Disclaimer: You mean I don't get the rights to "The Cape" as a reward for passing the bar exam? Blast!

When You See My Face

Peter blinked. His daughter wasn't using the name Jamie.

She's not using your name, Peter. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. It would have been far easier to track her if she was using the name Jamie Fleming. It made sense, but that didn't ease the pain of learning she'd rejected his name. He wondered what name she was using.

"Well?"

Right, he hadn't answered her question.

"Your father told me."

You idiot. Now that the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could take them back.

"My father? You don't know who my father is! You couldn't!" But he did know, didn't he? Orwell ran a hand through her hair.

"Peter Fleming."

"How long have you known? I suppose he told you the last time you were fighting, but-Damn it! I was working so hard to cover my tracks. How could he have figured out that I'm Orwell? Vince? Vince? Are you alright?"

"I, I'll be fine. I just had a rough night, that's all," Peter lied as he collapsed into a chair. His daughter was Orwell. His daughter wrote those exposès for that blog. She was the blogger his men were hunting. Oh god!

"That's not all, is it? You're mad at me for not telling you who I am and mad at me for being his daughter."

"Now you listen to me: I am not 'mad at you' for being a Fleming. I could never hold that against you."

"But?"

"But I am sorry that I didn't know who you were."

"I am sorry, Vince. I hope you can forgive me. Uh, can I ask you a question? What's with the fake British accent? It's a little creepy."

Creepy? I thought it sounded distinguished. You should've raised her in Britain.

Peter raised his eyebrows. Come to think of it, his voice did sound like Faraday's, if he recalled correctly, except it sounded warped by the accent that Peter had used without thinking about it. Not a good way to keep Jamie from getting suspicious. Okay, he had lived on this side of the pond long enough. He could fake an American accent.

"My apologies. Must've spent too much time talking to your father," he wondered if she would believe that. Why would she think he would be speaking to a man that, until very recently, he believed did not have a pulse?

"Is that better?"

"Yes."

If you're trying to impersonate Faraday, then yes.

This was going to hurt his head. Maybe this was a very vivid dream… Even if Faraday were alive, what would his daughter be doing with him?

"I don't want to appear rude, Jamie, but why are you here?"

"Oh my god, I almost forgot! Scales broke out of Owl Island last night."

"How is that possible? That place is a fortress!" This had to be Portman's fault. If he'd been allowed to take over the prisons, Peter would have ensured that Raoul never saw the light of day again.

"I haven't finished going through the security footage, yet."

"How did you get the security footage?"

Jamie gave him a look that clearly said, Duh, I'm Orwell. He'd really like to know how she pulled off those tricks. She certainly hadn't picked up her hacking skills from him.

"Anyway, the guards were distracted somehow and…"

"And what?" he prompted.

"He kept bashing his head into the bars until they came loose."

I can't believe you ever hired that nutter.

Wasn't that what was known as the pot calling the kettle black?

"I think we both know who he's going to go after."

I wanted to kill him, but no! You said it would be enough to let him take the fall for killing Voyt.

"Look, I know protecting him isn't your favorite job and I don't blame you. But I have to ask you to do it again. After everything the bastard has done, he's still my father."

Even though his daughter had just called him a bastard, Peter smiled. She still loved him. Then he processed what else she'd said.

"Jamie, what do you mean you have to ask me to protect-your father- 'again'?"

"What, did you hit your head on patrol? You remember what happened with Dice, it wasn't that long ago."

Dice…Oh, she means Tracey. She could've been fun if she wasn't trying to kill us.

He had wanted to shag her. Probably wasn't a good sign that he fancied his would-be assassin. (Although, hearing Chess' voice in his head was enough to prove that he wasn't normal.) The savant might have succeeded, too, if he hadn't been saved by The Cape…

"You have got to be kidding me!"

We didn't switch places with a ghost, just with our archenemy.

"I know, I should've told you that I had an ulterior motive for asking you to save his life, but I didn't know if you would still go through with it if you knew."

"Could you remind me what you said to persuade me that The Cape should save Chess?"

"He's not just Chess," Orwell mumbled.

"I know that."

"You do?" Orwell looked at him skeptically.

"Chess is just one part of who I, of who he is. He's your father; he can't be completely bad. But I don't think you persuaded me by pointing out his redeeming qualities."

"You know what I said. I pointed out that if Dice killed him, the truth would die with him and then you'd never be able to clear your name. That Dice knew he was Chess and might be able to help you prove it."

"And she turned out to be less than cooperative in that department?"

"Guess the bitch didn't appreciate getting sent to Owl Island," Orwell shrugged. Dice should've known better. Hell hath no fury like a Fleming scorned. "Now, about Scales-"

VFVFVFVFVFVFVFVF

Vince opened his eyes and then shut them quickly. Too bright, too bright! What the hell? Why was his head pounding? He didn't remember drinking anything last night. Hadn't he learned his lesson after Max convinced him to share that snakeskin drink? Elixir of life, his ass.

Oh, god. He had to puke. He tried to walk to the bathroom with his eyes closed, but smacked into a wall. Ouch! Who put that there?

…Okay, that sounded a little drunk, but he really thought he knew the layout of his cave well enough to navigate it with his eyes closed. Alright, maybe he could just open his eyes a tiny fraction…

This wasn't his hideout! It looked familiar, though. What did it remind him of? It almost looked like…like Fleming's penthouse: amazing view of Palm City, ridiculously expensive furniture, tacky knickknacks and a chess board set up. Oh, crap! It was Fleming's penthouse. Any second Fleming would be bursting in on him with a few dozen ARK guards or a couple of Tarot assassins.

He waited a couple of seconds, but no one came bursting in. On the other hand, something was trying to make its way up. Which way was Fleming's bathroom?

Miraculously, he made it to the toilet just in time. Mind you, it would've served Fleming right if he had thrown up all over some of the expensive furniture. He washed his face and then took a look at himself in the mirror. What the…? Why did his reflection look like Fleming? No! No freaking way!

He spent the next few minutes vomiting into the sink.

Author's Note: So, what did you think? Chess still funny? Vince too screwed? Unnecessary time spent on discussing accents?

Thank you for reviewing, IronAmerica and Orwell!