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Tearing up her outfit for sacrifices to the pyre, there was no ignoring the hard beats in her throat, waves of clammy dread rolling, crashing over her body.

Couple of flashes on loop as she'd cuddle her boots close; first, the rats who'd exchange her kindness for a knifing, twice, and second, thoughts of why she didn't settle accounts sooner, in spite of evidence overwhelming. Down those halls, her pace to begin picking up, each step tracked by the trails of fatality.

Endless streams of evidence against, wrung and flushed down the drain; showers preceding a jittery raid of the janitor's closet. Quite the sight clutching armfuls of buckets and mops, but a crucial one to keep this dirty deed secret, her seat and life a guarantee.

Page out of Ms. Proctor's book to scrutinize every surface, render every last tile and wall spotless—obsession here to never notice any silent scuttles nor whispers of whooping. Heard her boss's gloating over grand schemes, however; impulses to surge, insides to electrify, and an instinct to bolt out before she really became infamous.

Gawkers to forget the city's golden rule, get shoved to the gutters as everything continued to jog from block to block. Winding up at those classic rocket rinks, nary a skater nor queuer game enough to get near as her migraine of memories brought her to kneeling, tearing at her lavender locks.

Only a figure like a friend's—shadow if anything—to spark senses of hope, a reach-out and grab, that'd eventually catch nothing but a burst of wind. Pleas that this'd been a night terror over a nightmare, as through eventual rise and blinded eye, she'd somehow reach her front door and bed, collapsing upon the latter.

Toss, turn, toss, turn—never could she envision that robots before, and rookies tonight, would ensure that she could never fix the past, that nothing could bring her future together. Right then to reverb the walls with a wailing of crosses, that'd leave Swiss cheese of her bedroom's back wall.

"Rookie's gonna learn now, what it's like to fly… After he's gone, won't welcome anybody in my world again."

A return to HQ's bowels in haste, birthday suit be damned, only to discover that Mayfield's body was gone. Gripped her skull for thinking a certain tattler had stuck their noses in, until she began to burst out into cackles.

Commandeering the lounge, a wily plan and perfect scapegoat to click into place; wicked peace within madness to finally get some sleep.

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Rumours of storms and cold fronts overheard, yet the comfiest rest enjoyed in some time; sweat, drool and twisted lies notwithstanding.

Had hoped it'd remain so even as such murmurs buzzed closer, but hadn't a choice once any speakers began poking her side. No typical June morning, by any means, when instead of the summary she'd demand, she would be supplied with excuses that everybody still needed to talk.

"Then what are we waitin' for, an intergalactic sale? Unlike you guys, I've got better things to do."

Dirty looks to ignore as she'd shove past the whole staff, grab an emergency outfit and roast herself a coal-black coffee. Long sips to launch her senses, and any sordid business to put straight out of mind; was sure that any affairs of skinning snakes alive could be handled off the clock, out of sight.

Right now, a growing zest to sail among the stars, though hers wasn't a mood that literally anyone else would meet right that moment.

"Heaven's Gate guys, don't tell me the old dolt's gotta file for—"

Train of thought stopped when Hermes unrolled his copy of the Daily Supernova, so fresh off the press it was warm to touch. Only the barest peep heard as her look grew baleful, as she'd grind her teeth—bottom-right corner to capture her on ice, be captioned: "MOANING LEELA HAUNTS AGAIN."

"Yuh mind tellin' us what's goin' on, Captain?"

"Of course I mind, the son-of-a-bitch shot me on my NON-nonchalant side! Swear I'm gonna find their agency and I'll—"

"You really gonna try and convince us that everything's alright?" Amy spoke up. "Laying naked's fine, even in public, but in Central Park of all places?"

"Didn't do so on purpose, idiot, and if you wore my eye last night… Maybe you can go prise the truth outta Zoidberg's shell, axe HIM how EO Mayfield met his end. So much blood and cadaverous decay, all 'cause that crab got a little hungry."

"What? Must be mistaken, was sipping some dumpster juice when I heard—"

Whiplash of necks in the doctor's direction, talks among themselves, to hope she didn't give any acts or games away. Sure enough, cockatiel fin and all, his monstrous side to make an appearance—only had to walk him, slow and easy, upon her trap for victory, all of theirs in truth.

"Clamp it yuh dumb lobster, yuh've got no permission to butt in! Now let's get our business—"

One claw to fly precise and press upon Hermes' neck, silence him despite the stink of trash and entrails. A peaceful yet seething vow of slicing hearts open, to utter another word—thoughts of still dreaming, that it couldn't be THIS easy.

"Real doctors, the Earthican MA, don't define me with disgust for nothing. I'd butcher many a fine crewman, witness others die in my claws… but I've NEVER taken a life outside my operating room!"

"Just who do you think our city's finest are going to believe?" she fought back a sneer. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't any feast a feast after helping yourself to toenail clippings?"

"It's no secret, that my claws can cut through bones at leisure, that I've no problem munching on raw meat, whatever I can get really. But what kind of monster do you think I am, that I'd bother to break the bones, and cook the skin so thoroughly?"

Clacks of confidence to widen her eye, especially once murmurs grew against her; so much for a guilty charge from the word go.

"I still believe in my Oath, even for how often I'd fail it… Can't say the same for you Captain, to become this tyrant with a temper, this creator of cruel justice, this savage that we can't seem to PREDICT, let alone understand nowadays."

All eyes to descend pair by pair upon her, send alarm bells clanging to abort her story. Couldn't believe this; everyone here to crucify Zoidberg for any feasible thing, cross fingers that one day, they could terminate his licence and make a thermidor of him.

"Now I've worn the rags you—all of you—have thrown my way, but I'll be DAMNED if I let such lies and slander destroy my life. I will NOT let that be the thanks I get, after betraying my own to win back your freedoms… The very same ones your army would squander."

Upon his casual kick-back and obvious chortle, she knew she had bombed hard, that the spotlight had been thrust squarely onto HER.

"Okay, that takes care of that. Time Amy and I do our checks, get us all—"

"Us?"

Co-pilot to stand, betray a little quiver as she turned to face her.

"Yes, us. Don't even go there Wong, now's not the time."

"Ma'am, I get that one's gotta dirty their hands sometimes, but this stain makes even the sewer mutants seem decent. Bad enough to believe murder was your only option, but to actually go ahead with it, be so gruesome about it? I'm sorry, but clear as I can be, there's no 'us' anymore."

No doubt a vote of no confidence, and not her first by any means. Newest misguided mutiny to suffer flashes again, have her launch a knee looking to split the table.

"Fine, leave then, not like you gotta work for a living… Go break a nail, you bloated bimbo!"

"Sweet raging bull of Liverpool, 'de hell's wrong wid' yuh madwoman?" Hermes clapped his head.

"Alright… YOU WANT A LIST?!"

Up she stood, fists clenched to crack knuckles, as she'd begin her own lap 'round the table.

"Fine… Has anyone here got a 'friend' who chose their life in exchange for yours? Has anyone slept through an inescapable maze of nightmares, courtesy of such 'friends?' Has anyone's 'friends' exposed your secrets, taken you for rides since you'd meet 'em? And best yet, has anyone had any 'friends' who not once, but TWICE would destroy your priceless treasures?"

Rants to turn sand into snow, continue to escalate until an atom bomb rippled out from the chief's command centre. Sound only to silence her madness, if just for a brief moment.

"But ohhhhh nooooo, for giving such 'friends' the justice they deserved, I'M now the villain."

"That's enough, ENOUGH I say!" Farnsworth would thunder. "Since apparently no-one can order themselves… Amy, unless you want Mars U called up to fail you outright, you'll shut up and do as you're told."

Left her in tears before then; had to smirk over foreign spats until he'd round onto her: "As for you, eyeball, I have absolutely HAD IT with waving aside your temper! Executing your own crew, of all the messes now…"

Table phone to interrupt an expected firing; he to answer it, have a quick chat, then hang up again.

"Ooohhh, by Olympus I was gonna strip your wings. I'm giving you two weeks, young lady—calm any situations down, and bring our crew back… Or Gods help what I do to you."

Upon gulping her brew, copped itches to hurl the mug and bean that skull, put such dim lights out; better options heard to just break off with everybody else, begin the day in earnest. Their first contract to soon arrive and inspect, where for all she'd hear at O'Zorgnax's, or out and about, she'd get the shivers something fierce.

Among old crews, competitors or the odd civilian, stories spread and believed of Angra-7, of an angel's boasts and blasphemies that'd exile them from some sacred inner circle, soon that domain period. Corrupted by hatred, then tempted by spite, the Demon King would come to be born; marking that birth, a personal mission to subjugate whoever'd spurn him.

Raising an army that'd range from imps to spectres, hundreds or thousands strong, it was said that in a matter of days, he'd claim the whole planet as his own prisoners. Countless enslaved in centuries since to break and be killed, whether by overwork or 'recreation', in His glorious name… And God help the hands using theirs to fight back, resist instead.

Flashes of Osiris-4, that one particular episode, to toss the clipboard aside and take off for her locker, ignoring the hover-chair to whip her way.

"I didn't give you leave, so where do you think you're going? Captain, get your big butt inside of Bessie, or else—"

"Or else what? Why care about permission anymore, when I'm toast in two weeks anyway?"

"Shall I call the cops to come axe some questions? Forget your little fantasies right now, young lady."

"You first, Professor. Cold truth is, I can no longer pledge Amy or anybody's safety, and I will NOT be put in such positions anymore."

"As your founder and CEO, Turanga Leela, I demand that you shut up, stand down, and take your seat right now!"

"Word of advice, Hubert Jackass Farnsworth… Beware the lady to outlive all the others you've ever named Captain or crew, unless you want a who's who of squads, bureaucrats, and moguls crawling right up your ass."

One could've named a planet, a universal war, an invention or some adventure, and placed good bets on Farnsworth hearing about it, or having a hand in it. Not a decade among his seventeen, she was quite sure, that anyone could call ordinary by any definition.

But in saying so, even for recent nights, she knew her closet was empty compared to his, as did he to offer only a nod, a silent wave aside. Rare change of heart to gather that Mayfield was somehow alive; getting the go ahead, would rush out the lobby to begin her search.

Obvious first call to be Taco Bellevue, but almost a big miscalculation when the reception actually started to call security. No record revealed either, to put any theories of recovery here to rest.

Routines now to rack her brains, in beginning to sail through checkpoint tubes; favourite diner to believe a shoo-in at first, before she'd leave with nothing to go from.

"Damn, to not return here… Might've really guaranteed his silence after all."

Rotating outfits of late—observed once he kept still—to hustle upstate for their Garment District; merchants lost for general records or good answers, to eventually round back for AO&T. Beginning right at those doors, memories of a day without deliveries yet still fraught with danger, and of all things, over a tin of awful anchovies.

Offering a mugshot of him, one salesman to roll their eyes, of several: "Sooner see his back, thank you… Tight-assed twerp got our cheapest model watch, and STILL used cash."

A dash for her Dumbbell Club next; memories of Zoidberg's truest form, why she'd play up any monster angles, as she hailed the head trainer by the free weights. Once she gained his attention, would hand over her photo—profound effect when, without saying a word, he'd excuse himself with fists balling.

"Jeez, was making people mad his specialty? The hell did he do here, or against him?"

From the home of athletes to that of academics, and failing to recall giant brainy nerds to any avail, would soon discover not a peep of him in her public library. Options running out of where else he'd wander, to leave her crinkling her eye and lips.

"Even this ain't home for him? One'd think it was all he had, given his final night."

Didn't imagine that he'd frequent some dancehall or alleyway fight club, so would return to Cookieville in checking off the entire city. Every bed, every building, everywhere of those haunted halls—empty-handed for exactly the last time, in spite of searching over, under, to and from.

Not even bothering with any salute, she would trudge for old bedrooms, pondering about as her contempt would fester against that lady of a long-dead past. Visceral roar before long to rip off a chair leg and beat her mirror into little crystals, before she'd lay upon the bottom bunk, soon hearing the crack of clouds, and rain dripping through the roof.

"Keep it coming, world… I deserve all you can give me."

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No coffee black enough for what'd kick off her next morning, and soaring temptations again to just go home, or better yet take a holiday.

Thick muddy trails of trespass—heavy rains and alleys, causes for sure—all over HQ upon clocking in; being careful where she treaded, would judge those messes as having entered from the hangar, travelling all manner of paths direct or winding. No clue on which to retrace, and worse news to come, once that private eye got redirected by a wretched noise.

None other than the Chief pleading for a hand, kicking with feeble effort, to leave her gasping and sprinting for his side. A hit carried out in the cover of night, features of purple neck bruising and disabling broken bones to discover.

Just groans to get for wanting a name, to give her wrist some taps; Taco Bellevue emergency to arrive and treat him on scene, she to excuse herself just in case. Fears of mistaken identity and arrests aside, there was a need to continue examining, especially for the questions over mystery machines.

Namely, the radiating heat of very recent use and, for whatever reason, the week of waiting to cool it off.

But no time to establish what for or why she'd care, upon a much greater annoyance; Chief's latest legendary rant, to get given a clean bill of health. Man on a suicide mission, for not just ordering a resentful Amy to accompany him, but also for grabbing his driving gear—gloves, goggles, thong, the works.

Wrinkles against her windscreen to realise he was dead serious; got a personal best for climbs and sprints before dragging him right out, any resistance to be of little bother.

"Hey, I ain't gonna hop those hurdles with you again, now stay outta my seat!"

Not that she actually cared to occupy it, between all to happen within 24 hours, and how'd she seal whatever future she had. In fact, for making her way to the Widow's Walk via the attic, going back and forth, only cared to consider her next moves from here.

"Bloated son-of-a-bitch could be anywhere on Earth, God forbid the universe, and I gotta grab him back? If it weren't for wanting to fix things, I'd rather crawl back to Ipji."

Quick list of their missions to replay in mind, and cross off even quicker—unlucky encounters and events aside, she just couldn't imagine him surviving the gravity and storms, or any hostile cavities, or such searing heat for long. That'd he otherwise care for constant music or those haughty rich, she couldn't believe that either.

No qualms washing hands of certain worlds either, including her starting point for both mutinies, Stumbos-4. Under those purple skies no such thing as third time lucky, not for all the problems it'd cause her, no matter the crew.

And then there was the Moon she denied him; plenty to do between the extreme derbies, local saloons, big parks and other amusements, but a favour done to save him the ideas. Reaper's endless eyes on anything upon that rock, of that she hadn't any doubt.

"There's a woman for you, always taking a man's dime to have herself a tan!"

The yell to wheel her about; surprise to not hear anybody approach, as she tried to gather herself.

"Would be true if you actually paid those… And don't make me slap those lips off, just thinkin' where our EO might've gotten to."

"Can spare me any of that right now; couple crates just arrived, I need—"

"What part of this face tells you that I care? Already got enough on my plate, even for how much I can eat."

Maybe more so, to later find a note taped to her locker's nameplate. Inked with blood, it'd confirm any suspicions and make decisions final, more than enough to hustle for home. Partial or otherwise, she was finally going to get answers, even directions; deliveries could wait after waiting for those.

Finding a sidewalk quarter to shuffle in her fingers, the memories of Mercury and Trisol would occupy each step; first, the open drives and lousy dates, none of the latter coming by choice. Fry especially, for his literal attachment to Amy—had she escaped with Gary that night, their grand finale might've traumatised him for life.

"Little talks and duties, to mean so much… No wonder he wanted to save my life since."

Three-sun planets before then to shed a secret tear; adventure she'd rather cast aside, between chefs she'd sooner kill than kiss, Fry screwing another delivery, and the absolute beating she gave, with assistance, to rescue everybody. All because they couldn't follow the simplest orders, then plain refused to.

Soon sitting upon the blankets, shaking her head over her rage and its ruin, she would grab out and investigate the mysterious note, switch glances between that paper and her quarter. Enough tastes of bad choices and broken worlds, to take a more careful stance than usual.

"Alright, heads you see what's been said, tails you vaporise it to oblivion."

A flick of the thumb, a tinkling of metal, a clap to her wrist… The face of Coolio, to palm her very own.

"Oh crud, you gotta be… Dammit, alright then."

A clean of her contact, a breath or two to relax, and that page to unfold; almost the markings of a child, but a careful read to reveal otherwise.

"In the circles of life and payback, Captain, one gets what one gives… Come test the man Time lorded over, if you dare."

Collapsing over the covers, the letter would float out of her hands; no name nor signature to spot, but despite that, a very clear idea of its writer, and likely her intruder. A tone of finishing what was started, with surprising confidence, to believe he hadn't anything peaceful in mind.

"Since when did snakes get spines? Be learning another lesson, that boy, if it weren't for wanting him back."

Complicating matters further, she began to hear echoes about the walls; splashes, whispers, and odd screams to grow. A world of the absolute damned beside her bed, so she'd been warned, to spring for a bedside pistol and start charging it.

"As if lacking rest and mercies weren't enough… They dare drag me in, they'll regret every last second."

Thoughts of being overheard, to hear nothing else afterward; content for scaring them off, would discharge and drag herself to bed, her Queendom for a quick nap. Course, she didn't count on any careful releases, nor the tentacle to ooze and slither out, close in enough to stroke her ponytail.

"Mmmmmm, so nice, so cooling, so—wait a minute, what the?!"

Big eyeful of suction cups to react like anyone else above surface; head to almost scream off as she'd bounce out of the bed, charge again and let her pistol loose. Tentacle to escape unharmed with rather slick moves—could admit as much, but couldn't care to listen despite any pleas of meaning no foul.

"Who are you talking heads to blacken my Sabbath, and what the HELL do you want from me?!"

"No-one, and nothing if we're gonna get that kinda greeting! So much for believing the surface had better manners."

Rough twang to recognise, though certainly not enough to lower arms: "Speak for yourself, squid freak. How 'bout you leave, 'less I cook up some calamari?"

"If it ends your pain, then please, eat hearty."

Weapon still raised even to hear twangs soften, see tentacle and green-skinned hand present themselves in quiet surrender. Both to then grip the other and declare a solidarity, daresay a love, even in death—wouldn't say it out loud, but could admire this oddest of odd couples.

"We'll live with ourselves, long as that's made sure… You may fire when ready."

"How can you be sure of saying that, and meaning it?" Leela kept aim, though with shaking hands.

"Over our ultimate decision, and struggles since, all we ever cared about, believed in, argued to deserve better… was you. We never forgave ourselves, especially to know what'd happen; time's come to get our just reward."

Could only sit and rock herself, let her pistol dangle off a finger: "Y'know, I'd rather you stay right here. ANY support'll do, after the tides of crap I'd—"

"Again with the mouth? Watch it, would ya?"

Quick apologies before a male accent piped up, quite unlike 'da Bronx' or any borough she knew.

"Can say I've hung plenty of twenties, riding tides like those. There a way we can pull ya back?"

"I, I… Jeez, haven't a clue where to start, never mind what to say."

"How 'bout from the beginning?" came the chuckle. "We're in no rush, got our word on that."

Getting a twang of "Go for it", there'd be no pauses for breath nor interruption, as she'd unload all the entries logged in and locked inside, compressed those countless flight hours into just one. Upon finishing up, a deep exhale to escape, and bones to almost begin floating.

"Galloping gators… And still you wonder why we're so proud of you?"

"No reason to be proud nowadays. Anyway, what's with the funny accent?"

"Parents made me on the intercept of HighCal, LoCal and Nukevada; lovers of the surf who'd often ride coast-to-coast. Tell ya, it was the life chasing those rancid waves, the winds so ripe… Whether cradled, right behind, or carrying my own board."

"A life I could only imagine, wish to have tried once."

"Wasn't all grand in truth, heck I still remember the sudden, double-up wave to wipe us out. Cried to hear of their loss, 'till a voice told me to continue in their memory, just make the best of real bad situations and broken hearts. Lovely lady beside me to mend it, and keep me strong in decades since."

"Love stories I used to know, daresay believed in… So how the fudge did you know that I lived here?"

Dame of the depths to do a little humming, in her thinking: "See, laws forbid us to walk your streets and get the gossip, so we learned and trained to make do with sounds. And honey, if it hadn't been for your outbursts lately, we'd never—"

"Whether for myself or others, just couldn't help them. Made me a monster over this miracle you speak of."

"Ohhh for—can you hear yourself? If that were true, you'd end up right here, farthest from paradise without crossing any borders. Mark our words, you're a better person in your pinkie nail than most could ever be in their entire bodies… We don't call you our miracle lightly, and never have."

"Look, I appreciate the love, but you'd be the only ones these days. Gonna be out of a job in two weeks, unless I reunite a crew who'd rather wish I were dead, or apparently can make it happen."

A splash to perceive gasps and spits coming from the surfer; thought too nasty to keep in mind even as it'd trigger an immediate, and encouraging idea.

"Wait a minute, that's just it! Thank surface my lady talked of borders… I've got buddies 'round the systems, who owe a couple favours—might I keep an eye or five out?"

"Are you serious? You'd actually volunteer to take on that sort of thing, for me?"

"We'd walk the universe barefoot, to ensure you were happy. Besides, what's the harm in having a go?"

"Okay, cross my fingers on this… I'm after one Thomas Mayfield; six-foot, 230 or so, blue eyes, smooth head, and neat beard. Strange accent—I think Oz-tralian—but don't quote me. Often in a jacket, t-shirt and jeans, as if old Marlon Brando had eaten James Dean. Here's his headshot."

Leftover from her heavy bag to hand off; wind-drawn grimace and hushed questions to begin massaging her hair.

"Sorry 'bout this, but even to search every network, pipeline, grate and gutter of the five boroughs, can't promise anything solid. Guess I'd best dust off the old deerstalker."

"Maybe it won't help"—her chin to cradle—"but I can't forget how rude that mother—I mean, the middles he'd flip me."

"Middles? You mean… Gators alive, why didn't you SAY he was a five-finger? Sure can't hide that forever, trust us on that."

Those words to bring forth an otherworldly surge, something beyond creams that'd stand her up with renewed vigour, ready to fly again.

"You've no idea what weights you've lifted off me—how could I ever pay you back?"

Her hand to be stroked in support, as for realising what EO Mayfield could've meant, she would whisper hopes of wiping slates clean.

"Take your burdens more in stride, for starters. The makings of greatness don't come without mistakes or sacrifice—it's how one handles any suffering, that'll define you as a miracle or monster… Understand me?"

"I'm starting to, and it's been a long time since I've told anyone that."

A gentle grip of shoulder, as she let herself be brought close: "And hey, when you can, just knock on this grate. If we can't answer by chance, then just check your wrist… Our small way of saying we'll always be with you, even if it doesn't seem like it."

Heard the fighting back of tears as she inspected her bracelet, worn ever since she'd been taken in. Often lost and won many a war over such silver, yet for almost three decades, she never knew its origins or what it symbolised. No idea on the inscriptions, perhaps never would, but she wouldn't thumb her nose at getting two out of three.

"Now sleep tight, dream good tonight, and just do right. I better not hear otherwise, got it?"

A release and immediate relief, once the dame's final words and their pitter-patters signified their leave. Getting ready to slide into bed, she couldn't help that genuine smile, knowing whatever hydraulic press had sat upon her just vanished into vapour.

"And they said the sewers were only full of shit… Bless those dregs and their advice."