Author's Note: Merry Christmas to all the people following this fic. (Or Happy Holidays to those of you who don't.) I hope you're all having a great day and feel free to drop me a note in the review for this chapter or in my inbox letting me know what presents you got and what you did. (If you were to request something specific for me to include in the chapters to come, I may just make it my present to you.) Now, hold on tight, everyone. This chapter's a rough one.

The Warden sat in what could be called a "hover car" or something along those lines and peeked out the mostly-covered window on his side. Superjail's yard crept past him as he, the Mistress, and Jailbot made the rounds that afternoon. It had taken a couple days of work to get the Warden to this point, and he still refused to leave the safety and near-anonymity of the car. Instead, he huddled in a corner and scanned the faces of each prisoner, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he was out there.

"Don't worry," the Mistress said, her voice as soft as the hand she placed on his thigh. "He's not there. Jailbot caught him, remember?"

The aforementioned robot floated along outside, leading the car across the grounds.

Warden hunched his shoulders, turning his gaze to her hand, which rubbed his leg in long, slow motions. "Where did you say they put him?"

"Solitary," she said. "Maximum security. 24-hour watch."

He nodded and placed his hand over hers, feeling the smoothness of her hand through his glove. Hm. She's stopped wearing her gloves. I wonder why?

"We only need your decision on what to do with him," she said.

He nodded again, forgetting the way the heat of her palm went straight through his pants and buried itself in his leg. "I need to think. I'll tell you when I've made up my mind."

Now she nodded, understanding the mixed feelings raging inside him. On one hand was the instinctual desire to avenge himself and his injuries. On the other was the doubt and fear that would stay with him for months, years even. Sykes had a following, and if they discovered his execution, the Warden might never be safe again. He could not very well kill all of the inmates.

A bit of his strength seemed to go out of him, and he sagged in his seat. The Mistress slid across the plush material and put one arm around his shoulders. Her other hand stayed on his thigh as he lowered his head to her shoulder, where he sighed at her touch. His lips moved against the curve of her neck with every breath he released. Chills ran up and down her spine, but she pushed her feelings back. He needed comfort now, not sex.

So she held him much like she had held him in his office, only this time he did not cry. It was like he was simply exhausted and in need of even the smallest bit of rest she could provide. In a way, this was almost more distressing and intimate a display than his tears. Never before had he given a sign that his seemingly infinite store of energy could fail. But now he leaned against her, closed his eyes, and sighed.

Jailbot beeped, and the worried sound of it broke through the semi-silence of the car.

The Mistress looked up and caught a glimpse of something out of the Warden's window. She squeezed his shoulder. "What's that?" she asked.

He sat up and followed her gaze, his eyebrows knitting together over his newly-repaired glasses. "I'm not sure."

She tried to ignore the goose bumps that rose on his neck, but a strange uneasiness filled her.

"I'll just be a moment," he said, reaching for the door.

Her hand grasped his arm, and she leaned forward. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

For a moment, it looked like he doubted himself, but he nodded. "It'll just take a second. I'll step out, see what it is, come back inside." He said it like he was looking for her approval, her affirmation that his plan was a good one.

She nodded. "Okay."

The Warden popped the door open and got halfway out of it when he froze. His face, tipped up to the sky, was turned from the Mistress. She slid further along the seat, wedging herself closer to him and the open door.

"Warden?" she asked, that uneasiness squirming in her belly. "What is it?"

A huge blimp, colored purple and yellow like the Warden, hovered above the yard. Built into its side was a television screen that looked down on the inmates. They stood still, curious and confused by the new occurrence.

"What?" the Warden said, but it sounded like he was talking more to himself than to the Mistress. He gripped the top of the door with one shaky hand. The other held his cane at his side.

The display came to life with static, and snow filled the screen. He thought he could hear voices layered under the static, but he wasn't sure. The Warden squinted at the screen and pressed closer to the door.

Ice sheathed the Mistress's nerves. "Warden," she said, one hand reached out to him like she might drag him backward. "Warden, get back inside."

He held up a hand. "One second."

"No, Warden. Get back inside. Please."

The tone of her voice, desperate and scared, drew his gaze. His lips parted to ask her why she sounded like that, but then the screen cleared.

There, displayed in full above the jail, was Sykes's cell.

Murmurs ran like ripples through the yard, but Warden stood like a pillar ready to crumble. He could not grip the door hard enough for all the tremors running through him. Over the sound of recorded jeers and laughter, the Mistress heard him say a faint, "No."

Then, for the entertainment and supreme pleasure of all the inmates, the Warden's assault was played out in its entirety. Every scream and sob incited a new wave of laughter. Every time the camera caught a shot of his naked genitals, they jeered. When he once turned his face so the camera captured his look of pain and fear in full, they applauded.

And the Warden, the Warden from the tape, stood in the middle of it all, one hand still on the door. Tears poured unceasingly down his face and dropped like raindrops from a gutter. His face, utterly red, bent in some undefinable passion. Every line and plane of that face crumpled and twisted to show the darkest and deepest emotions as they came and went. But, behind all the rage and humiliation and agony, there was a kind of wintry fear, a fear that reminded the Mistress of bare tree branches in the coldest months.

It was the fear that brought him to the ground in a heap of shivering limbs. He sat by the car, hugging his knees while the tape played on. The inmates, suddenly aware of his presence and vulnerable state, turned on him. They approached, cackling and calling things at him that neither he nor the Mistress remembered later.

"Warden," she said, moving toward him. "Warden, it's going to be okay. Get in the car. Come on. Get in the car, Warden. Please."

As she reached for his shoulder, Jailbot swooped in. He plucked his creator from the dust and cradled him in his metal arms as he soared back to the Warden's side of the jail.

The Mistress, stunned by this turn of events, climbed back in the car, shut the door, and prepared to pilot it back herself.