For the longest time the room lay silent, save for the retreating patter of Matt’s footsteps and the ragged sounds of Jane’s breath. Alone, still wearing the uniform of a so‑called hero, surrounded by an empty bed, a stranger’s antique furniture, and the last of their worldly possessions, Jane stood feet rooted to the floor, her teeth clenched, her fists balled, her shoulders heaving.

No, her thoughts muttered: No, no, NO, NO, NO!

“AAAARGGGGGHHHHH!”

The pulsating fury exploded in Jane’s chest, and without thinking she turned and grabbed the side of the four-post bed and hurled it into the furthest wall. CRASH. The old wood shattered, mattress bouncing back and knocking over some of their boxes, the room’s panelling buckling where the frame impacted – and for some reason the fact the bed had broken, rather than the wall she’d flung it into, filled Jane with such unimaginable rage that with a wordless roar she threw out her hands and fired, blowing a hole clean through the side of Morningstar and out into the night beyond. The warm air scurried out, carrying with it a wave of dust and splinters, and for a while Jane just stood there, panting, staring into the starlit hole.

A moment passed. Then two.

“Urgh,” Jane eventually groaned. She mashed her face with the butt of her gloves, then clenched shut her eyes, then opened them again. The broken wall lay silent in front of her, cold night air continuing to creep and circle round the heels of her boots. Jane’s shoulders drooped.

“Goddamnit,” she muttered. Jane pinched the bridge of her nose, suddenly feeling like the biggest idiot in the entire world. yOu’Re NoT a GoLdeN hAmMer. Well, tell that to the enormous freaking hole in the wall. Jane let out an exhausted sigh. What was wrong with her?

Her rage suddenly reduced to cinders, Jane trudged over towards the jagged opening, grabbing the upturned mattress with one hand and dragging it behind her. She drifted out into open air, pulled the bulk of the mattress into place so that it clogged up the opening, and then just sort of hung there, four stories above the Academy grounds, gazing in resigned defeat back at the white patch on the upper floor of Morningstar. Someone was going to have to fix that, she lamented internally, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. She’d caused a literal security breach.

Already outside and unwilling to go take the stairs like a regular person, in case she ran into anybody – or God forbid, Matt – and had to explain what the hell just happened, Jane instead floated down towards the maintenance hut that lay on the Academy’s outskirts, a small cottage next to a larger shed where she knew the Legion kept repair equipment and supplies. Her feet touched down outside the cottage door, white planks with a single window, and she rapt her knuckles on the wood, letting out a deep sigh and staring down at the nondescript brown doormat. Jane was so caught up with thoughts of what she was going to say, the attack on Matt and her own stupidity, that she didn’t put two and two together until the door opened, and she found herself face to face with someone familiar.

“Jane?”

Jane opened her mouth for a few seconds and then shut it, abruptly thrown. Standing in the doorway, her father’s weathered brow furrowed, his face creased with concern.

“Dad.”

“This… this is an unexpected surprise.”

“I… yes.”

“Is everything okay?” he asked, sounding worried. Though it was late, Peter Walker still had on denim jeans and a thick flannelette shirt, and as he stood gawking at her in concern his oil‑stained hands wiped themselves unconsciously on a dirty rag hanging from his left pocket. His hair was its usual tangled brown bird’s nest and his cheeks bore a few days of scratchy stubble – but his movements were alert, and his eyes weren’t bloodshot and didn’t have bags under them.

“I, ah-” Jane forced a swallow, shook her head a little, and focused on why she’d come. “I, um… I needed some repairs.”

“Oh.” In the dim porchlight she saw her father’s face fall slightly, but he picked himself back up before it could be down for more than an instant. “Seemed a bit late for a visit.”

“No, it’s not… I just… there’s a hole in the manor.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding sagely, “Right.”

“It’s my fault,” admitted Jane, with a sinking sigh, “I know it’s late, and I’m an idiot, it’s just-”

Her father held up a hand. “Say no more,” he said, level and calm, “Not the first and won’t be the last. Happens more often than you’d think. We’ve got some good kids here who can fix it.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Most pressing question though,” the old man asked, “Is anything on fire?” As far as Jane could tell he was being completely serious.

“No.”

“Well.” Her father flashed her a small, dusty smile. “I’ve learned that’s what they call around here a ‘lower grade emergency’.” He extended his hand and held the door open. “Come in. Sit.”

Jane hesitated, but after a moment she sighed and stepped across the threshold, doing what she was told, if only to be polite, with a minimum of grumbling. Her father’s cottage was small and basic but cluttered with so many tools and plates and knick‑knacks it made it seem cosy, if not quite comfortable. A small TV sat in the corner next to the sink and a landline telephone, and the edge of an ironing board poked out from a thin built‑in wardrobe. Jane saw a lot of bits and pieces from their old home stacked up around the place – favoured mugs and a few old toys, plus lots of photographs. Kid pictures of her. Photos of Mom.

“It’s, ah, not the Ritz Carlton,” her father noted, standing on the doorway, hands shuffling to his hips, “But I don’t know. Does the job.”

Jane sat down on the single bed, the russet-coloured blanket knitted by her grandma, smoothing her cape out between her legs. “It’s nice,” she said, genuine.

Her Dad gave her a wry smile. “Ms Pixus offered to build me something bigger, but I figured… ah, I don’t know, don’t fix what ain’t broken. Besides,” he said, gazing around at the warm, cluttered home with a sense of contentment, “Give me too much space and I just rattle around.”

Jane nodded, not feeling the need to say anything further. After a moment her father clapped his hands together.

“Tea?”

“Tea?” Jane scoffed, “Since when do you drink tea?”

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“Since six months sober,” he replied, shuffling past her with a little glance back, half proud, half cheeky. He filled a clear, metal‑rimmed kettle from the sink and returned it to its base, flicking a switch that sent blue lights glowing up through the water. A thin whistle began to rise.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” He opened his mouth as if to say more, but then closed it again a moment later. They lapsed into silence while the kettle boiled, her sitting, him standing, a small distance apart. Once the high whine subsided, Peter Walker pulled open a wooden draw and set out two mugs, dropped a teabag in each and poured in a stream of steaming water.

“Milk?”

“Who are you?” Jane asked. Her father’s mouth twisted in a wry grin.

“That British girl who’s always in black’s been teaching me a thing or two. We got chatting a bit, you know, since she’s also psychic.”

“Natalia. And you mean she saw your thoughts while you were making tea one day and told you you were doing it wrong.”

“‘An insult to civilised society’, I think were the exact words,” he replied with a laugh, “Now I’m under strict instructions. It’s called milk, not cream, and so help me God if I ever put it in first I’ll be right out on the street.”

Despite herself, Jane chuckled. “She’s not cuddly.”

“All prickles,” her father agreed, “But it’s nice in a way. Reminds me of someone a bit taller.”

He handed her the tea and the two of them sipped at it, drifting back to peace and quiet.

“So,” her father said eventually, leaning on the sink across from her. He crossed his heels. “How come there’s a hole in your wall?”

“Got blown up.”

“Who blew it?”

“Me.”

“Well,” said her father, raising the mug to his lips and taking a long draw, “Guess that’s not ideal. But better than the alternative. People blasting your house in.”

“Might be simpler.”

“Suppose. Give you someone to blast back.”

“Exactly.”

“Your Mom was a fighter,” he murmured. Jane gave an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes. Peter immediately put up his hands.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, chastised, apologetic, “That’s on me.”

“Come on. We almost had a record.”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry. Sorry.” He let out a deep sigh and took another long sip from his mug. “So,” he said, deliberately changing the subject, “Hole in the wall. All the way through?”

“Yes.”

“You mean to put it there or you miss something?”

“I… when do I ever miss anything?” Jane replied, bristling. Her father laughed.

“Sorry, forgot who I’m talking to.”

“Goddamn right.”

He grinned at her. “I remember when-” But midway through the sentence the old man abruptly stopped and shook his head. “Scratch that. I don’t remember anything. Here and now. Hole in the wall. You put it there. Go.”

“I…” Jane shifted uncomfortably atop the bedspread. “Does it need explaining?” she said, frustrated, “Do I really need to tell you?”

“No,” her father replied, with what might’ve been intended to come across as an indifferent shrug, “Just thought you might want to, that’s all.”

They fell into another long silence. Jane avoided her Dad’s gaze, turning her eyes instead up into the corners of the cottage and forcing herself to take another sip of tea. The taste was warm and bittersweet.

“I… Matt and I were arguing,” she finally relented, a sigh accompanying the admission.

“You blasted Matt?” her father responded, his eyes suddenly widening with panic.

“No,” Jane grumbled, waving away his concerns, “He wasn’t in the room.”

“Ah.” The old man’s shoulders relaxed.

“I just… I was angry.”

“Okay.” Her Dad paused. “Happens to the best of us.”

“Pff,” replied Jane, puffing out her cheeks, “Don’t think the real Captain Dawn blasted many holes in his building.”

“No,” her father conceded. Then he raised a finger. “Though there was that one time that French diplomat said something rude about his wife, and he dropped a train on his Citroen.”

Jane laughed. “How do you know about that?”

“I’ve been reading books,” Peter said, sounding a little proud.

“Yeah?” she grinned, “Plundering the Legion’s library?”

“Well, when in Rome…” He smiled as he let the sentence fade. “So you were fighting. Okay. What about?”

“He…” Jane’s voice trailed off and she rubbed the bridge of her nose. “There was an attack. On the apartment.”

“I heard. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, dismissing the notion with another wave.

“Was Matt hurt?”

“No.”

“So just a normal day for the two of you then, huh?” He forced a smile, which Jane thought trembled a bit, though he tried to keep the words light. “Par for the course.”

Jane shook her head. Without knowing why, she brought her knees up to her chest and tucked them beneath her chin. “It was close. Closer than anyone’s saying. And Matt…” She sighed and ran her hands through her hair. “I don’t know. It’s like he doesn’t want me to protect him.”

For the longest time, her father said nothing. Jane stared off into the kitchen counter, watching the wisps of steam rise from her teacup, stomach churning too badly to take another sip. Eventually, her Dad set his mug down on the counter and motioned towards her, to shift aside. She did, and he sat down next to her on the bed.

“I…” he began. Then he stopped. The corners of his mouth twitched and he turned to her, hesitating. “Can… can I talk about your mother?” he asked, the words tentative, almost worried. Jane rolled her eyes, but after a few seconds she nodded.

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” He drew in a deep breath. “Back in the day when we… when she… when your Mom was working, I used to get worried a lot about the places she was going. You know, this jungle here. The Arctic. I’d worry she’d be going somewhere and get sick, or maybe get kidnapped… half of these places were warzones, and I didn’t know the people she was going with and…” He paused. “Maybe part of it was jealousy. I was worried she was gonna find some other man, someone more her speed, more exciting. I don’t know. But the point is-” he turned back to Jane, “-the point is, every time she went to go somewhere, we’d argue. About whether she should go or not, whether it was safe. And I’d get so frustrated with her, and she’d get so frustrated with me, and it wasn’t hatred, really, or selfishness. I cared about her. I was just scared for her. I didn’t want her to leave.” He sighed, and his shoulders slumped. “But she had to, you know? She had to, that’s what she kept coming back to. ‘It’s a great big world out there’, she’d say, ‘And if you’re not out in it, what’s the point in even living?’”.

He blew out his cheeks. “Which seemed crazy to me. But now I think I get it. Some people are just like that. They don’t see danger. They only see a cage.”

Jane hung her head, gazing at the dusty floorboards. “So that’s your advice?” she mumbled, “If you love something, set it free?” But to her surprise her father shook her head.

“That was where I finally got to,” he told her, “Coz that’s what everyone said. And I thought eventually they knew better, so I listened. I reasoned. And I gave in, time and time again, because I knew it’d make her happy. Even if it’d make me worry. And it worked. She kept coming back.” He choked up a laugh, little more than a dry, joyless cough. “Every time, she came back, full of life, full of stories.” And in the warm cottage light his eyes faded, and his limbs grew limp. “Until she didn’t.”

There came a long, awful silence. Then Jane’s father turned to her.

“I learned then – or maybe it took me ten years to learn,” he said, and his black eyes burned like coal, “Once I pulled my head out of my ass. But I learned, finally, that pretty sayings are just that; sayings. Dead is dead. Gone is gone. The world was no less empty because your Mom had been smiling when she died. You didn’t grow up any less alone.”

“Dad…”

“No.” He shook his head with sudden violence, tears leaking through his wrinkles. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “It is the greatest regret of my life, not protecting your mother. I should never have let her go. I should’ve locked the door, I should’ve held her down, I should’ve… anything. Everything. Even if she hated me. Forever.” He stared at Jane, his face a mask of raw determination. “I would give a thousand years of anger,” her father whispered, “To stop her getting on that plane. Because it would mean she’d still be living.” The old man shook his head. “When it comes to the people you love, the first question can’t be if they’re happy. It has to be if they’re safe. Unhappy people can get happier. Dead people only stay dead.”

In the quiet glow of the cottage, Peter Walker took his daughter’s hand, and beneath his skin Jane felt once more his telepathy – that piercing diamond opening in her mind. “You do,” he urged, “Whatever you have to do to protect the people you love. Lie about it. Apologise for it. Then do it anyway.” He paused. “You don’t love someone to be thanked. You don’t even do it so they’ll love you in return. You do it for better or worse.”

Within Jane’s chest, clad in white and gold, a yearning, aching warmth opened, and the girl felt her closed throat shake. She drew back, a hearty sniff, and wrapped her arms around her father.

“Thanks Dad,” she whispered.

And a moment later he embraced her in return.

They stayed like that, the pair of them, for neither knew how long. Then eventually, Jane’s father pulled back.

“Now,” he laughed, wiping away the tears, “Enough whinging. Let’s go fix that hole.”