"Bet you're proud of yourself, aren't you? To think it was you, of all people…"
Mayfield scoffed in laying there: "What the hell are you talking about? Otherwise, you must be the Fry I heard about."
"You think you'll play me for someone stupid? When you waltz in from my century, steal my job, and squat in my something-nephew's HQ? Become our company's 'catalyst'?"
"Number one, I'm from the century next door, number two, there've been others before me, and number three, I'd bet every last dollar of mine that I'm no 'catalyst'. But the floor's yours, since I can only listen."
In the year and change of his lock-up, Fry spoke of the several stories he heard from his master; namely how often Mayfield would disparage him or his contributions, or how there'd always be schemes to prevent his return.
"Mate, you believe all that? Oh who am I kidding, your only friend's been that polyp-riddled arsehole the whole time."
Shaking even before then, that remark had Fry place the picture on his bedside, stride over to his prisoner, and seize his neck as to strangle him.
"You took my most cherished life and friends from me. By the time I have my fill, you'll be begging for its end."
Gagging as his trachea looked one wrong twist from snapping, Mayfield could only kick out, as he scrabbled and clawed at Fry's fingers.
"You think killing me's gonna return you to such a merry life?"
"I already did, and I'm obviously back to normal, aren't I?"
"Believe me or don't as no friend of yours, moron, but you damn know otherwise."
Fry's grip had loosened, not by much, but enough to allow clear speech.
"All this is a world of lies; between me and Fat-Boy, I've got less to lose from cleaning the muck. Unlike him, I did the detective work to find you, all so I could offer another angle. How 'bout it?"
Though the maddest he had ever been, Fry dropped him to the bed, hearing his coughs and spluttering protests all the while. A chance to learn all the hows and whys? Of course he'd accept.
"Fine, how 'bout we start over? You first."
"Sure, whatever. Better deal than going blue anyway. Name's Mayfield, Thomas Mayfield. First or last, I don't care. Would've shaken your hand, but after this, I'll just give you fingers instead."
"Philip J. Fry, most folks call me 'Orange Joe.' They also called me Executive delivery boy, once-Emperor of Trisol, Captain Yesterday, or since last year, this experiment of death called 'The Admiral.' So you get here the same way?"
"A man of many names it seems. All I remember is how I'd lost my job and drank to blacking out, warm vomit to wash my face. Woke up flung into this future, on behalf of some 'project', to test my 'money over man' lifestyle. Think I get it now; if not for your goodwill, or that of others, I'd have never had this chat."
Fry slumped his shoulders and looked away: "Think we could trade? Save for last night or a rare public appearance, I'm inside this ten-by-ten space unless orders are barked at me. So strict, mean, easy to anger, prone to violence… The gala was just to confirm your arrival, to track and kidnap you."
"Well, there is that, then. Least I know the kind of boss you're talking about. How did you end up here, of all places in the universe?"
"Don't know how long it's been, but ages after trading that Gemerald, we got a call from some concerned anonymous citizen. Save the last-known Peruvian Spider-Fly, turned out a total ambush instead. Without our Miracle Cream, we were boned from the start. Bender ditched his crown, I got dragged away, and I saw… Oh God, Leela!"
A sudden burst into tears as he remembered her getting hoofed over the head, unable to confirm her final fate until he heard her voice. Devastated him to hear it declare love, to hear that long kiss on the cheek.
Had him stand up ready to threaten Mayfield's life again, the kid almost unable to calm him down.
"For God's sake, did you just hear those words and kisses, and nothing else? If that's what Reggie's been tellin' ya, then you oughta think about the alternative first."
"Oh yeah? You gonna come up with a better explanation?"
"For starters, didn't you see who was hitting on her? Didn't you see him use that creature against me, like he did against the New Justice Team? Didn't you hear him yammer on about his perfect criminal past, one that in those clothes, you helped to spoil? Did you really believe that for all his stories, he had your best interests in mind?"
"Huh, maybe I should listen to others more often. Not that I could in his presence."
"Gee, can't imagine why. So how did you become 'The Admiral' anyway? Was wondering what gave you such a promotion."
Fry told the story of how, somewhere into his hostage situation, he got some kind of virus injected into him. The proudest creation of a madman equal to Professors and 'founding' geniuses, it featured dozens of chemicals to grant extreme power & ability, at the cost of losing free will. Only this room, and the memories smuggled within, had been a safe haven of sorts.
"So what's it been like for you, having my job? I take it most the people I knew aren't the ones you know?"
"That depends. Give me a rundown, see what I remember."
Seized the picture once more, while Mayfield tried to make out faces: "Oh, I miss my nephew so. Was through him I got my job, had those adventures, found my love… Been on the cusp of death since I died, apparently."
"Wait, Farnsworth's your nephew?! Ahem, 'scuse me. Only thing that's sick about him is his mind, the rest is just fine."
"Really? Okay okay, um… Of course, Dr. Zoidberg. Was told he went down well with butter and lemon."
"If we were seconds from starving to death, we STILL wouldn't eat him. Zookeeper oughta take a good whiff, for a true scent of evil."
A good laugh between both: "And Hermes? How's he taking permanent paid vacation from Central Bureaucracy?"
"Where could I get those? As for what I've seen, he's still Sheriff of Stampytown around HQ."
"Oh thank heavens, we're safe at least. What about Amy though? She'd been wanting to bankrupt us all."
"Pfft, ha! If that were true, let's just say she's doing a terrible job of it."
"Oh wow! I guess I've saved the worst for last… What about Bender, or even Leela?"
"Sadly I've only heard of Bender's stories and not his whereabouts, but as for Leela, well… What the Zookeeper was for you, she was for me."
"Wait, you mean to say..."
"Did you really think they didn't need you, that they'd let me replace you? As you were choking me, did you not notice my burn scar? That and near-death came from just the mere suspicion of replacement. If you're still not convinced, you've lost your damn mind boy."
Fry tried to deny everything or even intimidate the kid, but Mayfield didn't budge. A test of sorts, and one to leave an overwhelmed Fry thudding into bed, shedding the happiest tears he had in some time. Perhaps in eager accident, he stood on Mayfield's toes in giving a hug, earning quite the scream.
"Oh, you don't know how GOOD it is to hear all that… Is my love doing okay at least?"
"Yeah, to put it mildly? I'd bet everything on 'no'. Was a walking time-bomb when we first met, and I cut my share of wrong wires finding out why. But the way she poured her heart out about her personal life, about her friends and about you… Was like the biggest epiphany I ever knew. You've no idea of all she's tried to win this battle, bring the gang back. Seriously, she never needed a costume to pursue her justice."
"Now you know why I love her so much… So what was that about the 'wrong wires' you cut?"
"Where to begin with that one…"
Fry had listened about their first encounter, the stupid jokes, the stolen insurance policies, and everything else to create her suspicions. Couldn't gesture much, but points were made to where he could no longer prove 'good intentions' in her eyes, and to their first encounter since he gave her those gifts. All until he heard about him head-butting her, a statement to have him seize Mayfield by the throat again.
"You tried to harm my girlfriend, you bastard?! I oughta kill you right here, right now!"
"That was when I figured she had Miracle Cream rubbed on, so back the hell off! Again, the grip had loosened. "When you twist into such rage that you take your own life for her permanent misfortune, you don't really think clearly. Especially when she tried to force me back. Still, I called it even when she used her cream to save my life."
"Be warned Tom. Now that you've shared such news, don't ever try to take my crew, Planet Express, or my eventual reunion away. Otherwise, you'll know just how vicious I can really be."
"My hands and feet are quite fine… You dumbarse. Anyway, if you could find my suit, we can get the ball rolling. Inside's a back-up, in case I got sick of the orchestra."
Giving a small nod, Fry left out the door, the bubbling of liquids the only sound as Mayfield tried to close his eyes.
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Owing to the ruined watch, Mayfield couldn't know when 'The Admiral' had returned, his full suit tossed over before he screamed for silence. Seemed to revert back in mere minutes; compared to usual efforts, Fry had fist-pumped for the improved control.
Tried to help Mayfield into the suit, failed, and wrapped a towel around him instead. A grimace of gratitude as his suit got laid out; jacket, pants, shirt and shoes.
"Okay, see how we go… Symphod, turn on, come on out."
To his great relief, that small rectangular box soon hovered into view, and with permission allowed Fry to pick it up. Cool to the touch, and still intact for the rather rough treatment.
"Hello sir, what would you like played?"
"Just one minute." Mayfield mouthed to it. "That, Captain, was a bonus gift from Symphonia-9, and perhaps my most valued possession yet. Highest-quality collection of every last single, album, remix, instrumental, cover version and whatever else from the past 1500 years. Also allows you to modify it at will, too."
"And what makes you think that I'd love it as much as you do?"
"For a few simple reasons, I'd imagine. So what's your pleasure?"
"Well, I had one on cassette way back in the day… Van McCoy's The Hustle, I think?"
The Symphod was impressed: "The ginger man knows his grooves… How would you like it played?"
"Uhh, just as is, but not too loud please."
Though not known for its lyrics, the effect grew intoxicating before long. From bass guitar plucks and lead-up vocals, to drums, xylophones and maracas in stride, Fry's smile grew wider as he tapped in rhythm. Once that famous cry broke out, and once the piccolo's high notes took over, he just leapt off the bed and swung into that routine; shuffles, steps, spins and swivels like the 1970s had come alive again.
"Aww yeah, man I haven't heard that in forever! Without Hustlin', the world's a miserable place."
"The native dance of your people, I heard… How so?"
Fry regaled the story of how he and Bender had been practising magic tricks, only for him to spot something in their newspaper. An unbelievable discovery of 20th-century artefacts, including his old workplace in Panucci's.
But the most priceless of the lot? A fast-fossilised version of his street mutt turned beloved pet dog, Seymour Asses.
All the memories from the day they met to the loyal bond shared; memories to have them both shed tears. Mayfield for his own dogs; veterans of the Rainbow Bridge even before he arrived.
"Ahhh, gives me new reasons to love dogs every day. They carried me quite far too, given their loyalty, hope & optimism."
"Hey yeah, now I remember!" Fry soon exclaimed.
'The Hustle' came in after an argument against the museum directors, where he held a dancing protest in sunshine & rain, daring to get his dog back. An off-handed comment later, and he won. Of course, in that excessive adoration of Seymour, he forgot about the festering jealousy of Bender.
One that boiled over enough to punt the fossil into HQ's magma vat.
"That unbelievable bastard!" Mayfield screamed. "Oh I swear if he came after mine, I'd…"
Stopped short, when he heard how the story ended. Even for Bender's remorse & rescue, it turned out that Seymour had lived long after Fry's disappearance, a fact that had him put such cherished memories to rest. Had naturally imagined that the dog, just as everyone else did, had forgotten about him.
He would never come to know the original truth of his choice…
"Big mistake to take a dog's love for granted, dude. You give them the world, like you did Seymour, and they think the world of you. Course, might not have been your fault. Bugger me, that was deflating… Let's move on, any other favourites you might know of?"
Fry thought for a bit, then felt his eyes light up: "Don't tell me you have Walkin' on Sunshine? I always loved to hum the chorus back at work…"
The Symphod hovered to attention: "Which version? Eddy Grant, Katrina and the Waves, Dolly Parton…?"
Mayfield was quick to interrupt: "Katrina sounds good enough to me; never heard the others. Just as is, thanks."
Fry didn't deny having doubts, but as drums and cymbals thumped together, as the trumpet kicked up, and as Katrina's vocals rang through the quarters, he had bounded again to clap, slap knees and snap his fingers. For Mayfield, to see the monster who tortured him go full lip-sync had to lighten his spirit somewhat.
Dared not stop him from belting out his part with aplomb, even for it apparently blowing out his vocal cords every time he tried. Once that was over, Fry could only clap the kid on the back, smiling brighter than the blinding lights outside.
"Thank you dude. To sing that again, to hear it in my mind… Best feeling I've had in a while."
"My pleasure really. Now that we understand each other, there's some things we must do. First, HQ will want hard evidence that you're alive. Samples, mementos, trinkets, you get the gist. I'm thinking they'd love a livestream of yourself too, a chance to hear your voice and see your face again."
"Grab the box under my bed, should have what you need in there."
"You're joking me, right? Who turned my hands into powdered bone again?"
"Oh, right. Sorry about that. What should I do for the recording, you think?"
"Speak straight from the heart, since you so obviously care for them. Perhaps for Leela, as true concrete proof, play her your song. I'll even lend my Symphod for you to do so."
"Yeah, just to warn you up front, I'm not sure when you'll get it back. If ever."
"Perhaps can't blame ya for saying it. Second though, we've GOT to eradicate that virus. I don't know where to start, but I imagine that if we could grab a sample from you, the Professor could create a potential antidote to cure you for good."
"That's one goal I'd have to take alone… Doubt there'd be much chance otherwise."
"Last of all, send whatever you can of balance sheets, criminal records, footage or other evidence to burst that pus-filled, greasy boiled master of yours open. Together, we're gonna educate him that he's screwed the wrong delivery boys for too long now."
"Sorry Tom, but you're talking crazy and impossible now. He keeps that tightly locked down, even from me."
"Crazy? Impossible? That's been every day of our lives since we arrived here! What we once knew as sci-fi pipe dreams, we call it everyday life right now. We were total losers in crap jobs or worse situations, only to come here and make something of ourselves. And you're trying to tell me you know? Take it from me, we don't know a thing. Now are you in, or out?"
A vigorous handshake and scream later, Mayfield got his answer: "I'm sure as hell in."
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A few hours of hashing out details left just one route of escape where Fry could help, and it was right through the lab and out the hangar. Roaring blares of alarms aside, they were bound to encounter The Zookeeper, one who'd insist on further 'persuading' the prisoner to give up those creams.
No way would Mayfield escape otherwise; to dissolve suspicion, proof had to be presented.
"What kind of proof would he be after, do you think?" he squirmed in bed.
"To sell him a great lie, I need a nasty truth. Basically, that I'm just going to Earth to dispose of the body."
"Why wouldn't he just tell you to dump it out in space?"
"Guests saw me carry your body, worried for whoever had fallen ill. He had me write a complete lie of 'medical' treatment to each guest before we, er, got started. They discover you floating, they'll spot the contradiction and he'll be in trouble. At least in returning you to Earth, he can spin that into 'complications' or something."
Mayfield had felt his insides roll, but if he was ever going to keep his promise and reunite the crew, sacrifices had to be made. Still had quite the life debt to pay…
"Much as I hate the idea, do whatever it takes Fry. Just don't go overboard, is all I ask."
"Very well."
In a summoning of pure will, another change of many, Fry had bubbled back into 'The Admiral' and enjoyed a carte blanche beating of Mayfield's entire body. Slow, straight-forward, significant; an indefinite, awful time of begging and screams to end with both arms below the shoulder, and both legs below the waist, as good as ruined.
To feel the bones crack, see the blood go everywhere, hear his own heart-rending screams…
Soon, a chop to the neck to silence him, and a careful shoulder-carry of Mayfield out the quarters. Right as they entered the lab, The Zookeeper had just switched off his TV, stood up and approached his guard.
"Wait Admiral, where in good Archbury's name are you going? We've got ourselves a prisoner to interview."
"He's useless to us now. Used initiative to discover that he hid the biggest stashes from us on purpose. Beat him into useless dead meat, now gonna dispose of the body."
Crossed arms and wry frowns: "Is that so? You're more than welcome to share."
"Never went outside of New New York, and honestly, given speed like mine, I'll strip them dry within minutes. You've nothing to fear, sir."
"Very good, very good. I knew why I promoted you from lowly Captain to Admiral. Such ruthless tactics will serve me, er, us well… Carry on, as you were."
The second big change since Fry's first outsider. To serve his master the same medicine that he spoon-fed him.
No further questions as Fry raised the hangar doors, set the alarms off and made for his personal spacecraft. Knowing the extent of the damage, he set Mayfield inside a stasis chamber, meant to halt time until he got medical attention. A man of controls, and only moments until lift-off, until a journey towards Earth.
But among immediate problems like 'The Admiral' and looming ones like The Zookeeper, Mayfield had been worried sick for the future life ahead of him. Struggled enough to adjust with everything intact, but could he have a career or a home for how little he'd seen the disabled in New New York?
Had wondered in the chair whether he could rely on Professor or Hermes to help him settle elsewhere, adapt into a new role. Knew his only answer was a heartbroken 'no' to both.
Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself. After today, he just wanted to go home, be among his only friends. Maybe his family, if he could ever find them.