It dawned on Clarence that the incoherent noises his mouth was making instead of words were the reason the word splutter existed.
Never in the history of mankind had a wedding invitation been so infuriating.
What could he do? What could he say? Don't get married, Chevalier, it's a Simurgh plot?
And it was a Simurgh plot, it was, it was.
It was.
Four months ago, when Jessica Yamada had reappeared in New York after a longer than expected stay in the Cauldron Thinkers' alternate dimension, she had refused to answer questions about Contessa because of "doctor-patient confidentiality." She had deigned to say that she thought Contessa was unlikely to destroy everything.
Unlikely.
Two weeks after that, she'd filed for divorce from her husband (she'd had a husband?) and, two weeks after that, she'd taken up with Chevalier.
He'd expressed his worries, but the Wardens were more interested in not alienating their only therapist than in listening to his theories. She was undoubtedly keeping in touch with Contessa because she would disappear from Bet for a couple hours every week or so, but Chevalier had abruptly put an end to Legend's efforts to tail her.
And now, the consequences: this pernicious invitation announcing that the only surviving parahuman therapist and the head of the Wardens were engaged and to please save the date.
And Legend couldn't do anything about it.
The problem was that, if you went around insisting that everything was a Simurgh conspiracy, even and especially if it was obviously a Simurgh conspiracy, people refused to take you seriously. If you wanted to carry on about how an obviously good and joyous thing was going to destroy everything, somehow, because of the Simurgh, people actively started to avoid you.
Clarence ground his teeth. He wanted to find and kill Contessa or, more feasibly, fly to the upper reaches of the atmosphere and scream at the Simurgh for ruining everything. But he had more pressing duties to attend to, like being the only sane parahuman with any degree of power.
So he texted Arthur and told him to plan on going to a wedding in September, because Chevalier, happy, yay, and went through the rest of the mail.
Pizza delivery advertisement.
Pizza delivery advertisement.
A pizza and subs delivery advertisement, as though he'd ever eat a sandwich or anything else that involved bread again. (Following what he privately referred to as The Bread Incident, he'd told Arthur he wanted to go gluten free. Arthur had said that was okay for him, but he was going to continue to on as before. Being taunted on a weekly basis by his own husband's oatmeal raisin cookies was another thing Legend could blame on the Simurgh or/and Contessa.)
Yet another pizza delivery advertisement.
A single, blank index card.
He flipped it over, half expecting to be told two large one-topping pizzas could be his for the reasonable post-apocalyptic fee of $45!
Instead, there was a note in unfamiliar handwriting.
free to a good home
Huh?
Whatever. He threw it and the pizza advertisements into the recycling bin—everything was recyclable now, as fuel if nothing else—and started to get dinner ready. Once the meatloaf was in the oven, he put potatoes on to boil (he used his power to heat the water up instantaneously) and decided to check on Keith. His son had been relatively quiet for the past couple of hours, which bore investigation.
As Legend walked into the living room, he saw why: Keith had a playmate.
A dark-haired girl who looked like she should be in third or fourth grade, dressed in gray slacks and a pale blue button down, was lying on her stomach next to the wooden trainset that Keith had erected in the middle of the living room floor. The two of them were involved in a heated discussion over which train had priority at the turntable, Gordon or Henry. Keith was losing the argument, which wasn't surprising; Clarence hadn't seen her this young before, but her features and demeanor were unmistakable.
Contessa had fucking cloned herself.
He saw red.
"Get the fuck away from my son!" he bellowed, and hurled a few dozen dividing lasers at her.
Keith, who'd never seen his daddy angry, began to wail.
She was moving almost before he started firing, easily dodging everything he threw at her. Gordon and James and Henry and the rest of the Island of Sodor disintegrated.
Keith screamed louder, and something—
the entities, selecting the version of earth they intended to colonize
—happened.
Fissures of blue white energy opened along the floor, emanating from a central point—Keith. When they reached something—the wall, the couch, they exploded. New fissures appeared wherever Keith looked.
Legend resumed firing, but several lines of Keith's energy made a beeline for him and exploded in his face. Contessa was still weaving in and out of harm's way, but Keith's power seemed to explode around her every time she tried to move.
Finally, Legend scooped up his crying kindergartner and blasted through the roof. "Hey, buddy. It's okay. It's okay. I got you. I'm so sorry, buddy. You're fine. It's okay. This means you're a superhero now. That's so cool. You're so cool. It's okay. Everything is okay."
Keith's sobs eventually turned to hiccups. Legend looked down at his house, which they'd purchased in a Connecticut suburb in a different earth. The central part of the roof was completely blown out, and smoke was rising.
Arthur, who prided himself on maintaining the house and garden to exacting, nearly superhuman standards, was going to be so mad.
Legend sighed and floated back down.
The small Contessa was still in the living room. She'd found a fire extinguisher and put out the flames, but everything was still smoldering. She looked distraught.
He felt sorry for her and wanted to give her a hug.
Then he felt angry because she was probably using her power to make him feel that way.
"What," he growled, "were you thinking?"
"I'm—I'm sorry," she said. "I was supposed to give you a message. She told me to wait outside, but . . . but . . . " She looked guiltily at Keith.
But, tiny S-class threat or not, she was a kid, and he'd yet to meet someone Keith couldn't pull into his games.
"I get it," he said. "She cloned herself, so I should give up any thought of killing her. Message received. Please leave."
"Not what I meant," she said. "I'm supposed . . . I'm not supposed to go back to her."
He thought of the index card he'd found in the mailbox.
"She wants me to adopt her?" He wanted to shout, but he couldn't afford to do that in front of Keith, not again.
"She said the Wardens are too fragile to last long without help. And that I should be the help. And that you'd provide the best moral oversight."
"Look. Contessa."
"That's not my name," she said.
"Not Contessa, then. You probably don't know this, but your progenitor is—not a good person. She did a lot of very, very, very bad things, and she lied to me to make me help her. That's not something I can just forget."
Before she could reply, the front door slammed.
"Oh, my God. Oh my God. Ohmygod. Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. Clarence! Keith!"
Arthur's voice, panicked.
Legend froze. How was he going to explain this one?
"Oh, thank God," Arthur said, on seeing his family safe. Then he got angry. "What did you do? Why is everything burned? Why did you destroy the afghan that was a present from my dying grandmother? Why is our son crying!"
"This is actually pretty good," Clarence blurted. "As far as Shaker triggers go."
Arthur looked a little sad. "He has powers now?"
"Yeah," Legend said. "Same energy as my lasers and the bursts are explosive. No fine control or flying, but something tells me he'll get a special boost if he ever fights with capes."
"I see." Arthur gave him a disapproving look for mentioning violence and fights. Keith held out his arms to his other dad and Arthur took him. "Who are you?" he asked the intruding Contessa.
"Leaving," Clarence said.
"Fortuna," she said piteously, looking pathetic and woebegone. "I have a really useful power and I want to help people, but I'm a homeless orphan with nowhere to go."
In the moment that Arthur shot him a hopeful look, Clarence dimly realized that he'd already lost.