Author's Note: the characters of Lucius, Oswald, and "J" are the property of DC Comics. But I'm sure you already figured that out. :)

The days following Stephanie's disappearance, rescue, recovery, and release, a tentative sort of calm fell over Lazytown. Everyone got back into their normal routines, started laughing, started enjoying the beautiful summer weather. But there was still that nagging concern in the back of everyone's mind: no one knew why Stephanie Meanswell had been kidnapped, and no one knew who had done it.

On the fourth day after Stephanie returned from the hospital, the sky was clear and such a deep shade of blue, it almost hurt to ponder it. She was sitting in Uncle Milford's garden, her booted foot stretched out in front of her, while he plucked away several offending weeds that had germinated while his attention had been diverted for the last few days.

"It's breezy today. It's nice for a change," Stephanie remarked. She felt something brush against her leg. She looked down, saw Fifi, and petted the little dog.

"Yes," Uncle Milford replied. His straw sun hat had been pulled low over his eyes so she couldn't see his face, but she sensed he was upset.

Frowning, she looked around the garden, her eyes catching on the bright crimson of the tomatoes growing firm and stout on the vines. "I love garden tomatoes. They have this—this fresh, grassy sort of flavor you don't get from store bought ones."

"I'll pick a few and get your aunt to salt and pepper them for lunch," he replied.

He's definitely upset, Stephanie thought. She let a few more moments go by and then she said, "Uncle Milford?" Slowly he raised his head to look at her. She'd never seen such a grim look on his face.

She stuttered, "Are-are you mad at me?"

He sighed, and went back to weeding. "A little," he admitted.

"Why?"

"Stingy told us what happened in Ocean City."

"Oh."

"You lied to me, Stephanie. You came home early, I asked what was wrong, and you lied! It feels as though you're always holding something back from me—from us."

"I'm…sorry."

"And when you do that, it makes me feel like you don't have any faith in me!"

She shook her head. "No. No, it's not that. I just didn't want to burden you…"

"That's not for you to decide!" Milford was practically shouting, and Stephanie was shocked. She'd never heard her mild-mannered uncle raise his voice. "That's what you do when you love someone—you deal with the burden. You want the burden."

"But I didn't want to hurt you…"

"Love isn't supposed to be easy! Love—love is more than that. Don't take that away from me, Stephanie. You're my only family—besides Bessie."

She considered this, then she got up, and limped over to him. He threw his trowel in the dirt and held her tight to him. "No more holding back, Stephanie," he whispered in her ear. "I can't take it anymore. Don't push me away again."

"I won't," she told him. "I promise."

Over the next few days, Sportacus was a fairly frequent visitor at the Meanswell residence. Mainly it was to check in and ensure Stephanie's safety and security, but it was also to take advantage of the chance to cultivate a friendship. Sportacus spent most of his time helping Stephanie with exercises she could do that didn't require her to be on her feet. One afternoon he'd brought an exercise ball for her to sit on while she worked on conditioning her upper body. The days she'd spent recovering had taken its toll, and she found working her biceps and obliques much harder than it had ever been. To help take her mind off the ache, Sportacus told her stories of his time training to be a guardian.

"Our trainer was a retired Guardian named Joculus. Oh, he was the worst! He didn't just punish one of us for goofing off; we all got punished as if we'd all done it. One day, one of our fellow trainees was late to practice, and he made the rest of us get into the plank position and hold it until Bravadus was located."

"Oh my gosh, Sportacus! How long did you have to hold it?"

"It only took ten minutes, but it was an agonizing ten minutes! You could literally feel everyone's arm muscles shaking from it. When Bravadus finally got in (he'd overslept!), we finally got to get up, but then we all had to do 200 jumping jacks!"

"Oh you all must have hated that guy!"

"He…wasn't our favorite person. He got the silent treatment for a while. A couple of the trainees got back at him, though: they put smeared wintergreen rub on the inside of his undershorts."

"Ha! Oh, that's brutal!"

"Yep! You should have seen him at training that day; he was definitely feeling it, but he knew if he complained, he'd get himself and the rest of us in trouble. So he whimpered through the whole thing."

"And I suppose you, being the good little trainee…had no part of the prank?"

"Of course not! Though…I might have kept knowledge of it to myself."

Stephanie laughed as she finished the last of her exercises. "Sportacus," she began, as he helped her to her feet and over to the sofa, "I wanted to tell you that this has been great."

"This? Exercise?"

"No! I mean, yeah, this is nice too. What I mean is, becoming your friend as an adult. Being able to talk about these sort of things—things we didn't, or couldn't, talk about when I was a kid. I—I have to admit: I came here hoping to plunge into some sort of fairytale romance, but I realize now that…developing a friendship is way more important, because now it can be deeper than before. As a child, there was so much of our friendship that was limited; but it had to be limited. You know what I mean?"

He nodded. "I do."

"I admit, things didn't go exactly the way I imagined—I mean, hell, when you think about the past few weeks…" Sportacus' face tightened, but he simply nodded.

Stephanie continued. "But everything I've gone through made me see that I'm loved so much more than I ever realized. I have wonderful family, and great friends who would go the distance for me. I—I'd forgotten that. And I feel bad about that. And maybe—maybe if I believe that everything happens for a reason, then maybe that's why what happened to me happened." She smiled and shook her head. "Sorry for getting all soapbox-y."

Sportacus put his arm around her and drew her close, resting his chin on the top of her head. "It wasn't. That was beautiful. I just wish you hadn't had to suffer the way you did. But you're right: you're loved more than you could ever imagine." Stephanie pulled away slightly to look up at him, smiling.

She was so good. Life hadn't always been kind to her, but her heart of gold had never tarnished. And so beautiful…

"Sportacus?" Stephanie asked.

"Hmm?"

"Have you talked to Maven lately?"

He blinked, as if he'd awakened from a trance. "Maven. No. No, I…I haven't really thought about it. We've both been so busy."

"I know. And I'm grateful for everything you've both done for us. But as your friend…my advice is, don't ignore your relationship."

Sportacus knew Stephanie's advice was good. After he left her, he thought about what she'd said, and he also thought of what Sheriff Knobbs had told him when he'd met with him the other day. Ever since Stephanie had been found, Sportacus had been able to form a professional camaraderie with the old lawman. They met frequently to discuss the case and compare notes—and Sportacus was grateful that he'd had the chance to make amends for the way he'd acted when they'd first met.

"It's all right, Sportacus. I know you were under a lot of pressure that day. I, uh…I'm betting you're not used to things like that happening in your little town, huh?"

"No, sir," Sportacus told him (although it was ironic that Sportacus addressed Percy as an elder when they were most likely the same age). "I've always been able to handle any crisis that happened in Lazytown. Until now. To be honest, Sheriff, it wasn't just the pressure. It was the guilt. I was on vacation when it happened. I felt like I'd let everyone down: Stephanie, Milford Bessie—all of them."

Percy had considered this for a moment, sitting back in his chair. Then he asked, "You ever feel like you're too close to it? To your work, to your people?"

"Yes. I do."

"Hmm. I used to feel the same way. Thought I had to be like a robot—work with my head, not my heart. Leave my feelings at home. But I found that—that—investing myself, all of myself, is what made me a better protector. Because when bad things did happen, I was able to see the things that outsiders couldn't. I was able to put clues together better, because I worked like my life depended on it. And it did. Sportacus, what I'm saying is, that it's about finding that balance of reason and emotion—and not letting one stunt the other. It's a persistent struggle in our line of work, but the truth is, when you get rid of either one of them—the head, or the heart—you're no good to yourself or anyone else."

Remembering this, Sportacus decided to do something that was long overdue: go see the mayor.

Her house was dark and empty when he ran past it, so he knew she was most likely still at her office. He entered City Hall, nodded politely at Officer Batoni, and approached her door. It was slightly ajar, but he could peer in and hear her. She was on the phone, pacing back and forth, and clearly frustrated.

"Yes, I understand the samples aren't a lot to go on. I understand that! But you need to understand that I am not going to just let this go." Maven held her head, as though she were trying to reason with a petulant child. The person on the other line said something, and Sportacus could see that Maven didn't like it. She opened and closed her fists rapidly, as if to calm herself. Finally she broke into the person's speech.

"No! That is not what we're talking about! What we're talking about is a young woman who never did anything to anyone. She was walking in her neighborhood, just trying to get home, and she's snatched up and dumped in a field like trash! So if I have to call you up every single day and demand that you do your freakin' job, then that's what I'm going to do! Okay. Okay. Yes, that works. Thank you." Maven hung up the phone and slammed her palms on the desk. "Idiots," she muttered.

Sportacus knocked on the doorway panel. "Hi," he said softly.

Maven turned around, her eyes widening slightly for a moment. "Hello," she replied, turning away to look at the papers on her desk.

"That call, it uh…sounded heated. Is everything okay?"

"Yes. I'm just getting some pushback from the testing lab in Parched Falls about the samples of the narcotic used on Stephanie. Their director keeps whining that they're not accustomed to performing these types of tests, that there's been 'unusual chemical deterioration,' and his people have had to work overtime to salvage the samples and perform research—ha! They had no trouble signing the contract with us to become our consultant of choice for field testing."

"I'm sorry."

She didn't look up at him. "Not your fault. You can't control what others do."

He sat down across from her. "Thank you—for what you said about Stephanie."

She shrugged. "It's the truth. Besides…I need to make it up to her."

"What?"

Maven sighed and leaned back in her chair. "I didn't think much of her when she first came. I…tend to size people up pretty quickly. When she left the party Bessie organized…when she led that protest…and when she had that fight with Bessie…I just pegged her as a troublemaker. When she went missing, I was so sure she'd just taken off without saying anything to anyone. I was annoyed that we had to cut our trip short. And, of course," Maven smiled bitterly, "I was jealous of the affection you two share."

Before Sportacus could reply, she added, "But I've gotten to know her in the last few weeks, and I realize how wrong I was. She's a good person." She went back to reviewing the documents.

After a few moments, Sportacus said, "I need to make it up to you too."

Slowly she looked up at him. "What? Why?"

"I've been…cold to you. For the last few weeks. You didn't deserve that."

"That's all right, Sportacus. We promised each other from the beginning that we wouldn't let our work be compromised by our relationship." She walked over to her filing cabinet and began sorting her files.

Sportacus walked up to her, gently turning her around. "Do you…still want to be with me?

She stopped and turned to face him. "I didn't think there was any doubt about that. The question is, do you still want to be with me?"

He didn't respond. Instead, he took her face in his hands, giving her a long, slow kiss. She sighed and wrapped her arms around him.

Pixel sighed and pushed himself back from his desk. He'd run every scan, every protocol he knew, and he knew no more about how his system had been hacked as he did when he first realized it had been compromised. As much as he hated to admit it, Robbie had been right. Whoever did this was far more skilled and had far more resources than he did.

He looked behind him to see Trixie standing at her easel, making slow, careful strokes with a fine bristle brush onto her canvas. Her dark eyes were narrowed in concentration, lips pursed.

"I don't know where to go from here," Pixel stated. "Every protocol I run...it gets me nowhere. For all I know, my system could be monitored right now and I wouldn't know it."

Trixie didn't reply.

Pixel continued. "I hope the County police have more luck with those files I sent them. Although I think Ziggy and I caught all the useful details already."

"Mm hmm."

He frowned. Wasn't she paying attention? He got up to stand next to her. Trixie was still in the early stages, but she was clearly painting a landscape scene. The sky was a mixture of pinks, oranges, and reds-indicating sunset-and flecked with whisps of clouds. Trixie was in the process of painting foamy white waves into the dark sea, which were curling and twisting into one another.

"What are you painting?" Pixel asked.

"Assarogue Island," she replied, not taking her eyes off of her work.

"Oh. Is it for school?"

"No. It's for Bessie. When we were keeping each other company during...well, you know, she told me she loved visiting Assarogue as a little girl, but hasn't been back for a long time. I thought I'd surprise her with a painting of it."

"Oh, that's nice. I thought you just did sketches, with pencils…and stuff. I um...I didn't know you could paint like that. "

Trixie stopped and looked at him. "You never asked, Pixel."

There was no malice in her voice, no bitterness. She was simply stating a fact. She turned and went back to painting. When it was clear she had nothing else to say to him, Pixel walked back to his desk. He wasn't used to this, her not giving him her attention. Whenever he'd developed a new program or device, she always listened to him.

Then, suddenly, as though someone turned his head to look at something he'd never seen before, a thought came to him: did he listen to her?

He probably didn't. Pixel had tunnel vision; he knew this. When he got passionate about something, he tuned everything out. And he was passionate about his work a lot.

"You think I'm a bad boyfriend, don't you?" Pixel asked.

She closed her eyes and groaned. "Pixel, please. We'll all been through hell the last few weeks; things are finally starting to get better. Please don't make me feel like shit."

"I'm not trying to make you feel like shit. I guess…I'm just noticing stuff for the first time."

"Ha! Great."

"No, that's not what I mean. I mean…ugh…just that I took stuff for granted, okay? Like, I know I get engrossed in my work, but that doesn't mean that I don't see you. I do. And I love you."

Trixie nodded. "Okay." She turned her eyes back to the canvas.

Pixel gaped at her. "'Okay'? That's it? That's all you're going to say?"

"Yeah. Cuz it's not going to change anything. You say you love me, but give it a couple weeks and you'll come up with some great idea for a gadget or something, and then you lock yourself away for nights on end and I just sit around, making sure you eat and sleep. You say you care about my work, but you don't ask to see the pieces I've done or talk to me about my inspirations—oh, you care, but only on a superficial level. You're never going to change—"

Trixie didn't finish her sentence, because Pixel had pulled her into his arms and pressed his lips against hers, in a kiss that took the breath right out of her. After the longest ten seconds of her life, he pulled away, and grinned at her. "How's that for a change?" he asked.

She was speechless. "Wha-wha-what was that? You've never kissed me like that before!"

He took her face in his hands and kissed her again, softer this time. "Change is good." He took her hand. "I'm taking a break from all this computer stuff. Tell me about painting." He led her to the sofa.

"Tell you about—what do you mean? Where do I start?"

He shrugged. "Start at the beginning. Whatever I need to know." He took her hand and kissed it. "Talk to me."

Trixie felt a smile blossoming on her face. "Well, uh…I guess—for me in particular, I first got into painting when my parents took me to this small art museum in Capital City…"

Adana Worthmore arrived home that evening with a smile on her face. She'd joined the Rumbaughs at family game night at their church, and she'd enjoyed it far more than she'd expected. She sat with Carol and her granddaughters, as well as Miranda Jackson. Adana had only won a couple rounds of bingo and checkers, but it was the talking and joking around that made it fun. They were all such nice people, and so welcoming to her. She was so ashamed of herself for snubbing them for so long. And she felt bad that it took such a terrible thing as Stephanie Meanswell getting abducted for them to all to come together.

She thought of her parents and what they'd say if they saw her interacting with the lower class like this. There was still a part of her that felt it was below her, but she was beginning to find it easier to dismiss. What had acting like a snob done for her, really? Years and years of loneliness. They were people. People who were different from her, but people nonetheless.

Adana got to her bedroom and opened the door to find Trevor packing a few items into his briefcase. Their eyes met, and for a moment, he looked a little nervous. Clearing his throat, Adana's husband said, "Adana. I was wondering where you were. I'm leaving for New York in the morning."

The old Adana probably would have replied with profuse apologies for her absence, and wishes for him to have a good trip. Instead, she put her purse down on her vanity, slipped off her shoes, and simply said, "All right."

Trevor added, "And I want you to know that I've decided to forgive you for the way you spoke to me the other night."

Adana just stared at him for a moment, then, to his shock, laughed at him. "Don't bother."

"What?"

"You can't forgive me for something I'm not sorry for. Save yourself the trouble."

Trevor put his suitcase down in a huff. "Adana, what's gotten into you? This-this attitude you have: where did it come from?"

She walked over to him and got into his face, just the way she did on the night Stephanie went missing. "I'll tell you where it came from, Trevor. This is not just some out of the blue attitude change. This is the culmination of years of disrespect and a lack of attention! When was the last time you asked me how I was? Hmm? When?"

"What are you talking about—"

"Or when was the last time you took a moment to even talk to me!"

"Don't be silly, Adana! We talk all the time."

"No! No, we don't. You talk at me! Every time I tried to say something, you'd cut me off! You never—"

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. I don't cut you off!"

"Lord in heaven! You just did it, Trevor! You have no respect for me or our marriage. I can't…" Adana caught herself for a moment, realizing what she was saying. But that was it—she'd turned a corner and couldn't go back. "I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry."

Trevor's homely face went blank. "You…can't…are you saying—you can't possibly be saying—you want a divorce?"

Did she want a divorce? The idea of turning everything upside down, starting a new life, having to start all over again—could she really do it?

Then she thought of the last few days: the people she'd come to know and spend time with, the new relationship she was forging with her son. Just a few months earlier she could have never dreamed of it, but it was now her reality. And then she remembered Stephanie Meanswell, who survived and fought after being left to die in a sweltering metal prison. If that girl could find the courage to keep going, so could Adana.

She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath in, and replied, "Yes. Yes, I am."

He took a step back for a moment, shaking his head. "I…I don't understand. What's going to happen? I mean, we've been married for 22 years! I never thought that this would happen…to me…" Trevor was pacing back and forth, trying to grasp it, and for a moment, Adana started to feel regret. Maybe she'd been too hasty. "Trevor," she began, holding out her hands.

"I mean, what happens from here? What could you possibly do without me? All you know is me and the life I've given you. You couldn't function at all," he told her.

And just like that, every atom of sympathy Adana had possessed drained right out of her. "I'll be fine, Trevor," she replied icily. "I have my son, and I have my friends. I'll make it."

Did she have friends? Yes, she did. Maybe she hadn't known the Rumbaughs for very long, and maybe she had some awful ideas about people that she needed to work on, but Adana was very certain that those people would be willing to be friends to her.

Her husband scoffed. "So how do you envision this working out?"

"I stay here and keep the house," she replied with a shrug. "You already have your apartments in New York and Los Angeles. Don't you remember? We outlined all of these arrangements 23 years ago, when we signed the pre-nup. We're practically living separate lives already anyway, aren't we?" Adana thought of something she'd always wondered about, and smiled coldly. "I have my friends, and you have yours, don't you, Trevor? Very good friends of yours."

His eyes widened. "You know about…the other women?"

"What sort of fool do you take me for? Of course I knew." In reality, Adana didn't know for sure—she'd only suspected it—but he didn't have to know that.

Trevor dug his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels and nodding his head, the way he always did when he'd made a decision and expected it to be followed to the letter—as though he had been to make this decision. "I suppose this is it then. I'll have Careworn make up one of the other rooms for me. Once I get to New York I'll contact the lawyers and make the arrangements." Trevor picked up the bags he'd packed, and made his way to the door. Adana couldn't help but notice, however, that his pace was much slower than it usually was. She turned away.

She heard him stop, and turn around. "Adana?" he asked.

She turned to face him. "Yes, Trevor?"

"People of our…class don't do this. You know that, don't you?" He gave her a pointed look, his teeth biting into his lip in disapproval.

Maybe this was his way of trying to win her back, she imagined. But in that moment, she realized something: she didn't want to be won back.

Adana just shrugged. "I'm in a different class now, Trevor. Different class, different rules."

"So Uncle Milford, Mayor Sadesaque, and Dr. Bonebreak were childhood friends?"

"Indeed they were! Thick as thieves, from what your uncle told me. He and Maurice were the only children who would play with Jasper, poor thing. This was back when the black families were first starting to move to the island, and people were less than welcoming."

Stephanie smiled gently and placed the two necklaces she'd finished untangling back into her aunt's wooden jewelry box. "I don't think Uncle Milford has it in him to show anything but kindness to anyone and everyone."

Aunt Bessie nodded and looked away, trying to not show too much pride. "Yes, I think you're right about that."

It had been a quiet, easygoing sort of morning that was lazily shifting into an afternoon of the same sort. Because Stephanie had to stay off of her feet as much as possible, Bessie tried to find any number of activities that could be done sitting down. They shelled peas. They played cards and board games. They colored pictures in those grown up coloring books filled with intricate patterns. Bessie worried that Stephanie would get bored and try to find some excuse to leave or go to her room to be alone. But she didn't. It was Stephanie, in fact, who suggested that they work together to organize the jewelry in Bessie's ornate chest, since Bessie had complained a number of times that it was nearly impossible for her to find the things she was looking for when she needed them. Stephanie seemed very happy to search through the drawers to find the missing matches to earrings or to remove the knots from delicate chains. And while they worked, Bessie told her stories about their friends and family.

It felt like they were bonding—really, truly bonding. And while Bessie was enjoying it, she wished that it hadn't come about under such horrible circumstances. She tried to put on a cheerful face for Stephanie, but it wasn't easy at times. Whenever her niece would wince from the pain of her injury, or just seeing the boot on her foot, Bessie would have to fight back tears or find some excuse to escape to another room for a moment. Still, the old adage rang true: sometimes you have to nearly lose something to realize how precious it is.

Maybe Stephanie felt the same way too.

Not long after, there was a knock on the door, along with a delivery of a gift basket of flowers and a balloon that read, "Get well soon."

"Oh, Stephanie! These appear to be for you, dear. Here's the card." Bessie handed it to Stephanie.

As the girl read it, Bessie watched her expression change from confusion to resignation. "It is from one of the town's people?" she asked.

"No. From my mother."

"Anastasia?"

"Yep. She wrote, 'Darling: so sorry to hear you're not well. Hoping you're better soon. Love you! Mommy'."

"Didn't um…the police interview her a few days ago because they thought the suspect might be targeting her through you? She…knows what happened, doesn't she?" Bessie tried to phrase her words as carefully as she could, trying to sound as neutral as possible.

"I'm pretty sure she does." Stephanie sighed and shrugged. "It's the thought that counts, right?"

Bessie just smiled in resignation and nodded. "Yes, I suppose it does, dear."

After Bessie put the flowers into a vase with water and set them on the table next to Stephanie, she sat down next to her niece, who wrapped an arm around her and kissed her cheek. "Thank you," the girl told her.

"For what, dear?"

"For holding back just now. I'm sure you wanted to say something else other than what you did, but you didn't. That was really cool of you."

Bessie smiled and returned the embrace. "She's your mother. Besides, I…oh, maybe I shouldn't say it."

"Say what? Go on, it's okay. Really."

"Just that…I'm here with you, and she's not. I admit, I was jealous of her because she'll always have a special place in your life that I won't, but now, I know there was no reason for that. Honestly, I feel bad for her. She has no idea what she's missing."

Stephanie leaned her head on Bessie's shoulder. "I'm glad that we got to this place. Even if we had to get there the hard way."

Bessie patted her cheek, realizing now that Stephanie indeed felt the same way she did. "Me too, dear."

Just then, there was another knock on the door. Bessie frowned and stood up to answer it. "You're not expecting one of the other children, are you?" Stephanie replied that she wasn't.

It was Corey, holding a bunch of wilting daisies and standing awkwardly. "Uh, hi, Mrs., um, Busybody-I mean um, Meanswell. Is Stephanie around?"

"Corey?" Stephanie limped to the door and stood next to Bessie.

"Hey, Stephanie!" Corey instantly relaxed. "How's um...your leg?"

"My ankle's broken, but I've got good drugs for the pain." Stephanie's smile slowly faded as an uncomfortable silence grew. "Did you...need something?"

"Something? Oh! Oh yeah! I wanted to see if you wanted to get sushi with me. There's a new place on the strip that's good."

Bessie and Stephanie exchanged a glance, then the latter replied, "I'm flattered, but...after what happened, I'm not really looking to start dating right now. Plus, I'm only here for the summer."

Corey shifted his weight awkwardly and tugged at his springy chestnut hair. "And, like, I get that, but you still gotta eat, right? It's a, you know, free lunch, I'm paying and stuff, so uh...why not?" The poor boy looked scared to death, but he was really trying, and Stephanie could appreciate that.

"Corey, you realize that Stephanie cannot walk for long distances. She can't walk all the way from here to the strip mall," Bessie warned him.

"Oh, yeah I totally get that! My cousin let me borrow his car." Corey turned so they could see the little hatchback parked on the street.

Stephanie smiled and said, "Well, let me just get my purse and I'll meet you outside."

"Sure thing! Oh, these are for you." Corey handed her the sad little bouquet, then walked off, looking both relieved and excited.

"Stephanie. Stephanie, dear," Bessie began, "Do you really want to do this? Corey's a nice boy, but he's...well..."

"I know, Aunt Bessie. But like he said, it's just lunch. And I haven't left the house to do anything for nearly two weeks. It would be nice to do something." She leaned over the kissed her aunt. "It's just lunch, and I'll be right back home."

Bessie still looked nervous. "But...are you sure you'll be..."

"Yes. I have my cell phone. And the mace Trixie got me. It'll be okay. I promise." When Bessie still didn't look convinced, Stephanie added, "I'm going to a public place. Plenty of people around."

Bessie sighed. "Here, give me the daisies. I'll put them in water."

"Thanks! And Aunt Bessie?"

"Yes, dear?"

"I love you!" Stephanie limped past the front door and closed it behind her.

Bessie sniffed deeply, warding the tears away. "I love you too," she said quietly.

Robbie could tell Lucius was getting weary of him, but he didn't care. The man hadn't hung up on him yet, which meant there was still hope. Running his hands through his oiled black hair, Robbie said, "Lucius, I'm telling you—if you don't take my advice on this, you're going to regret it. She's perfect for the program!"

"You know we make our selections months in advance. It's too late for additions! And even if I gave in and bent the rules, what sort of message would that send? How would that be fair to the others?"

"I don't give a damn about the others…"

"Robbie."

The reformed villain groaned. "I'm sorry. But this is important. Lucius, I've always delivered on time, and I've never asked for anything from you or Bruce before. Can you make an exception—just this once?" When he was met with silence, Robbie added, "Please."

After a few tense seconds, Lucius groaned in resignation. "All right, all right. Send me her resume. But understand: I make absolutely no promises."

"Thank you. You won't regret this."

"I'd better not."

Robbie's hand shook as he hung up the phone. He balled it into a fist, trying to calm himself, then immediately went to his laptop and emailed the copy of Stephanie's resume he'd taken from her computer when he broke into the Meanswell house.

He had to get her out of town. It wasn't safe there, and Sportaflop and those idiot cops weren't going to cut it. And she refused to listen to reason! Stubborn little brat. Lucius had to come through for him. He just had to. Robbie knew that if Lucius made Stephanie an offer, she'd take it. Who in their right mind would pass up an opportunity to intern for Wayne Laboratories?

Still, he needed a "Plan B." Maybe he could reach out to one of his contacts on the shady side. Carmen would probably help him. Oswald, maybe.

Or perhaps Brent Tretoro needed to pay her another visit…no, that wasn't a good idea. He didn't want to press his luck.

Before anyone reading this starts to fall under the misconception that Robbie Rotten was starting to develop a selfless, noble heart, know that Stephanie Meanswell's safety was not his only concern. It was the chemical agent that had been used to drug her, and the fact that the Parched Falls laboratory hadn't been able to identify it yet. Robbie had a gut feeling that he knew how it had been accomplished.

The phone rang again. Thinking it was Lucius, Robbie picked it up immediately and said, "Lucius?"

"Wrong, old friend."

Robbie felt his blood run cold. "Clive? What the hell? How the hell did you get my number?"

The hired thug laughed lifelessly. "Come on now, Robbie. Do you really think there's any bit of information we can't get our hands on if we want? I'm surprised you answered. I'd have thought you'd left town by now. I guess you're not as smart as I thought you were."

Robbie's jaw clenched in anger, but he was determined to keep up the bravado. "This is my town, and I've got nothing to be afraid of—least of all from a small-time hood like you."

"Oh, is that so? Well, I look forward to hearing you say that to my face. My associates and I are right outside your compound."

"What!?" Robbie cried.

Clive laughed again. "Oh Robbie, Robbie—you really are a yellow livered coward. Good news for you: you're safe. For now. We're actually heading over to the Mayor's office to send a message. Word of advice? Enjoy life while you can." He hung up.

Robbie slowly lowered the phone in horror. They were going after Marvelosa. They were going to destroy this town. "God," he moaned. "Oh God."

He was so stupid, so naïve to think that the syndicate would just let him go after he'd been a part of it for all those years. Of course his fellow villains would come after him—to punish him for leaving, to destroy everything he had.

Robbie's mind drifted back to a party he'd attended a few years ago—a party that Oswald had thrown at his nightclub. Every big name in the syndicate was going to be there, and Oswald made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that if you were invited, your presence was required. Robbie tried to back out of it, citing his hatred of fun and people in general, but Oswald wouldn't hear of it. And so Robbie went, bringing one of his handheld inventions he was trying to perfect and spending the night hunched over it in a corner, trying to make it work. He hoped his grim expression and irritated muttering would deter the other villains, making him look tougher than he was.

In reality, Robbie was terrified of these people. Sure, he was no saint, but these were hardcore psychotics who'd slit your throat on a whim. Oswald once told him that he liked doing business with Robbie because it was one of the few times he got to interact with someone who was on his side, but was also legally sane like himself. Robbie glanced at his watch almost constantly, counting down the minutes until he could reasonably take his leave of the damned place.

He was just ten minutes to his self-appointed departure time when he had the feeling that he was being watched. Before he could turn around and check, the guest he feared the most had plopped himself on the bench next to Robbie.

"Quite an invention," the man told Robbie after a long minute of inspection. "And it's held your attention all night!"

Robbie slowly raised his eyes from the man's impeccable, violet-colored three piece suit, to meet his gaze. Those eyes…those piercing green eyes. Charming, entrancing—and not a speck of empathy in them. Robbie remembered the man's henchwoman, how she'd abandoned a promising career as a psychologist to follow him anywhere he went. For just a moment, looking in those eyes, Robbie could understand why she did it. Pushing every iota of fear down to his feet, Robbie maintained eye contact and said in an even voice, "Yes, J, it's all I do."

The man tossed his head back and laughed, then clapped Robbie on the back. "Single-minded obsessiveness, Robbie. I like it!" Then he got up and sauntered off to make merry elsewhere.

For nearly a week after the party, Robbie fretted about the encounter, spending sleepless hours wondering if he'd acted the right way. Finally, he managed to make peace with it, rationalizing that Oswald considered Robbie a good friend…and Oswald's influence would keep him safe.

But Robbie was no longer useful, and Oswald hadn't reached out to him in months. Robbie was expecting that. What he hadn't expected was this level of retribution.

Robbie sucked in the air, realizing that he hadn't been breathing for the last few moments. He needed to move, he needed to plan. Should he warn Marvelosa and Sportacus? No. To hell with them. They didn't matter to him.

The only one that did matter wasn't there. He knew the girl had gone on a pity date with one of those hideous teenage townies, thanks to the bug he'd planted under Bessie Meanswell's sofa. Marvelosa would be the sacrificial lamb. Once word got around that Clive and his thugs had done whatever they planned to do, the whole place would be swarming with cops from the Sheriff's office. By the time Stephanie got back, she'd be safe.

But he wasn't. Looking around at his home, his work, he knew he'd have to pack simply, then move underground. He didn't have much time.