Chapter 5:Life of Crime, Got Your Mail

Four Weeks, Twenty Hours Post Incident

Moist was running out of ice. The refrigerated truck was a rental too. It was due back in Albany, ohhh, yesterday. Preserving a dead body was a lot harder than Moist remembered. At least the Doc had been embalmed—Moist involuntarily gagged. That was gross. True and most certainly helpful in the department of, how did the bad doctor put it?

"Don't let me rot for more than month!" he warned, "I don't have the time to prepare enough regenerated tissue to replace any higher levels of decomposition than that."

It freaked Moist out how easily the Doc could speak of such morbid stuff like that. Then again, that was how he spoke in the whole, did it end up being over a year? that the pair worked to bring back Penny. The Doc was actually worse than. He was more despondent, obsessive and maddened and Moist swears the man developed a Red Bull addiction from all the long nights he spent barely awake in his lab. He could still picture Doc hunched over his work station, scribbling equations Moist had no chance of understanding on any bits of scrap paper that could be found. He clearly remembered the days upon days Moist wouldn't see him because the Doc would be just building things. Moist was never any help at building things, for obvious reasons. He was recruited to be used as Dr. Horrible's currier. Doc didn't get out much—cough, cough, at all—in those days so it was Moist's job to retrieve a daily grocery list of much needed supplies. Sometimes even real groceries were on the list. Okay, those were added by Moist. The Doc would have starved if his faithful henchman hadn't kept track of his diet.

The most disturbing memories of all were the times Moist caught the Doc checking on her when he thought the henchman had already left for the night. He kept her in a tank. He never did explain to Moist exactly what that tank was filled with, but it was a material of the doctor's own design. Doc said it was special, designed specifically to be compatible with Penny's DNA. It made Penny get better, sort of. No amount of that goo could make her heart start beating again, but it did keep her from disintegrating into nothing and it did keep what parts of her weren't already ruined preserved. She was there, in the ELE funded basement lab, for such a long time. In the evening, as Moist was leaving, Doc would place his hand on the glass and just stare at her, expressionless. Moist never pretended to think Dr. Horrible didn't keep working after he left. Every morning Moist would arrive again to find some different piece of Penny all shiny and new with new set of stitches and a new "grocery list" to go along with it.

Doc performed all the surgeries himself. Before those days Moist had only thought the Doc earned PhD's in psychics and engineering and chemistry and stuff like that. He was wrong. Doc dropped out of med school when he was eighteen (early acceptance when he was fifteen). He switched his career path to the chemistry and psychics and engineering then, though never admitted whether or not he actually graduated from any of those programs either (something about a short attention span). He did admit one thing. William Stinson was a certified, fully qualified and unemployed molecular geneticist capable of making cats glow in the dark if he wanted to by the time he reached his twenty sixth birthday. Damn, did Doc put those skills to good use back then?

Moist found himself chuckling for the first time in weeks. Wow, he thought, because looking back on it he was astounded that the League hadn't discovered what they were up to sooner. Water dripped from his greasy hair as he shook his head in amusement. He guessed anything could be funny if one was sleep deprived enough.

"Can I help you?" the skinny blonde behind the counter asked.

Moist coughed, embarrassed. He attempted to swipe a piece of oily black hair form his eyes but his dampness only made it stick to his forehead like superglue. "I—uhh—umm," he stammered, "Ice! I need ice. Do you know where there's a place nearby I can get some?"

The teenage girl raised a brow, "every unit is climate controlled, Mr. Howser."

Moist had been spending a lot of time at the Gray Castle Self-Storage facility upstate lately. The Doc said it wasn't a perfect work space, but it was out of the way of the city and would do fine for their purpose. Moist's name at the Castle was for all intents and purposes Douglas Howser.

"Yeah, I know," he sighed, "but they're not controlled cold enough for what I need—"

"What do you have that needs to be kept on ice?"

Some bags of some important things that several Red Cross organizations will be very displeased to find missing.

"If you don't wait any longer than a month the only thing you should need is blood," the Doc told him as he locked the storage unit, "the soup should take care of the rest."

"Is that what you're calling it now?"

"Y-yes?" Doc swallowed.

Moist shrugged, "Okay."

"I'll, uh," Doc adjusted his tie. He wasn't dressed like the Doc Moist remembered. He was wearing a suit, an expansive one too. Moist made a point of not getting too close; those things are dry clean only. "I'll need to be submerged," his voice shook slightly. It was the only sign of fear he gave, "for at least four, maybe five, days. Cloning is a cinch. I've already started to duplicate the necessary cells to stimulate my body's natural immune system and healing process. I'll create enough for a plasma base—err, the soup—and then it's just matter of those super-cells to find and replace the dead ones. Decomposing will cease, some complete regeneration may take place but I doubt it. It'll be mostly partial. Even with the super-cells working at 150%--" he crossed his fingers and murmured, " —and accepting the necessary donor blood—any specimen would need that extra" he pounded his fists together, "Jolt! To get the heart pumping again."

The faintest of grins ghosted over Doc's mouth. It was a grin of pride. The scientist hadn't produced such meaningful work in years. Moist stared in awe, realizing how much he missed it when his friend talked science he didn't comprehend.

Doc's smile faltered and vanished as quickly as it came, "…what?"

"Wow, it's just, you've really thought about this."

Doc rubbed his forehead and exhaled, "Chh, Yeah, well, it was a lot harder the first time around. No living DNA to work with. I had to recreate it using a deceased sample."

"Does it ever bother you?"

Crap. Moist was kicking himself. He wanted to clamp a sweaty hand over his mouth to keep from asking anymore out of line questions, because it was out of line. Moist was talking about Penny. Both men knew it. Moist was wondering if it ever bothered the doctor to talk about Penny, and now himself, as a science project. Ugh, what a dumb thing to ask. He knew Doc hated being questioned like that. Last time Moist tried it countless beaker's paid the price.

"Yeah," Doc sighed, his shoulder's sagging a little. The spark that had so briefly reignited his eyes was extinguished, replaced by their usual sad expression. There was something more in them though, was understanding, acceptance? Hope?

Doc patted Moist on the shoulder, "More than you'll ever know."

The Gray Castle Self-Storage facility employee blew bubbles with her chewing gum as she quickly wrote the directions to the nearest convenience store. Moist wished he could ask her to laminate it, but he figured that was a step too far. Besides, he was on a tight schedule. The Doc's advised grace period was almost up. He only had a few days left to prepare for the "jolt" before some serious damage would occur. Although, what could be more serious than death?

Performing a resurrection without the proper amount of time to prepare? Yeah, possibly.

The ELE conducting an investigation into Dr. Horrible's apparent suicide? Oh yeah, definitely.

Professor Normal had torn Stinson's apartment to pieces. Correction, he had what henchman remained tear what little furniture remained in Stinson's apartment to pieces. The Professor would never perform such a tedious task himself even if his mechanic joints had been oiled properly.

Normal sighed. His breath made a strange, whizzing noise.

He hated the fact that Bad Horse had left him in charge of the official Evil League of Evil investigation into the death of one Dr. Horrible, alias Barney Stinson. The two never did see goggle to goggle. What did that twerp have against robotic armies anyway?

It didn't matter, the facts Professor Normal had uncovered so far were these: it was Dr. Horrible who betrayed the League to HAG (as proven by the confession that had been emailed to Fake Thomas Jefferson), Dr. Horrible went through great lengths to assist the League in covering up his own existence (from which Professor Normal deduced that not only was Dr. Horrible planning to be erased but he also had much to hide from his employers) and Dr. Horrible was given a copy (perhaps the only copy) of some the key points of Bad Horse's Ultimate Plan.

The League did not know why Dr. Horrible decided so suddenly that now would be the time to betray, although Normal had a theory involving spinelessness and Marshall Erikson. The League also did not know what it was the Doctor was hiding that would require him to erase his existence before the League could, nor did they know why Dr. Horrible chose death as his only means of escape. Not that the latter wasn't true of course. He could have tried to run, but his life would have ended shortly and violently after his treason no matter what. Most important and infuriatingly: the plans that Horrible had been given had yet to be recovered.

Professor Normal scratched one of his bionic sideburns. It was so pointless to be searching Stinson's apartment a fifth time. The plans weren't here, nothing of importance was. This means Bad Horse will be displeased. When Bad Horse is displeased the world is displeased.

"Damnit!" Normal shouted, punching his two-thirds robotic arm through a wall, "where did you hide them!?"

He remembered being asleep before the intercom buzzed. Now he was groggy and irritated that someone actually had the nerve to tear him away from a warm bed and sleeping girlfriend at 5:52 in the morning. Although no matter how loudly he groaned at the intercom it would not cease to buzz until he answered it. Throwing dirty socks at it didn't help either.

"What?" he yawned, finger barely pressing the button hard enough.

"Special delivery for a Mr. Ted Mosby," a chipper voice replied.

Ted moaned, "From who?"

"Uuhh," the voice replied, "a Mr. Barney Stinson."