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[Smells Like Teen Spirit]—❈—04:: PRT Negotiations [II]
🕑 Added 2024-01-01 00:01:26 +0000 UTC“You have complaints with the terms of the contract?” Mr. McGill asks, automatically winning himself a spot among the nominees for the ‘Stating the Obvious’ award.
“Yes,” Mom says, still sounding quite calm, “I have ‘complaints’; like the fact that the contract is written in such dense legalese that I can’t, for the life of me, fathom how you could realistically expect the average person to comprehend half of it.”
“You seem to have comprehended it just fine,” Mr. McGill says pointedly.
“I’m not the average person,” Mom says back.
Mr. McGill gives her a strange, little smile at those words. “No, I suppose you aren’t.”
I take a shallow whiff of the lawyer and get the aromas of pleasant surprise, grudging admiration, and the stirring of a strange kind of anticipatory hunger targeted towards Mom.
At first, I think that it’s sexual; Mom’s an undeniably attractive woman after all—a fact that’s only become harder to hide since I used my healing power on her—but then I realize that it isn’t.
Mom has shown herself to be sharper than Mr. McGill expected, and the lawyer looks forward to wiping the floor with her.
Basically, Mr. McGill gets off on his job.
Why do I suddenly have a bad feeling about this?
“Leaving aside the matter of your exceptionality, however,” the lawyer says smoothly, “you must understand, that is a legal document, it is only to be expected that it would contain legal jargon.
“Besides, in the end, the language of the contract is irrelevant, seeing as you’ve proven yourself more than capable of comprehending it.”
“Okay,” Mom says, sounding slightly less calm, “fine, let’s forget the language of the contract. Let’s look at it’s contents instead; like the fleet of NDAs that virtually makes my son unable to discuss any aspect of his job with me, his legal guardian.”
“Ms. Whitaker, that is a simple matter of operational security,” Mr. McGill says, sounding almost affronted that Mom would be against it. “Do you not remember the phone call you made to The Protectorate that brought you here? Think of all the precautions we took to protect your son’s identity; to protect his safety. Don’t you think all the other sons and daughters in The Protectorate deserve the same protection?
“The ward, Vista, here in Brockton Bay, is only thirteen years old. Those NDAs might seem restrictive, and yes, I will admit that they can be, but they are a big part of the umbrella that protects Wards like Vista; young people who just want to do good with their powers.
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Ms., but this is the price of safety.”
Mom stares at Mr. McGill quietly for several seconds after he finishes speaking.
Then, to all our surprise, Mom rises. “Aiden,” she says without preamble, “we’re leaving.”
What?
Hannah rises to her feet quickly. “Emily, you—”
Mom holds up a hand to forestall the woman’s words.
“Hannah,” she says, “I’m a woman with an inordinate amount of experience perusing legal documents. He—” she points at Mr. McGill “—is a lawyer in a thousand dollar suit. I know when I’m outclassed.
“We’ll be back. And when we are, it will be with someone who can help us negotiate a better deal, because the one on the table, is terrible.
“Nice meeting you, Mr. McGill, but we’ll be leaving now. Come on, Aiden.”
I get up and follow Mom out, Hannah rushing to get in front of us and lead us out of the building.
She says the expected things; apologizing that we hadn’t been able to see eye-to-eye and hoping that this hasn’t soured us to me joining The Protectorate.
If only she knew how far that ship has sailed.
In the end, Mom assures the woman that no, she hasn’t made up her mind either way yet, and for now just wants to get someone who can help us negotiate a better deal.
I say nothing.
Hannah drops us off on the same street she picked us up from, and it only as we watch her car drive away that I ask Mom the question that’s been on my mind this whole time.
“Where are we going to get a lawyer?”
Mom sighs. “I know one,” she says, then frowns: “Well, sort of. Can you call someone who’s been disbarred a lawyer?”
“Hmm,” I hum, pretending to think about it for a second. “Well, that sounds really similar to a doctor whose medical license was revoked, so I’m going to go with a solid ‘what the hell, Mom?’ A disbarred lawyer? Can we even trust this person?”
“Yes,” Mom says. “It’s José.”
I frown. “Your boss?” I ask. Then: “Wait, I thought you said he was a cop before he became a PI?”
“He was, but he was a lawyer before that… well, no, actually, he was a journalist before that. Before that though he was in the Army, before that a mechanic, and before that he was a lawyer,” Mom clarifies.
I stare at her. “How old is that guy?” I ask, more than a little serious.
“Some say he saw the sun rise for the first time,” Mom says, sounding more than a little serious.
“Didn’t you say he has a drinking problem though?” I ask, bringing the conversation back on track.
Mom looks me right in the eyes. “We can trust him,” she says.
I don’t really know José; I’ve only met him twice in the little over a year that Mom has worked for him, but I do know Mom.
More importantly, I trust her, and if she says that we can trust José, then I’m going to.
Mom calls José when we get home, asking him to meet her at our place.
He tells her he’ll be here in two hours, and after that, there’s nothing left for us to do but wait.
“Was the contract really that bad?” I ask.
Mom had called it terrible, but how much of that was true and how much of it was her trying to make it look bad so negotiating a better one seemed necessary.
I mean, the NDAs that apparently would have prevented me from discussing the job with her totally suck, but what else could there have been.
“You get minimum wage,” Mom says.
I blink. “What?”
“There’s an extra fifty thousand a year,” she admits, “but it goes in a trust fund that you can’t touch until you’re eighteen.”
My mouth opens and closes soundlessly for several seconds. Finally, I ask; “So, I might as well just be working for free for the next four years?”
“Pretty much.”
“Don’t they understand that money is the biggest motivator for anybody to join their organization?” I ask.
“They must have missed the memo,” Mom says.
I let out a breath.
“You know,” I say, “maybe this is a sign.”
“A sign?” Mom asks, staring at me askance.
“No, Mom hear me out, okay? Look, The Protectorate is clearly trying to take advantage of us, so, maybe it’s a sign that we shouldn’t join them.
“Hell, we could go private; charge for healing and run a delivery service with my portals; we’d make bank.”
“It won’t work, Aiden,” Mom says softly. “You know it won’t. There are a thousand laws keeping parahumans from going into business for themselves; the amount of red tape we’d need to cut through would drown us.”
“And if we do it without Government approval, we’re criminals,” I add, disheartened.
The system is rigged to hell and back.
“I’m sorry, Baby,” Mom says, placing a hand on my cheek to console me.
“You know, it wouldn’t piss me off so much if they at least did their job and kept people safe,” I say, eyes stinging with anger and a familiar sadness.
Mom pulls me into a hug.
“It’s okay, Baby,” she says, her own voice wavering. “It’s okay.”
—❈—
Mom’s boss shows up around when he says he would, and Mom let’s him in.
José Ramirez is a man who has to be pushing seventy but moves like he’s in his fifties at the very least, despite a gimpy left leg.
Mom has worked for him for a little over a year at his detective agency, and even though, by her own admission, she does the work of five people, she’s always maintained that José has been nothing but good to her.
“Hey, kid,” José says upon seeing me. “Aiden, right?”
He asks that question every time we meet.
“Yeah,” I say. “Welcome.”
José grunts in reply, then turns to Mom.
“I’m guessing you called me here because you finally want to let me in on how you went from being an underweight thirty-eight year old to looking like an Olympic athlete in her prime?” José says without preamble.
I still.
Mom sighs. “You noticed,” she says.
“You de-age ten years and add twenty pounds of muscle overnight, and you really thought some baggy clothing would make me miss it?” José asks, affronted.
“Well, if you know then why didn’t you say anything?” Mom asks.
“Like what?” José fires back. “Besides, I thought it was some sort of new tinker drug on the streets, or something.” He looks at me now. “I’m guessing it’s him though.”
Okay, this man is starting to scare me a little bit.
I take a Whiff of him.
There’s nothing out of place in his Smell; some curiosity at what’s going on, satisfaction at our reactions to his detective prowess, genuine concern for Mom (and for me surprisingly), a few other faint aromas that lead to matters that have nothing to do with us, and, underneath it all, a deep, endless well of sadness.
God, how has one person endured so much loss.
Mom rushes to me as I shut off the power.
“Aiden, are you okay?” she asks in worry.
“I’m fine,” I say, wiping away my tears. “Just…” I hesitate, “his grief made me think of Dad.”
“Oh, honey.” Mom hugs me. “You need to be careful with that power.”
José gives us a moment, but then he asks; “So, you’re a thinker? Some kind of empath?”
I nod. “Yeah, I can smell emotions and some other stuff; use it to learn things about people.”
I don’t Smell him again, but I don’t need to, from the look on his face, I can tell, José is guarded.
I suppose it makes sense, he did just find out that I accessed his emotions without his consent… which, I’m only now realizing is a pretty serious violation of privacy.
Huh. Never thought of it that way till now.
Thankfully, José doesn’t make a thing of it, instead, he asks; “So, you’re an empath who also has some sort of physical boosting power?”
I nod. “Among other things. I actually have ten powers…” and then Mom and I launch into the events of the last week since I triggered, but mostly focusing on the events of our meeting with The Protectorate today.
“Those cheap bastards,” José says when we finish. “A high-end mover and possibly the best healer in the world short of Panacea, and they offer you fifty grand? Shit.”
“It’s not just the money,” Mom admits. “That contract was a nightmare; a clause in there practically binds Aiden to The Protectorate for life. I was hoping you’d be able to help us negotiate a better deal. I tried but their lawyer, he’s sharp. I need all the help I can get on this.”
José scratches his nose.
“Well, walking out was the right move,” he says. “Longer you stayed there, the weaker he would have made your position seem. You need to capitalize on it though. Don’t wait for them to call you. Contact them, tell them that there seems to have been a misunderstanding, that clearly they don’t understand what Aiden is offering.
“Tell them that you’re willing to come in for power-testing for his portals and healing, so that there are hard numbers to aid the negotiations.”
“What good would that do?” I ask.
“Right now, you’re just a kid who wants to join the wards,” José says. “The Director of the local branch might not even know you exist yet.
“They run power-testing on you though, and with powers like yours, your file will be setting off bells left and right.
“Then they’ll have to get you. Cause if they don’t, Homeland Security, or The Secret Service might just swoop in with a better offer.”
“Wait, it isn’t only the PRT that recruits parahumans?” Mom asks, her surprise mirroring my own.
“Common misconception,” José says. “But the Secret Service can’t exactly protect The President from parahuman threats without Parahuman assets of their own, can they?”
Huh. I suppose not.
“You should call now,” José tells Mom. “Don’t want to risk them calling first.”
Mom nods and goes to get her phone from where she’s plugged it in to charge.
As she does, I ask José a question that’s been burning in my mind all this time.
“Why did you get disbarred?”
The old man looks at me in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
I frown. “Mom said you were a lawyer, but you got disbarred,” I explain.
José makes a face. “Emily, what have you been telling the boy? I didn’t get disbarred. I told you, I dropped out of law school.”
My jaw drops.
Why do I suddenly feel like it would have been better if he was disbarred?
—❈—
Emily Piggot listened to the recording of the phone call between Miss Militia and the new cape, Musa’s, mother.
‘Fucking capes and their fucking mothers,’ the Director thought in irritation, then she picked up her phone and began to make preparations.
While she despised letting a parahuman have their way, she had to admit that running power-testing on the boy would be beneficial to the PRT.
Always best to know how useful a cape could be. And the sooner they knew, the sooner they could begin to prepare countermeasures for if he ever stepped out of line.
