Author's Notes:

This story serves as a sequel to both Consequences of Fission; Nuclear Decay, and Supercritical Arrangement. While Waylon Smithers and Montgomery Burns are, as always, at the heart of the matter, much of the focus is on the lives that have been sucked into the gravitational pull of Springfield's two most powerful men. It seems once someone's path crosses theirs, there is no true hope of escape.

Burns is that powerful a man; and Smithers is right beside him.

It also draws elements from the Snapshots mini-series (Chapter 6, if you must know). While I try to design each piece as a stand-alone story, the Reader will benefit most if they are familiar with at least the two main tales. Readers commented that Supercritical seemed to have more than a handful of loose ends. This was completely deliberate, so that I could splice the concluding tale to it.

Honestly, I'd recommend being familiar with both Consequences and Supercritical prior to embarking on this adventure. It's not completely necessary, but take my word as guide: it will make the journey more clear.

As always, thanks for stopping by, thanks for reading; now Enjoy the Show!

~ Muse


Prologue

PLATEAU CITY, NEW YORK

Preston Tucci stared forlornly at the wooden box on the kitchen table. His housemate, Antoine, sat across from him. Antoine tapped his feet on the floor, a soft but steady rhythm, keeping the heavy silence at bay.

"I know how you feel, Antoine," Preston confessed. "But I simply don't want them in the house right now." He slid the box closer to the center of the table.

Antoine pushed it back towards Preston's side. "Those were a gift from Evita. They're priceless antiques. You can't just get rid of them."

Preston sighed. "I'm not comfortable with them here. I'm not ready for them."

The box in question held two antique pistols, specifically Elgin cutlass pistols from the 1830s. Very few had been made, fewer even had survived the centuries. They'd been a gift Preston had received after he became chief executive of the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station, brought to him by the wife of his former boss: the widow Evita Dimas. It had been the last time Preston saw her before she moved, returning out west to the home she used to have.

Preston had kept the pistols in their box under the king-sized bed he and Antoine frequently shared. He didn't want them in his own room. Though he'd been making steady progress after "The Incident," the result of counselling and medication, getting shot wasn't something he was keen to remember. Evita's pistols, however unique they might be, weren't something he was comfortable with just yet. They were too much of a reminder.

"I can't," he explained to Antoine, gesturing to the box. "Not yet anyhow."

Antoine tilted his head like a worried puppy. His face wrinkled. "You're still doing okay, right?"

Preston nodded. "Much better; yes. I think though, that getting these out of the house will help."

Antoine shrugged. "Well, technically they are yours, Prep. What are you going to do with them?"

"I'm not sure," Preston admitted.

"Tell ya what," Antoine announced. "I'll ask Waylon if I could send them out to him in Springfield, for safe keeping at Burns Manor. They've got all those artifacts on the wall, a few more pistols here or there will hardly make a difference."

"Do you think he'll mind?" Preston asked.

"I doubt it. Waylon seems to have a pretty good understanding of things, you know." Antoine's feet continued their soft, restless tapping. "Waylon's been through his own stuff. He gets it."

Preston regarded Antoine thoughtfully. "You two talk, don't you."

Antoine shrugged. "Maybe not a lot, but from time to time. I like the guy. He spent a lot of time sitting with me while I was in the hospital. I got to know him." Antoine lifted up the wooden box and gave it a shake. "But this isn't about me or him. It's about you. If you gotta get rid of these things, then it's what you have to do."

Preston took the box from Antoine's hands and set if back on the table. "I don't want to 'get rid' of them. Someday, I want to have them back, honestly. Honestly, want to have them on display over the mantle, but I can't right now. My therapist says I need set realistic goal expectations. Being able to put those up on display (please don't laugh) is a goal I'm working towards."

Antoine reached out a hand and grabbed Preston by the wrist. "Now why on earth would you even think I'd laugh at you about something like that, Preppy? I may be irreverent and immature, but I'm not a complete ass."

Preston put his free hand over Antoine's. "I know, it's just…"

Antoine made a dismissive gesture. "Don't explain. I don't need it. Just do you, and I'll send those pirate guns to Waylon. When you're ready for them, I'll help you hang 'em up. Deal?"

Preston nodded, grateful. "Deal."