#AN: Surprise? I never expected the latter half of this chapter to take two years, but I suppose that's typical. Were I not adhering to my self-imposed rule of only going forward and not planning ahead, I think this would have turned out different, but that's how it goes. It kinda blows my mind how regularly this still gets follows and favs, though... thanks for reading, everyone.

Chapter 4: The Family's Business

I just kind of... sat for a while, staring off into nothing and trying to come to terms with... the day, really. The day that wasn't even over.

It felt like more than an hour, but when I bothered to look at a clock, it was only a few minutes. I thought at the time that it was a side-effect of my heightened senses, but I might just have an awful sense of time. I don't know.

Lisa had helpfully left enough to pay the tab, so I rose shakily to my feet and tried to ignore the whispered argument between the nondescript Asian kid with the glasses and the aristocratic blonde lady with the red contacts.

Tried.

I'm not sure if they thought I couldn't hear them or if they were banking that I could. Regardless, they clammed up as I walked past, leaving the declaration that "it was a six-point-five because her form was great" ringing in my ears. I'll spare you the suspense because I heard the whole squabble: yes, it was exactly what you're thinking and customers apparently really do receive Olympic-style ratings on the quality of their attempts to assault their companions. At least from these two.

Awkward.

What's it say that that wasn't even the strangest thing to happen that day? I had already had it up to here with everything so I just pushed that weirdness out of my mind and shuffled my way back to the main drag. It was getting on in the afternoon, and I had retail therapy to engage in.

What, you thought I'd forget that coat? I needed the treat even before the whole "thing" with Lisa Holmes.

"I don't believe it." Not an exclamation of anguish or growl in anger, no, that was a deadpan. Because it was a lie, of course; I believed it all too easily. After all, why would such a nice coat hold out for just an hour longer so I could buy it? I stared, forlorn, at the spot it had been for a few more seconds before trudging back to the bank to deposit what I'd taken.

What do you take me for? An idiot?

... don't answer that.

Thoroughly defeated and not even rocking new threads to show for it, I said "screw it" and got onto the bus home. In the tradition of sulky teenagers everywhere, I sat in the back and leaned over to let the motion of the ungainly vehicle bounce my face off the window with its vibration, trying to go over what could have salvaged this day that didn't involve skipping school entirely.

Before I knew it, I had angsted all the way home, whereupon a familiar pickup truck greeted me in the driveway.

Shit.

Only question was whether to bring the days events up preemptively or not.

Hah, as if. Especially with how I was back then, I don't think I'd have brought it up at all. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) for me, it wasn't in my hands.

I let myself in, not trying to hide, not really thinking at all. I shucked off my shoes, waved to dad reading the paper in his easy chair, and trundled into the kitchen to see what could be done about supper. I almost didn't hear him follow me in.

"How was your day, Taylor?"

If I'd been in a normal frame of mind, I'd probably have just said "fine" or something and left it at that. But I wasn't, and that moment's inattention allowed something previously unthinkable to happen while I surveyed the contents of fridge: I told the truth.

"Honestly? Kinda brutal."

"Would that have anything to do with the phone call I got at work this morning from principal Blackwell, saying you'd walked out of school after an altercation about defacing your locker?" he asked evenly.

I froze. "Pissed off dad" was pretty much the last thing I needed right then and I could tell that if I didn't play my cards right, the meltdown would be epic.

"Oh, and did she include the part where she was being a spiteful, vindictive crow to only just now start doing her job?" I pulled out some leftover chicken and started cutting it up. Salads were quick and sounded good with what we had.

"What's that supposed to mean? I know you, Taylor; I don't think you'd do that without good reason. But your old man isn't really a mind reader, you know?"

In retrospect, that was a super depressing thing for him to say with that kind of "I'm lost, here" feeling. I didn't appreciate just how broken he was by mom's death until much later. As it was, I took the opportunity to brag.

"I think you'll actually be proud of me for this. The Man tried to screw me and I won anyway." I pulled down the vinegar and started an emulsion with some of the random herbs we had in the cupboard. It wasn't fresh, but the acid of the vinegar should help draw out their remaining vigour and a bit of extra ground mustard seed helped mask the mustiness.

"Doesn't sound like you got away with it at all if the months of in-schools are any indication..."

That was when I realised I may have been too focused on my own perspective on my savage takedown of Blackwell. It was reasonable for him to assume that because he didn't know the full story because I had been purposefully mum about what was happening at school. I started whisking in some olive oil (with a dash or two of chili oil to give it some presence on a whim) and weighed the merits of full disclosure alongside the "Romano or Asiago" question.

On one hand, today becomes even more soul-crushing. On the other, dad doesn't start watching me like a hawk for delinquent behaviour... because he's too busy fretting over my well-being.

The awkward silence stretched on as I attacked the vinaigrette with a vengeance, trying to figure out how best to sum up the year of constant abuse...

"...Taylor? Taylor. What's wrong, Little Owl?" He sounded worried already and I hadn't even started. Guess I finally found the threshold for his obliviousness, though I wasn't sure what precisely did it. "Why are you crying?" I took my hand off the bowl to feel my face.

...yeah, that'd do it. Apparently I wasn't as over it all and unaffected as I thought and my body thoughtfully reminded me. Thanks, parasympathetic nervous system. I sure do appreciate this.

"I..." I sighed again. This conversation would suck on any day of the week. "...can we do this after we eat? I don't want the dressing to separate." I looked over to where he was leaning on the stove. "...please?"

He folded like an amateur at the high-roller table. Yeah, it was such a typical "teen girl" thing to do, but, well, that's what I was! We lapsed into an uncomfortable silence as I wished I'd picked something more complicated to make. Something that takes hours of intense concentration.

All too soon, we followed the awkward cooking silence with awkward sitting-down-to-eat silence. Though dad was really shocked by the salad.

"Taylor, this is incredible! I don't know how, but I think it's as good as..." He faltered, the way he got lost in his memories for a couple seconds letting me know exactly who he was talking about. "...as good as Annette would make," he finished in a subdued voice. A normal voice. I shrugged.

"It's nothing special." It was adequate, I guess. As good as mom? No way, no how. His lips drew a thin frown, but he didn't argue the point. It felt weird for him to be dancing on eggshells around me. "Just using what we had around. We need to do some grocery shopping soon." He grunted in acknowledgement and that was the extent of that.

Look, I'm not going to go through the whole blow-by-blow recap of the last year and what a shit time it had been that I gave him, it's not important. The main takeaways are these:

• Dad did, in fact, care about me. I mean, yeah, obviously. But it's one thing to know and another thing entirely to have the proof of it. In a weird way, the whole ordeal was actually nice because it accounted for probably almost half as much interaction as we'd had the entire previous year. And it was only the beginning of January!

• When I explained the... deal... I'd made with Blackwell, he told me, "as a parent and professional in good standing, I discourage baiting those who hold power over you in the strongest possible terms, but between you and me? The bitch deserves it."

• I was grounded.

Though it would be more accurate to say that we were grounded. No more spending all night brooding in my room from me, no more burying himself in work at the office for him. We'd be spending evenings together and he hinted at plans for the weekend, too. Basically, it was the sort of punch-in-the-face wake-up call he needed to start being a parent again even if he wrapped it in terms of punishment because he's old fashioned like that. Honestly, I was kind of excited.

Oh, and Asiago was definitely the right choice.

There's a curious thing about the old legends and myths that mom taught me to appreciate: they borrowed from each other constantly. For example, Excalibur is Caliburn is... arguably Claìmh Solais, I think? Sorta. I don't know, the earlier bits of Celtic mythology are in a pretty unfortunate state, what with so much of it never having been written down. For example, I think Caladbolg is in that same little family even though the Irish are right next door.

The Norse have a Sword of Selection as well.

Though it is analogous to Excalibur in most ways, there is one crucial difference: Gram is an evil blade. Most historians present it as a sort of distaff counterpart.

The tales of Selection tend to teach lessons about initiative and taking control of one's own narrative.

It was all these thoughts swirling in my head as I worked. Hammering away in the forge is great stress relief. But for an artisan who invested herself in her work, the darkness of my day snuck in.

When I came to, I was once again surrounded by broken failures and a single... ‹replica›.

I've a long way to go...

"Today, let's try to fix Old Betsy."

That was how dad greeted me at breakfast on Saturday.

Old Betsy.

Mom's motorcycle.

A lingering reminder of the hole she left.

I tried to say something a few times. Maybe to ask if it was okay or if we were ready or what the point was, but I can't even really articulate the feeling I had now, let alone in the moment. It's just... Old Betsy was... like... like mom's Batmobile. It had a certain gravitas about it that made me feel like it was... sacred. Ultimately, though, I just nodded. I could tell he was in one of his stubbornly driven moods.

Probably the first one he'd had since mom died.

Seeing that, how could I disagree?

Now, you're probably wondering at this point why an English professor had a motorcycle in the first place. The pithy reason is mom ran with Lustrum's outfit back in the day. You're probably nodding along now, because you're not a goddamn illiterate and can read between the lines. And yeah, Mom was part of a parahuman's gang while getting her degree.

But Old Betsy was old even back then. The origin of this specimen was actually much earlier.

See, Great Grandpa Marcus was a marine on peacekeeping duty in Germany after the war. Somehow he met an old-blooded aristocrat girl while he was touring the countryside on leave, and they hit it off -- and let me tell you, for the longest time we thought this was a tall tale because no one could find any evidence that the Einzbern family even existed! Eventually they married but it was the 1940s and Lieselotte didn't have the greatest constitution, so she died from complications in childbirth. (Nominally. The Einzberns I've met since have been pretty twisted, but back in 2011 we were still so innocent.) Marcus got himself reassigned to a desk job in Finland shortly after to focus on raising his son, Erwin (my maternal grandfather).

Erwin, I'm told, is where mom learned to be a badass and stick to her guns. Probably where she picked up her knack for finding trouble, too, because he got into a lot of it. (Grandpa Ernie always insisted trouble found him and he was innocent. These days? I think he was probably right.) Anyway, he ended up bringing home a stray Lyudmilla Edelfelt who was on the lam from her family. The story of how that all went down went over my head when I was a kid and they were sadly gone by the time I realised I wanted to know more... but the gist of it is Ernie courted "Millie" but something about tension with the in-laws prompted what the Iron Curtain and Cold War had not and they ended up eloping back to the States. (Having done some digging: Not Surprised.)

Crap, I'm explaining this all wrong.

Okay.

So.

Old Betsy started life as a BMW R12 that Great Grandpa Marcus "liberated" from the Wehrmacht... somehow. And it was how he got around. And then it was how Grandpa Ernie got around two decades later. And then, in the '80s, it was mom's turn to get around while she was away in Boston for college.

That's when the name came up, it turns out. See, in mom's hands, she was as docile and reliable as a well-fed milk cow but the moment she was lent to any of mom's... "colleagues", let's say... she turned into a temperamental nag if she ran at all.

So now that that unnecessary tangent is over, you might as least understand why I was treating her like a family heirloom. Y'know, because she basically was at that point.

And yet the task of working on her really started with cleaning up around her and making space in the garage. That was when a bit of serendipity came my way. For once.

"What's that?"

Dad followed my finger to the top shelf of the tool box and his eyes widened momentarily.

"That, Little Owl, is your great grandfather's combat knife he used in World War 2." He chuckled a bit. "It's also the first thing I saw when I met Annette."

I goggled at him and looked back at the knife again. That explained the size, at least.

"That sounds like a story."

"Okay," he admitted sheepishly, holding up his hands in surrender, "it wasn't as grand as I'm making it sound. I was just in town for my journeyman exam and saw a nerdy-looking girl wandering near the yard." He drifted over to the bench and picked it up, turning it over in his hands awkwardly, eyes far away from the present. "Then when I called out, she whipped around and pulled this on me." Matching action to word, he drew the knife and held it out awkwardly in... what I guess he thought a proper grip looked like.

I very nearly broke out laughing. His form was just so... well, it might best be described as "endearingly terrible". I think he thought my grin was for the rest of the story, and I wasn't going to disabuse him of the notion.

...

...

I wanted it.

I really, really, really wanted the combat knife, drawn by an urge I couldn't understand or explain.

"Dad... do you think I could... have it? Great Grandpa's knife?"

He gave me a Look.

"I don't know, Taylor, knives are bad news. They're not something you use to defend yourself if you don't really know what you're doing and-"

I plucked it from his hand and-

‹Judging the concept of creation›

-oh my, that was a rush. If the steak knife had given me peeks into the history of the blade, this knife that was made to be a weapon was more like observing a movie-

‹Imitating the skill of its making›

-with a degree of there-ness that puts even the best holoshows to shame. For an instant, I lived in the boots of a long-dead relative, infiltrating camps to stab Nazi scum to death and sabotage supply lines.

Turns out when they said "he was a marine", they really meant Grandpa Marcus was a Marine Raider.

‹Reproducing the accumulated years›

I brandished the OSS Stiletto of my forebear, flipping it easily from a sabre grip to a reverse grip, and fell into a ready stance perfect for guarding (or ventilating unsuspecting Krauts).

I didn't want dad to think I wanted to attack anyone, after all.

It was for self defense!

Honest!

"Taylor," he breathed. He was already bewildered, and he flinched when I looked him in the eye. I probably shouldn't have kept in a stance that promised violence if anyone made any sudden moves (or happened to be Jerry). It took him a few seconds before he deflated, reminding me that I didn't need to emulate a coiled spring either and I eased off, flipping the blade back to a casual sideways grip loosely at my side. "God, you have no idea how much you remind me of your mother right now."

Oof, that explained why he looked like he'd seen a ghost. And I felt bad, too. "S-sorry..."

He shook his head, dispelling what haunted him. "No, you didn't do anything wrong. If anything, it's my fault for not noticing until now how strong the resemblance is even though you're my daughter." More head shaking, this time in shame. "But I have to ask... where'd you learn that?"

"Oh! Uhm..." I didn't think that through. Come on, power, slow down time so I can think up an excuse! The uncertain silence dragged on at normal time speed. Thanks, power, you're a real sport. "Internet!"

He, a reasonable human being, raised a sceptical eyebrow.

I'm pretty sure I started blushing at this point.

"Uhm, that is, I started looking things up on the internet around the time I started jogging because... well, the Bay, right?" I shrugged. We both knew it was a rough town. "I already have a lot of experience cooking-" He winced at that. "-so I kinda... uh, practiced with those. I was going to visit a surplus store near Lord's Market this weekend, but this..." I held it up and studied the bluing on the blade. "...this is family. I can't really explain it, but I think Great Grandpa would want his knife to serve his granddaughter the way it served him." I carefully avoided mentioning that this knife had seventy-three confirmed kills the way it served him. That would have made me for a parahuman for sure.

He studied me just as intensely. "Just so we're absolutely, 100% clear: this is a tool for protecting yourself, Taylor, and you're absolutely not thinking about retaliating against a certain group of bullies when you go back to school. Right?"

My eyes were steadily widening in realisation as he told me I wasn't allowed to murder my tormentors. I wasn't Nemesis and had no designs on punishing them (so overtly), but I hadn't thought about what it would look like from his perspective. (If you're noticing a theme, well, this hindsight is embarrassing for me too.)

"Jesus, dad, really!?" Even if I understand where he was coming from, I still think it was rude.

"Taylor." He was dead serious. It was another sign he cared. That he was trying to be better. How could I not meet him halfway?

I took a breath to calm myself, get the hackles of indignation down, and met his eyes. "I promise, I won't kill my classmates with grandpa's knife even if they're horrible. I won't even bring it to school." He furrowed his brow and raised a finger... and froze, mouth open as if he was going to object for... like five seconds? But instead he just closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Little Owl, you really wouldn't believe how similar this conversation is to one I had with Annette. And you have the same sense of humour, too..." When he proffered the sheath, it was with solemn silence. Pushing away my surprise, I took it gingerly and slid the blade home while Dad turned away and started pushing things around on the workbench. It was only because I was still watching him warily that I saw the water drop.

Fuck. Sorry, dad.

I busied myself organising a shelf on the other side of the garage. One with enough distance that he could mourn the wound I'd inadvertently opened in peace. I still wonder if I should have given him a hug instead. Would it have saved him some heartache? Or would it have just made things worse?