All jobs had been cancelled. Leaving the mansion was banned even for the unpowered children. The doors were all locked and dad was nowhere to be found. His wives had disappeared into the forbidden rooms of the uppermost floor, doors locked behind them.
Anarchy was quick to fall on the Vasil children. The eldest muscled their way around, commandeering the TV, the computer, and the better bedrooms, where the doors still had locks and you weren't expected to share. The fridge had been emptied within the day, with Anita stockpiling food and barricading herself into the little en suite bedroom on the second floor, hoping to avoid all conflict.
Flor ambled around as normal, drawing on the walls with crayons wherever she went. Sam was taking care of meals for her, since the other siblings scattered when she came near, except for Juliette, immune and happy to tag along. Everything went smoothly as long as Flor was steered away from the kitchen, where the twins and Victoire were waging war with the boys, throwing trash at each other from behind sofas, occasionally scrapping with fists and feet.
Only Martina was walking around as usual, taking whatever she needed for herself and the two pregnant parahumans in her care. While the dwindling supplies were bad news, it was hard not to enjoy the lack of superpowered supervision. Nobody wanted to interfere with her and risk bringing that to an end.
Heartbreaker, for his part, stayed sequestered on his floor, surrounded by his harem, brooding. He had his two new girls nearby: Louise and Sarah, pretty young blondes who could be mistaken for sisters. The others moved around, taking care of their looks, keeping abreast of the news, and worrying silently about him.
Jean-Paul. Cherie. Now Guillaume. He wasn't a paranoid man, but he was frustrated. Why always his best? Precious few of his remaining family had powers that were of use. Nicholas and Octave, both of whom had their own limitations. Florence was the only one who was truly useful, and that would have to wait until she was old enough to be trained.
He sighed, reached for Louise, imparting a spark of lust into her. She gasped and flushed, and as he motioned for her to approach, climbed astride him and opened his trousers. She began working to excite him with feverish hands.
Leaning back on his bed, Heartbreaker stared at the ceiling. Worst come to worst, he could go out himself, pack up and find somewhere new. Travelling was more dangerous without Cherie, but he'd done it once before, when they'd found Jean-Paul. That outing had been a failure, but it had proven he could still elude the authorities when it mattered. They couldn't touch him without risking the death of all his girls. The one Guillaume had been trying to recruit – Sunbeam, aka Calandra Wallace – had to be made to suffer.
It was a couple of minutes before he realised something was wrong. He lifted his head to see Louise, still desperately doing her best with him, but getting nowhere. She glanced at him nervously, and he waved her away. He sensed the sting of rejection she felt, but ignored it.
Just a one-off, he told himself. He wasn't that old, not yet.
There was the faint sound of a giggle across the room. He turned his head sharply, but the girls on the sofa there were perfectly straight-faced, feeling nothing but love and concern for him. They were poring over the laptops, researching US and Canadian cape news, Jean-Paul and Sunbeam. He fed them a little extra focus, a little extra devotion. Perhaps one of them had been distracted.
But no. Another giggle. This time from the doorway. Louise was there, exiting. But there was no amusement from her either. She was crying.
The faintest whisper drifted from the sofa: "Old man."
He leapt to his feet, striding towards the offending group. He didn't care who had said it, he was going to—
He tripped at the corner of the rug and fell, face first. His forehead bounced off the edge of the sofa. Half the girls were fleeing his anger; the other half gathered around him, cooing their worry, trying to help him up. To his surprise, as he rolled into a sitting position, he found his leg was bleeding. His cheek, too, now that he thought about it. And his hand. And his shoulder.
Surprising, from a short fall onto a carpet.
He allowed himself to be helped to bed, and his wounds were dressed with tender care. He lay back and turned on the TV. He would deal with the children tomorrow.
He forgot all about the children on entering the bathroom in the morning.
The word flaccid was scrawled on his bathroom mirror in permanent marker.
He snapped his fingers and the three girls closest scurried to his side. They took in the graffiti with wide eyes. All of them felt genuine surprise.
"Clean it," he said, and they hurried away. Sighing, he used the toilet and as he turned to leave, his hand caught on something. He looked down, saw nothing. After a moment, it moved again.
LIMP DICK was written on his arm. Another disembodied laugh, unmistakably at his expense.
Rage boiled up in him. This was someone's doing. Someone was fucking with him. One of his innumerable children had triggered, it had to be, but who would dare—
He took a deep breath and relaxed. It didn't matter. They were just childish pranks. He began soaping the writing off his skin. He would deal with the children, and he would get to the bottom of this, in time.
Downstairs, Anita smiled.
"Is that it?" Samuel had asked with a bored tone, eyeing the bottle of pills in Imp's hand. "He doesn't get to fuck anyone? I expected more, I have to admit."
A glance at Anita had showed Imp that the other girl agreed. She was really going to have to teach them a thing or two about respect.
She had grinned behind her mask. "Oh ye of little faith. That shit's the distraction."