Even for a millennium of advances, and for whispered assurances, observers both patient and otherwise wouldn't believe that the one they just carted into ER would make it through the night.

But as a harsh light cooked the gunk off their eyes, as they took in the strange sights of oniony walls and green curtains, and as they heard the steady beeps of machines checking vitals, those same observers might've said that they'd been re-educated.

Watched as they traced gelatinous facial bumps, turned his nose from the charred skin, and began to groan for not just the subtlest movements, but for his mind trying to form that jigsaw…

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Found the responders who at first got freaked out, before they virtually froze their entire body in place and got to work. Saw the inserts of blood packs, heard the whirs and sticks of organ repair kits and burn salves, and then saw the orange skies before being whisked into the ambulance.

Rewound back to that overwhelming stench, funny accent and hasty scuttles. A call to the emergency line where, after several denials, an off-handed comment of them saving lives had promised an arrival within moments.

The final words before he shut his eyes: "Judged… guilty… executed…"

The answer to some unexpected question: "Great Scott, damn and he's dead, Jim! Speak to me, are you okay?"

Soon remembered being cradled by none other than Dr. Zoidberg, the stench able to awaken their senses. The great roar and stabbing of claws to rip the door apart, perhaps locked to resort to such force.

Finally, he remembered the raspy cry given for the sweet release of death. Of no good deed unpunished, of the one to get in their face, of the one to leave 'em like this…

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Could admit to leaving pleas too late, but everything else? Nothing short of a set-up, a betrayal. And to think, the one they'd been encouraged to despise, reject, and use had been the one to save his actual life…

Such thoughts and memories began to spike his vitals; even summoned the staff to sedate them. Calm though they might've been, composed they were anything but.

Would let the dreams of seeing those people burn fuel them, for now. But once their back left that bed, they were going to deliver their message or two…

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For a mid-June morning, the citizens didn't expect their blood to congeal nor their bones cut through. None could prepare for the warnings; early news cycles surprised them by mentioning howling winds, heavy rains and harsh hailstorms, perhaps all at once.

At headquarters, chattering for not just the climate, the crew and colleagues had worked themselves into panic for the scenes they found; horrid stenches, the janitor locked in a broom closet, and a trail of bloody footprints. But of course, the most concerning look of all was what they found asleep on the couch…

Their Captain and Head Pilot, splayed all over, signs of drool from her lips. One that took just a gentle prod before she leapt off in fright, and still gave violent jitters as they brewed a sextuple espresso.

A committal, daresay possession, of last night's belief that had her tighten her grip around the mug, imagining it as one's throat perhaps. Of realising that such actions were so unforgivable, that she'd promise to finish the job if she ever saw them alive.

Whatever final stand they had, it wouldn't be enough to sway her. Not after their laughter once they played with HER powers, nor for how they flaunted such new-found fortune at her expense.

But Captain's duty did remember that they were still employed, so to try and kill the subject, she startled the room over a loud, clear demand…

"Where the hell's Mayfield? Work's already begun and I've seen no sight of him! I swear if I catch him in my sights…"

"You'll gut him like a fish and feed him to the worms?"

A whiplash of necks as Zoidberg stood up, his fin out, his eyes slanted, and his mouth in a rare frown. Wasn't going to win the contest of stares against the Captain, but he cared not as he clacked around the table. All as Hermes eventually had to resort to slamming his fist on the table to get his attention.

"Clamp it you worthless crab, we're trying to hold a meeting!"

"Speak out of turn once more Hermes, and friend or no, you'll do limbos under your own intestines."

Hermes' lip locked shut, as the Decapodian doctor cleared his throat and got in Leela's face.

"Thank you. Now I've proven quite the butcher against crews, it's a shame to admit. But they were able to stay alive and quit. That's more than I can say for you, you traitorous murderer! And if you're lucky, an attempted one at that."

"His blood was all over your claws this morning, Zoidberg," she sneered back. "You think the police'll believe an incompetence-defining crab, over a decorated Captain?"

"Mindless though they are, you think they wouldn't question the broken bones, blistering burns and crushed limbs? Everyone knows what I'm capable of, and it's nothing that precise. For the Captain I once knew, you've sunk lower than the mutants beneath our feet."

A swaggering return to his seat, his feet kicked up while jaws thudded the desk. A 'Did he just?' moment sweeping through before they turned heads to Leela.

Perhaps a step short from plunging off sanity's cliff face, but she didn't look ready to enter the booth—confession or suicide—anytime soon.

"Well, anyone else got an opinion to have ignored?"

Perhaps spurred on by Zoidberg's condemnation, Amy soon stood up, staring Leela dead in her eye.

"Frankly Captain, it's not like you've never been caught lacing and delivering on threats before. Something had to give; I just wished it wasn't like what I saw this morning. You've crossed too serious a line with me, and I'm sorry, but you're on your own."

Coming from maybe her only friend left, Leela's hands met her chest, and soon met her face. Quite a winding blow, but a flinch to only last seconds before she slapped the table and scowled across, any ideas of backing down soon nixed.

"Fine! Not like you were any useful, not like you must work for a living… Oooh, don't break a nail!"

"Sweet raging bull of Liverpool!" Hermes cut in. "First the silence, now 'dis madness… The hell's 'de matter?"

"Alright… You want a list? Then have one, you bastards! I haven't slept for shit, I fear for losing this job, I get this stupid, good-for-nothing stranger in my life, and now my only true friends are good as GONE because of his ideas to replace them! Now to have my crew cast me aside, my colleagues accuse me of murder… Shall I keep going?"

Final words to turn desert sands into snow, as Dr. Zoidberg spat a curt "If the boot fits" and The Professor slapped his command centre. An exploding soon rippled through—the sound of such thankfully—to silence the chaos, not that the chief was about to sow seeds of order anytime soon…

"Now that's enough, ALL OF YOU! Those packages must be delivered, and I won't have such nonsense under my roof. Amy, you have no say as my intern, and you WILL work together, period!"

A furious pout in response, as he then turned to his Captain.

"As for you eyeball, I'm giving you two weeks to make amends and bring him back, or so help me Zeus I will strip you of your licenses and fire you in disgrace… DO I make myself clear?!"

Looking away, Leela muttered "Fine" as she finished her brew.

"Of course I get screwed… Sooner stuff my fist down his throat."

However, the words of crew and colleague began to swirl in mind. All those weeks of adventures, and never thought to ask. For all his problems, he did listen to orders, did ensure their fair shares, did choose to protect rather than coddle them…

And for all her suspicions, she could've seized him as he slept at home, could've asked her friends over work, or even could've led that corpse to his locker after wailing on him… Perhaps the old Leela might've done so.

Everyone had been telling her for months, but in growing realisations she finally understood… The same thoughts to have her consider leave also had her stare at the latest delivery form, much to Amy's tapping foot.

"Hey, you just gonna sit there 'Captain'?"

For being the toughest woman most knew, this latest request, a test for their fast rising reputation, had Leela shiver somewhat. For one, they were about to head to perhaps their most dangerous destination yet… Angra-7.

No crew of any kind had entered its space, but they hoped they never had to. Stories and rumours were abound of such lands, named for its centuries-old chaotic deity. A place where imps, fiends, demons and devil-like creatures would service it by working any captives to death, after abducting and imprisoning them of course.

And God help you if you worked up the courage to protest…

Reminded her of Osiris-4; needless to say, her decision was clear as everyone stared her down.

"I'm taking some personal leave!" she announced, standing up and moving for the lift. The Professor rose just as fast, and gave his most vehement denial yet.

"No time off! Not right now!"

"All the memories, the nightmares, the stress, anger & insanity… That sting was bad enough the first time!"

"Damn you Captain, get going!"

"Shut the HELL up, Professor! One way or another you were a BIG reason for how I've been, and so help me if you don't stay out of my way, I'll leave you like I left Mayfield!"

"I'll forget those threats if you forget that overfed freak! He's not on crew now, scratch him from existence!"

"And neither am I, not right now. I hated to hear such words, but you're all 100% right. Everything happened exactly as I feared, and to make matters worse, I might've taken a life in the process. If death's proven by my hand, I'll resign, but until then…"

"Last warning, Turanga Leela… As your CEO I demand that you stand down and deliver your package!"

"And as your longest-surviving pilot in over 40 years, Hubert Jackass Farnsworth, I'm leaving. Try anything against me, and I suspect that you'll have a LOT of explaining to do in the near-future. Sunset Squad, Central Bureaucracy, Academy of Inventors… They and dozens of others will know every last rancid corner about you, about this place, about everything… So YOU stand down, got it?"

If one could probe a mind like Farnsworth's, they'd know that he didn't reach his seventeenth decade for nothing. He had survived his near-eternal share of interplanetary wars, invention lawsuits and crew adventures, plenty of which brilliant enough to turn into a novel, or maybe a movie.

But even for getting along in age these days, he knew he wouldn't survive such an unveiling from arguably his most valuable employee.

Upon his sudden silence and wave-away signal, Leela had rushed for her things and vanished out the lobby, all as Amy remained grounded. A decision that had her wipe her brow and stare after the Captain…

"First good idea she's had in a while."

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Leela's first thought was to check around the hospitals, confirm whether he was alive or dead first. As Taco Bellevue confirmed her career chip, they made clear that—owing to confidentiality laws—she wasn't obliged to patient details or rooms.

Our Lady of Patriotism, once she placed an international call, didn't offer such courtesies either.

Tube after tube she began to tour the city, trying to picture what his favourite places could've been. Food-O-Mat was a definite, but as a place where you came in, served yourself and minded your business, not even a photo revealed a single clue as to his whereabouts.

Had noted his rather fancy jeans and t-shirt over the weeks, and that watch, so figured that the Garment District and the department store might've been of help. But no matter which shopkeeper she stopped, virtually all of them had only general records of his expenditure, and the one with more specific details was loath to bring it up.

"That cheapskate? I'd sooner see no hide nor hair of him, thank you."

The NNY Public Library, and not a peep. Not that she could, for they had to be quiet.

Local pubs and pool joints, but save for Capone wishing he left teeth in his brain, only a sobering failure.

The NNY Dumbbell Club, and just a point to a picture captioned 'SERVE? FAT CHANCE.'

Skipped the Hip Joint knowing he wasn't a dancing or social sort, and thought of just one last possibility… The Orphanarium.

She had no clue why he'd ever darken such doorsteps again, but as late morning became mid-afternoon, she was forced to confront that perhaps, owing to her recent deeds, her charge had as good as disappeared. Every bed, every building, every last nook of the city he might've been, and not a trace.

From his office Hermes had spotted her arriving back at HQ, her head against the wall for the consequences now becoming clear… Consequences she now doubted she could put right.

"Well, what happened woman? You found him anywhere or what?"

Just shook her head before she slid her hands off, the life and career she fought so hard for now mere weeks from smouldering in Hermes' incinerator.

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Sometime after their papers had been signed, Taco Bellevue's latest miracle had been discharged, one whose look at their reflection had them turn inward and shriek. Fear and loathing, all at once.

On the left-hand side, from forehead to cheek, a mess of red-raw, blistery, pustule-laden skin; jelly-like wobbles from a tender trace-over. Couldn't tell whether Miracle Cream would cure the pain and look, but for what it represented, it would always remain there.

Now it wasn't just simple vindication they were after… There was payback too.

At first having small yelps, a stumble and a stretch before standing straight, they chose to test their legs before leaving out the front.

First stop, Planet Express.

No slicing wind nor soaking rain nor stones of ice could cool their blood, as they stomped through that hangar hole and towards the lockers, dripping water all over. Nearly punched their code in, fancied a glance through their pairs of jeans, and saw exactly what he pictured to kick both doors; theirs and their perhaps former Captain's.

"God damn you… I fuckin' knew it!" as they belted her door in again.

Snatched their big backpack, stuffed all the cash and clothes they knew they had, and even wore some extra layers to save room. Reclaimed the creams, zipped up quick, cleaned out what remained and tried to race out fast.

But of course, working overtime, someone had caught their look and called out. Stopped, tried to breathe deep, and hoped to compose himself as none other than The Professor approached him.

"Sweet Zombie Jesus, who the hell are you to barge in here?"

A turn of the face, and an ugly frown: "The 'greatest miracle' you left behind."

"Mayfield? Where the hell have you been? Leela left us grounded to go and look for you!"

"She did, did she? You tell her, if you remember, to expect a package and message from me by tomorrow. As for you, may I borrow your phone?"

"No you may certainly not."

"Very well, I guess there's my Plan B."

Only a "Hu-wha?" to give before Mayfield wrapped his hands around his throat, rushed him across the floor, and slammed him into the wall.

"I'm resigning, and if you send anyone after me, not only will I burn your fucking lab to the ground, I will leave you a mass of broken bones within it… UNDERSTAND ME?!"

"W-w-w-what's the *urk* meaning of this? I thought we *gack* had a good thing together."

"All that extra money you claimed, that was business. Threatening my job, leaving me to fall, and giving me this?" as he pointed to his scars. "That crosses my line, mate."

Pushing the big boss to the ground, it took mere moments for Mayfield to clone a week's worth of creams, to call a cab, ghost out the hole, and disappear into the night.

Grabbing some late take-out, the evening paper and some stationery on his various stops, he searched through the listings hoping to escape. At first, it looked clear that he wouldn't, but that was before a recent opening sparked his eye. An open inspection tomorrow on a long-ignored, discounted property beside the river, one to overlook the city.

Declaring a drop-off to the nearest bus terminal, he found that in fifteen minutes, he'd be able to fly towards those new horizons. No-one in New New York, never mind Planet Express, would touch him there. And given what he had made already, he could raise his chin knowing he'd be good for months.

Following an impromptu hotel rest, and a lukewarm pancake breakfast, he had soon shook the salesman's hand and got led through the tour. Ensuite bathroom, fully-working kitchen, queen-sized bed… Everything he had wanted, and that didn't forget its potential, its views, its comforts…

"Before you actually consider this property sir, you do realise where we are, right?"

"Look into these eyes, this face mate. Do they look concerned to you? Just talk business."

"For the face I'd rather not, but the rest? $2,400 down, $2,400 every month after."

A murmur of "Thank you, Mrs. Astor," before he soon slapped that first month in his hands. Within the hour, Mayfield had left the salesman speechless as he became the proud renter of a near-waterfront apartment. Had been years of slashed prices and listings, and nobody went near it…

Now this walk-in just buys it instantly, and might've throttled him if he didn't sell.

Offering only a shrug and a "Thanks", the salesman left with contract in hand, all while Mayfield's creased face began to lighten, daresay smile. Left that life, and those psychotic bosses, behind. Better yet, in denying their 'miracles', he held the cards now.

Standing on the balcony facing the moonlit glow of New New York, he gave a shout-out salute to family and to home, all before he let that sweet music ring free.

Several hours after, and no happier sigh to express until he leapt into his new bed. Almost like a cloud yet stronger than steel, a softness and support he hadn't known since his oldest, most precious home of all. In lying down and nestling in, he knew he'd care nothing to craft the budgets, lists and plans; thinking about it, he didn't need much else to be set up.

But better than his thousand square foot of paradise, this freedom, this brand-new life, would be his clearest message yet.

A bomb, of sorts, against his most personal antagonists of all.