Marshal had suspected that his father was still working, but he hadn’t bothered to prove it. In their line of work, having proof went hand in hand with taking action, so he hadn’t wanted to know. The info had always been solid, and that was a rare gift. Repairing the holes he’d left in his network was exhausting, though.
“I have something for you,” Amira said. “It may help.”
“Is it a pony? Oh, I hope it’s a pony.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. A man of your stature has no business riding ponies.” She handed him the fat manila envelope she’d been carrying tucked beneath her free arm. “Consider it a gift of guidance, my handsome son.”
This was a mystery envelope he could get behind. Marshal tried not to seem too eager, but he immediately knew what this ‘gift’ was: his father’s files. The Rook had been breathtakingly organized. His case files had been impeccable— his research was always neatly arranged and thorough. He’d wondered where his most recent work had gone, since the Bureau of Posthuman Affairs had found no evidence of vigilante activity in the Nest, and he knew his father better than that.
There was a post-it note folded over the name label on the side of the folder. Unfolding it, his throat closed up. His father’s bizarrely neat handwriting was unmistakable.
L.B.,
Sorry I lied.
B.B.
Three words. That was all he got. Three words. They’d had their problems— some of them more violent than others— but Marshal had never hated his father. He’d hated the crap he pulled, and he’d hated how his secrets had been stacked like matryoshka dolls, but he hadn’t hated him. Not all of the time.
His dad had been kind of a fuckstick, but he’d still been his dad.
“You sure it’s meant for me?” He asked, when he managed to find his voice again. “I’m not the only Little Bird. Sure as hell not the only one he lied to, too.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. Contempt. Couldn’t hide that.
“Did he defend himself?”
“What?”
“Malek,” the Queen said, frostily. “When you attacked him, did he defend himself?”
The other shoe dropping was a real kick in the pants. He didn’t even try to lie to her.
“No.”
“When you engaged, were you prepared to bury another brother?” Her long lashes trembled, but she kept hold of her composure. “Was that your intention?”
He wished that he couldn’t hear the raw heartbreak in her voice, but sharp ears were one of the many things that he’d inherited from his mother. The other one.
“No. God, no. Things just...things got out of hand.”
He hadn’t meant to hurt Mal. He’d just been so sure that he’d be the one to give him the answers he needed. When he’d refused to tell him anything, he might as well have turned into a manifestation of every blockade that Marshal had hit in the past year. By the time he’d realized that he’d gone too far, he’d left apologies far behind. It was too big for an oops, and Mal probably didn’t care whether or not he apologized.
Marshal couldn’t explain what had set him off. Something had triggered a part of himself that nobody liked, not even him. He still wasn’t sure if it would have been better or worse if Malek hadn’t gotten back up again. At least then, he wouldn’t have had the lingering thought that the wrong person had stepped in front of that bullet. Marshal hated himself whenever he turned that notion around in his head, but it didn’t make it any less true.
Mal would’ve walked away from that shot. Their father didn’t. Could have, but didn’t. And as much as he tried, Marshal couldn’t understand why. Nothing about Mal made sense. He still didn’t know what to make of his stolen party trick. Mostly, he tried not to think about it. He already had too many questions keeping him awake until the middle of the afternoon.
“While I understand your grief, I cannot excuse your behavior. You are out of control,” Amira said, her voice wound steely-tight. “If you lash out at Malek again, we will be having a very different conversation, you and I.”
Marshal tried to laugh, but it came out ragged.
“It won’t happen again,” he promised, and meant it. “I just...I don’t get what happened. Or why. Everyone I talk to, everywhere I look, I get the runaround.”
Her head dipped with a small nod.
“Ultimately, you want to know if you would have been able to save your father, had you been there.”
“Yeah, I do,” Marshal growled, nostrils flaring. “Because the cause of death was a single bullet to the brainpan, and the Rook’s bulletproof.”
“Corbin did not share that trait with his Rook-shift,” Amira said, softly.
Heat spread through him in a shuddering wave. Marshal covered his eyes with one hand, trying to calm himself down. He could feel the panic rising in his chest, frustration clawing up under his ribcage. It seemed like he was always walking along that edge, now— permanently one good shove away from losing his shit all over anything in his personal blast radius. The Queen’s little monster could attest to that.
“He was killed in the middle of the street in broad daylight, but nobody saw it. No witnesses, no camera captures, no cell phone pictures— even his own security setup blanked out. It’s statistically impossible, and it— it doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.”
The rain pounded in his ears like a bad headache. Amira’s perfume was strong enough to taste. It was like a mouthful of cloves. The scrape-screech of the handle of Amira’s umbrella hitting the paved walkway was unbearable.
Too much. Too much he couldn’t shut out or control or ignore.
Amira reached up, peeling his fingers away. She covered his eyes with her own hands, drawing him closer. Marshal stooped, head bowed, and focused on the sound of her breathing. She didn’t say anything at first. She just breathed, slow and steady, until he matched her pattern.
“He would not want you to torture yourself over what could have been,” Amira said in his ear, low and gentle. “There is work to be done. What little closure I can give you, I already have.” The Queen cupped his face with both hands. She brushed her thumb against his jawline, giving him a watery smile. “Please take care. I cannot bear to lose another son, habibi.”
For the first time in months, Marshal felt himself relax. He nodded.
“I know.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A twenty-five year old resident of the Pacific Northwest, I spend most of my time enjoying the rain from a safe distance (re: indoors). As a fan of comic books, I’m overly invested in people who wear spandex and habitually take bites out of crime. When I’m not reading or critiquing comics, I’m writing my own.
Website: www.theposterchildren.com
Blog: www.maillardets.tumblr.com
E-Mail: [email protected]
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The Posterchildren: Origins Page 42