C. Montgomery Burns read Smithers' letter twice, to be sure he hadn't missed anything. The man needed to proof-read better. He'd used the word "important" something like four times in the last few sentences. Beyond those technical gaffs, however, the thing that truly irked Burns was how off the mark Smithers had been in his assessments.

"That damnable, blind, flaming idiot," hissed Burns through clenched teeth. Did Smithers truly not see anything that he, Burns, had been trying to convey? Was he really that obtuse? Kicked dogs and barbed words? Pretty metaphors, certainly, but inaccurate.

Burns snapped his fingers, and Hercules' porter appeared. Though the dog's leg had been healing very nicely, Burns was not taking any chances. No, that little brute would be carried about, like it or not, until the cast was removed.

Fortunately, it seemed the terrier rather enjoyed being toted everywhere.

Burns smirked. The animal, it seemed, had more sense that its master.

"You know what I'm trying to do for you, don't you beastie," he purred as he rubbed Hercules' ears fondly. "Someone better tell that feeble-minded bedlamite 'master' of yours that he needs to stop thinking this has always been about him. Really," Burns continued, stroking the dog, "he's far too self-absorbed for his own good!"

Burns rose, motioning Hercules' porter to follow him. He muttered to himself as he walked to his office. "What does he think growth is? Some easy, painless process the side-effect of mere existence?" He gave a snort of contempt and sat down at his desk, motioning the servant to set Hercules nearby, then get out. "A tree grown in a sheltered hot-house will never be as strong as one exposed to the elements. Perhaps more fair, but weak at the core."

Burns cracked his knuckles. He couldn't abide weakness. He saw too much of it in himself.

He grabbed his phone and dialed Thaddeus Dimas' number. It might've been night on the eastern side of the country, but it wasn't so late as to be unreasonable yet. The phone rang twice, before Dimas picked up.

Prompt as ever, Burns thought approvingly.

"Monty! To what do I owe the pleasure of a call at this hour?"

"Business, of course Tad. What else?"

"Business indeed. So, what sort of business are we talking about?"

"Smithers. Specifically, my Smithers."

Dimas' voice rumbled with amusement, as if a chuckle were being held back. "Of course, your Smithers! Who else could claim him, eh? Ah, well, what about him, Monty?"

"Where is he in his training?"

Dimas chuckled. "Oh, moving right along. Ahead of what I'd expected, honestly. He picks up quick. Good worker too. He'd asked for a half-day on Friday, hmm, two weeks ago I think. I gave it to him. The fellow doesn't ask for much."

Burns ground his teeth. Smithers didn't ask for much; that was true, even though he'd habitually begrudged even the smallest of Smithers' requests on principle. "Why?"

"Why what," asked Dimas.

"Why did he want an early day."

"Oh that. He said he was going to Niagara Falls with a friend he met." Dimas put an extra emphasis on the word "friend."

Burns jaw tightened further. "Smithers said it like that, did he?"

Dimas chortled mirthfully. "Oh no, Monty. Not at all. But I can read body language. His body said what his tone belied."

"I see…" Burns muttered slowly, voice dangerously soft.

"Oh, don't be a stick in the mud, Monty," Dimas remarked, dispassionately. "If the boy wants to go enjoy a weekend with someone, who am I to judge?"

"Did you ask who it was?"

Dimas sounded offended. "Monty, I don't pry into my employees' private lives. It's inappropriate. He said he and a friend were hoping to go to Niagara Falls that weekend; and asked if he could have a half-day so he could catch an earlier train. It's nearly a seven hour ride, you know."

"I don't care." Burns couldn't keep all the disdain from his voice. Smithers, taking a weekend get-away? Probably some romantic thing, given the setting. The idea of Smithers with anyone else set Burns' blood to boiling.

Burns drummed his fingers on his desk. "When's the convention in Albany?"

"Ah, changed your mind about going, Burnsie? Last I heard you'd told them quite soundly you wanted nothing to do with such frivolity; and refused entirely."

Burns ignored Dimas' casual use of nicknames. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have let it slide, but these were not ordinary days. "Well, I've had one of my trademark changes of heart, it seems," he remarked as casually as he could. "So, back to Smithers a moment, you'd say he's completed his training?"

Dimas hummed thoughtfully. "He's done with engineering, infrastructure, hydrology; just wrapped up in mechanics and generation. I'm planning to assign him to Preston this coming week, get him started in administration. Then, yes, I daresay he'll be done."

"Forget the administration," Burns announced. "He's already over-qualified there. Put him on task, and keep him busy till the convention. I'll gather him up from there and bring him back with me."

"Just like that?" Dimas asked, the humor in his voice replaced with surprise. "What about his apartment out here? He's going to need to pack, and he's got friends he's going to want to say goodbye to before he leaves." Dimas' voice grew serious. "I'm sorry Monty, but I'm not okay with that. You can tell him you want him to go back with you, but I'm not going to just hand him to you like so many spent fuel rods."

"He is mine."

"No, Monty," Dimas' tone took on a warning edge, rare for the usually light-hearted man. "He is not yours. Your employee, maybe; but you don't own him."

Burns hissed and sputtered, but failed to make a coherent word.

Dimas waited patiently on the line.

"Fine," Burns managed to spit out. "Then I will ask him if he'd please come back to Springfield with me."

"Are you willing to accept it if he says 'no,' or 'not yet?'"

"Who the hell do you think you are, Thaddeus, your father? Asking me such questions!"

Now it was Dimas' turn to give a snort. "Monty, we've known each other, what, nearly fifty years? If you can't be honest with me, and I can't ask you the hard questions, really what have we got?"

Burns gave a dry chuckle. "I'd say I've got someone who I have to watch my back around," he remarked carefully. "You're not your father, Tad. You've got an edge to you."

Dimas laughed. "That's true Monty; on both accounts. And the funny thing about an edge is it doesn't care what it cuts." He made a friendly, growling sound. "Don't worry, I'm not going to rock the boat. Not tonight anyhow. I'll make sure 'your' Smithers is ready to go, if he wants to."

"Good."

"Always a pleasure doing business with you, Monty," Dimas remarked cheerfully.

"Hah, business is its own pleasure, Tad. You ought know that by now."

"Of course," Dimas crowed. "Goodnight, Monty. Try not to work too hard."

The conversation was at an end.

Burns pulled up the letter for the North American Atomic Energy Convention. It was a two-part event. The convention would be taking place in the quarter-mile long "underground city" of Albany, New York; known as The Concourse.

The Concourse stretched the entire length of the Empire State Plaza, much like an avenue. Various shops, banks, and even a post office lined the row. It connected the towers, museum, legislative offices, and capitol building in one centralized, underground hub.

The NAAE Convention was scheduled to take place at the massive subterranean hall located near the middle, on the southern edge of the Concourse. Afterwards, an invitation-only event, a semi-formal dinner banquet was being held at the observation deck of the tallest tower at the Plaza. It would be a chance for mingling and rubbing elbows.

Burns had initially dismissed the event regarding it as an insignificant private-sector affair, and beneath his notice. As he'd told Smithers years ago: If it doesn't involve legislators, it's not worth going to.

But that was then, and this was now.

He wasn't going to parlay with his fellow plant owners or investors. He couldn't have cared less about them. His mind was on Smithers. He put his head down against his desk. He saw Smithers' expressive brown eyes in his mind; they truly were the window to the man's soul. How many times had he seen those eyes light up with joy just because he walked in the room? Or the times he'd caused them to fill with tears at some cutting remark.

Burns wanted to look into those eyes again. He wanted to see them, not awash with unspoken pain, but sparkling in delight. He'd never said it to Smithers, but the man's smile could brighten the bleakest of days. He hadn't realized how accustomed to Smithers' presence he'd become.

Nor, Burns admitted, had he paused to consider how much he'd taken that companionship for granted. It was easy to think he'd always have Smithers, no matter what he said, or how poorly he treated the man. Burns had hedged his bets on Smithers' unwavering devotion, stifling as it could be, always winning out.

Burns glanced at the clock. It was getting late. He filled out his response card, indicating he would be attending both the convention and the soirée, and set it in his outbox.

Absentmindedly, his hand crept to his neck, and found the ring he had on its chain, tucked under his shirt. He ran his fingertips over the skin-warmed metal. For years, even after he no longer wore his ring on its chain, he'd find himself grabbing at his throat in times of stress. Now, he had something to hold on to.

It gave him a feeling of strength he'd thought he'd forgotten.

Burns stood up suddenly, proudly. He bent over and scooped up Hercules under one arm, then grabbed Smithers' letter off the table. Years ago, he would've thought that part of him, his courage and passion, had died with his partner. Not dead, he realized. Just dormant. Sleeping!

For the first time in so many years, his life had sense of purpose again.

He clutched the ring in his hand.

What's that his tyrannical grandfather used to say? When you go to war, come home with your shield, or on it. Or don't come home at all. That metaphor meant, of course, win or die. It wasn't perhaps the most cheerful analogy, Burns mused, but it was completely fitting.

Terrier and letter in his arms, he made his way upstairs to his bedchamber. There, he set Hercules on the bed, and slid Smithers' letter under his pillow. It was no love letter, but it was hand-written. Perhaps its mere presence would give him strength in these next few days.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and took the matching ring out of his nightstand. What size was Smithers' finger, he wondered. He should be able to guess. He'd seen the man's hands enough, and had copies of every employee's handprints archived down in Human Resources at the nuclear plant. One could never be too careful. Trust was nice, but fingerprints were better, and handprints best of all. From that, and his memory, he should be able to get an accurate representation. He'd have this ring resized for his Smithers. His dear Smithers.

Even if the man never wore it, even if his Smithers told Burns he never wanted to see him again, Burns would make sure the man at least kept the pocket watch and ring. They were Smithers' possessions by birthright, if nothing else.

Burns changed into his night clothes, and slid his thin body between the sheets. They were brutally cold against his skin, and he shivered involuntarily.

Sensing perhaps Burns discomfort, or merely seeking a more cozy place for himself, Hercules hobbled over to Burns. He turned in a circle exactly three times, then pressed his furry body against the back of Burns' legs.

Burns sighed. "Why are you all the way down there tonight, beastie?" He patted the pillow by his head. "Come on. I won't tell anyone if you don't."

The terrier padded over and curled up on the pillow. Burns smiled, glad no one was around to see his moment of sentiment, and closed his eyes.

Dimas met Smithers by the timeclock instead of Preston. "I know you usually get a debriefing from Preston every Monday," Dimas remarked as he guided Smithers to his office, "but there's been a change in the program. I hope you don't mind."

"No sir," Smithers replied as they walked, trying not to let his surprise show in his voice or face.

Dimas crossed behind his desk, and motioned Smithers to have a seat in one of the guest chairs. "You see, Waylon, I've been going over you evaluations from your trainers: Gary, Sharon," he twirled his hand, "all the rest. Everyone here has given you sterling reviews. Straight fives all the way down, and outstanding remarks." He shuffled through the stack of papers. "I was going to have Preston train you in the subtle nuances of administration, but Monty seems to think that would be a waste of both of your hours. Instead, you'll be joining Preston at my side. I'll be depending on you equally through this convention, and possibly beyond."

Smithers' breath felt caught in his throat. "Monty, er, Mister Burns? You've spoken with him recently?"

Dimas nodded, expression innocent. "We had a brief chat over the weekend. The man wanted to know how you were doing, where you were at with things." Dimas pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I think you could be a strong asset to our team, even temporarily. I want you right at my side throughout the convention. It'll send a message."

"What message is that, sir?"

Dimas gave a toothy grin. Something about it reminded Smithers of a shark that had just smelled blood in the water. "Why Waylon, my dear chap, it will tell everyone that you are a man not to be trifled with."

Dimas rose, and gestured to the office he'd assigned to Smithers. "There's your space, make yourself at home. You can bring in a radio, no loud music, go to the parking lot if you're a smoker, and if you take the last of the coffee make a new pot. Other than that, you'll be handling whatever I need from you."

He spread his thick arms wide and gestured to his domain. "Welcome officially, Waylon Smithers, Chief of Plant Operations, to the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station!" He gave a deep chuckle. "Welcome at long last. We're glad to have you!"

He extended his bearlike-paw and shook Smithers' hand. "Now, go make yourself at home in your office. I'll be sending some work up shortly."

Smithers gave a little bow, and thanked him roundly; but the perplexed feeling didn't go away. As he walked into his office, sat down and powered up his laptop, he had the distinct feeling that he was just seeing the surface of the water. Whatever was swimming below was definitely large, and not necessarily benign. When you see fins circling, think sharks not dolphins, he thought cautiously as he logged onto the network and accessed his employee email.

Speaking of sharks, where was Preston? He hadn't seen the man all morning. By now, at least Preston should've at least popped into Dimas' office with the morning reports. Smithers' mind wandered as he read a few group emails.

Something was up. Something was definitely going on. But what?

Smithers realized he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to find out.