1. The Vault
"And now," Yzma announced from her seat atop the Hotland lab counter, "if all of the ingredients have blended correctly, the potion has been distilled to perfection, the heat has remained at a steady 100 degrees, and it has been stirred EXACTLY five times counterclockwise, you should have completed a human transformation potion."
Mim turned a valve on a distillation bottle hanging upside down, and the now cooling pink potion dripped bit by bit into a large bowl. She'd gathered materials and set up all of the laboratory equipment to Yzma's exact specifications, though she found the whole process rather tedious. "You have to do this every time you want to turn into something?" she asked Yzma.
"Hard work pays off," Yzma reminded her.
"If I was capable of feeling sorry," Mim told her, "I would for you."
"I'm not sure how to take that," the cat admitted.
When the bowl was full, Mim shoved it across the counter toward the three rats, a bit spilling over onto the counter as she did so. Yzma observed that the liquid remained stable after splashing out; the fact that it didn't burn a hole through the counter was a good sign that the process had been done correctly.
"FINALLY," Roman sighed as he, Snatcher, and Mozenrath leaned up over the lip of the bowl and began lapping at the pink liquid fervently. Within thirty seconds, there was a sparkle of magic in the air; all three regained human form at the exact same time and promptly fell off the counter, tumbling hard onto the floor.
"Graceful," Yzma commented.
"Not a word," Mozenrath sighed as he got up and dusted himself off, with Roman and Snatcher to follow suit soon after.
"So that's what you really look like," Yzma observed. "You have a good sense of color coordination. This won't be a COMPLETE disappointment."
Snatcher realized then that his clothes, as well as Roman's and Mozenrath's, had come right back when they'd transformed. He decided not to give himself a headache trying to work out where they'd gone and why they'd been included as part and parcel of their bodily metamorphosis. Doubtless the others weren't giving it a second thought.
Yzma bounded over to the bowl, lapping up the rest of the potion that sloshed around the bottom of it. She daintily leapt off the counter before her own transformation took place, landing on her paws right before they turned into feet enclosed in stiletto heels. Her body molded itself into that of a tall and bony elderly woman with striking purple skin; she was clothed in a shimmering purple cocktail dress topped off with a matching beret. "MUCH better," she sighed, turning a 180 and craning her head about to look at her regained true form.
"Now that THAT humiliation is behind us," Mozenrath suggested, "maybe next time, we can strategize a little better BEFORE we go barging into a kingdom at random."
"Lesson learned," Roman sighed. "Respect the paperwork."
"Our apologies, Lord Mozenrath," Snatcher said with a brief incline of the head.
"Well, it wasn't a complete waste," Mozenrath pointed out. "After all…our side is now two people stronger." He grinned at Yzma and Mim. "Welcome aboard, ladies."
"Glad to be aboard!" Mim bowed.
"Eh." Yzma shrugged. "Beats spending another day with Kuzco. I take it from your implications that you have our next move plotted out?"
Roman had attempted to retrieve a cigarette from his pocket, but somewhere during all the transformations and invasions, he'd lost his whole pack. "Our next move better include a supply run," he grunted.
"Perhaps to stock up for a celebratory feast!" Snatcher suggested.
"What are we celebrating?" Mozenrath asked. "We lost. Twice."
"SOMEONE'S a pessimist," Mim grunted.
"Have you been using this laboratory to forge weapons?" Yzma glanced around the room, seeing the leftover scrap metal from Roman's endeavors. "If that is the case, I demand one of my own!"
Mozenrath shrugged. "You know what? If you want to stay behind and gather supplies, fine. If you want to forge weapons, that's fine. The next mission I had in mind was one I can do alone. I'll take any volunteers who want to come along, of course."
"Well?" Mim asked eagerly. "What is it?"
"As I was telling Torchwick and Snatcher before our little escapade through your kingdoms…" Mozenrath lifted his right hand, and a rolled-up page appeared in it with a slight puff of scented smoke. He unrolled the paper to reveal a sketch of a skyscraper with gothically arched windows and a red gable, situated in the midst of a crowded city. "This is the building that houses the Vault of the Huntsclan. An organization dedicated to slaying all kinds of magical creatures. They ended up stockpiling magic from their own world and a few others in order to make their killing more efficient. Then, in one night, every single member of the Huntsclan was killed by a mysterious force. I wouldn't stick around on that world for too long knowing that something capable of destroying the entire Huntsclan in one night was there…something like that could probably give Maleficent a run for her money. However, a quick trip into that vault should yield a few interesting artifacts."
"Sounds boring," Mim commented.
"As much as I love a good break-in," Roman added, "I have to agree that this one sounds on the boring side."
"Does ANYONE want to accompany me to the Vault of the Huntsclan?" Mozenrath asked before anyone else could complain.
He was met with silence. Yzma coughed.
"Then I'll go on my own." Mozenrath rolled up the paper, clenching his fist and sending it away. "It should be a fairly easy mission. I'll be back in time for whatever feast you manage to cook up, victory or otherwise, and I'll bring back some items of magical caliber that should give us a better edge."
"We look forward to seeing the spoils!" Snatcher told him earnestly.
With that, Mozenrath vanished, leaving the other four alone in the laboratory.
"So," Yzma asked, "where can I find a blowtorch?"
...
The Huntsclan's former headquarters was a spear protruding from the heart of one of the infinite New York Cities of the multiverse, surrounded by honking traffic and walls of chrome. No one had really bothered to check out the building. Everyone in the nonmagical sector of the city who knew about it knew that it had belonged to an eccentric and very wealthy man, and that man hadn't been seen for a long time. As long as he refused to put in an appearance, nothing could be legally done with the building.
Everyone in the magical sector, however, was well aware of the mass death of the Huntsclan, and even those of pacifist bents caught themselves praising the fact that such mass murderers had finally disappeared from the world. A few of them even knew the tale of the Huntsgirl who had been saved from death at the last moment and devoted herself to fighting on the side of magical creatures' defense instead of their destruction.
The Vault was located in the lower levels of the building, far belowground. Nonmagical folk would have been surprised to see the arched stone tunnels that networked below the skyscraper, lit with archaic lanterns. Mozenrath wasn't fazed by the sight when he appeared in the midst of it. It looked to him exactly how every magical vault should look.
He found his way through the labyrinth of tunnels by trial and error, at last coming across a wall engraved with two elaborate weapons modeled after spears (a pair of Huntstaffs, though Mozenrath didn't know the exact terminology) crossed above a regally calligraphed "H." Mozenrath recognized it immediately as not a wall but a door. He raised his right hand to it, willing the door to move; it shifted to the side, reacting to the magic in his gauntlet, revealing a vaulted room beyond.
Mozenrath stepped into the newly uncovered room to find that it was a mausoleum…or should have been. Alcoves in the walls, from the bottom to the top, were filled with polished coffins. However, when Mozenrath curiously removed the lid from one, he found it empty. "Strange…" he muttered to himself.
There were a few doors set in amongst the alcoves, giving Mozenrath a few choices to search out for artifacts. However, it occurred to him that instead of trying every single door and searching out every single shelf, potentially wandering down miles and miles more of tunnels, he could find himself a guide. The Huntsclan might all have been dead, but that wasn't really an obstacle to a necromancer. He did need a slight idea of who he was bringing back, but "the leader of the Huntsclan" was enough to go on.
He raised his right hand, pointing at the floor. A bright circle of blue appeared in the center of it, and a body rose up from the depths, housing a newly returned soul to the realm of the living.
...
At the base of Mt. Ebott, in the town of Knightdock, a grocery store employee was restocking the shelf with pasta sauce. It seemed that ever since the monster population of Mt. Ebott had integrated with the humans of Knightdock, the store had been constantly running out of spaghetti sauce, not to mention actual spaghetti.
"Excuse me," a voice said from behind the stocker. "I was wondering if you could direct me to the free food and cigarettes?"
"I'm sorry, the what?" the stocker said without turning around.
"You know. The best gourmet food I don't have to pay for. Preferably if you wrap it up for me in a nice package. And I'm about dying for a cigarette right now, so the sooner you hand them over, the better."
"Look." The stocker turned around. "I'm not in the mood to kid around, okay? We don't offer free food, and we definitely don't give out free cig – "
He found himself face-to-face with the barrel of the Melodic Cudgel. It wasn't a conventional gun by any standards, but it was still easily recognizable as a gun.
"I think we're having a bit of a misunderstanding," Roman emphasized. "Because I see free food all around here. Now, would you be so kind as to hand it over, or do I have to start blowing brains out until I can get some good customer service?"
The stocker shakily handed a jar of alfredo sauce over to Roman.
Roman smirked. "Good start."
...
The leader of the Huntsclan was clothed in a green tunic with a brown cape fastened about his shoulders with a brilliant chartreuse stone. Most strikingly, his head was covered with a sharp-looking helmet fashioned out of a dragon skull. Between the jaws, his head was wrapped up in black fabric. Between that and the shadows of the skull, the only piece of his face – or his body at all, really – that was visible were his eyes, which, in the current light, looked crimson. These crimson eyes took in the sight of the Huntsclan crypt with some surprise before finally falling and fixing upon Mozenrath.
"Where am I…?" the man asked in a deep voice.
"You're alive again, for starters," Mozenrath explained.
"But how?" The man only needed to think it over for a moment before he came up with the answer: "You're…a necromancer…"
"Indeed I am," Mozenrath confirmed proudly. "And I'm in need of a guide around this place. I don't suppose you'd be willing to help me out with that, would you? After all, I did just restore your life force from what was either an agonizing existence in the River Styx or a neverending torment in Tartarus. I think you at least owe me a look around."
The newly resurrected man wasn't fond of being ordered around, but the necromancer was right, and he was unarmed. "What is it you seek?"
"Magic," Mozenrath answered.
"There is much magic to be found here," the resurrected man informed him. "What manner of magic is it that you want?"
"The most powerful."
The resurrected man thought it over. "Very well. I can show you a host of items that might be of use to you. After all…there is no longer a Huntsclan to make use of them."
"Well, there's at least one Huntsman now," Mozenrath pointed out. "What do they call you, anyway?"
"They called me just that: the Huntsman," the Huntsman explained. "And that is what you shall call me."
"Then lead the way, Huntsman."
"Not before I know your name."
"Mozenrath," the sorcerer answered. "Lord Mozenrath, formerly of the Black Sands. Soon to be lord of much, much more."
"Come this way, Mozenrath," the Huntsman beckoned, crossing the room to open one of the doors. It led into a tunnel with smaller alcoves set in the walls; various artifacts from different times and cultures rested there, with explanatory plaques and cards. The Huntsman brushed right past these early finds; the more powerful objects were kept deeper in the vault.
Mozenrath caught up and kept pace. "Rumor has it your clan collected magic from various worlds."
"For one purpose and one alone," the Huntsman clarified. "To destroy magical creatures. Especially dragons."
"What did dragons ever do to you?"
This earned Mozenrath a sullen silence.
"Just making conversation," Mozenrath clarified. "I can go either way on them, myself. I'm guessing you killed the one you're wearing."
"Those who graduated from apprentice level would traditionally wear the skull of their first kill," the Huntsman explained.
"And if the first kill is a gremlin?" Mozenrath teased.
"One can only ascend the ranks by killing a dragon," the Huntsman countered.
"And how many dragons have you killed?"
"A great many."
"You know," Mozenrath brought up, "we could use a warrior like you."
"And who is 'we'?"
"My little band of conquerors," Mozenrath explained.
"The ones who are helping you take over this 'much, much more,'" the Huntsman clarified.
"The same," Mozenrath affirmed. "I know you haven't much been in the business of usurping thrones, but with your magical repertoire, your fighting spirit, and your ability to kill things several times your size, you'd go a long way in that business. And as of right now, if I have my facts right, you don't really have many other options, do you?"
"I must follow my calling," the Huntsman insisted. "Those born with the mark of the dragon are destined to slay them."
"So where's your mark?"
"Nowhere you're about to see."
"That's the nifty little thing about conquest," Mozenrath explained. "Once you've taken a territory over, you can kill whoever and whatever you want in it. You help us plant a flag in a place, all the dragons in it become yours for target practice."
"I will consider it," the Huntsman resolved. "But first, you may want to turn your attention to the shelves here. There is much that a discerning magical eye would find of interest."
...
Of Roman Torchwick, Archibald Snatcher, Mad Madam Mim, and Yzma, only the latter could cook. She was used to delicate measurements and laboratory precision. To her, the act of boiling the water for pasta was an art. However, whenever she asked for help from one of the other three, she learned quite the hard way that Mim preferred to speed things up by setting them on fire, Roman's idea of working an oven was to press every button on it, and while Snatcher was all too ready to obediently marinate vegetables in lemon, he had absolutely no sense of taste, and proclaimed that he'd done the job perfectly only for Yzma to place a chunk of bell pepper in her mouth and become overwhelmed with sour citrus. In the end, she'd shooed all of them out of the kitchen so she could work in peace.
At long last, Yzma reappeared from the kitchen with a plate of quesadillas, baked with as many vegetables as she could stuff in and held together with a heavy layer of cheese, held aloft victoriously. "Dinner is served!" she proclaimed. "And not a single one is poisoned, on my honor."
Roman, Snatcher, and Mim cleaned up the game of poker they'd been invested in – using pieces of candy found around the kitchen as chips – so that Yzma could lay the plate down. "Mozenrath hasn't returned?" she asked in surprise.
"I guess he's still looking for magic in that vault," Mim said with a shrug.
"You don't suppose he's been captured by enemy forces…?" Yzma wondered out loud.
"Eh, if he doesn't come back in three days, we'll launch a search party," Roman resolved.
"At the very least, we should wait to eat until he returns," Yzma suggested.
The absolutely hungry look in the other three's eyes told her that wasn't happening. She was pretty sure there was a bead of drool forming at the corner of Roman's lip. Yzma even had to admit to herself that the smell of the quesadillas was hitting her hard, making her stomach protest rather loudly.
"All right." She plunked the plate down on the table. "Dig in."
She took a seat, and soon, each had his or her own quesadilla, munching away happily.
"I must say this is quite a fine victory feast," Snatcher proclaimed, mouth full. A nagging itch was developing at the side of his neck; he reached for it with one hand.
"Thank you," Yzma said briskly. "And I couldn't have done it without all of you leaving me alone."
"Happy to not be of service!" Mim joked.
"You…okay there, Archie?" Roman asked, noticing Snatcher's scratching. The skin he was fussing with also seemed to be gaining a few bright crimson hives.
"Just an itch," Snatcher dismissed; the hives were now spreading to his face. "But truly! This is a momentous occasion! For the four of us…no, that's the five of us, with Lord Mozenrath…have become the truly elite! Soon, they shall be singing our praises in the streets! They shall be throwing confetti at our arrival! They shall be…what are you all looking at?"
Yzma, Mim, and Roman were frozen in horror, staring wide-eyed at Snatcher. For one, they didn't understand where this half-tangent about being praised was coming from. But more importantly, Snatcher's speech was becoming slurred by his swelling lower lip and left cheek.
"N…nothing," Roman managed.
"As I was saying!" Snatcher went on. "It is we who are truly fit to be kings and queens of this and all worlds, as Lord Mozenrath proclaimed! Far unlike Lord Portley-Rind and his band of White Hats. Imagine if they could see me now! Dining like an emperor with his fellow…his fellow…" As he struggled to find the wording, his left eye was swelling shut. "Dash it all, his fellows. And if I ever saw THEM, why, I'm free now to do as I wish. I don't have to put up with their mockery anymore! I don't have to put up with their degradation anymore! If that Lord Portley-Rind showed his face around here, why…I'd murder him with my bare hands."
"That's…erm…fascinating," Yzma sputtered. "You…by any chance, you're not allergic to – "
It clicked for Roman, and he quickly leaned over and slapped a hand over Yzma's mouth before she could continue.
"WHAT did you say?" Snatcher, now bloating all over the left half of his body with the right half starting to follow suit, turned on Yzma, fixing her angrily in the sights of his currently good eye.
"Mmrmph!" Yzma struggled to break Roman's grip.
"Allergic to NOTHING, that is, Lady Portley-Rind!" Snatcher went on. "You think you can see me as a lesser being over such a thing? Well, you and your band of white-hatted imbeciles can forget it! I'm the one who'll be tasting the finer cheeses from now on, and it'll be all you can do to sit and watch!"
Yzma finally wrestled Roman's arm away. "What did you just call me?"
"YOU HEARD ME, 'LADY' PORTLEY-RIND!" Snatcher got up from his seat to yell at her. "I'VE HAD IT UP TO HERE WITH ALL OF YOU! YOU AND YOUR BRATTY LITTLE DAUGHTER THERE!" He pointed right at Mim with a blubbery hand. "WHY DON'T YOU BOTH JUST GO JUMP IN THE RIVER AND DROWN YOURSELVES? BETTER YET, I'LL THROW YOU IN MYSELF!"
He lunged for Yzma; she leapt out of her chair, and Snatcher collapsed to the ground. "What is WRONG WITH YOU?" Yzma shrieked.
"Wrong with ME!" Snatcher grabbed the edge of the table so as to right himself. "You should be asking what's wrong with – " He pulled the table lopsided so that all of its remaining dishes crashed onto him; he hardly noticed.
Mim burst into laughter at the collapse of the dishes.
"SO YOU THINK I'M A LAUGHINGSTOCK, DO YOU, LITTLE MISS PORTLEY-RIND!" Snatcher accused, finally getting to his feet. "WON'T BE LAUGHING SO MUCH WHEN I HAVE MR. TORCHWICK SHOOT YOU, WILL YOU, WIN-I-FRED? TORCHWICK! SHOOT THIS PAMPERED LITTLE BRAT RIGHT THROUGH HER COIFFED CURLS!"
"Um…I don't think I want to," Roman replied. "Who is that, exactly?"
"Winifred Portley-Rind!" Snatcher growled. "Daughter of His Idiotship! And THAT over there is his wife!" He jabbed another ballooning finger at Yzma.
"And who am I?" Roman asked.
Snatcher fixed a baffled gaze upon him. "You're Roman Torchwick. Have you lost your memory or something?"
"How come he's not hallucinating YOU?" Yzma seethed at Roman.
"I…don't know," Roman said gingerly.
"I! AM NOT! HALLUCINATING!" Snatcher bellowed at Yzma before toppling to the ground yet again. "I'm just…having a…bit of a dizzy spell. BUT WHEN IT'S OVER, IT'S THE RIVER FOR YOU TWO! AM I NOT RIGHT, MR. TORCHWICK?"
Roman slowly backed toward Mim. "Teleport me into town," he whispered to her.
"Where in town?" she hissed back.
"What are you WHISPERING about?" Yzma called over to them.
"RIVER!" Snatcher insisted.
"There's a pharmacy on 3rd and Dindal," Roman whispered. "Take me there. Now would be nice."
As the shimmer of teleportation magic surrounded Mim and Roman, Yzma realized she was being ditched. "Don't LEAVE ME HERE WITH HIM!" she cried in horror.
But then they were gone, and Snatcher was on his feet, staring Yzma down with rage in his eyes.
"You want to throw me into the river, then?" Yzma asked. She darted into the kitchen, only to reappear with a carving fork brandished like a weapon. "JUST YOU TRY IT!"
...
Going along the way down the vault, Mozenrath took notice of several items that he wanted to collect. He'd taken a page from Mim's book, so to speak, shrinking them so they could fit in his pockets before moving along to collect some more.
His attention was caught by a sheaf of papers with no explanatory plaque. "And what are these?" he asked the Huntsman.
"We weren't quite sure," the Huntsman admitted. "It is said these are pages ripped from the Codex of Abraham the Mage. We retrieved them from a heated battle with a witch. However, none of us was ever able to translate the writing. It may contain a spell of great power, or it may contain useless information about events lost to time."
"Still worth a look." Mozenrath shrank the pages into his inventory. He moved one alcove down and was stopped short in his tracks. "You…have it."
"What?" the Huntsman replied.
Mozenrath took the wooden box into his hands. "The Heylin Puzzle Box," he answered. "I was just reading about this, actually. You know there's supposed to be a witch trapped inside."
"She was released," the Huntsman explained, "but trapped again. And released again, and trapped yet again. Her world was caught between two forces, much like those caught between Light and Darkness. In her case, it was the Xiaolin and the Heylin, warring over ancient magics. The two sides clashed one final time, and the Heylin lost. Or so they say. For all we know, we may have been fed lies, and the box is empty."
"Is there a reason you never opened it to check?" Mozenrath asked.
"The same that the pages from the Codex, if that is where they truly originated, were never translated," the Huntsman explained. "None could open the box. Furthermore, it was decided that was for the best. We did not know if the witch would take our side. We could not give her a reason to."
"What did the Heylin want?" Mozenrath asked.
"From what I understand," the Huntsman replied, "conquest. Much like you."
"Then I could give her a reason to be on our side," Mozenrath resolved.
"By all means," the Huntsman invited.
Mozenrath gripped the puzzle box hard in his right hand; blue light seeped out over it, filling in all its grooves and niches. With a shimmer, the box threw itself open, and from it plumed a cloud of lavender smoke. Within this cloud, miniature flashes of lightning glimmered, accompanied by tiny booms of thunder, and a high-pitched, throaty laugh echoed throughout the hallway.
Mozenrath reverently set the box back in the alcove of the wall. It had served its purpose. It was empty now.
The purple smoke congealed into a blob, roughly the size of Mozenrath's head, with tendrils curling out from it to act as tentacle-esque limbs. The image of a red and white mask with yellow eyes settled in as the ghostly blob's visage. Her cackling ceased, and she looked over Mozenrath, who appeared nothing short of pleased as punch, and the Huntsman, whose expression was unreadable. "So, you've let me out," the incorporeal witch stated. "What are you? Conquerors? Evil-doers? Fellow Heylin?"
"Actually, we're – " Mozenrath began.
The witch gasped. "Something is wrong! Why can I sense no Shen Gong Wu? Where have they all gone? How long have I been in that box? Tell me!"
"You have been in that box for less than a year," the Huntsman informed her. "You sense no Shen Gong Wu because there are none on this world. You were removed from that world and brought into mine for my purposes."
"YOUR purposes?" the witch scoffed. "And what would THAT be?"
"Until now, the hunting and slaying of dragons," the Huntsman informed her. "But recently, our goal has changed."
"To what?" the witch asked haughtily, crossing a pair of tendrils.
"World domination," Mozenrath told her. "Of mine, yours, his, and whatever we can take."
This lightened the witch's mood. "Ohhhhhhh…NOW you have my attention."
"And who knows?" Mozenrath shrugged. "Maybe we'll stop by your world on the way and find some of these…Shen Gong Wu you talked about. What does that term mean, anyway?"
"Shen Gong Wu are magical items of incredible power!" Wuya explained. "We of the Heylin battled the Xiaolin Monks for their possession! We wanted to use them to dominate the world and spread the forces of evil. The Xiaolins preferred to keep them locked away where they were useless. And now, those no-good monks probably have them ALL!"
The Huntsman was hung up on a phrase she'd uttered: "the forces of evil." He'd never considered himself evil. He'd known quite well that people saw him that way, but he was, in his mind, pursuing a noble cause by slaying dragons. He was ridding the world of monsters, the way he saw it. Yet he was contemplating joining forces with one who called herself blatantly evil. She wanted what Mozenrath wanted, and what Mozenrath wanted came with the promise of what the Huntsman wanted. Did Mozenrath consider himself evil? Perhaps there was no harm in associating with evil, the Huntsman thought, though he himself was not sure the label applied in his case. Perhaps it had finally come to the point where "good" and "evil" did not matter anymore: only the pursuing of goals.
"How would you like to form a bit of a business partnership?" Mozenrath asked Wuya.
"With you?" Wuya replied. "I'll need one thing first. Call it a guarantee of bad faith."
"And that would be…?"
Without further warning, Wuya plunged right into Mozenrath's head, her ghostly body phasing right through him. He could feel her aura sliding through his like oil over skin, and he could sense that she was probing his conscious thoughts from where she rested inside his brain. When she emerged, she had everything she needed.
"You…just…" Mozenrath sputtered.
"Looked at your mind to make sure you were what you said you were," Wuya supplied for him. "And you are. Consider me on board. And if nothing else, I color coordinate with the rest of your team."
"Then we'll just finish up taking whatever other magic we can find here," Mozenrath announced, "and – "
The sound of a loud BOOM emanated from the area of the crypt. Mozenrath, Wuya, and the Huntsman weren't alone in the Vault anymore.
"WHAT was that?" Wuya hissed indignantly.
"Whatever it is, it won't interrupt us for long." The Huntsman grasped a weapon from the wall – a huntstaff, of the same make and shape that Mozenrath had seen carved on the door – and turned to barge down the hallway. Mozenrath and Wuya followed, one on foot and the other gliding through the air.
The door to the Vault had been blown to bits by an explosive projectile that had, before its combustion, resembled a skull. The man who'd walked through the hole the bomb had left wasn't just old, but quite undead. His skin was as purple as Yzma's, and he wore a robe of a slightly darker purple, with a cape one shade darker than that and a golden headdress. His frame was quite thin, and his posture hunched over at the shoulders. Somewhat jumpy, he peered around at the Vault. "Helloooooo?" he called out experimentally. "Is anyone home?" Ideally, he would get no answer. This was the first place he'd found in a while that he considered safe.
He was wrong. The Huntsman rushed to greet him brutally with the huntstaff, with Mozenrath and Wuya in tow. "INTRUDER!" the Huntsman roared.
The intruder flinched, ready to bolt…but then he laid eyes on Mozenrath. "What? It's YOU! Mozenrath himself, in the flesh!"
"Stop," Mozenrath commanded the Huntsman.
The Huntsman brought himself to a halt, fixing suspicious eyes on the intruder. Mozenrath took his place between intruder and Huntsman while Wuya hung back. "Why do you seem familiar?" Mozenrath asked the intruder.
"Because I'm from the same parts as you!" the intruder proclaimed. "I would have thought you'd recognize me, Mozenrath!"
"Can't say that I do…" Mozenrath was quite perplexed.
"The name's Ayam Aghoul," the intruder introduced. "Duke of Decay! Monarch of Morbidity! Guru of the Grim!"
"Not ringing any bells…"
"Oh, come now!" Aghoul snapped. "I nearly wed the princess of Agrabah! I nearly trapped Aladdin himself in the Netherworld not once but twice! I very nearly destroyed everyone in Agrabah by entrapping their shadows!"
"I'm hearing a lot of 'nearly,'" Mozenrath pointed out.
"But you!" Aghoul went on. "You've become a hero to us villains of the Seven Deserts! Everyone's heard of your defiance of Maleficent and how you broke free not just of the Netherworld, but of the UNDERWORLD! The public would demand to know where you are if they didn't have bigger problems."
"Bigger problems?" Mozenrath raised a brow.
"Why, don't you know?" Aghoul told him. "The deserts have been thrown into utter chaos, and I don't mean anything to do with that little flying cat thing. Why do you think I'm HERE and not THERE?"
"I think you'd better explain," Mozenrath demanded.
...
"I didn't realize this night would turn out to be THIS much fun!" Mim giggled as she and Roman appeared in the aisles of the drug store Roman had specified.
"This is your idea of…" Roman stopped himself short. "Of course it is."
"It's been YEARS since I've seen hives that brilliantly red!"
Roman just waved her aside, storming up to the pharmaceutical counter. The pharmacist on duty, a monster with white fur and long ears, turned to greet him: "Hello! Can I help you?"
Roman immediately aimed the barrel of the Cudgel at the pharmacist. "Epinephrine," he demanded. "Now."
"I…" The terrified pharmacist stared in shock down the barrel of the gun. "Sir, I'm afraid we…we can't just hand over…"
"DO YOU THINK THIS IS SOME KIND OF JOKE?" Roman shifted the Cudgel a few degrees downward. Earlier, he'd loaded it up with a different sort of dust than his usual explosive mix in order to rob the grocery store. When he fired, a long and jagged icicle crystallized out of the barrel, embedding itself in the pharmacist's leg. The pharmacist cried out in pain, staggering.
"Now hand it over," Roman demanded, "or I aim higher."
"All right…" The pharmacist, as interested in self-preservation as he was in the treatment of others, hobbled over to the shelf where the drug could be found. "Wait, did you say you wanted epinephrine?"
"Was I not CLEAR ENOUGH?"
"Not any of the antidepressants?" the pharmacist went on, baffled. "The sedatives?"
"YOU HEARD WHAT I SAID!"
"You're…only robbing me for epinephrine."
A click emitted from the Cudgel.
"All right, I'm getting it!" the pharmacist shrieked, setting about the task as best he could with one functioning leg.
...
"After you caused all that commotion in the Underworld," Aghoul explained, "Maleficent decided to eliminate any other competition that came out of the woodwork in the Seven Deserts, starting with evil incarnate herself!"
"Mirage," Mozenrath realized.
"And Mirage isn't one to take a challenge lightly!" Aghoul went on. "She rounded up the worst of the worst in all the Seven Deserts, starting with giving me a free pass out of the Netherworld! They were all there…Abis Mal. Mechanicles. Amin Damoola. You'd never seen such an army of bandits, thieves, sorcerers, and rogues assembled in the deserts before!"
"And you lost," Mozenrath supplied.
"I'm getting there!" Aghoul stamped a foot indignantly. "…We lost. Most of them were taken into Maleficent's custody, but I slipped out of her clutches! Since then, I'd been looking for a safe world where I could…plan out my next move!"
"Hide," Mozenrath corrected.
"I wasn't about to hide!" Aghoul put his hands on his hips. "You know what it's like to take her and her henchmen on alone! But now that I've found you, all of that is about to change."
"Because you're about to hide behind ME," Mozenrath suggested.
"If you're going to keep putting words in my mouth…"
"I'm not turning the suggestion down," Mozenrath told him. "After all, I am assembling…somewhat of an army. What can you offer us if you joined us?"
"Why, all sorts of spells!" Aghoul claimed. "You don't spend that much time in the realm of the dead without figuring out a few grisly ways to make others meet that fate, you know! See here?" He waved a hand, bringing a skull into existence in its palm.
"It's a skull," Mozenrath observed. "Your point would be…?"
"Not just any skull," Aghoul boasted. "Watch THIS!"
He lobbed the skull at one side of the mausoleum. It exploded, bringing down several alcoves and shattering the coffins within them to splinters.
"You've just DESTROYED property of the Huntsclan!" the Huntsman roared.
"They were empty," Mozenrath reminded him. "Anyway, that's not bad, not bad at all. Though I do have to wonder. How do I know you're not a spy sent here by Maleficent to bring me down from the inside?"
"Well – "
Mozenrath held up a hand to stop Aghoul. "I don't need you to give me a reason. I just need HER to give me a reason."
Recognizing her cue, Wuya floated around Mozenrath and through Aghoul, causing him to shudder as his thoughts were searched. As Wuya emerged from the back of his head, she announced, "He checks out."
"I'll give you the same offer I gave these two," Mozenrath told Aghoul. "Come with us. Join our move toward conquest. If you do, you can take whatever you want from the spoils, provided you share with the team. Put your skills to good use. We'll see in time whether you match up to our standards. And in return, we'll provide a safehouse from Maleficent. I'm guessing that appeals to you."
"Most certainly," Aghoul confirmed.
"This trip turned out to be more productive than I thought," Mozenrath remarked. "It's time to show you New Home."
He opened up a Corridor, and Aghoul dashed through it eagerly, the Huntsman striding after him.
"You know, your little mind-reading ability is going to come in handy," Mozenrath told Wuya. "So long as you help me, there's only one person who I can never be sure won't betray me."
"And that person is?" Wuya asked.
"You," Mozenrath answered.
"I guess you'll just have to give me good enough reasons not to," Wuya cackled before zooming through the portal.
That was good enough for Mozenrath, who strode through himself before closing the portal behind him.
...
The world came back into view, solidifying as reality. Snatcher blinked. He was rather perplexed. He remembered sitting down to dinner, and now was standing at the head of the table, looking at his three companions. Yzma was tightly gripping a carving fork, Mim looked positively giddy, and Roman was pocketing some sort of medical pen furtively. All of the dishes had somehow ended up on the ground.
"…How did those get there?" Snatcher asked, gesturing to the plates.
"I knocked them off the table," Roman said hastily. "Because Yzma's cooking was disgusting."
"WHAT?" Yzma hissed.
Roman bent down to scoop up the remains of the quesadillas. "Yup. All inedible. Shame, really. You know, this never would have happened if you'd just let me run the oven like I asked."
"There was nothing wrong with my food!" Yzma stomped her heeled foot. "SOMETHING in that recipe caused Snatcher to – "
"Miss out because I saved him from the fate of eating those DISGUSTING quesadillas." Roman dumped the lot in the garbage. "Though you're not completely without room for improvement. We'll talk, Yzma. I'll show you how to do it the RIGHT way."
"But – "
"I said," Roman growled, "we'll talk."
Yzma gave a growl of dissent.
"Also, a carving fork?" Roman shook his head.
"I never even broke skin with it!" Yzma protested.
"What's all this about – " Snatcher tried to ask.
"Never mind." Mim waved her hand dismissively. "You wouldn't get it. Which is really too bad, because we had a LOT of fun with – "
"A stupid in-joke," Roman finished off. "Really, you didn't miss much."
"You're hiding something," Snatcher realized. Deep down, he had an inkling of what it was, but he wasn't about to bring it to light.
"Everyone's got their secrets," Roman countered. "I'm sure you hide things from us, Archie."
Snatcher had nothing to say to that. "Well, then. Have we got a plan in place for a replacement meal?"
"Of course we have." Yzma glowered at Roman. "Roman is about to go out into town and retrieve us something…edible."
"No skin off my nose," he told Yzma. "Everyone up for ramen? I hope so, 'cause you're getting ramen."
That was when the Corridor opened, spilling out not one but four travelers. Yzma, Roman, Mim, and Snatcher regarded Aghoul, the Huntsman, Wuya, and Mozenrath with interest.
"Are we too late for the victory feast?" Mozenrath asked.
"Only the first one!" Mim informed him.
"What do you mean…" Mozenrath replied.
"It doesn't matter," Yzma told him. "I see you've brought guests."
"That I have," Mozenrath explained. "Meet Ayam Aghoul, rogue undead sorcerer of the Seven Deserts; Wuya, the Heylin witch; and…"
"'The Huntsman' will suffice for all of you," the Huntsman grunted.
"And as for all of you…" Mozenrath turned to face his three new companions. "Meet Yzma, our alchemist; Archibald Snatcher, our ruthless diplomat; Roman Torchwick, our gunner and master thief; and Mad Madam Mim, a witch of all trades." He stepped out to face the group at large. "Provided none of you disappoints…I think we might finally have enough of a group put together to actually bring the worlds to their knees."
"We should have some sort of catchy team name," Mim suggested.
"I don't see what use THAT would be," the Huntsman grunted.
"I like the idea, myself!" Aghoul chimed in.
"We don't need a team name," Mozenrath sighed.
"You know," Roman pointed out, "back home, in the various combat schools, they had this tradition of putting together teams of four and arranging the first letters of their names to make a word that sounded like a color. Not sure we could swing the 'color' part, but we might be able to make something out of our initials. We have an R, an A, a Y, an M, another M, an H, another A, and a W…"
"I think our next move should be this." Mozenrath interrupted Roman by bringing out the Codex pages. "These pages went untranslated by the Huntsclan for years. They just might contain something that can give us the upper hand next time around."
"WHAM ARMY!" Roman blurted out.
"…What?" Mozenrath replied.
"When you put our initials together," Roman explained, "you get 'WHAM ARMY.' And you should be glad you got that W in there, or else we'd have ended up being the 'HAM ARMY.'"
"Which, sadly, would have been fitting for this group," Yzma pointed out.
There was a moment of silence before Yzma, Roman, Snatcher, and Mim laughed aloud at this. Wuya and Aghoul, being new to the group, had only their word to go on, but having seen each other in action, they had a feeling the label was accurate. And while the Huntsman was not easily moved to laughter at all, he had to admit this was a little amusing.
Fighting back a grin, Mozenrath resolved, "All right. WHAM ARMY it is."