dragon asks from the monitor hovering over my right shoulder.

"No, just… pondering how she could even think you wouldn't get me involved in this," I tell my… well, my girlfriend.

My Canadian girlfriend.

I would be more embarrassed at the next high school reunion if I didn't have another, actually American girlfriend to show up with.

Or I'd be if I ever decided to go to one of those events. They sound like the kind of thing I had nightmares about during my college years.

"To be fair, she [asked] me not to," Dragon says with an eye roll and a smile that softens it just enough that I can answer her with my own smile.

"I am still miffed that she thought to—"

"She wants to do this by herself, Colin. Using resources and connections outside the Protectorate is fine for the nebulous rules she has set for her self-imposed challenge, but having you onboard would definitely cross a line," she explains, more didactical than exasperated.

"A line you have decided we should cross without telling her?" I ask, setting down the clamps connected to the impedance meter before I turn to fully face her.

Her… Her avatar, the woman who's calculatedly average yet unique in ways many don't realize, tilts her head as her grin grows a tad sharper.

"If she asks? This mission has the potential to impact the world in a [big] way. It would not only do away once and for all with one of our most disquieting swords of Damocles, but it would free up a staggering amount of resources that could have a cascading effect in dealing with other threats. This is big enough that personal feelings are a secondary concern, and I decided to recruit one of the best minds on the planet to aid me in pursuing my own part of the plan."

I look at her, thoroughly unimpressed, and cross my arms before leaning back on the metal rim of the working table behind me.

The one Hannah was bent over a few days ago.

…

Then I cross my legs at the ankles [for no reason].

"Right. And the actual explanation?" I ask, not at all playing at misdirection.

She, yet again, rolls her eyes.

"The main one? That if you weren't somehow able to contribute to this, you'd be crawling up the walls."

"That's factually untrue."

"Colin… I wouldn't put it past you to [design] a wall-crawling device."

I blink at her.

Then I do a complicated and unambiguous gesture that brings up the holographic display for my note-taking app, my fingers already gliding across it to get the—Van der Waals force? Insufficient, of course, and not scalable, but with the application of—

"That wasn't a challenge…" Dragon darkly mutters.

I… blink at her.

Then at something that looks like fractally splitting pilo-protrusions for the pads of my gauntlets.

…

It [would] help with not letting go of my weapons accidentally.

"Colin!"

"I'm listening! I'm listening!" I tell her with male instincts that have laid dormant for too many years.

… Hannah has entirely too much fun teasing me about it.

"Right…" Dragon continues with the kind of skepticism that I display whenever I'm told Velocity doesn't suffer from brain damage. "The other reason is that the kind of machine Lisa wants needs to be not only incredibly compact in relation to the amount of sensors I'll need, but that I do need your help in coming up with a compressing algorithm that will take advantage of Taylor's power without overwhelming her—"

"Fruit flies should be abundant and compact enough to have one stored in each cell. Assuming we have them inside a cube, lighting up a single face of it with one of six colors would have her replicate the position of the fly between the two machines seamlessly, and the color can be assigned to each of the legs of the flies. That would mean an equivalent in bytes of—"

"I [know]. I'm still answering your question, you insufferable [man]."

"Is this one of those things where the stereotype claims that I am focused on solving issues rather than listening?"

"[Yes]."

"Ah. It would help if you could state such occurrences beforehand. We are, after all, in the business of solving issues."

Dragon blinks at me.

I stare back with utter innocence and my own three quick blinks that are akin enough to fluttering my eyelashes as to get the message across.

She groans.

Heh.

"Sometimes, I really do wish you had gotten your anti-blinking tech to work…" she grumbles.

I manage not to beam at the small victory, but it's a struggle.

"As for the [other] reason," she finally says.

And then stops.

And fidgets.

Which, coming from the most powerful Tinker in the world? It's always slightly unsettling.

"The third reason?" I say.

"Promise not to overreact," she says with a frankly concerning amount of earnestness from inside the thin fram of her dedicated monitor.

"I promise to act without any deviation toward over or under," I tell her after due consideration.

"That is far less reassuring than I hope you meant it to be."

"Dragon…"

She bites the right corner of her lip and lowers her gaze. Then, without raising her head back, looks at me through her eyelashes in what I hope nobody would argue with me is something utterly unfair.

Shut up, Hannah.

"Yesterday, a Pamela Livsey arrived at Boston's airport," she finally says.

I…

"What?"

"When Lisa called to cancel the test, I became… concerned. So I—"

"[Why]."

"Colin, you promised—"

I stand.

Without leaning on anything, weight perfectly distributed between my forward and back foot.

A single command will bring my armor to me.

"Contingencies? Plans of attack? Sabotage? What has brought Lisa's mother to Brockton Bay—"

"I don't know!" Dragon yells, the monitor swiveling right in front of me, stopping me from taking the step forward I was in the middle of. "There are no electronic traces; whoever tipped her off went to some trouble to stay off the records, but Lisa is handling it, Colin. She has housed her with Taylor's father, and—"

"Why would she—"

"Because she's dealing with something very near to her trigger event, and she doesn't want to involve you yet!"

I… Stop.

"Yet?" I finally ask.

Dragon takes a deep breath that she lets out in a slow sigh, and I can still feel the roar of blood in my ears, but…

But then she looks at me with something soft and tender. Something… [proud], even if I don't understand why, and my fingers uncurl from tight fists.

"She… She's trying to do things herself. Because she needs that much control over the situation. And you [know] how that feels, how it is to—"

She sees my eyes. And stops talking.

"I am sorry," she says, sincere enough that I couldn't be angry at her even if I wanted to be. "How is she?"

The question she always asks at least once a week. More, if she feels I need to talk about it.

And now I do lean back on my workstation, but I grab the edges of it rather than cross my arms because I need to feel that much of an anchor. Something that will let me believe that the world is steady enough to hold onto.

"She… The last time she recognized me. She thought I was on a break from college, that I had come to visit before… before going on a camping trip. It took me a while to remember that I [did] have plans to do just that once, and… it's… It's always disorienting, you know? The stark detail with which she can remember the most obscure of things I never paid any mind to while they were happening, and then she suddenly can't work out the lights in her room. It's…"

"She loved you very much, Colin. It's… I know it's hard to hear, but I always find it…" she drifts off, her face twisting in that something so complicated that always comes to her when she tries to explain things she herself doesn't understand.

And I nod.

"I know. It's… It's bittersweet. I am… I [am] happy that she still has those good times, even if she feels so far away, but… But every day she slips farther and farther, and I don't…" My fingers clench tighter, my grip on my workstation almost painful.

Trigger events.

They… stay with you.

"Does… Does Hannah know?" she asks.

I shake my head.

And Dragon frowns.

"You are taking her to the nursing home. Today. The algorithms can wait," she says.

I blink at her, the words alien to hear.

And she has the gall to close her eyes and count to ten.

"Colin, you're taking your girlfriend to meet your mother, and that's final."

"But… Work? Lisa? Saving the world—"

"I am calling her right now. You can either get dressed or trust that we will get it done for you."

I look down at my blue overalls made with an anti-static weave I designed myself.

"But… I am dressed?" I say.

And Dragon, yet again, groans.

It takes some effort not to grin at it.

***

[Pamela Livsey Delivers]

Danny Hebert's guest room is like the rest of his house: something carefully preserved yet still gone to waste.

The sheets needed a lot of airing before I could feel even halfway comfortable lying on the single bed beneath the wooden window, and the bedside table's corners are split with particle board swollen with humidity. The pine wardrobe smells like mothballs, and the style of all three pieces of furniture is entirely dissimilar in a way that feels purposeful.

I think I would've liked to meet Annette Hebert. What's left of her points toward an interesting person.

And, this room? This carefully neglected piece of a marriage cut short?

I still feel more at ease here than I have felt in my home in years.

So I have to force myself to take my phone out of my clutch purse. It's not something I want to do, even if I want the results.

I would rather just… disappear. Let things break apart without me. Fade away.

Let my husband think I died.

But I owe this much to Sarah, at least.

"Pam?" he says in that voice of his that means nobody is listening. The one without nuances or connotations.

"Hello," I answer in much the same tone.

And then I stop before sitting down on an old bed that sinks under me, the springs poking my thighs despite the covers and my skirt.

He sighs.

"Well?" he prods me.

And I…

I am so [tired].

"I want a divorce," I finally tell him.

"The prenup—" he immediately says. Because of course that's what he would think about.

"I want a divorce, [not a negotiation]."

There's silence on the other end of the line.

"So. You found her," he says.

I clench my eyes shut and try not to grind my teeth.

It's a bad habit to get out of. My dentist chided me for years.

"There's a reason they contacted me and not you, Charles," I tell him.

"She's my daughter," he answers.

I take a deep breath and try to keep my voice and tone steady. To answer diplomatically, even if harshly.

"Yes. So do something good for her and—"

"[My] daughter."

Screw diplomacy.

"You never asked for a paternity test," I say.

"[What?"]

"I mean, the gardener was very… [vigorous]. And he certainly paid more attention to me than you did at the time. A lot of [daily] attention."

"Pamela, your prenup—"

"What? That I get nothing if I'm caught cheating? But what does that have to do with Enrique being a very good, very [close] friend?"

"You are being childish."

"Funny, I think that's how I told him your dick looks. [Childish—"]

"Pamela! Stop this—"

"No! I have held my tongue for [years]. I have done what I thought was best for our—for [my] children, and that ended with a funeral and a missing person case! I won't bite my tongue anymore, [Charles!] You're going to sign the papers, you're going to give me all the money a parahuman-backed lawyer will decide you owe your ex-wife, and if you ever try to track me down, [I have a gun]!"

And then I hang up.

On my husband.

For the first time in my life.

My hands are trembling so badly I end up dropping my phone on the bed, and it starts ringing before it stops bouncing, so I throw myself on top of it and, rattled beyond what I've ever been, I turn it off.

I… I breathe. Harsh and panicked.

But [I breathe].

And the smell of humid wood and mothballs is grounding, almost soothing while in the middle of this wildly swaying world—oh, I'm hyperventilating.

There's a knock at the door. And I try to answer.

I don't know what sound comes out of my throat, but the door opens, and in walks Danny Hebert, limping, holding a round tray with two steaming mugs.

"I couldn't help but hear some of that [from the floor below]. So I thought you could do with some reheated tea," he says.

I, sitting on the bed, my knees hugged to my breasts, stare up at him.

He smiles, an arched eyebrow teasingly leaping over the rim of his glasses.

And I throw a pillow at his stupid face.

***

[Brian… Tries]

For a Thinker seven, Lisa is about as subtle as a sledgehammer.

Which makes it all the more infuriating that it [works].

I mean, I can imagine living with dread that every subtle gesture, every nuanced word would be geared toward an inevitable, mysterious climax that would drag me along toward a fate I never intended. And yes, that would [suck], but…

But the fact that she can outright say things, be factual and [sincere] about them, and still have me acting the way she wants me to?

That is, somehow, even if devoid of all the existential horror of the alternative, far more infuriating.

Case in point…

"Rach?" I ask the girl holding a Doberman's leash beside me while I'm relegated to walking a tetchy terrier. "I got you something," I say.

She half-turns toward me, only stopping when Brutus decides to investigate a lamppost and Angelica joins him in their olfactory studies.

And she keeps staring.

Right.

"Here," I say as I dig a small package out of my jacket's pocket.

She looks at my hand as If pondering how to best answer the gesture until she finally decides to drape the loose leash over her elbow and grab it with both hands, the wrapping paper crinkling slightly as it switches hands.

Then Rachel… Stares.

At the small gift I got her.

… It's making me feel guilty.

"Come on, open it. It's for you," I tell her with an encouraging smile, but a soft and slow one Because Lisa drilled me on this, and I am not going to mess it up after deciding to follow through.

Rachel looks from me to the paper, and then runs her fingers along the edges until she catches a corner of it and she pulls, slowly tearing it up, as if peeling it rather than unwrapping it.

Then she sees the small cardboard box and looks once more at me in what is too easy to see as hesitance born out of insecurity. So I don't react and just wait for her to open it.

And then she takes a small, matte, black plastic capsule out of it.

"Here. Let me," I say in something that's just short of a whisper.

I take it gently from her and swing it open before I take the two small earbuds out of it.

Then I take her right wrist and turn her palm up before dropping them on it.

I smile when she clenches it shut immediately.

"You spend a lot of time outside, walking your dogs or running your shelter, so I thought you may enjoy listening to some music while you do so. My sister has been badgering me to get her this model, because they have a very long battery life, and… uh… Sorry, do you like them?"

Rachel looks at her closed hand before slowly opening it and looking at something that definitely shouldn't have cost more than a hundred dollars.

"Yes," she says without meeting my eyes, but with a soft smile that breaks my heart.

And I'll never be as grateful to a dog as I am to Brutus for suddenly taking off after a cat and rescuing me from the moment.

==================

This work is a repost of my most popular fic on QQ (https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/wake-up-call-worm.15638/), where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true)—as an added perk, both those sites have italicized and bolded text. I'll be posting the chapters here twice weekly, on Wednesday and Friday, until we're caught up. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 89 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).

Speaking of Italics, this story's original format relied on conveying Power's intrusions into Lisa's inner monologue through the use of italics. I'm using square brackets ([]) to portray that same effect, but the work is more than 300k words at the moment, so I have to resort to the use of macros to make that light edit and the process may not be perfect. My apologies in advance

Also, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Xalgeon, and aj0413. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and helping me keep writing snarky, useless lesbians, consider joining them or buying one of my books on https://www.amazon.com/stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S. Thank you for reading!