Much agreed 
Piper is too cute for words!
Good thing I got a lot of pictures to describe her instead! What a darling.
Piper is adorable! Tegan is a [word redacted - Trip]! And Heph just letting her do whatever out on the town with that... that... person!!! (I refuse to call it by name since that gives it credibility)! Trip, please let Tegan wake up and stop being such a bleeding-heart doormat! Either that or let the (unmentionable) person come in contact with a faulty dishwasher and a puddle of water!!!
One day she will. Many chapters from now. Maybe during a mid-life crisis. Not everyone can be a strong, independent woman! I needed to save all that strength for a later character or several.
But there will be a break in Tegan's submissive personality soon. I promise.
Oh, watcher! Run, Teegan, run, it's just a line! A bad, bad line! God knows he's only not being outwardly terrible to rack up points to use against you someday! (Or maybe he DOES have an ability to just be nice for no selfish reasons at times, but this is Neckbeard Bryant, so I'm going in with many a grain of salt, here. Either way, good job on showing them having good times together, and making it a realistic situation, Trip, and not just have him be a full-blown cartoony moustache-twirling villain. 
)
But seriously, where's the Everette/Leopold Dream Team Etiquette and Mannerisms Squad when you really need a fool to be schooled?! D:
I'm so glad my research into the worst of internet neckbeards paid off.
I think he does have the capacity for non-selfish good, such as giving Piper some proper outdoors wear. He might have a redemption arc, might not. I'll see how a later chapter plays out.
My eye is twitching... I need to do violence... horrible violence upon Bryant's person... *tries to take calming breaths, but doesn't work* Trip, you're killing me! Poor Tegan... she really is too sweet for her own good.
Sorry. D:
Piper is so cute. I generally don't like cancer stories/movies but you didn't do so bad, thank God 
I've read and laughed at the truly bad cancer stories of TS2/3, so I wanted to take my stab at something not-so-cringeworthy. Last time I'll do that, I swear. I was kind of angry that Bronson barely made it past 90 in spite of being in incredibly good shape, while some lazy wastes of space almost hit 120.
I'm guessing Piper is Jo's mum? And will be married to Phil? Phil is Tegan's right? Looking at Phil's personality and skin tone, unfortunately I think he's Bryant's.
Piper as Jo's mum: that's the plan, and that would explain her blonde hair. Married to Phil? Well, I'll have quite a story to tell.
He is Tegan's son. No spoilers there. His personality was planned out when I first started. I wanted this family to be a big mix of personalities, and Phil's evil, take-no-crap attitude was meant specifically to play against Tegan's. Regardless of who fathered him.
All that it took for his skintone was for someone lighter than Tegan to father him. And Tegan, when you put her on a normal skintone slider, is a little lighter than Bronson. She's dark and all of Tegan's spousal prospects were lighter than her.
His hair color tells a story, I'll say that. As will a subtle hint I'll drop in Chapter 86.
Chapter 85: My Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Aunt
“Maybe it’s time to pack up and go home.”
She says it over breakfast. Dad doesn’t care much about it, basking in his post-divorce glow and enjoying my girlfriend’s delicious eggs. I wish I had a post-divorce glow. Instead, I got fat for a while, but that’s in the past. Doesn’t mean I don’t hate him, though.
But all he has right now are those eggs, and I’m not offended at his breakfast choices nor at how he keeps his mouth closed while chewing. He didn’t just suggest for me to take a break from solving the greatest mystery I’ve ever encountered. Or solving whatever’s left of it. I’ve learned, right?
“I don’t think you have much left to do here,” Agnes says, after chewing. She keeps her mouth closed while chewing too. What a goddess, but her suggestions are still wrong.
“I wouldn’t say that.” I wipe a smear of runny yolk from the corner of my mouth. “I thought you needed me around anyways.”
“Yeah, back in Sunset Valley. Where my company is, Jo. I do love you, and I can’t leave Roaring Heights without you, but I wasn’t expecting this to take so long, and I didn’t make the right preparations back at home.” She might be stifling back a tear. Her voice sounds the slightest bit like it. “It’s one of the only things that gives me some purpose now. I can’t let the publishing fail.”
“So completing my story doesn’t matter? Even though this will profit?” I ask.
“Not when I’m hemorrhaging simoleons, no.”
I can’t contest that when I’m broke.
The rest of breakfast is awkward.
“I guess I’ll do some more painting today,” Agnes sighs.
I don’t think badly of her, but I do like how the easel can shut her up and give me the silence I need in my life. Dad takes another nap, claiming that his new line of work is nocturnal. I can’t see him ever taking a job in the daytime hours. Evil operates on a different schedule.
I could read
Eight Ways, next to the disturbing image of my father sleeping in his undies without having the decency to pull the covers over him. But then again, he did enough of that in
Eight Ways too.
I can’t do this.
Alone, so wonderfully alone, I walk to the pool and bask in the sun and chlorine.
Screw it, I’m too happy here. Almost. By comparison? For a vacation riddled with arrest and surprises and confusion, it has been one of the best few weeks in a while, even if I am broke. Even if I am confused by romance again when I shouldn’t be.
I mean, that can be ended. But I ruined enough my life with the consequences of ending.
But I’ve ruined my life with just being in them. Simon and Katherine are still memories.
So I’m screwed. But I’m screwed in an interesting place.
“Alright, two minutes!” Two children splash in an under-developed frontstroke, but they make progress towards the other end of the pool. Their instructor treads water, but judging by her excellent figure, proper swimming is a part of her routine too.
For once, I don’t care about comely swimming instructors. Not the most, anyways.
I probably shouldn’t care about Bridget much either. She’s a child. And me, I look like a creep trying to keep my eye on her, trying to care about a seemingly-unrelated child even though she’s my great-great-great-great-great aunt. What a funny thought, even putting immortality in perspective.
The fact that she looks like one of my own descendants still haunts me. Blond hair, black eyes, blue skin, and they both wear black too. I need to forget that. This isn’t a torture session for Bridget nor does she deserve one. In fact, she can help me. Parents follow their kids. Even the drunk, criminal ones do.
Sure enough, Moira is there. She rubs her neck, groggy after a night of work, or a night of drowning her widowly feelings with distilled juice and a wedge of lime. I’m her best friend now (her words, not mine). She turns towards me and waves. “Fancy seeing you here!” she yells from across the pool.
Her voice lowers to motherly sweetness towards a dripping-wet Bridget, who stands there hoping for a towel to wrap herself in. “Bridget, tell Mrs. Capp that you can stay for a few more minutes. Mummy has some work to do.”
“Work? Am I targeted by the mafia now?” I ask, with a chuckle once she approaches and I’m sure that Mrs. Capp has her head under the water. I might be serious.
“We have more deserving targets. But! I spoke with Jamie a few nights ago about your money situation, and you’re still broke. So hear me out-“
“Wait, how did you?” No, it’s Jamie. He’d do that. “Never mind. Did it cost?”
“I just sit him down to Tank’s piano work in times like these. Man, it’s like a truth serum for him.”
“Is this a hint for me?” I laugh.
“If you need it. And if you take my new offer, he might be of use. Anyways, how would you like to accompany me in my line of nastiness and crime? It pays the bills.”
“I look like a thief now?”
“You look enough like me, right?” She chuckles, but still lacks any sort of awareness of the truth. “Blue-ish and demonic and racially-ambiguous otherwise. It makes the witness reports easier to use, but I hand that work off to Arthur.”
“Thought that he just wiped up your fingerprints.”
“That too. He does a lot of work to make sure that I don’t leave a trace. Not a broken window or a fingerprint left behind. You’ve met him, but I’ll have you meet the boss-lady tomorrow, if you’re up for the job. She signs our checks. And she’s my aunt.” By aunt, she means Maeve. Her mother’s sister. No other sisters were mentioned in the family photo album, and I find it hard to believe that her tan father would have a stake in the criminal world instead.
Also, this job will keep us in Roaring Heights for a while. Forever if they’re that sinister.
I can decline and try to get my bank account back instead.
“You know where I live, right? I’m gonna need a ride there.”
Agnes is home later that day, when it gets too dark to paint anything but darkness.
“I had a good walk,” I said. “But there is a wrench in our plans. I hate siphoning money off you.” I haven’t done much of it, but she smiles.
“…And I decided to get a job here.”
“You wouldn’t,” Agnes groans, head in her hands. “After all I told you?”
I have trouble with the truth. I also have a weakness for beautiful women, and on a purely aesthetic level, Agnes is that. Even if she ended up making me go steady far faster than I wanted.
“I’ll talk to Moira about it tomorrow.”
Nah. I want money too. I can make this work out. Agnes has a way of waking up on the wrong side of the bed anyways. Tomorrow could work better.
“I know it’s been a bad day, and it’s my fault, really,” I say. “Can I make it up to you?”
I have to ready and cheerful for the morning, after all.
The car pulls up against the curb the next morning. Moira drove straight and in the right lane the whole way here, and a small medallion hangs from her rear-view mirror. I look at it while she drives.
Just Started is engraved on one side.
Annette had one for a week, long ago, when she started group therapy and had to go to Juice Anonymous, or JA, as a supplement. She fell off the wagon after six days sober. But Moira doesn’t need to know that about herself.
“Just started?” I ask, feigning ignorance.
“It’s because of you, friend,” she says. “You had some problems with me as a drunkard, and you know, you were right about that. I can’t be a mother or a savvy thief that way. Not for long, that is. So I’m gonna get clean, or try my best. For all of you guys.”
She, Maeve the boss-lady, lives up against the beach, in a mansion with a shining bright exterior, white window panes, and lively palms providing relatively little shade to the expansive property. I didn’t ask Moira, but I snooped through her photo albums enough to see little of Maeve and no family mentioned. She lives alone here, in this mansion built for several. At least she’s sharing.
Moira bolts in once she knows that the door is unlocked. “Isn’t that rude?” I ask her.
“She takes a while to get ready,” Moira says. “And it takes her a while to get to the door. Lighten up, I’m her niece. If there’s one person who gets to break into her house, it’s me.”
It’s a slow process for me too, as I stop at the doors and admire the statues through the glass, as well as the tiles on her floor. The whole place is empty, except for Moira, who reclines on a couch at the end of the hall, bare feet on the cushions and making herself at home.
Let’s make this clear: I grew up in a mansion. To change the cliché, I was born with a whole set of silver cutlery in my mouth. I grew up with millions at my disposal and gold at my fingertips, with five credit cards in elementary school, and most importantly, enough money to fall back on so that I could devote my life to writing at a professional level. We Waverlys sweated diamonds and Tiberium, and that mansion was home. I couldn’t make this home. I can barely make this my employer, not even in a time of crisis. I feel so working class right now.
Moira sits up straighter for me. “She has a harsh face,” she says. “But she’s our lovely old hag, and she runs a business like no one else.”
“Moira, please set up some tea for your guest,” someone called from upstairs. It’s probably Maeve. Moira abides and prepares her kettle in another room. I cross my legs and wait until someone’s on the other couch, though he’s too masculine to be a Maeve.
“I swear, the nerve of that kid,” he muttered. I look over my shoulder, through the leaves of the potted palm in the corner. Tank, again. It’s too early in the morning for jazz, and looking at those arms, he would be wasting them by delicately tickling the ivories. It looks like he’s at home.
I twitch in my seat while he slouches and growls at the world. “I trust her judgment,” I say, meekly.
“You would think that she’d get your old criminal dad instead.”
“How do you know my dad?” No one here knows my dad, even if they know Phil. It’s easier to pass him off as my evil twin instead, and for 99% of Roaring Heights, it has worked. Why would Tank make that assumption about him? If he is. Maybe Meg did some wizardry with my papers and made me a Racket instead. I haven’t bothered to take a look.
“Part of my job. Not the part that I’ll ever explain to you, but what I do behind the office door. It won’t even matter if you get the job.”
“Fine. Keep your mouth shut about it.”
I swear that he’s getting up to strangle me, hands open for my bare neck. The sound of heels against the stone tiles, and some third instrument, break his rage. Tank’s muscles relax enough to quell immediate danger, but I won’t trust him for long.
My gaze is averted to the approaching figure as well, with her harsh face and starfruit-yellow skin against a contrasting purple wardrobe, and a youthful, shapely figure that hoists itself up with a cane. This is the woman I can call my great-great-great-great-great-great-great aunt, but not to her face.
She crosses her arms. “You need to save your strength for tonight, Engel,” she says. Her deep voice is as clear and smooth as a fresh cup of Irish breakfast tea.
He rolls his eyes at his boss. “She’s been a bother and you know that,” he grumbles. “I’m not wasting my morning on this.”
“For a bother, she has potential. Do not harm the new recruits. I do not have to keep telling you that.” She stands tense and unassisted, before leaning on her cane again with a wince of pain on her face.
“I’m Maeve McGrail, and I’m sorry, Josephine. Mr. Engel is the foreman and much of the muscle of our business. His personality fits for that, but I won’t let him harm you this morning.” She approaches me and I lend out a hand.
“Ms. McGrail, it’s an honor to finally meet you. Moira’s said some nice things.”
“I hope she has. It is not that good to dishonor family, now is it Moira?” She snaps her fingers and Moira comes with cups and saucers balanced in one hand and a pot full of tea in the other.
“Nah, not for you. I gotta stay in the will somehow,” Moira says.
I’m led to the parlor. Tea is poured, and we all drink in silence. Maeve enjoys it, sip by small, slow sip. I bask in the glow of her fireplace in the meantime, in the aura of her strange décor tastes for this room and the garish green rugs, and even though she’s related to me, 100% aesthetic appreciation of Maeve’s lovely waist and cat-like eyes. I actually never knew I came from such a beautiful family. The old photos of Annette in Twinbrook didn’t do her justice, and the busy, tired, not-so-drunk single mother named Moira sheds a new light on that beauty. Or it’s the vintage fashion.
Tank’s cheekbones are weird. He’s built like a manly man. Eileen could do better than him half the time and being a devoted, cheerful beard to her gay husband the other half of it.
I could say all of these things right now, with the sort of tact that Moira has (or doesn’t), and lose any prospect for a job.
I could stay in this relationship.
I keep my mouth shut and drink another cup of tea.
“The tea’s gone cold now,” Maeve says, hands folded. “So, Josephine, what makes you think that you are ready to join my empire?”
“The recommendation of your niece, I guess,” I say.
“We can’t just trust Moira’s word,” Tank says. “She’s brought some pretty awful people in this business.” He locked bitter eyes with Moira. “You remember Muffin, right?”
“Yeah, you sacked him last month. That’s why I brought Jo here. Arthur doesn’t cut it for being a thief and doing this business solo sucks,” Moira says, crossing her arms.
“I’m a runner,” I say, which is true. Back in Twinbrook, I finished a marathon in my old age of uncountable oldness. I could do half of one today, with some training. 5Ks are still a breeze. “Also, I have some inside knowledge of a few families.” I almost swallow my tongue in embarrassment.
“Really now?” Maeve asks.
“My dad, who’s living with me, knows the Altos very well.” Or at least the patterns on their bedsheets. “And I knew the Rackets back in Twinbrook.” I’m a Racket, for starters. I met Shark once when he was resurrected. My ex-husband was a Racket too, deep down, much like me but a smidge closer to their heavyset, stern-looking kin. Not a lie.
“Amateurs,” Maeve scoffs. “I can assure you that we’re working on a deeper level. Bootlegging, criminal services, information, I run a big business here. Do you have any talents in those?”
“Explain your services.”
Tank delivers this news, doing his best to sound neutral. “A quick list: thievery, private investigation, cover-ups, counterfeiting, smuggling, whatever they ask of us. And I’m the foreman behind a lot of it.”
“Pleasant to know.” I avoid rolling my eyes. It’s a mutual feeling.
“You would be working under Moira, however,” Maeve says. “Any of her recruits are her responsibility.” For once, the thought of working with Annette/not quite Annette eases my mind.
“She’s also a total lesbian,” Moira chimes in. “And looking at how she checks out the chests of everyone she crosses, I bet she could, um, persuade a few of our female witnesses into never speaking about our work again.”
“I’ve heard,” Maeve sighs. “Rumor does have it that you’re a Sapphist,” she tells me.
“Self-described and everything.”
“Do you have a way with people? An observant eye? Good at keeping watch?”
Yes to all of them. Cheating on my ex-husband meant keeping a watch on things, but she doesn’t need to know. Moira doesn’t need to know that her new bestie is a horrible, unfaithful harlot. Tank doesn’t need more ammo against me.
“Worked security to get myself through college,” I say. Ha, I didn’t even go to college. My last name was blacklisted across Simnation, and Twinbrook had no options at home. And paying would be comparable to an average citizen dropping a quarter down the sewer: sad only for a second.
Tank raises a brow. The man must have a polygraph in his head. Maeve lightly slaps his hand and gives him a stern glare.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Security sounds nice. You might be trainable after all. Moira orchestrates the jobs, so she is responsible for telling you when you’re working.”
“Tomorrow night. Be there?” Moira asks. “The newspaper. I’ve done it before, getting into the private archives.” I nod.
“I look forward to having you as my employee, Josephine,” Maeve says. I shake her hand good-bye. I wave at Tank when he isn’t cooperating.
“Can you get home by yourself?” Moira asks. “I’m tired, and I need to not be before I pick Bridget up.”
“Sure thing.” She leaves with haste. I appreciate the architecture and statues while the muffled conversation between Tank and Maeve plays out.
“I am very disappointed in you,” Maeve says. “I don’t care what we know about her. This job will help us.”
“I don’t get your logic, cupcake,” he says.
“You’re going to have to perform very well to make this up to me.”
I walk out the door, or start to.
“Like I wouldn’t?”
I can’t help but take a look in the window afterwards, maybe just for some juicy gossip about the fight between the war machine and a disabled woman who isn’t as scary as I thought. I’m a horrible person.
They give me fuel of a different type. I could tell Eileen.
I could also be putting a bounty on my head.
I’ll ask dad if it eats at me. He knows their ways, and I’m shocked that I got the job instead of him. I don’t know what he’s doing for money, but he comes home with a smile on his face and a few herbs each night to mellow his corrupt mind for time to do a few sudokus (runs in the family, I suppose).
He wakes up and gets dressed not too long after I come home. Agnes is still out, angry over the job offer. My actual new job might throttle her straight into depression. Maybe a breakup will be a better option, but I try to force that out of my head while my dad has a glass of orange juice. How the heck did he afford that? I need to know. He’s finally one-upping me in success.
He’s about to step out the door.
“Where are you off to?” I ask.
“A good place.”
“Yeah, but where?”
“Oh please, you’ll be judgmental over it. You just don’t understand.” He fakes his whining mighty well. He’s also repeating lines I used on him when I went out at night to be a secret Sapphist (still sticking with that title).
“Cut the crap,” I say. “Where you off to? Who is it now?”
“We know them too well.”
“Wait, is this for Arthur?” First, gross. I have to closely work with the same guy my dad may or may not be romantic with. Second, I have an excuse to pay Eileen a visit. I might need her more than ever now.
“I really have to make these things harder to guess,” he says.
“Take me with you.”
Word Count for this chapter:
3,435Word Count so far:
158,117Maeve's cane is a CC accessory. I wasn't able to find any mods to make adults use the regular canes in game. Just in case I accidentally got anyone's hopes up.
I'd like to (finally, after a lot of chapters) give a shout-out to our very own NotJustABook, whose
poses have helped this story a lot.
Read
her legacies.
