Micky wiggled.

All that stored up energy in his feet made it necessary. With a pretty frightening firearm pressed to his back, he knew his body was trying to help him, producing copious adrenaline in order to ready a flight-or-fight response. Every one of his senses felt heightened, from his vision to his sense of smell; every single nerve synapse was firing in unison, so much so that he wondered if it was possible for a human being to short himself out. Like most people, though, Micky occasionally functioned on logic rather than instinct. If he ran, he'd be shot. If he allowed Tony to lead him forward, he'd be able to unite with Mike and Peter, and then they'd have four minds to put together instead of just two, which might result in some idea regarding their triumphant escape.

It seemed Davy had roughly the same idea, although the Englishman was slightly more vocal about it. "'ey, a little courtesy goes a long way, y'know," he spat as Tony gave him a shove. "I'm movin', just lemme go at my own pace— "

Micky paid attention to his surroundings, though, as Davy kept Tony distracted. They worked in perfect tandem, an unspoken plot forming between the two. Micky, ever the quick thinker, kept uncharacteristically silent as he took stock of what they had to work with, while Davy talked circles around the mostly uneducated gangster, prompting Tony to ask on occasion, "What did you just say?"

They reached the edge of one of the large tanks. Some dizzying distance down, Peter stared up at them, worry etched on his face.

Tony lowered a ladder into the hollow, holding the weapon on them. "All right, you punks. Get on in there."

Despite the fact that he was shaking so violently that he could barely hold onto the rungs, Micky miraculously found the strength to climb from one floor to the other. At the bottom, he held onto the ladder as Davy descended, but the shorter man's climb was interrupted when Tony let loose a single shot. Davy, so startled by the blast, let go, and crashed into Micky's arms. As they both fell backward, Tony pulled the ladder out of the tank, quickly placing it out of their reach. A moment later, he disappeared from view.

"You okay?" Micky asked. He winced as Davy pressed an elbow into his chest in an attempt to right himself.

"Yeah, I think so."

Peter hurried to help them up, followed by the tiny form of a black prairie chicken. "What are you guys doing here?" the blonde asked. Mike said something, and Peter added, "How did you even find us?"

"It's a long story," Micky muttered. As he pushed himself to his feet, he clutched at his chest as the air rushed back into his lungs. Having someone land on you, even someone whose nickname was 'Tiny,' tended to knock the wind right out of you. "Oh, and thanks for landing on me, Davy. That was helpful.

"Well, if you hadn't broken my fall, I mighta broken meself," Davy grumped. It was a disguised thank you, as well as an apology. As it was, Davy's one elbow was pretty badly scraped up. Peter handed him a torn strip of sheet material, which quickly turned red when pressed against the wound.

Micky took a few steps until he could breathe regularly again, then leaned over, his hands on his knees. "I was gonna suggest we stand on each other and make a human ladder to get out of here," he said. "But that's not gonna work. Babyface has got his men watchin' this tank, and we're gonna get shot if we so much as peek over the top."

"Besides that, Mike's out of commission, and I'm probably too short to be of much use," Davy said, as Peter helped him tie the strip of cloth around his arm.

It certainly was a dismal day when Davy made short jokes about himself.

Without much hope, Micky finally flopped down onto the floor of the tank, lying back. For a moment, he stared up at the ceiling, feeling as though its sputtering fluorescent lights were laughing at them all. When the brightness became too much to stare at, he turned his head to the side. Michael stood nearby, apparently checking him over to make sure he was all right.

Smiling, Micky said, "I'm fine, Mike. Relatively speaking." Noticing the fact that the chicken was wrapped up like a mummy, he asked, "What happened to you?"

"They were afraid Mike would try to fly out of here," Peter said. "So they popped his wing out so he couldn't…"

Mike shuddered, his feathers puffing up around the bandage.

((It's feelin' a lot better now,)) Mike said, as Peter translated.

"Brutes," Davy grunted. "Pickin' on someone who can't fight back." He sat down, too, and as Michael tottered over to make sure he was okay, as well, Davy scratched under his chin. Resigned, perhaps because of the hellish day he'd had so far, Mike actually allowed it. Micky chuckled.

Davy and Micky went on to describe everything that had happened to lead them to the abandoned factory, starting with Forty-Two's preparation of the chicken sacrifice - and what, exactly, it was for - to the supermarket adventure, and even the wish for the car. Mike and Micky had to break the story so that they could talk at length about how amazingly awesome the Mustang was.

"Her name's Matilda," Micky said.

((That's a perfect name. What color?))

"Green. It's like Forty-Two read my mind."

Finally, Davy had to say, "Peter, stop translating for Mike so we can get back on topic."

"Aw, there's not much more to tell," Micky said. "We talked to the kid at the store, and Davy flirted with some chick, then we ended up here." He paused. "I mean, there's a bit more to it than that, but that's the gist."

((And then y'got yerselves caught,)) Mike said. He was quiet for awhile, before he sighed. ((Fellas, we got an obligation to put things right. Here's my plan.))

—-

A genie. His captive.

Perhaps years ago, Babyface would have wished himself back to his old self upon catching such an amazing creature. But he'd built a life now, and while it wasn't exactly a perfect existence, he enjoyed it enough. It was dangerous and adventurous, something he never would have gotten as a woman scraping through an impoverished living in Russia.

Sometimes he wondered if he was so traumatized by going from female to male that his entire personality became something unrecognizable. There were other factors, though, that led him into this violent life, such as the intervention of his new father, Kolya. A new name. Desensitization to things that would make a normal person cringe. He couldn't go back to being Katalina now, he told himself. Clearly, he'd made the right choice by binding the genie to himself, and because of that choice, he was well on his way to becoming the most powerful man in the country. Maybe in the world.

As his mind drifted to the old adage of not counting his chickens before they were hatched, he thought about his captives, and what he would have to do with them. Letting them go would make him seem weak, even though Babyface had everything from them that he needed. No, he'd have to kill them. Even his twin.

For now, he was going to have a conversation with his demon. Crouching down in front of it, he looked the boy over. He seemed so weak in this guise, with his too-large clothing and one handcuff dangling from a thin wrist. There was power behind this creature, though. Malice. Intelligence.

"How did you know?" Babyface asked.

"What? How I knew who you were?" Forty-Two replied. "Does it matter?"

"I guess not."

The boy sat on the cold floor of the factory, his knees pulled up to his chest. Now and then, pale blue eyes would glance upward, glaring. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Babyface realized that he was doing something incredibly stupid, keeping a demon chained like this, but he had to appear strong among his men. After all, they constantly had their doubts about his command, as all gangsters tended to do. Every moment was another chance for a power play. How could they even think to usurp him again if he'd tamed a creature of such incredible power?

"It wasn't me that did this to you, you know," Forty-Two said. "You don't have to take it out on me."

Babyface shrugged. "You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, kid. Don't matter to me what genie I catch. You're gonna be a hell of an asset."

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Tony approaching, weapon held down at his side. It would have been easy just to have Tony kill the kids and get the deed done and over with, but something still bothered Babyface in the back of his mind about the whole thing. It didn't seem right to kill Micky, for one thing. And the others were just collateral damage. Perhaps there was a way to free them without seeming weak in front of his underlings. For now, though, he intended to make use of his genie's power.

"Tony. Get over here, would ya?" He stood, smirking at the blond-haired kid on the floor. "C'mon, Tony, we're gonna test out this thing, see how it works."

Obediently, his second in command sauntered forward, though not without an irritated grimace. Maybe his reluctance would change when he saw how rich Babyface intended to make them. They wouldn't be hanging out at the Purple Pelican anymore, that was for sure. Instead, they'd have some sort of amazing suite somewhere. Maybe a penthouse restaurant with a view of the whole city. Waiters serving them without concern for their own well-being, twenty-four hours a day. They'd be wealthy beyond any of their wildest dreams. All thanks to their fearless leader. They'd never doubt him again.

Or else.

"You're gonna use your wish, Tony. I want you to wish for gold," Babyface said.

Tony seemed reluctant, biting his lip. Briefly, he met Babyface's eyes, then quickly looked away. "What if that's not what I wanna wish for, Boss?"

"Who's in charge here?"

Tony thought about this for another moment, probably weighing his options. On one hand, he could just go ahead and wish for gold. On the other, he could wish for something else entirely, and possibly end up dead for his disobedience. Nonchalantly, Babyface allowed one hand to stray toward his firearm, tucked in his belt.

"Fine, fine. How much?"

Babyface shrugged. "I'm just showing off my new demon. Don't matter to me."

Tony looked at the boy, who glared upward. Despite the expression, there was a tiny smirk on Forty-Two's face as he waited. Tony, apparently uncomfortable, scuffed one toe on the floor, before finally deciding. "All right. I want a briefcase full of gold."

Immediately, the briefcase appeared, just a couple feet off the ground. In remained suspended in the air for a second or two, surrounded by a shimmering, blue cloud, before it dropped to the floor with a thud. The noise echoed through the entire factory for a heartbeat, before leaving the entire facility in silence.

It lay on the floor on one side.

"Well? Open it!" Babyface commanded.

Tony seemed a little disoriented by the whole thing. After all, briefcases generally didn't appear out of thin air, and if this one was full of gold… Well, then he'd just have to admit that Babyface had a good plan. Maybe the ungrateful little peon would stop whining so much about how he'd be a much better leader. The shorter man shuffled toward it, eying the case as if it were a rabid animal.

"Stop stalling!" Babyface shouted.

Quickly, Tony popped open the case. Soon after, he stumbled backward so quickly that he fell on his backside. Even then, he continued pushing himself away, pointing. "That ain't gold! Them's dead goldfish, Boss!"

Forty-Two laughed, and Babyface distinctly felt a chill run up his spine.

—-

Mike wouldn't call this a horrible plan, because he'd carefully, intricately woven it together by himself. Based on the information he got from Micky, as well as his own deductions of the situation, he'd come to several conclusions which he was sure would lead them all out of this mess. Unfortunately, he'd still be a chicken, but he honestly hoped that someone would be able to take care of that little problem after everything was said and done.

That being said, this was a horrible plan.

The only way he could figure to get out of the tank was a previously ignored half-broken inlet grate. After Micky and Peter tore the grate off the rest of the way, they revealed a pipe, which was just large enough for Mike to fit into, provided the bandage was removed from around him. And that's where he was now, the metallic sides of the pipe pressing in all around him, the scent of chlorine almost overpowering, and the pain from his dislocated shoulder threatening to bring tears to his eyes. If he had the ability to cry, of course.

Mike really hoped this led somewhere, because the lay of his feathers meant he couldn't back up if he hit a dead end.

When he had that small, insignificant thought, everything that had happened to him finally caught up with his mind. He remembered the uncomfortable transformation with painful clarity. Distraught, he then went on a roller coaster of hope and despair before finally giving into his feelings and crying about the whole thing. He could very well be facing the rest of his life as a chicken, but even that seemed okay, if his being in this form could somehow help the others escape. Michael still had to take care of them, after all… It gave him purpose, and helped him stop thinking about how he was living his very own horror movie.

Eventually, he hit an incline. The pipe turned at ninety degrees, and then ascended at a forty-five degree angle. It would have been a steep climb, if not for the fact that he was pretty well enclosed on all sides. The pipe itself held him in place.

He began to worry as he climbed. What if the other end of this thing led to a sealed grate? He'd never be able to escape.

Someone would cut him out. The guys would think of something. They'd get him out.

Pushing those thoughts aside, he continued onward, a couple inches at a time. It seemed to take forever to get to the top of the rise, but eventually, he found himself crawling forward on a more level surface. He also saw light ahead of him, which meant that he was hopefully coming upon the exit to this claustrophobic tunnel.

At the end, he found what once would have been a connection for a hose, probably to pipe raw materials into the tank. Whatever had covered it before was thankfully long gone, and while the opening was a little smaller than the pipe itself, he was able to squeeze through it, albeit with a little pain. His shoulder kept wanting to pop back out again, but Peter's quick thinking and care ensured that the injury was mostly stable.

Outside, he found himself at the far end of the platform circling the tanks. The lights were off here, either to save energy, or because they no longer worked. It didn't really matter in light of the fact that none of Babyface's goons were down here to bother him. Like Micky said, though, a whole lot of them were stationed around their particular tank.

They all had guns.

((There was a deer with one eye,)) he muttered to himself. If he could keep talking, maybe he wouldn't let the fear consume him. All he needed to do was create a distraction. Then Micky could lasso the ladder into the tank.

((She'd graze with the sea to her blind side.)) Carefully, he kept his sharp talons from tapping on the metal flooring. It wasn't easy.

((She thought that no danger could possibly come from the water, which left her good eye facing the land, watching for hunters.))

He walked slowly, eyes constantly flitting toward the gangsters. They didn't seem particularly occupied with looking for escapees coming from another direction. Their attention was pretty much solely focused on the tank, where Micky, Davy, and Peter were waiting for him to give the signal. Like he'd shown Peter in the car, he could make quite a loud noise if he needed to, and that would be their cue to get the hell out of there.

((One day, some men came by in a boat, and shot her from the water.))

He reached the end of the platform. Looking down, he could see Babyface shouting at the demon.

((As she lay dying…))

He raised his arm and struck the boy. And despite the fact that the demon was an ageless, evil creature, Mike couldn't tolerate that. He couldn't allow that to happen. Somewhere along the line, Forty-Two became more than just some genie.

((She mourned her fate. Wishing she'd paid more attention to the water.))

He stretched his wings. There was some pain, certainly, but he should be able to glide down, right? He tested their strength, flexing them a couple times and ignoring the hurt.

((Danger comes from the direction you least expect.))

With a deep breath, he launched himself into the nothingness in front of him. His wings caught the air, and then his body took over, steering him in exactly the direction he wanted to go. For a brief moment, he felt amazingly giddy - he was flying! It was the most amazing sensation in the world! Then, he hooked his talons into the gangster's face, and the good feeling vanished as abruptly as it had appeared.

"Mike?" he heard the demon say. "The key! GET THE KEY!"

There were arms flying at him. Someone grabbed his tail and gave a good pull, but with his claws embedded into Babyface's shoulder, he wouldn't be dislodged. He searched for the key and found it, hanging from a thin, golden chain around the gangster's neck. Grabbing it with his beak, and hoping that the chain was as cheap as it looked, he jumped from his perch, and the chain broke, sending the key bouncing across the floor.

Mike started after it, but something struck him, and he was flying again. The wall came at him far too quickly to avoid.

—-

"I kicked it!" Babyface screamed. "Don't worry about the chicken, Tony! GET THE KEY!"

But it was too late for that, because the key was safely in Forty-Two's clutches. He held it up, smiling, showing his teeth as he undid the binding. He dropped the handcuffs, allowing a hellish, powerful energy to flow through him, shedding the skin of the mortal child. He didn't like people to see him this way, but sometimes it was necessary. Sometimes, he had a score to settle.

Almost eight feet tall, Forty-Two's bipedal, goatlike physiology was fairly intimidating. The horns atop his head were almost half his height, and had razor-sharp outer edges. Honestly, they made him a little self-conscious among the other demons, because they tended to run into things, like low doorways or party decorations. They were also pretty heavy. At the moment, though, they added to his threatening demeanor, so he wasn't too angry with them at the moment.

He leaped forward, grabbing Babyface in a headlock. His orange eyes stared at Tony, and his lips parted to reveal a blue, forked tongue. He hissed, and as a collective, all the mob boss's minions fled from the area. The smell of fear taunted him; Forty-Two forgot how much he loved the scent, how he had to feed off of it sometimes just to survive. It was pungent - the scent of sweat and urine and mortality trailed after the terrified gangsters as they made their escape.

"You're bound!" Babyface squeaked. "You're bound to help me! To— to do whatever I ask!"

"Oh, sure," Forty-Two purred. "But you never said I couldn't also hurt you." He chuckled. In a way, he hated this side of himself, but the fear was so intoxicating. "And when you die, your soul will be my plaything for the rest of your afterlife."

"Please, no…"

"Destroy the binding."

"I — I wish— "

"It's not a wish! FREE ME, OR I'LL TAKE YOUR SOUL RIGHT NOW!"

Forty-Two honestly wasn't completely sure what Babyface stammered, but the cosmos must have heard something along the lines of a bind-breaking request. The handcuffs glowed white-hot for a single moment, and the demon could feel the compulsion to serve the gangster leaving him. He wondered if, perhaps, that was the shortest bind in the history of all binds.

A pile of ash sat where the bind had been.

"Now. Leave," Forty-Two demanded.

Without the bind, which he himself had twisted, he couldn't really do anything to Babyface. The mobster's fear was so powerful, though, that he fled, just like the others had done.

The demon heard a loud crash nearby, coming from the direction of the large tanks, but he wasn't concerned with that at the moment. Forty-Two's attention focused on the prairie chicken nearby, who lay twisted in the floor, unmoving. Hurrying over, he hovered one hoof-like hand over Michael; the demon's claws sparked, and suddenly lit up like a torch. Wincing, Forty-Two bowed his head.

Footsteps echoed against the sheet metal floor. When the demon looked up, Michael's three friends stood nearby, looking down. "Micky managed to pull the ladder in to the tank," Davy breathed, kneeling next to Michael. "So now we're all together, we can do this thing. We can make you mortal and fix this whole mess."

They didn't seem very concerned at his true form. Forty-Two tilted his head at Micky.

"It's the horns, man," the drummer said. "You said you'd wish for smaller horns. We kinda figured it was you."

Smiling sadly, Forty-Two looked down at the small, feathered creature. "I can't fix it," he said.

"But…" Peter said, his voice almost a whine. "You said…"

Interrupting, Forty-Two whispered, "Michael's dead."