CHAPTER 1

When I am laid in earth

Remember me

But ah, forget my fate.

—Dido's Lament

From the opera "Dido and Ǽneas" by Henry Purcell

The offices of the Town Hall were a curious place. Dumpy adults in bright polyester suits seemed to be constantly on their feet, rushing from one department to the next brandishing important-looking papers and files. Noticing the rather out-of-place sports hero, many of the otherwise harried public servants looked up from their piles of work and heated conversations to smile and wave jovially at him. And, Sportacus being Sportacus, he felt the need to smile and wave back at everyone.

"Good afternoon! Hello! Hi!" His cheerful tenor voice disrupted the atmosphere, a great contrast to the monotonous insectiod hum of the office's fluroescent lights.

"This way, dear." Ms Busybody ushered him along with a firm, gentle hand. "We mustn't keep these nice men and women from the affairs of local government."

They reached her office, situated on a corner of the building, surveying the large park across the road. When she clicked the door shut, the air changed.

Tearing his eyes away from the trees outside, Sportacus watched Bessie occupying herself with the little kettle that sat on one of her cluttered surfaces.

"Tea? Oh, no, of course not. How about some water instead, dear?"

"Thanks, Ms Busybody," the hero obliged, taking a rather pretty little glass tumbler from her.

He sat on the edge of the coffee table, waiting for the woman to begin. He had never really seen her quite as sombre as this. She had barely said anything that afternoon when she came to collect him from a game of football with the children. She had simply told him that she had important information to give to the sports hero, information that was not suitable for the sensitive youngsters that were with him. Although he was saddened by the disappointed looks on their faces, Sportacus also felt a little proud that Bessie considered him mature enough for such a weighty matter.

She remained silent as she sat down opposite him and took a long, reassuring sip of tea. Sportacus supposed that she had been saving up all her words for this moment.

Eager to listen, he leaned forward and entreatied her with a wide, friendly smile.

"So what did you want to say?"

She returned his gaze, her focus firm and steady.

"You said yesterday that you were concerned about the recent whereabouts of Robbie Rotten?"

This must have been serious. Since when had Bessie used that manner of speech with him?

"Well, nobody has seen him for weeks. I guess I'm mostly just worried for him," Sportacus shrugged, faltering a little.

Bessie exhaled softly. "Sportacus, ever since you came to town, it seems you have been not only Robbie's warden, but also his primary target. And if you suspect something is amiss with him, I readily believe you."

She paused here, reaching for a large laminated file sitting on the coffee table.

"It is only right that you should know as much as possible about this man. This is not something I impart to you lightly. I trust you to use this information for the good of both the town and Robbie himself."

"Of course." Sportacus didn't even have to reflect on such a responsibility.

Bessie finally relieved him with a small maternal smile.

"What have the children told you about Robbie?"

The elf thought for a moment. "He's lazy?"

Bessie couldn't help but chuckle. "No, dear, about where he comes from."

"Well, Stingy and Trixie once said that his father was some kind of… mad scientist."

She opened the file, foraging through the loose papers within. Soon she produced an old photograph, its colours yellowed slightly with age, and handed it to Sportacus.

"That's not quite true. His name was Dr. Ignatius Deverhill. One of the most brilliant engineering scientists in the world."

Sportacus examined the man in the photo. There was Robbie's chin and nose. Dr. Deverhill had the air typical of all Great Thinkers— genteel and philosophical. He seemed much more earthy and composed than his volatile son, with solid brown eyes and a skin colour that was much ruddier than Robbie's own porcelain-pale complexion. And yet, beneath this comfortable impression, there seemed to lie something morose and stern about the man.

"He came to Lazytown to retire. He had made his millions and was interested in settling into private research. He purchased the underground bunker on the outskirts of town from the government, converting it into a workshop."

She handed Sportacus another photo of the Doctor standing beside the entrance, sans the large billboard that stood before it presently.

"In the beginning, everyone thought so well of Dr. Deverhill. Even your predecessor, #9. He was charming and good-natured, if a little secretive about his research. But there was always something very sad in his demeanour. You see, some years before he had lost his beloved wife to illness. She had been his only loved one— they had no children. Part of the reason he settled here was to escape the painful memories."

Sportacus, a creature unfamiliar with such trauma, frowned. "Poor man," he murmured.

Bessie continued, her tone changing slightly. "But then, one evening at a dinner party, he discovered her."

She got up from her chair, crossed the room and opened an old record player. Carefully sliding a well-looked after vinyl disc from its sleeve, she tenderly placed it on the turntable, and with a delightful fizzle and pop, a truly sublime soprano voice burst out of the speakers, sailing gracefully through a spirited orchestral melody.

"Sempre libera degg´io

folleggiare di gioia in gioia,

vo´che scorra il viver mio

pei sentieri del piacer..."

"La Fata Lillà. Arguably the greatest opera diva of our time," Bessie gushed. "She could outsing them all. Any role, be it coloratura, spinto, even Wagnerian, she could bring it to life with astounding technique and heart. And she was so beautiful…"

As the unfamiliar terms chimed in Sportacus' ears like pleasing new songs, he picked a newspaper article out of Bessie's file. 'LA FATA LILLÀ TO COME TO LAZYTOWN ON TRAVIATA TOUR', it proclaimed. A photo of the woman sat below the headline. Indeed, she was beautiful. And yet again, echoes of Robbie were all too apparent. Tall and slender, yet delicately curvaceous, with almost unreally pale skin and bright expressive eyes.

"He saw her in concert over a television broadcast, and from that moment he was consumed by her." Bessie sat back down as the record warbled on. "When she came here on tour in 'La Traviata', the company was invited to an elite after-party with the town's well-to-do. That is where Dr. Deverhill seduced her."

A muted male voice interrupted the divine singer on the record.

"Amor è palpito

dell´universo intero,

misterioso, altero,

croce e delizia al cor."

Sportacus' eyes skimmed across the article in his hands. "Hey! This says that she was born in Iceland!" The elf looked up at Bessie with a delighted, little-boy smile. "That's where I'm from!"

The woman nodded. "And that is where she eventually returned to. After the glow of new romance died down, Lillà realised she had been tethered to a strict, old-fashioned, possessive man, too set in his ways to compromise. He demanded she give up the stage and devote herself to serving him. To compound matters, she was now pregnant with Robbie. She dreaded the idea of her child growing up in such a household, so she fled back to Reykjavik. The old wives' tale in Lazytown says that the Doctor never smiled again."

As Sportacus absorbed this, Bessie carefully drew even more loose media articles out of her file.

"All sources, public and private, declared that there was never a more devoted mother. She worshipped him."

The pages, torn from various magazines and newspapers, showed Lillà protectively embracing Robbie at various ages: in one photo a plump newborn, in another a distracted toddler, and in yet another a pale, delicate-looking child of five or six. Sportacus felt his heart lurch. This tender cherub was the same menacing, stalking hooligan that took cruel delight in teasing him and the children.

"Lillà felt confident that her fame would protect the two of them from Deverhill," Bessie stated. "When Robbie was school-aged, she took to the stage once more, touring the world with her son. You can imagine how much the child would have learnt in this environment, surrounded by some of the greatest artistic experts in the world. I was told by those who worked with Lillà that when she was not on stage, she took Robbie to all the grandest museums, galleries and landmarks of the metropolitan centres. Oh, and also," she added with a small smirk, "some of the greatest patisseries as well."

A vivid mental image came to Sportacus: young Robbie, savouring Michelin-standard millefeuille, tiramisu and sachertorte, his little mouth and hands smeared with cream and crumbs. A kitten with the world's finest yarn.

"One night in Vienna, when he was nine years old, Robbie made his debut on stage. Lillà was starring in 'Madama Butterfly' at the Burgtheatre, and she demanded that her son play the silent role of Dolore, Butterfly's lovechild. Apparently, it was just after the curtain call that Robbie met his father for the first time."

Sportacus could feel Bessie become tense.

"The police said that it was a subdued moment backstage, when no-one was looking. Deverhill swooped in and took him. Lillà would have seen red. She followed him through the dim backstreets of Vienna, still wearing her stage costume. He wanted her back desperately… to think that such a brilliant man was willing to stoop to the level of kidnapping their child. She cornered him in St. Stephen's Cathedral."

Bessie stared down at yet another newspaper article in her hands, fiddling with the paper slightly.

"The official line is that it was a tragic accident. Deverhill was certainly shattered by what happened. Some say that he intentionally pushed her down, but I'm not so sure. What is important is that it happened right before Robbie's eyes."

A short pause came and went.

"She fell upon the altar steps, breaking her neck instantly."

The recorded aria in the background had long finished, the needle skipping rhythmically upon the crackling vinyl.

"Deverhill greased enough hands to be acquitted of all charges. Custody of Robbie was his and they came back here to Lazytown. He had a manor of his own in the upmarket part of town, but he decided to keep Robbie in his underground workplace. It turns out he had renovated a part of it to serve as rather luxurious living quarters for Lillà. Instead, it became her son's home."

"Deverhill was a strict and distant father. Robbie was only allowed outside for school, and the rest of the time he was made to study, including memorising his father's collection of engineering journals. I'm sure you can see in this how his current habits were formed. He received outstanding marks in his schoolwork, but…"

Bessie's voice wavered.

"…The authorities later discovered that the child was harshly mistreated. An average mark on any class exam earned him a severe caning. His father claimed it was for his own good, that his days in the opera backstage had made him weak. Deverhill loved and detested his son all at once. He saw his beloved Lillà in Robbie, but also saw him as the reason she had run away from Lazytown."

"Needless to say, he was a target for bullies. As he became a teenager, he increasingly fought back, defending himself by building up a reputation as a problem child. His marks at school remained excellent, but he constantly risked expulsion with his behaviour."

"Meanwhile, his father continued to change as well. Your predecessor noticed this first. Deverhill was increasingly secretive about his research. One night, #9 caught him grave robbing. That was when we decided to call in the state authorities. Deverhill's activities had become an issue of public safety that was too heavy for the town's hero to deal with alone."

"As far as we know, Deverhill is still rotting away in prison, his sentence compounded by the manslaughter of Lillà that should have originally sent him there. I am not sure if they would think to inform us of his death."

Bessie looked up. The light outside had faded, the sky a pale purple, laced with dark streams of cloud. The usually flighty Sportacus was a heavy statue perched upon her coffee table.

"Robbie would have been sent to a foster home had I not intervened on his behalf. I had seen his comings and goings, stealthy as they were, and he seemed to me to be perfectly independent. Both his parents had left a considerable fortune in his name, so there was no concern about what he would live on. I spoke with Milford, and we agreed to, ah, convince the welfare board to declare him an independent adult at sixteen."

"I believe he wished to cast off as much of his father as possible. The large manor Deverhill lived in is still Robbie's property, but has remained untouched by anyone for well over a decade. It was also at this point that the boy changed his name. The rumour is that Deverhill constantly told him that Lillà had spoiled him rotten, that he was a rotten child, a rotten boy… he must have eventually believed it."

Bessie fingered the handle on her mug of now cold tea, gazing out at the twilight. Suddenly, a small flash of light caught her peripheral vision, and she turned to see Sportacus' blue eyes filled with tears, the little droplets catching the last remaining sunshine. She melted.

"Oh, you poor child," she cooed, handing him a tissue. "I hope I haven't upset you too much."

"I'm just glad that I know now," he replied, doing his best to sound composed. "I guess I should have realised Robbie would only act the way he does if he was feeling sad inside."

Bessie was oddly touched at the childlike, simple way Sportacus had assessed it. She smiled at him.

"Please don't feel disheartened by what I've told you. This information is a gift for you to understand your aggressor more thoroughly … and to perhaps better contain him."

They shared a meaningful look.

"After all that's happened, he is still seeking out for attention. It makes me think… well, that insistent attitude of his means he hasn't given up on life. I believe someone could yet save him."

**

A/N: So there you have it, my own take on the Sad Backstory that every young adult female fan knows Robbie has. (Come on, they get Stefan to warble a ballad like "Aleinn um Jolin" with that voice of his and DON'T expect girly, estrogeny imaginations to be provoked?) I felt I used a bit of restraint- too many stories go right to cliches like rape and homelessness and prostitution, without reprieve. I don't think Robbie has suffered much more than the young Jane Eyre here, but he lacks her solid constitution and coping mechanisms. Speaking of which, Deverhill is extremely Victorian- spare the rod, spoil the child, in perpetual mourning for a lost partner, all that stuff. I imagine him as being English, which would explain Robbie's cute oversized, sticky-outy ears, LOL. He's a bastard, but I'd like to think that one still holds a shred of sympathy for him.