Taking Back the Crown

by JCMorrigan

Mozenrath. Archibald Snatcher. Roman Torchwick. Mad Madam Mim. Yzma. The Huntsman. Wuya. Ayam Aghoul. Their mission: take over the multiverse, or look fabulous trying. Rated M for swearing, steamy implications and VERY bloody battles. Contains slash and het shipping.

105. Date Night

A/N: For this chapter, all the RWBY fans might want to refamiliarize with the V4 episode "Tipping Point" – or, if you don't have time/energy to do the whole episode, just the Weiss-related scenes. Also, there's a trigger warning here, but to avoid spoilers, I'm just gonna say if you think something will bother you, skip to the end to read that note.

...

Mozenrath hadn't been to bed that night. The Huntsman was pretty sure he hadn't even set foot in their apartment.

He gave Mozenrath a few more hours of grace period. Another boyfriend might have brought him little treats or drinks to accompany his work as a means of pampering him. Hans certainly would have done so, even though Mozenrath wouldn't have wanted to be interrupted. That was the difference between the two, the Huntsman thought. Hans would have flattered Mozenrath. But the Huntsman understood him. That was why he and Mozenrath were able to maintain their bond so naturally.

Eventually, however, he had to admit that Mozenrath had secluded himself up in that study for too long. Keeping his scroll in a handy pocket, he made his way to the room of plots and plans.

He raised his fist, knocking once, twice on the heavy door. "Mozenrath – " he began.

"GEORGE!" Mozenrath cried from the other side, sounding frenzied but in a joyful way. That was almost scarier than the other sort of frenzied. "GET IN HERE! NOW!"

The Huntsman gingerly opened the door, walking into the study.

As he'd expected, the long table was laden with blueprints, lists, and other documents, pinned or paperweighted down to overlap with each other. Still more papers were attached to the wall and even arranged strategically across the floor.

Mozenrath, across the table from the Huntsman, stared at him with a deranged smile and quarter-wide eyes. "George," he said as he teleported to close the distance between them with a flash. "GeorgeGeorgeGeorge. Listen. LISTEN."

He seized the Huntsman's tunic, pulling the larger man toward him excitedly. The Huntsman made note of the dark circles accessorizing Mozenrath's eyes, the bloodshot whites of them. "Have you been sleeping?" he asked.

"Sleep?" Mozenrath repeated, his smile growing wider. "I don't have time to sleep! But the good news is, I don't NEED sleep!" With a loud BANG, he teleported back to the table, where he retrieved a mug from the crowd of many mugs the Huntsman had just now noticed were acting as the paperweights. "I have coffee!"

Oh.

The Huntsman began to suspect he was too late.

"But I figured it out," Mozenrath insisted. "I FIGURED. IT. OUT. I FIGURED IT OUT, GEORGE! BECAUSE I'M A GENIUS! You wanna hear my plan? Of course you wanna hear my plan! And here's the plan." He fanned out both hands. "MAGIC BEANS."

"You've had FAR too much caffeine," the Huntsman observed.

"One, I have not had too much caffeine," Mozenrath rattled off, "two, I figured out how to get the magic beans to replace the entire Tesseract, and three, I have not had too much caffeine."

The Huntsman was now realizing he was metaphorically strapped into a rollercoaster he had to see through to the end.

"Now, magic beans can act as a portal from one realm to another," Mozenrath explained.

"I know this," the Huntsman told him.

"All we have to do is amass a large enough quantity of the beans that we can replicate the space-bending abilities of the Tesseract," Mozenrath stated. "We begin by harvesting them. But before we HARVEST them, we have to PLANT them. So I guess we begin with the planting. We'll convert the lower layer of the base into a greenhouse – no, wait, we'll capture an enemy greenhouse – no, wait, we'll capture an entire world and replant its fields with magic beans."

"Where are you going to get the beans to begin this garden?" the Huntsman asked.

"Don't get hung up on the minutiae, please," Mozenrath replied. "Now, I know what you must be thinking."

"What I am thinking is I do not know where you are going to get the beans to begin this garden."

"HOW AM I GOING TO TURN MAGIC BEANS INTO MY OWN PERSONAL TESSERACT?" Mozenrath answered himself. "That's a two-part answer. What we'll need to do is convert those beans into a fuel substance that will then power an engine that centers around Flint's map." He scrambled around the desk for a bit before finding the paper he wanted. "This is a preliminary blueprint for that engine."

The Huntsman approached it, then sighed. "Mozenrath, that drawing is mostly haphazard scribbles."

"I know," Mozenrath dismissed, waving his hand. "This is just the prototype. I'll just get Herb and Jack to do the actual science part." He crumpled up the blueprint and lobbed it over his shoulder, apparently not caring that he intended to present it to the scientists later. "But in order to convert beans into fuel, we're going to need…wait for it…wait for it…wait for it…"

He then reached below the table and brought up a coffee bean grinder, obviously one of the tools he had used to induce this state of mania. Slamming the grinder down hard on the desk, Mozenrath announced, "This. But BIGGER."

"Mozenrath – " the Huntsman sighed.

"Nononononono!" Mozenrath shushed him. "I'm not finished! Because you know what else we're going to need?"

"A way to exponentially speed the growth time of magic beans so we aren't gardening for months or more."

"SPIDERS," Mozenrath corrected.

"…Dare I ask you to come again?"

"An army of spiders will be the ultimate force to help us dominate all worlds easily!" Mozenrath went on. "Spiders tap into a primal fear. They'll also be able to crush everything in their path!"

The Huntsman was silent for a while before saying, "I hope you've simply forgotten to mention that you mean GIANT spiders."

"Right," Mozenrath said with far more nodding than was necessary. "GIANT spiders."

"And where are you planning on getting giant spiders?"
"Oh, George, must you doubt me?" Mozenrath asked.

"When you've emptied that many mugs of coffee," the Huntsman replied, "yes. I must."

"I've got it all written down right – " Mozenrath looked to the desk. "Right – "

Then he teleported toward one of the walls, eyes scanning the papers there. "It's right – "

He was at the far wall. "I SWEAR I HAVE it – "

Then he was levitating, and the Huntsman could now see the pages he'd tacked to the ceiling. "WHERE IS IT – "

A soft "Mew!" brought a whole new level of confusion to the exchange.

Mozenrath whipped about in midair to look down at the desk, where a sleek, dark shape was curled up on a paper. Teleporting down, he whipped the page out from beneath the slender, dark cat with a smile. "Good kitty!" he congratulated, stroking the cat so that he purred. "Who's a good kitty? You are! Yes you are!"

"That is a CAT," the Huntsman observed.

"Very GOOD, George!" Mozenrath mocked. "You know your animals!"

"I mean – you're being nice to a cat. I would've thought you'd have banned all such creatures from getting anywhere near your work."

"Excuse you," Mozenrath replied, "but his name is Mr. Mistoffelees."

"His name is WHAT?"

"Magical Mr. Mistoffelees!" Mozenrath cried. "He's my new assistant, since MY LAST FAMILIAR WENT TURNCOAT FOR A RED HAT! DO YOU HEAR ME, XERXES? DO YOU HEAR ME? I DON'T NEED YOU ANYMORE!"

"Xerxes is nowhere NEAR here," the Huntsman sighed. And yes, even now, he found this ridiculous man attractive. How unfortunate.

"Mr. Mistoffelees is helping me sort my papers," Mozenrath explained, as calmly as he could while his hands were jittering. "I was originally going to name him Mephistopheles after, well, you know, but then I thought that nooooo, an adowwable widdle kitty-cat wike you needs a cuter naaaaaame! So I shortened it. 'Mephisto' wasn't cute enough, and 'Mephiles' just sounded like an absolutely terrible name of a pointless creature that has no business existing in any universe."

"Mozenrath," the Huntsman said firmly, "I think it's time you set your work aside for the moment. Your plans aren't thought through, you're making no sense, you're showing kindness to one of the CATS, and – "

"Hold that thought." Mozenrath was busy filling the bean grinder. "I'm due for a caffeine crash in about fifteen minutes and I want to refuel before I pass out and lose precious time."

"MOZENRATH – "

The whirring of the grinder cut the Huntsman off, so he withdrew his phone.

When the grinder had ceased to buzz, the Huntsman dialed the number he had waiting. It rang once before he could hear the other end pick up. "Yzma," he said without waiting to hear the greeting. "It's time."

A new loud sound – that of a hand saw blade fervently piercing the ceiling and cutting a hole in it – made itself known. The circle completed, the piece of ceiling dropped, and through it, Yzma, dressed in a form-fitting black suit, rappelled down on several guy wires.

"How long were you waiting one room up?" the Huntsman asked her.

"You don't want to know," Yzma told him as she righted herself and disconnected the wires. "Now GET HIM!"

Even though she was the one who'd yelled the command, she pounced, and Mozenrath, unprepared, was tackled. The Huntsman watched a tangle of limbs ensue, loud and angry yelling from both parties setting the atmosphere, before Yzma emerged victorious with Mozenrath tied up by a thick cord.

"YOU THINK THIS WILL STOP ME?" Mozenrath growled before attempting to light up his gauntlet.

The magic-resistant ropes reflected his attack right back onto him, electrocuting him a good bit.

"Was that part really necessary?" the Huntsman asked Yzma.

"Did you want him to do that to either of us?" Yzma asked dryly.

"Not particularly," the Huntsman realized.

"Now!" Yzma cried, holding up the end of Mozenrath's cape. "For the final stages of Operation DMOOTSBHC!"

"YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!" Mozenrath screamed as he was dragged across the floor and out of the study. "I FOUNDED THIS FACTION! I BROUGHT YOU BOTH BACK FROM THE DEAD!"

"NO!" Yzma reminded him. "HE WAS DEAD! I WAS JUST A CAT!"

"MY NAME IS AT THE BEGINNING OF OUR ACRONYM!" Mozenrath yelled.

"NO, IT'S NOT!" Yzma cried.

The Huntsman tried desperately to ignore the both of them as he sent a group text to the other founders.

"LET ME GO!" Mozenrath yelled. "MY SCROLL IS BUZZING, AND I HAVE TO SEE WHO TEXTED ME SO I CAN TELL THEM NOT TO INTERRUPT ME WHILE I'M WORKING!"

"Well, mine's buzzing too," Yzma hissed, "and you don't see me interrupting this crucial operation to look at the text!"

"The text was from me," the Huntsman sighed. "I put it in our group chat. We discussed this part of the plan, Yzma."

"Oh." Yzma chuckled nervously. "Right. Of course."

"Good," Mozenrath growled. "Then I can shorthand this: DON'T INTERRUPT ME WHILE I'M WORKING! NOW PUT ME BACK SO I CAN KEEP WORKING! MR. MISTOFFELEES! DON'T LET THEM TAKE ME! AVENGE ME!"

Mr. Mistoffelees was trotting out of the door of the study, bumping said door closed on the way.

"TRAITOOOOOR!" Mozenrath bellowed as he squirmed.

On the way to the rendez-vous point, he attempted to retaliate with magic twice more, and twice more it rebounded on him. Finally, the Huntsman and Yzma managed to get him to the basement council room, where Snatcher, Mim, Aghoul, and Wuya were already waiting.

Besides them, the only other entity present was Roman's new red hat with four fluffy orange-and-black paws sticking out from under it.

The Huntsman sighed. "Did Roman turn into a cat?"

"I didn't do it," Yzma said automatically.

"No," Snatcher replied. "Of course not. …I don't think. That isn't you, is it, Torchwick?"

The actual Roman settled that debate by bursting through the door and leaping over the bound Mozenrath to point an accusing finger at the hat. "THERE YOU ARE, YOU LITTLE BASTARD," he growled.

The hat attempted to run. Mim looked as though she were about to magically open fire, and Snatcher fearfully caught the hat and brought it up into its arms, separating the headwear from the cat who'd been wearing it. The tiny thief had scruffy fur striated in orange, black, and white.

"That little bastard stole my fucking hat!" Roman groaned as Snatcher flicked the hat through the air toward him like a Frisbee. "I swear to the gods, the cats are insufferable, but THAT one's been making my life a living Hell PERSONALLY. He's already tipped over one of my pint glasses, stained my pants with that exact pint, and scattered my socks halfway down the hall!"

"Well, perhaps if you folded your socks properly instead of balling them up, we wouldn't have this problem, now, would we?" Snatcher retorted.

"You're telling this to me like you fold any of your clothes," Roman said, deadpan. "The only reason you can ever find two matching socks in the morning is that every single one of your socks is the exact same."

"That is not – I RESENT that accusation, Torchwick!"

"Whatever," Roman sighed as he replaced his hat. "The point is, Mimsy, your cats are driving me up the wall. ESPECIALLY THAT ONE."

The fluffy thief jumped down from Snatcher's arms to stalk out of the room, tail held high.

Snatcher began to plan his strategy. He would have to tell Roman about the cats sooner or later. Preferably later. He was beginning to see how he would do it. He would arrange for the two of them to spend some quality time together – perhaps a date – and then, at the end of the night, make vague references to the cats. This would escalate into a conversation where he would talk Roman into realizing the upside of having so many furry companions, and then, once Roman had decided the cats weren't so bad, then Snatcher would tell him that –

"Oh, by the way, they're half Snatcher's," Mim said with a smirk. "He's holding the Pact Enchantment that's keeping them from harm."

"MADAM MIM!" Snatcher sputtered, face reddening.

"YOU!" Roman pointed at him. "MY OWN BOYFRIEND, BETRAYING ME BY SETTING A PLAGUE ON OUR BASE!"

"Betraying you?" Snatcher retorted. "Doing something for myself, more like! Aren't you always on about how I've got to stop giving a whit about what others think?"

"Yeah, but I never meant ME, and I never meant by adopting A HUNDRED CATS!"

"Oh, this is delicious," Aghoul remarked. "Shall I put some popcorn on?"

"I'M STILL TIED UP ON THE FLOOR!" Mozenrath yelled.

"He makes a good point," Wuya said with a shrug. "I take it we had to implement Operation DMOOTSBHC."

"He may not retain anything we tell him," the Huntsman warned. "He's already ingested close to ten gallons of coffee."

"You know, I never thought of you as one for hyperbole," Yzma told him.

"It's not a hyperbole," the Huntsman grunted. "I counted the mugs."

"The point is, this is an intervention!" Yzma yelled.

"EXACTLY!" Roman barked. "An intervention against someone's CAT ADDICTION!"

"THIS IS ABOUT ME!" Mozenrath yelled. "IT'S MY INTERVENTION, SO I GET TO CALL THE SHOTS!"

"That's not how interventions work," Wuya sighed.

"He's hopped up on coffee," Roman argued, "so can we shift gears to the people who will actually retain this conversation for a second?"

"Oh, you think I'm going to retain this willingly?" Snatcher challenged. "Well, I will RETAIN it, but that doesn't mean it'll AFFECT anything."

Wuya pointed to them both in turn; "You two just need to get out of the house, go on a date, work out your frustrations by breaking a bed, and then talk about it rationally."

"Blowing up furniture does solve a lot of my problems," Mim said with a nod.

"I meant break the bed as in get busy on it," Wuya groaned.

"Busying myself torturing people on the bed also solves my problems," Mim said cheekily.

"…I can't tell if you're legitimately not getting my innuendo at this point or if you're just doing this to frustrate me," Wuya replied.

"Actually, I WAS going to ask you to accompany me on an outing," Snatcher admitted. "I'd thought it would be a better lead-up to the admission of my role in the, er, cat apocalypse."

Roman sighed. "You know, at this point, I'm not even gonna fight it. Let's just go pull a heist, have some fun, fuck it out, and THEN deal with the cat thing."

"Problem solved," Wuya stated. "Now. Onto Mozenrath."

"Would that it were so easy to convince him to go out," the Huntsman stated.

"Oh, now you want to go on DATES?" Mozenrath spat.

"Generally speaking, no," the Huntsman replied, "but I would not mind time for the two of us to bond apart from everyone else. Perhaps exploring a world more suited to our tastes."

"I CAN'T LEAVE NOW!" Mozenrath insisted. "I STILL HAVE PLANS TO MAKE!"

"You've thought up the bean engine," the Huntsman told him sternly. "That is enough to go on for now."

"No – but – NO!"

"And why not?"

"Because – because – becausebecausebecause I know the beans aren't gonna work!" Mozenrath cried, slumping in defeat. "It's the only idea I have! I can't step away from that desk until I figure out exactly every last detail about how I'm going to replace the Tesseract!"

"I see," Yzma told him. "And how has that been going, spending hours at the same desk?"

"ALL I'VE COME UP WITH IS A GIANT COFFEE GRINDER AND SPIDERS!" Mozenrath yelled.

"Do I want to know?" Wuya asked.

"You'd better not be about to put the spiders in the grinder," Aghoul accused.

"HOW WOULD THAT HELP?" Mozenrath cried. Then: "Please tell me that would actually help."

"It won't," Aghoul told him firmly.

"Mozenrath," Yzma said calmly. "Do you know how I am able to routinely come up with such brilliant plans on the fly?"

After a beat, everyone else in the room broke down laughing.

"Hilarious," Yzma droned.

"All right, Yzma," Mozenrath relented. "Tell me how you come up with your stupid silly idiot plans."

"Because I don't overthink them," Yzma explained.

"I'm not quite certain how stating the blatantly obvious is going to help anything," Snatcher volunteered.

"No!" Yzma hissed. "I mean I don't slam my head on the desk going over the same ideas again and again! I get out of the lab! I take a spa day! I indulge! And then, when I'm not directly thinking about my problem, ideas come to me! Even ideas for problems I don't have yet, which I then store up for later! If you just take a moment to do LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE, you might just get the solution to your problem!"

"THAT WON'T WORK!" Mozenrath argued. "THAT'S TOO – IT'LL NEVER – I CAN'T – wait a minute. That might actually not be a bad idea. George and I leave the house, we travel to a world where we can do whatever we want, I approach the problem from a peripheral angle, and then, when I least expect it, I GET THE ANSWER TO ALL OF MY – "

He then collapsed, the caffeine crash finally joining hands with his sleep deprivation to knock him out.

"You know, a date might not be such a bad idea," Mim mused. "Now, George, you're second-in-command to all of Mozenrath's plans, aren't you?"

"Yes," the Huntsman replied. "Somehow, I do not like the fact that you're asking me this."

"Well, I was just thinking of places Ghoulie and I could go," Mim went on.

"Me?" Aghoul broke in. "Why, my corpseflower, I'm flattered. You wouldn't rather go with Rémington Smisse?"

"He and I had a rousing spat yesterday over a jelly donut that ended in us both getting physical," Mim answered. Then, with a pointed glance at Wuya, "Let's just say our bed got broken."

"Okay, now I know you're messing with me," Wuya grunted. "Just say whether you two were copulating or trying to kill each other so violently that you broke the furniture."

"That man does know how to use his weapon," Mim went on. "He'll have a few new bruises to heal up, and I did have to scour bodily fluids out of the carpet, but I'd say we worked out our differences."

"That tells me nothing either way," Wuya huffed, really not surprised. "At least tell me who ended up with the jelly donut."

"I did," Mim answered. "If I hadn't, he really WOULD be dead now. The point is, he got his yesterday, so Ghoulie gets his today."

"Why, that's surprisingly fair of you," Aghoul commented.

"Fair?" Mim repeated. "You think I'm doing this to be FAIR? You're two entirely different flavors, and I want my share of both! Anyhow, George, the question I wanted to ask you is…does Mozenrath need EVERY Atlantis intact in order to pull off his plan?"

"Er…no," the Huntsman replied. "Only the one. Why would you ask?"

"No reason."

"I'm not certain if I should be worried you're about to plunge an entire empire beneath the ocean waves," the Huntsman admitted.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Mim replied. "It'll be our business, and you'll never have to know. Besides, Atlantises sink. It's what they do. How could Ghoulie and I possibly have anything to do with it? You really think one of the most pivotal repeating moments in parallel-world history is going to happen because of ME?"

"I really WOULDN'T put it past you," the Huntsman emphasized. "I'm not certain how you're going to do it. What I know is that you would want to do it, and Aghoul would jump at the chance."

"It's our business, so don't worry about it," Mim emphasized.

"You know," Wuya broke in, speaking only to Yzma but loudly enough so that Mim and the Huntsman didn't end up talking in circles, "if the other six are going out, then you and I should have some quality time, too. After all, you did nearly lose me to a black hole."

"Yes, I did!" Yzma asserted. "I think you owe me a day out on the town after almost dying on me like that! And I want to be SPOILED!"

"That can definitely be arranged," Wuya teased. "I'm already thinking of a few hotspots we can make hotter."

"So…we're doing this?" Roman asked. "Quadruple date night, except each of us hits up a different place?"

"Well, it's only going to be a date 'night' for those who end up on worlds in their night cycle," Yzma pointed out. "Then again, 'date day' sounds absolutely moronic."

"It would seem that is the path Mozenrath wanted to take," the Huntsman said with a nod. "Albeit once he wakes up from his much-needed rest."

"Date day it is!" Aghoul cried triumphantly.

"Did you NOT hear me say that phrase sounds MORONIC?" Yzma groaned.

"No, no," Wuya told her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "That's all the more reason he SHOULD say it."

"Thank you, m'dear!" Aghoul said with a grin. Then it sank in: "Wait a minute, you just called me a moron, didn't you?"

"Torchwick," Snatcher suggested, "let's be off before this situation escalates."

"Besides, we need to talk cats anyway," Roman sighed as he followed Snatcher out of the room.

The Huntsman simply chose to scoop up Mozenrath into his arms at this point, carrying him back to the apartment they shared so he could sleep it off before their outing. Definitely not admiring how peaceful his face looked at rest. And if he was, well, that was his secret with himself.

"Let's go, Ghoulie," Mim suggested, taking Aghoul's arm. "We have something BIGGER than a bed to break."

As they both vanished, Yzma said in awe, "They're really going to sink an entire Atlantis, aren't they?"

"I really doubt they're competent enough," Wuya stated. "Even with their talents combined. More likely they'll spend five hours lining the base of an island with skull bombs, then have the chain reaction fizzle out entirely."

"So, er…" Yzma leaned a bit closer to Wuya. "Where, exactly, did you have in mind for the two of us?"

"I was hoping we could figure that out together," Wuya cooed. "Though I do have a few suggestions to start us out."

"Then let's MOVE!"

...

Yen Sid had been overjoyed to see Ven and Aqua returned when they tagged along on the next learning session for the Lights. Stories were shared, and a few tears were even cried. Yen Sid was finally starting to believe in Sora's philosophy that the most tragic of stories could in fact be changed to have happier endings. Thus he spoke with complete confidence to say that it would only be a matter of time before Terra rejoined the group as well.

He and the three faeries then accompanied Aqua, Ven, Sora, Riku, Kairi, Roxas, Mickey, Donald, Goofy, and Lea down to the training course out back of the Mysterious Tower, where obstacles of all kinds had been set up – golden rings, ladders and tightropes, raised terrain, small lakes of water.

"It's kinda like the mountain back home," Ven realized.

"These are the tools that Eraqus, Xehanort, and I used to train in Scala ad Caelum," Yen Sid explained. "No doubt Eraqus would have replicated these devices on his own grounds. They are proven effective."

"Though we do like to give them a little bit of a magical touch sometimes," Fauna admitted.

"It is necessary that we assess your skills to evaluate where to begin your training," Yen Sid stated. "We will begin with simulated combat. Fear not; you will not be attacked. You will only be faced with moving targets."

"Okay," Aqua agreed. "Start it up."

"I'm ready!" Ven agreed.

"I've been waiting to use these!" Merryweather cried gleefully.

The trio of faeries raised their wands, and there appeared in the open space of the training arena an assembly of plush-and-canvas Shadow Heartless, levitating just a bit off the ground and moving in patterns that simulated how the real thing might act.

"Now go beat the stuffing out of 'em!" Merryweather encouraged.

"Don't worry!" Flora insisted. "This is not a test; only an evaluation! There's no wrong way to finish the fight!"

Ven and Aqua braced themselves, calling their blades to hand.

"Let's do this," Ven said proudly.

The pair charged into the fray of dancing plushies.

"This is exciting!" Sora cried. "Whaddaya think they're gonna do? A Limit attack? An Attraction Flow? Maybe they'll Drive together!"

Aqua set about casting as many spells as she could, freezing the Heartless dummies in massive icebergs, striking them down in rains of lightning, burning them up with fire. As she did so, Flora conjured up more to replace them. Her Keyblade began to grow ever more brightly.

Ven chose a slightly different approach, remembering the magics that had to go into the charge for his desired effect. He made lightning strike; he left land mines on the ground that detonated the decoys. His blade took on its own glow.

"They're just usin' regular magic!" Donald quacked in surprise.

"Not gonna lie," Lea muttered, "I kinda expected more outta the lost Keybearers from the past. Especially since one of 'em's a master."

"Oh, Ven and Aqua know what they're doin'," Mickey insisted. "Just watch!"

"Okay," Sora said with doubt. "But I dunno how – "

Aqua hit her limit first, and the magic she'd been using to fill her blade erupted over her, surrounding her in a bright aura. Her Keyblade spun through the air by the power of her mind rather than her hand, soaring about and cutting through decoy after decoy. Whenever the hilt returned to her hand, the Keyblade left surrounded in the aura of a new spell – covered in flame, radiating frost, or crackling with electricity.

Ven's charge was full as well, and he channeled it to levitate his own body, striking faster combos that surged a cube of magical energy into each foe at the end.

Sora's jaw was practically on the ground.

Finally, Aqua entered an ice-skater's spin, one foot lifting delicately back behind her head while the other functioned as a fulcrum for her rotation. A three-dimensional snowflake-shaped crystal of ice forged itself above her head; wind picked up to surround her in her rotation. Faster and faster she spun, pealing around the field to decimate the plush Heartless, until her blade thrust upward, piercing the ice crystal to scatter it into shards that stabbed into her decoy opponents.

At the same time, Ven had conjured three circles of light on the ground: yellow, green, and blue in a triangular formation. He dashed from one to the other in what Kairi recognized as a calculated rhythm; she found herself tapping her finger on her thigh to the beat of Ven's movements as though it were a song playing. Every time Ven hit a circle on the timing, light surged from it to burn up another Heartless. Then, at the climax, he leapt to the epicenter of the design, a larger sigil of light forming beneath him before it exploded into a massive shockwave.

Between Aqua and Ven's final attacks, the field was completely cleared. The three faeries, impressed, summoned no more toy foes.

"WHOOOOAAAA!" Sora cried, and the others were silent, letting him speak for them. "WHAT…WAS…THAT?"

Ven laughed as he and Aqua walked back to the group. "Those are just the tricks Master Eraqus taught us," he explained.

"Those were Keybearer Command Styles!" Mickey informed. "They're called that 'cause ya hafta charge up your Keyblade by doin' different things, like givin' it commands. Castin' different spells or fightin' different ways makes a new effect!"

"CAN WE LEARN THAT?" Sora cried.

"In time," Yen Sid promised. "Command Styles are very advanced techniques. They require not only mastery of the basics required to charge them, but the proper focus to store that charge, then summon the magic needed to create the effect."

"Master Yen Sid." Riku bowed. "With all due respect, I'm not sure we have all the time 'in time.' Xehanort might still be quiet now while he's looking for his Darknesses, but Maleficent and the WHAM ARMY are getting louder and louder. The raid on Radiant Garden's castle proves that we need to be stronger to face the coming threats. If there's any way we can learn these techniques more quickly, we'll need to."

Yen Sid nodded. "Your words are true, if sadly so. Very well. We shall have to structure our curriculum to touch upon the needed basics in a shorter amount of time. This will require you to be fast learners."

Kairi felt her stomach sink at that revelation, but she held herself upright, not yet ready to call it quits.

"If we can plan the studies for an entire semester at Royal Prep," Flora laughed, "we can certainly write a tougher lesson plan for all of you."

"But don't expect us to go easy!" Merryweather insisted as she folded her arms.

"Bring it on," Lea replied. "It's not like the actual bad guys've been goin' easy on us anyway."

"I think the Fever Pitch will be easiest to start," Fauna mused.

"I agree," Flora said with a nod.

"Everyone out into the field!" Merryweather motioned with her hands. "Go on! Hurry up!"

As the crowd of students marched out, Kairi quickly pulled Ven aside. "Hey, Ven. This is gonna sound a little weird, but…were you using that Command Style to attack based on a rhythm?"

"Yeah!" Ven replied, smiling brightly. "Glad you noticed! The Rhythm Mixer's one of my favorites, even if it's a little tough to charge up. I dunno, I've always liked playing with rhythm like that. Just ask Huey, Dewey, and Louie about the time I fixed their ice cream machine."

Kairi let out a soft laugh.

"What?" Ven asked.

"Remind me there's a game I have to show you how to play when we get back to Radiant Garden," Kairi told him, already making up her mind that Rhythm Mixer was the style she wanted to learn.

"Ven?" Aqua called out. "Kairi? We're starting."

"Be right there!" Ven cried, and he and Kairi rejoined the class.

...

As soon as the eight founders dispersed, an announcement boomed over the PA system: "ROMAN TORCHWICK AND ARCHIBALD SNATCHER! RENDEZ-PORT TO THE LABORATORIUM IMMEDIACELY! YOUR PRESENSATION IS REQUIRESTED!"

It should not need clarifying who gave that dispatch.

"Did we just get summoned to the fucking principal's office?" Roman asked in disbelief.

"Well," Snatcher replied with a shrug, "let's be off, then."

They began to saunter in the direction of the laboratory entrance. Roman sighed; "So we have to talk about the cats."

"That we do."

"You're gonna talk me into liking them, so just get it over with."

Snatcher was already grinning. "Well, to begin with, there's the matter of your little four-legged thief."

"Ya-huh."

"Do you really mean to tell me he hasn't enamored you in the slightest? That he hasn't earned your respect for his most daring of feline heists?"

Roman was silent a while before muttering, "Dammit, you're right."

"I should think he's taken rather a shine to you," Snatcher went on, leaning over just enough to bump Roman's shoulder with his own. "It would be a shame for you not to return the favor."

"Yeah, yeah." Another sigh, this one louder and more dramatic. "This is the part where you convince me to let him live in the apartment, isn't it?"

"Now, whatever gave you that idea?" Snatcher asked in a faux-innocent tone. "Not that I'd mind in the slightest, of course. Given that I also have a favorite who I'd wanted to invite into our happy home."

"Of course you do. What's its name?"
"HER name is Delilah, thank you."

"Delilah," Roman repeated. "You know, that's really…you?"

"Is that meant as a compliment?"

"You know it is." Roman paused. "You want me to name the little bastard, don't you?"

"Yet again drawing conclusions toward things I never said," Snatcher replied. "Yet you can't keep calling him that."

"Oh, yes I can."

"Well, I suppose you CAN, but is that really fitting for such a little…Napoleon of crime?"

"A what now?"
"Napoleon," Snatcher repeated. "You know, the French emperor who brought all Europe to his sway? …Right. Not your world. Not in the slightest."

"What, you mean like Eme – " Roman shook his head. "Never mind. Anyhoo, if I WERE to name the little bastard, well, I'd go for something literary and appropriate. Like…hm…Macavity."

It was Snatcher's turn to be confused. "Who now?"

"Professor Plum Macavity?" Roman asked. "The criminal MASTERMIND? Fictional boss of every villain in Mistral? Died going over Rosabrilleschauen Falls? No?"

"Now, hold on," Snatcher realized. "That name's familiar. Sounds rather like a novel Mrs. Overkill lent me – though I'd thought that man's name 'James Moriarty.' Nemesis of Sherlock Holmes. Most admirable character, actually, despite limited appearance."

"Are you sure you don't mean Shamrock Helms?" Roman asked. "That's the one I read over and over when I was a kid. And revisited on my first time in the slammer."

"I wonder if perhaps the natures of our differing worlds lent themselves to the same story being written with minor differences in each," Snatcher pondered. "Yours more literally colorful, of course. After all, if there's more than one Joker, it stands to reason there's more than one version of the same detective novel."

"Maybe," Roman said with a shrug. "It's so weird to think of people who grew up WITHOUT Plum Macavity. Or Reverend Green, who everyone thinks is this goody-goody church guy but has a body count. Or the wicked widow White. You know, all the great villains of Remnant fiction. They made a board game out of it, actually. Six of them get assembled in this mansion, one of them kills a guy, it's random every time, and you have to figure out who committed the crime and with what murder weapon. And it is just FANTASTIC because it's this meetup of all the best villains you ever read about as a kid. Like, I don't even want to imagine the poor dumbasses who picked it up without ever having access to Remnant's greatest literature and was lost on the context as to why any of these random people would be suspected of murder."

"I would suppose such a grand crossover would be offputting to many," Snatcher mused. "Doesn't seem to be an audience out there for that sort of thing."

"What do you know about crossovers, anyway?"

"I'm merely GUESSING that your average person would find the combined lore convoluted!"

"You know I'm making you play this game," Roman said as they turned the corner to the rollercoaster entrance. "As soon as I get a copy. Can't imagine it's gonna be too easy to find without going all the way back to a Remnant commercial hub."

"Should you ever," Snatcher assured, "I look forward to our match of sleuthing."

Down in the laboratory, they strode into the potions alcove, where Zevon, Irmaplotz, and Draco were in wait. "Welcome!" Zevon proclaimed as he threw out his arms –

Hands smacking into the faces of Irmaplotz and Draco on either side.

"Owww!" Irmaplotz hissed.

"Watch it!" Draco spat.

"Truly the youngest and brightest minds we have on the team," Roman snarked. "Really and truly."

"We have chosen you as the test subjects for our newest brew!" Zevon announced. "BEHEARKEN!"

Roman and Snatcher took that as their cue to lean over the cauldron at the alcove's center, getting an eyeful and a noseful of a foul-smelling dark sludge. They recoiled in unison, making guttural noises of disgust.

"You may feel repulsjection now," Zevon told them, "but when the potion is complete, you will be singing a different cadence!"

"This is Polyjuice Potion," Draco explained. "We decided to see if we could brew it here. It's notoriously complex, and normally takes a month to steep. However, we've shortened that time drastically."

"Dare I ask how?" Roman asked.

"Well," Irmaplotz stated, "first of all, I remembered an ancient magic secret to imbue liquids with energy and boil them at triple the normal rate."

...

Irmaplotz, Zevon, and Draco had watched as the cauldron spun round and round in the enormous microwave oven Irmaplotz had constructed.

"It CAN'T be that simple," Draco sighed.

"Don't look into a horse's mouth for the gift," Zevon told him.

"It should be ready in about thirty minutes," Irmaplotz estimated.

"Is it supposed to be doing that?" Draco asked.

Sparks ricocheted off the cauldron's surface to the rhythm of an abhorrent buzzing noise. The microwave's light flashed on and off.

"Oh, right," Irmaplotz realized. "THAT'S why you don't put a metal cauldron in the microwave."

Then the entire thing exploded.

...

"I THOUGHT that cauldron looked new," Roman remarked.

"Anyway, after that flopped," Irmaplotz went on, "Zevon just made some cooking substitutions that reduced the brewing time down to an hour."

"HOWEVER!" Zevon cried. "This potion will not be completified until the addification of one finalitized ingrediencation! That said, because of our innoventions in its complicaposition, we need to give it a test run to make sure it works!"

"And you can't test it becaaauuuuse…?" Roman asked.

"You think we're going to risk poisoning OURSELVES?" Draco retorted. "Let Mozenrath resurrect YOU if Zevon got it wrong."

"Anyway, you two would get more of a kick out of it anyway," Irmaplotz explained. "Polyjuice Potion shapeshifts you into another person for – how long was it?"

"I've heard a well-brewed batch can last half a day," Draco answered, "but given the rush job, expect an hour at most."

"Not everything can be fixed with substractitutions," Zevon lamented.

"Anyway," Irmaplotz went on, "the two of you like the whole disguise thing, right? We thought you'd have more fun with it than we would. And we're MOSTLY sure it's not poisonous."

"Before it can be used," Draco explained, "you've got to add a bit of whoever you're turning into. A hair, a toenail clipping, what have you. Then you drink it, and it's going to make you into the person, right down to age, race, and sex. Don't think it works cross-species, though. You can't be Discord."

"Why would anyone want to be him?" Snatcher asked with disdain.

"No one would," Draco replied. "He was just an example. Also, you're going to want to be prepared. Shapeshifting is an entire package. You pick someone with bad eyes, you're going to need the glasses."

"I think we're understood," Snatcher replied. "As shifty as your motives may be, I actually feel rather inclined to give it a go. It DOES sound like quite a useful little brew, and if it does become the death of us, Lord Mozenrath will most certainly know who to blame."

"Yeah, I'll give it a shot," Roman agreed. "On those exact grounds. Anyway, dosage is important, as we all know, so how much are we taking?"

Zevon held up a vial. "This containmenter holds the exactitudal amount requisitired to transformgure one of you!"

"We've got, like, a bunch lying around," Irmaplotz said casually.

"Well, load us up!" Roman cried. "Mimsy got me a new magic bag, so we'll take 'em all!"

"Now to select the perfect location to infiltrate," Snatcher mused. "This is a hefty responsibility, Torchwick. We could go anywhere. Do anything, so long as we remain human – which I have no intent to do otherwise."

"Big same," Roman agreed. "But what's the first thing on your mind when you realize you can do whatever you want with basically no consequences?"

"I suppose take advantage of what none of those uppercrust stuffed-shirts would let me have back home," Snatcher mused. "Granted, I was able to nudge my way into many a function as Frou Frou. Our operating scale, however, is much bigger. We can go for the richest, the most powerful, the absolute most stuck-up of all the elite. As for venues, we select the selective. Become the in-crowd where only authorized personnel are allowed. Spend a night in the lap of luxury, being serenaded, wined, and dined. And perhaps, should the occasion call for it, make a little mayhem…or a lot of it, deserving as the snobs are of their own medicine. Though I don't suppose you have an idea as to where that could be off the top of your head."

Roman, wide-eyed, wasted no time in saying "Actually, I know EXACTLY where we should go."

...

The streets outside the doors to the Atlesian opera house were lined with the wealthy and the well-to-do, dressed to the nines as their jewelry sparkled beneath the city lights. After all, the famous Weiss Schnee would be gracing the audience with her voice for the benefit of the fallen Vale kingdom. Atlesian nobility had feared her loyalty lost after she'd packed up for Beacon Academy, yet upon the destruction of that bastion, she'd finally returned where she belonged, obviously seeing the error of her decision to abandon her homeland.

Or so they all let themselves believe.

At the back of the crowd waiting to filter inside to the charity concert was a particular couple. A young man with golden eyes and blue hair that was cut to flip over one side of his head while the other was shaved was on the arm of a slender blonde woman with a piercing violet-eyed gaze.

"You think they're gonna have shrimp at the afterparty?" the man asked.

"Is food all you can think about?" his partner laughed, flicking his blue bangs.

"That…and other delicious things," he replied.

Both of them were subsequently and without warning clocked on the back of the head into unconsciousness and dragged into a side alley.

"Witnesses?" Roman asked as he lay the man down on the pavement.

"None," Snatcher affirmed as he set down the blonde. "The throng's so thick, you could snipe ten of them dead at random and it'd take them an hour to notice. Let alone their demeanor lending itself to it."

"You ready to take drag to the next level?" Roman asked.

"This shall either be an enlightening experience or my greatest regret," Snatcher stated with a smirk. "Meanwhile, yours has a rather…unique fashion statement on top."

Roman flipped the blue bangs. "Yeah. I hate this. But I'm not risking knocking anyone else out. Let's do this shit."

He retrieved two vials of the sludgy Polyjuice Potion from his enchanted bag. "Now to add a little essence of blueblood…" He plucked a strand of the man's cerulean bangs, dropping it into his vial.

Instantly, the potion mellowed to look far more palatable, thinning and shining gold.

"Your turn," Roman said as he lobbed the second vial.

"Careful!" Snatcher hissed as he caught it, almost fumbling. "We've only got so many, after all!"

"Okay, okay, I get it!"

Snatcher added the platinum-blonde's hair to his own vial, and his potion now looked scrumptious, a deep burgundy reminiscent of certain of vintage alcohol. "That's an improvement," he remarked.

Roman raised his flask. "Bottoms up!"

Snatcher hesitated before drinking his own, watching Roman down the golden contents. Roman smacked his lips, wiping them off. "Not bad," he remarked. "Kinda tastes like – "

Then he screamed, loudly enough that his cover might've been blown, but Snatcher was hardly worried about that, paling as he watched Roman double over and collapse to his knees on the street. For a moment, he was sure something had to be wrong, that Zevon's concoction was killing Roman from the inside out. He could see Roman's very skin almost seeming to bubble over his frame.

"TORCHWICK!" Snatcher dropped to his own knees before Roman, his own vial dropping lightly aside and remaining intact. Snatcher's eyes darted up and down Roman, who was contorted in agony down on the pavement; what could he do? Was there anything he could do? At a loss, he simply reached out and grasped Roman's shoulders.

"Gods – " Roman gasped. "It hurts – "

"Stay with me, Torchwick," Snatcher hissed. "I've got you, now – "

His eyes widened in utter shock.

Roman had raised his head to look Snatcher in the eye, and it was no longer Roman's green eye that Snatcher was even looking into. His face had transformed completely, an exact duplicate of the young man in the blue bangs – right down to those bangs that cascaded over one side of his head, leaving the other side practically bare. His irises glittered gold.

After a few more heavy breaths, Roman said quite casually, "Well. They managed to leave THAT part out." It wasn't his voice, either.

"You're all right, then?" Snatcher asked. Suddenly self-conscious, he let Roman go. "Nothing out of place besides…?"

"Do I look like the guy?" Roman asked.

"Down to the last pore," Snatcher replied.

"Then we're good." Roman stood up, dusting himself off. His new body was a good deal shorter than his usual form, and his sleeves were just enough too long to be comical. "Fair warning: it hurts like hell. You're gonna have to deal."

Snatcher looked nervously down at the vial.

Then felt a hand on his own shoulder. "Hey," Roman said in the voice that wasn't his. "It's thirty seconds, tops. Then we get to the good part."

Snatcher reached over to pick up his fallen vial, swirling the contents about curiously. He looked back up at Roman, a question in his eyes.

Roman nodded.

Snatcher then stood to full height, and Roman's hand remained on his shoulder. As Snatcher uncorked the vial, he held it aloft in a mock toast; "To the underdogs."

He swallowed it as quickly as he could, then braced for the agony.

It came first as a nausea deep within his belly, spreading out, making him unnaturally aware of the ability to feel nausea throughout his entire body. His very musculature was twisting, writhing – and now there was the pain, and he was doing his best not to scream aloud, teeth clenched, fists shaking, undergoing the sensation that his very skin was melting right off, and what if he'd gotten the defective one –

Roman playfully flicked away his top hat before gently, comfortingly running a hand down over his hair, which was currently thickening, lightening to gold and brighter.

Snatcher could feel every adjustment in excruciating detail. His finger-bones contracted to shorten his hands – and that was perhaps the only part of it he wanted to pay any attention to, especially given that he'd chosen a cisgender woman to duplicate.

At last, it was over. Thirty seconds had felt like an hour. He panted heavily, quickly grabbing his trouser waistband to keep the garment from falling off.

"You're good," Roman said reassuringly while patting him on the shoulder twice.

"I should hope so," Snatcher said in a voice that was too high, too light. "Now, let's complete the illusion."

Their red jackets, their pants, their top hats were stowed away in the enchanted bag. The hapless victims were stripped to their undergarments, their wardrobe being assimilated into that of their imposters.

"Should we just kill them?" Roman asked as he slid a black vest on over a maroon shirt. "Also, why doesn't this guy's outfit match his hair, like, at all?" He shrugged on the long black overcoat that had come with the ensemble.

"No need to cause an unnecessary murder," Snatcher decided, fastening the form-fitting plum-colored dress over his own new body. "If the authorities discover corpses at the wrong time, a suspicion will be aroused. However, if these two wake up near-naked and not where they're supposed to be at all, their first move will be to vacate the premises and seek out said authorities long after their little nap, buying us some time. And if they're found like this? Well, I'm certain Atlas has a place to store a couple of drowsy drunkards." Two shining earrings fastened. Blonde hair pinned up. A lavender coat to protect otherwise very exposed shoulders from the cold.

"The student's practically becoming the master," Roman complimented. "So, I gotta know. How's it feel to have…y'know…"

"Not altogether wonderful," Snatcher sighed. "As you can suspect, I'm already missing certain bits and wishing I wasn't encumbered by others. At the least, though, I'm no longer curious. And it does make for a convincing ruse, coming with an element of fun to it that one gets from wearing the gowns alone…"

He looked down at his new body, smoothing his hands over his waistline, which now bowed inward: an alien sight and feeling. He turned, watching his skirt billow out over his sculpted legs.

"You okay there?" Roman asked, sensing a pensiveness to him.

"Yes," Snatcher replied. "Certainly. Not a thing wrong. In fact…"

His new lavender eyes looked almost plaintive meeting Roman's gold. "Is this what it's like to be…well, you know. How do I put this…gorgeous in the CONVENTIONAL sense?"

Roman flinched. "Wha – Archie, how many times do I have to tell you it doesn't matter?"

"At least one more," Snatcher bade him. "Humor me. Now be honest about it."

"I mean, sure, guys are probably gonna make passes at you all night," Roman told him, "but, real talk, that just looks…WEIRD on you. Women not being my thing aside. I'm used to you. The real you. That's…sure a good fake identity and all, but it's WEIRD."

"And you wouldn't rather ha – "

"Nope, nope, nope, nope." Roman cut him off. "None of it."

"Well, then, that's settled." Snatcher nodded. "We can get on with business. Though I do wonder…you don't suppose changing the accent would make a difference whatsoever?"

"I know you want to anyway," Roman told him. "Maybe go for copying mine. Sounds more natural."

"Like this?" Snatcher replied, his feminine voice taking on a distinct Vale accent. "Does this sound more natural?"

Roman could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. "Okay, that's actually creepy. That sounds NOTHING like you. Keep doing that and I'm gonna have to keep double-checking to make sure that IS you in there."

"Good." Snatcher grinned maliciously. "Now, let's make certain – make SURE we have a supply on hand for the top of the hour, shall we?"

More vials were produced. More hairs were plucked. Potions bubbled burgundy and gold. It was almost an even divide, save one.

"You want it, or can I have it?" Roman asked.

"Save it," Snatcher told him. "In the event that one of us needs to switch appearances, it could come in handy."

The vial remained a blank-slate potion. The lot was stored in Roman's bag, and the pair linked arms, sneaking into the opera house just before the doors closed.

...

Inside the darkened auditorium, everything seemed black, with maybe a touch of blue or white. That made Weiss Schnee, decked out in shades of white and soft gray, all the more striking against her surroundings.

When the young woman first walked onstage, Roman's lip curled at the familiar sight of the long side-ponytail of snow-white hair. Though he couldn't see them from the distance at which he and Snatcher were seated, he knew her ice-blue eyes, one bearing a scar over it, looked as punchable as ever.

"Your nemesis, I take it?" Snatcher whispered.

"Just one of the many little bitches who ruin my life," Roman sighed.

"You just make friends wherever you go, don't you?" Snatcher teased, giving Roman a playful nudge.

Then Weiss began to sing, and the entire game changed. No, Roman didn't notice it at first, thinking only of how this was just the entrance exam to get into the afterparty, where the swanky drinks and finger food would be. Then, mid-song, he leaned over to whisper something derogatory about the girl into Snatcher's ear and noticed the rapt expression on his partner's face, even in the dark. Snatcher was enthralled, staring at Weiss as though she were an angel descended from above.

Of course, Roman realized. She had the exact operatic style to her song that Snatcher so adored, and her voice was hitting notes ever higher. Snatcher knew quite well how much of a thorn this girl was in Roman's side, and yet her artistic performance had him hypnotized. Roman couldn't really argue it. It was cute in a way. He probably hadn't had a chance to hear music like this performed live before outside what the WHAM ARMY did for fun.

Roman lay a hand around Snatcher's shoulders (he hadn't been lying about the new frame being weird; these shoulders were too thin, too bony) and relaxed, letting himself actually enjoy the sound for once. There would be plenty of time to think about revenge later. Right now, he and his partner in crime were among the elite, in soft chairs, listening to music that seemed to have been sent from the domain of the God of Light.

At intermission, they each knocked back another Polyjuice of their designated disguise body. Thankfully, the transformation effects only felt at all like anything when an actual first transformation was needed. Re-dosing simply kept it going without any sensation whatsoever.

The end of the session saw Weiss singing a song that sounded nothing like any of the others. This one was set in a minor key, a soft piano sending a haunting intro reverberating throughout the auditorium.

"Mirror," Weiss sang softly, "can you hear me? Do I reach you…"

Her head bowed downward, her eyes closed. "Are you even listening? Can I get through…"

Her face raised up again, facing the audience as though she stood before a horde of Grimm waiting to cut her down or be cut down. "There's a part of me that's desperate for changes," she sang; "tired of being treated like a pawn. But there's a part of me that stares back from inside the mirror, part of me that's scared I can't be wrong. That I can't be strong…"

Her voice arced through the auditorium in a graceful aria, her arms spread out as dual spotlights converged on her.

"I'm not your pet!" she belted fiercely, throwing herself a little closer to the judgment of the audience. "Not another thing you own! I was not born guilty of your crimes!" She drew both hands up to her heart. "Your riches and your influence can't hold me anymore! I won't be possessed! Burdened by your royal test! I will not surrender; this life…is…miiiiiine!"

Her hands raised up to the audience. Her eyes stared forward, daring them to judge her words as the song ended, to see the reason she had written such things and passed the song off to her accompaniment.

To her relief and disappointment, they applauded her vigorously but politely, and she bowed before the masses who revered her face without understanding her intent.

Most of them, anyhow.

"WONDERFUL, Torchwick!" Snatcher sputtered. "That was simply WONDERFUL! Did you hear her attempting to take the hot air out of them, then? And all of them cheering her on – she's telling them to their faces that she won't take any more nonsense from the lot, and they're eating it up like animals!"

"Still my archnemesis," Roman joked.

"Oh, but of course, of course," Snatcher replied, calming his tone. "Shame such powerful words had to come from the likes of her. Then again, if a better lyricist were at the helm, her little ditty would've been much longer. More poignant. Perhaps more epic. She can't hope to achieve it on her own, really."

But she'd made a start, Roman thought, really, thoroughly pondering what meaning the words "This life is mine" held for Archibald Snatcher.

And, for that matter, himself.

The audience spilled out of the chamber to make way for the afterparty, and Snatcher was talking a mile a minute: " – very trite, as we've established, very much an entitled little brat, and yet it's obvious she's got the range, she's got some training in. You don't wake up like that after a night, you know. That's years of practice gone into – well, at this point, I'm simply prattling, aren't I?"

"Nononono!" Roman turned to physically cut Snatcher off from cutting himself off, staring down those alien violet eyes with his unfamiliar gold. "Keep prattling. I'm serious."

And he was, Snatcher realized. Roman Torchwick, he who couldn't carry a tune in a locked briefcase duct-taped to his hand, just wanted to hear him talk about singing. Like they had a domestic life outside of their wicked games.

Well, who said you couldn't weave the two?

"Do you want to know how many octaves I counted on Miss Schnee?" he asked slyly. "Your answer doesn't matter, because I'm going to tell you anyway."

Concert-goers gathered in a spacious room done in shades of white (surprise, surprise) and deep blue with red drapery. Checking the time, Roman signaled another drink, only for each to find himself on his last assigned vial.

"Unless one of us uses the blank one," Roman pointed out, "we have sixty minutes."

"More than enough to cause trouble," Snatcher said with a grin. "Let's enjoy ourselves, shall we?"

One burgundy potion, one gold swallowed. An ordinary upper-crust couple that no one would take for a pair of ne'er-do-wells in any sense but the white-collar one striding out into the festivities.

Snatcher suddenly clutched hard at Roman's sleeve. "You don't suppose being in another body means you inherit that person's LACK of weakness, do you?" he hissed excitedly, glancing over to the buffet table. His eyes traveled over the selection of mini-quiches, chilled sorbets, and miniature club sandwiches.

"Fun science fact," Roman replied. "Anything you eat is gonna stay in your system longer than an hour. Once the potion runs out, you're fucked, and I'm not hotwiring anything to drive you to the emergency room on a world where I'm a wanted man."

Snatcher fired him a scowl and a pout, though playfully so, choosing instead to smother a coconut-encrusted shrimp in spicy dipping sauce and shove it in his mouth whole.

Roman did the same to an orange-ginger egg roll, decided he liked it, and then took the entire platter to snack from.

It was a silent havoc they caused: raiding the buffet of everything good by taking more than their share, pestering the pianist repeatedly to play something more upbeat, slow-dancing with a sense of pride that they were all but invisible in the lap of luxury. Again, who said wicked games and domesticity couldn't coexist?

"So," Roman asked once they were out on the floor, rocking to the beat of the song they'd finally managed to request, "after this one, how about we get to the good part and start fucking with the bluebloods?"

Snatcher peered around Roman's shoulder to see the Schnee family gathered in conversation with a couple of others. He'd been informed of the role of Jacques, the patriarch. A man clad all in white. As if that wasn't familiar. "I think that's a capital idea," he agreed.

They needed a moment more to detach from each other; the music went back to slow and mellow, and they kept dancing yet. When Weiss broke from the group to approach the mural painted in Vale's honor at the far end of the room, Roman was motivated, whispering, "Divide and conquer."

"I'll take the patriarch," Snatcher decided. "You go remove that thorn from your side."

They split, each following a different target.

En route to Jacques Schnee, Snatcher lifted a cocktail, a pink drink with an orange slice adorning the glass rim, off a waiter's tray. As he approached, strategy in mind, he could hear Jacques saying, "I tuned out for a second. Sounds like I'm the good guy again."

His entourage gave lilting laughs. So typical, Snatcher thought. He walked toward the group with grace, floating weightlessly in his gait. "Mr. Schnee!" he greeted. "A pleasure to – "

He chose that moment to hitch one high-heeled shoe before the other foot, simulating a stumble. He pitched forward. The drink drenched Jacques' perfectly pressed suit.

"Oh, lord," Snatcher cried as he straightened up, playing the part of the apologetic, "I am so, SO very sorry. A complete accident on my part."

"Oh, no, no, it's quite all right," Jacques replied, somewhat gruffly as he withdrew a handkerchief to mop at the damp spots on his jacket. "Accidents happen, after all."

"Believe me, I would never want to besmirch your stark purity – " No. Dumb it down. " – with my silly clumsiness. I'm one of your biggest fans, after all! You know, that thing you were talking about just now – "

"The SDC's boon to the economy?" Jacques filled in.

"YES!" Snatcher cried with a wide smile. "That is so amazing! You're a visionary! That's why I've defended you even when the rumors come up."

"Er…rumors?" Jacques repeated. "I beg your pardon? What rumors would those be?"

"Oh, well, you know." This was the fun part. "About the affair."

Jacques' companions' eyes widened. The boy who Snatcher had been informed was named "Whitley" looked like he'd just been told his birthday would come twice this year. Jacques cleared his throat, giving his coterie a look around. "I can assure you," he said stiffly, "there is no such mistress."

"Well, of course not!" Snatcher said with a grin. "HE wouldn't appreciate going by 'mistress' anyhow."

As Jacques' face blanched the color of his suit, Snatcher could only draw one conclusion: straight men were hilarious.

"Of course, I don't believe a word of it," Snatcher added hastily. "It's only a nasty rumor. The sort that gets spread about all great men."

"Indeed," Jacques rasped.

Yet Snatcher could tell that his entourage was thinking the whole thing over. Because here was the thing about lies: when you told one, it couldn't be untold. It would always remain as a fixture of the thoughts of the one who heard it, and a little piece of them would always ask: could it be true? After all, there had to be a reason such a lie was made up. Even if you knew it couldn't possibly be the truth, it would influence how you looked at matters for quite some time. Especially if it were particularly damning. Was Jacques Schnee having a gay affair? Probably not. Yet Snatcher could see it in the eyes of the other well-to-do present: the entertainment of the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he could.

"I don't believe I caught your name," Jacques said to change the subject. "Miss…?"

"MRS. de Chapeau," Snatcher introduced. "Aubyrne de Chapeau. That's 'Aubyrne' with a Y."

"Mrs. de Chapeau," Jacques repeated. "Pleasure."

He extended his right hand, and Snatcher shook it firmly, once.

"Now, tell me more about the SDC's role in current affairs," Snatcher implored. "I have a few questions about it, you see."

Across the room, Weiss clutched her upper arms as she approached the mural that depicted Beacon Academy. Would that she could simply step through it and find herself in the yard of the restored bastion once again, all her friends milling about its internal structure and waiting to greet her. To think there was once a time she had taken her classmates for granted, turned up her nose at them. Now she knew Beacon was the only place she had felt truly at home for years.

Roman slipped next to her unnoticed, leaning against the pole of the velvet rope that cordoned the mural off. He didn't yet know exactly how he was going to get under Weiss' skin, but he was sure the opportunity would present itself. For now, he would start by simply being obnoxious. "It's beautiful," he said pointedly.

Weiss didn't answer, keeping her gaze averted and her arms clutched. Roman glanced away from her and back. Hopefully her reticence meant she was already aggravated with what was sure to be the start of a come-on. "You two match," he egged on, extending a hand to indicate her.

She took a stiff breath, eyes focused forward. "Yes," she stated dryly. "It's a lovely painting."

So Roman would have to work harder to get her attention. He turned his gaze back out to the party, shuffled a foot. "So…that was my attempt at breaking the ice." He looked back to her. "How am I doing so far?"

If he'd have ever been told that trying to sweet-talk one of his younger archenemies would be in any way entertaining, he would have laughed the idea off.

Weiss gave a huff. "You are leaving a lot to be desired."

"Well, I've always appreciated honesty." He straightened up from the pole, turned toward her with a gesture that he realized was maybe a little too him. Not that she'd have any idea. He decided to change the move into a handshake, extending his hand to her and realizing too late that he needed a name. Snatcher had probably had one picked out since before the scheme began. So Roman said the first thing that came to mind: "Henry."

He could've kicked himself. So that was what came of spending so much time off-world. You forgot about the color-coded naming conventions of Remnant and thought "Henry" was an acceptable everyman's name. "Marigold," he said to hastily correct. After all, last names counted. He knew this. Nice save.

He waited so long, he thought perhaps she had decided to ignore him altogether, and if he wanted results, he'd have to try something more drastic, like "accidentally" running into her while holding a mini-quiche and splattering it onto that gown that was probably hard to wash. But then she looked to him, scowling as she demurely placed her hand in his own and said, "Weiss Schnee." As if he wouldn't know. As if it weren't the case that everyone in the entire room would know who she was. Yet he was wearing her down, and soon would come time to play the ace, whatever that was.

"I know!" Roman said jauntily, gesturing with the hand that wasn't holding hers. "I saw your performance!" Her hand was just too short, too delicate. "Obviously…" Now he was thinking about how inferior her hand was to Archibald Snatcher's and not how he could annoy her. So he dropped her hand, and the flustered look on his face was genuine as he glanced away.

Think of something. Think of the thing that would make her angriest. Or sad. Either works. He cleared his throat, adjusted his new bangs. "You were wonderful!" he croaked. It probably still sounded like he was flirting, and that was fine for now. "And I promise I'm not just saying that 'cause you're pretty."

Now she was looking stonily back at the mural. So Roman leaned on the pole once more, trying to catch her eye. "Honesty, remember?" Laughable words, considering. "So…you thinking about buying it?" It was the only thing that he could think to say; he casually waggled the pole back and forth, and it really was a good thing here that no one knew what Polyjuice Potion was, because that probably would've given him away on sight.

"No," Weiss replied. "I don't think so."

Roman would've thought she'd have sold her soul to have a mural of Beacon. Daddy dearest probably wouldn't let her keep it. All of a sudden, that was when it hit him: the absolute most inappropriate comment he could make. He couldn't hide the sly look in his eyes as he rolled them; "Yeahhh. Kinda pricey for a painting."

"It's to raise money," Weiss insisted, and now he had her full attention and her anger.

Now the ace presented itself clearly, and he played it: "Oh, really? For what?"

"For WHAT?" Weiss' anger was barely controlled, her teeth gritting.

Roman forced a nervous laugh. "I'll admit: I only come to these things for the food and drinks." Now there was some honesty in action. A waiter walked past with a tray of champagne glasses, and Roman swiped one delicately for punctuation. "And the extraordinary company," he added with a lean toward Weiss. "Of course." A lean back to swig the spirit.

Now for the fireworks.

Or not, as Weiss was still only glaring at him coldly. Time to go all-out. "So, what," Roman asked, "is it another Mantle fundraiser or something?"

How dumb could she buy him being?

Her brow furrowed. "Get…out," she said sternly.

Now Roman was getting somewhere. "What?" he responded, playing along.

"Get out," Weiss threatened, "or I will have security escort you out."

Roman attempted, "But I haven't done anyth – "

"LEAVE!" Weiss cried, and Roman managed to fake a look of shock at her outburst for a good few seconds.

The thing was, this was what he'd come for, and yet it wasn't satisfying. Because angering your enemies isn't truly what anyone ever wants out of life, and will only further conflict rather than resolving it? No. Not in the slightest. Because he was underwhelmed. Because he knew that Weiss Schnee, who had lost her friends and her home away from home and her only chance at freedom from Jacques' iron fist, was broken worse than she was letting on, and he wanted to see how many pieces she could crack into. This was no worse than a scolding she might've given a schoolmate who asked her to a dance and flirted with other women. Surely, revenge could cut deeper.

Roman knew it could. And all at once, he knew how. First, however, he had to drop this act. He excused himself with a cavalier "Pff. Whatever." and then downed the rest of the champagne in one go as he walked away, leaving Weiss to reverie alone.

As soon as he was sure she wasn't watching him anymore, he picked up his pace, hustling past a man who was angry about drinks or something else trivial and breezing toward Snatcher.

" – heard such wonderful things about your daughters, both of them," Snatcher was giggling. "How are they, by-the-by? I want nothing short of a play-by-play of the life of Miss Schnee the elder, as she couldn't make it here tonight."

"Er…well…regarding Winter…" Jacques sputtered, the neverending source of entertainment that he was.

Before Snatcher could press him to admit that he'd lost control of Winter, Roman appeared behind him, tapping him on the shoulder. "A minute?" he asked.

"Oh, of course, dear," Snatcher replied. "If you'll excuse me."

He let Roman lead him away very briskly, arm looped around arm. "What is it?" Snatcher hissed.

"I know how – wait." Roman paused. "That is…that is you, right?"

"Yes, Torchwick, it's me!"

"It's that fucking accent! It's GREAT, okay? But I keep thinking I'm talking to a different person!"

"In which case, it's doing its job," Snatcher said proudly.

"Anyway," Roman insisted, "I know how to piss the Ice Queen off. But it's gotta be a two-man con. Or, in our case, a one-man-one-woman con. I'm thinking we're, like, a married couple. I'm still coming up with the script."

"All right," Snatcher said with a nod. "We're already that." Then, very hastily, "Referring to our disguises, of course."

"Yeah, here's the catch," Roman said sheepishly. "I kinda…sortaaaa…already tried to hit on the Ice Queen in this face. So me now turning up with you is gonna look suspicious."

"Tor – you did WHAT? WHY?"

"I was trying to get under her skin, okay?" Roman growled. "And I figured out how to REALLY do it. I was going about it ALL wrong. But I'm gonna need to waste the last bottle. The blank."

Snatcher bit his lip. He had forgotten to watch how long he and Roman had on their current bottles, and there was no clock handy to tell him what remained. If either of them was going to use the last, it would need to count. However, he couldn't think of any reason that would count more than this, if it were their last hurrah before the exeunt. "All right. Choose a man, and he'll be yours."

"You know, I could turn that into a really bad pickup line if I wanted. Thing is, it would be a total waste, since I have you picked up permanently."

Snatcher rolled his eyes.

"All right, all right," Roman sighed, his gaze alighting on a raven-haired man in a gray suit drinking himself into a stupor in the corner. "He looks easy enough to take out without a fuss."

One unnoticed kidnapping and a last excruciating transformation later, Roman walked back into the room of the festivities. Snatcher eyed him suspiciously, unsure if Roman had succeeded or been bested.

"I believe the code word is 'rouge,'" Roman said with a wink, and Snatcher flushed, as "rouge" wasn't so much a code word between the two of them as it was a safeword.

"That's you, all right," he muttered.

They hurried back toward Weiss to enact the exchange they'd plotted.

She still had her focus on the mural, as if expecting it to come to life with the familiar faces she'd once known walking across the campus. That gave them the opportunity to position themselves in an attempt to look natural. Snatcher then set the ball rolling, saying just loudly enough for Weiss to overhear from a distance, "DOES IT COME AS ANY SURPRISE WHAT HAPPENED TO VALE? IT WAS A LONG TIME COMING, IF YOU ASK ME!"

He was turned toward Roman, and therefore didn't see that Weiss, too, was turned toward Roman. The prey was sniffing at the bait.

Roman reached over to put a hand on Snatcher's shoulder with an exaggerated "Honeyyyyy…"

"What?" Snatcher shrugged the arm off, trying not to think about how Roman still hadn't quite mastered the art of acting and was in the midst of not knowing what to do with his hands or eyes that wouldn't be a dead giveaway. Snatcher's own gestures were fluid, feminine; "You said the same thing last night. If they're SO arrogant to think they can get by without PROPER kingdom defense, then I say good riddance."

The sudden cry of "SHUT UP!" that echoed throughout the room let Snatcher know the trap had snapped. He didn't break character, scowling at Weiss. Roman's expression, on the other hand, was a kind of awed that comes before knowing it's all about to hit the fan.

Literally every other party guest was silenced, now looking to the enraged heiress. Weiss stood with arms braced to either side, as if ready to go to battle.

"Weiss," Jacques cautioned, already sensing the damage to his reputation that was to be done.

Weiss's hands balled into tight fists. "You don't have a CLUE!" she yelled. "NONE of you do!" One arm swiped to dismiss the crowd.

Snatcher looked every bit appalled. "Excuse me?" he hissed back at her, egging her on.

"You're all just standing around, talking about NOTHING!" Weiss cried. "Worrying about your hair! Your money! Your stupid problems that don't mean ANYTHING!"

Then, in the unexpected deus ex machina Snatcher and Roman thought they could only have hoped for, Jacques himself slithered to Weiss' side, chiding his daughter; "Weiss! That's enough!"

He seized her wrist, and she fought him, yelling, "Let GO of me!"

"You're EMBARRASSING the family!" Jacques hissed, already on edge from the apparent revelation that certain of the people thought he was sleeping with an unmarried man on the side and certain others would have realized by now that Winter had cut ties.

"I said let GO!" Weiss snapped her arm away from her father's grip, so enthusiastic that she fell off-balance in the other direction, hitting the floor.

In that moment, her emotions manifested as a Summon of a former felled Grimm. The Boarbatusk made of white light that roared behind her atop a gleaming glyph had its eyes fixed right on the source of Weiss' aggravation: Archibald Snatcher and Roman Torchwick.

It was here that Roman realized he might have underestimated just how badly his mayhem could harm him.

It was here that Snatcher, on the other hand, stuck to the principle that a good actor runs with what material is given him.

He knew where that Boarbatusk was going, and so he made sure to give the people a show. First, a high-pitched screech of terror. Then, as he recoiled, a babbling: "PLEASEI'MSORRYI'MSORRYJUSTLEAVEMEALONE!"

Roman watched him in terror, unsure of what to do while unarmed and in disguise. For he had no frame of reference that Snatcher was still acting. If he didn't do something, literally anything, his boyfriend was going to be mowed down by the ghost of a dead Grimm, and Roman would be next –

The Grimm charged. Lunged.

Both villains cowered.

A gunshot rang through the air.

The Boarbatusk was shot off course, dissipating as it crashed to the ground. Roman traced the source of the shot to James Ironwood – now there was a face he hadn't hoped to run into that night, let alone acknowledge owing his life to.

As Roman froze, shock written upon his face from all that had taken place, Snatcher kept up his momentum, self-congratulating on perhaps his best performance yet. "ARREST HER!" he roared, pointing to Weiss.

And the crowds would follow his direction, converging on the enemy.

Any minute now.

Or not.

As the partygoers simply stood around awkwardly, unsure of what to do, Snatcher made a further plea for unrest: "What are you waiting for? She's insane! She should be locked up!"

For all their similarities to the people of Cheesebridge, Atlesians were apparently not as gullible.

Ironwood looked Snatcher directly in the eye and stated calmly, "She's the only one making sense around here." He then turned toward his white-clad host. "Thanks for the party, Jacques."

Snatcher's frantic gestures of frustration were not feigned. Had he his way, this night would've ended with the Schnee girl in jail.

However, there were suddenly more pressing matters on his mind. A familiar nausea was building up through him, and it had nothing to do with the inordinate amount of coconut shrimp he'd devoured.

He seized Roman's arm, forcibly turning him around to lead him off the floor. "Torchwick," he hissed quietly. "I am LOSING IT."

Roman could see it already – Snatcher's face softening back out to its usual shape. His hour was up. "Come on, honey!" he said a little too loudly. "Let's get you home before that PSYCHOPATH tries to kill you again!"

From there it was a brisk walk out of the room; then, once the pair was out of sight from the rest, a full-on sprint to the nearest men's restroom. As they rounded the corner and slammed the door behind them, isolating themselves in the chamber of privacy, Snatcher all but ripped the plum-colored dress off himself, feeling his body begin to expand in such a way that if he'd kept the restrictive garment on, he'd either have suffocated or destroyed it.

Now clad only in his drawers, he leaned against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, gritting his teeth as he let the change wash over him. It was still agony. At least there was a familiarity in returning to his usual shape, for better or for worse (better in some respects, worse in others). Hairpins fell out of hair that was nowhere near thick enough to hold its shape, pinging against the floor.

Then it was over. Righting himself, Snatcher met the gaze of Roman, who was still undercover as the raven-haired man. They silently looked into each other's eyes for a moment.

Then, simultaneously, they burst out laughing raucously. Snatcher leaned once more against the wall to keep from falling over completely; Roman bent over the sink counter, slamming it with his fist.

"HOLY FUCK!" Roman guffawed. "That was SO much better than I thought it would be!"

"Still disappointed I didn't land the girl in jail," Snatcher said between laughs, "but that was a right SCENE! We'll see how her reputation – nay, the Schnee family name holds up following THAT ruckus!"

"Oh my gods…oh my gods…that was PERFECT, Archie. You fuckin' NAILED it as the bitch of the night."

"And you…weren't terrible."

"Oh, gee, thanks," Roman chuckled.

"In all honesty," Snatcher told him, "you came into your own near the end. You looked terrified out of your very skin when that beast charged."

"THAT'S BECAUSE I WAS FUCKIN' TERRIFIED!" Roman cried, somehow finding this hilarious as well. "I thought we were gonna get GORED! You DIDN'T?"

"Would the elite truly let a guest of honor and her consort be fatally harmed at a social function?" Snatcher asked. "With NO security measure in place?"

"YOU WERE FUCKING ACTING?" Roman was doubled up with new laughter.

"I was IMPROVISING, Torchwick!" Snatcher cackled.

Wordless laughter seized them for another five minutes straight. Then, at last, they calmed down, and Roman sighed, "Best night ever. And I'll say it: you made up for the cats. Delilah can move in, y'know, whenever. So long as I get to bring Macavity."

"Agreed," Snatcher told him. "Now do be a dear and return my clothes."

"Before I do." Roman approached Snatcher decisively, deliberately. "While I'm taking in the view, I should say."

"…Yes?" Snatcher found himself flustered.

"Just wanted to say it's good to have you back. The real you." Roman playfully poked Snatcher in his bare stomach. "Gut, fat ass, and all."

"And I daresay I'm counting the minutes until I have my dashing redhead returned," Snatcher replied on the uptake.

Though he'd resolved, once, that Roman Torchwick was the sort of man who could look like anything and he would still feel the same.

As if to test the point, Roman asked, "Will making out with a slightly less dashing dark-brunette tide you over?"

"It'll do."

They seized each other simultaneously, pressing lips together, tongues colliding. When it ended, altogether too soon, Snatcher insisted, "We really mustn't waste any more time here. My visage is only slightly suspect, but give it just under sixty minutes and we'll be walking around with the face of Remnant's most wanted dead man."

"Good point." Roman rummaged around in the bag and retrieved Snatcher's trousers, then his coat, tossing him garment by garment.

Once Snatcher was properly dressed, the duo slipped out of the restroom and dashed down the hall to the exit, still snickering.

...

Mim had brought Aghoul to a floating asteroid far above the planet she'd chosen for their date. It was a world she was obviously intimate with, but Aghoul himself had never seen. The basic continental shape gave him the idea that it was a version of Earth, probably.

"That was a killer of a joke you told back at the council," he said with a grin. "You've left them all thinking that we set out to sink an entire parallel Atlantis!"

Mim's grin was wider and more wicked. "That's because we did."

Aghoul flinched. Only in his wildest dreams. "No! How?"

"I'll show you how," Mim told him. "Follow me."

She took his arm again, taking him through another Corridor. This one emptied out atop a tall tower that marked the highest point of a palace.

The first thing Aghoul noticed was not where he stood, but rather what was around it. The tower was the vantage point for an entire kingdom of beautiful white buildings, their architecture vaguely Mediterranean. Out past the city, on the horizon, Aghoul could see where the metropolis melted into forest, and beyond that, the calm and peaceful sea, surrounding the island. A massive volcano rose behind the city. It was all draped in shadow by a dark blue velvet night sky studded with a full moon.

Then Aghoul took stock of what surrounded him immediately. The tower culminated in the smallest of gardens, holding only a single tree laden with apples that would have shone nothing short of ruby-red in clear sunlight. Aghoul called a magical light to his hand, holding it up to get a better look at the fruit.

"They call this the Tree of the First," Mim explained. "I suppose it's got something to do with that age-old story about an apple tree that drives everyone mad that happens over and over on every world. Eden, Hesperides, call it what you want."

"Well, that answers only one of MANY questions I'm just DYING to know the answer to," Aghoul replied.

"As promised, this is Atlantis," Mim told him. "Or AN Atlantis, anyhow. There are millions of them, and this one's not important to Mozenrath's plan, or even half as big in size, if you measure them. Good thing, too, because we're about to have some fun. As you can see, this is one of the few Atlantises that hasn't sunk yet. I've been tracking it, and it just so happens that today is the big day. How wonderfully catastrophic that we all agreed on a date night at the same time Atlantis was scheduled to go under!"

"Yes, but wouldn't it have done that anyway, whether we were here or not?" Aghoul asked.

"That's where the fun comes in," Mim told him. "See, things look a little…ambiguous for this particular Atlantis. The thing about parallel worlds is that anything can happen. Atlantis might sink in pretty much all of them, but it juuuuuust might stay above water in one. This one. We're about to change that. See, I've been following current events around these parts for entertainment. There was a wonderful upheaval of the entire government, you see, where the matriarchal queen was kidnapped by her own husband and held hostage while he summoned up an ancient Darkness that embodies knowledge…I may or may not have dropped him some hints as to where to look for it. It's another one of those crystal deals, you know, because it's ALWAYS a crystal. Well, then, it got all muddied up by political intrigue, a plucky hero wannabe, a whirlwind romance or two, and some complex lore about the ancestors of the populace. And wouldn't you know it, tonight's when Atlantis WOULD go down at the hands of the usurper king who wants to be all-powerful and move on to bring down the next empire once he's done with this one…and that blasted HERO is moving in on his territory! Here I was thinking we'd be lucky if we managed to see THIS one go down, let alone multiple! That's when I got the idea: why don't we nudge it in the right direction?"

"You mean make certain the turning point takes a turn for the worse?" Aghoul asked.

"Exactly!" Mim cried. "If I've calculated correctly, then I know exactly where the king's going to be later tonight, around midnight, and furthermore, I know exactly where that Darkness is I helped him find in the first place! He's going down there to channel it into a superweapon. The hero should be heading here any moment with the blessing of the gods. A pox on him! We'll just have to be faster. We're going to feed that Darkness with extra evil so it can kick off the cataclysm before that do-gooder can make it here! At the least, we'll see Atlantis sink! At BEST, we'll get to watch the whole WORLD go up in flames!" She leapt and danced excitedly, spinning round and round as she cackled with glee.

"You are the most exquisite of executioners, my corpseflower!" Aghoul cried joyfully, clasping his hands as he watched her twirl. "I can hardly wait to begin! But first…"

He reached up into the tree, fumbling about a bit until his hand latched around a shining red apple. With a strong yank, the apple came free from its suspension, and Aghoul offered it out to Mim; "Care for some forbidden fruit?"

As he'd been reaching, he hadn't noticed her doing the same thing, and she was now holding out an apple to him. Upon the realization, Mim broke out in even louder laughter. "And they say it was woman alone who was responsible for Original Sin!" she cried. "Well, looks like we're both in the mood for it tonight!"

"Not to downplay your skills as a temptress," Aghoul told her calmly, "but where I come from, we don't believe in that Original Sin business."

"You're missing out," Mim told him.

"Au contraire." He lifted a brow coyly. "After all, if everyone fell to sin in the beginning, how could we who choose villainy possibly be special? You and me, we took the plunge ourselves, and that's what we're going to be REMEMBERED for. No automatic forgiveness for us."

Mim screeched and howled with glee. "I LOVE IT!" she cried.

Each took an ungraceful bite of the apple offered by the other before taking the opposite fruit into their own grip to finish it off, crunching loudly and drooling juice with no regard for decorum. The cores were hurled off the tower.

"Now, to get to work," Mim declared. "Help me rot these apples, all of them, and put some Darkness into them."

"Of course, dear."

They linked hands, putting their free palms on the tree's trunk. As they'd done in Amaterasu's world, they exchanged their magical energies through their physical connection – one rotted, smelly soul mingling with one withered, jagged one and fitting like the lid of a locket. The disgust and Darkness within both of them flowed into the trunk of the Tree of the First, and every single apple darkened to a sick black, caving in with slimy flesh where it once was firm. Furthermore, the fruit now radiated a distinct smoky aura of the Darkness.

"What now?" Aghoul asked once the deed was done.

"Phase two," Mim explained, rummaging around in her enchanted bag. "A little home-away-from-home cooking magic."

She produced a silver pie pan, a bag of flour, a glass bottle of cinnamon, a package of sugar –

"SUGAR?" Mim recoiled, sticking out her tongue. "How did THAT get in there? DISGUSTING!"

The sugar was launched off the tower, set on fire in the process so it streamed like a comet tail.

"Dice those apples," Mim barked, and Aghoul leapt to her command – why did he love this so? He had spent a millennium and more insisting that other women be under his thumb, do his bidding, not talk back. Yet when Mim gave him orders, his instinct was not to argue, but to become her very slave. He melted in her hands; he didn't know what it was like to feel alive, but maybe this was it.

His scythe blade shone in the moonlight as it swiped into the Tree of the First, cutting the apples into a rain of rotting chunks.

Mim scooped them into the pie pan, filling it up and squeezing extra lemon juice (undiluted) into the mix. Her magic combined the flour, an array of spices, and a hearty dose of water into a dough that then slid in around the black goo in the pan. A bluebell flame charm roared briefly and hotly, baking it in ten seconds flat.

"That smells positively delicious," Aghoul said completely sincerely, as he always had loved the smell of dismembered internal organs that had been left out in the sun for three days, which this wasn't too far off from.

"You want a bite?" Mim held out the pie pan.

Aghoul reached, but Mim slapped his wrist hard. "Well, TOO BAD!" she cackled. "Because it's NOT FOR YOU!" The pie went right into her bag.

Aghoul found himself giggling. "Don't ever change, my corpseflower," he told her.

"Three hundred years and I haven't changed a lick," she reassured him. "If it hasn't happened now, it never will. Now let's find a way off this tower."

"The stairs are that way." Aghoul gestured to where the floor gave way to a neatly carved stone spiral.

"Hmmm…perhaps…if there's nothing else more interesting." Mim surveyed the palace below. "AHA! Look, right there!" She pointed decisively.

Aghoul looked, and what he saw was a large segment of the building where the roof was made of stained glass in a spiral design, separated into petals, each a color of the rainbow. "Well, they're practically asking for it," he commented, his mind going exactly where Mim's had gone.

"Only 'practically'?" Mim replied.

"True, true," Aghoul said with a grin. "Shall we?"

They clasped hands again, then took three steps and sprang off the edge of the tower, knees tucking into a dual cannonball.

As they impacted the glass, it created a shattered rain of prismatic colors inside the chamber below, a truly fantastic sight if anyone had been around to see it, though the shower of shrapnel would probably also have killed anyone around to see it.

It got better. What the two superhumanly durable villains, unharmed by the scrapes of the glass, hadn't realized was that the skeleton of a great prehistoric sea mammal, a porpoise or similar, had been erected to hang from the ceiling in the same room, just below the glass. So after they crashed through, they hit that, and every bone in its body disconnected and cracked, causing twice the destruction for the price.

After Mim and Aghoul had gotten the energy out of their system by rolling about in the glass and bone, giggling their heads off, they righted themselves and took a look around. This building seemed to be a library, from what Aghoul could tell, given its various alcoves stacked with rolled-up scrolls.

"I know," Mim huffed. "Despicable, isn't it?"

"Indubitably," Aghoul agreed. "This is the sort of place where people come to learn how to foil us. Shall we set it aflame?"

"No time now," Mim told him. "The Darkness has to be rising. Follow me. I know exactly where we're going."

She set off at a jaunty stride, Aghoul creeping after her.

As it turned out, Mim did not know exactly where she was going. It took her a couple turn-arounds to remember that the subterranean level was hidden beneath a statue, and once she'd made that gateway, she led Aghoul into a literal labyrinth where she took almost every wrong turn there was with utter confidence. Aghoul didn't mind, nor did he complain. He liked watching her lead him, with that little hop she did every so often when she was headed somewhere with determination.

"HERE!" Mim announced, stopping suddenly so that Aghoul crashed into her from behind.

At first, Aghoul thought, it seemed another dead end, if more ornate than the others. It was a small, squarish chamber with tiled walls.

Mim set about pressing every tile, muttering, "Now, where is it? I know it's here somewhere…"

At last, a tile she flat-out kicked gave way, revealing a roomy square-shaped passage into a further chamber. "Come along, now!" she urged Aghoul before crawling inside, and once more, he followed.

The passage emptied out into a room with rough-hewn sandstone walls of plain beige, no furnishing or design anywhere to be found. It would have been utterly unremarkable if not for the enormous floating head made of black metal hovering in the corner.

"Who dares?" the head asked, lips unmoving but its voice deep and vast, echoing off the sandstone walls.

"So YOU'RE the ancient Darkness," Mim huffed. "Frankly, I expected more."

"You've got guts, asking who dares," Aghoul huffed. "And severed heads have no business HAVING guts."

"I see now," the head stated. "You seek destruction. You have no wish to wait for Creon and Seth to decide the fate of this world. Nor do you have any desire to know who those people are."

"On the nose," Aghoul replied.

"I cannot begin my reign until I am released by Creon," the head stated. "My pact with him is such."

"Well, how about giving us a little mayhem from in there, then?" Mim suggested.

"I have not the strength," the head insisted. "Yet."

"I had a feeling." Mim withdrew the pie, which was now smoking with a Dark aura from the rotted, cursed apples. "Perhaps a slice of pie would make you feel better?"

"You mean to combine my energies with that of your curse," the head stated. "I will see what I can do."

A jet-black tentacle suddenly whipped forth from the head, wrapping around the pie. The dessert was lassoed back toward the Darkness' container, dissipating as it absorbed into the metal.

"Yes," the head proclaimed. "This gives me more agency."

The room rumbled as though shaken by an earthquake.

"Go," the head bade Mim and Aghoul. "What you seek is outside these walls."

"Have fun with your little good-versus-evil showdown!" Aghoul said as he waved playfully before disappearing back into the passage.

"I'm rooting for evil, personally," Mim added before following.

...

Things that are not important: the hero Seth arrived on the island in the dead of night, rescuing his love Anna from the clutches of an airborne ship. He made his way through the Atlantean palace to the lowest levels, though in order to clear his way, he needed to retrieve a single artifact from the library. Around that time, a guard noticed a silver-haired woman in dark robes, one whom he had never seen before, exiting the library, but she had vanished mysteriously before he could question her as to how she'd gotten into the palace grounds. When Seth entered, the entire library was restored thanks to the one and only favor the gods would grant him. Down below, in the labyrinth, he utilized sacred powers to neutralize the Darkness and trap it within an orb, but not before it had devoured Creon. Then, realizing the entire island was already doomed, Seth had run, joining Anna and other savvy survivors on a fleet that sailed far out to sea, watching Atlantis fall in the dark.

Here is the part that is important.

As Mim and Aghoul surfaced from the palace's depths, they lingered a moment in the royal gardens, eyes turned up to the volcano at the isle's heart. With every rumble of the earth, the volcano spat a new display of red-orange pyrotechnics into the deep dark of the night.

"We're going down," Aghoul told Mim, extending a hand to her. "Shall we do it together?"

"Together," Mim agreed, seizing Aghoul's crooked fingers, "AND in style."

They burst out the gates into the city proper.

Utter pandemonium. Those who hadn't read the signs or managed to get to safety were running about like chickens in a tizzy, screaming for their lives. Whether or not they knew the end was nigh, they sure were acting like it.

Mim and Aghoul's hands were still clasped, and Aghoul took the opportunity to draw Mim close to him in a twirl. He spun her back out, and the pair began to dance through the streets to the beat of an unheard song and the melody of the screams of the innocent.

They kept a hand each linked to the other at all times, but the other hand was free, free to throw a skull bomb into the fray and watch the fireworks. Free to set fire to the pub with the wooden sign depicting a red rooster hanging out front. Free to collapse the ceiling of the sanctuary of the bird priestesses. Free to strike every tenth civilian dead in the street.

They danced on, even after the waves had risen up and swallowed the island. Mim simply sprouted gills; Aghoul didn't need to breathe air anyway. They danced on, skirting the bobbing corpses that floated up. They danced on, over the rubble of the metropolis that had collapsed from the pressure of the waves. They danced until the island had settled at the bottom of the ocean, the world was dark and heavy, and they were the only ones left alive.

The light came from them, from their own eyes magically adjusting to the dark, from the slithering of blind and luminescent deep-sea predators with enormous fangs and twisting tentacles (not mutually exclusive).

They barged into the palace's throne room then, cackling all the way. The waters teased Mim's skirt upward, revealing her bloomers – and Aghoul knew that as titillating as that was, it barely mattered, as she'd soon be wearing much less. She settled herself on the ornate royal chair, leaning back in it in the exact way a royal wouldn't and crossing one leg over the other.

Aghoul bowed before her, taking a knee; "My queen of the queasiness."

"If this is what ruling an Atlantis is like, I'm excited," Mim decided. "Though I'm guessing Mozenrath won't let us have quite this much fun."

"Don't think about him," Aghoul urged her. "Think about all the ways we can defile that throne."

"Oh, but of course!" Mim chirped. "On one condition of course."

"Name it."

"You will obey your queen to the letter," Mim stated firmly. "No rebellious talk."

"As you wish," Aghoul replied.

"Now come kiss me," Mim demanded.

He crawled up onto her, straddling her on the throne, and his lips met hers eagerly as the deep-sea currents began already to tousle them.

...

"So, er…" Yzma leaned a bit closer to Wuya. "Where, exactly, did you have in mind for the two of us?"

"You already asked that back in the council room," Wuya reminded her as they strode down the hall. "I told you I had a few suggestions, but ultimately, we would figure it out together. Then you said 'Then let's MOVE!'."

"Oh, right," Yzma realized. "That did happen."

"It was literally two minutes ago," Wuya sighed.

"It feels like it's been longer for some reason." Yzma shrugged. "Oh, well. Back to business. You'd know more about the scene out there than me. I defer the lead to you."

"Hmmm." Wuya thought it over. "It's not that I don't have ideas. I have too MANY ideas. After all, back when I was working for Jack Spicer…well, you know the boy. A girl's gotta get away from that every now and again. Once a week, at least. So I would float around interspace and navigate all of the locations best for day trips and night life. Actually, there was one in particular I visited more often than anywhere else, given that it was set up with an active Netherworld community for disembodied ghosts alongside a metropolitan area for the living, and shops were fair game for both. It's just too bad that that world bit the Darkness eventually. Normally, I'm all for global destruction, but not when you take away my shopping district. That world is no more." A sigh. "You know what? Out of nostalgia, I'm going to take you to see where it used to stand."

"Sounds depressing," Yzma admitted, "but I'm up for it."

"It'll be a short trip," Wuya promised. "Then I'll take you somewhere we can ACTUALLY have some fun. Behold!"

She ripped a Corridor of Darkness through the space before them, and both women strode through.

In the short trip through the Darkness between portals, Wuya explained, "We're about to come upon where once was a parallel version of Shibuya in Tokyo that contained every earthly pleasure you could think of with some non-earthly ones as the cherry on top. High fashion! Fine dining! The occasional chance to kick a Reaper in the face! Alas, where once there stood a bustling metropolis teeming with life and material diversions, there now stands nothing but an abyssal void."

Then Wuya led Yzma through the second portal, and Yzma did a double-take, long-lashed eyes widening and jaw dropping.

They stood in a crossing of roads nestled between towering chrome skyscrapers, a blue sky overhead. The tallest building of them all, not too far off, was topped with a garish number "104." The streets thronged with pedestrians walking every which way, colliding with each other in the process.

"Wuya," Yzma said in awe, "for an abyssal void, this sure looks a lot like a bustling metropolis teeming with life and material diversions."

"It's back." Wuya was just as shocked as Yzma if not more. "I don't know how it came back, but it's BACK." She angled herself to stand before Yzma, looking directly into her girlfriend's eyes. "We have to have our date day here," she insisted in a near-mania. "We HAVE to. This is the first time in a year I'll be able to browse the D+B threads, and the first time I'll actually be able to WEAR them."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Yzma asked. "I demand a grand tour!"

"Oh, I'll give you a tour and more," Wuya promised. "Let's start with an old favorite."

She seized Yzma's wrist, pulling her excitedly through the crowd toward the 104 building. Yzma soon caught up at her own pace, walking beside Wuya rather than behind her, eagerly curious about what they would find inside.

Shoppers crowded into the skyscraper, and Yzma found the tumult rather exciting. Yes, people did, in general, annoy her, but this was preferable to empty, boring space by miles. Wuya seemed to be a natural, blending into the crowd and copying their gait, their casual attitude. It suddenly occurred to Yzma how much she must have stuck out. Yes, both of them were dressed rather oddly for the world's fashion trends, but no one was looking at them for it, which was a perk of the big city, Yzma supposed. Nor was anyone concerned with the fact that Yzma's skin was a distinct shade of lavender. No, Yzma felt self-conscious that she was so obviously different from Wuya – from another time, another place, another era of modernity. It was as if the wrinkles on her skin spelled out all the reasons she didn't belong. Not to mention she was sure it didn't look like she matched Wuya. No one was buying that they were together. None of them. Yzma knew it.

She decided to pack those thoughts away when the elevator they'd boarded deposited them on their desired floor. Wuya eagerly entered a wilderness of clothing racks, stopping when she found something bright and colorful and picking it out to hold up against herself experimentally.

"Well?" she asked once she realized Yzma was just staring at her. "Go find something! This is one of the most upscale shops in the whole district!"

Yzma shrugged, stalking off to file through the racks.

There actually wasn't much to her liking. Solid-color tees, plain miniskirts, and those horrible garments called "jeans" that Yzma wouldn't be caught dead wearing. She rolled her eyes as she perused, superficially sliding hangers around every now and again to make it look as though she were actually searching for something.

"Find anything?"

Wuya's sudden voice made Yzma jump, flailing her arms. "Don't SCARE me like that!" she barked.

"Aww, but you're cute when you're startled," Wuya said with a pout, and Yzma found her defenses lowered automatically. "Anyway, I've found what I want."

"So go put it on," Yzma urged.

"You better have something to match me by the time I come back," Wuya said with a wink.

If only. Yzma was unsure what, in these plain and "trendy" garments, Wuya could even find unique. Granted, these things would all look very good on the other woman's figure. Very, very good. Well, now Yzma was just imagining Wuya in these various bland articles of clothing, and though that made them more palatable to look at, it really wasn't doing much to help Yzma's case.

The sudden sound of high heels clacking against the tile floor caught Yzma's attention. She looked up and her heart stopped.

Wuya's upper body was clad in a pink satin camisole edged in purple lace, its neckline form-fitting and its sleeves mere straps against her stunningly brown shoulders. Below that, a pair of red shorts made of sleek faux leather bared Wuya's lower thighs. A thick brown belt embellished with clusters of golden studs looped around her waist, cinching the camisole without passing through a single loop of the shorts. Wuya's legs from toe to knee were encased in red boots that featured a significant heel. She tossed her crimson mane of hair back in order to properly settle the pièce de résistance, a pink baseball cap embossed with a colorful unicorn, atop her head.

"What do you think?" Wuya purred.

"I – you – it – " Yzma swallowed hard, laughing nervously as bright red overtook both cheeks. "Youuuuuuu look polished!" A chuckle. Her mental images hadn't even come close to this.

"Just polished?" Wuya asked with a wink.

"You're really going to make me say it, aren't you?" Yzma asked, forcing dryness into her tone.

"We're not leaving until you do," Wuya threatened playfully.

"Youlookgorgeous," Yzma stammered out in a single breath, looking away like a schoolgirl with a crush.

"I know," Wuya replied in a cavalier manner, though she truly did appreciate that Yzma had said it – more importantly, that that was what she thought of Wuya in these threads. "Oh, but it looks like you haven't found anything yet."

That brought Yzma's guard back up. "I'm still looking," she said sharply.

"All right." Wuya leaned her weight to one hip and rested the corresponding arm on it. "What's wrong?"

"Wrong?" Yzma replied. "Wrong – nothing! Why would anything be wrong?"

"Because we're in fashion paradise and you haven't found anything to wear."

"Well, that's ONE word for it," Yzma said as she rolled her eyes.

"Out with it," Wuya commanded.

"It's just – well, look at all this!" Yzma gestured about. "This is all well and good for YOUR style. You look better than ever! But ME? I'm not THIS! I'm not these…straight-cut shirts with animals printed on them and – oh, is that a skirt made out of jeans? Tell me that isn't a skirt made out of jeans I am looking at. That is a NIGHTMARE. Jeans are horrible enough without you having to turn them into something else!" She was gesturing frantically now. "What's the most certain way to RUIN clothes? Make them out of JEANS!"

Wuya listened to this rant with wide eyes, then, in response, said, "You know, you're right. This isn't you. I can't believe I didn't even think of it. You're more intricate. More embellished. Someone who stands out in the crowd." Her brow furrowed in determination. "And I know EXACTLY where we need to go."

"You're zero for one so far," Yzma reminded her.

"This was a warm-up," Wuya argued. "Just let me check out and I'll get you the good stuff."

That was another thing Yzma appreciated as she watched Wuya hand over several yen at the register. For the sake of evil, stealing was all well and good, but shoplifting high fashion just seemed so base. Wuya was the sort of person who knew that. They were going to pay fair and square, not question each other about it, and make up the difference later by ruining someone else's day.

As they boarded the elevator again, Wuya decked out in her new clothing, Yzma remarked, "You realize Archibald Snatcher is going to claim you plagiarized him when he sees you in red heels."

"He doesn't have a trademark on them," Wuya replied.

"He won't see it that way."

"And I won't see it his way. Bring him on."

Yzma grinned. Another facet of their attitude where they were both understood.

...

A-East was a less crowded street, one almost hidden among Shibuya's byways. It was mostly dominated by the entrance to a concert hall, and given that there was currently no concert taking place, very few bothered.

Turning onto A-East, Wuya explained to Yzma, "This place I'm about to show you should be right up your alley. Think of it like a Japanese Hot Topic, only much, much better."

"A Hot whatnow?" Yzma asked.

"Someplace you would end up going way, way too often while working in the thrall of Jack Spicer," Wuya groaned.

The words "Lapin Angelique" were forged in script above a frieze of glass windows beyond which it was difficult to make out the shop interior due to its lighting. Wuya held the door open, bowing playfully and extending a hand through the frame before saying, "After you, my empress."

Yzma stalked through the door, somewhat prepared to be unimpressed.

The shop's décor was largely black – black walls, black ceiling, black shelving units. As soon as Yzma's eyes adjusted to the light, she saw that the fare here was vastly different from that found at the D+B shop in 104. Skirts ballooned with ruffles, as did the sleeves of the gowns. Corset lacing criss-crossed over velvet. Deep hues adorned most of the garments, lending them a regal look. There were also complete oddball items here – jerseys with dramatically asymmetrical hems, pants with bandage designs, and a display of inappropriately frilly parasols.

A saleswoman dressed in a black gown and top hat, her soft brown hair pulled into pigtails, bounded over toward Yzma. "Hello!" she greeted. "Welcome! What can Princess K help you find among our gorgeous itinerary?"

When Yzma didn't answer, Wuya crept up behind the stunned woman. "So what's the verdict?" she asked.

"I…" Yzma sputtered. "I want…I WANT ALL OF IT!" She spun to beam at Wuya, eyes sparkling. "Now THIS is what I was looking for! It's avant-garde! It's haute couture! It's je ne sais quoi tout de suite!"

"That last one isn't even close to applicable," Wuya told her. "Unless you were just stringing French words together and hoping they'd mean things."

"Oh, je dis ça, je dis rien," Yzma said with a dismissive wave. "As it turns out, you really DO know me, after all."

As passive-aggressive as it sounded, Wuya recognized it as one of the more sentimental things Yzma could even say. "And I didn't even have to read your mind," she replied with a wink.

"Now help me gather up everything I need to try on!" Yzma demanded.

She modeled gown after gown after gown, throwing in a single ensemble with pants (and a black coat composed almost entirely of buckled belts over top). At one point, she emerged from the fitting stall clad in a ruffly red two-tier miniskirt, black chiffon underneath; a red blouse with black corset lacing; and a long black cape with a red interior. Wuya immediately knew where this was going and broke into a chuckle.

"How much trouble do you think I'd get into with Roman Torchwick if I came home wearing this?" Yzma asked.

"All of it," Wuya told her. "You should do it."

"Never!" Yzma spat. "That would mean I'D have to look like the brat!" She disappeared back into the stall. "I'm picking out something else!"

When she stepped out wearing a ruffly, ribbon-laced black dress with long sleeves and purple embroidery that stood out all the more strikingly as paneling on the rather short skirt, Wuya told her, "That's the one."

"Really?" Yzma asked. "I take it this is the one that most flatters my figure AND brings out my eyes."

"It does," Wuya told her. "But more importantly, you tried that one on and showed it to me three other times already. I think you like it."

"Fair enough." Yzma shrugged. "I just can't decide if it shows too much leg."

"It does," Wuya affirmed. "That's why I love it."

The shopkeeper, Princess K, skipped past, asking, "How is everything?"

"Fabulous," Yzma told her. "I've come to a decision on the dress. Now, it is time to ACCESSORIZE!"

"Princess K is glad!" The young woman beamed. She then turned to Wuya; "Are you her daughter?"

Before Yzma could even begin to be offended, outraged, or made self-conscious, Wuya pointed at her and said plainly, "I'm older than her."

"Oh…all right." Princess K shrugged and went on her way.

Yzma's next order of business was to select a hat; after all, the fact that she had nary a hair left on her scalp was something she felt the need to keep covered at all times, especially since doing so would only make her look all the more fashionable. She'd come wearing her simple purple beret, and that matched the dress's shades exactly, but Yzma was not one to simply decide she'd matched up with something already owned and worn and call it a day. She discovered a top hat bound with a lacy lavender ribbon that was tied in a gaudy bow, deciding the lavender offset the dress's deep violet in a complementary way. From there, she picked out a set of platform shoes, patent-leather that gleamed in the dim lighting, elevating not only her heels but the entirety of each foot.

"Now, that's my empress," Wuya said as she beheld the final product.

"This will do," Yzma decided.

She handed off her money to Princess K, and she and Wuya departed.

"Where to now?" Wuya asked. "We can do anything we want. Name it, and we'll go."

"As of now, I'm famished," Yzma stated. "ONE of us took too long deciding what she wanted to wear today."

"Yes," Wuya agreed. "ONE of us did."

She casually reached over to interlock her fingers with Yzma's. Yzma flushed again; Wuya seemed to think nothing of it, but once again, Yzma got the sense that one of them belonged and one of them didn't, and they certainly didn't create a matched set. Not after what Princess K (who Yzma was beginning to doubt actually had any claim to the throne) had said. All the same, she didn't let go. Wuya's hands were nice, to put it mildly. Smooth, strong, firm. Comforting, in a way.

If she could have known that Wuya relished the sensation of that soft lavender skin against her palm, the curl of those long and bony fingers around her own. She gave her arm a playful swing, and now their interlocked hands were rocking back and forth like a tire on two ropes. "We're not too far from a ramen place," she stated. "How's that grab you?"

"It grabs well," Yzma said. "Firmly. Not too tight or too loose. The RAMEN. I'm talking about the ramen."

"Of course," Wuya replied, though she knew better.

On the walk to the restaurant, Yzma finally began to feel more at home. Wearing one of the brands of the locals, albeit a more flamboyant setup, was a start. Further, she realized that the people here really weren't paying attention to her, which, in any other situation, would have been less than ideal, as she wanted to command attention and respect, but for today, it was exactly perfect. For now, she would settle for "not an oddity." Perhaps "primary influencer and prime minister" would be a later phase.

The Dogenzaka restaurant, Ramen Don, was packed with people. Yzma and Wuya had to be seated at a side table in the crowded venue, which didn't really suit either. Menus were distributed.

"They say it's the best ramen shop in Dogenzaka," Wuya explained as she looked over the very short selection listed. "Despite the limited options."

"This is ALL?" Yzma asked as she grimaced at the five dishes. "Well. I suppose I'll get the most expensive one. That has to be SOMEWHAT unique, right? If this is the best ramen shop in Dogenzaka, then I don't want to know about the competition."

"I don't even think there is any," Wuya replied.

"Actually, that's not true," a voice piped in.

Both women glared one table over to where a pair of girls wearing school uniforms were seated.

"You don't know about Shadow Ramen?" the one with shorter hair went on. "Sorry. It just fascinates me. Ken Doi is so nice, and Shadow Ramen almost put him out of business."

"And this affects us how?" Wuya sighed.

"I dunno." The girl shrugged. "I guess I still get worried that it might happen, and I don't wanna lose this guy's shoyu recipe. Anyway, the whole thing about Shadow Ramen – "

"I don't care," Yzma barked.

"No, no." Wuya put up a hand, starting to wonder if she'd gotten a lead. "I want to hear more about this."

"Well," the girl went on, "Shadow Ramen is big on using gimmicks and weird recipes to seem 'different' and 'modern.' Ken Doi won his customer base back by sticking to the basics, you know? He puts heart into his cooking. Shadow Ramen, they're owned by this rich guy who hardly needs the money anyway."

"Not to mention manipulated our friend into being a total jerk," the longer-haired girl muttered. "He just wants his restaurant to 'win.' It's all about getting Eiji to F him."

Not knowing this was a particular blogger's trademark slang for "fabulous," Yzma and Wuya exchanged an interested smirk.

"Whatever," the shorter-haired girl sighed. "It's not like we're ever going back there. We're not throwing them that money. Anyone who does is just buying into the gimmick."

"That, or they want Ken Doi to lose his job," the longer-haired girl suggested facetiously.

Yzma and Wuya looked at each other one more time.

Then they scrambled to their feet, nearly knocking over their chairs on the way out of the restaurant.

...

Funding a soulless corporate cash grab founded on greed and gimmicks perhaps wasn't the most overt form of evil the pair could perpetuate. However, much as with good deeds, it was the little things that counted.

Yzma and Wuya were seated at a long, polished table in a restaurant that already seemed much more aesthetically pleasing than Ramen Don: fewer people, more space, light-colored walls without a lump to be seen in the paint. Could've used some more glitz, but at least it was better than Ramen Don's practically shoddy rustic look.

"What can I bring you lovely ladies?" a waiter in a sleek suit asked as he approached.

"Hmmm…" Wuya looked up and down the lengthy menu for show. "How about…one of everything?"

"I'm sorry," the waiter repeated. "One of…everything?"
"YOU HEARD HER!" Yzma barked. "NOW CHOP CHOP!"

"But…there's no way the two of you can eat that much…and the bill…"

"Are you implying we're too poor to afford it?" Wuya asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course not, Wuya," Yzma told her. "He's implying that if we eat that much ramen, we'll gain WEIGHT."

"I'll go get your order started," the waiter said nervously before scuttling off.

Yzma and Wuya broke into a synchronized cackle.

"Truly, there's nothing like pouring an inordinate amount of money into a gimmicky business in an attempt to collapse an independent owner while simultaneously knowing the waitstaff is running around the kitchen frantically trying to prepare one of every dish on the menu," Wuya sighed.

"And Mim would have it that you need iron spikes to torture people," Yzma replied.

The first dishes were delivered – steak topping one, a wealth of pizza toppings gracing the other. The noodles of both were jet-black. Yzma dug in heartily to her pizza ramen while Wuya took a delicate bite of the steak ramen.

They grimaced simultaneously.

"It certainly tastes…" Yzma swallowed it hard. "Expensive."

"It tastes like capitalism," Wuya remarked as she carved out another bite.

They kept eating out of principle.

"Never actually thought I'd support anything named 'Shadow,'" Wuya remarked around a mouthful of steak.

"Why not?" Yzma asked, stalling by twirling the noodles around her fork over and over and over, a Gordian knot of black ramen.

"Have I not told you?" Wuya realized. "I haven't told you. I've told VEXEN but not you."

"WHY WOULD YOU TELL VEXEN SOMETHING BEFORE ME?" Yzma cried.

"Because a Shadow Man tricked me into it," Wuya stated. "Again with 'Shadow.' That really has to mean something. Anyway, here's the story."

She related everything she'd told that day at Facilier's: her father, the Shadow Sorcerer. His myriad of male apprentices. How she'd admired Hannibal Roy Bean from afar. How in the end, she had condemned the Shadow Sorcerer to death and ascended to his throne.

At that part, Yzma stood straight up, swinging her fist and cheering, "YES! Brilliant, brilliant, BRILLIANT!" as though she were watching her girlfriend murder her father in real time. "That's my GIRL!"

Wuya feigned a shy expression – only to find she actually was flushing. "And that's how we got to where we are," she concluded. "Now. Tit for tat. It occurs to me I don't really know how YOU got your start."

Yzma shrugged, sitting back down. "It's like I always tell people. I had a really good childhood. Everything was fine."

Wuya raised a doubtful eyebrow.

"It's true!" Yzma insisted. "The part I, ah, don't tell everyone is that…" She leaned toward Wuya, her tone furtive yet braggadocious. "It was that way because I MADE it that way."

"Oh, do tell," Wuya urged.

"You see," Yzma explained, "my mother and father – Azma and Ayakucho – were happily married. The envy of the entire court! Except, of course, for Kuzco's own parents, who were sickeningly in love. Gag me. They didn't show up until much later, though. Anyhow, my father was the royal mortician, and that's how I got my foot in the political door. …My political foot in the door? My foot politically in the – never mind. Mommy, on the other hand, was a general servant, and a very good one, too. She eventually climbed the ladder of influence – influentially climbed the ladder – the influential ladder, she climbed – "

"I get the picture," Wuya cut off.

" – and became the royal advisor," Yzma concluded. "Which eventually was passed down to be MY honor. It was a pretty cushy position. Not as cushy as, say, EMPRESS, but it would work for the time being. Growing up, when I was a wee Yzmaling, I could hardly have asked for more. Both my parents in a happy and loving marriage, and both of them holding positions in the royal court of some influence. In fact, they were kept so busy with their jobs that they had to hire me a nanny! Good old Curi. Or was it Cuxi? It doesn't matter. I idolized that woman. She was flamboyant in all the right ways, wearing bright colors, feathers, and sequins when the rest were dressed in boring old earth tones."

"Seems we know where you got your taste." Wuya was smiling, leaning both elbows on the table, chin in her palms.

"Indeed so," Yzma confirmed. "Probably my bisexual awakening, come to think of it. She was gorgeous! Her long hair – almost reddish, if I recall – the way she would experiment with eyeliner to make unique patterns, the way she occasionally kicked off her heels to just walk around barefoot – "

Wuya's eyes were now wide.

"…Let's not unpack that one too much," Yzma muttered quickly. "The point is, she looked after me while both of my parents were busy at work. Not that I was a difficult child at all. Sure, I liked to make a little mischief, but who didn't? Anyway, we were all just one big happy family. So happy with each other, in fact, that one day, I walked in on my father and my governess sharing quite a poignant moment." She pounded the table with her fist, suddenly enraged. "IN THE BEDROOM!"

"No," Wuya whispered, already enthralled.

"YES!" Yzma insisted. "I was enraged! I was irate! I didn't want this woman to come between my perfect parents! Ohhh, but I wasn't angry for long. Nooooo. See, by then, I had already begun my experiments with alchemy. Simple little things…fertilizer to make plants grow taller, an elixir that would NOT turn lead into gold but would make it look the right color…and perhaps I stumbled upon a recipe for a fast-acting poison. Purely out of academic interest, of course."

"Of course," Wuya agreed.

"I invited my dear Cuca to dinner," Yzma went on. "She was wearing the most elaborate ensemble I'd ever seen her in. She knew what I'd seen, and she pleaded with me, offering up all sorts of bargains for my silence. Toys, candy, clothing from her own wardrobe, even! I told her that all was forgiven. She didn't need to give me anything she didn't want to! All I wanted was to have dinner with her and…reconnect. She was all too happy to get off easy. Then she took a generous swig of her drink – and, well, let's just say that some women just can't hold their pesticides."

Wuya's reaction was a low, guttural chuckle in the back of her throat.

"I did, in fact, end up with the woman's entire wardrobe," Yzma related. "After all, they had no reason to distrust my word that she'd said I could have it all if anything ever HAPPENED to her. And so Daddy went back to Mommy. Not before he had to dress his own mistress' body for the afterlife, of course. I always suspected that he took that moment to give her a final goodbye, if you know what I mean."

"Mim would approve, all considered," Wuya replied.

"But then, all was well," Yzma stated. A long pause. Then: "Until, of course, I found my mother having a torrid affair with a royal construction worker a few years later."

"Tell me what you did," Wuya urged, becoming more enamored the more she heard of Yzma's dark deeds.

"I was more of a teenager around that time," Yzma explained, "and, like many teenagers, I had taken to experimenting. …With alchemy. I'd graduated beyond my basic acids." A sudden pause, face screwing up. "Did I just say 'basic acids'? Now, there's an oxymoron. Oh, well." A hand-wave. "I had finally managed to perfect a method of transfiguring the human body into a select number of animals. It so happened I was looking for a good excuse to test one out. So I chose a day when he was busy repainting the gold on the palace's crest. It was a hot day, I recall. Hot enough that the man was taking frequent drinks out of his water flask. You'd think he would've noticed when it temporarily disappeared, then returned with the water turned PINK. Anyhow, it was a success in two regards. One: I learned I could successfully turn a human being into a beetle. Two: after I accidentally stepped on him forty-two consecutive times with the stiletto I'd inherited from Cava, he stopped showing up for trysts in Mommy's room, and by that time, well, both of my parents got the hint. In no time, they were back to being the perfect couple. More than that, they got strangely more obedient of me. They never really denied me anything I asked for ever again. Almost as if fearing that saying 'no' to me would propel them toward some terrible fate – but that's a silly thing to think of, regarding a teenager, isn't it?"

"It's not that you weren't attractive before," Wuya purred, "but this is the most attracted I've ever been to you in my life. Would that I had your initiative when I was your age."

"You got there!" Yzma assured. "Really, the whole worlds would be so much simpler if people realized they could just dispose of the others who bothered them! Quieter, too. And easier to rule over."

"We'll have to spread that doctrine among the Atlanteans," Wuya agreed. "Of course, they might decide WE are what bothers them – "

"No, they won't," Yzma countered. "After all, what is propaganda for? Why else do we have an Archibald Snatcher?"

"And he thinks we keep him around because we like his company," Wuya teased.

Of course, all in fun. They both knew exactly how they felt about the rest of the WHAM ARMY, even if they were loath to admit such sentiment aloud in casual circumstances.

After the first two ramen dishes were finished, they split the bill without bothering with any of the other plates of bizarre flavors spooned over black noodles.

"From now on," Wuya assured the cashier, "you can know this is the ONLY ramen shop in Dogenzaka we will frequent."

"We certainly appreciate the patronage," the cashier replied. "In fact, we're coming up with new recipes all the time. Maybe you ladies will stop back at the time we have the next one done."

"And what would that be?" Wuya asked. "Something delicious?" Even though that was doubtful, she thought to herself.

"It's an innovation the likes of which the old-fashioned geezers stuck in the past would never entertain," the cashier stated. "Spinach puff ramen glazed with gravy."

He then flinched at Yzma's deafening screech of "NO!" followed by her storming as quickly as she could out of the ramen shop, Wuya following while firing the cashier deadly glances he wasn't sure he deserved.

As Wuya caught up with Yzma, the latter was sighing, "I suppose we should probably go back to the base. It seems a shame to leave this place already."

"We don't have to," Wuya told her. "It's still daytime. If we wait until sundown, we don't have to refer to this as 'date day.'"

"Good point."

"What more would you want?"

"Well, a good cup of coffee would be nice," Yzma admitted. "Or maybe some dessert."

"Actually," Wuya informed her, "I know exactly where we can get both."

...

Just past Miyashita Park was the small avenue known as Cat Street. This was even more out of the way than A-East, almost deserted. The small yet modern WildKat café received few patrons, but those it did were surely important.

Such as the young man, who appeared to be a boy of fifteen – though looks can be deceiving – with bushy white hair, stepping into the café's interior with a knowing grin.

Behind the counter, the barista, a man with spiked-up black hair and a pair of sunglasses balanced on his nose so he could look over them, grinned right back while using a rag to scrub out the interior of a coffee cup. "Josh," he greeted. "Long time, no see."

"I'll say." The other, one Joshua Kiryu, sidled right up to the counter to speak more softly and be heard. "Almost like we were 'worlds apart,' don't you think?"

"I'm guessing you think that's funny." The barista put down the cup, picked up another. "Almost like cleaning up your mess wasn't a major pain in the ass."

"A little chaos keeps us on our toes, Sanae," Joshua reminded him. "Anyway, it all worked out. I got my friends to safety, and you did a wonderful job putting everything back where it was supposed to be."

"Not like I did it for you," the barista, Sanae Hanekoma, replied curtly. "Or the kids, for that matter."

"Right." Joshua fixed his violet gaze upon Hanekoma. "After all, an angel's gotta do what an angel's gotta do."

"Got a lot of balls, saying that out loud."

"Who's gonna take me literally?"

Hanekoma made a "ch" of amusement before saying, "That is basically what happened, though."

"Oh, really?" Joshua countered. "Because despite what I said, you were never THAT kind of angel. You're the kind who does what he wants, when he wants to."

"Yeah, well." Cups switched again. "It was that or open this place up in Traverse Town. And that place is a little too…Victorian for my standards. Call me back when they leave the 1800s. I'll take my chrome and asphalt back now, thank you."

"Well, regardless of your motives, I am grateful," Joshua insisted. "And that has to mean something, right? After all, I've never been grateful to anyone before. Well…maaaaaybe Neku. But not for the same reasons."

"You got a thing for him or somethin'?"

"Please." Joshua snickered. "Sanae, you know he's too young for me. WAY too young."

"And all that flirting you did with him was because…?"

"It annoyed him." Joshua's grin widened. "Seriously, though, he decided he wanted to make amends back in Traverse Town. First he says he can't forgive me, only trust me. And now we're here. I think I might have a friend. Or four. When you're not busy, mind explaining to me how that concept works?"

"That implies I know how friendship works," Hanekoma retorted.

"Point taken." The smile left Joshua's face.

Before he could say anything, Hanekoma noticed. "Okay, the smirk's gone. You've got somethin' serious to tell me. What, did somethin' get messed up in translation when I brought it all back?"

"No…" Joshua muttered. "Everything's fine here. It's just that things are getting a little interesting everywhere else."

"I see we didn't stay exclusively in Traverse Town like we promised."

"It was asleep at the time," Joshua reminded him. "It was like I was never gone. Anyway, current events are a bit of a…dramatic production at the moment."

"Comedy or tragedy?"

"Who says they're mutually exclusive?"

"So what's the deal?" Hanekoma asked. "To tell you the truth, stitching this world back together was such a job, I didn't even notice what else was making waves."

"Well, there are the things we noticed before the incident," Joshua pointed out. "Maleficent and Xehanort are setting up their sides of the board. What I'm actually more worried about, though, is the people who might actually stoop to caring about our UG. They're a bit of a ragtag bunch, and they don't exactly have the best track record, but they did manage to bring down one god already, and not a small god either."

"What, Yebisu?"

"Amaterasu, actually."

"Ouch." Hanekoma gave a brief nod. "So what you're saying is we've gotta keep our eye on some up-and-comers."

"They call themselves – "

"Hold that thought." Hanekoma put down the cup. "Customers. The regular kind."

As he moved toward the couple who'd just entered WildKat, Joshua shook his head. "I wouldn't be too sure about that, Sanae."

As Yzma and Wuya entered the little café, the sun had been just about to touch the horizon, indicating that they were nearly to the benchmark of being able to say they had, in fact, been out until a date night. "Hey, ladies," Hanekoma greeted as he approached. "Have a seat anywhere."

Seeing the café empty but for Joshua, the pair staked their claim. "THERE!" Yzma pointed emphatically at a particular table. "THAT ONE! THE BEGINNING OF OUR EMPIRE!"

Hanekoma chuckled. "Hey, why not?"

After the pair was seated, Hanekoma asked, "So what can I get for ya?"

"Do you still offer the muffins in sets of two?" Wuya asked.

"Of course," Hanekoma replied. "Pick your flavors."

"I'm craving anything and everything chocolate," Yzma stated. "On the condition that it's not TOO much chocolate."

"One chocolate chip," Hanekoma noted, not writing it down. "And you?"

"Let's go with your matcha muffin," Wuya decided. "And add two cups of the house blend."

"Coming up."

As Hanekoma retreated to the counter to begin pouring the coffee, Joshua asked him, softly enough that the women chatting at the little table couldn't hear him, "Regulars of yours?"

"The redhead is," Hanekoma answered. "Guess the other one's her date. She doesn't come in too often – just enough that I recognize her."

"The thing is, I recognize them too," Joshua whispered. "They're two of the people I was telling you about."

"Really."

"We haven't been formally introduced, but they've done enough damage that I recognize the WHAM ARMY when I see them. That's what they call themselves. Apparently, it's an acronym."

"So do we do anything?" Hanekoma asked. "Stop 'em? Or were you thinking of going in the opposite direction?"

"Let's not be hasty just yet," Joshua cautioned. "After all, that's how we get into trouble, isn't it? For today, let's listen in. If they don't catch onto us, we might get some interesting updates."

"Or we might get a thirty-minute speculation on Eiji's next blog post," Hanekoma countered. "All the same, I'll play along."

He delivered the muffins and the steaming cups of coffee, then wandered away to pretend to be distracted by conversation with Joshua.

"What is that, anyway?" Yzma asked, brows raised at Wuya's bright green muffin.

"Matcha," Wuya replied. "Green tea. With adzuki beans on top."

"Tea?" Yzma was baffled. "In a MUFFIN?"

"It makes more sense if you taste it." Wuya pinched off a small bit of the green dough, rolling it around a single adzuki bean. "Here. But this is all you get. The rest is mine."

She leaned over the table, and Yzma gingerly parted her lips, letting Wuya lay the matcha dough on her tongue. Closing her lips just before Wuya's fingers escaped, initiating the briefest of contact before they were separated in their own personal spheres again.

"Hmm." Yzma rolled the muffin mass around on her tongue, let the flavor sink in, chewed a bit to break up the adzuki bean. Swallowed. "Not bad."

"It's an acquired taste."

"I'll stick with the chocolate for now, thank you."

Wuya ripped off half the matcha muffin's top to stuff into her mouth while Yzma bit directly into her chocolate chip confection. "So," Yzma asked, muffin crumbs spitting out onto the tabletop, "you never mentioned how this place is connected to the Netherworld."

"It's interesting, to say the least," Wuya replied. "So in this world, every major city splits its Netherworld up into a defined territory, though here, they refer to it as the 'Underground.' Which is a baffling misnomer, since being in the Underground means you're just dead and walking around in the same physical plane as the living. We probably phased through twelve of them on our way here. Tokyo is so large, its Undergrounds actually get split by district. The Harajuku UG, the Akihabara UG – that's short for 'Underground.'

"It gets better. Each UG is run by a Composer. The Composer is a sovereign with absolute power as far as the borders of the UG. It's the Composer who bosses around all the Reapers – death gods – that work there. It's the Composer who decides how to handle the souls that wind up in the UG. Here in Shibuya, the Composer runs it more like a game. People pony up the thing most valuable to them for a chance to win back their lives. The Reapers keep the game organized."

"So who's the Composer of Shibuya?" Yzma asked.

"No one knows, really," Wuya replied. "They spend their days locked away in a mysterious subterranean lair, and I've never bothered to waste time checking the sewers for them. I've seen their Conductor, the right-hand man, a few times. Long black hair, long black coat, chunky sunglasses, tacky headphones. Just passed him on the street every now and then. Didn't bother further.

"Anyway, perhaps the best part of all of it is that the shops here are marked with a special sigil that allows the dead to manifest in corporeal form in a specific room. Meaning if you so happen to be a floating purple ghost who just got let out of a puzzle box, you can walk into a designated shop to browse and suddenly wind up in the body that can try things on. Unfortunately, the spell breaks as soon as you leave. I'm sure the UG game players get to take it with them, but I never did."

"I want it," Yzma decided.

"Want what?" Wuya asked.

"To be the Composer," Yzma stated. "To rule over the Netherworld of a city. To decide what happens to the souls after death! You thought you could escape me by dying, did you? Guess again!"

"Well…" Wuya leaned toward Yzma, speaking incredibly softly. "They say if you kill the Composer, you become the Composer. We could do it now. Find them. Take them down. It'll be a fight and a half, but…"

"Not today," Yzma broke in. "And not HERE. If I'm going to rule over a city – if WE'RE going to rule over a city – I want something with a better aesthetic. You know, gables and peaks."

"Monuments and fountains to remake in our image?" Wuya suggested.

"Open stone plazas," Yzma volunteered.

"Modern technology in old-fashioned architecture," Wuya contributed, catching on and agreeing.

"And colors!" Yzma crowed. "If it's not the right color, we'll just MAKE it the right color!"

"We'll make it happen," Wuya promised.

"And besides…" Yzma shifted, crossing one leg over the other. "This place…don't tell the others I said this."

"My lips are sealed."

"It's almost better if we have ONE place that doesn't know who we are," Yzma stated. She then grimaced; "I can't believe I just said that. But we've spent the whole day taking advantage of things other people made that we didn't have to come up with and govern!"

"It's like being fawned over by rock creatures without having to put the effort into making them," Wuya agreed. "I do agree. But only ONE place. Everywhere else is marked for evil."

"Of course, of course," Yzma concurred. "It's a cycle. We'll figure out our style here, then use the inspiration we get to conform everyone else to the dress code."

"And figure out how to make black ramen that tastes like food," Wuya agreed.

"Well, it doesn't have to taste like food if we're not the ones eating it," Yzma reminded her.

"Good call," Wuya replied. "Choose your city, and I'll be right there by your side, my empress."

"I was thinking more 'Co-Composers.'"

"I like that."

They each pressed hands to the table so they could crawl slightly across it, meeting in the middle to share a kiss.

Because of the muffins, Wuya's kiss had a slight flavor of matcha. Yzma's tasted faintly of chocolate.

...

The purpose of the Tao Troopers, elite force of Sei-An City, was to oversee that metropolis as well as that whole world, and to that effect, their headquarters was raised by magic to levitate far above Sei-An. It was to this fortress that Rosalina, Katara, Jasmine, and a golden Luma came in the dead of night – for this world was now always in the dead of night, round the clock.

A pool of water beneath provided the gateway. Katara bent the water to propel the trio upward, and the spout deposited them at the fortress gates; the Luma floated up to meet them.

"Who are you?" a masked guard clad in purple demanded.

"I'm Katara," Katara told him, "and this is Princess Jasmine and Princess Rosalina."

"We'd like to speak to Captain Waka," Jasmine stated.

"Ah, yes," the guard replied, nodding. "Captain Waka said two friends of Amaterasu would arrive with a star-woman and her child. You may proceed."

The gates opened of their own accord.

The hall inside was graced by an entire wall of multicolored stained glass; were the sun available, it would have tinted the hall in rainbow hues. Statues of angelic beings with wings sprouting from their heads were interspersed with enchanted precursors to computers – flat stones with illuminated writing scrolling across them.

Waka awaited, simply standing in the hall's midst and watching the door. "You have arrived, mes amis," he greeted. "It is a pleasure to see you."

"I was a little worried it wouldn't be," Katara sighed.

"We mustn't brood over the past," Waka told her. "Not when there is a future that may bring the dawn. Which I have foreseen you may have accounted for."

"Then you know," Jasmine told him. "How has this world been since we left it?"

"Tragic, mes amis," Waka sighed. "In the wake of Amaterasu's vanishing…the Darkness has risen upon our land once more. Demons run rampant, knowing no divine hand will strike them down. Worse, the old servants of Yami, Lord of Darkness, have returned from beyond the grave to haunt their old territory. Crimson Helm, Lechku and Nechku…and worst of all, the eight-headed dragon Orochi, who, if left unchained, would claim a human sacrifice from Kamiki Village every year. He is perhaps the strongest herald of the Darkness our world has known. His domicile, the Moon Cave, has reconstructed with his resurrection, and I took it upon myself to retrieve Amaterasu's blade Tsumugari, the sword that once held him captive, and use it to create a new barrier that prevents entry or exit to or from the Moon Cave until such time as a hero can step up to slay him."

"That's terrible," Katara mourned.

"Yet all hope is not lost," Waka went on, "for even in the deepest of Darknesses shines a little Light. Heroes have begun to rise up around the world in Amaterasu's name, doing what would be her bidding were she here. They train with each other and fight the lesser demons, securing the safety of such areas as Kamiki Village. The Tao Troopers and I have managed to clear out Sei-An City from such nastiness. Susano and Kushi have risen, of course. Camille trains her sister Camellia in the sword. Mika has united fellow monster hunters Haruka, Masu, and Wali. Kai leads an army of the Oina in the North. Otohime patrols the waters. Sasa Sanctuary is now open to all who need refuge. Many think a world without its mother goddess is doomed to fail. Many others think the lack of a primary god leads the world to freedom. But I think the hearts I have seen grow strongest are those who believe in the god they no longer have and take her love and kindness to spread with their own hands."

"Maybe this can help them." Jasmine withdrew the item she had come to return. She knelt, offering up the Celestial Brush.

"There is no need for you to bow to me, chère," Waka told her coyly. "After all, you are a princess, are you not?"

Jasmine rose, smiling at him. "Well…I think you know it's not that simple."

Waka took the brush into his own hands reverently. "I don't know, yet, who could wield such a powerful tool," he remarked, "but I do know it will be looked after properly here until the day comes."

Rosalina stepped forth. "We have brought you an ally, as well," she stated. "They have been preparing a long time for this day." She looked to the Luma, smiling warmly. "Go on. Introduce yourself."

The Luma flew toward Waka nervously. "Uhhh…hi!" they chirped. "My name's Eridani, and I've always wanted to be a sun. So when I heard your world didn't have one, I said I'd work hard to become the next one. Mama asked me if I was sure, but I'm sure. I'm really, really sure! It's the surest thing I've ever been of in my whole life! So if you'll give me a chance, I'd like to, um, you know, get to know your world well enough that I can become the next sun."

"The honor would be all mine, mon ami," Waka told them cheerfully. "You will always find a home within these walls, and the Tao Troopers will protect you like you are one of our own children."

"Ohhh, thank you!" Eridani gushed. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"And I thank all of you," Waka replied. "I suppose you must be on your way…but before you go, let me bestow upon you a parting prophecy."

He gestured flamboyantly before stating clearly, "The kiss of true love will be found in the remnants of the starlight!"

"What does THAT mean?" Katara asked in confusion.

"It is not meant for you to know," Waka replied. "It is meant for you to learn when the day arrives that it makes sense."

"We learned that the hard way last time," Jasmine recalled. "It was definitely a battle with chaos, just like you said."

Rosalina hugged Eridani one last time, and she, Katara, and Jasmine bade Waka and the Tao Troopers "au revoir" before stepping out into the dark of the day.

"I don't know if I feel right, just leaving this world like this," Jasmine muttered.

"Neither do I," Katara agreed, "but it would just be like the Painted Lady all over again. If we stayed here, then we'd STAY here and never know when to leave."

"I trust Waka and his forces to protect this realm," Rosalina stated. "It sounds as if a great many have risen up to follow in Amaterasu's pawprints. We must trust."

"I still don't like leaving a dragon of Darkness here who is the worst of them all," Jasmine huffed.

"I don't, either," Katara agreed again. "But what can we do? How are we supposed to take on something like that?"

"So long as the barrier Waka created with Amaterasu's divine blade holds," Rosalina recounted, "we should have no need for concern. Orochi will wait until we find a way to contain him. Until then, we may rest easy knowing he is trapped, with no means of escape."

...

Mozenrath and the Huntsman stared at one of Issun's scrolls that depicted the Moon Cave from Amaterasu's first encounter with it. Mozenrath then lowered the scroll, and they looked at the actual Moon Cave, a massive mountain looming before them.

"This is the place, all right," Mozenrath identified. "It sure would be a shame if someone were to undo the barrier on it so all the monsters inside were able to get out."

"Indeed it would," the Huntsman agreed.

"The barrier I refer to, of course," Mozenrath said as he strode toward a large blue sword, double-bladed, with golden clouds inset before its hilt, "is obviously tied to this magical linchpin." He tapped the hilt of the sword, which was stabbed into the rocky ground. "Now, if this linchpin were removed, obviously, the barrier from this side would collapse, meaning the enemies of the monsters inside still couldn't get in without permission, but all of the monsters could get out."

Without even looking at the sword, he reached down, seized it with his right hand, and pulled it out of the ground with a burst of blue magic.

A shockwave of white radiated from around the Moon Cave, signifying the dissolution of the barrier.

"Oooooops," Mozenrath chuckled, pressing his left hand to his lips playfully. "Did I do thaaaat?"

The Huntsman caught himself smiling. Living with Mozenrath, admiring him, was ever a cavalcade of his performances and quirks. Never a dull moment to be had, even when he lost control. Now, the Huntsman knew he wasn't the most emotionally charged person in the worlds, but he felt no sense of inferiority, no sense that Mozenrath wouldn't find him worth it. They were opposites; they were complementary. And they'd come this far.

"I'm thinking we'll give Lady Caine this sword to play with later." Mozenrath brought out his own enchanted bag – he'd been able to score it by bargaining with Mim to zone a basement floor of the warship for her death course, which of course meant Mozenrath expected to come home to find booby traps set up everywhere but where he'd allowed her to do so. Into this pouch went Tsumugari. "For now, we're actually going to do a service to the people and exterminate the evil we just unleashed. I still owe you three dragons, right? Well, now I'm giving you eight for the price of one."

"Technically just the one," the Huntsman corrected, "but I will take it."

"Now, there's just the matter of getting across the barrier from the other direction." Mozenrath whipped around to face the darkness-shrouded cave. "Orochi would only open up the gates for one reason: his human sacrifice."

"So one of us must pose," the Huntsman concluded. From here out, Mozenrath had kept this part of the plan vague. He was eager to discover exactly what sort of scheme he'd bought into.

"You're going to want it to be me," Mozenrath told him. "Just letting you know upfront. Orochi only ever devours maidens. Why men can't be equally delicious, I wouldn't know. Especially me. Not to mention the connotations of 'maiden.' Why is my sexual history his business? It's not going to dilute the flavor."

"That may be the most actively progressive thing you've ever said," the Huntsman observed.

"Yeah, well, chalk it up to forming a club of society's outcasts who want revenge on it." Mozenrath shrugged.

"So," the Huntsman went on, "the return of Brandisia Black?"

"Not quite," Mozenrath replied, turning to face him once more. "See, this time I'm going to be using glamour anyway. Which I'm aware Snatcher would call 'cheating.' Which, furthermore, is why we're going to leave this part of the story out when we tell him. Not because I feel in any way emasculated." He threw up his hands in a dramatic shrug. "After all, what could actually tarnish my ego at this point?"

Many other, more reasonable forms of embarrassment and frustration, the Huntsman thought, though he kept it to himself for obvious reasons.

"And if I'm going whole-hog…" Mozenrath drew his right hand up over himself, waist up.

Slowly his form glittered into the shape of someone else.

"I'm sensing a personal agenda," the Huntsman observed as he looked upon an exact replica of Jasmine.

"Oh, George," Mozenrath said in Jasmine's timbre, "don't tell me you don't want to roleplay the scenario where it looks like she's going to die. I know I do."

"And what of me?" the Huntsman asked. "If I am not the sacrifice, how do I gain entry?"

"You get to be my jailer," Mozenrath told him, extending a hand to him.

The Huntsman's physical proportions were not altered; he retained his height and bulk. However, he now looked every inch an imp, wearing the white-and-red mask of Orochi's minions.

"You would have me pose as one of these…things," the Huntsman said disapprovingly.

"It's all part of the game," Mozenrath told him. "And going to be SO worth the looks on all eight of that lizard's faces when we finally drop the act. For now, just appreciate the fact that you get to play rough with me."

He conjured a set of wicked black iron handcuffs.

The Huntsman would have been more than happy to use them on Mozenrath in any other circumstance – they weren't as experimental in the bedroom as certain other of their teammates, but some classic accoutrements were appreciated. However, the fact that Mozenrath was currently posing as one of their archenemies (to whom the Huntsman knew he would never be attracted) threw the Huntsman off completely. He did not apply the handcuffs with the joy Mozenrath probably expected. He did, however, act the part perfectly, standing tall and proud as Mozenrath pretended to whimper and whine in a way most unfitting to Jasmine's character.

It wasn't long before two imps, clad in similar attire to the Huntsman's glamour, arrived at the other end of the barrier. "A sacrifice already?" one of them asked. "But I thought Orochi hadn't even shot his magic arrow to select her!"

"It's that sort of ignorance that will cost you your rank once the ritual has been completed," the Huntsman said gruffly. "Now open the barrier and let us pass."

"Oh, somebody, please help me!" Mozenrath wailed. "I'm a defenseless damsel in distress, and I can't fight my way free!"

No, the Huntsman thought, they definitely weren't going to tell Snatcher about this part, because he would have no shortage of notes to write in the margins.

The magic was loosened just long enough for the Huntsman to escort Mozenrath through. "Say," the imp who hadn't yet spoken remarked, "I don't recognize you. I thought you were Yachiru, but – "

"I am new," the Huntsman replied. "And already, have proven my competence above yours. Be wary of that."

"Yes, sir!" the imp chirped.

The Moon Cave was an immense, rounded dome that bustled with imp activity. A pool of water lay at the heart; a wooden lift inset with stone tile grazed the water's surface. Doorways led to sub-chambers off to the sides.

"What now?" the Huntsman whispered.

"We need to get to wherever Orochi's food is prepared," Mozenrath whispered back.

"That would be YOU," the Huntsman hissed.

"I can't be the only thing he eats!" Mozenrath countered. "He has eight heads! There's more to it than that!"

They paused – the Huntsman had halted, forcing Mozenrath to stop walking as well.

"What are you doing?" Mozenrath hissed.

"Tracing the acrid smell of burning internal organs stewed in secretions," the Huntsman replied.

"Well. That's pleasant."

"It's coming from this way." The Huntsman hustled Mozenrath toward a curtain with a stew-pot emblem printed on it. "Certainly the kitchen."

The kitchen, a warm-colored room featuring a car-sized cauldron topped with a heavy lid and warmed by a constant blaze of fire from below, seemed empty at first sight. Mozenrath snapped his handcuffs away, though he kept Jasmine's form in case someone should enter. "Looks like we just found the first course," he remarked. "Well, hopefully the first. I really hope he doesn't intend to wash me down with this."

"Now will you explain to me why we needed to find this so urgently?" the Huntsman asked.

"I'm building up to that," Mozenrath huffed, ascending a wooden stairway to a balcony constructed at the cauldron's height, presumably so chefs could edit the dish without growing to immense size. The Huntsman followed him, on tenterhooks to hear the plan. "See, the story detailed on the scroll by the celestial envoy of the late, not-that-great Amaterasu told of how the dread dragon Orochi was defeated by becoming intoxicated with a special purification sake, a single urn of which rendered him out of all eight of his right minds."

"I recall," the Huntsman said, but calmly – Mozenrath needed to have his moment.

"Now, behold." Mozenrath gestured to the cauldron. "A stew of some sort intended for his doomedness." He waved toward the lid, levitating it off the cauldron with a hand. "As you can see – "

The dramatic reveal was halted entirely when it became apparent that there was another imp inside the cauldron, flailing about and screaming bloody murder.

Mozenrath and the Huntsman watched him, frozen out of pure surprise, as he screeched, "OUCH! OOH! OWIE! HOTHOTHOTHOT! WHY DOES THIS HAPPEN EVERY TIME!". He floundered to the edge of the cauldron, pulling himself up onto the wooden balcony. "EVERY DARN TIME, I FALL INTO THE POT AND THE LID FALLS ON! ONE OF THESE DAYS, I'M GONNA GET MY GOOSE COOKED!"

Neither Mozenrath nor the Huntsman had any idea what to say.

"Thanks for the assist, darlings," the chef told them. "You both saved my beautiful bacon!" He looked back and forth between them. "That's funny. I don't remember Orochi hiring a human minion."

"I'm the sacrifice," Mozenrath said blithely.

"Aren't you supposed to be chained up, then?" the imp asked.

"…Oh, nooooo," Mozenrath replied in a flat tone. "I escaped. This is going to be a problem if someone doesn't capture me again."

As the Huntsman put him in a mild armlock, Mozenrath concluded his charade with "Aaaaaand I've been captured."

"I brought her here to store with all of the other food," the Huntsman said gruffly.

"Hmm…I don't know." The imp pondered this. "She doesn't look as delicious as any of the others. If you ask me, Orochi slipped up picking this one out."

"DO YOU WANT TO CLARIFY WHAT THAT MEANS, OR DO YOU VALUE YOUR LIFE?" Mozenrath yelled.

"Calm yourself, PRINCESS JASMINE," the Huntsman hissed.

Oh. Right. He looked like her, not himself. "Actually, I am pretty ugly," Mozenrath corrected. "I might be the ugliest woman in all the worlds." Flinching, as if worried a certain other could hear him, "Except for Mad Madam Mim."

"Who whatnow who?" the imp asked.

"Someone magnificent and marvelous," Mozenrath replied. "If hideous."

"Anyway, if you were gonna stand guard over the woman, it's gonna be a while," the chef explained. "The work of the great Ajimi demands nothing less than fabulous perfection! …That's me, of course. I'm Ajimi."

"I've heard," the Huntsman replied. "They call me Yachiru – "

"That's who you're NOT," Mozenrath whispered.

" – but they do so incorrectly," the Huntsman recovered. "Apparently, I look similar to another. My true name is Yume."

"And my name is irrelevant, because I'm just here to get eaten," Mozenrath asserted.

"I hope you weren't ready to die anytime soon," Ajimi retorted. "I still have four ingredients I have to add to this to make my signature Dungheap Slimebucket Goulash! It's the ultimate appetizer, guaranteed to bring out whatever flavor the main course, has, if any!"

"I think it's good enough as is," Mozenrath volunteered. "It smells delicious, and I'm a female, so you should take my word that I know everything about cooking and nothing else. Why don't you go take a break for a while?"

"The captive knows not what she talks about," the Huntsman sighed, "but she does have a point. We are ready to bring the dish to Orochi. You need bother no more."

"AND LEAVE MY WORK UNDONE AND SUBSTANDARD?" Ajimi screeched. "FOR MY BELOVED? WHAT WOULD HE THINK OF ME THEN?"

"Your…beloved," Mozenrath repeated. "Is…Orochi?"

"YES!" Ajimi cried, as if it were supposed to be obvious. "How could anyone not want to love him evermore? His eight malicious smiles, his manly strength – ooh, I get shivers thinking about him!"

"How anyone wouldn't find that attractive is beyond me," the Huntsman seethed with a proper amount of sarcastic venom.

"If I may ask," Mozenrath inquired, "what is your relationship to him now? Are you his right-hand man?"

"Hardly," Ajimi sighed. "He doesn't even know I exist. Literally! He didn't know he had a head chef until I delivered tonight's menu personally! But all that's about to change once I wow him with my best dish yet! You see why I can't stop at anything less than perfection!"

Mozenrath and the Huntsman could only exchange a baffled look at first. Then, at last, Mozenrath asked, "Not that I don't live my life in the kitchen, but – "

"Wuya is going to kill you," the Huntsman hissed into his ear.

"Will these secret ingredients…make the goulash more appetizing?" Mozenrath went on. "Say…to mask the flavor of anything that didn't belong?"

"I don't know why you would ask that question," Ajimi replied, "but yes, they would."

Sensing where Mozenrath was going with this, the Huntsman volunteered, "I can bring you the missing ingredients once the captive is detained. What do you seek?"

"Now, don't go spilling my secret, darling!" Ajimi chuckled. "But since you volunteered to help…I'll need ogre liver, lips of ice, eyeball of fire, and black demon horn!"

Another heavy pause. "Those are all pieces of other demons," the Huntsman recapitulated.

"Yes?" Ajimi replied. "What's your point?"

"You eat your own kind?" Mozenrath gasped, pretending to be shocked – or, at least, shocked in a more horrified way than he currently was.

"Oh, no, of course not!" Ajimi replied. "Imps are the most superior of all demons! All the sub-races of demons, we're at each other's throats constantly, but Orochi staffs the Moon Cave with imps because we're the best! And good thing, too, because if it were ogres running the place, WE'D be the ones who'd end up in the stew! Yume can tell you all about our long and sordid political history, if you're really interested."

"I will be sure to do that," the Huntsman replied. "Where, again, can these other demons be found?"

"Oh, roaming around the side tunnels," Ajimi explained. "Go out, take a left, and go through the narrow archway! Literally can't miss it! Those tunnels get pretty dangerous, though. You'll probably be all alone down there, since no one else really goes poking around!"

"A risk I am willing to take," the Huntsman replied. "I shall return shortly."

"FABULOUS!" Ajimi cried, hopping about in a merry dance. "Good luck, darlings!"

The Huntsman escorted Mozenrath out of the kitchen and through the cavern to the tunnel entrance. As promised, beyond the initial archway, the caves beyond were deserted, twisting paths of stalactites and stalagmites punctuated with the occasional river of acid.

"We're alone," the Huntsman stated. "There's no more need for – "

The glamour faded, leaving him and Mozenrath to present as themselves.

"So that guy wanted to have sex with the enormous, bloodthirsty dragon," Mozenrath said in awe.

"His very existence offends me on multiple levels," the Huntsman sighed. "Let's just get this over with."

"'Get this over with'?" Mozenrath repeated. "George, we've just been assigned to kill demons. The goulash we're making is Orochi's appetizer. This is ours."

"You know…that is a very good point," the Huntsman replied, almost mischievously.

"And besides." Mozenrath's gauntlet lit up a striking blue against the dark of the cavern ahead. "This looks like a good spot to find some ingredients."

After what might be described as a rowdy rumble of searching the tunnels to clear them out of non-imp demons and collect their organs, the Huntsman and Mozenrath, once again disguised as Yume and Jasmine, re-entered the kitchen, bearing the fruits of their labor.

Both of them doing so.

"EEK!" Ajimi cried. "The sacrifice got loose again!"

The Huntsman hurriedly put Mozenrath in a lock once more. "Foiled again," Mozenrath sighed.

"I have brought you the requested ingredients," the Huntsman stated curtly. "Now finish your work."

"This is PERFECT!" Ajimi scuttled to gather up the fallen items, hurrying back up the creaking wooden stairs. Mozenrath inclined his head, and the Huntsman escorted him up to where Ajimi was doing his work.

The chef juggled the body parts of his rival demons in the air expertly before launching them into the cauldron. The liquid inside took on a thick purple sheen of Darkness itself. "VOILA!" Ajimi cried. "My masterpiece is done!"

Mozenrath's elbow gave the Huntsman a hard nudge. "It's just such a shame that Orochi will probably still forget your name after this," the sorcerer said in a maudlin tone. "I just wish there was some way to get him to recognize you."

"Where are you – " the Huntsman whispered.

Upon receiving another elbow to the gut, the Huntsman swallowed the words "going with this" and decided to trust Mozenrath.

"Oh!" Mozenrath pretended to come to a revelation. "I think I have an idea! There's another ingredient you could add to REALLY get his attention!"

"Pish posh!" Ajimi huffed. "There's no way you know of a secret ingredient I don't!" Then, leaning toward Mozenrath; "Though…if you WERE to make a suggestion…what would it be?"

"I think the last secret ingredient has to show Orochi that you've really put yourself into this dish," Mozenrath said. "That way, no matter what, there'll always be a part of you inside of him."

The Huntsman realized immediately where, in fact, Mozenrath was going with this, and he liked it.

"What is it?" Ajimi begged. "Tell me! TELL ME!"

"Actually," Mozenrath said with a sly smirk, "it'll work better if 'Yume' and I just SHOW you."

He and the Huntsman each lifted a leg and kicked hard into Ajimi.

The imp toppled into the cauldron of scalding goulash, and Mozenrath replaced the lid where he'd originally found it. He and the Huntsman waited it out, listening as Ajimi's faint screams grew more and more frantic…and then, finally, stopped.

"Aaaaand no more bestiality-fetish imp," Mozenrath chuckled. "Now, for the REAL secret ingredient."

He lifted the lid again, and upon seeing Ajimi's body floating lifelessly at the surface, rolled his eyes and magically churned the goulash so that the imp was buried. "As I was saying to you an hour or so ago," Mozenrath stated, "Orochi was tricked into getting drunk on purification sake. Now, such a holy drink has no place anywhere in the WHAM ARMY reserves, and I wasn't going to ask Yzma or Zevon to brew something so heroic. But all good cooks know when to make substitutions."

He brought forth his enchanted purse, and with a wave of his hand, summoned out of it a great many bottles and jugs.

"Where one bottle of sake can't be found," Mozenrath stated, "ten gallons of ale designed to get Asgardians tipsy should make up the difference."

"Isn't that everything Roman brought back from his mission?" the Huntsman realized.

"He and I have mostly cleared up the matter of the Tesseract," Mozenrath explained. "However, since he DID fail to bring me the item I needed, he owes me something. So I figured I'd take the actual spoil from that mission. I'm sure once I spell this out later, he'll agree with me."

The pair hurriedly emptied every last bottle into the goulash. The demon ingredients covered the sour scent of the alcoholic drinks nicely.

"Now," Mozenrath went on, "we ring the Epicurean Bell, as per the scroll's telling. Orochi will only accept his meal after the sounding of the bell."

The aforementioned bell was a large iron affair located on an upper level of the dome. Two imps stood guard over it.

"Lord Orochi's appetizer is complete," the Huntsman said as he approached, Mozenrath bound and standing "captive" behind him, "and his sacrifice is prepared."

"You'll never take me quietly," Mozenrath said with all the emphasis of a fifth-grader landing a one-line role in a school play.

"We must ring the bell," the Huntsman stated.

"Go ahead," one of the guards encouraged. "He'll be glad to know whatshisface wrapped up early."

The Huntsman ascended the short stairway to where the bell rested, then shoved it to trigger a sonorous toll that echoed throughout the cavern.

Then waited.

"Why do none of them respond to the call?" the Huntsman asked.

"You must ring the bell as many times as our lord has heads," the imp guard explained.

"EIGHT TIMES?" The Huntsman had lost his composure. "WHAT IS THE MEANING? I HAVE RUNG THE BELL! THE BELL HAS BEEN HEARD! WHY MUST I RING IT SEVEN MORE TIMES?"

"Oh, Yume," Mozenrath called out to him, "if you don't want to sacrifice me properly, I'll gladly leave so I can live out the rest of my innocent maiden life."

The Huntsman sighed in defeat. "Very well."

The bell was rung seven more times, which took seven times as long as the Huntsman felt was necessary to announce dinner. Several imps retrieved the goulash cauldron from the kitchen, naïve to their fallen brother within. The cauldron was placed on the lift at the center of the pool, and the Huntsman and Mozenrath made their way on board beside it.

"Oh, why do I always have to go back up there to the throne room?" the imp who ran the lift asked, jittering. "I hate going to that place! Lord Orochi is amazing, yes, but he's also terrifying!"

"In that case, you have been granted a reprieve," the Huntsman told him. "I will bring both courses to him myself. Alone."

"Oh, a thousand thanks!" the lift operator cried. "I owe you for this one, really!"

"Think nothing of it," the Huntsman told him. "I would die before I'd see myself in YOUR debt."

He approached the crank of the lift, almost effortlessly churning it round and round to ascend the stone-and-wooden platform through the top of the dome.

From there, the cave extended further upward, a spiral stone ramp paving the way. Mozenrath added some magical wheels to the cauldron, and he pushed it up the ramp with his sorcery while walking behind, the Huntsman close by.

"So, have you ever actually fought something with eight heads before?" Mozenrath asked.

"Admittedly, no," the Huntsman replied. "Yet I have no shortage of confidence that I can complete the task."

"Is there a particular strategy for this, or…?"

"As you've learned the hard way," the Huntsman explained, "when pursuing a dragon, you must NEVER approach it from the direction of the head."

"Which only applies if you don't have magic," Mozenrath said cockily.

"And how well did that work out for you last time?"

Mozenrath pouted.

"The problem is that when the target has eight heads," the Huntsman went on, "it will have the ability to face every direction at once. It may be wise to instead employ the strategy for slaying a hydra. After all, a hydra not only has multiple heads, but, depending on the genetic subfamily, may have the ability to regrow lost heads."

"So how do you kill a hydra?" Mozenrath asked.

"A simple strategy," the Huntsman told him. "And one that is important to the degree that it is taught without fail in every class at the Academy. To employ any other strategy is to court death, so you mustn't forget the simple step to get in place for the kill. It bears repeating, again and again and again, as many times as necessary."

"And that step is…?"

The Huntsman turned to face Mozenrath, and he could tell that behind the imp mask, his face was stern and serious: "GET UP ON THE HYDRA'S BACK."

"Okay," Mozenrath said with a nod. "I'll remember that."

The ramp culminated in a precipice that overlooked a basin carved of red stone. A small gray pagoda rose from the center of the massive space (that didn't seem much of a "throne" room at all, but Mozenrath supposed it was a technical term), housing a bell that looked suspiciously similar to the Epicurean Bell below.

"If I have to ring that eight times to inform Orochi his meal has arrived," the Huntsman grunted, "this mission is over on the spot."

The small circle of grass where the pagoda was situated began to turn in place. Up went the platform, spinning faster and faster, Darkness surrounding it and spraying from its momentum. Suddenly, in a glow of red, eight serpentine necks were visible coiled around the cylinder, alit with fire, and they burst away from the pagoda, snaking out to reveal their faces, each adorned with a metal helmet in a different color. It was now clear that the pagoda was actually situated on the dragon's back – perhaps a physical part of his body. His necks twisted into a knot beneath the earthen platform, connecting up into it as the dragon levitated above the stone of the basin. The eight heads, set upon necks of gray scales above and red beneath, craned to look at those who stood on the precipice. One single head, bearing a yellow helmet fashioned in the shape of a lightning bolt, looked around in confusion before zeroing in on the target.

"O servant," the dread dragon commanded, a single voice emanating from his frontmonst head – bearing a red helmet with the kanji for "fire" on it – as he stared the pair down. "Bring forth both courses of my meal. Be hasty."

Anyone else might have been terrified at being addressed such by a creature a hundred times one's size, with eight sets of long, sharp fangs. The Huntsman and Mozenrath, of course, were unfazed.

"Give me the means to lower myself," the Huntsman responded, "and you will have what you deserve."

Mozenrath bit his lip to keep from chuckling maliciously.

A ramp of golden magic appeared to lead from the precipice down into the basin. At the same time, a golden aura flared up around Orochi. The Huntsman and Mozenrath bristled. It was a defensive barrier. The dragon was prepared for attack even from his own underlings. The bell on his back radiated an aura of flickering purple-pink flames, indicating it was even more preciously protected than the rest of Orochi.

The Huntsman wheeled the cauldron down by force, and Mozenrath followed, attempting to look meek and timid. One of Orochi's heads seized the lid in his jaws and lifted it off, and the rest leaned in to take a deep smell.

"Ogre liver," the dragon hummed. "I do enjoy the taste of ogre liver."

Mozenrath could barely contain his excitement.

The eight heads converged on the cauldron. Seven of them dipped in, smacking up the goulash down to the dregs.

But one, the head in the fiery helmet, perked up to look at the Huntsman directly. "What did you say your name was?" he asked.

"I never did," the Huntsman replied, "but it is 'Yume.'"

"Yume," Orochi's fiery head responded. "You know that each imp in my employ wears a mask with meaning."

"Yes," the Huntsman lied.

"The syllables of the Iroha," Orochi went on. "Even the blossoming flowers will eventually scatter. Who in our world is unchanging? The deep mountains of karma, we cross them today, and we shall not have superficial dreams nor be deluded." He chuckled deeply. "I always liked it. It reminds my servants that their time here is fleeting, that they are disposable, and that there is no worth in their dreams, though others would interpret it differently."

The Huntsman bristled. Of course Mozenrath had no way of knowing that. His mask was incorrect.

"Yet not all of the imps wear the Iroha," Orochi went on. "Some have special kanji. For example, the merchants wear the character for 'merchandise.' I see in your case, you too are of a special rank. Your mask translates to the word 'Hunter.'"

"That I am," the Huntsman confirmed. "A hunter among your footmen."

Then Orochi delivered the punchline: "However, it is written in Persian."

The other seven heads snapped up at this declaration. "A TRICK!" yelled the electric head.

Yet it was already too late. The Asgardian alcohol was doing its duty. The seven heads who'd drunk were bobbing and wavering, clearly tipsy. The golden barrier aura flickered.

"I should've known we'd get figured out," Mozenrath said dismissively. "No. I'm not your maiden sacrifice. And he's not your stooge. What we are…"

The glamours were dropped. The Huntsman reached for his staff, bringing it out blazing. Mozenrath held his gauntlet high, shimmering blue.

"Is your worst nightmare," Mozenrath concluded.

"A dark sorcerer and his huntsman," the fiery head hissed. "Would-be dragon slayers."

"Just 'would-be'?" Mozenrath taunted. "They think we're amateurs at this game. I'm hurt."

"Your mockery will mean nothing when we strike you dead on your throne," the Huntsman growled.

"Is that so?" the only sober head asked. "I wish to offer you a counterproposal."

"All right, I'll humor you," Mozenrath sighed, rolling his eyes. "What can you offer me that I don't already have and can't get?"

"You seek immense powers of Darkness," Orochi told him. "You no doubt wish to conquer worlds. Your soldier has not the makings in him. But you do."

Mozenrath's eyes flicked to the enormous bell. The purple-pink flames were fizzling out as the alcohol settled further in. That bell was obviously crucial to Orochi's anatomy, else it wouldn't have been so protected. Probably his weak spot. A good strike there might even kill him, or at least permanently bring down the rest of his barrier aura. The dragon was distracted in his negotiation. The perfect time to strike.

Yet Mozenrath hesitated, curious as to where this was going.

"You could form a blood pact with me," Orochi went on. "I could increase your power a hundredfold, as you could mine. Your will would extend my reach beyond this cavern, beyond this world. For the loftier the ambitions and the greater the view of the holder of my pact, the more I am able to destroy. I will make you the lord of this world as I bring the rest into my reach. Whatever you want, you will achieve, so long as you have faith in me."

"And the catch is?" Mozenrath asked.

The fact that the Huntsman hadn't spoken up really betrayed a certain loyalty in him that Mozenrath found almost dangerous. He could take this deal, and if Orochi's price were what he thought it was, the Huntsman's career would come to an abrupt end without him making a peep about the matter.

"My price is your soldier," Orochi demanded. "Over his blood we shall make the pact. Tell me that you wish to steep this world in Darkness, and our ritual can begin."

"I have other allies," Mozenrath volunteered. "Do I have to give them up too?"

"We will negotiate," Orochi told him. "Does it matter, when you are the most competent and worthy of them all?"

"I am, aren't I?" Mozenrath replied.

He then gave a pause for dramatic effect. Still the Huntsman said nothing, grip tightening on his staff, braced for battle. He really believed Mozenrath would choose him over this offer of vast (if unspecified) power, and there would be a fight that day.

"Your words are tempting," Mozenrath told Orochi at last. "Very tempting, in fact. With all the cards on the table, I know exactly what I want to do."

He turned to the Huntsman, giving him a smirk.

The Huntsman nodded.

"Then say the words," Orochi told him.

"All right," Mozenrath stated, his voice growing cold as he faced Orochi down again. "I'll say the words: GET UP ON THE HYDRA'S BACK."

He seized the Huntsman's shoulder, teleporting both of them beneath the pagoda.

After all, Orochi's bargain wouldn't have come without a million more strings anyway. Did he think Mozenrath was such an idiot not to realize how much of a pawn he would be? This was how Mozenrath justified his decision.

The pagoda's defensive flames were fizzling out. "No doubt you, too, realized the dragon's weakness," the Huntsman told Mozenrath.

"Who could miss it?" Mozenrath replied. "And it looks just unstable enough for Huntsclan anti-magic technology to break."

Truly, the deflection aura would've been impenetrable on a sober Orochi, but this was not a sober Orochi. The huntstaff glowed fiercely, cutting right through the aura until the flames subsided.

Then Mozenrath thrust out his hand, striking the bell with a massive energy beam.

It didn't even toll. It exploded, a geyser of pure fire rocketing up toward the sky. Orochi howled, his golden aura fading out with the loss of the bell. His heads turned inward, all going for the Huntsman at once.

A brown-helmeted head roared down, an earthquake shaking the platform that the necks extended from in the process. Mozenrath first contained the geyser with a blue wall to prevent himself from getting singed, then slammed his right palm onto the ground, calming the earth with a pulse of magic. His footing steady, the Huntsman expertly dodged, then sliced off the first of Orochi's heads cleanly.

"Cleanly," that is to say, in that the severing was quick. Not-so-cleanly, blood burst from the stump of the neck and flecked onto Mozenrath, who wasn't exactly thrilled about the new spots on his robes.

A dragon head helmeted in a piece of metal wrought to look like a violet skull and crossbones breathed what was quite obviously a deadly venom onto the Huntsman. The Huntsman was prepared for magical breaths of all sorts, and held his own breathing as he forged into the cloud. A strong wind, however, blew the poison off course, right into the nostrils of another head, and the Huntsman realized the sparkling flecks of blue on the current betrayed its origin. He made another slice, and Orochi was down to six.

When a sun-crested-helmeted head spat attacks made of Light, Mozenrath was temporarily stymied. After all, he hadn't expected that to be in the arsenal of a scion of Darkness. Then again, it was said that even the brightest hearts weren't devoid of Darkness, so he supposed the opposite held. Not that he had any Light to speak of, he hastily added to that train of thought.

The Huntsman was ready. He zigzagged through the burning spheres, taking advantage of the head's tipsiness to remove it as well.

As Mozenrath held off the lightning attacks from an electric based head with a bolt of his own that met in the middle, then blasted the waterspout pouring from one mouth right back to the source, then summoned another wind to counter a cyclone from a third, watching the Huntsman slice each head off, he thought about how truly, taking Orochi's pact would have left him with a hundred regrets. And working in tandem with the Huntsman like this, knowing that man was his own to assert a claim to, was the exact opposite of a regret.

A head that spat out what seemed to be flower buds confused Mozenrath for a moment; he blasted them only for pure, undiluted Darkness to course forth from the open buds. He winced as his vision was obscured, the wicked magic biting into his skin.

A sudden piercing light. Mozenrath looked to its source to see that the Huntsman had traded out his anti-magic crystal for a solar crystal from the Cyclonian reserves, illuminating the staff, and as the Huntsman held this weapon aloft, Mozenrath felt a surge of pride for him. One that had nothing to do with Mozenrath himself. Well, he thought, that was weird, and I'm not sure I want to go through it again. Even if it did feel not as bad as he would have thought.

The seventh head was severed, thudding lifelessly to the basin floor. Mozenrath was spattered with yet more blood.

The only sober head, the one that breathed fire, gave the Huntsman a chase, nipping at him in such a way that he leapt off the platform and ended up back in the basin, outside Orochi's bounds.

Orochi reared back, proclaiming, "Now, huntsman, you will die."

"One of us will die today," the Huntsman replied, "but I doubt it will be me."

He broke into a run and a leap.

Orochi blasted his full-force fire at the Huntsman, his aim true.

The wickedest of winter winds, touched with snowflakes and ice chips that reflected blue, whipped in the opposite direction, sending the dragon's fire up in steam.

Mozenrath watched with something not unlike awe as the Huntsman soared up through the steam, faint outlines sharpening as he propelled toward Orochi. His staff was held high and gleaming, ready for the final cut.

Then Mozenrath realized exactly what move the Huntsman was going for, and he had just enough time to scream out, "NONONONONONONONO – "

And get completely ignored.

The Huntsman sliced through Orochi's skull vertically, cutting down the length of his neck to cleave it into two very long halves.

Which, of course, sprayed a tidal wave of blood onto Mozenrath, who growled at the soiling of his robes.

The Huntsman landed, bending at the knee to disperse the shock. He rose gracefully, turning back to look upon the carnage he'd wrought. Beneath him, the earthen platform crashed into the basin floor, which was really only a slight jolt.

"Well done," Mozenrath told him. "So. Have I repaid my debt?"

"Yes," the Huntsman said as he turned to look at Mozenrath. "You h – "

As mentioned, he and Mozenrath were not altogether experimental in private. When it came to physical matters, the Huntsman didn't really think he had any sort of particular kink beyond the presence of their physical bodies, the passion of their bond of loyalty that fueled their fires.

Looking at Mozenrath absolutely drenched in blood, however, the Huntsman was suddenly acutely aware of a preference of his he'd never known about. Mozenrath looked twice as enticing, the spatters of red asymmetrical across him (and it only worked on the Huntsman this way because he knew the blood wasn't Mozenrath's own). He wanted to beg and plead for intimacy right then and there, knowing he himself was soaked through with the red liquid, but he knew Mozenrath was very particular about being behind closed doors and on comfortable surfaces.

So he settled for something a little less. " – have more than done so," he hurriedly finished, setting aside his helmet on the ground and unwrapping his balaclava. "Kiss me."

"Someone's more eager than usual," Mozenrath commented, eyes a little more widened than usual before he walked toward the Huntsman, putting extra swagger in his step, deliberately going slow because he wanted to tease his partner.

The Huntsman refused to wait that long, surging toward him and seizing his upper body, pulling him close. "Let me kiss you," he breathed, knowing he had to wait for the command.

"Make it good," Mozenrath ordered.

And the Huntsman did, fervent and hungry in the pressure of his lips, the maneuvering of his tongue throughout every crevice.

When they parted for air, Mozenrath asked, "It's the blood, isn't it?"

"You're going to use this against me."

"I think you want me to."

He did. He also wanted another kiss, and before he could even ask, Mozenrath told him, "I'm up for one more. Anything beyond that has to wait until we get back to base."

It was almost torture, but a sweet kind, and it lasted a while. The Huntsman did eventually have to request that Mozenrath hit him with a strong Blizzard spell to calm him for the moment, which Mozenrath had no problem doing.

They didn't go straight home. First, they returned to the Moon Cave's primary dome, where imps hustled and bustled about. As the lift lowered, Mozenrath got the attention of the imps with a crack of thunder.

"UNDERLINGS OF OROCHI!" he bellowed, the Huntsman cranking the lift down at just the right speed for the descent to be fittingly dramatic. "YOUR OVERLORD IS DEAD!"

He tossed the halves of the red helmet, tinted extra crimson with blood, onto the floor below.

Imps gathered and gasped. "YOU…YOU MONSTERS!" one of them cried up at Mozenrath.

"You're sure one to talk," Mozenrath huffed. "Now, let this sink in. Two ordinary mortals managed to get into your ultra-magical base and bring down the herald of the greatest Darkness in this world. How does that make you feel?"

Another imp puffed out his chest, striding forth and pointing up at Mozenrath dramatically. "This means NOTHING!" he cried. "Orochi already came back to life once after Shiranui and Nagi slayed him, once after Amaterasu and Nagi slayed him, and once after Amaterasu slayed him again on the Ark of Yamato! So long as there's Darkness in this world, Orochi will always come back, and the Moon Cave with him! And when he does, we'll be ready to re-establish his reign!"

"I don't think we're on the same page here," Mozenrath told the imp. "See, you seem to be under the impression that the Huntsman and I intend to let a single one of you leave the Moon Cave alive."

The imp's arm shook, faltered, and fell.

The lift touched down on the water.

Mozenrath and the Huntsman charged into the fray.

There would be a lot more blood on their clothing before their date could properly be called resolved.

...

Though, actually, it really only ended after an extended session of private time in their apartment, on a soft bed, behind a locked door.

Mozenrath insisted on wearing the blood-soaked robes back down to the rendez-vous in the council room, just to show off what a time they'd had. The Huntsman wanted to protest, as he'd certainly be given away in public, but it was an enticing idea all the same, and so he did the same.

As they entered the room, they found Roman, Snatcher, Mim, Aghoul, Yzma, and Wuya gathered, talking amongst themselves. The conversation suddenly halted so the other six could look at the last couple to enter in awe.

"They won," Wuya said flatly.

"Oh, drat!" Mim said with a snap of her finger.

"What, exactly, did we win?" the Huntsman asked.

"We were just trying to figure out who had the best time and did the most damage," Wuya informed them. "There's no way you lost after walking in here like THAT."

Mozenrath took the moment to survey the others. Wuya and Yzma were wearing completely different outfits from the norm, looking like they'd come out of a fashion magazine and a Halloween-themed kingdom, respectively. Mim and Aghoul were dripping wet (water, not blood). Snatcher and Roman at first seemed unchanged, but then Mozenrath caught the glitter of earrings in Snatcher's ears that he knew hadn't been there before.

"Let's just say that all in all," Mozenrath stated with a smirk, "it's been a good date night."

"So, ah, did you figure out the solution to your little problem?" Yzma asked.

Mozenrath's jaw dropped. Then, at last, he cried, "NO! I JUST FORGOT ABOUT IT! NOW I'LL HAVE TO GO BACK TO OVERTIME!" A sigh. "Though I can't really say I regretted the time out." He turned to the Huntsman. "I'm all the more glad we didn't die in a black hole."

"Would you believe it was actually the second time I nearly perished in a black hole?" the Huntsman replied, finding his usual reticence to be casual loosened quite a good deal.

"…HOW?" Mozenrath asked in confusion.

"We gotta hear this story," Roman insisted.

"I planned to tell it," the Huntsman replied, "though there isn't much to tell. Local technological crime lords on my homeworld were warring over a device, the pandimensional…" A moment taken to remember it. "Ah, yes, the pandimensional vortex inducer. Their squabble took them to Nevada while I was deployed there leading a team to destroy an aquatic dragon the locals had affectionately dubbed 'Tahoe Tessie.' I only learned much later, after the fact, that the vortex inducer had been activated in the skirmish, and had it not been turned off shortly after, my team would have been in range of an enormous vortex that would have formed over the southwestern United States."

"Your life was weird BEFORE you joined up," Roman commented.

"Like any of ours weren't," Mim argued.

"Wait," Mozenrath broke in, eyes wide. "A pandimensional vortex inducer? A device meant to actually rip a black hole that was, theoretically, PANDIMENSIONAL?"

"Yes," the Huntsman replied. "I believe that is the exact function of a pandimensional vortex inducer, hence the name."

Mozenrath shook his head. "That's it," he realized. "That's the key! George, we were planning a stop on your homeworld anyway, but it's now priority one. That vortex inducer is the cornerstone of the entire Atlantean Empire! The plan is back in motion!"

...

A/N: Trigger warning is for: mass murder, character death, mutilation, gore, blood, cannibalism.