“Oh absolutely. I mean when I look at my sons, and the attitudes they have, the openness with which they can talk about-” “Exactly-” “It’s, even in one generation. Such a positive change-” “Right, exactly-”

“What’d you always say? Self-sufficient to run a household by eighteen or you’d failed as a parent?”

“And I’m looking, and I’m looking, and I can’t find anything else that’s missing, and I’m going ‘why would someone break in here just to move a pot plant?!’ And I’m legitimately losing it.”

As ever happened with these size gatherings, several conversations were happening at once. Matt’s father Michael Callaghan and the Ashes Charles Farrington were deep in discussion about the true demise of the late Captain Dawn; the latter lamenting the mental burdens Walter Reid had carried following his wife’s passing, the former nodding sagely along and returning always to the importance of mental health. Jane, seated next to Mr Callaghan, had inched her chair closer towards them and was listening intently, though she’d refrained from contributing anything just yet.

To her left, Matt was acting faux-weary and being faux-henpecked by Kathryn Callaghan, his mother, as both couched real sadness, concern and love in the ebb and sway of gentle, familiar barbs. Matt’s younger brother, Jonas, seated next to his mother, listened in with a mixture of admiration and envy as they discussed Matt’s independence – missing for the most part subtext he would not recognise for years to come.

Then, across the other end of the tables, a large group of Legion members sat spread out around a corner, one by one trading stories of classmates who had fallen. The current speaker was Wally, and the room rang with laughter as he recounted a tale of being unknowingly tormented by Chino, the Colombian floramancer.

“And I just… I feel guilty. I really do.” “Oh no don’t do that to yourself-” “No I mean I do, I-” “It’s not your fault. You never know what’s going on behind closed doors, no one ever does.” “No but I suspected. I wondered. So many people, I think, worshipped the ground on which he walked-”

“Yes, well, I suppose with all your grown-up money you probably just hire a maid.” “Jane won’t let me hire a maid.” “Won’t she? She’s a good girl. Well I’d still better come round. I shudder to think what state the house is in.” “See Jonas? Pay attention. That’s what’s called a Trojan Horse.”

“And I spend, I kid you not, two weeks thinking something’s wrong with me. I’m going… is it too hot, is the sunlight somehow spreading it through the air, am I inhaling it in my sleep, am I losing my…? Because every time I get back the pot’s in a different place, like shuffled one two three, and I swear to God I have never touched it, I swear, this plant is messing with me more than any weed I’ve ever smoked...”

The door to the room creaked open and Matt glanced up to see Jane’s father enter. The man was dressed in a blue plaid shirt and oil-stained jeans and his face was rough with stubble, but his eyes were clear. Father and daughter caught each other’s gaze from across the room and neither looked away, at least not immediately; instead, after a few moments’ hesitation, there was a small, stiff exchange of nods. Jane turned back to Mr Callaghan and Mr Farrington’s discussion as her father wound his way gradually around the edge of the tables.

“It sounds like it’s been a real revelation for you.” “There’s been a lot of soul-searching. We don’t help people by treating them like that.” “No. The same reason that makes us wrangle with a neighbour causes a war betwixt princes.” “Montaigne. Exactly.”

“What’s Trojan? Like the condoms?” “Absolutely not. All those Greek myths I read you when you were little-” “Do they make condoms for horses?” “Ask Celeste.” “Matt, don’t encourage him. Although speaking of…” “One word about that and you’ll never see your grandchildren.” “Oh, so I am expecting grandchildren?”

“And then finally, finally, after legitimately a fortnight I have this revelation; because see the pots were pretty similar, right, you know that red ceramic brown, but one had this little chip in it, and I suddenly realise it’s not the pots that’s moving, it’s the plant.”

Jane’s father had reached the back of the table where his daughter and Matt were seated. He glanced down at Jane, who first met then uncomfortably averted her eyes.

“Hi,” he said. The word stumbled a bit coming out and he fell silent. Then: “Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s fine,” Jane replied, still avoiding his gaze.

“I just got caught up… there was a leak… the hot water…”

“It’s okay,” Jane mumbled, “Really.”

Beside her, Matt’s hand slid under the table and squeezed gently above Jane’s knee. Jane didn’t turn to him, but instead after a moment forced herself to look back up at her father. She pulled her face into something resembling a smile, which after a moment Peter Walker returned. Jane pushed her chair back and rose awkwardly, and for a few moments the two of them just sort of stood there, making small indecisive motions. Finally, after a series of jerky, aborted movements they embraced in a brief, stiff hug. Jane quickly patted her father on the back; then she detached without looking at him, immediately sat back down and returned to averting her gaze. Peter glanced around the room with uncertainty, but a few seats along Matt’s mother smiled and indicated to a chair between Jonas and a sleeping Sarah. Relieved, Jane’s father shuffled over and sat inconspicuously down.

They were both trying, Matt knew. During the fight with the Black Death, while a horde of distant minds had telepathically distracted Klaus Heydrich long enough to give Matt some mental breathing room, Jane’s father had reached out and connected with Jane, filling a void of need and understanding that had been growing in his daughter since she was just a little girl. In that moment, it was a perfect gift of self-affirmation and love. But that was the thing about moments of soul-baring catharsis; they were just moments. Eventually the emotions fade, and you were forced to return to the awkward reality that you were still two people carrying a lifetime of pain and baggage. Jane’s relationship with her father could not heal instantly, because the hurt that had grown between them had not grown instantly, and the heart needed the same time to repair as any muscle. Which was why every second Thursday, from two to four in the afternoon, Jane and Peter Walker attended therapy with the most discreet counsellor Matt’s extensive research had been able to find them. What went on in those sessions, Jane didn’t really discuss, and Matt didn’t really push. From what she did say, it was slow, uncomfortable progress. But progress all the same.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Jane’s Dad, too, was technically under the Legion’s protection. Unlike Matt’s family though, this seemed more courtesy than caution – few people possessed enough of a death wish to threaten the life of Lady Dawn’s sole remaining and only recently reconnected parent.

“The goddamn plant is moving, and so I go next door and find Chino, and he is just laughing his ass off because he’s been, you know, tapping our bedroom wall whenever hears me leaving, being like ‘come on little weed plant, shuffle over a pot or two’.”

At the other end of the tables, oblivious to Peter Walker’s discreet entrance, the loose confederation of Legion members broke into peals of laughter as Wally’s story reached its crux. The red-headed psychic, dressed tonight in a purple Hawaiian shirt with white flowers, hiccupped into weak chuckles as he wiped away a tear.

“He was such a prick,” he sniffed. The words came with a smile, but by the time they were spoken redness blotched around Wally’s eyes. Will touched him gently on his back, and the psychic turned at him, smiled, and shook his head.

“To Chino,” Wally said, raising his glass.

“To Chino,” those around him echoed, and around the room the call was taken up. The other conversations nearby lapsed into temporary silence, drawn in by the Legion’s toast. Wally wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffed.

“He didn’t like me,” Giselle stated.

“No way,” laughed Will.

“No,” the speedster replied, “He really didn’t. The first time I met him I asked where he was from and he said ‘Colombia’ and I started talking about how much I loved their campus when I was in New York.” A bark of laughter ran round the room. “I genuinely didn’t know,” lamented Giselle. She held the side of her head. “Genuinely, I didn’t. His English was so good, I thought he must’ve grown up there, or… I don’t know. He thought I was so dumb.”

“James used to get tripped up on the same thing,” said Wally, “I remember he’d complain about it, Chino, every time there were drills and they were dividing by country or whatever, he’d always spell ‘Colombia’ with a ‘U’. ‘Columbia’. And Chino kept telling him, bro, that’s not how you spell my country, but he just… every time James would forget. Every time.” Laughter washed across the tables; though after a few moments the sound faded, and the room fell silent save for distant scratching as Jonas scraped his fork across his plate.

“He was such a knucklehead,” murmured Giselle. She started back up with a smile. “James.”

“Yeah.”

“But he always meant well.”

“Yeah.”

“I remember- I remember-” she laughed- “-I remember this one time, maybe… three months after I’d joined the Academy. Like, green as. They’ve got us out, doing these, I don’t know, press tours? Like promotional sort of things, Q and A, to like show off their young people… I don’t know!” She raised her hands to patches of laugher, smiling her usual bright grin. “Anyway it was him, and me, and Nat I think‑?” she gestured to the psychic, “-and maybe Winters. Anyway I’m so nervous, I am- this is my first public thing, I have no idea what they’re going to be asking, and I just, I just know I’m going to mess it up.”

The speedster sighed. “Anyway there I am,” she said, “Nineteen, scared out of my mind, and we’re up on stage and there was this guest there, I can’t remember, some politician… some guy… anyway he’s being a total creep, he’s leaning over, keeps touching me, touching my hair and saying things like… God what was it… oh, like ‘don’t be nervous, just imagine we’re all naked, can you imagine that gorgeous, can you imagine us naked?’” Giselle made a face as the listeners murmured. “And then laughing and smiling at me, and I’m just, ugghh!” She shuddered. “So gross. But I’m terrified, you know, because I’m nineteen, and I’ve just started, and he’s some big important man and I don’t want to embarrass the Legion… which is crazy, freaking crazy right, in retrospect, I should’ve told just him to get bent…”

She shook her head. “But I didn’t, right, because I’m nineteen, I just kept sitting there, and James was sitting beside me, and I remember the whole time this guy’s hitting on me his eyes, James’, just keep getting narrower and narrower; but he’s not saying anything, right, he’s just sort of silently glaring this dude out.”

“And so finally the thing starts,” she continued, “And Winters gets up and says something, and this guy gets up and says something, and I’m just sitting there panicking, panicking, because I am so nervous, so nervous. And then it’s James’ turn, and I’m watching him, just petrified – and as I watch this politician guy sits down, and he slowly gets up, James, you know how he was, this enormous, gigantic guy… And he starts slowly walking, super weird, walking super stiff, right past everyone, because they’d got him right down the end. And he walks past me, and he walks past Winters, and I’m going ‘what the hell is wrong with him’ because it’s like he’s got this rod up his back, and I’d never seen him move like this before.” She leaned in as if concerned. “And it’s super weird, and I remember I thought I had this revelation, like ‘oh my God, he must be just as nervous as I am, even though he’s so big and intimidating, we’re actually in the same boat.’ And in the moment it was reassuring, you know? But then James keeps walking, taking these slow, little ponderous steps; until he’s right up in front of this politician, and just as he goes past he gives this tiny little turn, James, this tiny little like‑” she mimicked in her seat, “-shuffle of the hips, you know just so his butt was angled towards him for a moment, and there’s this low almost inaudible ‘pop’.” Giselle paused, glancing around the faces, letting the silent anticipation billow. “And this dude, blegh-” she made a face- “-he recoils back like he’s been slapped, almost falls off his chair, as he’s hit full in the face by this absolutely pulverising fart.”

The room exploded with laughter; Natalia cackling like she’d stepped back from stirring a cauldron, Wally laughing so hard he was having trouble breathing. Even Jane cracked a grin. The laughter carried on for a few seconds as Giselle wiped away tears. “I know. I know! And it was just… perfect, you know, because what could this guy do? He can’t do anything, not without making a scene, because to everyone it just looked like he’s leaned back a little too far, you know, like he’s wobbled on his chair and had to throw his arms up so he didn’t fall… but I know, and James knows, and this dude knows, because you could just see like this ripple, this impact hit his cheeks, like a dent, and it was all this guy could do to sit there and take it, and just glare daggers at James while he’s giving his speech. And James just does not care. He doesn’t look at him, not a single backwards glance, he just says his piece about inspiration or what have you and trundles right back along, shoulders straight, never so much as glancing behind him, cool as you freaking please. And this dude’s just got to sit there, and pretend to smile, with his hair all ruffled and his suit all crumpled- and the smell!” Giselle threw back her head, almost choking on tears. “Oh God the smell. It was so bad! Like something had crawled up inside his butthole and died. I just… it was the protein. Oh god it must’ve been the protein, it… it was the worst thing I’ve ever smelled, in my entire goddamn life.” The room howled with laughter.

“And he just…” Giselle’s voice cracked, and she lifted her gaze to the ceiling, shaking her head – the tears in her eyes no longer merriment, but twinned through now with grief. “It was the absolute perfect thing he could’ve done. Right then. And he was just like that sometimes, you know? Always an ass, always getting things wrong, until sometimes, out of nowhere, he’d just do something completely right.” There was a general murmuring of agreement. “This was one of those. It was… spectacular. A work of art.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve; then forced her lips into a watery smile. “A work of fart.”

Everyone in the room groaned, and there was a general clattering as at least half of those present took a swig of their drinks on almost instinctual reaction to the terrible pun. Tears still trickling down her cheeks, yet smiling, defiant, Giselle raised her glass.

“To James,” she said.

“To James.” And once more they took up the call.