A/N: What's a 'powome'? Oh and, I'm trying real hard to stay in-character…I'm just curious about how the fraggles might react to this sort of thing…like, what if it happened? Boober put on a brave face and bared himself to the Pebble Pox when he had to carry Wembley home, Red broke down and cried when she thought she was facing her doom…and Mokey became as jealous as anything when she overheard a few fraggles compliment that other painter fraggle guy's painting. So any tips on character inconsistencies I missed or tips on how to make my story more in-character are suuuper appreciated.

And...I'm not so sure I agree with the idea that fraggles don't progress and have a less-than-healthy conscience. I mean, from the show's start to finish, fraggles start out not even noticing the doozers as living things and end up making friends with at least Cotterpin, and even including her in the Duet-A-Thon. They also start out relying on The Trash Heap for every answer to their every question, and slowly go to her less and less as the series progresses, thinking more and more for themselves. Boober seems to become less and less whiney as the series goes on, Red learns about her own self-worth, and after forcing everyone to stop eating doozer sticks Mokey finds out that it isn't always safe to assume things. Red giving up her birthday present to ease Ma Gorg's loneliness, Boober risking his welfare to carry Wembley to safety, and the fraggle custom of giving rollies away all seem to suggest that fraggles are very aware of what is right and wrong. Gosh...I'm such a nerd, I could talk about this all day. :P

Never had Boober experienced such shock. Once he had calmed down enough to think somewhat less frantically, he immediately thought of when the water supply was poisoned and it was all up to him to save his friends by confronting the silly creature. He had been more scared and sure of his demise than at any other time in his whole life...and that was saying something. While on his knees begging for mercy, he had remembered all the postcards Gobo had 'stolen' from it, and when he brought them all back it promptly stopped its cruel punishment and all was well again. What Boober remembered the most about this situation was the fact that while he was hiding under a rock, everyone steadily became weaker and weaker. Once he actually got it together and approached the silly creature, everything was so much easier.

Maybe that was the approach he needed to take today. Boober breathed in slowly and held his breath for the better part of a minute before slowly exhaling, and repeated the action several times. He tried as hard as he could to keep from looking at the bloody shirts and thinking about what he might be getting himself into. It worked. He slowly gained better control of his thoughts, and his pounding heart started to calm.

His first thought was, of course, to talk to Gobo. But as soon as he started for the door, he stopped. Writhing and aching inside him, his stomach seemed to suggest the unthinkable: What if your friends had something to do with this? What if, in innocently revealing this evidence to them, hoping for their help, you only open the door for them to plan out their alibi, or to escape? Shocked at this implication, he reassured himself aloud. "My friends…would never ever do something so terrible." However, this did nothing to satisfy his stomach, which, almost as if responding to Boober's immediate dismissal of its theory, twisted and turned inside him stronger than before.

Boober sat back down. Even though he knew already that his friends weren't capable of such a thing, he did feel like he should be careful, discreet. Maybe he could ask them questions about what they had been up to since they woke up… Huh, yeah. He snorted aloud. "Hey Red, Gobo, Mokey, what did you guys do as soon as you hopped out of bed this morning?" That doesn't sound weird at all.

Maybe if he just told them about what he had done; about the laundry, the strange fraggle, the strange smell, carefully leaving out the part about the blood, and watched their reactions. Surely they would react in some way if they thought that the evidence against them slipped through unnoticed. But maybe the perpetrator didn't put those shirts in the laundry. Or maybe they did…maybe they wanted Boober to see the bloody clothes. For once in his life, Boober wished that laundry wasn't his job. In fact, the shock and stress of this madness made him feel annoyed with himself for being so different. If I were more like a normal fraggle, none of this would've happened!, he whined inside his head. But it did happen, and now it was up to him to make things right, or at least try to. The more he thought about it, the stronger he felt that the fraggle whose blood was spilt over those two shirts, whether he was alive or (shudder) dead, deserved his help – had a right to his help.

With so much time already wasted, and no game plan for approaching his friends (oh how he felt silly and low and miserable for even thinking about suspecting them), Boober decided he should just wing it. He started for the door, but didn't have to go far before the door opened on its own and Wembley came bouncing in.

"Mmk, mmk, mmk, mmk – HEY Boober!" He waved his little green hand in the air and smiled like only Wembley could.

Boober had immediately gone into defense mode when the door had swung open, which is to say, he had ducked behind his laundry pot.

"Boober? Heey, what're ya doin' behind that pot? Don't tell me, did I just scare you? Hah, I wasn't even tryin' this time!" Wembley looked pretty proud of himself.

"Well, no, not exactly Wembley…" Boober hadn't planned on letting Wembley be the first to know. Wembley would most likely roll his eyes into the back of his head and faint headfirst into the laundry pile.

"Awwh, oh well. I'll get you one day Boober! Anyway, I came in here because I realized that I gave the wrong banana-tree shirt to Tosh earlier! So I was wondering if you could give it back and wash this dirty one instead." He looked at the shirt he was wearing, sheepishly. But Boober was too shocked to be disgusted by Wembley's hygienic habits. Tosh? His bluish skin paled a little and he felt like he was going to vomit.

"…Boober?" Wembley saw Boober reel a little when he mentioned Tosh's name. "Boober …what's wrong? Do you want me to leave?" As he turned to go, Boober stopped him with a frantic wave of his hand.

"Did you say…Tosh? Tosh picked up your laundry today?"

"Well, yeah, it is her job, right?"

Boober started to panic again. He began to whine out, "Wembley, I…" but stopped. He stared at Wembley, intently. "Wembley, what were you doing before Tosh came?"

"See, that's the thing, I was still asleep when she came. Gobo was, too. That's part of the reason why I gave her the wrong shirt! Instead of taking off the one I had slept in, I just gave her the one on the table, 'cause I was so tired and all. Heh, kinda funny, huh?" Wembley looked at Boober hesitantly, hoping that the answer had satisfied him. As Boober relaxed, Wembley did too, not seeming to sense the heavy air around them. But how could anyone expect Wembley to sense anything like that?

"Wembley, I have to tell you something. Actually, I have to tell Gobo something. You're sure he was asleep when, er, Tosh came by?" It made him woozy just to think that Tosh might be…

"I'm sure! In fact, he didn't even wake up until after she left."

"Hmm. Well, I think you'll be okay wearing that shirt another day…even if it is infested with germs...just don't touch me with it, okay? So what do you say we head back over to your cave and talk to Gobo…there's something I need to ask him about, and you might want to hear it, too."

With that, Boober headed out his doorway. Before following him, Wembley looked around the room, scratching his head.

It didn't seem as clean as it normally did.

And while Boober wasn't usually the most chipper or collected fraggle in the Rock, he seemed a little…off-center today.

And Wembley had one of those feelings where you know something without knowing it starting to grow inside his belly.