It was after a day or two of round-the-clock efforts, at rather fair expense—nothing DOOP'd balk at, but for sure Farnsworth—to finally be allowed clearance, whereupon she'd give many a seal of approval, giddily so, after a tour of weaponry, shielding, and equipment.
All in all the war to be almost worth the trouble, especially when alongside the relative peace and reliable praise, another highlight was Brannigan's continued, obvious aversion of her company. Or that she could tell from beneath rolls of bandages; satisfied her to no end to watch him struggle with his sumptuous meal, inside of mess hall, as she tucked into the same slop he'd serve his men.
But no matter how she'd wish to keep relishing those moments, the time soon came to take her leave and put Bophades into action, with everyone on board save her Officer—Nimbus's medics still trying whatever they could, but unable to make progress.
Leaving to a final chorus of cheers she'd find herself hovering over HQ—Bender to remind of his mission, before she'd clasp his rotor with a salute. Five seconds later, Amy to let off with a hug upon the surface of Mars, before she'd roar her engines to where her greatest darkness to date had all kicked off.
A nemesis in need of sunlight, just outside the Milky Way's reach… No finer disinfectant, to foist upon her filthiest foe yet.
(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·. Planet Earth, HQ… .·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ)
"I'M BACK, BABY!"
Bender's loudest shout to expect a fantastic welcome, upon tapping his tin feet over the linoleum; far from the grand ticker-tape parade he imagined deserving, however, faced the reality of a much crueller contrast. Nobody, not even one colleague, to raise their head at his return, whether consumed by experiments, bureaucracy, or lewd magazines.
And as if that wasn't enough to sour him, the worst source he could name to utterly blindside him soon after, slam him up against a wall and squeeze.
"My dear robut friend! You're back! I can't believe—where have—
"Shaddup Zoidberg! And get off me!"
"Ahhh, just like old times… Welcome home."
Greetings he wouldn't return, and memories he really didn't care to relive, and in retrospect, couldn't anyway—missions of much graver standing to get started on. Over his own scrapped body, he'd vow since touchdown, would he let Archbury become Earth's ultimate hustler.
But not for nothing, the more he'd comb through places of any repute, from idyllic to ill, the more his misdeeds, memories therein, would return to haunt him. At best, metal mercenaries he once made acquaintance with to turn their back and say not a word. At worst, a none-too-subtle threat after the briefest hello, and ways enough to easily follow through.
Knew they cared little for how he'd earn his dollars—whatever he liked without shame—and knew they barely tolerated the nuclear heat he drew for how he'd spend his take, how he loved leaving his likeness at every scene. But no matter how extreme his exile nor how seedy the doorstep he'd darken, they never forgave how readily he sang like a canary to condemn them.
Just as well the majority of those menaces were barely two-bit tough bots trying to grow some bolts, prove greater than the lives of menial labour they were coded for. Knew how to escape or even to handle them, but would sweat beads of oil each time, as the scariest reality began to set in.
Far from any beloved Mayor, would find he had absolutely no allies, and that his choice became unnervingly clear. Every ocean even of scum to have their whales—in that instance, a gang whom anyone of metal, flesh, or matter were victims of, and whose member count needed just one hand.
Achievers of more than every 'family'—ancient and modern—whom he'd once acquaint himself with, done a job or two for, over a chance encounter at Elzar's, who otherwise lived virtually up the neighbourhood from HQ. That might've been it, except for the exposure of his superheroic front; could admit that back then, became quite an annoyance as an adversary of theirs.
Taking in the apartments, open produce stalls, and looming Manhattan horizons of Little Bitaly, piece by piece, knew for sidling through Fronty's and reaching safes down the back that he was in for a world of trouble. Especially to receive immediate glares that might've cut glass, where the choicest cuts were kept.
"Joey, what'd I tell you 'bout letting pests inside our home?"
Over a chilled wine and soup of premium crude, a subtle yet scolding accent which'd get an apology from Joey Mousepad, off to the left who stood twice as tall, and whose necklace gave away his namesake. The leveller head of that lot, especially against the associate who'd rise up and tackle him to the ice without warning—named for his hands, would truly put the 'pazzo' in Clampazzo.
"Give me the word boss… I'll make you some great SNITCH juice!"
"Easy Clamps, easy. I'd rather a word. Or more exactly, an explanation."
Glowering over his glass at the head of his table, none other than Donbot. Dark green with rings riveted upon his fingers, a hinge-like cane within reach, and reminders of the Michelin Man in his build—only he to make Clamps take several steps back, simply out of respect.
Could only imagine what'd be in store, for having become his public enemy number 1, statistically.
"Get a load of this, huh? Just when I thought my problem took care of itself, it comes crawling back. Pretty clear, it seems, that you've nowhere else to go."
Quiet steps forward before Donbot's eyes met his chest; in that moment, Bender could swear his paint turned fifty shades of yellow.
"Always out to pinch his piece, wherever we had our rotors. Drank us out of bootleg beer. Robbed us of our heists. Saved our 'insured' assets. Ruined our sparking racket. Cheated my casinos. Guaranteed my beloved wife a ticket to Hell… Due respect for your ball bearings aside, Rodriguez, do you really believe you'll ever balance those books of ours?"
The looks of killers, and subtle charges of lasers, to imagine he could only grovel, and hope to Mom for mercy.
"Botfather, it's obvious that—"
"Off your knees, eyes up here."
"Sorry, I'm sorry," he'd get up immediately. "That's exactly why I came back, since it's obvious that I won't anytime soon… All I axe for is if there's any way I can—can't say the same for loans or favours, am I right?"
His nervy laugh to invite a narrowing of eyes, ones to further concrete his guts.
"Do we look the forgiving types?"
"I've no way to answer that."
"Then allow us to."
An adjusting of self, and mere standing aside, before the goons blew large holes just inches shy from his feet, making him flail about in frenzied panic.
"We won't miss twice, il nemico," Joey made clear, earning Clamps' psychotic nodding.
"Waaiitt! Maybe I could declare a shared score to settle. A mutual interest, before I meet our makers. Surely I can't be—"
"In the Black Book we keep, you're one of VERY few," Donbot seethed. "So make it good, or make for the desert."
"I don't know why, but what about Reggie? Also goes by Reginald, or Zookeeper works too."
After some uncomfortable seconds, a very quiet sigh of relief; that response to spin their curiosity drives hot.
"Huh, interesting, you have a history with him as well. A credible threat to our territories, and human no less—please me to no end to see him 'done up.' Tell me, Rodriguez… What has he done, to have you desire his head so? And why should we bother helping each other, when we all know of your sins, your bailing on us for far less?"
"Because, as a friend AND as a former good fellow… I'm a fraud, dammit. A cowardly sexy fraud."
"Go on."
"Like Joey and Clamps to you, I took in crewmates too. Even upon lost cred, lost careers, and lost fortunes, those crewmates to become family—could ditch them on some wild whim, even drive them direct into harm's way, and we still stuck close. After many years of adventures, felt like real freaky destiny."
"And what's any of that got to do with our 'friend'?"
"As adversaries of his, we'd often confront his crimes in progress—long story short, came the time where we'd end up beaten handily. Thought we could truce and cut ties forever, when we were offered one last mission—good money and great fortunes to promise upon completion."
"And how did that turn out?"
"It was a damned trap, set up to doom us all. He crippled and sent me away, while making my family into playthings of his, even to this day… It was he who made it personal, that dirty, double-crossing BASTARD!"
Special care taken to say nothing of his actions that day—Donbot to then cup his rotors, and really consider the plea.
"So it's a vendetta to settle that lets us reap the benefits? And if not, that we can rip away at will?"
To the table he'd walk, then take his seat, a subtle nod to his associates after some time interlocking his rotors. "Very well, we'll give you your means; there's a 'protection' racket we could use you for."
"What was that about again?"
"Rodriguez, it's simple, just five steps: go in, say hello, collect my cut, wish them well, go home. Unless you come across any of those… uncooperative sorts."
"And to them, I s'pose there's no point in writing a strongly-worded letter?"
"What would you say's the natural solution, to not hiring our protection?"
"Smash the shop, threaten the owner… Maybe beat up a customer or two?"
"Exactly. Anything besides killing, we clear on that?"
"Awww man, so why's that exactly?"
"A dead and decaying corpse doesn't pay their dues to us, just to your government. Besides that, it's just bad for business; even a goomba like Joey figured that out."
"Right, so who's our first mark?"
"Rocket-Car Emporium, ritzy car yard in Lower Manhattan. Eddie owns that joint, and ever since curing his exploding habit, he's been quite the earner. Kicks back five big Nixons a week, always on time and with a smile. Not that he can't let us down—we know the tricks to haul him back to HAL. No easier start to hope for, capiche?"
A metal bat to pull from inside his chassis, "And should I fail?"
"You'll wish you kept your diplomatic immunity."
Let a brick then and there crack the ice floor, before recomposing himself, "Then let's go already."
Didn't hear the weary groan, nor see any careful looks to Clamps and Joey. Certainly knew, regardless, that they'd keep a closer eye than they already did—indulge in his pastimes at his own peril…
(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·..·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ)
"Madonn… Rodriguez, put that bat away. No need to rough up anybody right now."
A point quickly proven with but a wave of rotors—Victor and his wool-dressed colleague to immediately bow before—daresay genuflect—then direct them to Eddie's office. A presence and influence far greater than he'd gather since last year, very much like Archbury.
Especially when that mess of exposed wires, eyes loaded on springs, would pump each of their hands except his with vigour.
"Buona giornata Eddie," Donbot tipped his hat. "Got our fair share, I hope?"
"Oh yeah, s-s-sure I do boss, just a moment."
Swiftest rifling through a compartment in his desk, where sure enough, five clean and crisp thousand-dollar bills came out, were slapped smack-bang where it'd matter. Careful counts among actual crew to verify, before it'd be stored in a coat pocket.
"Thank you, a pleasure as always. You been holdin' up okay?"
Didn't catch the rest of their conversation; all this 'respect' and 'politeness' to lean him against the nearest wall, and prepare to doze off.
"This stu cazz, I swear… Could screw up a cup of coffee—RODRIGUEZ!"
"Eh, whoa, what?"
"Don't screw around; you don't last decades in this life without jobs like these!"
"Okay, okay, I get the point."
"Then you'll be doing this my way, and I won't hear of any bloodshed unless absolutely necessary. Especially for your sake."
"Well, you want success and prosperity, I want less problems and a chance to live. Let's get it all over with."
A bad attitude to baulk the Mafia at large, but as jobs would sluice down the pipeline, he made them realise that to employ over disappear him was a far more fruitful option. Mere days taken to have 'protection' down to fine arts, to the point where he could walk into rooms, bat in tow, and the majority of owners would pay up immediately.
As for the minority who didn't? They soon understood why Mousepad—Clamps with some coaxing—took to calling their short-term partner 'Slugger.'
Home run whacks on whatever in reach, in channelling the original Hank Aaron; priceless goods, fancy displays, threats against the hapless… Against all that mayhem, and especially the mirth in committing it, they to then see things a different way.
Plus, as supposedly a benefactor of Donbot's lucky foot, or so Mousepad would claim, he began to notice certain patterns beyond the bodily harms and business trashings. One way or another, Archbury's name to prove consistent with non-payers—namely, of pleas to go through him instead of them.
And as they'd trade documents in addition to cash, hoping to spare further ruin, really noticed a clear chink in the armour—everybody that safari suit sank his claws into, he would bleed them out and, given time, bankrupt them. Impossible terms of payment, 'advising' of opportunities, 'settlements' out of court; these to expose Archbury's modus operandi piece by piece.
Namely, that not a single thing had changed since that year and change of separation. If at any point the fat man promised a fortune, it meant his, ONLY his, and that any associates hoping for a share had just two options—suffer and suck it up, or risk a villainous wrath.
With past vows circling in mind, and enough trust eventually regained, would organise a visit with Dr. Beeler, a specialist in robotics storage and printing on the side. Hadn't any idea how such a nerd got roped into an empire so ruthless, and certainly didn't care—Beeler, for his part, to just get on with any requests or favours; this time, creating copies of any documents handed over.
Nobody the wiser, for what it was worth, to ensure the originals were replaced as they were, clean-up crews engaged. Not that the Slugger in he had any concern over such minutiae, for there were always new territories—no matter how small—to terrorise for himself, or otherwise claim for family.
All this money, just the once, was Donbot and crew's to keep. But where revenge was concerned? Every last square foot counted…
(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·.-Planet Mars, Wong Hotel & Casino…-.·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ)
At this moment, she couldn't say just how Bender or Leela's quests for payback were getting along.
But dressed in plumber's overalls, her hair capped and tucked to hide any obvious styling, Amy was grabbing her key from reception, and heading for her commoner's suite. Where she was, it was often boasted as being a Mars Vegas masterpiece, an architectural cornerstone under shining stars.
Bold, braggadocious beliefs she could agree with in parts—outside to mimic cities of emerald, and adorning the inside, everything from exotic plants to gold statues to cascading waterfalls, as well as gold-lined gaming tables that'd stretch for a mile. Among all that, crowds of the unwashed—like moths to financial flames—to flush their tuitions, rents, and repayments into the family coffers.
Such a feeling to never quite sit right as she got inside her suite—it to seem less thought of than even she—and got right down to her reason to visit… How to end iron grips of influence, its growth ever steady, and how to convince two people whom she'd sooner call strangers instead of family.
Grabbing a teapot from hallways prior to settling, she'd then scribble whatever she could recall of stories told—in time, her notes to eventually pass insights into a story of opposites. For its capacity and penchant toward cruelty and poverty, Cookieville Orphanarium to originate two kinds of people.
One who'd work for the good of all, sought out the best in everyone, in spite of their grieving her. The other who'd vow that everyone was as fair game as they made them, so scarred they'd been by the ordeals had. A grudge against the world and for tragic reasons—yet in pursuing it, no act too rejectable, nor victim too sacrosanct.
Naturally, had to conclude that her parents, rewarded money and power for exactly their character, had to be in his crosshairs—by that virtue, she was too.
Four famous last words to scribble inside margins, before she took her first of several trips between Mars and Earth—personal funds to collect, armed guards to hire, and disguises bought to straddle the line between low society and high roller.
Not that it'd have made a difference at those holdings her father kept—native Martians there to know a Wong from whoever else, and upon her approach, scowl at such a fact.
"Fehk, boss daughter draws near. Why must you disturb what little peace we've left to enjoy?"
"I seek only to reconcile, repair the rift between us. Hopefully what's inside this suitcase, to help settle matters."
"A Wong's worth is as this dust, so quit wasting words and leave us be."
"Over your problem with my parents, you almost made casualties of my partner and I… And I get it. I really do. You want payback, and so do I—let's work out a deal."
"After screwing us for generations? Must you tempt us to summon our storms again?"
To that she'd say nothing, just snap her fingers to have a guard slide her offer over. Though wary for clicking the locks, it took a murmur and only a moment to persuade those pioneers.
"A generous gift, quite unlike a Wong to give. I sense that desperate times await."
"You've my word that several will follow. As for the reason, I'm in need of, let's say, 'corralling' lessons."
"Very well, we'll teach you what we know."
A chore to loathe in childhoods gone by; this time to require real late nights and, according to them, a certain strength and particular technique. Nothing her parents would bother to teach, instead spending that time to jiggle her rolls, curse her in Cantonese, mock every fumble and failure to steer those beetle-cow hybrids.
At times, fears she'd scream to not block out being shoved, left to shed tears in silence after eating the ranch's ochre red dust.
Years of that life to drive her toward dietary issues, toward desires of escapes, toward engineering and spaceships. A life that, with time in the shadows, a Martian trick or two, and a convenient villain to blame, she was going to claim her vengeance against…
And to give the least deserving a little insurance of sorts, in case life hid all of Archbury's cards, save for any aces left face up against them.
(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·.(ˆ·..·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ).·ˆ)
Sporting her spotless pink sweatsuit—having buried her disguises prior—she'd grab a taxi from a rank offside and head for the ranch. Deep breaths taken in hopes she hadn't slipped up, as she hunched under archways, let each foot scrape a stair, rang the doorbell she dreaded to hear…
It'd be inside thirty seconds when her mom—Inez to her now—stood at the doorway, her wrangler's hat and blue cravat swaying in the calm breeze.
"Ohhh, my sweet Amy's finally back… But she still not bearing grandkids, ugh!"
"Inez, I'd really rather not think about how you'd treat them if I did."
"Yeah yeah, whatever. Now go greet father, before you ruin my clothes!"
Moving down the main hall without response, could only roll her eyes once they caught sight of her dad, gripping the handrail and dawdling down that showpiece of an ornate, double-split staircase.
"Well well, must say, this nice surprise!" he'd yell across. "You look like acceptable weight… On Moon that is!"
Mugging snicker to grit her teeth and wish for patience—such jabs to long replace 'hello.'
"Nice hat, Leo. Sure seems big enough tonight—compensating again?"
"That's to hide brains, and that's Dad to you. So, what occasion? We think of bribe or force to get you back somedays."
"Let's say I've got some worries, which I would want sorted out for all our sakes."
"Worries like what? That time of the month?"
"Aiya, da sei nei, zam lei gor sei yan tau!"
"Daughter, no cursing in house—now dinner ready, go wash up!"
Everything inside her then to not beat the brakes off her dad, cut his stupid head off—including a good while splashing her face, and scrubbing her hands. But walk into dining halls she would, where she'd find a spread of creature meats, salads, bread and desserts, easily enough to feed the tribe who, in only weeks, made for finer father figures than Leo did his entire life.
"Sooner have McPluto's among crew than cookouts at home…" she'd twirl her fork, sneak a glance her Dad's way. His steak to sauce up liberally before he'd pick it clean like a peckish vulture—seeing her watch him, would point his knife with a puzzled look.
"Hey, what matter now? This all cooked for you!"
"After calling me fat since I was a child? Cut the crap."
"Excuse me for caring—there times when brutal truth needed."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night—you know nobody believes you."
"Dammit, this finest food in galaxy; enough excuses, more eating!"
If only to shut him up, Amy grabbed some spoonfuls of salad, while her mother, coating her bread with Buggalo butter, began looking her way.
"So, still going with that precious PhD of yours? What's work like with those weirdos?"
"It's not just the degree. But why go on? Ain't like you ever cared."
"Child, you screwed roping Buggalo. Think college degree easier?"
"Much, since neither of you are my teachers."
"Motherhood's all you're worth, let's face facts. And I hear we have new crew?"
The cloying tone to creep her: "We do, but absolutely not. Dude's never even dated before, and besides, I've got my Kiffy."
"Ughh, of course he wannabe man… But between him and Squishy Wuss, I'd—"
"Remember who hooked us up in the first place."
"Captain to slave after single maiden voyage? Can't handle these no-good Martians out here? As if that's truly real man material."
Could only cradle her chin, silenced by that stinging cross—wicked smile to crook into her lips, though, with the right memory and at just the right moment.
"Well, there was a guy I dated once—solid, young, handsome, really cares for himself… Could make a fortune bottling his confidence too."
This to immediately hook her parents in, and those were just the attributes—starting point really.
"Had a stint as Mayor, was our Assistant Manager of Sales, even ruled over actual planets years ago… Come to think of it, was really great in bed too, although he kept his secrets."
"Oooh, well come on!" Leo cried. "Who lucky suitor?"
"Says he goes by Mr. Rodriguez… I just prefer to call him Bender."
Everything to stop in a finger-snap instant—silver forks or spoons to drop and clatter upon the floor, or splatter sauce and potato mash all over the table—after the latter case, Leo to get out of his seat, scraping it along the way, and pass a glare that might've made Mars hibernal overnight.
"You out to get disowned, daughter? You dare go back, I'll get the papers."
"What, you mean turn robo-sexual again?"
Barely a couple of blinks before her dad tore from the table, stormed out with a gust of Cantonese swears, Inez scolding her as she went after him. Prayers had that while ducking under, they didn't hear her collapse in laughter.
The war fought for Bender's rescue to almost be worth their white-faced worry, their silent return—they always knew him as the absolute agent of chaos and carnage, and if rumours were true, one who constantly took advantage of her purse to do so.
"You see? Kif's not perfect, in fact not even close, but his life's an honest and heroic one. One which will shine with the right moment, guarantee it."
A resumption of eating in silence, albeit with ugly looks in response, but a silence she just couldn't enjoy when universal matters reared ugly heads again.
"Question. You guys had anybody come visit you in recent days?"
Fit to pop a vessel, Leo rounded on her: "We're Wongs, what you think stupid? Moochers always after my money; one time, fat safari man came. Thought he could come and buy me cheap: ten billion for land, casinos, and Buggalo. We tell him tack on two zeroes, or take a hike."
"Again with the insults? And spleesh, why must we have more when we've enough for lifetimes?"
"Same reason we demand kids; only our legacy matters, screw anything else!"
"Every dream I ever had sliced or hooked away, because I was only a vessel to you? Jeez, so much makes sense now…"
"Way I see it, having my money means you do as you told. Or, wife and I, we work on having boy."
Could only clench fists, stew over that nasty grin—couldn't say whether such words were over her Bender threats, or for being a daughter over a son, but it gave much more reason to take her play at power.
"I see," she'd finally say after some breaths. "But let's s'pose this 'fat safari man' continues to come, and he refuses further rejection. How do you hope to handle him getting hostile?"
"Our slaves are security too. Whatever he bring, I crush him under boot."
"Luckily I've an 'invite' all set."
Had a hope of not being heard, for knowing the kind of people her parents were—typically the games they'd play, and how they left the players.
"Must I remind you that even for slaves, you sure don't treat them well? Could easily afford more than the casino credits and run-down trailers you give 'em."
"Ungrateful bastards want world from me, and you wanna join their side?"
"Might take any excuse to dust their hands of you, with the right offers. And as a Wong, you really think they'd let me? My concern is simply that he'll persuade a tribe we've struggled against already—wouldn't have come otherwise."
"Did you burn fields coming here?" Leo shook his head with a scoff. "You ladies can't handle such smoke."
"You say that like you're so confident. Surely then, we've no need to worry about mutters of mutiny… The safari man picking his moment to slither his shadow upon your ranch, do we?"
A row and ruction to then kick off; Leo to insist upon the faith of his 'employees', and she to needle and nettle with desires for proof. The moment her mother got involved, shoving in between to split them up, Amy to then tap a device in her pocket.
A Martian communicator, and this broken line of sight, the perfect time to pass the signal.
Inside fifteen seconds if that, a dust storm to silence Leo and get him staring out the window, before its whirlwind within left him aghast—dozens, scores, then hundreds of his prized herd sucked up, like a milkshake of Mother Nature's wrath.
Precious moments to whip out her cream, rush outside and toss her evidence off the planet, where upon the safari-suited Martians leaving as quick as arriving, found her Dad's hand shake violently in attempts to grip his hat. Only after some tense minutes did he approach her, caught between fits—if ever he found out the real mastermind…
"For longest time, I hated daughter over son. Now, I hate Zookeeper over daughter—I swear on my ancestors, I'll see him become Buggalo stew before I die!"
"Whatever you do, please be careful—very powerful man on Earth, who's caused real serious harm to some colleagues of mine. Been untouchable for years, and to have that kind of nerve just now? What's to say he won't come after you again, then your best friends?"
"I think a Wong like myself can work out a few wicked ways… Inez, quit divorce signing and get phone, I'll do same. Time we give hellfire, Asian-Martian style. Daughter, leave us be!"
Only too happy to heed his order, she'd make her tracks, waiting till she reached her ride to crook a deviant smile over her payback going perfect. Not for nothing, to be questioned over such absurd bait at first; if not for whirlwinds and last-minute costume changes, they'd have known and had their excuse to disown her then and there.
Yet in her heart of hearts, she knew that enacting such a policy was a long game of protection—corralled in temporary fencing, was sure the herd would be safe an entire hemisphere away.
Having achieved her end, was naught left to do but await orders from Mars—demands for proof or to testify—or from Captain Leela, currently bound for some enigmatic world to confront the ugliest two faces she'd known her entire life.