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.

173. Black and White Morality

A/N: Folks, we got some guts, gore, psychological torment, and flirtation with the concept of morality on the menu tonight! And also memes!

The song you'll need to know is "Thank You Very Much" from Scrooge: The Musical. I used the version from the Netflix adaptation, but pick your fave and it should be serviceable.

...

On the massive screen that overlooked the Grandmaster's conversation-pit lounge, the door to the Lost Lounge of the Sun was depicted. Mozenrath, the Huntsman, and Miratrix exited it.

With the click of a remote, the view switched. Blizzard and Whiplash exited their identical door into their cell. Click – there was Striker in his. Click – Albel in his bedroom, where there was a new, conspicuous door leading to the Lost Lounge of the Sun.

"And they think we have no idea," the Grandmaster chuckled. "When the twist is that we knew the entire thing all along. Except we still don't know what 'WHAM ARMY' stands for, but that's ultimately a secondary agenda."

"You know, this could work in our favor," said Swackhammer.

"I guess you're right. Ignorance is bliss. Maybe it's better we don't know what 'WHAM – '"

"No, no, I mean the fact that they're all working together," Swackhammer corrected. "This is a golden opportunity for branding. Think about it. Figurine sets. Graphic tees. We can market the whole squad, and boy, do people ever love a squad! Like Earthlings. You hardly ever see just ONE Earthling playing basketball against a whole team. It's gotta be a team or nothin'."

"Shame we're going to have to cut Albel as the Moron Mascot, though," the Grandmaster sighed.

"We could let him live," suggested Topaz. She was making use of the lounge hot tub a few feet over. A couple of brightly-colored rubber ducks floated alongside her.

"We could," said the Grandmaster, "but at the same time, we really can't."

"Which is why we gotta milk this cash cow before we ship it off to the slaughterhouse," Swackhammer stated. "All we gotta do is make sure none of the chumps figure out we're using their likenesses, or that we're onto their game."

"I expected you to be more broken up about the mascot," said the Grandmaster.

"You and I both know we have…other options." Swackhammer elbowed the Grandmaster with a mischievous smirk.

"Other options," the Grandmaster agreed. "You mean the plot-twist combatant we have stored up in case of this exact and very specific circumstance?"

"I'm still in awe that we had to use him," said Swackhammer. "When you first outlined this hypothetical emergency, I was all, 'No way are we gonna get infiltrated by a bunch of traitors who sway our champion and form a team behind our backs.' But stranger things have happened, right?"

"In fact, that EXACT thing happened, just now," the Grandmaster said. "Anyway, who's with me that we have to make merch that's basically Striker thirst traps?"

"I agree," said Topaz. "I could use a new water bottle."

"That's not…" the Grandmaster sighed. "That's not what 'thirst trap' means – "

"But the water bottle ain't a bad idea, though," said Swackhammer. "And that's our branding right there. Slap on a half-naked demon and call it the 'thirst trap thirst trap.'"

"Why is he half-naked?" Topaz asked.

"I'll explain later," the Grandmaster sighed. "So. Last call. Anyone think we're NOT going to end up with a final bracket that's all WHAM ARMY?"

"Kinda hope not at this point," said Swackhammer. "Our secret plot twist fella that we brought in to play with everyone's expectations is basically a shoo-in for the mascot, so I wanna get as much moolah as I can outta the geek squad here. If one of them dies, that's way bad for business. We'd have to, I dunno, replace 'em with a cardboard cutout. Actually, you know that Huntsman character? He coulda been a dark horse if we weren't supposed to be pretending Albel deflated him like an Earth basketball. You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"We actually kill him." Topaz lifted up a rubber duck and squeezed it threateningly. The squeaky sound it made was akin to pleading for its life.

"No, we schedule a match with a cardboard cutout," the Grandmaster sighed. "Just for the merch line. And who knows? Maybe it'll win."

"It's gonna be a cardboard cutout," Swackhammer told him.

"So what's your point?" the Grandmaster asked.

"Do we get to actually kill him AFTER the tournament is over?" Topaz asked.

"Our super-duper surprising plot-twist character waiting in the wings will do that for us," the Grandmaster said. "And boy, is everyone in the audience going to be blindsided by that surprise. It's sure gonna catch literally everyone who could be viewing, streaming, hearing about, or even reading this totally off guard."

"Do I get to kill anything after the tournament is over?" Topaz is asked.

The Grandmaster thought it over. "Mmm…Joel."

Topaz accepted that answer.

...

So began the reign of the WHAM ARMY faction in the Grandmaster's death tournament.

...

STRIKER

VS.

THE XENOMORPH

The black, slithering killing machine lunged toward Striker, spitting a river of acid. Striker let off two shots, did a one-handed flip to the left, straddled the Xenomorph, switched to a rope at his hip, lassoed and trussed the Xenomorph like a hog, and used an angel-grade dagger (that he'd brought in disguised as a garter) to disembowel it. As its acid blood leaked out over the ground, Striker dipped a finger into the deadly substance, then licked it as seductively as possible.

The swoon counter was up to a hundred. The Thirst Trap Thirst Trap had already sold a thousand units. Seven people worked together to hold up a sign that read "MARRY US, STRIKER!"

Striker gave a deep bow, holding his hat in hand, then sauntered off the field, leaving cheers in his wake.

...

ALBEL NOX

VS.

GET STICK BUGGED LOL

Albel didn't know how to contend with the Grandmaster's sense of humor sometimes. All he knew was that he walked out onto the field expecting a fight. Instead, he was met with annoying music. It took him a while to find the opponent – a tiny green stick bug doing a silly little dance.

Albel crushed it with a foot, snagged the victory, and left in a huff. "What a WASTE of my skills!"

Swackhammer walked the aisles of the audience, shooting a T-shirt cannon. Half the people struck with it died thanks to its ballistic speeds, but the lucky ones got to keep their "I'm on team WHAM ARMY!" shirt with the squad displayed across the front.

...

MIRATRIX

VS.

THE VERMICIOUS KNIDS

The shapeshifting blobs slithered across the field, a pit of vipers but much worse, at more than a million miles a minute, their razor-sharp teeth grinding like a plethora of garbage disposals. Miratrix might've been toast if not for her newfound power; in the form of the owl monster, she was able to slow her sight, watching the path of each Knid. Seeing the exact trajectory of where they would end up.

She loosed a fireball. The Knids had entangled so badly that when she lit up the perfect one, it acted as a fuse, transmitting the fire to the rest. The battlefield became a mess of burning Knids, letting out hisses of absolute indignation as their death knells.

Miratrix reverted into humanoid form, leaving the battlefield as the flames rose ever higher behind her. It was, frankly, the coolest exit that anyone could've made, and all sorts of wolf whistling went up for it.

Her action figure was the first to be 3D-printed for sale. The Grandmaster ran out of stock in the first hour.

...

THE HUNTSMAN (CARDBOARD)

VS.

THE GARGANTIANS

The cardboard cutout of the Huntsman – life-sized and perfectly detailed – stood in the center of the ring. The tiny purple assassins from planet Gargantia, each less than a foot tall, barreled toward it, weapons and voices raised for war.

By some twist of fate, the cutout fell over, right on top of the Gargantians. One of their guns exploded in the collision, setting the entire thing on fire and killing the Gargantians.

The Huntsman had, technically, just won the match. People began demanding exact replicas of the cutout, some for more wholesome purposes than others.

...

WHIP-IT AND BLITZO(?)

VS.

THE CHLORM SCIENTISTS

"No!" the big-headed Era screamed from the cockpit of the mech he piloted along with his cohorts Eon and Epoch. "I REFUSE to accept this! You CANNOT defeat the Chlorm Scientists! We are the SUPERIOR INTELLECT – "

Whiplash continued to feed electricity into the web of whips he'd woven over the mech, shorting out its controls. Blizzard, sick of Era's whining, just yelled "Oh, SHUT UP!" and flung a chunk of ice at the mech's head.

"Fascinating," Eon said. "You don't suppose this is actually a sign that humans MAY have intellectual capacities we haven't considered?"

"YOU SHUT UP TOO!" Blizzard impaled the chest of the mech with an icicle.

The electricity worked its way to the passengers, giving Epoch a thorough shock, which wasn't too different from what he experienced from his malfunctioning headpiece daily. He gave a yelp, the sort that could only be understood by his fellow Chlorm.

"WHAT?" Eon yelled. "No, I don't think the white one's armor is SNAPPY!"

Then the control panel exploded, the mech was broken open, and the Chlorms were as kebabs on ice sticks.

"Know-it-alls," Whiplash hissed. He then put up his fist, watching the people cheer for him.

"Hey, hey!" Blizzard ran over to him. "I did stuff too, you know!"

No one really wanted to buy Blizzard merch, though. The custom-printed Blizzard pencils went largely wasted while the Whiplash shower curtain (complete with wires inside to give actual shocks when in contact with water) was an unforeseen hit.

...

MOZENRATH

VS.

MEGAVOLT AND SNIPE

"What – " Mozenrath did a double take. "HOW DID YOU TWO GET HERE?"

"I dunno, actually," Megavolt said, scratching his head. "I'm just as confused as you are."

"Well, you know what?" Snipe lifted his mace high. "I think it's time to CLOBBER THE BOSS!"

"Yeah, I'm really not sure that's such a – " Megavolt began.

Mozenrath was angry enough that he was able to blast them both in one hit. Then, begrudgingly, he performed a particular spell when no one was looking.

Megavolt and Snipe reappeared outside the stadium. Mozenrath's face hovered before them through a scrying window; "I will say this once. GO. HOME."

He disappeared. Megavolt and Snipe looked to one another. "Uhhh…how do we go home?" Snipe asked.

"Beats me," Megavolt replied.

People were starting to write in requests for a Mozenrath-themed Thirst Trap Thirst Trap. Who was the Grandmaster to deny the public?

...

"Change in plans," the Grandmaster said to Jihl and Loqi. "Turns out the two of you, for entirely unrelated reasons, have been completely coincidentally picked out by the audience as 'cutest couple that's definitely never going to happen because they don't know each other.' The people are kind of asking for a two-on-two match. You two versus a not-so-power couple. You'd have to roleplay being in love, though. You know how shippers get if their ship doesn't become canon."

"You know, I think I can put on some airs for this stranger," Jihl said mischievously.

"You will be convinced we're lovers by the time I'm through," Loqi added.

...

JIHL NABAAT & LOQI TUMMELT (OTP FOR LIFE)

VS.

JAKE SULLY AND NEYTIRI

As the corpse of the Na'vi princess collapsed at the edge of the ring, the tall blue human-turned-Pandoran went into a feral rage, lashing out with his spear at Loqi and Jihl's matching mechs.

"Oh, how adorable!" Jihl laughed. "He thinks he can beat us even though his civilization never invented GUNS!"

"Shall we put an end to this, my darling?" Loqi snickered.

"I think we shall…hot stuff," Jihl replied.

Dual gunfire riddled Jake full of bullet holes. The Na'vi were both down for the count.

As they exited the arena, Loqi asked, "Is 'hot stuff' about to become a permanent moniker?"

"What, you don't like it, hot stuff?" Jihl teased, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

His standoffishness gave new meaning to the words "furiously blushing." "If you MUST. I would advise you not to get used to 'my darling,' however."

"Oh, trust me," said Jihl. "I much prefer when you call me 'Saboteur.'"

The Jihl T-shirt read "I'M HIS," with an arrow pointing to the left. The Loqi T-shirt read "I'M HERS," with an arrow pointing to the right. The Grandmaster and Swackhammer spent three hours hawking them at the booths before realizing that the pair they were wearing for advertisement's sake were in completely the wrong order and pointing away from each other.

...

ALBEL NOX

VS.

A MARTIAN (NAME NOT IMPORTANT)

The massive tripod let out its signature foghorn as it loosed a screaming blue laser at Albel. Albel quickly switched into the Meta's armor, calling upon the suit's entire strength to repel the laser with his bare hands. After holding the laser at bay so long that the Martian in the tripod gave up, Albel swiped at one of its legs, Overclocking with enough strength to suplex the tripod.

It was too big to be contained in the arena, so the Grandmaster loosened the barrier just a bit, allowing it to fall on and crush a good portion of the audience. As compensation for the casualties, he offered a 50% discount on the Albel Nox body pillows.

...

MOZENRATH

VS.

STARRO

It had been a long, hard fight, but at the end of it, Mozenrath burst right through the central eye of the star-shaped extraterrestrial, and the titan fell so hard that it shook the arena.

The audience cheered, and Mozenrath reveled in it. Of course, when his ego was inflated, his desire to do evil just became stronger, and so he whirled around, pointing to the audience and yelling, "YOU'LL BE NEXT!"

That earned the loudest screams of all. Mozenrath was proud of his handiwork.

As the Grandmaster sketched out the designs for the "You'll be next!" tee, poster, mug, and cross-stitch kit, he asked, "Bring up the bracket."

"Good news." Swackhammer did so. "Down to the final four."

Striker versus Whiplash and Blizzard. Jihl versus Loqi. Albel versus Miratrix. Mozenrath versus the Huntsman (cardboard).

"I think you mean the final ONE." The Grandmaster grinned. "Line up our secret weapon and schedule these idiots for a melee round. It's time to drop this completely unforeseen and unforeshadowed plot twist on our adoring public."

...

"No. No, I'm not doing it."

Blake Belladonna paced back and forth in her bedroom. Ruby and Weiss sat on her bed; the GummiPhone displaying Yang and Velvet was propped up on the nightstand.

"I owe him," Yang urged.

"I know," Blake said as she paced. "But this is Roman Torchwick we're talking about. You remember the things he's done! He has very specifically tried to kill all four of us! He only recently tried to kill YOU! And that's not even getting into what he did with the White Fang – with the Faunus! You're NOT safe with him there, and you need to get out before this comes back to bite you."

"She really has a point," Weiss said with a nod. "It's kind of one of the worst possible specific people you could've teamed up with. You're playing a risky game!"

"When we signed up to become Huntresses," Ruby argued, "we vowed to protect people, and help people when they needed it. Like it or not, Roman Torchwick is a people. …Also, there's kinda no better revenge than saving his sorry butt from someone else and making him admit we did it."

"That's also a very good point," Weiss said.

"Whose side are you on?" Blake snapped.

"Yang's!" Weiss argued. "This just…isn't an easy situation."

"I think it's pretty simple," Yang said. "I told you guys what I wanted to do."

"And I'm not going to let you do it!" Blake protested, turning to supplicate the phone screen directly. "We have to get you OUT of there before Roman and his band of idiots hurt you!"

"I've already thought about all that," Yang told her. "It's not like I'm stupid. This is all stuff I've thought through. I get the risks here."

"I just can't let you get hurt again," Blake urged. "Not like this. What if you come back without – what if something happens? I can't do this. We HAVE to protect you."

"I'm inclined to agree with that," said Weiss.

"Blake!" Yang snapped. "I never wanted your PROTECTION, okay? That was the whole problem! You thought it was best to try and protect me! But I just ended up all alone and feeling like I couldn't take care of myself! What I WANTED was your support! I needed you to be there, even if you dragged Adam's ass right to my door! I needed all of you, honestly, and I know I can't blame any of you for what you had to do, but can I just for once get some people on my side without worrying about treating me like glass?"

A silence fell over the room. Then Weiss muttered, "But she's REALLY got a point."

"So what are you saying?" Blake asked.

"I'm saying either you come help me save Glenwood," Yang said, "or stay out of it. I won't be mad if you stay out. He's not an easy person for you. I get it. I won't blame you one bit. I will blame you if you try to drag me out of the fire before I've had a chance to burn again."

Blake was silent a moment. Then she nodded. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll come help," Blake said. "Even if it's…him. Ruby's right. There's really no better way to throw it in his face than to take the high road."

"Blake," Yang insisted. "Don't do this just because of what I said. If you're not comfortable with this – "

"Of course I'm doing it because of what you said," Blake retorted, "but not because I feel like I have to obey or impress you. It's because…I trust you to know what you're doing. And because you're right. I didn't support you when I should've, and – "

"No, that's not what I meant," Yang sighed. "It's not so black-and-white. …Heheh, black-and-white! Because you're there, and Weiss is also there – "

Blake gave a slight laugh. Ruby's was more pronounced. Weiss said "I don't get the joke."

"The only person to blame for what happened between us was Adam," Yang said. "And I guess everyone else who was responsible for the fall of Beacon. And, well, that includes – "

"Hey, I was the one who fought him," Ruby said. "I think that gives me the vote on whether he's worth helping."

"That makes sense," said Weiss.

Blake nodded. "Actually, yeah. Ruby, if anyone should have a reason to stay away from him, it's you. How badly did he hurt you?"

"Not bad enough," Ruby replied. "I've already fought circles around him tons of times. It gets better every time I rub it in. He's definitely past redeeming, but he's easy to put in his place. And…I still remember the look in his eyes when I sent Neo over the edge of Blue-2. That was just his friend. The Bigger Bad here took his boyfriend, and that kinda makes me pity him a little. He's gotta be kind of broken."

"He's very broken," Yang confirmed. "But I can't really tell if that's because of Snatcher being gone or Giovanni's singing."

"Still kinda upset I missed that," Ruby muttered. "…Giovanni singing, I mean. Not Snatcher being taken away."

"You mean Snatcher being snatched." Yang winked.

"Yang!" Blake snorted.

"Well, you guys have time," Yang said. "We're not heading out for the final battle until whenever Roman gets back and hopefully raises us an army at Lastonbell."

"Give him a little more credit," Blake told her. "He was able to rally the White Fang."

"Yeah, because Cinder was backing him and gave him the script," Yang teased. "But he couldn't even rally you."

"…Point," Blake admitted.

Weiss started to remove her shoes, brow furrowed. "You'll call us when the final battle is ahead?"

"Yeah," Yang said.

"We can definitely get Rosalina to configure the Observatory to send us there," Weiss said.

"We'll ASK NICELY," Blake corrected.

"Yeah, but she'll do it," Ruby said. "She's awesome like that."

"And let's remember that above all, there's more than just Roman and his weird little family at stake here," Weiss said. "There's also a world that's being ravaged by a monster of Darkness."

"And one that's giving cats a bad name," Blake agreed.

"Love you guys," said Yang. She winked, blowing a kiss.

Blake blushed. Ruby waved, crying out, "Love you!". Weiss was creeping toward the door on her sock feet.

"Oh, and it was nice to meet you," Blake said.

It took the others a moment to realize that Velvet was still listening in. "It was good to meet all of you," Velvet said. "And honestly, I think you all have a lot in common with me. I'd be interested to sit down and swap stories one day."

"Tell your little sib we said hi!" Ruby urged.

"I will," Velvet replied. "I think you'd like him, too."

"Okay," Yang said. "We should go. Especially since I just heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like a Soul-Slugger Doom Bat whacking a lucky thirteen on a hay bale. Miss you!"

"Miss you too!" Ruby and Blake said as one.

The call disconnected. "Okay." Ruby flopped back onto the bed. "Now all we have to do is plan our strategy when we get there."

"Not easy to do when we don't know what all this Heldalf can do," Blake replied. "We might have to go in with no plan and wing it."

"I'm good with that," Ruby said.

Then Weiss yanked open the door and yelled "HA!".

With a triple scream, Kazuichi, Moana, and Booster fell into the room and on the floor. In that order.

"WHAT THE – " Ruby leapt up to her feet.

"Uh…sorry," Booster said shyly. "It's just, well, we wanted to make sure you were okay – "

"And maybe we wanted to hear exactly what was going on, since things started out so weird," Moana said sheepishly.

Whatever Kazuichi said, it was directly into the carpet, so no one could hear.

"Can you please release my boyfriend?" Weiss sighed.

Booster and Moana quickly backed off. As Weiss pulled Kazuichi to his feet, he started to babble, "I know listening in is creepy and all, but I can't just let my girl walk into a dangerous situation without knowing what she's getting into! What kind of a guy would I be if I let you just go fight the bad guy alone? Especially THAT scary bad guy!"

"Aww." Weiss pulled down his beanie over his eyes. "You're sweet. But this is kind of a Huntress situation."

"Hey!" Moana snapped.

"Are you sure it's not a Space Ranger situation too?" Booster asked.

"I'm to be chief of Motonui." Moana folded her arms. "I think I can handle whatever's thrown at you."

"You know…we could probably use extra hands," Blake admitted.

"Let's just all go as a group," Ruby suggested. "Six is better than three. Or four, or…however many are on Team Yang-Roman."

"You'll need a weapon, though," Blake told Moana.

"SHE'LL need a weapon?" Weiss gestured to Kazuichi. "HE'LL need one. Remember what happened the last time?"

"Actually…" Kazuichi grinned, showing off his sharp teeth. "I've actually been working on a little side project with the help of a friend. And I think she can help with Moana's situation, too."

They all journeyed to the Moogle Shop, where Lianna shared the forge with a Moogle, pulling something out of the fire.

Ruby gasped. "LIANNA! Did you solve Hobby Quest?"

"I think I did." Lianna smiled. "Trial and error were taken…yet I think synthesis may be my true calling."

"Welcome!" The Moogle waved. "Come to pick up the order, I take it?"

"Wait," Ruby realized. "You're not the guy who's usually here."

"Mog is away on important business," said the Moogle. "A series of strange incidents originating in Traverse Town."

"Should we be worried about that?" Moana asked.

"I wouldn't," said the Moogle. "If anyone has it under control, it's Mog, and from what he's written, he's found some powerful friends to help out. In the meantime, I can help you." He bowed and squeaked. "The name is Stiltzkin!"

Lianna gestured to the items she'd placed on the table. "They simply need to cool."

"AWWWW YEAH!" Kazuichi skidded over toward the table. A pair of gauntlets forged out of Gummi glowed there. "The suit was cool, but kinda unwieldy, and shooting the one plate took the whole thing out. So I'm going with a new approach. This time, if someone gets one gauntlet, they don't get the other one, and I still have a handful of laser!"

"Technically not lasers," said Stiltzkin. "Crystal-generated magical energy."

"Though it works in a similar way to machinery," Lianna assured.

"So, um…" Moana ventured. "Can I ask for a weapon? I can pay for it. We're just going on kind of a big quest, and it'll be better if I'm not just using my fists and an oar."

"Of course!" Stiltzkin said.

"What is it you would like?" Lianna asked.

"A mere," Moana said. "Just an ordinary mere."

"What's a mere?" Blake asked. "I don't think I've seen one of those before."

"It's like a club to hit things with," Moana said, "but more refined than your average club."

"You HAVE to show me," Blake insisted.

"What materials would you like to use?" Lianna asked. "We can use Stormy Stone, Dark Matter, Power Gems – "

"And actually," Stiltzkin broke in, "our mining expedition recently uncovered a vein of nephrite jade in the cliffs. It would give the weapon a beautiful green color."

"NEPHRITE JADE?" Moana's eyes went wide. "Oh. No. Nononono. See, that would make it a mere pounamu, and I am not anywhere NEAR the level of using a mere pounamu."

"Is it disrepectful?" Blake asked.

"It's TOO respectful," Moana replied. "The mere pounamu is the most revered weapon in all the islands. My father has one. It's supposed to be wielded by chiefs and passed through the generations."

"Well, you're a chief," Blake told her.

"There's no way I'm good enough!" Moana protested. "It's no ordinary weapon! It has to be locked up in hiding when it's not being used! Just being killed by one is an honor!"

"Will your dad be upset if you don't wait to inherit his?" Blake asked.

"I…don't know," Moana admitted. "I think you can have more than one. The point is I'm just – "

"We'll take one," Blake stated. "Because you ARE good enough, Moana."

Moana covered her mouth, flushing.

"But just in case," Blake said, "could we also get one made without the jade? For more casual carry, since the other one has to be protected so much. I'll cover the cost of it."

Moana gave the sort of whimper that comes from someone who has been given a gift far beyond what she thinks she deserves.

"Do you REALLY not want it," Blake asked, "or are you just embarrassed and trying to save face?"

"…I want it," Moana muttered.

"Then let's do it," Blake assured.

"And…and definitely use those other things," Moana said. "Stormy Stones and Leader Shards and what you said."

"Power Stones," Stiltzkin corrected. "There's no such thing as a Leader Shard. Though, now that I think about it, that would be a good name for if we ever discover a new material."

"Sorry," Moana babbled. "I'm just – really flustered right now, and that's a name my mind came up with in my dreams, so – "

"We'll begin work on the order," Lianna said with a smile. "If you can stand to wait."

"We can," Blake promised, and Moana nodded.

"They rebuilt Café Resplendence, finally," Ruby said. "Wanna go hang out there?"

"I do, in fact," Weiss said.

"Sounds delish!" Kazuichi agreed.

"Definitely!" said Booster.

As the group headed out, Blake asked Moana, "So what happened in your dream with the Leader Shards?"

"It's…really silly," Moana replied. "It's just a dream."

"Well, dreams are stories our heads tell us at night," Blake said. "And I like stories."

Moana tucked back her hair. "Well…I've actually had it a couple nights in a row. The first time, I dreamed that Maui and I were alone on an island, when this girl who…kind of reminds me of Kairi showed up out of nowhere. I took her on a Wayfinding adventure, and then she brought me to a special valley, where there's an enormous castle and a beach and a glade and even a snowy mountain. Actually, the little chef who runs Le Grand Bistrot is there, except I can talk to him somehow, and Mickey, Donald, and Goofy show up a lot – and Scrooge, which is kind of weird. But I guess my brain also made up other characters to go there, like this…ice princess character, and a mermaid. And I have a house on the beach for when I want to stay there instead of at Motonui. I actually remember more details than that, but…it's silly."

"No, it sounds awesome!" Blake urged. "I wanna know more!"

"Well, then…" Moana beamed. "So like I said, it starts with me and Maui on this little island, and then there's the girl. She wanted to take me to her valley right away, but I said I had to find some sustainable fishing spots for the village first, so we agreed to a trade. She would help me with the fishing, and then I would go help her clean up her home valley…"

Blake listened raptly to the whole thing.

...

Vexen slowly awoke on the soft bed of another Rin's. Obviously, the others had been smart enough to leave town and take him along. He started to sit up, groaning from the aches he'd sustained.

"Hey, he's awake!" Deymos said from the only other bed in the room. He'd apparently been practicing his sitar; Vexen had been too deep in his sleep to even hear it. "The hero of the hour!"

Vexen looked away and scowled. "Don't call me that."

"Look, I know you don't want to actually admit that you like your friends," Deymos said, "but I think the ending of that battle spoke for itself."

"The ending of that battle was a failure," Vexen growled.

"What, because we didn't get Xion?" Deymos asked. "Eh, kinda seems like she's too much work anyway. But I was thinking about it, and you know what we did get? Two of your biggest fans, three more replicas than you thought you'd have, two Summons – "

Vexen seized the blanket and clutched it tightly. "None of that is what we came for."

"Uh, yeah," Deymos told him. "We're walking away with the better deal here."

"Why did I let myself be deluded into any of this?"

Deymos hit a sour note on the sitar. "I'm – what now?"

"This was a mistake," Vexen growled. "All of it was a mistake! I should never have let you talk me into this!" He stood up, slamming his boots on the floor on the way. "How could I have been such an idiot? All this has brought was humiliation!"

"HEY NOW." Deymos was suddenly standing before him, trying to lean in intimidatingly. Not an easy task given the height difference. "No, we didn't get EXACTLY what you wanted. But is that seriously worth giving up everything we did get?"

"We came here for ONE purpose!" Vexen barked. "I trusted you to help me attain ONE goal! And at a moment of weakness, I – we never should've come here!"

He sidestepped Deymos, making way for the door.

"Whoa, WHOA!" Deymos barred his way again. "Where do you think you're going? Back home?"

"No," Vexen seethed. "I'm going to finish what we started. Without you or any of the other failures who held me back."

"EXCUSE YOU?" Deymos yelled. "Are you seriously gonna throw a hissy because of that ONE REPLICA? Wait, who am I kidding? Of course you are. You wouldn't know when to let a loss be a loss. You're better off NOT having that brat kid in your army, you know. You think she wouldn't just find a way to undermine you in five seconds flat?"

"I WOULD HAVE ERASED HER MIND!" Vexen screamed. "SHE WOULD HAVE BEEN COMPLETELY OBEDIENT! SHE WAS MY GREATEST MASTERPIECE, AND WOULD STAND AS SUCH!"

"Oh, Vincent and the boys are gonna LOVE hearing that." Deymos rolled his eyes. "Vex – Vexen. Let this one go. Yes, you made an awesome replica. No, it doesn't work for you anymore. Yes, you 'failed.'" (Air quotes.) "Except you didn't – "

"I'm done talking to you." Vexen used a hand to roughly shove Deymos aside. "I'm done talking to ANY of you! You can take this band of misfits back to the warship and have Mozenrath repurpose them however he sees fit!"

Deymos stumbled, falling onto the bed. "Can't believe I didn't see this coming!" he snapped. "Fine. You wanna walk out on this mission that we went on because of you, to get a thing for you, with five new replicas made by you, two of your biggest fans you didn't know you had, and a robot made by your best buddy? I guess that just wasn't YOU enough for you."

"No, it wasn't," Vexen seethed, hand on the doorknob.

"Wait a minute," Deymos realized. "What you said earlier. Your moment of weakness. Are you actually mad because we lost Xion, or are you mad because you succeeding at whatever you wanted was going to be your way to stick it to Ravess?"

"How DARE – "

"Actually, you don't need to answer that one. I know."

"Consider this partnership dissolved," Vexen grumbled. "I'm going to solve this on my own. The way it should've been from the start."

"Well, if you're going somewhere, take this."

The object came flying at Vexen so quickly that he couldn't help but raise his hand to catch it. Deymos' TwiPod. "What is THIS supposed to be for?"

"Think of it as a memento of your greatest failure," Deymos replied. "That failure being…deciding to take a chance on getting close to people, I guess. No, actually, think of it as a trophy. I gave it to you. You win. You can leave. And I'll let all the other people here who looked up to you figure out what this means you really think about them."

"As if I care." Vexen stuffed the TwiPod in a pocket. "I will, however, take what little conquest I can from this situation!"

Without a further word, he'd slammed the door and started to storm away.

In the lobby, the concierge – a cheerful man named Esteban – waved to see Vexen off. "Have a wonderful day!"

"DON'T GIVE ME ORDERS!" Vexen barked, shoving past Esteban to leave.

"…Fine," Esteban resolved. "I'll just keep all the wonderful day for myself, then."

As soon as he'd put distance between himself and the agency, Vexen dialed a number on his scroll. He'd talked a big game, but just to be sure there would be a buffer in case of fire-related incidents, he needed a bodyguard. The others, of course, couldn't know about it.

A half-asleep voice answered; "What is it?"

"Are you SLEEPING?" Vexen barked.

"Have you any idea what time it is?" Emet-Selch replied. "The answer is four."

"Four in the morning, four in the afternoon, I don't care – "

"No, I am saying that I lay down for a planned seven-day nap and you interrupted me on DAY FOUR."

"I need your expertise of Radiant Garden," Vexen snapped. "Particularly of the old methods and magics that existed during the Zanarkand war. There's something here I want but haven't been able to get, and I'm ready to play the strongest cards in the deck."

A sigh. "And how will you make this worth my while?"
"I could erase all memory you ever had of Ozma."

"I don't quite want that, honestly. What then would fuel my passionate rage that the rest of you depend upon so faithfully?"

"I'll – I'll owe you a scientific favor!" Vexen blurted. "A research project of your choosing, to be named when you think of it!"

There was silence on the other end.

"Emet-Selch?" Vexen shook the scroll. "EMET-SELCH, ANSWER ME!"

"There is hardly a need to be so sonorous." The voice came from directly behind him. Emet-Selch had quietly Corridored to the scene. "While I have no specifics for you yet, be assured they will come, and you may yet live to regret this bargain."

"I highly doubt you can come up with anything that could challenge me so," Vexen said to his face.

Emet-Selch gave a nod. "Then shall we be off?"

"Off to where?"

"Why, to visit one of my oldest friends. We're going to Iutycyr Tower."

"You don't understand," Vexen said. "I need your knowledge of THIS world."

"Ah, but it is you who does not understand," Emet-Selch countered. "You see, Iutycyr Tower IS a fixture of this world."

...

Roman, Neo, Symonne, Maltran, and Lunarre found themselves in a desert of dirt, sand, and scrub for miles and miles. Every now and then, the flatness was broken up by a Saguaro cactus. Where the quintet stood, there was a fallen straw hat leaning up against one such Saguaro, right next to a rainbow-sheened oil slick. A rusty sign proclaimed that past this point was PELIGRO, or DANGER.

"Ooh!" Lunarre saw the hat and made a move toward it.

"Leave the hat," Roman said in a scolding tone.

"No one's using it!" Lunarre protested.

"No one you can see," Roman corrected. "That hat is actually where we're going."

"None of this makes sense," Maltran groaned. "The only sign of civilization for miles, it's an article of clothing, and it's somehow our destination?"

"That's why we stopped at Yzma's place before." Roman withdrew the bottle of creepy-crawly transformation potion from his enchanted bag. "Now, everyone gets exactly one fifth of this. Anyone who goes over limit has to answer to whoever you left behind by doing that, and trust me, you won't want to deal with them if you have the effects of this and they don't."

He took the first swig, passing it to Neo. Around the circle the bottle went, with no problems other than Symonne proclaiming it "Most unsanitary."

Then the transformations began. All five began to shrink out of their clothes, and in the process, they felt the gentle morphing of their features into entirely new shapes. Neo, for one, couldn't help but think of it as a Magical Girl transformation.

Roman's skin was enveloped in an orange-and-white carapace. A pair of translucent wings unfurled gracefully from his back; striped antennae snaked forth from beneath his hat and replaced the sweeping bangs over his right eye. He gave a twirl as he saw fit – his hindquarters were lengthening and transforming to look more like an organic bulb of sorts, one that flickered with light. His limbs, in turn, became spindlier, darker. He had become a firefly in the literal sense.

Neo's arms and legs went even skinnier, and disproportionately long to the rest of her body. Her hair became a pair of curly, feathery antennae – one brown, one pink. The wings that appeared on her were smaller and crystal-clear; she flapped them excitedly and rapidly, emitting a high-pitched whine from the friction against the air. Her nose transformed into a long proboscis with a sharpened end – almost a duplicate of Hush's blade, attached to her own body. Upon full transformation into a mosquito, she thrust her fist in the air – this wouldn't be complete without a dramatic pose.

Symonne twirled like a ballerina from the get-go as she gained her antennae. The most striking feature of her transformation was the wings – absolutely enormous, billowing in mottled purple-and-black patterns. The wings of a moth.

Maltran tossed her head back, letting her ponytail turn into two curly antennae, as her eyes became larger, bulging. She too sported wings, a gradient from transparent to brown, with blue sheaths to protect them, echoing the half-skirt of her uniform. Her arms became bent forward, wrists edged with spines. She was the very picture of a praying mantis.

Finally, Lunarre spread his arms out wide, watching them transform into solid crustacean-like claws. A curved tail sprouted from the small of his back, arcing upward into a curlicue over his head. At its summit, a sharp stinger. He'd become a scorpion.

At the end of it, they were far smaller than the hat, which now seemed the size of a building to them. Symonne admired her wings some more; "This is certainly a fitting costume."

"The praying mantis." Maltran smirked. "How apt. The woman that slays all who come too close."

"And look at me!" Lunarre crowed, strutting about. "Deadlier than ever!"

"…Of course you'd be a scorpion," Roman sighed. "Well, you wear it better than he ever did."

"I don't even know who you're talking about," Lunarre replied, "and I'm inclined to agree!"

"Anyway," Roman said, "if we weren't dwarfed by our scrolls right now, I would so need to send a selfie to Gar. Let's see who the real firefly is around here, eh?"

Neo gestured excitedly to her new stinging proboscis, making drinking gestures.

"You wanna drink blood?" Roman interpreted. "I mean, hey, why not?"

She urged him to think about the implications.

"Oh, gender affirmation!" Roman realized. "Nice!"

"Onward to the hat, then?" Symonne asked.

"I suppose we simply leave our clothes here," Maltran grumbled.

"We'll pick them up on the way back," said Roman. "It's not like anyone's gonna stumble across 'em out here in the sticks. Anyway."

He swaggered over to the oil slick, which was now a lake. "This…should work for the Death Bomb, right? I mean, oil and water are basically the same thing."

"Wrong," Symonne said flatly.

"All right," Roman commanded. "Hand me the thing."

There was an awkward pause as his four cohorts looked to one another.

"…The thing is huge, isn't it?"

The Death Bomb hadn't been affected by Yzma's potion one bit. It appeared now as the proverbial large boulder about the size of a small boulder.

In the end, all five of them had to roll it into the oil slick. "This had better work, Roman," Maltran seethed as she gave the final shove that sent it tumbling with a splash.

The light that emitted was blinding, putting everyone in mind of a small star up close. Roman spun and gave it finger-guns; "You know who I want!"

When the magic stone had dissolved, it left in its wake an insect who was just as small as the rest of them. Had they been at full size, it would've been entirely anticlimactic. As it stood, however, the grasshopper that flitted over the slick was tall and broad, obviously very strong. His single missing antenna and single milky eye gave the impression he'd survived many fights – and that you should really have seen the other guy every time. With two sets of arms to offset his two legs, he looked this way and that, with a most vicious look upon his face, and then he yelled belligerently –

"AAAAAAAH! WHERE IS IT? WHERE IS IIIIIIT? WHERE'S THE BIRD?"

And immediately zoomed to hide behind the rest of the WHAM ARMY. Which wasn't really the best idea, because –

"BIRD?" Roman jolted, his abdomen flickering erratically. "BIRD WHERE? NO BIRD!"

Neo lowered her face into her hands, allowing room for the swordlike proboscis.

"There is NO BIRD!" Symonne yelled at both of the panickers. "And if there was a bird, I would make it regret ever flying this low. Trust me; you have NO idea what I could do to anything lesser than a dragon."

There was a silence. Then the grasshopper realized, "There's…no bird."

"I knew that," Roman laughed nervously. "The whole time. I knew it. Yeah."

The grasshopper sighed. "You are going to forget that EVER happened."

"Oh, trust me," Roman sighed. "I think they're all pretty used to it at this point."

"We all have our demons," Symonne agreed. "Some have feathers, and some have lion manes and no sense of loyalty. Now, to whom do we have the honor of speaking?"

The grasshopper was clearly still miffed that everyone had seen him the way he'd been. "I don't have time for this. Clearly, this is my second chance, and I'm going to go NOT waste it, starting now."

He turned to stalk off, only to find Maltran in his path.

"And who do you think you owe for that 'second chance'?" she scoffed.

The grasshopper slid her aside effortlessly. "Don't care."

So Maltran backflipped over his head and blocked his way again. "You're going to leave before you even know what we want? How pathetic. You're passing up on the opportunity of a lifetime."

"You're one of our kind!" Lunarre cackled. "You must've been, or Roman wouldn't've bothered with you!"

"Me?" The grasshopper gestured to himself with all four hands. "One of you. Please. That's rich. What is this, the circus rejects? And I've seen who actually got admitted to the circus, so that's not a compliment."

"Hopper, isn't it?" Roman said, sliding in alongside Maltran. "To most people…not exactly a name that inspires fear and terror. But here in this larger-than-life world, you're the boss. You call all the shots. That's what we need. Why don't we step into the resort and – "

"Give me one good reason I should go anywhere with you," Hopper said dryly. "You can't. End of sto – "

"Bird can't get us under the hat," Roman said quickly.

Hopper was struck silent. "In unrelated news, I've just been struck by an unprecedented streak of generosity, so boys and girls, how about I buy a round?"

Under the hat they went. It was a good thing Lunarre hadn't picked it up. It had been completely refurbished into a desert resort for insects, complete with a wrought-metal bar and several mosquitoes carrying orders. When Roman, Neo, Symonne, Maltran, Lunarre, and Hopper walked in, the mosquito waiters all dropped their trays.

"YOU!" one yelled. "YOU'RE BANNED FOR LIFE!"

"What did you DO?" Roman laughed.

"Destroyed our facility and committed double insecticide in the process!" said another waiter.

"And promoted union-busting," said a third.

"Boys!" Hopper grinned – the sort of grin that gives one the sense that the grinner hasn't quite forgiven you, and never will. "Why not let bygones be bygones, huh? How about this: I'll be on my best behavior, and you get my friends a round on the house."

"Why should we give you anything for free?" barked a waiter.

"Oh, I thought you DIDN'T want me to cause any more property damage around here," Hopper mocked. "Oh, well. Guess that's off the table." He cracked two of his fists.

"Wait, wait!" the mosquito waiter protested. "What were we thinking? Of course you can have free drinks and seeds! Come, sit, sit! We'll even throw in one complimentary massage per patron!"

The six villains took their seats at the bar. The mosquitoes doled out a seed for each, and a "drink" in the form of a droplet. Neo was the first to sip hers, giving it a thumbs-down.

"Water?" Roman sighed. "You shitting me?"

"Relax," Hopper told him. "There's only one thing they serve here that's any stronger, and trust me, you don't want a shot of cactus juice if you have any plans for the afternoon that don't involve severe hallucination."

Roman thought it over. "Okay, conversation first, then MAYBE hallucination water." He took a sip from his plain water and made a face of disgust.

"Look," Hopper sighed. "I'm not here for whatever deal you're offering me."

"You don't even know what it is," Roman told him.

"Do I need to?"

"Word on the street is you went through an awful lot of hullaballoo to get a steady supply of food for the winter without having to lift a finger," Roman said. "What if I said I came from a group that had that covered?"

"I'd say it's not about the food, and it never was."

"Oh, I know," Roman said. "I mean, to be fair, you'd have all the food and drink you could ask for. And it would be way better than this one-note diet you're living on now." He winced. "Okay, can you stop?"

Lunarre was making a point of crunching his seed as loudly as possible. "But I have the urge to DEVOUR!" he protested. "And I already know you won't let me have any waiters."

Neo gestured to herself.

"I know you want blood," Roman told her. "We'll have to wait for a chipmunk or something. As for letting you have a waiter or two, Lunarre? Not off the table, but let's finish our talk first."

"Wait," Hopper realized. "You just promised one of your associates to cannibalize the staff alive."

"Yes, I did," Roman affirmed. "I mean, it's not to my taste, but who am I to judge? Really? And if his thirst for flesh clears out our path, well, that's a win for me."

"Maybe I did have the wrong idea about you," Hopper said. "In my defense, it was hard to tell when you were screaming like a girl because there might've been a bird in the area."

"Who started it?" Roman asked him. "I'm not afraid to say it, you know, so choose your next words carefully."

"What are you about?" Hopper asked.

"Murder, mayhem, and getting whatever we want," Roman replied. "Though it's a little different for everyone. Me? I just wanna be top dog of crime. Neo here likes the thrill of the kill. Maltran's disillusioned, and Lunarre's permanently hangry. And Symonne, well, she's getting a new lease on life."

"I was ready to condemn my entire world in order to combat my pain," Symonne related. "Now, I've realized that I can put my powers to more productive uses. It doesn't change how far I'm willing to go. That said, I can't kill, or else we lose our edge."

"Lose your edge?" Hopper laughed. "How? Don't tell me you're scared."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Symonne said.

"So…you want her to tell you?" Roman said mischievously. "You want us to tell you the secrets about all of us that'll blow your mind?"

"Please," Hopper scoffed. "Nothing you can say will surprise me."

"If I kill," Symonne said, "I lose the power to use my artes. What you might think of as magic."

Hopper snorted. "Magic? Like that stage act with the mantis and his takeout box? Please. You're out of your depth, little – "

Then, all of a sudden, Hopper was flying over Glenwood against his own will, with no body to speak of – just his senses disembodied, taking in the sights of Lastonbell and Pendrago, feeling the whipping wind of his wanton flight, dipping this way and that among smells and sounds aplenty.

He was sitting at the bar again. He flinched, clutching it tightly. "W-waiter!" he complained. "I didn't ask for the hard stuff – "

"It's water," Symonne said. "What you saw was my artes. I can make people see what I want them to. But don't take it from me. Take it from my…well, I suppose she's my big sister."

Neo pointed slyly over Hopper's shoulder. He turned around to face an exact replica of Emerald Sustrai, human but proportionate to the insects' current size. She waved, then disappeared.

"No," Hopper protested. "This is just a bunch of hallucinations – "

"The first time, you saw the continent of Glenwood," Symonne explained. "I took you on a flight with a fair amount of air turbulence in order to give you the full experience. You saw two cities – two HUMAN cities, bigger than anything you've ever seen before."

"And we all saw the teeny human that Neo put there," Roman said. "Ask the bartender, why don't you?"

Hopper turned to the bartender; "Can you believe this load of – "

"A human." The bartender's eyes were wide. "A…a human…it was our size…and it had green on top of its head…"

Hopper whipped back to give Neo a dumbfounded expression. She stuck her tongue out at him playfully.

"We're not kidding around," Roman assured. "We're not even from around here, if you get my drift. Which I'm not sure you do, because let's face it, the story's pretty far-fetched. Here's what you need to know for now. You know how a lot of people would call you…oh…the bad guy, for what you did to that island of poor little ants?"

"I'm just an opportunist," Hopper replied. "There's no good or bad about it."

"There's no shame in admitting you like to be bad," Roman wheedled. "After all: the rest of us do. Wanna know our crimes?"

Hopper pointed to Lunarre. "He eats bugs."

"Guilty!" Lunarre cackled.

Hopper then pointed to Symonne with another hand. "And I'm guessing she makes bugs think they're losing their minds."

"It is SO much more than that," Symonne said. "As I said, I was willing to condemn a world to oblivion, as were Maltran and Lunarre. I was the one who would whip the mobs into a frenzy, showing them what couldn't be seen because it simply was not there."

"While I preferred to stir them up the old-fashioned way," said Maltran. "With my words. Though given my rank, I acted through a mouthpiece, someone with clout. Pay attention, because that will be relevant to why we chose to speak to you."

"And I would cause trouble as flamboyantly as can be!" Lunarre squealed. "Robbing homes, framing heroes…whatever would cause the most outcry!"

"My pal Neo here is a crook with a thirst for blood…metaphorically as well as literally," Roman said. "And me? Well. I was once part of a similar destroy-the-world conspiracy, like my friends here, but that didn't quite work out because, welllllllll, if I destroy the world, then there's nothing left for me to HAVE. And I'll admit, few things motivate me like hunger for what I don't have, but that involves not giving up on the dream because the dream happens to be giving up."

"Here's the part where I'd say you were crazy or something for all this destroy-the-world stuff," Hopper said. "But you've already impressed me a few times, so let me guess: when you say you're not from around here…you REALLY mean it."

"Most people find it hard to believe at first," Maltran told him.

"Let's just say I've heard…accounts from other sources," Hopper replied. "Apparently some of the local wildlife around the City wasn't so local."

"Yeah, no, you're not leaving it at that," Roman said.

"Look." Hopper shrugged. "We all thought it was just crazy talk. I was in the City on business, particularly informing the citizens how tough it was to be a bug. Maybe I planted a few ideas about how we could take back what was ours from the humans in the over-City."

"Your City was under somebody's house, wasn't it?" Roman said dryly.

"We weren't the only ones with that idea, you know," Hopper said. "One of the local alligators broke in one night. Real clean job, too, except for the part where they caught him immediately and bashed him with a shovel. I was half hoping he'd do the job for us and take the humans down, but unfortunately, the guy was pathetic. Kept yelling about wanting some kind of watery noose."

"Why does that sound familiar…?" Roman muttered.

"But here's what gets me," Hopper said. "The idiot kept trying to backpedal, yelling excuses like 'I'm from another world.' Down in the City, listening to the fallout, we had a good laugh over it. It was the joke of the town. But now? Starting to think maybe it wasn't so funny after all. Well, the gator getting tossed like a tumbleweed was funny, but the excuse now has a bit of truth to it."

"Unrelated to anything," said Roman. "Did you…see this alligator, by any chance?"

"Never did," Hopper replied, "but humans don't just yell 'a gator got in the house' over nothing."

"I'm just thinking that gators don't normally talk," Roman pointed out.

"Neither do we bugs, according to humans," said Hopper. "We're just the lowest of the low. The little guys. Now, most of the City folk didn't believe that with enough little guys, we could bring down the big guys. Thankfully, the influential few understood what I was talking about, and we ate well out of the human kitchen in the over-City. Which brings me to why you want me, doesn't it? To be your mouthpiece with clout." He gestured to Maltran. "Don't think I forgot about that little thread of the spiderweb."

"I didn't expect you to," said Maltran. "I'm a strategist, but I need a public face. A public face is what you are. The leader of a movement. The one who strikes fear into the lowliest of ants."

"And a few things less lowly," Hopper affirmed.

"Actually, we can help you up your game considerably," Roman said. "Ever wanted to boss around…humans?"

"I'd say it's a pipe dream," Hopper said, "but you? You've surprised me a few times already. I'll just ride it out and see where this goes."

"You need a new gang," Roman told him. "The others abandoned you to the…the thing we don't talk about."

"Worthless anyway," Hopper huffed. "Dumb muscle. I take it you have more to offer."

"Considerably more," said Symonne.

Neo nodded.

"But I can also sense your hesitation," Roman said. "I know, I know. Five strangers just resurrect you from the dead, and now they immediately want to put you to work? How do you know you can trust them? How do you know they have YOUR best interests at heart? Well, I'll tell you. We're going to do a trade. We do something for you and you do something for us."

"Oh, really." Hopper chuckled. "And what exactly did you have in mind to bribe me with?"

"It's not a bribe!" Roman protested, somewhat laughing himself. "Think of it as a joint venture. I know how peop – how bugs like you work, after all. I know what you want more than anything."

"A fresh start, for one," said Symonne. "Could we not all use such a thing? It did wonders for Lunarre, Maltran, and myself."

"True, true…" Hopper thought it over. "I have worn out all the old stomping grounds. It'd be hard territory to recover. But that's not the thing I want the MOST."

"I know," Roman told him. "I did some homework before I got here. The Booger-Flick and Princess Atta-Girl are gonna be putting in a royal appearance at the Loser Circus. Everyone you hate in one tent. Can you pass that one up?"

"How did you – " Hopper gaped. Then his expression hardened; "This had better not be a lie."

"It's not," Roman told him. "And even if it was, well, would you say no if we showed up at the circus and it was just the clowns?"

"Admittedly, it doesn't matter what order I squish them in," Hopper said. "All right. I'll see just how far this goes. You help me crush the bugs that humiliated me, ran me out of town, and killed me in the most cruel and unusual way that none of them would want to admit they were capable of. Then I deliver whatever little speech you wrote for whatever crowd you have waiting on standby."

"And after that…" Roman shrugged. "Maybe, if we're friends, we could work out a longer-term partnership."

"Don't count the maggots before they hatch," Hopper told him. "But…I guess it's possible. If you impress me."

"Challenge accepted." Roman put out his hand.

Hopper seized it in both of his right hands, pumping it once. "I like your style. What was your name again?"

"Roman Torchwick."

"Classy, with a hint of citronella! All right, Torchwick. Show me what you got."

...

Standing at the threshold of the Galaxy Generator, Mim, Aghoul, Mysterio, and the Ebony Maw quickly went over their plan to ensure no errors.

"Are you really sure you want to do this?" Mim asked Aghoul with wide eyes. "I'm going to make you do it either way, and it's actually more fun for me if you don't, but still, this is quite the surprise!"

"It should be no trouble at all," Aghoul replied. "So long as Mysterio doesn't botch it."

"Excuse you!" Mysterio scoffed. "I control Reality itself! Is there anyone you think could handle it BETTER?"

Mim and Aghoul had to think that one over. "No, I don't think there is," Mim said, "but that's likely because there aren't a whole lot of responsible people in the WHAM ARMY to begin with."

"I suppose Emet-Selch is one," said Aghoul, "but that's exactly why he's a bore, and besides, I wouldn't want to be the one who wakes him up from his weeklong nap."

"And he cheats at any and all card games," Mysterio muttered. "Let's not forget that one. Yes, I'm still bitter."

"I, for one, am far more impressed that I am being trusted with such a delicate matter as this," said Ebony. "After all, it was not that long ago that I was employed by your mortal enemy."

"Yes, but even then, you weren't on Loki's side," Aghoul told him. "The people we're attacking are. We already know we have a mutual hatred of the Overtakers, and you certainly wouldn't ruin our alliance with that chance of revenge on the line."

"We may have WANTED Thanos dead," Mim agreed, "but they're the ones who actually MADE him dead!"

Ebony found himself chuckling. "Quite astute. And you are correct. Though I should assure that there is little you need worry about from me anymore."

"Well, we seem to have it all figured out," Aghoul said, "so without further ado…"

Mysterio reached over to tear a hole in reality, a red-rimmed rift that seemingly hung in midair and didn't go anywhere at all. The truth was more complex: a way between the real world and the Netherworld. Anyone who crossed it would be in the realm of the dead souls that refused to pass on to an afterlife – and have direct access to a connected realm, one that Aghoul already knew he could pass into if he got this far.

"And for you to get back…" Mysterio forged an iridescent crystal skull in his hands. "Throw this like one of your usual bombs. A new rift will open up. And the Overtakers will be none the wiser."

"Just remember to keep an eye on your wrist!" Mim urged. "We don't need to get anyone incapacitated on this mission!"

They'd fashioned Aghoul a tracker to wear on his wrist. Three emblems, skulls and crossbones, set in an ornate bracelet. Beneath them, the Eye of Agamotto.

"And I don't need you to slow me down," Aghoul reminded them, "so try to keep the dying to a minimum. Well, I guess this is goodbye!"

He stepped through the rift, which sealed behind him. He couldn't help but shiver – never would he have thought of going back to the Netherworld willingly. That said, he'd never had a friend with the legendary Aether on his side before.

"All right, then!" Mim swung her fist. "Let's bring down – actually, I think I'll let our resident thespian say it."

"Why, thank you!" Mysterio bowed. "Now, let's BRING DOWN THE HOUSE!"

It was a barrage of explosions that brought Maleficent, Grimhilde, Jafar, and Ironwood out of the sitting room of one of the many bulwarks that made up Bowser's former territory. "WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?" Jafar barked.

The first thing anyone saw was Mysterio. He'd used the Aether to grow to the size he'd projected with his earlier hologram back in Asgard. He collected raw Darkness in both hands, tinting it extra purple with his own will.

Then they saw the other two. The Maw, seizing asteroids from around the galaxy and slamming them into turrets at random. And Mim, starting out human enough to be recognizable, creating multicolored fireworks to shoot at the various planetoids.

"AH!" Mysterio greeted. "I SEE WE HAVE SEVERAL OF THE HEAVY HITTERS OUT TONIGHT! AND…SOME RANDOM MAN IN A MILITARY UNIFORM, I GUESS."

Ironwood brought out his gun. "I'll teach him to take me seriously."

"Though if I may," Jafar pointed out, "it is rather difficult to sell the idea of your inclusion when you're dressed like THAT. Perhaps it's time to upgrade to a more villainous aesthetic."

"Of that, I have some ideas…" Grimhilde mused.

"Brothers and sisters!" the Maw announced as he flew past the Overtakers, riding a wave of debris he'd created. "We come to assert the dominance of the TRUE cosmic power. The slayers of Thanos shall fall at our hand!"

"Slayers of Thanos?" Maleficent repeated. "How quaint. Loki must have already taken care of the Infinity problem."

"WE'RE NOT LEAVING UNTIL WE GET SOME WELL-DESERVED REVENGE!" Mim had sprouted batlike wings to careen about. "IF YOU WANT TO STOP US, COME OUT AND FIGHT US!"

Maleficent, Grimhilde, Jafar, and Ironwood exchanged glances.

"I think we all know this is bait," said Ironwood.

Maleficent smiled. "Indeed, we do."

"But given the circumstances…" Ironwood nodded. "No harm in playing the game for a while."

"They MUST be stopped from ruining our turrets nonetheless," Jafar agreed.

They turned back, and three streaks of bright, fiery light – green, purple, and red – shot forth like comets. Ironwood could do no such transformation, but made up for it by springing from wall to wall, using some of the Maw's property damage as footholds.

Jafar rematerialized in front of Mysterio, scoffing, "This ILLUSIONIST thinks he can match the might of a genie?"

Mysterio gave a gasp, pretending offense. "Mysterio is no illusionist playing parlor tricks! Mysterio is A MASTER OF THE ARCANE ARTS!"

Jafar simply rolled his eyes and initiated his transformation, becoming a massive cobra that could rival Mysterio's new size. Mysterio responded by drawing up his cape, then flinging it outward. Normally, this was where he would send his robotic bats to the charge, but this time, the Aether let him do something mildly more interesting. Jafar found himself facing down winged silhouettes of Mysterio's allies from Asgard: Sho, Coco, Carrion, Letheo, Shape, Valentine, Whisp, Ember, Skulker, Verosika, and Nevan.

Each shadow copy possessed an imitation power of its original. Sho launched projectiles, Coco hurled lip-gloss bombs, webs of imitation Nightmares branched off Carrion, Letheo and Shape wielded blades of various lengths, Whisp could manipulate the same Darkness that Mysterio was using for his prime attacks, Ember's guitar emitted shockwaves as well as fitting background music, Skulker had shadowy lasers and missiles, Verosika was given the bonus power of being able to sing similar shockwaves to those that came from the guitar, and Nevan of course could become a host of bats and lightning.

Jafar quickly swallowed Verosika, smashing Letheo and Ember with his coils. It seemed that this army was just a warm-up to him, and since they were never real, he could destroy them without violating genie law. So Mysterio gathered up an orb of Darkness in his hands, ready to launch it the minute that Jafar finished with the horde.

Jafar didn't even wait that long to suddenly strike, sinking his fangs into Mysterio's shoulder.

"…Oh," Mysterio reeled, his vision fading. Apparently, genie venom acted fast. He lost grip, floating out into the cosmos.

Then, with the last of his consciousness, he put the Aether's entire energy into simply blowing himself up into ash. As was planned. After all, whatever that venom was about to do, it wasn't going to kill him.

Aghoul had already scouted the halls of one turret. Nothing here. Then the light caught his attention – the center skull and crossbones on the bracelet, glowing bright lime-green. "Already?" Aghoul rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine…"

He tapped the bracelet, rewinding time itself by five minutes.

Mysterio gathered up an orb of Darkness in his hands, ready to launch it the minute that Jafar finished with the horde. Jafar didn't even wait that long to suddenly strike, but Mysterio was ready for him, sidestepping and slamming the Dark orb into Jafar's eyes. Jafar let out a cry of pain and absolute anger.

"THEY ARE ALTERING TIME ITSELF!" he yelled.

The others were about to find that out, of course.

The Maw and Grimhilde were locked in a battle of metaphysical strength. The former was still pulling planetoids, meteorites, and anything within a mile's reach to crash around the turrets and cause as much damage as possible. Grimhilde retaliated with the ripping gales and lightning strikes of a storm, focused on the Maw as its eye. Ebony redirected the debris into surrounding himself, creating a shield from the wind and lightning, while also launching sizeable shrapnel at Grimhilde. Grimhilde was easily able to destroy the rock and metal that hurtled toward her before it could get close.

In all this, the Maw had forgotten the other player on the board. When he felt Ironwood's bullets unload en masse into his back, that was when he remembered.

Ebony staggered, knowing this was his own death. He fell to his kness, turning to give Ironwood a smile. "You know not what you have begun…"

Then he collapsed.

Another turret of disappointment. Aghoul had managed to get to the very heart of it and find nothing. Then the rightmost skull deepened to jet black.

"Not surprising." Aghoul tapped the bracelet.

Ebony redirected the debris into surrounding himself, creating a shield from the wind and lightning, while also launching sizeable shrapnel at Grimhilde. Grimhilde was easily able to destroy the rock and metal that hurtled toward her before it could get close.

In all this, the Maw had not forgotten Ironwood. He quickly whirled and shot half of the debris in his floating storm shelter at the general – which probably would have killed a man whose chest wasn't half metal. Ironwood was flung to the nearest planetoid and buried in the rubble, forced to draw upon his Semblance – Mettle, a strengthening of his willpower – to start digging his way out from the inside.

Maleficent immediately erupted into the form of the jet-black dragon, so Mim took on her own dragon form, bright purple. The two went airborne, blowing columns of fire at one another. Mim then tackled Maleficent, trying to scrape open her underbelly.

Maleficent's tail wrapped around Mim's neck – rather spindly, for a dragon, she thought – and, charged with Darkness and green energy, made short work of snapping it.

When the leftmost skull blazed purple on Aghoul's bracelet, he groaned. "Now, YOU I thought would do better!" He tapped it twice, rewinding himself further back into the turret he'd been exploring.

Maleficent immediately erupted into the form of the jet-black dragon, so Mim took on her own dragon form, bright purple. The two went airborne, blowing columns of fire at one another. Mim then tackled Maleficent, trying to scrape open her underbelly. Maleficent's tail whipped toward Mim's neck; Mim unleashed her full fire breath upon it, forcing Maleficent's movements to stutter from the sudden burn.

Aghoul was getting very tired of having to reverse his own progress every time he pulled off a resurrection, but thus was the plan, and he didn't have any better ideas. All he could hope was to find the quarry soon – and then, all of a sudden, he'd bashed in a door and there was the target.

Rumplestiltskin – or perhaps Mr. Gold – was preserved in a standing glass coffin, the picture of sleeping serenity. Cursed by Maleficent, he wasn't waking up for anything natural.

"About time!" Aghoul approached him, cracking his knuckles. It had been a while since he'd tapped into any of the old death magic.

Sleep and death were twins. Everyone versed in ancient magic knew that. As such, each had its own Netherworld. Death's was a facsimile of the waking world and sleep's a division of the Realm of Sleep. The two were, however, quite connected. Aghoul recalled how during his days in the Netherworld for the dead, he would often pass time in the other one simply because he was bored. The Netherworld for dreams always had a good fire going and was excellent for roasting marshmallows at the very least.

Of course, in order to make the leap, he needed a dreamer. The first step was to get rid of the coffin, which surely had protective enchantments to keep intruders at bay. A control terminal nearby dispelled it easily – the password to the terminal, Aghoul found in a small book lying next to it, though had he known Watts better, he might've even been able to guess "#1AtlesianScientist".

The coffin opened as Aghoul gave the command. Now there was direct access; he could touch Gold, and he did so, reaching all the way to Gold's heart.

But he didn't take it. Instead, he grabbed at the end of what felt like an ethereal cord, pulling it back out from Gold. The thread looked different for everyone, and Aghoul's pun-loving heart almost gave a beat or two at the fact that Gold's was gold and looked like it had just come off an old-fashioned spinning wheel.

Aghoul held up an index finger, lighting it on fire. He then put the fire to the thread as though it were a fuse.

The thread lit up with raging flames, but neither Aghoul nor Gold was affected yet. Aghoul then stamped on the floor, and beneath him, a black sigil circle was drawn, transplanted directly from his mind. It transformed into a dark portal, and as Aghoul sank down into it, he simultaneously felt himself being pulled along the thread, closer to Gold – a physical impossibility to be going both directions at once, but this was the old magic.

Now Aghoul was somewhere completely new: a spacious room, one that looked like it might belong to a noble's manor, with neither doors nor windows. Only red walls, a vaulted red ceiling, and luminous red tiles making up the floor.

There was also the fact that literally everything in this room was on fire.

Aghoul casually brushed a stray flame off his shoulder. He might even break a sweat in this climate. Obviously, he was a frequent visitor, so he'd come to the "lobby" of sorts. What he was looking for was the hall for first-time guests.

Before he could proceed through the flaming room, there was suddenly a rush of flame, and a strange figure stood before him. A man cloaked entirely in white, hooded so his face was hidden. In fact, Aghoul wasn't sure there was anything to his body underneath the clothes. In double fact, Aghoul wasn't even sure it was a man, but he went off instinct in this case.

"Well?" Aghoul asked. "What do you want?"

The man in the white coat withdrew a sight Aghoul hadn't much wanted to see: a Keyblade. An ugly, square, blocky one, at that.

"Can't you see I'm not in the mood for these games?" Aghoul huffed.

The white-coated man took two steps back, swung the Keyblade, and summoned a host of bright-white chains. Pure Light. Aghoul felt his eyes hurt even looking at them.

As the chains careened toward him, he was forced to pull off a series of acrobatics through the flames in order to avoid each one. Frontflip, backflip, crouch, jump, splits. "You could at least tell me what I did to make you this angry!" Aghoul scoffed. "Not that I don't deserve it, but I'm fairly sure I haven't seen the likes of YOU before, and however I wronged you, I want the full credit for it!"

The man paused from casting the chain spell for a moment. Aghoul had managed to grab hold of one of the chains, and he was holding it clenched in a fist behind his back, surging as much of his own magic into it as he could.

"You should know." His voice was deep, somewhat raspy. Aghoul had correctly guessed the gender. "You should be given one last chance to turn away from the Darkness, before your heart becomes so deeply entrenched that it must be exting – "

Aghoul finished warping the chain, and he threw it back at its caster. It bloomed into a spiderweb shape, with tendrils that wrapped around the white coat as the chains anchored from ceiling to floor and wall to wall.

"WHAT?" The white-coated apparition, trapped like a fly in this spiderweb of magic, struggled violently.

"I told you I wasn't in the mood for these games." Aghoul waggled his finger. "Try getting some better spells before you go up against me again."

He turned his back on the web, storming to the far wall of the room. Then he heard a most peculiar sound: an even deeper voice muttering, followed by a particular "squelch." Aghoul, being a master of all forms of death, recognized it as one of the rarer audio cues: that of a human body exploding completely into nothing more than a layer of viscera.

Aghoul quickly looked back over his shoulder. The white-coated man was gone, leaving only an empty web of chains. Perhaps it had been him who'd exploded. But Aghoul wasn't so sure. After all, while the chains had tied him down well in the Netherworld, Aghoul knew the smart play would have been to escape to somewhere in the Sleeping Realm proper. That is, if the man had a particular link to dreams. And based on the muttering that had sounded oddly familiar, Aghoul guessed that those intrusive noises had come from whatever was being dreamed by the next victim of the white-coated man.

He shrugged. "Oh well. Not my problem anymore."

He walked up to the wall, then proceeded to keep walking, placing his soles down on the wall and turning sideways as he strode right up it. He continued his trajectory when he got to the ceiling, now completely upside-down. There, he stamped on the ceiling (or, to him, the floor) twice.

There was a shift, and then Aghoul stood in a dark hall. Only the shimmer of a plethora of mirrors sparked of any light. Of course, they wouldn't do that without a source, and Aghoul could all too easily tell where it was coming from: a torch held by a wanderer. Aghoul jogged over toward that wanderer, breaking out in a grin when he heard the distinct thump of a pronounced limp followed by the click of a wooden cane.

The wanderer came into view: Mr. Gold, cane in one hand, torch in the other. At first, he looked quite distraught, a lost lamb. Then, when he saw Aghoul, his countenance hardened.

"About time one of you showed up," Gold grumbled.

Aghoul gave a teasing bow. "Ayam Aghoul's the name. And the Netherworld, be it one Netherworld or the other, is my game!"

"I don't suppose it's a game you're any good at playing?" Gold said sardonically. "I think I've seen enough of my own reflection for the time being."

"But of course," Aghoul replied. "Now, where did I put it…" He rummaged in his bag. "Ah! Here."

From the bag, he withdrew the golden thread. Licking his finger and thumb, he squeezed the thread to put its uppermost flame out; the rest followed.

Gold's eyes widened. "That spell is quite ancient."

"I've been around the block a few more times than even you," Aghoul told him, offering the thread. "Oh, and one more thing – "

He withdrew Mysterio's crystal skull. "We're going to be making a VERY grand re-entrance indeed!" he chuckled.

Gold cast aside his torch, seizing the thread. Aghoul, with one hand still on the thread, threw the skull to the ground.

BANG! A cavalcade of glittering light that blotted out literally all else. Then the two men stood in Gold's containment cell, looking at one another.

"It worked?" Aghoul rapped the wall with his hand. "This is the living world?" No matter how he tried, he couldn't phase through the wall. "It IS the living world! That Mysterio knows what he's doing after all!"

"And what, exactly, was your plan from here?" Gold asked.

"Well, there's magic in this world, isn't there?" Aghoul prompted. "I should think you'd know what to do with it."

"…Touché." Gold gave him a smirk, then let the transformation overcome him.

His skin roughened, looking almost reptilian. His clothes were even more reminiscent of large lizards, transforming from a silk suit to a garment made of multicolored scales and leather. A tall, open collar; tight pants. His hair crimped into a much curlier texture, and as the pièce de résistance, he cast the cane aside, standing with perfect balance.

"Well, dearie?" Rumplestiltskin asked, spreading both arms. "Would THIS be more like what you were expecting?"

"A pleasure to have you aboard, O Dark One!" Aghoul replied. "Between your power and mine, we can turn the tide of the raging battle outside!"

"A battle, is it?" Rumplestiltskin asked. "Now, if I know Mother, which, admittedly was difficult to do since her disappearing act – "

"Yes, she and a couple family friends are giving the Overtakers the runaround," Aghoul said. "Why don't we catch up with them and pull the ace out of our sleeve?"

Rumplestiltskin put up a finger. "First. The dagger."

"Right, right," Aghoul recalled. "That magical dagger that lends you your power and is the only thing that can kill you. Where is it being kept?"

"I've no idea!" Rumplestilskin said with a forced smile.

"Do we REALLY have time to look for it?" Aghoul sighed. "Well, I guess we have all the time in the world, with the Time Stone – "

"You know," Rumplestiltskin figured, "as the Dark One, if I can't hold off the Overtakers for a few minutes, long enough for my own mother to get away and owe me a GREAT deal, before I come back for the dagger, I'm really not much of a sorcerer, am I, now?"

Aghoul thought it over, wondering if this would come back to bite him. But then shrugged. "Sounds legitimate to me!"

Aghoul and Rumplestiltskin left the containment room together. As was broadcast on the security monitor in the tucked-away hidden chamber of the turret.

"So that's what all the fuss was about," Watts said, stroking his mustache.

"I really couldn't have asked for a better opportunity," Hook said with a grin.

Those two were, of course, the reason Ironwood hadn't been worried about playing along.

"I've taken all the samples I need from him," Watts told Hook. "You have free reign to do whatever you want."

"You're not going to want any of the leftovers?" Hook asked.

"Not a cell of him."

"That's what I'd hoped to hear." Hook took his own leave, bolting down the passage out of the security room.

Watts shook his head. "The walking corpse is a buffoon to be sure," he muttered to himself. "Did it never occur to him that anything I didn't want meddled with, I would have put under more than just a simple password in easy reach?" He turned his attention back to the monitors. "Now, let's see what other property damage you manage to do on your way out."

The fray outside had only become more chaotic over time. Mysterio had conjured a sword for himself to wield against Jafar, attempting to decapitate the snake, but not only was Jafar skilled at parrying the blade with his fangs – the one time Mysterio did actually manage to slice his head off, it just reattached itself in a blur of red smog. Mim was doing loop-de-loops around Maleficent's storms of emerald fire. The Maw was very pleased with himself as of his recent redirection of all Ironwood's ammo right to Grimhilde, who was forced on the defensive as Ironwood crushed his own gun in a cybernetically enhanced hand.

All paused when they heard "AND YOU STARTED THE PARTY WITHOUT ME?"

Rumplestiltskin, the Dark One, strode from the turret where he'd been held captive, with Aghoul backing him up. "That's right!" Rumplestiltskin said with a high-pitched giggle. "You're about to learn what happens when you mess with the Dark One in a realm filled to the brim with the most delicious magic! Now, who shall I get my delightfully satisfying revenge on first – "

And then the dagger of the Dark One sank hilt-deep into his back.

Rumplestiltskin sputtered, black liquid pouring from his mouth. He'd been so eager –sure he could find the dagger after he'd taken care of things here, surely he should've been powerful enough –

He slid forward off the knife, his colorful clothes and scaly skin reverting to just a man in a bloodstained suit. His body fell facedown on the flagstones.

Aghoul gaped at his murderer. The new Dark One, as the laws of succession went – he who killed the Dark One with his blade must become the new Dark One. The man who held the jagged blade, shimmering as the old name was wiped from its metal and engraved with new words:

"Killian Jones."

Hook scoffed as he sheathed the dagger at his belt. "All the more incentive never to use that moniker if I can help it." He drew his sword, watching Darkness flow down his arm, through its hilt, into the blade. And he smiled with absolute glee.

Aghoul, by that time, had his scythe drawn back. "WHY YOU – "

"Oh, and I'll be taking that."

The Dark One was faster than Aghoul could hope to be. The sword sliced quicker than Aghoul could even twitch. The scythe was suddenly off-balance, falling from his grip, hitting the stones. With an important piece still attached to it.

Aghoul's hand, which Hook had just severed. Everything from the elbow down. Including the bracelet with the Eye of Agamotto.

Hook smirked as he snapped up the severed hand. "Probably should've used this beauty to resurrect your damsel instead of going right for the scythe, don't you think?" His grin became diabolical as he pocketed the bracelet and tossed the hand back to its owner. "You can have this back. I won't be needing it."

Mim abandoned Maleficent, several tons of purple dragon screaming her way toward Hook with her fire at full blast. Hook bathed in the fire as it washed over him, as at ease here as Aghoul had been in the flames of the Dream Netherworld.

"IS THAT ALL?" Hook laughed.

Aghoul made a flying leap onto Mim's back. "He thinks he's won," he hissed, "but he forgot what it is we came for! If we retreat now, we'll have the last laugh!"

Mim knew exactly what he meant. Not that she was happy about it. "YOU HAVEN'T HEARD THE LAST OF ME!" she howled.

"OR THE GREAT MYSTERIO!" Mysterio punctuated. "MASTER OF THE ARCANE ARTS! …You give them one too, Ebony."

"I am but a liege," said Ebony.

"OR OUR LIEGE!" Mysterio yelled.

Mim flew one more loop in the air, and behind her trailed a glowing beam of magic that forged itself into a portal. She flew into it with Aghoul, and Mysterio and the Maw followed soon after. The portal snapped closed as if it had never been there…though the Reactor was certainly in bad enough shape to prove that it had been visited by Overtakers recently.

As Jafar, Maleficent, Grimhilde, and Ironwood regrouped alongside Hook, the latter gave a sigh. "Did they have to leave such a bloody mess?"

"Oh, don't worry," Jafar said, once more humanoid and clutching his staff. "I'll have it all repaired in short order…but with a few of MY touches."

Mim, Aghoul, Mysterio, and the Ebony Maw stumbled into the alley of a large, disheveled city. A fountain in the nearest square seemed to have been welded together out of crashed spaceship parts, and the water was less than clean.

As Mysterio (now his normal size) and the Maw leaned against the wall to catch their breaths, Aghoul rummaged for one more magical item. "The last Death Bomb we have," he said, holding it out.

"GIVE ME THAT!" Mim swiped it, storming over to the fountain.

"Wait a minute," Mysterio realized. "We didn't lose at all. The Overtakers were so focused on the powers of the Dark One, when that's not what we even came for!"

"Is it not a hindrance to be bereft of them, though?" the Maw asked. "To ally with the Dark One was a great draw to this mission in the first place."

"Well, like with all weapons and spells, the Dark One's powers aren't special just because of what they are," Aghoul reminded them. "They're special because of how they're wielded, and that depends on who's wielding them. If Rumplestiltskin had a healthier alternative to the Dark One, well, it's his mind and creativity we REALLY want. And I may have just the alternative in mind…"

The Death Bomb splashed into the fountain. Mr. Gold stumbled out of it, reaching to grab the fountain's haphazardly-welded metal before Mim fashioned a cane from thin air and handed it to him – it was black and silver, with a skull shape carved into its handle.

Gold stepped down from the fountain, clearly surprised to be back in action. "Well. Perhaps I should've been in contact with you far, far earlier."

"Wouldn't have done you any good until we had Mozenrath," Mim told him.

"…And in all fairness, it's the second time recently that I've come back from the dead," Gold admitted. "But I'd rather not speak of the first one."

He and Mim walked back into the alley. "Well, that didn't go exactly as planned," Mim said. "Now we've got to find you a new power source."

Gold clenched his free hand to stop it shaking. "Without the powers of the Dark One – what am I? Nothing. A silly old fairy tale told to scare children. To be the Dark One was…well, it's who I was. Time and time again, I chose it over love, over the ones I cared about, and – "

"Well, there's a whole lot of the problem right there," Mim scoffed. "Being the Dark One is one of the riskiest ways to get magic. It takes over your mind eventually and doesn't leave the original behind, you know. Give that pirate a few hundred years and he'll be in that kettle of fish. He won't be so happy about it then! But you're here so dependent on it that you've forgotten there are a hundred thousand other, BETTER ways to exert power over the worlds!"

"You don't understand," Gold snarled. "I loved someone. I pushed her away to choose being the Dark One. If I'm not the Dark One, what was the point of breaking her heart?"

"Why couldn't you have both her and the Dark One?" Mim asked. "Hmm? It had better not be what I think."

"…Because she knew I could be better," Gold muttered.

Mim gasped. "RUMPLESTILTSKIN! What have I told you about dating those – those GOOD GIRLS?"

"Nothing," Gold reminded her, "since you were never around for my childhood."

"Well, I'm saying it now!" Mim shook her finger in his face. "It might seem attractive to go for those hero types with their pure hearts and their pastels and pretty dresses. But you start going down that road and the next thing you know, you're losing yourself entirely! She congratulates you for stripping away every little piece of yourself, and is only happy when you're perfectly miserable – and not in the good way! Then he tries to make you choose once and for all, but you'd better not choose wrong, because even if you pick him, you won't be the one he fell for anymore, and he'll launch you into the canals like horse manure!"

"You're getting into personal experience about you and some man, aren't you?" Mysterio realized.

"THAT'S BESIDE THE POINT!" Mim screeched.

"You don't understand the first thing about Belle," Gold hissed. "You don't even KNOW her."

"I know you're tying your identity as much to her as you were to the Dark One," Mim said, arms folded. "Either way, you've lost sight of yourself."

"That may be, but you've no right to talk about Belle – "

"Oh, we can have this argument later!" Mim spat. "Go on and believe she was the best thing to ever happen to you for now, but I'll be ready to tear down every argument you have when we get back to base! For now, let's just focus on figuring out who Rumplestiltskin IS."

"If I may?" Aghoul said. "Being the Dark One let you…manipulate reality, in a sense. Those powers are with the father of all nuisances now, but we happen to have something even better right here. Something that won't devour your mind and heart, and will give you the ability to do anything that you desire with reality itself!"

"We do?" Mysterio asked.

He felt all eyes boring into him.

"NO." Mysterio scuttled back into the alley. "It's MY power! You can't make me!"

"Oh, yes I can!" Aghoul argued.

"After all, you're a theatrical sort," Mim told him. "Has it really been so satisfying to just be able to conjure up whatever you want?"

"YES!" Mysterio snapped.

"But it won't be after a while," Mim argued. "You'll want to go back to making your special effects and costumes the old-fashioned way."

Mysterio thought it over. "You might have a point there. After all, it is my art! My personal handiwork!"

"Oh," Aghoul realized. "I thought you were going to tell him about the fact that long-term exposure to the Aether can cause terminal health conditions in ordinary mortals."

"It – WHAT?" Mysterio flinched. "THAT IS KNOWLEDGE I COULD'VE USED A WHOLE LOT EARLIER, YOU KNOW!"

"And what's to stop me from having the same danger as him?" Gold asked.

"You're NOT an ordinary mortal," Mim told him. "You're MY son. Which means you've got a little bit of goblin in you, and even without the power of the Dark One, you would've lived a whole lot longer than most people in that forest."

"Even I can tell from here you've got a very resilient constitution," Aghoul said. "Hard to kill, even without those powers you were so addicted to."

"I would hardly call it an addiction," Gold muttered.

"Call it what it is," Mim told him. "The problem is in thinking that an addiction is a bad thing. Around here, we take what we want when we want it. You want power, and we'll get it back to you."

Gold was about to call out the hypocrisy of Mim saying addictions were all right while berating him for "losing himself" to the Dark One…and then realized where she was coming from. There was definitely a perspective in which they were two entirely separate issues, and he was starting to see it. "Then why, may I ask, am I…well…you wouldn't call me the strongest of warriors or knights in shining armor, now, would you?"

"Oh, you mean if you're so tough, why is your body so weak?" Aghoul shrugged. "Mine's rotting. That's just how it goes sometimes."

"Or were you about to ask how you died so easily to that pirate?" Mim added. "Because I'm still waiting on someone to ask how I died to the likes of MALEFICENT."

"Or me to a giant snake!" Mysterio scoffed. "Or our Ebony Liege to a man with a gun! He didn't even have any magic!"

"Perhaps it has something to do with our opponents' skills," the Maw suggested. "They are quite powerful indeed, and clever. Enough so to best Thanos. Perhaps we must simply concede that they are – "

"You finish that sentence and I'm throwing you off one of these buildings," Mim told him.

"He can fly," Aghoul reminded her.

"Then I'll – "

"IS ANYONE GOING TO REMOVE THE ACTUAL LITERAL POISON FROM MY BODY?" Mysterio yelled.

"Yes, yes!" Mim waved. "Rumple, Quentin, stand facing each other, about five feet apart."

"You didn't have to use the non-stage name," Mysterio muttered as he and Gold did as asked.

"You are a curious character," Gold admitted. "One that…wouldn't truly be out of place in one of the realms connected to the Forest at least. Perhaps the aesthetic is a bit modern, but the rest is quite…how shall I say it? Archetypal."

"Oh, I like you," Mysterio responded.

Mim and Aghoul clasped hands, extending their free hands toward Gold and Mysterio. "This might be a little uncomfortable," Aghoul said with a smirk. "Also, I'd lose the fishbowl."

Mysterio flinched. "What's that supposed to – "

He immediately doubled over, lurching with nausea. He quickly detached his helmet, and Aether was already flowing from the crack between it and his shoulders, like smoke from a pot whose lid had been lifted. Mysterio then proceeded to vomit the Aether directly into the air, staining it crimson.

The red mist was redirected right to Gold, who inhaled it like a smoker would his precious fumes. As he took the entirety of the Aether unto himself, he glowed softly crimson for a moment.

His skin roughened again, his hair curling. "Now this is a pretty power," Rumplestiltskin said with a crooked grin. "This could be…sufficient."

"Now let's get back to business," said Aghoul.

"I thought our business had rightly concluded," Ebony said with mild confusion. "Your goal was to humiliate the false king. That goal, for reasons we are all aware of, was abandoned. The others were all sent back to your base of operations."

"Well, too bad for you, we were going to make another stop afterward," Mim said, "and since you three got caught up in it, you're part of it now."

"I don't recall accepting that invitation!" Rumplestiltskin scoffed, folding his arms and acting quite offended indeed.

"Most people would just be glad to be invited!" Aghoul argued. "Unless you WANT to miss out on some mayhem and mischief that would benefit from a whole lot of magic."

"Well, I never said THAT much," Rumplestiltskin replied, winking at him.

"Wonderful!" Mysterio said. "I'm guessing the next step is to call Mozenrath and tell him we're here?"

"Why, ye – " Mim stopped. Blinked. Looked at Mysterio, wide-eyed. "Wait a moment – "

"How did you know?" Aghoul asked.

"This is obviously Sakaar," Mysterio said. "Anyone would know that."

"I certainly did recognize it at once," said Ebony. "You, however, are not as well-traveled as the Black Order."

Mysterio held up his scroll, showing a video feed. "Was NO ONE ELSE watching the tournament rounds in between stops? The Grandmaster likes to cut in shots of the city skyline when the screen isn't devoted to a fight or to his library of commercials for…himself."

As a victorious gladiator was escorted out of the tiny arena on Mysterio's screen, such a commercial began: "You know what really hits the spot after a long day of fighting for your life? Remembering that the Grandmaster is your absolute lord and master. Some of you may be asking, 'What can he offer me that other dictators and absolute rulers can't?'. Some of you may be considering jumping ship to a different regime under a different frivolous ruler. Here are the top ten reasons why that is a horrible idea. Number five might surprise you."

Mysterio pocketed the scroll. "I rest my case. Obviously we came here to help with the tournament."

"Quite so!" Aghoul affirmed. "Though let's not storm the arena just yet. I want to see what death and destruction we can cause OUTSIDE the ring. That's the one place Mozenrath doesn't have covered!"

"We might just find a way to sabotage the Grandmaster from the outside," Mim chuckled, "and then who will be the sore loser?"

"Not to be ignorant," asked Rumplestiltskin, "but who is this…Grandmaster?" In this form, his penchant for flourishing hand gestures came back in full force. "I can't imagine he's very grand if he has to keep reminding the people of how grand of a master he is."

"He is an unusual case, on an unusual planet," said Ebony. "Might I enlighten you on his history? It is quite illuminating."

"And will CERTAINLY expose his greatest weakness in the process," Rumplestiltskin agreed. "Tell me the tale indeed!"

"While you two do that…" Aghoul brought out his scroll, dialing a familiar number. "I think it's time we let the battle couple know we've arrived."

He and Mim began to move out of the alley as the connection picked up on the other end: "WHAT IS IT, AGHOUL?"
"Oh, Mozenrath!" Mim giggled. "You won't guess where we are at this very minute!"

The Maw and Rumplestiltskin trailed after them, the former giving the latter a long-winded monologue about the eccentric extraterrestrial that was the Grandmaster. Mysterio hung back a bit – he still felt a little sick from the removal of the Aether.

In fact, when the others had all turned the corner, Mysterio went to follow, but was stopped by a fit of hacking coughs. How unpleasant.

However, when he opened his eyes to see that he'd just sprayed blood onto the tile of the alley, his heart nearly stopped.

It had to be an aftereffect from the transfer. That made sense. No reason to start worrying yet about those long-term health effects that Aghoul had spoken of. He'd only had the Aether in him for a very short time. It couldn't have done much damage. And even if it had, it was certainly fixable.

"Something amiss?"

Rumplestiltskin had doubled back. Mysterio shook his head, cramming his helmet back on and trying not to look at the street. Hopefully, Rumplestiltskin hadn't looked at the street either, hadn't seen the red. "Nothing at all. Now, where were we? The Grandmaster was Grandmastering?"

As Rumplestiltskin and the Maw roped him into their storytelling session, he tried to put the cough out of his mind. Still and all, a dread pervaded him.

...

"Don't do it."

What was this, the seventeenth time? The speech didn't sound convincing no matter how many times it was repeated.

"It won't change who you are."

Snatcher could recite this one by heart now.

"Cheese, hats, boxes. They don't make you – "
You make you, then Snatcher responds that he already has, then he eats it, and has enough time to dread what's coming as he hears himself rattling off vague descriptors of flavor.

BANG.

As Snatcher's consciousness drifted through the dark void, it shuddered. Heldalf had put him and Harley to sleep until he "had use for them again" (whatever that very ominous statement meant), and since then, it had been nonstop dreams of the explosion. Even in his usual sleep, Snatcher knew that it wasn't this constant or this vivid. His guess? Heldalf had triggered this on purpose.

Well, he would just have to be the bigger man and unbothered about it.

Except that in a few minutes, he would probably find himself kneeling before Lord Portley-Rind ("THAT was the closest you will ever come to a white hat! Hope you enjoyed it.") and the cycle would start all over again and he would be wracked with panic because he still couldn't just brush off the dread of knowing that he'd have to feel ripped apart at every inch. Like he just had been. And could still feel, fresh from round seventeen. Or maybe eighteen. Or maybe it was only ten and had felt like double.

There it was. The scene was materializing more quickly than usual, leaving Snatcher with no rest. He knelt on the steps of the Portley-Rind manor. The hat was being ripped away from him, and from here on out, he would be a passive passenger to his own demise, unable to control his movements or stop what was coming.

Which was why when he was actually able to stand up and back away hurriedly, it was an immense shock. He realized, at the same time, that the scene around him had frozen. Lord Portley-Rind's expression was almost comical in its anger, the hat half-swiped away. The crowd was petrified in a collage of utter confusion. There was a huddle of naked trolls hovering over where Snatcher knew the boy would usually be, and he didn't much want to look at that part of it.

Grateful for a moment's reprieve, he sank to his knees on the flagstone, pressing a hand to his chest as he exhaled long and slow.

"It must be a relief to escape such a fate."

The voice jolted Snatcher back into sense. Of course, if it had stopped, someone had stopped it. This was more magic at work, and he was starting to get very sick of it. Times like these, one missed his own sorcerous friends and their counterenchantments.

He looked up, to his right. A most curious figure loomed over him. Judging by the voice, it was a man, but literally none of his body was visible thanks to the white leather cloak that enshrouded him. Even his face was hidden in shadow beneath a hood. A small flame flickered on his shoulder.

Snatcher cleared his throat. "Are you aware that you're…aflame?"

The man slapped his hand onto the fire, putting it out. "My apologies. I've just come from a…difficult place."

Snatcher stood, unsure yet if this was friend or foe. "Archibald Snatcher," he said with a small bow. "The victim of this charade. And whom do I have the pleasure?"

"I…have relinquished my name," said the other. "Not even my heart is my own, so how can I be what I once was? Am I even what I remember being? I am what is left of an existence cut short, but not fully killed. As such, I have taken the opportunity to fix what I could not in the realm of the living."

"I'll still need to call you something, you realize."

The man thought it over. "Call me what I am. An Anti-White Coat."

"Anti-White?" Snatcher raised a brow. "You are clearly wearing white."

"It is a name taken from another type of dreamwalker," said the Anti-White Coat. "One with a darker palette and purpose. I have slain many of its sort on the way here."

"You're a dreams sort of person, then?" said Snatcher. "You'd best not be related to that Pitch Black hooligan."

"I would bear no association to one so incurably Dark," said the Anti-White Coat. "He cannot be saved. The only hope is to get to his prospective victims before he can. However, that can wait. I heard your cries."

"You must be mistaken. I haven't been crying, or making any plaintive noise of any sort – "

"It comes from your heart, not your mouth," said the Anti-White Coat. "The emanation of desperation. You've been trapped in a cycle of torment. Forced to perpetually relive the consequences of your own actions – "

"Of my actions?" Snatcher couldn't hide the absolute rage that came over him. "Of MY actions? Look about you! ANY ONE of them had the opportunity to stop this!"

He gestured to Lord Portley-Rind. "Had he given me what I rightly deserved!" Then out to the crowd. "Had they given me ANYTHING but mockery and shame!" Toward the trolls. "Had they not chosen to be HERE, in MY town."

"You have suffered much," the Anti-White Coat agreed. "Yet all you reaped is what you have sown. You were hated because of your misdeeds."

"You've no IDEA what you're talking about," Snatcher seethed. "There was a time I wasn't what you might call a villain. Even when I was a CHILD, merely assisting in my parents' shop, I was mocked. Ridiculed. Called hideous. Run from by other children. Only ever respected by ONE, and that was a fair-weather friendship if I've seen one. Even my own mother and father made it quite clear that if I were to express myself the way I wished – harmlessly, with gowns and skirts from the shop – I would come to regret it AT THEIR HAND! I would've been hated whether or not I'd struck up a campaign of murder. Knowing that, what harm did it do to fight back? To try and make something out of my sorry situation?"

"You think Dark deeds justified simply because the outcome will be the same regardless?" the Anti-White Coat seethed right back. "You are a fool. Light is never wasted. In the end, should you manage it properly, it will pay you what you are owed." He hesitated. "I failed to, in my existence. I will not fail again."

"Fail at what?" Snatcher asked. "Trying to make me feel guilty? Because let me tell you, that failure's already been…failed." A pause. "Give me a moment to reword that, I can make it sound better – "

"I wish to salvage you," said the Anti-White Coat. "To patch the pieces of your heart. To purge it of the Dark impulses that you have fostered. To bring you to a better fate."

"Is that so?" Snatcher leaned into the Anti-White Coat's personal space, trying to glimpse his face. To no avail. "Or is it that you're trying to keep me in line to protect everyone else from the Boogeyman that they've made me into?"

The Anti-White Coat was silent.

"I know your kind," Snatcher snarled. "The color you wear gave you away."

"It will be better for…for everyone if you put down this crusade and redeem!" the Anti-White Coat urged. "No, I – I cannot let another one fall, not when I have this chance – "

"I'm not certain what issue of yours has made you so invested in my doings," Snatcher said coldly, "but I can assure you it is not my problem in any way whatsoever. You may figure out your own insecurities in your own dream. Now, if you'll leave me in peace to…"

He swallowed hard. Maybe it would be better to keep the Anti-White Coat talking. Because the longer the apparition kept the dream frozen, the longer Snatcher didn't have to face the eruption. The agony. Skin on fire.

"…then again. Let's say I did buy into your speech, condescending as it may be. What would you have me do, precisely?"

The Anti-White Coat nodded. Snatcher knew that the Anti-White Coat knew that he was just stalling. But still, if it looked at all like he was going to take the bait, the Anti-White Coat couldn't take the line away.

"Abandon the WHAM ARMY," said the Anti-White Coat. "Such a horrendous organization should never have existed, nor any of its foul imitators. Return to this world. Make amends with those you have wronged."

He looked to the frozen Portley-Rind. "He and I have had our differences," he said longingly, "but in some respects, he saw sense where no one else did."

"Wait a moment," Snatcher muttered. "You knew – were you a local? Did I know you?"

"That does not matter."

"I think it very much does – "

"Have you any idea the impact you left on these people?" the Anti-White Coat snapped. "How much they resented all the manipulation you wrought?"

"I think. They made. Their contempt. For me. Quite clear."

The Anti-White Coat shook his head. "No, you do not understand. What happened could have been avoided if only you'd – no, you must see it for yourself. The fate you could have stepped away from. All you'd had to do was abide by the moral code!"

The scene changed. They weren't standing in the square anymore, but at the Cheesebridge graveyard, in the very back row of plots. Still, everyone was frozen, but in an arrangement Snatcher had never seen before. Lord Portley-Rind stood before a freshly dug grave; a wooden crate rested at his side. (Definitely not a coffin. This looked like it had come off a cargo ship.) Beside him stood a footman that Snatcher couldn't remember having seen before: a young and admittedly handsome man with a jet-black tuxedo and a pout of disdain.

Then there was what seemed to be the entire rest of the town, humans and trolls alike, gathered around the plot. Waiting for something.

"This isn't one of my memories," Snatcher said, quite perplexed. "Where did you GET this – "

"This is a month following your end," said the Anti-White Coat. "This is what happened because of your deviousness, your evil. This, you cannot deny, was anyone's fault but your own."

It was as if he'd flipped a switch; the scene unfroze. The citizens started jostling and whispering. Now Snatcher could see that the Trubshaw boy and the Portley-Rind girl were in the very front row, right next to –

Oh, he did not have the mental capacity to process Herbert's existence right now. Or "Jelly," or whatever ridiculous thing he wanted to be called to try and cover up the past.

"Apologies for the delay in setting up the funeral," Lord Portley-Rind announced. "It took far longer than expected to scrape the, er…the innards out of the Tasting Room and get up all the stains. Even with my most valuable lawmen and public maintenance workers forsaking their other duties at my command in order to work at it 'round the clock. I began to fear that I would be holding a funeral for that room today instead of this miscreant. All that expensive upholstery…"

He looked to be brought half to tears. The footman just rolled his eyes.

"A month," Snatcher muttered. "Explains the new employee."

"But enough of that!" Lord Portley-Rind wiped away the mist from his eyes. "Thankfully, the Tasting Room is intact, and we were able to collect what we could of the remains of Archibald Snatcher."

He'd suspected that was him – or his internal organs – in the crate. Hearing it, however, still sent a chill through him.

"Unfortunately, I am of the firm belief that everyone should receive a proper Christian burial," said Lord Portley-Rind. "Though this was almost enough to shake my faith in the word of the Lord. That said, I suppose there was some value in the life of this horrendous, awful man that plagued our every waking moment with his schemes and lies."

"HE WAS A MURDERER!" someone yelled.

"HE WAS A POISON TO THIS TOWN!" screamed someone else.

A Boxtroll piped up a third complaint that Snatcher was sure was far more personal.

"I'm just glad he's gone." That was a quieter huff, from Miss Portley-Rind.

"Winnie…" Eggs muttered. "It doesn't feel right, to…he's gone, so that's the end of it. Let's not take so much joy in it."

"Where's this attitude coming from?" Winnie asked. "You LOVE when I reenact his graphically violent demise for the stage play!"

"But that's…different," Eggs said. "That's more about you, and you playacting the character, and we use that play to warn people of what he did so no one can fall for it again. This isn't like that. This isn't warning anyone, or teaching anyone anything. This is just…a stage play in itself."

"Well, you go on and have sympathy for that mass murderer, then," Winnie grumbled. "We'll just have to agree to disagree. I, for one, think there's plenty to celebrate about this."

"I wish it hadn't ended this way," said Jelly. "If only I could've reached him…"

"You wish it hadn't ended this way?" Snatcher marched right up to him, leaning in close. "THEN PERHAPS YOU SHOULD'VE THOUGHT ABOUT THAT BEFORE LEAVING ME BEHIND FOR THAT TROLLOP WHO FILLED YOUR HEAD WITH STUFF AND NONSENSE!"

Jelly didn't react.

"He cannot hear you," the Anti-White Coat said.

"You think I hadn't figured that out?" Snatcher snapped. Still and all, he trudged back to the Anti-White Coat's side.

"As it were," said Lord Portley-Rind, "I suppose someone should say a few words in memory of him. Does anyone volunteer?"

Jelly slowly put up a hand. "I…I would like to recount the better days – "

"Actually, I think it most fitting that I do it myself, since I was likely better acquainted with him than anyone else here," said Lord Portley-Rind.

"That's not so!" chimed in a deep voice from the back. "Mr. Pickles and I, we lived and worked with him!"

A more nasal voice piped up: "And there was Mr. Gristle. He's dead, too. Can't we have a funeral for him?"

"Oh, I forgot about that little goblin man," said Lord Portley-Rind. "Ehrm…next week, perhaps. I'm booked solid after this. At any rate, the two of you were quite brainwashed by Mr. Snatcher's rhetoric, and you'll understand that you're not fully trusted in any capacity in this town at the moment."

Mr. Trout lowered his head. "I suppose that makes sense."

"It is what we deserve for going along with it," Mr. Pickles agreed. "Still, could think of a few good things to say about him."

"It wasn't as though working with him was all bad," said Trout. "There were times he was…cordial enough."

"Why's it got to be that everyone with anything remotely nice to say about me is someone I could go my whole existence without ever even thinking about again?" Snatcher groaned. "Trout, Pickles, Trubshaw Junior AND Senior…the last people I want sticking up for me, thank you quite much."

"Archibald Snatcher was a…unique man," Lord Portley-Rind began. "Very…terrible. Yes, just all-around terrible."

"Though perhaps they'd be preferable to this," Snatcher muttered.

"I think we all know very well what he did to all of us," said Lord Portley-Rind. "He had us all in the palm of his hand as Madame Frou Frou! Tempting us away from our marriages, putting the foulest thoughts in our heads regarding what was really a man in disguise!"

"Father!" Winnie called up indignantly. "That was just your problem with him! The rest of us are angry about the attempted MURDER!"

One of the elder White Hats raised his hand; "I, for one, am far more upset about Frou Frou!"

Many others muttered agreement, while others stayed silent, for they aligned more with Winnie's point of view. Not a single Boxtroll piped up to say that dressing in drag was a worse crime than genocide, of course.

"They can't still be on about that!" Eggs groaned. "Why does it matter if he was in skirts or trousers? It was a lie! A lie he told to hurt others!"

"Because Lord Portley-Rind…has a very restrictive view of things," said Jelly. "He has staunch ideas of what should and shouldn't be. Do remember, Eggs, that the only way you were able to make headway was to look at things from outside the box."

"All I'm hearing is arguments that'll be thrown back in my face if I ask again to wear trousers for a single day," Winnie huffed.

"Calm down, calm down, everyone!" Lord Portley-Rind encouraged. "All right, perhaps that wasn't the most sensitive of ways to start."

If there was one truly entertaining part of all of this, it was watching Lord Portley-Rind's footman become more and more disgruntled as it dragged on.

"Perhaps it's time for me to say something…rather personal." Lord Portley-Rind withdrew a sheaf of papers from his pocket. "Words I wrote…to Mr. Snatcher himself. Words I wish I could say to him, now that he's passed. Saying them to the crate will have to do."

"Oh, no." Snatcher's eyes widened. "Anything but that. Whatever he's about to say, I'd rather he go back to the rampant homophobia."

Lord Portley-Rind cleared his throat dramatically. "Ladies and gentlemen! On behalf of all the people who have gathered here today, I would merely like to mention, If I may, that our unanimous attitude is one of lasting gratitude for what our friend had done for us that day. And therefore, I would simply like to say…"

"TELL ME HE IS NOT ABOUT TO SING," Snatcher growled.

Lord Portley-Rind started to sing. He gestured to the crate, beaming; "Thank you very much! Thank you very much! THAT'S the nicest thing that anyone's ever done for me! I may sound double-dutch, but my delight is such! I feel as if a losing war's been won for me!"

"IS HE THANKING ME FOR DYING?" Snatcher yelled.

"And if I had a flag, I'd hang my flag out!" Lord Portley-Rind went on. "To add a sort of…final victory touch! But, since I left my flag at home, I'll simply have to say thank you very, very, very much!" He'd begun to tap his toes, doing a simple little dance. "Thank you very, very, very much!"

Then he waved to the crowd; "Come on, everyone, join in! We've got EVERYTHING to celebrate!"

And to Snatcher's horror, they did. Almost all of them. Trout and Pickles had linked arms to spin each other around. The other members of the White Hat Council were bobbing up and down in time with the beat. At first, it seemed the only one who wasn't taking part was Portley-Rind's footman, who'd struck a cigarette and looked absolutely bored out of his mind as he puffed it.

"Thank you very much!" Lord Portley-Rind was literally dancing around the grave now. How classy. "Thank you very much! That's the nicest thing that anyone's ever done for me! It sounds a bit bizarre, but things the way they are – I feel as if another life's begun for me!"

Snatcher barged up to him and swung a fist that phased right through his head.

"And if I had a cannon I would fire it!" Lord Portley-Rind continued. "To add a sort of celebration touch!"

He looked to the footman inquisitively, just to check and make sure he didn't actually have the cannon. The footman shook his head.

"But since I left my cannon at home…" Portley-Rind shrugged. "I'll simply have to say thank you very, very, very much!"

Snatcher hadn't given up trying to beat Portley-Rind to a pulp, though it obviously wasn't working given the circumstances of reality.

"Thank you very, very, very much!"

The mob of dancers started up again, and now Snatcher could see who else was refraining. The Trubshaws. Because of course.

"Come on, Eggs!" Winnie tugged at Eggs' arm. "He's gone! He can't hurt us anymore! He'll never harm your family again!"

"I…I know," Eggs said. "I just don't feel like dancing about it."

"Eggs," Winnie sighed, gesturing to the crowd. "Just about every Boxtroll is doing it. We're better off with him dead."

"That we are," Eggs agreed. "Still don't feel like dancing. You…go on."

Winnie shrugged. "If you want to be in a bad mood about it." She jumped back into the crowd. The Boxtroll named Fish took her by the hand and they started to spin 'round.

"Is it a bad thing?" Eggs asked. "To think that…we shouldn't be doing this. After all, he was…he was about to kill us all."

"That he was," Jelly agreed. "Still and all, he was as human as any of us. And there are several others in this crowd who saw nothing wrong with his methodology. I'm afraid the issue is more complicated than it might seem. That said, our friends and family among the trolls have every reason to celebrate, and I don't begrudge them."

"Neither do I," said Eggs. "It's just…difficult."

"As many things are."

Snatcher rolled his eyes. He hadn't been brought here to witness a very special episode of father-son bonding over moral relativity. He turned his attention back to Lord Portley-Rind, who was now trying to balance on his headstone.

"Thank you very much! Thank you very much! That's the nicest thing that anyone's ever done for me! It isn't every day good fortune comes your way! I never thought the future would be FUN for me!"

"Don't be so dramatic!" Snatcher yelled at him. "You were living it up no matter what I did!"

The footman had by then realized that his charge was about to fall off the headstone, and so quickly crunched his cigarette underfoot and started running to spot him.

"And if I had a bugle, I would blow it!" Portley-Rind mimed playing such an instrument. "To add a sort of how's-your-father touch! But since I left my bugle at home, I'll simply have to say, thank you very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very much!"

Then he did fall off. He completely missed the waiting arms of his footman, who shrugged it off and took a few paces away from the whole show.

"FOR HE'S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW!" sang most of the crowd. "FOR HE'S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW!"

"For he's a jolly good fellow!" Portley-Rind agreed as he scrambled to his feet. "AND SO SAY ALL OF US!"

Snatcher was beyond fed up. There had to be another here who wasn't reveling in his demise. So he barged through the crowd, phasing through dancer after dancer, looking for anyone not jumping for joy.

"Thank you very much!" they all sang. "Thank you very, very, very much! Thank you very much!"

And then he spotted her. A quite tall woman, taller than most women in town were. Perhaps taller than any woman in town. She was dressed in a black coat over a black down, with a hood pulled up over her head. Unlike the Anti-White Coat's, hers was an ordinary, nonmagical hood, so Snatcher could see her pale face, her pursed lips, her sardonic stare as she stood stone-still. Blonde locks wisped out from the hood, and she bore spectacles. Snatcher was reminded slightly of Rachel Inlustris, except this woman's face was far thinner and more pointed, not to mention a little lighter in hue. She was a slender thing in general, reedy. In fact, she was so strikingly unique that Snatcher found himself wondering why he hadn't seen her around town when he was alive.

"The future looks all right!" Lord Portley-Rind crowed. "In fact, it looks so bright, I feel as if they're polishing the sun for me!"

The woman in the black coat decided she'd had enough. She turned to stalk away, headed back to town.

"Wait!" Snatcher reached out after her. "You're the one here who has sense, besides that footman!"

But of course, he wasn't real to her, and this wasn't even real in the first place. So she didn't stop. Snatcher thought about following her, then decided to go through with it, only to find himself warped right back into the thick of it. Standing in his own grave, at that.

The Anti-White Coat fixed him with a venomous glower.

"And if I had a drum, I'd have to bang it!" Lord Portley-Rind sang with vibrato. Not good vibrato, but vibrato nonetheless. "To add a sort of rumty-tumty touch! But since I left my drum at home, I'll simply have to say: thank you very, very, veee-ryyy much! Thank you very, very, veee-ryyyyyy muuuuuuch!"

"FOR HE'S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW!" the crowd chimed in.

With one final "THANK YOU VERY MUCH!", Lord Portley-Rind kicked the crate. Snatcher winced as it fell onto him, then through him, landing neatly in the grave. Snatcher quickly clambered away, aware that he was technically standing in his own innards.

The crowd had begun to disperse, so Snatcher stormed right up to the Anti-White Coat. "And what was to be the point of that?"

"To show you what you have done," the Anti-White Coat replied. "Do you think they would have celebrated your passing so much had you simply left them alone?"

"I don't think they'd've been grieving me no matter the case," Snatcher snarled.

"But to this degree?" asked the Anti-White Coat. "They think you a devil. A boogeyman. A Darkside of the deepest. Is this what you had wanted?"

"Well, perhaps I don't care what a bunch of stuffed shirts think of me!"

Snatcher had already said it before he even realized what he'd done without thinking. "Perhaps…I don't much care," he realized. "It was a disgusting show to be certain, but…no, none of them matter anymore, and none of them ever did! I've FOUND where it is I belong!"

"And you will ruin it again," said the Anti-White Coat. "Every single one of them will realize the same about you that they realized here. No one will want you unless you change your ways."

"No one at all?" Snatcher grinned, already seeing the loophole. "Why, only people of a certain moral persuasion. There were SEVERAL here who did not take part in the festivities."

"The friends you left behind."

"Besides them!" Snatcher barked. "You saw that woman at the back! She wasn't having it at all! Perhaps she'd been a fan of my methods! And what about Lord Portley-Rind's footman? He looked thoroughly bored with the whole affair and with the lord himself. We'd have a lot in common, I'd wager. And – "

An odd movement caught his eye. One of the guests had broken away from the crowd and, thinking no one was watching, had sunk a shovel into one of the graves.

It reminded Snatcher of something. Something he couldn't quite place, yet. Something from before the WHAM ARMY. "That man, there, I'll bet he was only pretending to go along with the masses just to reduce suspicion before he started graverobbing. I knew a man once who would pretend – "

Then he thought to take another look at the graverobber. "No. It can't be. He died long before I did – "

The Anti-White Coat seized his arm so he couldn't go check up close. "These are negligible details!"

"These are EVERYTHING."

"Their hearts could be infected with the same Darkness as yours!"

"Ah, then you're saying I'm in good company!"

"…I can see you will not listen to me," the Anti-White Coat realized. "Then would you perhaps listen to her?"

"Oh, what trick are you about to pull out now?" Snatcher asked. "I can assure you there's no 'her' in this town that I would remotely – "

From behind, a sultry voice. "Oh, is that so, my darling?"

His blood ran cold. Of course. The only "her" in all of Cheesebridge who had a sharehold in his life. And she wasn't even supposed to be real, but none of this was.

Slowly, he turned to face his double. Madame Frou Frou, but her own entity. One who'd never had the burden of actually being Archibald Snatcher.

"I'd have thought it quite, quite clear that it would have been so much easier if it had been me," said Frou Frou. "And ONLY me."

"What…what are you on about?" Snatcher asked, perhaps starting to panic a little.

"If this is what you'd been from the start," said Frou Frou, "how you'd been, instead of a frivolous, fabulous lie…you know that we would have been loved. Adored, even! The men would have tripped over themselves trying to get to us. But, well…" She waved dismissively. "You had to be you. And we had to take the lipstick off at the end of the day, didn't we?"

"You're – you're PART of me," Snatcher argued. "And one of the parts I thought less likely to turn on me like this, at that! I AM you."

"No, you are you," Frou Frou argued. "I was only ever a figment of your imagination. Something you THOUGHT you could be. And you were an absolute fool to think it."

Snatcher rounded on the Anti-White Coat. "I already knew I harbored self-loathing. Did you HAVE to bring it to the forefront?"

"Because you would not see reason," the Anti-White Coat replied.

"It just occurs to me that…perhaps he is right," Frou Frou mused. "They thought I was a good woman. You…it was obvious you weren't. Perhaps…it could have been different for us, if you were more…"

"Moral?" Snatcher asked dryly. "Upstanding? Sentimental? Self-sacrificing?"

"In line with the established guidelines," Frou Frou argued. "They laid out rules for us. We chose to break them."

"Because we were already breaking half by existing!" Snatcher snapped.

Frou Frou wrung her hands. "I hate to say it. I do so hate – "

"That if I'd been you from the start, it would've been no sin of the people for me to admire men, and you've always been regarded as far prettier," Snatcher grumbled. "It's no secret. You know, I'd thought you were just an apparition that this charlatan conjured to get under my skin, and yet…"

"No, it's me," Frou Frou replied. "Or, should I say…it's you. And we likely should have discussed this long ago."

"Well, we're here now," Snatcher said. "And like it or not, you ARE me, and I AM you, and we ARE what we are. How can you still harbor these doubts after all we've learned? That there IS a place for us out there?"

"Because you do," Frou Frou replied.

Snatcher shook his head. "I can't still be – none of it matters. If we'd stayed in line, there'd be no WHAM ARMY! We ARE one of the letters in the acronym!"

"Oh, you mean no more putting our well-being on the line every week!" Frou Frou argued. "You mean the most abnormal of lives, the furthest stone's throw from the picket fence we were promised!"

"Even when it's exhausting, we DO love it," Snatcher argued. "It's where we belong, where we feel alive! It's where our sort are."

"Should they be our sort?" asked Frou Frou. "What they do…we would have blanched to think of it. We were monsters behind closed doors, but at least we played by the rules as far as others were concerned. This 'WHAM ARMY,' they make no secret of their flagrant disapproval. They would never be White Hats, the way we longed to be. They wouldn't be…accepted."

"Except among each other."

Frou Frou paused. "Do you…truly think they will want us forever?"

"Can't say," Snatcher replied coldly. "But let me ask you this. You want all of this so badly? Is that it?" He spread out his arms to indicate the town. "Then what about Roman?"

"What about him?"

"We love him. You can't tell me you don't."

"I do," said Frou Frou. "I do, very dearly. And yet…what if we could have done better than hi – "

Without hesitation, Snatcher surged forth to slap his doppelgänger across the face. He felt the blow mirrored on his own.

"HOW DARE YOU!" Snatcher growled. "One person who understands us better than anything, who SEES us in a way we never were seen, and you're – you're – well, you're only posturing so as not to admit that THIS WAS ALL A LOST CAUSE!"

Again, indicating the town. "It…was a lost cause," Snatcher said. "How many years spent here. Even the good ones, and it was all for nothing. No matter what happens, we're not getting those years back! I know, I know. After all we worked for. Which is why we need the WHAM ARMY. Because we can still have this, but never in the way we thought." He clenched his fist. "We'll take it by force. Or perhaps level the entire hill. There's time to make up our mind on it. But first and foremost, the White Hat council dies. He's promised. Don't diminish him because of what you don't want to think about…all that came before. Because with him, we can get the leg up on it all. We can show them why they should NEVER have treated us that way."

"But if we'd never met him – "

"Then we wouldn't be known!"

"We could've gone back to – " Frou Frou then gasped, covering her own mouth.

"…So that's what it's about," Snatcher realized. "Well, then. That's a rather inconvenient torch to find out is still lit. Suppose he's got to die too, now. Because to be perfectly frank, I would rather explode forty more times before becoming a match with Herbert. It's no longer about him. It's about what he took from me. It's about how he DISRESPECTED me. Winning him back won't fix that. Eliminating him? Now, that's a different story."

"There must be a way we can have it all," Frou Frou protested. "Roman and…and their adoration."

"Their adoration was never on the table," Snatcher said. "Loath as I am to admit it."

"But we know how to manipulate them, how to get them to eat out of our hand! How could we possibly have failed?"

"Because that many people are TRULY that thickheaded," Snatcher replied. "The only thing you've managed to convince me of is that I've got to come back here and tie up some loose ends. And those threads will be stained RED. This town wanted rivers of blood and mountains of bone? Well, they'll get it, all right. From the person who promised it."

He looked Frou Frou dead in the eye, putting out his hand. "You're with me?" he asked. "You and I – me and me – whatever we are, we've got to be on the same wavelength. You can't be holding back. You – I CREATED you to have a freedom they could never give me!"

Frou Frou tentatively reached out to take Snatcher's hand.

The Anti-White Coat seized her shoulders from behind, hissing into her ear, "You WILL pay for this disobedience, one way or the other! If not from them, then from ME!"

Frou Frou gasped. "I cannot take that chance."

And she promptly vanished.

"I'm CERTAIN that wasn't allowed!" Snatcher roared. "You just interrupted my own self-dialogue by putting YOUR WORDS IN MY HEAD! You're hardly any different from Lord Portley-Rind!"

The Anti-White Coat looked back to where the lord in white was parading back up to town. "Perhaps not. Perhaps…I owe him an apology, for our differences so long ago."

"You're going to get out of my mind," Snatcher growled. "That is not a REQUEST."

"…I see now," said the Anti-White Coat. "Some…some are so devoted to evil that they cannot be swayed by even the most compelling of arguments."

"You've given me very little reason to want to reform and all the more reason to commit more murder," Snatcher stated. "In fact, you've shown me that this whole time, I've been justified. Perhaps, if you wanted a change out of me, you should've shown me why I should want it without strings attached. Which won't happen, to be clear."

"If you continue to resist…" The Anti-White Coat sighed. "I am sorry. But these worlds must be rid of Darkness such as yours. Such has been my pilgrimage, going from dream to dream, from Dark to Darker. I will save the worlds from you and your kind. And if the only way is to break you down until you surrender to the correct course…then so be it."

"Wait a moment." Snatcher's eyes widened. "You're not just going after me. You're after the whole rest of the WHAM ARMY, aren't you? You're going for Lord Mozenrath, for…"

"I see," said the Anti-White Coat. "What are you willing to do so that I spare Torchwick?"

"Nothing. Because you won't. I know your kind. You'll get me to heel, and then you'll go on and break him down anyhow."

"Then the cycle continues," the Anti-White Coat seethed. "And I thought the first seventeen cycles would have taught you your lesson!"

It hit Snatcher like a bolt of lightning. "No. It was never him, the lion-general-man with his dragon. He didn't give me that dream. YOU found it in my mind, and YOU put it on loop. You never heard my heart 'crying out' at all; YOU ENGINEERED THIS – "

"The curse placed upon you made it easier to manipulate your dreams," said the Anti-White Coat. "The others, I can only whisper to in their sleep. It will be harder with you once you've broken from this curse and returned to what might be called 'normal' sleep. I have to do this now, before you're awoken and ripped from my grasp. You must realize the consequences of what will happen if you do not change your ways."

"HOW DARE YOU – "

He took two steps toward the Anti-White Coat and was suddenly kneeling on the steps of the central square as Lord Portley-Rind ripped away the hat, snapping, "THAT was the closest you will ever come to a white hat! Hope you enjoyed it."

Snatcher was no longer in control of his actions. Again. And thoroughly dreading explosion eighteen.

...

There was a kingdom in an England that was rather similar to Mim's own. Sure, there were a few hundred years of difference between the two, but the aesthetic was still a match: rolling green pastures of farmland, humble villages, no one who'd yet discovered electricity. There were but two massive differences. One being that this world had no active practitioners of magic. The other being that there were no humans upon it; rather, every intelligent creature was some sort of evolved animal. When they said that King Richard was lion-hearted, well, they meant it literally.

At the edge of the castle grounds that bordered on the lush Sherwood Forest, there was a stone pit, literally labeled the "Royal Rock Pile." It was meant as a place for criminals to do time and reflect upon the errors of their ways. At present, it was only being used for three regulars. Others had come and gone, but these three, having been charged with royal treason, had life sentences.

Though if you'd have asked one of them, he'd have said it was just because his brother, King Richard, wanted him to suffer.

"I'm unfit for this, you know!" whined that one. A scrawny bipedal lion with thin fur and no mane to speak of. Clad in black and white stripes, just like the other two. "There's royal blood in these hands! I wasn't put here just to – just to – just to make bricks for the foundation that will replace Mother's castle, which SOMEONE set on fire!" Prince John raised a sledgehammer high and then brought it down on a boulder, splitting it in half.

"Oh, it aaaaalways comes back to that fire, don't it?" This scoffing came from a bipedal wolf who was certainly on the larger side – and the haughtier side. "How many times do I gotta say it was an accident? I was doin' what you wanted: huntin' down that pesky Robin Hood! And we ain't makin bricks. Thought you knew that, seein' how you think you know everything." The Sheriff of Nottingham went back to chiseling the rock he had laid out before him.

"Then what ARE we doing, since you know so much more than me?" Prince John scoffed.

"Well, I reckon we're openin' up these rocks to make sure there's no precious gems or gold inside," the Sheriff said confidently. "'S the only explanation that makes any sense."

"Oh, really!" scoffed the haughtiest of them all. A snake who was exactly snake-shaped. "Everyone knows the Royal Rock Pile is where debris is sent to be carved down into dust and therefore be less obtrusive, thereby beautifying the kingdom. Everyone ALSO knows that it was only made for prisoners with hands!" Sir Hiss had curled his tail around a rock that he was attempting to drag across the pit.

"Well, don't get your coils in a knot," the Sheriff huffed, getting up to approach. "You don't got hands, I s'pose I'll have to lend you one." He picked up the rock in one hand, and Hiss with it; as he carried the rock across the pit, Hiss hit his head on every stone on the way.

"Oof!" Hiss shook his aching head. "Will you be more careful, you – OUCH!"

"Well, if you ain't gonna be grateful!" The Sheriff dropped the rock. Hiss let go of it. It bounced, rolled, and slammed into Prince John's toe.

"AAAAAAAGH!" the prince screamed. "That was my favorite big toe, you nitwits!" He clutched at his foot and started hopping around in pain. In doing so, he accidentally dragged the chains around his ankles across the Sheriff's path, causing the latter to trip and fall flat on his face.

"Well, for somebody who likes bein' called 'Your Grace,'" the Sheriff mumbled, "you sure ain't very graceful!"

"Why you – " Prince John made to lunge at the Sheriff.

The Sheriff just grabbed onto John's chain and gave it a yank, and now Prince John was the one who'd fallen on his face. This sent Hiss into hysterics of laughter.

"YOUUU!" Prince John got right back up and pounced, seizing Hiss by the neck and shaking him hard. "THIS IS NO LAUGHING MATTER!"

"Hey now!" The Sheriff hefted a rock into his hand. "I thought I told ya NO MORE OF THAT!"

He chucked the rock at John's head. John gave a gasp and ducked just in time. It was Hiss who was beaned by the rock.

"Oops," said the Sheriff. "Apologies, friend."

"Apologies?" Hiss rubbed at his eye, which was rapidly blackening. "How about you watch where you're throwing things? Or are you going to set the rock pile on fire, too?"

"And when he does," John yelled, "ARE YOU GOING TO BLAME ME FOR IT?"

Crunch.

The soft, almost imperceptible sound caused all three to stop their fighting and look to the edge of the pit, where they were sure that their supervisors – a pair of clumsy vultures named Trigger and Nutsy – were loading up weapons to wave around at them in an attempt to restore order.

They hadn't expected to see two women in beach chairs and eating popcorn, probably because they had never seen a beach chair or a popcorn kernel before in their lives.

"Oh, don't stop on our account," Wuya said around a mouthful. "It was just starting to get good."

"You know, it's actually hilarious watching people who aren't me be hurt over and over again," Yzma chuckled. She tossed a few kernels into the air and caught one in her mouth while the rest bounced off her face.

"Who are you?" Hiss asked. "Some sort of peanut gallery sent to increase our humiliation?"

"Actually, we're here to break you out of jail," said Wuya.

"Seems a mighty roundabout way of doin' it," said the Sheriff.

"Yes, well, you were giving us a show, so who were we to decline?" Wuya snapped her fingers.

The cuffs that bound all three prisoners popped right open. "We're free?" Hiss said incredulously. "WE'RE FREE!"

"Well, Crimenently!" The Sheriff picked up his old cuff and locked it around thin air. "This some kinda magic?"

"That's just the first trick I do at birthday parties," said Wuya.

"Here's our proposition," said Yzma. "The three of you have particular skills and aesthetics that match a little…group we're putting together. We're going to take over a whole lot more than just this silly little kingdom. If you want to be part of a cosmic ruling force that establishes a whole new order centered around luxury, hedonism, and sadism, then I would suggest you come with us."

"Also, other worlds are real, and we're from two." Wuya popped more corn into her mouth. "Get used to the idea now. It gets weirder from here."

"Can we trust this, do you think?" Hiss asked.

"Well, whatever they got planned for us, it's gotta be better than sittin' around here breakin' rocks," the Sheriff said.

"You heard them!" John's face lit up. "They said I could be KING!"

"Never said that part," Wuya corrected. "You'll be ruling class. But you take orders from the inner circle, and we all take orders from our leader. That's how it works."

"Orders?" John complained. "I'd rather be a prisoner than take ORDERS!"

"But isn't being a prisoner just a constant stream of other people giving you orders?" Yzma asked.

"YES!" Prince John said emphatically.

"What say you we get out of the rock pile?" Hiss asked. "We can discuss it on stabler ground."

So they did.

"Now, I have a few requisitions for joining this cosmic ruling force of yours," said Prince John. "First of all, I'll need a crown. The BIGGEST crown!"

Wuya snapped again. There was a luxurious crown of gold perched atop the lion's head. "There. Asked and answered."

Prince John gasped. "With this, I'll finally be a better king than Richard! Everyone will have to do what I say!"

"What WE say," Yzma corrected. "Remember, this is first and foremost about ME being empress, WUYA being the ultimate evil, and MOZENRATH…doing whatever he wants, really. You're just a recruit."

"I am not JUST A RECRUIT!" Prince John yelled.

"Sire," Hiss whispered, "perhaps if we play along, it will yield us dividends in the end. It does sound like a better position than where we were, given that it's not too good to be true – "

"YOU BE QUIET!" John reached over, grabbed Hiss, and quickly, deftly tied him into a knot.

"Are you going to be a problem for team morale?" Yzma asked, raising a brow in suspicion.

"Who could have bad morale, working for me?" Prince John asked.

"You're really not getting how this works, are you?" Wuya sighed.

"You'll have to pardon us, ladies," the Sheriff said, tipping his striped hat. "Workin' in the sun day in and day out has taken a toll on some of us here."

"You must be talking about yourself, because I am perfectly well," said Prince John.

"Now, what exactly is the duty you'd have us doin'?" the Sheriff asked.

"We're currently in possession of a small empire," Yzma said. "Or maybe it's a large kingdom. You be the judge. We were going to bring you on board no matter what, but we need your services NOW, because the people are revolting. And also trying to start a revolution."

"We need a better, fiercer taxation system," Wuya added. "One that can't be escaped. So that's why we came here looking for you. And, as a bonus, one of your two friends is good at the organizational aspect, and we need a good secretary. The other, well, he's good at bossing people around, and that's what we do."

"Well, well!" The Sheriff's eyes lit up. "That's mighty – "

"Looking for him?" Prince John yelled. "LOOKING FOR HIM? YOU CAME HERE FOR THE SHERIFF? WHY YOU – I'M THE ONE YOU SHOULD'VE COME FOR! I'M THE KING! I'M THE ONE WHO'S SUPPOSED TO HAVE ALL THE MONEY AND THE POWER! NOT HIM!"

"Will you CEASE?" Yzma yelled, storming toward him with rage in her eyes. "If you say one more word out of turn, I swear I'll throw you back in that pit where you came from!"

"Y-you'd best do what he says!" Hiss warned. "The Prince does have a terrible temper."

"NO I DON'T!" John shrieked. "I DON'T, I DON'T, I DON'T!"

"Wow," Wuya remarked. "Somehow, Mozenrath is more agreeable. Never thought I'd see the day."

"And stop yelling about being king!" Yzma cried. "We can get you a kingdom AFTER I'm made empress! That's what you're going to remember: in this arrangement, YOU are no longer the leader. I'm the one who rules all, and – "

"NO ONE RULES OVER ME!" Prince John yelled. And then he decked Yzma right in the face with his right fist.

"That's it!" Wuya snapped. "You're fired!"

Immediately, a hundred chains materialized, seizing John and pulling him back down into the pit. "WAIT!" the prince moaned plaintively. "YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!"

"Oh, shut up." Wuya conjured another iron ring to clamp around his snout, quieting him down.

Hiss had just managed to get himself unknotted. "I've only ever seen one other person do anything like that before," he panted. "He's going to be irate when he gets free, you know?"

"He's not getting free," said Wuya. "If he doesn't like the WHAM ARMY terms, he can stay in the rock pile, and he WILL stay in the rock pile."

"Y'know," the Sheriff remarked, "this could be a golden opportunity! The two real brains of the operation move onward and upward, and the Phony King of England gets left behind!"

"Are we certain?" Hiss asked. "The prince – he's – well, we go back a long way, and – "

"Oh, not this again!" the Sheriff huffed. "Just 'cause you got a thing for him!"

"I do not," Hiss argued, "and I resent the accusation!"

"Every fella just wants a catch like Prince John," the Sheriff said sarcastically. "The kinda fella who manhandles ya, tosses you around, throws you in baskets, yells 'You ain't here when I need ya!' and all that. What a charmer!"

"I'm picking up a certain vibe here," said Wuya. "Namely that…" She pointed to Hiss. "You're in over your head trying to get noticed by someone who doesn't care."

"Oh, he notices, all right," said the Sheriff. "Hiss is the Prince's favorite punchin' bag and claims to like it."

"Do you really appreciate being advisor to that overgrown toddler?" Yzma asked. "He's starting to make Kuzco seem like boss of the year!"

"Who's Kuzco?" asked the Sheriff.

"Someone who Prince John makes seem like boss of the year," Yzma said, as though that explained everything.

"But we've always been together!" Hiss protested. "I'm – I'm special to him! He couldn't do this job without me!"

"Honesty time," said Wuya. "Are you, you know, like some of the friends we have who like getting beaten up because it's kinky, or is it the other way?"

"I mean…I never appreciate being at the business end of his wrath," Hiss admitted. "But if I just tried harder, and got a little luckier!"

The Sheriff rolled his eyes. "You see what I gotta deal with? Sometimes I feel like I'm the only reason Hiss here ain't a nervous wreck!"

"Is there something going on between you two?" Yzma asked. "Romantically."

"PERISH the thought," said Hiss, gagging.

"If we started up somethin' like that," said the Sheriff, "our friendship goes right out the window and we'd both kill each other within the week. See, I'm a law-abidin' man…or a law-enforcin' man is more like it. But Hiss is a particular little fella who wouldn't want the slightest thing outta place! A fella can't just let his fur down livin' like that."

"I would argue the point, but rudely as it was phrased, it is true," said Hiss. "We're really just better off friends. Though I, erm, do owe the Sheriff my life, as it were."

"And don't you forget it!" the Sheriff said with a fanged smirk.

"What happened there?" Wuya asked.

"Well…you see, it's…" Hiss shuffled his coils in the dirt. "There was this fire, you see. An outlaw invaded our castle and robbed us blind!"

"All the hard-earned tax money we'd collected off the poor!" said the Sheriff. "We turn around and suddenly, none of 'em are poor anymore! Now that just ain't fair!"

"And, well, ONE of us grabbed a torch and ran after him – " Hiss glowered at the Sheriff.

"Now don't you start!" the Sheriff snapped. "Sure, there was a fire, and it happened while I was chasin' down that rogue, but it's what had to be done! …The rogue-chasin', not the fire."

"And, well, even knowing this, I was rather fed up with taking all the beatings verbally and literally," Hiss said, "so I said to the prince, 'Look what you've done to your mother's castle!', because he's sensitive about his mother, you see. And then, erm…things went a little askew."

"John started chasin' Hiss into the burnin' castle tryna' knock his block off," said the Sheriff. "Woulda been funny if they weren't headin' for certain doom. So I go up to John and I grab his weapon arm and I say, 'You knock that off.' And 'cause he's such a scrawny little fella and the place was on fire, he backed down."

"Leaving us to escape with our lives…right into Richard's clutches," Hiss sighed.

Yzma pointed dumbfoundedly between Hiss, the Sheriff, and the whining John. "You mean to tell me that he saved your life from HIM, BECAUSE HE WAS GOING TO KILL HIMSELF AND YOU, and you almost let us just recruit him onto our team?"

"I mean, to be fair, we have taken on worse," Wuya said. "But we don't really NEED him. We NEED a secretary and a tax collector, and this couldn't more obviously be an either/or situation."

"And we need people who don't punch me in the face," Yzma said dryly. "We're getting the better end of the deal."

"But…" Hiss looked back at John.

"Oh, honey," Wuya told him. "He's just not that into you."

"When do we start the job?" asked the Sheriff. "I sure have missed roughin' up the peasants for every last farthing. There's a certain kinda fun in it!"

"Immediately!" Yzma crowed. "…after you get a tour of our castle and kingdom. You're going to love it. It has twelve hot tubs."

"Why would you heat up that many metal tubs?" asked Hiss.

"Oh, HONEY," Wuya sighed.

"I think if they can afford to waste that much cookware," the Sheriff mused, "they gotta be the cream of the crop! Sittin' on piles of coins!"

"…Yes, that's what we're going with," Yzma said. "Trust me, you're not going to believe half of what you see when we get there."

"Why don't we start that tour now?" Wuya asked. "The sooner you're shown around, the sooner we can get to the shakedown."

She opened a Corridor and gestured. "After you."

"Why, thank ya kindly!" The Sheriff started to stride through. "You know, ladies, you ain't missin' much passin' up on the prince. I'm the Nottingham archery champion! You won't find a surer shot than me!"

As Wuya followed, Hiss hissed, "That's not how I remember it, but far be it from me to ruin his fantasies."

"Well?" Yzma asked. "Are you coming along, or are you going to stay here with someone who has been known to punch empresses in the face?"

Hiss thought it over. He had always vowed that he would never abandon Prince John. They would always be together, no matter how much abuse he took.

"This…this Kuzco," Hiss ventured. "He was your king?"

"Emperor," said Yzma. "Which is worse."

"And you…were loyal to him?"

"I practically raised him!" Yzma spat. "And you know what he did to me? He had me FIRED! Can you believe the audacity?"

"Were you ever…at a point of indecision as to whether you should – "

That was when John managed to wriggle his face free of the silencing cuff. "HISS, YOU CUR! I'LL HAVE YOUR SCALES FOR BOOTS FOR EVEN ASSOCIATING WITH THOSE INTERLOPERS! CONSIDER YOURSELF NEVER FORGIVEN!"

"…Oh." Hiss deflated. "I suppose that makes the decision for me, then."

"We can talk about it over coffee back at base," Yzma told him. "Unless you prefer something stronger."

"Oh, no, I don't drink at all – coffee will be fine."

They entered the portal, coming out at Yzma's current lair on the Mystic Isles. "Welcome to YZMATOPIA!" she announced, indicating the building.

"Oh, one more thing!" said Hiss. "I understand that this is, well, a gathering of…less-than-desirables, but we are all god-fearing people of faith, are we not?"

"Oh dear," Yzma groaned.

"You're going to learn very quickly not to care about that," Wuya told him. "Trust me."

"Think of it like this," said the Sheriff. "That ol' holy book says we gotta play nice with the peasants, let 'em have their collection boxes and all that. I don't think the man upstairs takes too kindly to us these days anyway."

"Oh, I suppose you're right," said Hiss. "Well, we might as well not delay the inevitable, then, if I'm to burn either way."

"Actually," said Wuya, "jump ship to one of the pagan pantheons and you can just avoid the flames altogether."

"Pagan?" Hiss winced. "Are you mad? Perhaps YOU may be, but I could never!"

"Baby steps," Yzma told Wuya.

She nodded. "Baby steps."

"Just – show me where I'm to set up my office!" Hiss groaned.

"And I wanna see these heated tubs ya got!" said the Sheriff.

"Right this way," Yzma said, leading the way to the fortress.