Chapter Two

If there was one possibly good outcome of Antauri's death, it could have been the stunning lack of discord amongst the hyperforce. Unity from shared determination. Unfortunately, that rule has never established itself. Their arguments are never too heated—with the exception of fights between Sprx and Gibson on who should be second-in-command, though these discussions lessened once Chiro lost his temper.

He said, "Antauri just died a month ago, and all you guys care about are your own statuses, like it matters." Gibson then stated that forming a consolidated plan with designated roles was vital, and Nova amicably told him to shut up.

"Who's gonna drive the Brain Scrambler?"

Gibson turns his head sharply toward his companion. "Otto." They are all standing in front of the Super Robot after a day of helping the city. Chiro's fist clench as he recalls Gibson informing the others that he'd uncovered some deceased individuals from a site that had once been a hospital. Sprx had to nurse his tail in his hands when Otto accidentally dropped a sack of metal pieces onto it.

Without a dramatic change in his expression, Sprx says, "Gibson, believe it or not, but the kid's not made of glass." Chiro stands a few feet in front of them, unmoving as his eyes remain steadily on the top of the Super Robot.

The green monkey's shoulders lower. "It's—it was just a question. I mean, won't someone have to?"

"Man," Sprx says, "I wish this thing could maneuver itself sometimes."

"We could contact Jinmay," Nova suggests.

The red monkey grimaces. "Nothing against her, but that's probably not the best option."

Otto protests, "Hey, I like Jinmay! She's all robot-y."

"I didn't know you and Jinmay were on bad terms, Sprx. Did you two have a spat after you said one of your usual, idiotic barbs?" Gibson says.

"Look, it'll probably do some good for the kid, but let's just say that Jinmay's not really the, uh, strongest candidate for kicking evil's butt. She could get hurt."

"Intimidated by another girl on the team, Sprx?" Nova jokes.

"It's not that!" the red monkey smirks. "Nova, you know I have a thing for strong women."

She scoffs. "Not a chance, Sprx."

"Brain Strain, you okay?"

"Yes, I—I believe so, but I had no idea—I didn't think he—"

"Never thought I'd hear you speechless."

Whereas Antauri died a noble death, Mandarin died a fitting and painful death of being dissected alive by a revolting gaggle of bulbous formless. To his shame, he screamed and begged. During those last few months of freedom, he devolved from a rational villain to a raving, repulsive maniac. For the love of the frozen lands, he worked with a one-eyed pink monkey in a dress with its grating voice—and—and—a pretty bow. A bow. And he used to be the scourge of Shuggazoom, the ominous skeleton in the beloved hyperforce's closet. Then he became a joke, the mutilated corpse buried in a nondescript place in the Zone of Wasted Years.

Wasted years indeed. Being a spirit is quite a bore. Worse than his state in that dreadful prison.

Obscure. Aimless. He wanders in an endless darkness, saying nothing and hunched over in his old, decrepit form. Before the mutation. If Mandarin wants to, he can wallow within a sea of bitterness. However, as he rattles off memories of his companions' betrayal and his maker's impolite dismissal of his services, there's very little resentment.

In fact, he can hardly make himself experience any emotions. Just as he coldly looked at Shuggazoom City with detached disdain, he does the same with his own existence and his wretched memories, nothing but phantoms. Just as he hurt his former team members with no true hatred or concern, he shrugs off any ill feelings for them. If anything, they've always amused Mandarin. So blind to his schemes until he confided in Otto—who wrung his hands and stammered that he trusted Mandarin. Until he found the rest of his friends crumpled on the main room's floor.

If there is one aspect of anyone that Mandarin detests, it's ignorance—and that encompasses naïvety. Otto was a prominent example. However, they all had their stupidity. Antauri and his mystics with their idiotic concept of balance. The thought that equilibrium is the natural state of things and that conflicts simply occur as a form of homeostasis when the balance shifts. The idealists who think peace has ever existed in the universe.

Mandarin only suffers from his humiliation. Even with his cruelty and his crimes, he's nothing; as a wraith, he's not even registered on the earthly plane.

Through the darkness, a robed form appears. At first, the simian doesn't bother to ignore the distant outline ahead of him. It isn't unusual that, in this land of endless shadows, Mandarin succumbs to some shameful brands of delusion. Only when it drifts intently toward him does he stop and scrutinize the wraith.

He sneers. "And here I thought I'd gotten rid of you."

"Mandarin. If only I'd foreseen how we would next meet."

The simian crosses his arm. Contrary to what the fates may believe, he never meant to harm the alchemist. He was a mean-spirited infant monkey, but he never dreamt that his actions would unleash ancient evils upon a kindly man. Though he used to argue that it was for the best, Mandarin now feels a weak prodding at his ribcage. He only proved the universe correct—given a critical situation, and he can successfully ruin everything.

The man is just as Mandarin remembers him, gaunt and enveloped by his dark robe that drapes over his body cleanly. However, there's none of that age, that decay he brought to the man. "I created the hyperforce to bring good to the planet of Shuggazoom," the alchemist says, "I know that you regret your past."

Mandarin cackles. "Do I really? I am not your toy." He refuses to pity the man—to experience any guilt over his part in these circumstances.

"Yet, oddly enough, you served the husk that used to be my body without any reservation. You gladly let him alter your body into a grotesque monstrosity—a mockery of your former glory and position on a group of esteemed heroes."

Essentially, everything is his fault. Skeleton King. His loss of a place.

Mandarin snarls. "Esteemed? Those pests had no regard for us. Incapacitated? On another mission? It didn't concern them. Never could we satisfy those ungrateful cretins." The simian crosses his arms and glares at his maker defiantly. "You haven't the slightest idea about my motives." Of course the alchemist does. Even with his sturdy pride and polished execution of his demeanor, it's not as if his reasons were complex; he believed they were then. That's why no one followed him, he once thought.

He can't blame his team's stupidity or lack of greatness. As much as it dents his established hubris, his lack of satisfaction is caused by his ineptitude in finding his true place. And he doesn't mean a spiritual state of mind like one of his hokey brothers. To Mandarin, happiness entails having a duty and outperforming everybody in that task.

"You'll follow in my footsteps again, and you'll find me—and eventually yourself."

Mandarin shows his teeth. "Who are you to order me? You are no more living than I."

"If I give you this chance—"

"What power do you have, old man?"

The alchemist's visage seems to retreat into darker shadows. "I have a connection to a truly gracious force—and you have nothing. Except me. You abandoned your friends and your master killed you. Forgiveness, Mandarin, is a fickle thing. The line between good and evil is very fine, and one of the myriad factors into it is one's capacity to forgive."

Mandarin says dryly, "I suppose I now know who implanted those watery sayings into Antauri's bloated head."

"How? How can I earn this 'second chance' when parts of my body are strewn across a blasted wasteland?"

They feigned unconsciousness and took him by surprise. He'd thought he'd defeated them.

The alchemist says with a ghost of a smile, "You'll see."

Taking down his teammates is a simple ordeal. Well, vaguely simple. Now he stands in the center of the control room, examining their unconscious forms. Most of the lights are off. He kicks Sprx's body and maneuvers over Gibson's, smiling widely. This is where they belong. Mandarin glances fondly at Nova, whose head is turned away from him. Then at Antauri. Those reassurances that Mandarin is at peace with the Power Primate—and therefore with himself and others—didn't quite shape out, did it?

All of his dearest companions.

"Nova, you look particularly stunning today. S.P.R.X.-77, why are you looking at me like that?"

"Sorry Mandarin. Couldn't hear you. I was too busy forgetting what a real leader looks like."

"My, my, are we getting jealous?"

"Not a chance, Mandarin."

"If you weren't already red, I'd be able to tell if you're blushing."

"Get away from them!"

Well, except for one.

"Why—why would you do this? We're your friends. I—I'm your friend. Don't you care about us?"

"I never realized that a forced partner should lead me to a career in feigning affection. Stop pretending to be a clueless oaf, Otto."

"No monkey team m—"

"Oh, hush with Antauri's tired old sayings. Speak for yourself if you're going to insult me."

"Mandarin."

"Yes, Otto."

"You can't do this."

"You'd be surprised, as your leader, what I can do without your approval."

Otto's face loses any of its past gentleness. "You're not our leader, not anymore. You're just some other slave like—like those things we always fight!"

"That's more like it. I enjoy hearing hatred in your voice. That good-willed persona can be so grating."

Mandarin smirks. As if he'd be a challenge.

Mandarin opens his eyes for the first time in awhile.