Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chet Chipsworth gave himself one more look in the mirror. Dark hair, slicked back into a perfect pompadour. Perfect white teeth in a perfect smile, just the right mix of comforting and smarmy. Eyes, a perfect smoldering brown color with just enough wrinkles along the corners to show viewers that he was wise. Nose, straight and perfectly angled. He titled his perfectly dimpled chin to make sure his nose hairs were trimmed.

He glanced behind the mirror at his camera man, who was helpfully holding the mirror up. His name was… Michael? Matthew? No, wait, Zachary. Chet flashed a smile, showing an appreciative amount of perfectly aligned white teeth. It was smile number fourteen, hold the finger guns. "Thanks, Zach."

Chet stepped back a few paces, and looked behind him at a foreboding sight. Harry Connick High School was currently surrounded by police, flashing blue lights on their cruisers casting an alien glow across the parking lot. Several helicopters, a mixture of police and rival news stations, circled above the gymnasium. There was some sort of hostage situation thanks to a supervillain known as Cave Guy, but details were sketchy. Fortunately, Chet didn't need details to make a good story.

Zach held up the camera. "Ready, Mr. Chipsworth?"

Chet gave a nod, and plastered his face with smile number two. Zach counted down, and soon the camera was on.

"Good evening, Washington, D.C. This is Chet Chipsworth with Channel Five News live at Harry Connick High School with breaking news—where a terrifying ordeal is currently unfolding." Chet emphasized terrifying, widening his eyes just a touch to convey both concern and seriousness. "Reports are still coming in, but what we do know is that a dangerous criminal known as Cave Guy has taken the students and staff hostage during their Daylight Savings Time dance."

Zach rolled his eyes behind the camera, thinking about how Chet always manages to inject a little unnecessary melodrama. Chet shifted slightly, the flashing police lights casting a blue tint over his carefully manicured hair.

Chet gestured behind him with a sweeping motion, "As you can see, the police are taking this very seriously." He lowered his voice and gave the audience a sympathetic look, "And of course, our thoughts go out to the families of those students—" He paused for a dramatic effect, "—including my own daughter, Valerie, who are inside at this very moment."

Zach almost dropped the camera. He wasn't expecting that Chet would remember that, though it's obvious Chet was trying to milk it for maximum drama. The cameraman mouthed a silent "wow" as Chet, seemingly unaware of Zach's reaction, turned back to the camera with smile number five—stoic but hopeful.

Earlier that day…

Valerie had stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps of her dress with a slightly exasperated look. The dress was a simple one—gray, low cut yet not too dangerously low cut—but she'd added long purple gloves to match her lipstick, giving it just the right pop of color. She checked her dark hair and freshly applied makeup one more time, then she sighed and turned around, poking her head into the hallway.

"Dad! Are you gonna be ready soon or what?" she called.

In the living room, Chet sat on the couch with a handheld mirror, inspecting his teeth. He absently waved a hand in Valerie's general direction. "Yeah, yeah, almost done, sweetheart. Big story tonight, gotta look my best."

Valerie stepped into the living room, hands on her hips. "You know, Dad, you said you'd take pictures before I left, and you've checked your teeth like five times now."

Chet finally looked up, squinting at her for a moment, then his eyes widened a little. "Hey, you look... fantastic, kiddo! And, uh, don't worry, we'll get some pictures."

Valerie rolled her eyes. "You're impossible." She grabbed her small purse and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Try not to get caught up in whatever news thing you've got going on, alright?"

Chet chuckled, patting her shoulder. "Wouldn't dream of it. You have fun, okay?"

Valerie gave him one last look, half smirk, half eye-roll. "I'll try. But remember, you promised."

With Valerie ready to leave, Chet picked up the Polaroid camera from the coffee table. He adjusted it in his hands, turning it to face himself. "Alright, let's make sure this thing's working right..." He held it up and snapped a couple of shots, each one featuring his perfect smile from a slightly different angle and with subtle changes in expression. "Smile number twenty-six... and number eleven..."

Valerie stared at him, one eyebrow raised. "Are you seriously taking pictures of yourself right now?"

Chet set the developing pictures face down on the coffee table and gave a sheepish grin. "Just, uh, testing the camera! Gotta make sure it's ready for your big night." He quickly turned the camera back around toward her, pretending he hadn't just been doing an impromptu photoshoot.

Valerie rolled her eyes again, though a small smile tugged at her lips. "Right. Just don't run out of film before you get at least one of me, okay?"

Chet nodded enthusiastically, snapping a couple of photos of Valerie with exaggerated care. "Got it, got it. Perfect shot. You're a natural, kiddo."

Valerie shook her head, amused, and grabbed her purse. "I'll see you later, Dad. Don't forget to lock up."

"Yep, yep. Have fun, knock 'em dead." Chet gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up, completely missing how she winced at the slightly awkward encouragement.

With that, Valerie was out the door, heading for the Daylight Savings dance. As soon as the door clicked shut, Chet turned the camera back on himself, adjusting his hair and trying out another smile. He mumbled to himself, "Now, let's see if smile number eight still has it..."

The flashing lights of the police cars cast an eerie glow over Harry Connick High School, where chaos seemed to be unfolding inside. But Chet Chipsworth was still momentarily lost in his thoughts, replaying the earlier moments of snapping pictures of himself and proudly capturing Valerie's pictures. His face softened slightly, and for just a moment, he looked almost human, a small numberless smile sneaking onto his lips as he recalled his reflection in the camera lens.

That's when a familiar, smarmy voice cut through his reverie.

"Looks like you're slipping, Chipsworth," Brett Newsman sneered, adjusting his own tie as he steps up beside Chet. "I'd almost started without you."

Chet's face instantly hardened, and he shot a glare at his rival. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Brett."

Brett Newsman was every bit as vain and image-conscious as Chet. With piercing blue eyes set beneath perfectly arched brows, he was known for his intense gaze that could make even the most seasoned interviewees squirm. His hair was a masterpiece of meticulous styling—a luxurious blonde mane parted down the middle and swept to the sides, with a few carefully placed strands draping across his forehead and over one eye. It gave him a certain effortless charm, though anyone who knew Brett understood just how much effort went into looking "effortless."

To viewers, Brett projected an aura of calm confidence, the kind of guy who made the news look easy. But Chet knew him as ruthless and smug, ready to undercut anyone in his path. And totally unlike Brett, who was self-conscious enough to realize he was only smug. But for Brett, winning wasn't just about the story—it was personal, and he always made sure his polished exterior reflected his dedication to being just a bit better, a bit sharper, and a bit more handsome than his rivals.

Chet turned back to Zach, gesturing for him to roll the camera again.

Both live on the air now, each positioned at a different angle but within sight of one another, Brett's and Chet's voices began overlapping as they each started reporting on the event with every ounce of dramatic flair they could muster.

Brett led with his deep, slightly ominous tone. "Good evening, Washington, this is Brett Newsman with Channel 5 News, bringing you an exclusive report on a story almost as big as OJ. I'm here at the scene of... The Schoolhouse Scare."

Chet snorted under his breath. "Schoolhouse Scare?" He turned to his camera, stepping in front of Brett's line of sight, and launched into his own live report.

"Good evening, this is Chet Chipsworth with Channel 6 News, live at the scene of what we're dubbing... The Hop From Hades." He flashed a triumphant smile, convinced he's won the title war.

But Brett didn't miss a beat. "Hop from Hades? Really, Chet?" He shook his head with a condescending grin. "Well, I suppose Channel 5 viewers prefer something with a bit more gravity. Which is why we're calling it… The Prom of Panic."

Zach raised an eyebrow, barely able to stifle a laugh. Chet gave him a sidelong look, muttering, "What? Hop from Hades has flair."

Zach just shrugged, turning the camera back toward the scene. Meanwhile, Brett's camera crew nodded in agreement, as Brett beamed proudly at his clever phrase.

Determined not to be outdone, Chet decided to double down. He turned back to the camera with an exaggeratedly serious expression, his voice low and urgent. "Tonight, a peaceful dance has turned into The Terror in Tuxedos!" He added a flourish of his hand, as though unveiling the title of a blockbuster movie.

But as Chet finished, Brett gave him a smug look, leaning in just close enough for both cameras to catch his perfectly timed line.

"Or, as our viewers are already calling it, The Dance of Doom."

There's a long, tension-filled silence as the words hung in the air. Even Chet was momentarily speechless. Zach, his usually poker-faced cameraman, blinked, visibly impressed, and muttered under his breath, "Okay, that one's... actually pretty good."

Chet tried to cover his disappointment, forcing a wide smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Dance of Doom," he silently said, as if testing out each syllable. But he can already tell that Brett had won this round. In fact, he can practically see the words splashed across tomorrow's headlines.

As they continued to broadcast, Brett started using the phrase liberally, taking every opportunity to emphasize "Dance of Doom" with a tone of utmost seriousness. Meanwhile, Chet gamely tried to keep up, throwing in "Hop from Hades" one last time—just in case anyone's still listening—but even he knew it's a lost cause.

As Chet wrapped up his live segment, Zach lowered the camera and muttered, "Alright, they've cut back to the newsroom, so we're off-air for a bit."

Chet's posture relaxed slightly, and a flicker of genuine worry crossed his face as he glanced back at the school. For a brief moment, he seemed less like the slick newsman and more like a dad.

Zach, noticing the uncharacteristic expression, gave him a gentle nudge. "Valerie's a tough kid, Mr. Chipsworth. She's probably rolling her eyes at Cave Guy as we speak."

Just as Chet forced a weak smile, his bulky, top-of-the-line company cell phone let out a shrill ring. He pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the tiny, greenish LCD display. The number flashing across the screen could only mean one thing: Weena Mercator. He sighed before raising the phone to his ear, bracing himself.

"Chipsworth!" Weena's voice crackled through the receiver, sounding like she was shouting through a megaphone. "What in the name of Barbara Walters are you doing out there, staring at the school like a deer in headlights? You're supposed to be reporting, not looking like you're auditioning for a soap opera."

Chet grimaced, his face flushing. "Good evening to you too, Mizz Mercator," he replied, knowing better than to call her anything else. No one dared call her Weena to her face.

Weena, however, ignored his greeting entirely. "Listen, I pulled some strings and got you an exclusive. Sergeant Cosgrove from Metro is ready to give a statement. Don't mess this up," she snapped. "We need something good if we're going to beat that blond baboon from Channel 6."

Chet's eyes lit up, the worry momentarily forgotten. "An exclusive?" He glanced over at Brett, who was fiddling with his hair and casting occasional glances his way. "Perfect! He's over there, smug as a cat in cream. This'll show him who's boss."

Weena didn't let him finish. "Just make sure you get something usable," she warned. "Last thing I need is another clip of you vamping with that 'smoldering intensity' nonsense. I swear, Chipsworth, one of these days…" Her voice trailed off into a grumble.

"Yes, yes, Mizz Mercator," Chet replied with forced politeness. As he hung up, he muttered, "Old battle-axe is always hopping mad."

Zach raised an eyebrow, stifling a chuckle. "You know she's probably got this line tapped, right?"

Chet straightened his tie and adjusted his jacket. "Just do your job, Zach, and let me worry about Mizz Mercator."

A few minutes later, Chet was back on the air. He put on his most serious face, prepared to milk this exclusive for all it was worth. Zach gave him the countdown, and Chet faced the camera with a look of profound concern.

"Joining us now is Sergeant Cosgrove from the Metro Police Department," he announced, angling himself just so for a close-up. Cosgrove stepped into frame, sipping from a paper coffee cup. Stocky and unflappable, with a slight slouch and a perpetually relaxed expression, he looked more like someone waiting for laundry to finish washing than an officer in the middle of a hostage crisis.

Chet cleared his throat and leaned in, trying to convey the gravitas of the situation. "Sergeant Cosgrove, thank you for joining us. Can you tell us what measures the police are taking to secure the safety of the hostages inside?"

Cosgrove took another long sip of his coffee, blinking at Chet. "Uh... yeah, well... we're waitin' on Freakazoid."

There was a beat of silence. Chet, visibly thrown off, tried again, this time with a more specific question. "Yes, but what exactly is the police department doing to prevent any harm to the students?"

Cosgrove shrugged, looking down at his coffee cup as if it held the answer. "Y'know, pretty much the usual. We got lights on the building, some tape around the perimeter... Oh, and O'Sullivan ordered pizza for later. Could be a long night."

Zach's mouth twitched as he fought to keep the camera steady. Desperate to salvage the situation, Chet forged ahead. "Sergeant Cosgrove, in your professional opinion, is there any immediate danger posed by the supervillain inside? Surely, you have some insights into his mental state."

Cosgrove scratched his head, squinting into the distance. "Hmm. Well, he seems like an angry guy, for sure. But Freakazoid'll be here as soon as he's done with his mint, so... we'll just let him handle it." He nodded with absolute certainty, as if the matter was already settled.

Chet's face turned slightly red as he realized his big exclusive was quickly falling apart. Cosgrove, noticing Chet's dejected look, took pity and gave him a friendly pat on the back. "Hey, you sure you don't want a mint? They're really good peppermint. Might cheer you up." Without waiting for an answer, Cosgrove slipped the mint into Chet's front jacket pocket, giving him an encouraging nod.

Chet flashed a forced smile at the camera, visibly struggling to keep it together. "Right. Thank you, Sergeant Cosgrove, for your... valuable insights."

As soon as the feed cut, Chet sighed, his shoulders slumping. Zach was biting his lip to keep from laughing as he patted Chet's shoulder.

"Don't worry, Mr. Chipsworth," he said. "I'm sure Mizz Mercator won't mind that Cosgrove's only comment was 'wait for Freakazoid.'"

Chet groaned. "I'm a dead man, Zach. A dead man." Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of something—someone—by the police barricade. He turned slightly, his smile faltering as he spotted none other than Brett Newsman standing next to a poised, elegant woman in glasses, holding a clipboard. Her blonde hair was pulled back, and she wore an easy, confident smile that made Chet straighten involuntarily.

"Who's that?" he muttered, more to himself than to Zach, who followed his gaze.

Zach shrugged, adjusting the camera. "Looks like some expert. Probably here to talk about Cave Guy's, uh… cave habits or something." He grinned, sensing Chet's interest. "Looks like she'd have something more interesting to say than Cosgrove's tape perimeter."

The woman began speaking into Brett's microphone with practiced authority, her gestures animated as she explained Cave Guy's behavior. Even from across the lot, Chet could catch snatches of her low, thoughtful voice.

"...a fascinating case study in primitive psychology and resurgence of atavistic traits in the modern age…"

Brett leaned in with his signature smirk. "So, Dr. uh…?"

"Dr. Lorna Wilde," she answered, her voice as smooth and polished as the way she spoke. "Anthropologist, American University."

Chet found himself adjusting his tie as he watched her, suddenly all too aware of his own posture and stance. Dr. Lorna Wilde, he repeated to himself, savoring the name as she continued discussing Cave Guy's "unique behavioral patterns" with Brett. Even worse, the conversation was actually going well, an infuriating contrast to his own interview with Cosgrove, who was now talking to himself about the different types of meat toppings that can go on a pizza.

Meanwhile, Chet forced himself to look away from Dr. Wilde's easy smile and professional confidence. But as she wrapped up the interview and turned to walk away, he could have sworn she looked his way for the briefest of moments. His heart jumped, though he quickly shook it off, determined not to let Brett get the last word.

"Alright, Zach," he said under his breath, straightening his shoulders. "We'll show him next time. Maybe I'll even land Dr. Wilde for an exclusive. After all… she deserves a real expert to interview her."

Zach just smirked, patting the camera with a knowing look. "Whatever you say, Mr. Chipsworth."

Just as Chet was gathering himself to refocus on his broadcast—and maybe catch another glimpse of Dr. Wilde—a red blur whooshed past him, nearly knocking him off balance. The blur shouted out, "Excuse me!" as Chet staggered backward. He squinted as the blur rocketed straight toward the gymnasium, exclaiming, "Coming through! Move that cop car! Gangway!"

"Was that—" he started, but before he could finish, a commotion erupted from inside the building that sounded a lot like yodeling. Shouts, the unmistakable sound of Cave Guy's guttural roars, and what might have been—yes, definitely—terrible singing echoed through the doors.

Chet spun around, signaling frantically to Zach. "Get the camera up! Now! This is it!" He could almost smell the potential ratings as he waved for Zach to follow him toward the action.

Zach hoisted the camera, struggling to keep it steady as the chaotic sounds from inside the gym continued: a series of heavy thuds, a few grunts, and then a loud crash that sent one of the gym's side doors flying open. The door creaked as it hung on its hinges, and for a moment, everything was still.

Then, with one last bellowing roar, Cave Guy was launched backward through the main doors, landing with a heavy thud on the pavement in front of the police barricade. A swarm of officers descended on him, wrapping him up in heavy chains and hauling him up just as he tried to mutter something about "cultural barbarism" under his breath.

"Great Scott," Chet whispered, adjusting his tie as Zach zoomed in on Cave Guy's dazed, defeated expression.

Just as Zach was about to pan back to Chet, the students started filing out of the gym in groups, some laughing, others in shock. A few waved toward the camera, hamming it up, while Chet plastered on a look of solemn concern and tried to look "dad-like" for the camera.

Chet finally spotted Valerie emerging from the crowd, unharmed but looking more exhilarated than shaken. The moment he sees her, Chet's professional facade dropped, replaced by unmistakable relief.

"Valerie!" he called, rushing over and practically stumbling out of his loafers as he reached her. Zach followed, the camera bouncing slightly on his shoulder. Visible relief washed over Chet's face. "Thank goodness you're safe." He pulled her into a hug, his usually perfectly combed hair slightly askew from all the chaos.

Valerie hugged him back briefly, then pulled away with an amused smirk. "Oh, come on, Dad, it wasn't that scary." She rolled her eyes, brushing off the drama with a shrug. "I mean, Freakazoid was there. He made it kind of... awesome." She put a hand on her father's jacket, her expression quizzical at feeling something in his pocket.

As Chet began to shake his head, preparing to launch into his own description of the "terror" of the night, Valerie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the mint Cosgrove slipped there earlier. Chet stared at it, momentarily puzzled, before Valerie's eyes lit up.

"Hey, a mint!" she said, popping it into her mouth. "Thanks, Dad!" Before he could respond, she gave him a quick smile and turned to dash away.

"Valerie, wait! Where are you going?" Chet called after her, still holding his hands in the air from where he was about to deliver a heartfelt speech.

Valerie spun around, walking backward with a mischievous grin. "To find Freakazoid! I owe him a thank-you kiss!"

Chet's jaw dropped as he watched her disappear into the crowd, her words echoing in his mind. "A... a kiss?" He muttered, frowning in bewilderment.

Zach, who has been quietly observing the whole exchange, walked up and clapped Chet on the shoulder. "You know, Mr. Chipsworth," he said with a grin, "I think you're lucky Cosgrove gave you that mint. Sounds like Valerie's got her priorities right."

Chet sighed, still half-shocked, half-exasperated. "Yeah, right... priorities," he muttered, smoothing his hair back into place, but he can't hide a small, reluctant smile number sixteen, creasing just extra enough to show that he was actually a proud dad.

Zach gave him a hearty pat on the back, then lifted his camera with a grin. "And don't worry, I got the whole human interest piece of you and Valerie on film!"

Chet's eyes widened in horror as he whipped around to face Zach. "You what? Zach, don't you dare—"

Zach just chuckled, stepping back out of Chet's reach. "Relax, it's some of your best work. Almost makes you look human."

Chet shook his head in resigned disbelief, glancing from Valerie's disappearing figure to Zach's camera. After a moment, he sighed and gave a tired smile. "Well… at least it'll be good ratings."

Zach laughed, clicking off the camera. "Now that's the spirit, Mr. Chipsworth."

Chapter Text

Chet Chipsworth stood in front of his full-length mirror, adjusting his tie and flashing himself smile number nine—The Iconic Chipsworth Confidence Smile. He looked over himself carefully, making sure that his dark hair was perfectly pompadoured and nothing was hiding in his teeth. He squared his shoulders, practiced his posture, and leaned forward, gesturing to his reflection like he was addressing an eager audience.

"Bringing truth to the masses, that's the Chet Chipsworth way!" He gave a triumphant nod, pausing to refine his next line. "What's it like, being a journalist of integrity and fearlessness? Well, let's just say—"

Just then, he heard the front door click open, followed by a familiar voice. "Dad, I'm home!" Valerie called, her tone only mildly interested.

Chet turned, a wide smile spreading across his face as he rubbed his hands together. Finally, it's time for my big interview. He was certain that Valerie was here to begin her "Making a Difference" school report, and he could already envision the glowing reviews her teacher would give her once she presented her project on the "intrepid journalist of Washington."

He cleared his throat, straightening his tie once more before stepping confidently into the living room. "Ah, there's my little journalist! Ready to learn from the best in the business?" he said, beaming.

Valerie glanced up at him briefly, giving a small, slightly bemused smile as she dropped her backpack on the couch. "Actually, Dad, I'm just here to grab some stuff. Steff and I have plans." She nodded to her blonde friend behind her.

Chet blinked, taken aback. He quickly forced another smile, this time smile number twenty-one. Casual, but slightly miffed. "Plans? I thought you'd be starting your school project… about me?"

Valerie exchanged a quick glance with her friend, Steff, who was trying and failing to suppress a laugh. "Oh… yeah. About that," Valerie started, fidgeting slightly.

Before Chet could process his growing confusion, Steff chimed in, grinning. "Actually, it turns out that Dexter Douglas—the boy in our class who's some sort of nerd computer ace—says he knows Freakazoid."

Valerie seemed a little less certain. "Dexter's a big loser, but he does seem to know a lot about Freakazoid."

Steff's face lit up, and she nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! We're going to see if we can catch Freakazoid for our interview instead. I mean, what's cooler than interviewing a real superhero?"

Chet's face fell, his confident grin slipping into a look of stunned disbelief. "Freakazoid? You… you're interviewing Freakazoid?" He forced a laugh, trying to brush it off. "Val, honey, superheroes are, you know, flashy. But what's truly important is the news. People need the truth, and that's what your dad brings to Washington every day!"

Valerie shrugged, barely listening as she rummaged through her backpack. "Yeah, but Dad, Freakazoid actually fights bad guys. He, like, saves people. And besides," she added with a sly grin, "he's got way more fans than you."

Chet stifled a sputter, his hands going to his tie as he frantically tried to recover. "Well, sure, but a fan following isn't what makes a real hero!" He let out a nervous chuckle, glancing at Steff, who was watching him with a mildly amused expression. "I mean, how many people can say they've been on the front lines of truth, integrity, and… uh… daylight savings dances?"

Steff raised an eyebrow. "Not many, I bet."

Valerie stuffed a few more things into her bag, clearly unaffected by Chet's attempt to win her over. "Anyway, Dad, we're off to see if Dexter can help us track down Freakazoid. Wish us luck!"

Chet held up a hand, still halfway between confusion and fatherly disappointment. "You know, Val, if you need some real insights for your project, I'll be right here—"

But Valerie was already halfway out the door, calling back with a grin, "Thanks, Dad! I'll let you know how it goes!"

Chet stood there, staring after her, slack-jawed and utterly defeated. His shoulders slumped as he muttered to himself, "Freakazoid, of all people…" He turned back to his reflection in the full-length mirror, giving himself a forlorn smile. It was smile number twenty-four.

Zach's voice broke Chet out of his reverie. "Earth to Mr. Chipsworth!" he said, then started chuckling at his own joke. "You okay, Mr. Chipsworth?"

Chet sighed, tightening his tie. "It's fine, Zach. What's the time?"

Zach checked his watch. "Well, NORAD said forty-five seconds. But Mizz Mercator says thirty-four seconds." He hoisted the video camera up to his shoulder.

Chet nodded, "Then we'll go with Mizz Mercator's countdown. Remember, Zach, this could be the story of the century. We need it all—every alien word, every detail. And try to catch the light reflecting off my eyes. It gives that… compelling quality." He looked around behind him, making sure they had a good angle. The outside of the White House was very different today. Military personnel in sharp uniforms lined the perimeter, high-ranking generals with rigid postures and intense expressions were gathered on the steps, and a crowd of politicians huddled nervously nearby, whispering among themselves. President Bill Clinton stood ready for the historical event, with Freakazoid of all people standing next to him. Chet's bitter thoughts about being upstaged by the superhero came to a stop when he caught sight of Dr. Lorna Wilde standing with the scientists, looking focused and impossibly composed.

Zach followed Chet's gaze and nudged him with a grin. "Dr. Wilde's here. Think she'll be impressed with all that compelling light in your eyes?"

Chet straightened his tie, clearing his throat. "Let's keep it professional, Zach," he replied, though he couldn't help the quick, self-conscious glance he cast in her direction.

Suddenly, a voice crackled through the loudspeakers set up by the military. "Ten seconds until arrival," it announced, and the crowd fell into a tense silence. Chet adjusted his stance, lifting his microphone and readying himself for his introduction.

"This is Chet Chipsworth, live at the White House, where history is unfolding before us as an alien vessel is expected to land any second now—"

Before he could finish, a blinding light flashed in the sky, followed by a low hum that grew louder until a sleek, metallic vessel appeared above the lawn, lowering slowly. Gasps erupted from the crowd as it hovered a few feet above the ground, then gently touched down with a soft whirrr.

Zach steadied the camera as the vessel's door slid open with a hiss. Chet leaned forward, gripping his microphone with an air of reverence as he narrated in a low, dramatic tone, "And here it is, folks—the moment we've all been waiting for. The world holds its breath as this mysterious visitor from the stars makes its first appearance on Earth…"

A tall, graceful alien stepped through the open doorway. Its skin was a light bluish green color, contrasting with its red almond-shaped eyes and long flowing purple robe. It lifted a three fingered hand in greeting. The crowd watched, enraptured, as it slowly made its way down the ramp.

The alien looked around, then raised one spindly arm in a formal greeting. "Greetings, inhabitants of planet Earth," it intoned, "I have traveled many millions of light-years across 40 billion galaxies to come here for the answer to a vital question that concerns the entire universe."

Chet could barely contain himself. This was it—the headline, the story that would launch him into the annals of journalistic history. He was already mentally drafting his opening line, imagining Dr. Wilde impressed by his professionalism, completely missing what the President said next.

The alien took a deep breath and looked around solemnly. "Please tell us. That doll, Barbie, what's the name of her little sister?"

A stunned silence fell over the crowd.

Chet's jaw dropped, his confidence draining from him as quickly as it had appeared. He blinked, momentarily frozen, and his eyes darted to Dr. Wilde, whose eyebrow was raised in bemused disbelief. Zach, holding back laughter, kept the camera rolling, zooming in on Chet's bewildered expression.

Closer to the White House, the President was conferring with Freakazoid. The superhero turned back towards the alien. "It's Skipper!" Freakazoid's voice rang out.

The alien stood still, as if in thought. "Skipper. Huh." It turned back and entered its ship again. As the door closed behind it, its voice could be heard calling out, "Hey, everyone, it's Skipper!"

Chet remained frozen, unable to process the scene unfolding before him. Zach chuckled, patting Chet's shoulder. "Looks like Freakazoid just scooped you on the big question, Mr. Chipsworth."

Chet sighed, shaking his head in disbelief, and muttered, "Of all the people…"

Chet finally made it home, exhausted and still mentally replaying the absurdity of the alien arrival. The whole experience had gone from "career-defining" to "completely baffling," topped off with an earful from Weena Mercator, who berated him for letting "a blue goofball" ruin a perfectly good news story. But now, as he turned his key in the door, he sighed, feeling a small wave of relief to be home.

Stepping into the living room, he was greeted by Valerie, who was sprawled on the couch with a look of annoyance.

"Oh, hey, kiddo," he said, dropping his bag by the door. "What's wrong?"

Valerie crossed her arms with a huff. "Dexter was supposed to meet us so we could find Freakazoid. But he never showed up! Steff thinks he got scared of the alien and hid under his bed or something."

Chet chuckled, feeling a little bit of his mood lift. "You know, I met an alien today. Kind of. From a distance." He gestured vaguely, smirking. "Actually, I would say we practically had a conversation… or at least I heard it ask a question. Important stuff. Life-changing."

Valerie looked up at him with a raised eyebrow, slightly curious. "Really? You got to talk to an alien?"

"Well," Chet admitted, a small, self-deprecating smile appearing—number eight. "Not exactly, but I was right there. Front row." He struck a casual, heroic pose, making her laugh.

Valerie tilted her head, considering him for a moment. Then she sighed, scooting over on the couch to make room. "You know what, Dad? Maybe you can be my interview after all. You did see an alien, and you're still pretty cool… for a reporter."

Chet's face lit up, and he settled onto the couch next to her. "Pretty cool, huh?" he said, a little too eagerly, which earned him another eyeroll from Valerie.

She adjusted herself, pulling out her notebook with a more serious look. "Alright, big question, dad," she said, clearing her throat with mock gravitas. "What made you decide you wanted to be a reporter?"

Chet paused, a little caught off guard by the question. He thought back, letting a warm smile settle on his face. "Well, it's not every day you get to be the person who brings stories to the world. I guess I wanted to be the guy who made people feel like they were right there, a part of something important."

Valerie smiled, genuinely interested, as she scribbled in her notebook. Chet watched her, a small swell of pride filling him. Maybe the day hadn't gone exactly as planned, but somehow, right now, it felt like it had ended just right.

Chapter Text

Chet Chipsworth tilted his butter knife slightly, angling it to catch his reflection just right. The deli's lighting wasn't ideal, but it would do. He leaned closer, inspecting every detail: the smooth planes of his jawline, his perfectly styled pompadour, and, of course, the smile—classic smile number four, equal parts polished and approachable. "Still got it," he muttered under his breath, turning his head slightly to check for any imperfections. There were none, of course. There never were.

Satisfied, he turned his knife around and focused on the task at hand. Carefully, he cut his pastrami sandwich into two perfect halves, making sure the bread didn't smush and the layers of meat and mustard stayed intact. Presentation mattered.

"And then," Chet began, leaning back in the booth and gesturing grandly with a pickle, "I told Brett Newsman—Newsman!—that the alien landing at the White House wasn't just a story. It was history. The people need journalists like me to chronicle these defining moments. History is made up of all of these little moments, you know."

Valerie shrugged, barely looking up. "Sounds great, Dad."

Chet frowned, lowering the pickle mid-gesture. "You don't seem very excited. What's wrong? Not a fan of pastrami?"

"It's not the pastrami." Valerie pushed her plate aside, resting her chin in her hand. "It's just…" She hesitated, clearly searching for a polite way to end the sentence, and settled on a shrug.

Chet paused, his usual conversational self-absorption faltering. For a moment, his mind was stuck somewhere between being a TV news reporter or a single father of a teenage daughter. Something seemed to be on her mind, and he wouldn't know unless he asked. He tilted his head, studying her for a moment, and picked a conversational direction. "Alright, forget about the aliens and Brett for a second. How's school? Or, uh… any big news? Like that… thing? At… school?"

Valerie glanced up, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. "It's fine, I guess."

"Just fine?" Chet pressed, setting the pickle down and leaning forward slightly. "C'mon, Val. What's the scoop? I want to know what's important to you."

Chet noticed Valerie suddenly sit up straighter, her eyes lighting up with excitement. She leaned forward, looking more animated than she had all day. He smiled, pleased with himself—as smile number nineteen clearly showed. Clearly, his effort to focus on her interests was paying off.

"Well," he said, with a satisfied nod, "I'm glad to see you're finally excited about something I—"

"Dad, look!" Valerie interrupted, pointing subtly toward a nearby table.

Chet frowned, his self-satisfaction evaporating as he followed her gaze. At a corner booth sat a group of elderly diners who appeared to have raided the costume rack at a second-rate superhero convention. One of them, wearing a wrinkly brown dog suit, was trying—and failing—to retrieve the mustard without knocking over his drink. Another, dressed in red spandex and a light blue cape, was tugging at his belt with a frustrated expression. Across from them sat a tall, thin woman with dark gray hair and a conical red hat. Her blue costume looked a little worse for wear, with its tall collar showing a few stains and wrinkles.

"What, the retirees? They're just… eating sandwiches," Chet muttered, his confusion growing.

"They're legends," Valerie whispered. Her earlier boredom was completely gone, replaced by pure excitement. She pointed toward the one in the brown dog suit. "Captain Sharpei!" she said with a grin.

Her hand shifted to the tall, thin woman with the red hat. "The Stygmatist!"

"And—I can't believe it! That's Krimson Kvetch!!" she exclaimed, pointing finally to the old man in red.

Chet leaned back in his seat, unimpressed. "They're just old people eating lunch," he protested.

"Do you think they know Freakazoid?" Val asked, her eyes sparkling.

Before Chet could answer, Krimson Kvetch leaned over to Captain Sharpei, his voice carrying just enough for their conversation to be heard. "You call this a pastrami sandwich? Back in my day, pastrami meant something. This is a travesty!"

Captain Sharpei rolled his eyes. "You're kvetching again, K. You're always complaining. Let it go."

"I'll let it go when I see proper pastrami," Krimson Kvetch huffed, gesturing at his plate. "This? This is deli blasphemy."

Valerie stifled a giggle, clearly enjoying their banter, while Chet sighed and muttered, "Legends, huh? They sound like retirees at a condo board meeting."

Meanwhile, the Stygmatist seemed utterly unbothered, taking slow, deliberate bites of her egg salad sandwich, little pieces of egg yolk salad falling onto her plate. "I foresee revelations that will unsettle the mind…" she said cryptically.

Valerie turned to Chet, practically bouncing in her seat. "Dad, we have to go talk to them."

Chet frowned, already shaking his head and clearly not as excited as his daughter. "Val, they're in the middle of lunch. Or maybe dinner—older folks eat pretty early. We'd just be bothering them."

"C'mon, Dad! They're legends!" Valerie gestured toward the group, her voice brimming with excitement. "When are we ever going to see heroes like them in one place again?"

"They're also retirees who happen to be wearing costumes," Chet muttered, folding his arms. "Trust me, there's nothing legendary about someone eating a pastrami sandwich or cryptically predicting indigestion."

Valerie narrowed her eyes, clearly unimpressed with his response. "I thought you were a reporter, Dad. Isn't it, like, your whole thing to ask questions?"

Chet opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated. "That's different. I ask questions to uncover the truth, to bring important stories to the public." He gestured toward the heroes' booth. "This? This is just… people eating sandwiches."

Valerie leaned forward, giving him a pointed look. "You're always saying how a good reporter doesn't let opportunities pass by. What if they have some amazing story about Freakazoid? Or about their own adventures? You won't know unless you ask."

Chet sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. She wasn't wrong, and the last thing he wanted was for her to throw his own words back at him. Again. "Alright, fine," he relented. "But if this goes sideways, don't blame me."

Valerie grinned triumphantly and slid out of the booth, already heading toward the superheroes. "It won't. You'll see!"

Chet followed reluctantly, adjusting his tie as if preparing to interview a head of state. "They'd better have something interesting to say," he muttered. "If all I hear is more complaints about the food, I'm walking."

Valerie stopped just shy of the superheroes' booth, her excitement bubbling over. "Hi! Um, I just wanted to say I'm a big fan! You're all so amazing!"

The three superheroes paused mid-bite, their conversation halting as they turned to look at her. Krimson Kvetch raised an eyebrow and leaned back in the booth. "We're not giving out signatures to fans," he said, crossing his arms, "It's lunchtime, not a meet-and-greet."

"Settle down, K," Captain Sharpei said, waving him off. He turned to Valerie with a polite smile, his wrinkly costume creaking and crackling faintly as he shifted in his seat. "Hello, young lady! If you've got a cat stuck up a tree, I'm afraid we're too old to be much help."

Krimson Kvetch let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Even when you were young, you were better at chasing cats than rescuing them!" He raised his hand and curled his fingers inward in a claw-like motion, adding a playful "Meow!" for emphasis.

Captain Sharpei rolled his eyes, clearly unamused. "Don't listen to him," he said to Valerie, his smile softening. "He's just jealous he never caught any."

Krimson held up his hands in mock surrender. "Guilty as charged," he said with a shrug. "But someone had to keep you humble."

Valerie giggled nervously, glancing over her shoulder at Chet, who stood a few steps behind her with his arms crossed, clearly unimpressed. She turned back to the table, her excitement getting the better of her. "I just—um—I wanted to say you're all amazing! I've read so much about your adventures."

The Stygmatist tilted her head, her conical red hat shifting slightly. "Ah, the admiration of youth," she said in a voice that was both cryptic and warm. "It brings back memories… of simpler times."

Krimson Kvetch smirked. "Simpler times? Like when a pastrami sandwich didn't cost half a paycheck?"

Captain Sharpei chuckled, shaking his head. "You're impossible, K."

Valerie fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, trying to find the right words. "So, um, do you still, like… keep up with the superhero scene? Like, you know… newer heroes?"

Captain Sharpei leaned back in the booth, his wrinkly costume crackling again. "Oh, here and there. We hear bits and pieces. Why, do you have someone in mind?"

Valerie's cheeks turned a faint shade of pink. "Well, I mean, there's this one hero… kind of hard to miss… Freakazoid?"

Krimson Kvetch groaned, rubbing his temples. "Freakazoid. Of course. He's everywhere these days."

"Good kid, though," Captain Sharpei said with a nod. "Bit… eccentric."

"Bit?" Krimson Kvetch interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "He's meshuggeneh! The guy's a walking cartoon!"

The Stygmatist smiled faintly, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Fate has curious ways of weaving its threads. Freakazoid's arrival… is no accident."

Valerie's eyes widened, her excitement bubbling over again. "So, you know him? What's he like?"

Captain Sharpei shrugged. "Only met him a couple of times. He's got heart. Plenty of energy. Maybe a little too much energy."

"Too much energy?" Krimson Kvetch muttered. "The guy's like a caffeinated ferret."

Valerie laughed, her nervousness fading. "That's kind of what I thought."

Chet finally stepped forward, his arms still crossed. "Alright, Val, let's not keep the 'legends' from their very important sandwiches."

Captain Sharpei glanced at Chet, raising an eyebrow. "And you are?"

"Chet Chipsworth," Chet said with smile number twenty-five—his professional tolerance smile, though it lacked its usual polish. "Journalist. Channel Five News."

Krimson Kvetch rolled his eyes. "Oh, good. A reporter. Just what we needed."

"Be nice, K," Captain Sharpei said, offering Chet a polite nod. "Always good to meet someone who appreciates a good story."

Chet opened his mouth to respond, but Valerie cut him off, her gaze locked on Captain Sharpei. "So… what's the craziest thing you've ever seen Freakazoid do?"

Captain Sharpei chuckled, folding his hands over his stomach. "Oh, there's plenty to choose from. Let's see… there was the time he convinced a gang of supervillains to start doing the macarena in the middle of a heist."

Krimson Kvetch snorted. "Macarena? Please. That was amateur hour. What about the time he chased the Lobe across downtown dressed as a giant chicken?"

"The threads of destiny often take peculiar forms," the Stygmatist mused cryptically, sipping her tea.

Valerie laughed, glancing between them. "He sounds so… unpredictable." She quickly added, "But, like, in a good way!"

"Most of the time, sure," Captain Sharpei said with a nod. "He's got heart. Can't deny that. You know, he's been helping out here at the diner—bringing food out to us old-timers as part of a community service program for retired heroes."

Valerie's jaw dropped. "Wait—Freakazoid works here?!"

"Volunteers," Captain Sharpei corrected with a smile. "Started about a month ago. Nice kid. Keeps things lively."

Krimson Kvetch rolled his eyes. "Meshuggeneh, that's what he is. Always bouncing around, cracking jokes, making a scene. One time he brought me a sandwich and did a tap dance routine right in front of the table. Nearly spilled my soup!"

Captain Sharpei shrugged. "You have to admit, it was a good routine."

"Good routine, shmood routine," Krimson Kvetch muttered, crossing his arms. "He's like a walking circus."

"And yet," the Stygmatist interjected, her voice calm and deliberate, "he has shown kindness. Generosity. These are qualities that transcend the chaos."

Valerie turned to Captain Sharpei, her excitement barely contained. "So, he's really been here? Like, in this diner?"

"Just about every week," Captain Sharpei said with a nod. "Though I think he's late today. Probably off chasing some villain or another."

Chet, who had been listening quietly, raised an eyebrow. "Freakazoid. Late. Shocking."

Valerie ignored him, leaning in closer to the table. "Do you think he'll show up today?"

Krimson Kvetch smirked. "Oh, you'll know if he does. Trust me. He's not exactly subtle."

Captain Sharpei laughed. "Let's just say, when Freakazoid's around, you never need to wonder if the coffee's fresh."

"What does that even mean?" Chet asked no one in particular.

Valerie giggled at Captain Sharpei's remark, her face lighting up. "He sounds amazing," she said. 

Her tone made Chet pause. He squinted at his daughter, tilting his head slightly. "You're awfully enthusiastic about Freakazoid, Val," he said, his tone edging toward suspicion. 

Valerie turned bright red, her eyes widening. "What?! No! I just think he's cool, that's all!" She fidgeted, avoiding her father's gaze. "I mean, he's a hero. And heroes are supposed to be cool, right?"

Chet narrowed his eyes, considering her answer carefully. "Right. Just 'cool.' Sure."

Krimson Kvetch leaned over to Captain Sharpei with a knowing smile. "Ah, young admiration. Takes me back."

Captain Sharpei rolled his eyes. "Takes you back to what? You were never young."

Krimson Kvetch grinned. "And proud of it!"

The Stygmatist tilted her head, her cryptic smile widening. "Age is but a number, and yet its weight can crush or lift, depending on how it is carried."

Chet arched an eyebrow. "That's… fascinating," he said flatly. "Well, we won't keep you from your sandwiches. Legends who lunch and all."

Captain Sharpei chuckled and waved them off. "Don't be a stranger, little lady," he said to Valerie, his smile kind. "We'll be here next week, same booth, same pastrami."

"Same kvetching," Krimson Kvetch added, raising his glass of water in mock toast.

Valerie giggled, then glanced at the Stygmatist. "And… thank you."

The Stygmatist gave her a small nod, her gaze far away. "Beware, child," she said, her tone soft but firm. "The heart often dances where the mind fears to tread."

Chet frowned, giving Valerie a sideways glance. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The Stygmatist simply sipped her tea, her silence as mysterious as her words.

"Well, that's my cue," Chet muttered, gesturing toward the door. "Come on, Val. Let's leave the cryptic wisdom to the professionals."

As Chet and Valerie walked out of the diner, the conversation with the older superheroes still fresh in their minds, Chet found himself watching his daughter more closely. She was uncharacteristically quiet, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she glanced toward the sky.

"What are you grinning about?" Chet asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing," Valerie said quickly, her cheeks reddening slightly. "It's just… cool, you know? Meeting actual superheroes."

"Uh-huh," Chet said, his skepticism mounting as her gaze lingered a little too long in the direction of the diner. His mind started reeling. Valerie has always been a big fan of Freakazoid. That's all it is, right? The guy's unpredictable. Hyper. He wears his underwear on the outside of his pants! Chet groaned to himself, shaking his head.

As they reached the car, Valerie hummed softly to herself, still smiling. Chet glanced back toward the diner, unease settling in his chest. Revelations that will unsettle the mind, the Stygmatist's words echoed ominously in his head.

He sighed, his hand on the car door. "Darn fortune tellers," he muttered. "Why are they always right?"

Chapter Text

Chet Chipsworth looked at his reflection carefully. The front of the microwave wasn't the best quality image, but he examined his face slowly for any possible imperfections. Dark, pompadoured hair—perfect. His brown eyes, lightly creased with age at the corners—perfect. He flashed a grin, good old reliable smile number two. Teeth—also perfect. Whatever the next on-the-scene news reporting job would be, Chet was ready.

Chet stopped looking at himself to take a moment to glance at the timer on the microwave. His leftover Chinese food was still going. And unfortunately, so was his cameraman. His name was… Zach? Yes, it was Zach. Chet sighed, and stood up straight so he could pretend to listen to Zach while he continued to wait for the breakroom microwave to warm his leftovers.

Zach was sitting down at one of the little round tables in the breakroom. His sandwich was mostly uneaten as he continued talking. "You know, Mr. Chipsworth, the dynamic range on these camcorders is pretty limited compared to film. If you overexpose even a little, the highlights are gone forever. That's why you've gotta nail the aperture setting, or it's all just a big blur of light."

Chet bent over to watch the microwave timer. One minute to go. He sighed audibly, but Zach didn't notice.

"Now, if this were 35mm still photography, you'd have a lot more leeway with latitude. You can actually recover some detail in the highlights. That's why I always say film is king—well, for now. Heard about this thing called digital photography coming up? Sounds kinda gimmicky."

Forty-five seconds. Chet rubbed his temple, wondering if Zach ever stopped talking about cameras.

"Oh, and don't get me started on white balance. In video, you've gotta calibrate every time the light shifts even a little. Back in college, my professor always said, 'Bad white balance, bad news.' Makes everyone look like they've got jaundice, you know?"

Thirty seconds. Chet stared at the microwave, willing it to finish faster. Anything to end Zach's monologue.

Zach lovingly patted the top of his camcorder, like it was a loyal pet, even as crumbs from his sandwich clung to its casing. Apparently he even carried it around to lunch. "This camcorder's resolution? Standard 480i, baby. Interlaced! People don't realize how much smoother interlacing makes things look. I mean, sure, it's a little flickery if you pause it, but who's pausing video, right?"

Ten seconds. Chet adjusted his tie, staring daggers at the microwave.

"Bet you didn't know this, but camcorder tape? That's Hi8."

Five.

"It's way better than the old Video8 tapes!"

Three.

"The signal-to-noise…" Two. "...ratio on Hi8 is…" One. "...miles ahead."

There was a single beep from the microwave, followed by a loud, steady drawn out beeping noise. Chet stared at the microwave in confusion. Zach helpfully said, "Hey, Mr. Chipsworth, I think your lo mein is done."

Chet looked up at the intercom mounted up in the corner of the wall near the ceiling as the loud tone continued and pointed. "It's coming from the public address system."

Seconds ticked by as the tone continued on and on. It wasn't just Chet's ears that were being subjected to the audio nightmare, but his very soul started feeling oppressed by the sound. Eventually it slowly started sounding fainter. It began to falter and sputter as the volume faded. Finally, there was a loud wheezing gasp and the intercom went silent. Before either Chet or Zach could ask the other what was happening, Freakazoid's voice rang out over the intercom. "This concludes our test of the emergency broadcasting system. This was only a test."

Chet stared at the intercom, jaw tightening. "Of course it's him," he muttered, shaking his head. Zach quietly chuckled to himself. Freakazoid continued, "If there had been an actual emergency, we would have gone like this: 'Ahh!!'"

Zach held his hand over his mouth to try to contain the laughter. With a sigh, Chet got his food out of the microwave and resignedly sat down at the small table with Zach. Freakazoid was still going. "'Help!! Help us!! No! Get us out of here! Help me! Help everyone!'" He let out one long dramatic scream before ending it with a quiet, "Thank you."

Chet shook his head. "Well, at least he's not trying to get on the air talking about weird butts again."

Zach finished his bite of sandwich. "So Hi8 is analog, but hey, analog has that warm, natural look you just don't get with all this digital talk people are buzzing about."

"This day just keeps getting better," Chet muttered, stabbing at his lo mein with a plastic fork.

Chapter Text

Chet Chipsworth adjusted the cuffs of his blazer with precision, and checked his broad shoulders for any sign of dandruff—not that there ever was any. He checked his reflection in the lens of Zach's camcorder, tilting his head slightly to admire the clean lines of his jaw. His dark hair, immaculately styled into his signature pompadour, didn't budge under the gentle breeze. Brown eyes, framed by just the right amount of laugh lines—wise, but not old. A quick flash of smile number four—the polished professional—revealed teeth so white and straight they belonged in a toothpaste commercial.

Yes. Still perfect.

Behind Chet, Zach fiddled with his camcorder, muttering something about aperture settings or focus points or whatever it was Zach muttered about. Chet ignored him. The important thing was the scene they were about to capture… even if Chet wasn't exactly sure why they were here in the first place.

He turned away from his reflection and surveyed the stadium. Bright green turf stretched across the field, bordered by a dusty diamond of white chalk lines. A sizable and lively crowd had gathered in the bleachers, some waving signs with slogans like Go Freakazoid! or Cave Guy Crushes It! while others were already lining up at the concession stands for hot dogs and papaya juice.

Chet adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. "Alright, Zach," he began, gesturing vaguely toward the field. "Why are we here?"

Zach glanced up from his camcorder with an eager grin. "It's the traditional Superheroes-Villains All-Star Benefit Softball Game!"

Chet rolled his eyes. "I know that." He waved dismissively at the colorful banners advertising the event. "But why me? Why am I covering this?"

Zach shrugged, his grin widening. "Oh, I've always wanted to watch this. So I asked Mizz Mercator if we could cover the story."

Chet froze, narrowing his eyes at his cameraman. "You… asked her?"

"Yep!" Zach said cheerfully, hoisting the camcorder onto his shoulder. "Figured it'd be fun. I mean, superheroes and villains playing softball? That's pure gold! Plus, it's for charity. I don't remember which charity, but who doesn't love a good charity event?"

Chet groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Zach, I'm a serious journalist. I bring truth to the masses. I don't report on… on…" He waved his hand at the field in frustration. "Whatever this is!"

Zach shrugged again, completely unbothered. "You probably should have brought your daughter. I bet Valerie would have loved this!"

Chet just shook his head a little too eagerly, his tone a little too defensive. "No, she's not into superheroes."

Zach raised an eyebrow, staring at Chet like he'd just claimed his teeth weren't perfectly straight. "Uh-huh."

Chet gave him a long, exasperated look, but before he could retort, a loud cheer erupted from the crowd as a player in a bright red suit—Freakazoid wearing a softball cap—somersaulted onto the field, landing in a dramatic pose. The crowd went wild, waving signs and chanting his name.

Chet sighed, glancing at Zach. "Fine. But you're explaining the rules to me, because I don't understand any of this."

Zach grinned, already adjusting the camcorder to get the best shot of Freakazoid's antics. "Don't worry, Mr. Chipsworth. I'll make sure you're a pro by the time the game starts."

Chet muttered under his breath, "Doubtful."

As the first few villains sauntered onto the field, the crowd let out a mix of boos, jeers, and the occasional polite clap. Chet adjusted his tie, squinting at the figures gathering near the dugout. Their costumes were clearly being worn under their softball uniforms, making the villains appear as colorful as they were impractical—capes, masks, and various villainous accouterments that seemed more suited for a comic book cover than a softball game.

Sergeant Cosgrove stood nearby with a clipboard, lazily checking names off a list as he watched the villains file in. His uniform was rumpled as ever, and he had a half-eaten hot dog in his other hand. Chet recognized him immediately, his memory flashing back to the hostage situation at Harry Connick High.

"Isn't that…" Chet muttered, nodding toward Cosgrove.

"Yeah, that's Sergeant Cosgrove," Zach said without looking up from his camcorder. "Guess he's here to keep the peace or something. I mean, it is a game between superheroes and villains."

Chet grimaced. "Right. Because the stakes couldn't be higher in a charity softball game."

Zach ignored the sarcasm, pointing toward the field as the villains began taking their positions. "Alright, so over there on shortstop is Cave Guy. Big hitter. Literally. Like, the guy smashes everything."

Chet nodded, recognizing the towering, blue-skinned villain who was already flexing for the crowd. "Yeah, I know Cave Guy. Who's the guy that throws the ball?"

"You mean the pitcher?" Zach said with a grin. "Arms Akimbo. Don't let the goofy pose fool you. Those arms pack a punch."

Chet squinted as Arms Akimbo waddled awkwardly onto the field, his arms permanently attached to his hips in an akimbo stance. Yet somehow, he had a softball glove stuck on his right elbow. "How does he even throw the ball?"

"Carefully," Zach said with a shrug, then added with far too much enthusiasm, "But hey, when Arms Akimbo's pitching, everyone's in… arms way."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Chet groaned.

Still overflowing with enthusiasm, Zach pointed out another figure. "Oh, and look, in left field—that's Major Danger!"

Chet furrowed his brow as a villain in a pith helmet jogged to his position. "Major Danger? I feel like I've barely heard of him."

Zach gave an encouraging nod. "Yeah, he doesn't show up much. But he's here now! And check it out—Kid Carrion on third base."

Chet tilted his head, watching as a skinny, pale figure shuffled onto the field with a cowboy hat on his head instead of a softball cap. "Kid Carrion? Who even is that?"

"Obscure villain. He's, uh… really into vultures… maybe?" Zach said, clearly grasping for a coherent explanation.

"And the lady in pink way out there?" Chet asked, his skepticism growing as he pointed to a villain standing in the outfield.

"Bombshell, right field!" Zach announced proudly. "She's got this whole bomb theme going. I think. Probably great at stealing bases."

Chet pinched the bridge of his nose. "Zach, are these even real villains? I feel like I've barely heard about half of them."

Zach grinned. "Yeah, they're real. Just, you know, less famous."

Chet sighed. "Great. I'm reporting on a softball game with a rogues' gallery of C-listers."

"Hey, some of these guys are big names!" Zach said. "Check out the catcher on the villains' team!"

Chet turned to look at the figure behind home plate. The catcher was floating a few inches off the ground, his gray burlap cowl rustling slightly in the breeze. A softball cap perched awkwardly on top of the hood, and his glowing eyes peered out from the shadows that somehow appeared around him even though it was midday. Several spectators in the crowd were pointing and whispering quietly, their nervous energy palpable.

Chet squinted slightly, trying to place him. "Oh, wait, is that Can—"

Before he could finish, Zach leapt to his feet, clamping a hand over Chet's mouth with wide, panicked eyes. "Don't!" he hissed. "Don't say it!"

Chet froze, blinking at Zach in confusion. Zach slowly released his grip, glancing around nervously as if expecting danger to ominously float toward them. "Yeah," Zach said, his voice low. "Like I said. There's some big names. You just don't want to say them all."

Chet raised an eyebrow, glancing back toward the field. The catcher hadn't moved, though his eerie presence seemed to hang heavy in the air. "Seriously? What happens if I say his name?"

Zach shook his head. "You don't want to find out. Just ask the poor kids from Camp Wenamigunnagohome. They said his name during a campfire story and… well, let's just say they didn't make it to breakfast."

Chet crossed his arms, unimpressed. "I'm supposed to be a serious journalist, Zach. You think I'm going to let some urban legend stop me from doing my job? What's next, reporting on Bigfoot sightings at a deli?"

"Fine," Zach said with a shrug. "But it's not a superstition! He'll tie you up with his floating rope thing!" Zach kept one hand on his camcorder, and raised the other one into the air, wiggling his fingers. "And you'll never be seen again! Even the other villains don't mess with him much."

Chet glanced back at the field, frowning as Candle Jack loomed over home plate. "That's ridiculous," he muttered, though his voice was slightly less certain than before. He rubbed his temple again, glancing from the villains back to the other side of the field. "Alright, Zach, obvious question: who's on the heroes' team? All I see is Freakazoid."

Zach didn't even look up from his camcorder, casually adjusting a setting as he replied, "That's it. Freakazoid's the team."

Chet blinked. "What?"

"Yeah, just Freakazoid," Zach repeated cheerfully. "Been that way ever since he joined the Superheroes-Villains All-Star Benefit Softball Game."

Chet's confusion deepened. "But this is the first year Freakazoid's played!"

Zach nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly! It's tradition."

Chet threw his hands up. "How can it be a tradition if it just started?"

Zach grinned, lowering the camcorder. "Well, it used to be a whole team of older superheroes. You know, the classics. Sergeant Scurvy, Frost Heaves, Captain Sharpei… but nobody watched that. They were slow, they argued about the rules, and honestly? Kinda boring."

Chet raised an eyebrow, glancing back at the field where Freakazoid was now juggling three bats, seemingly unaware that the game hadn't started yet. He couldn't argue that Freakazoid wasn't the more lively choice, but still… "And this is better?"

"Oh, yeah," Zach said, his grin widening. "Freakazoid's way more entertaining. Last year's game barely sold any tickets. This year? Standing room only! Think of all that money for charity."

Chet pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a long sigh. "Great. So it's Freakazoid against nine villains. And somehow, I'm supposed to take this seriously."

Zach patted his camcorder affectionately. "Don't worry, Mr. Chipsworth. It's softball. Anything can happen."

Chet muttered under his breath, "Apparently, even rewriting the definition of 'team.'"

Chet spotted Brett Newsman in the press area, chatting animatedly with a group of onlookers. As always, Brett looked perfectly polished: blonde hair neatly combed, a crisp suit that somehow managed to avoid a single wrinkle despite the heat, and a smile so white it could signal planes to land.

Chet muttered to Zach, "Newsman. Seriously? That's not a name—it's a gimmick."

Zach shrugged, adjusting the focus on his camcorder. "He was born with it, right? You can't blame him for leaning into it."

"I can blame him for a lot of things," Chet shot back. "And I do."

Brett caught sight of Chet and gave a friendly wave that somehow felt condescending. "Chipsworth! Good to see you! Covering sports today, huh? Stepping out of your comfort zone?"

Chet plastered on smile number twenty-five—professional tolerance. "Brett," he said smoothly. He never referred to his news rival by his surname. "What a surprise. I didn't realize this was your kind of story."

"Oh, absolutely," Brett said with a grin, adjusting his tie. "Softball games, charity events… It's the human interest stories that really connect with viewers, don't you think? They love heart." He tapped his chest for emphasis, making Chet's eye twitch. He gave a little wave. "Seeya in the news, Chipsworth. Some of us have work to do."

Zach leaned in and whispered, "I think he's going for smug sincerity today."

"I noticed," Chet muttered through clenched teeth.

Chet was halfway through imagining Brett tripping over first base when something in the VIP seating caught his eye. He froze mid-thought, the tension in his jaw loosening as a different, lighter feeling seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach. There, seated among other dignitaries, was Dr. Lorna Wilde. She looked as composed as ever, her tailored blazer immaculate, and her blonde hair catching the sunlight in a way that made her seem even more perfect. She was sipping from a water bottle, completely unbothered by the chaos unfolding on the field.

"I should go say hi," Chet muttered, adjusting his tie and starting toward the VIP section.

But Zach, noticing the game was about to start, grabbed Chet's arm and practically dragged him back toward their press area. "No can do, Mr. Chipsworth. Game's starting!"

Chet tried to protest, but Zach just kept pulling him along. "Besides, you've got a job to do. And so do I," Zach said with a grin, patting his camcorder. "C'mon, we can't miss Freakazoid's ceremonial opening pitch. It's tradition!"

Chet huffed, casting one last longing glance toward Dr. Wilde. "You've used that word 'tradition' three times today, and I'm starting to think it doesn't mean anything."

The crowd's cheers reached a fever pitch as Freakazoid strutted up to the mound, taking his time to bask in the applause. He tipped his oversized softball cap to the stands, giving an exaggerated wink to a random person in the crowd. Then, with a sudden burst of theatricality, he whipped the hat off, flung it behind him, and crouched low, his face twisting into an overly dramatic serious expression.

Chet cleared his throat, holding his mic a little closer as he attempted to narrate the moment. "And… Freakazoid is… uh… getting into position for the ceremonial first pitch. He's, uh, crouching. For… dramatic effect, probably."

Zach chuckled softly beside him, focused on capturing every absurd second with the camcorder. "He's really selling it."

Freakazoid rose slowly, raising the ball high over his head. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he began spinning in place, twirling faster and faster until he became a red-and-blue blur. The crowd gasped.

Chet blinked. "Now he's… spinning. A lot. I… I'm not sure if this is part of the pitch or—"

Before he could finish, Freakazoid stopped abruptly, holding the ball aloft like a victorious gladiator. He took a single, deliberate step forward, his gaze fixed on home plate. The crowd fell silent in anticipation.

"And now he's… stepping forward. Slowly. Very… slowly," Chet continued, his voice faltering as he tried to keep up with the bizarre display.

Freakazoid cocked his arm back, the ball trembling in his grip as if it were about to explode. Then, with a flourish that defied all logic, he hurled the ball toward home plate.

Except it didn't just fly. It arced. It zigged, then zagged. Looped-de-looped in midair like a carnival ride. At one point, it appeared to pause entirely before zipping forward at an impossible angle. Gasps and cheers erupted from the stands.

Chet stared, dumbfounded. "And the ball is… uh… defying physics. It's… looping? Now zigzagging? And… oh, now it's just showing off."

Suddenly, as the ball hurtled toward the catcher's mitt, Freakazoid was somehow no longer on the mound. In an instant, he was on the other side of home plate, crouched with his glove ready. The ball landed perfectly in his mitt with a satisfying thwack. Freakazoid stood up triumphantly, holding the ball high as the crowd exploded into applause.

Chet's jaw dropped. "And… he's… caught his own pitch. Somehow."

Zach let out a laugh, panning the camcorder to capture the cheering fans. "Classic Freakazoid."

Freakazoid bowed deeply, soaking in the crowd's adoration, then turned toward the villain team's dugout with a mock-serious glare. "Your move, evildoers," he declared, pointing dramatically. Cave Guy rolled his eyes.

Chet shook his head, lowering his mic slightly. "I don't know what I just witnessed, but apparently, that's the opening pitch."

Zach grinned, nudging him lightly. "Pretty good play-by-play, Mr. Chipsworth. You almost kept up."

Chet shot him a look. "Almost?"

"Well," Zach said, chuckling, "you did miss the part where the ball did a somersault."

For a moment, Chet just stared at him, utterly defeated. Then he exhaled deeply, adjusting his tie and fixing his gaze on the camera. "Next year, I'm covering golf."

The game hadn't even properly started when Freakazoid suddenly appeared in the stands, wielding a t-shirt cannon that looked suspiciously overpowered. He bounded up and down the aisles, firing red shirts into the cheering crowd. Each shirt bore his grinning face, along with the phrase "Freakazoid Fanatic!" in bold yellow letters.

"Who wants a t-shirt?" Freakazoid yelled, spinning dramatically before aiming the cannon toward the nosebleeds. He fired with a resounding BOOM, and the shirt sailed through the air like a missile, overshooting the section entirely and landing somewhere outside the stadium. He peered in that direction, grimacing slightly when a cloud of dust and debris appeared at the landing site.

"Oops! Too much gusto!" Freakazoid shouted, adjusting the settings on the cannon. "Let's dial it back. Safety first, kiddos!"

Back near the press area, Chet groaned, rubbing his temples. "Is this a softball game or a circus?"

"Both?" Zach offered, his camera trained on Freakazoid as he fired another shirt into the crowd, this time nearly hitting a popcorn vendor.

Chet muttered something under his breath, but before he could continue, Freakazoid spun in their direction. "And here's one for the journalists!" he declared, aiming the cannon straight at them.

"Wait, no—" Chet started, but it was too late. The cannon boomed, and a rolled-up t-shirt hurtled toward him, smacking him squarely in the chest. He stumbled slightly, fumbling to catch it before it hit the ground.

Zach burst out laughing. "Nice catch, Mr. Chipsworth!" He pointed the camera at him, zooming in as Chet reluctantly held up the shirt.

Chet scowled, shaking the red bundle like it was radioactive. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

Zach grinned. "Give it to Valerie! She'll love it!"

Chet hesitated, staring down at the grinning Freakazoid face plastered across the shirt. "I'm not sure this is her style."

"Are you kidding?" Zach said. "It's got Freakazoid on it! She's practically his biggest fan. You'd win Dad of the Year."

Chet sighed, shoving the shirt under his arm. "Fine. But if she wears this thing to school, it's on you."

"Deal," Zach said with a chuckle, already refocusing his camera on Freakazoid, who was now spinning the t-shirt cannon over his head.

All heads turned as the Huntsman strode onto the field, wearing an umpire's mask and padded chest protector over his usual green crime-fighting ensemble. He marched to the pitcher's mound, his boots kicking up little clouds of dust, and planted himself in the center of the diamond, arms crossed heroically as his biceps bulged.

Chet squinted. "Why is the Huntsman the umpire?"

Zach grinned, adjusting his camcorder as he zoomed in on the action. "Oh, he's got eagle eyes! Or hawk vision. Something like that."

Chet raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't really answer my—"

Before he could finish, Freakazoid bounded over towards the middle of the diamond, sliding to a stop near the Huntsman on the pitcher's mound. He waved to the cheering crowd before glancing down at the t-shirt cannon still clutched in his hands.

"Oops, almost forgot I had this!" Freakazoid said with a laugh, hefting the oversized cannon onto his shoulder like a bazooka. He turned to face Cave Guy, who was approaching from the villain team's dugout for the ceremonial handshake.

Cave Guy stopped mid-stride, his eyes narrowing at the barrel of the cannon now unintentionally aimed directly at him. "You mind not pointing that thing at me?"

"Oh, right! Sorry!" Freakazoid swung the cannon to the side—pointing straight toward Huntsman. Huntsman defensively held his padded umpire chest protector over in front of his face. 

"Whoopsie-doodle!" Freakazoid said, grinning sheepishly. "Let me just—hold on…" He spun around, the cannon swinging wildly as both Cave Guy and Huntsman yelped and ducked again.

Finally, Freakazoid spotted Sergeant Cosgrove standing near the dugout, sipping papaya juice from a paper cup. "Cosgrove! Catch!" Freakazoid yelled, skipping over and plopping the t-shirt cannon into Cosgrove's arms.

Cosgrove glanced down at the cannon, then back up at Freakazoid with his usual impassive expression. "You're just gonna leave me holding this?"

"Yup! Thanks, Cosgrove!" Freakazoid chirped, giving him a thumbs-up before skipping back to Cave Guy and the Huntsman.

Cosgrove shifted the cannon under one arm and sipped his drink with the other. "Cool. I always wanted one of these."

Back at the mound, Freakazoid finally extended his hand toward Cave Guy, who eyed him warily. The two team captains shook hands—or, more accurately, Freakazoid enthusiastically shook Cave Guy's massive paw while Cave Guy looked like he wanted to crush Freakazoid with his hand. Cave Guy settled for looking at the superhero with a very angry glare during the handshake.

The Huntsman spread his arms wide and boomed "LET THE GAME BEGIN!" His voice carried across the field like a proclamation of justice. The crowd cheered.

Chet sighed, rubbing his temple. "I don't even want to know why he's yelling."

Zach chuckled. "It's the Huntsman. I don't think he really understands volume control."

Freakazoid strutted to the plate with exaggerated flair, dragging his bat along the dirt. He stopped behind home plate and twirled the bat with one hand, striking a heroic pose for the crowd, pointing the bat at the cheering crowd while holding his other hand to his ear. The cheers swelled, and Freakazoid gave an elaborate bow before turning to Candle Jack, who was crouched behind the plate.

Chet stared into Zach's camcorder, flashing smile number twenty-one at anybody that was actually watching the game. "Well, it looks like Freakazoid's finally ready to bat. Let's see if he can—"

"Hold that thought," Zach interrupted, pointing his camcorder toward Freakazoid. "He's still… getting ready, I think."

Freakazoid began a series of exaggerated batter rituals, tapping the bat on the bottom of his boot, then digging his toe into the dirt like a bull preparing to charge. He spit into his gloved hand and rubbed the grip of the bat. Finally, he did a wild, one-handed practice swing that sent him spinning in a full circle before catching his breath with a flourish.

Candle Jack leaned back on his haunches, resting one elbow on his knee, but still somehow still floating a few inches off the ground. "Anytime you're ready, Freakazoid," he said, his echoing voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, I've been ready," Freakazoid replied, tightening his grip on the bat and squaring his stance. "Ready like spaghetti."

Arms Akimbo squinted from the pitcher's mound, his permanently akimbo arms twitching as he wound up for the pitch. He released the ball with a flick of his elbow, sending it sailing straight down the middle.

Freakazoid didn't move. The ball landed in Candle Jack's waiting mitt with a loud thwack that echoed across the field.

"Strike one!" the Huntsman bellowed, dramatically pointing toward the stands as if he was preparing a heroic monologue.

Freakazoid blinked, still holding his stance. "Huh. Was that the ball?"

"Yes, that was the ball," Candle Jack said dryly, tossing it back to Arms Akimbo.

"Oh! Well, good for him," Freakazoid said, stepping out of the batter's box to readjust his socks.

Chet sighed into his microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, Freakazoid missed the first pitch."

Arms Akimbo wound up again, this time with a bit more flair, his akimbo arms rotating in a way that seemed to defy anatomy. The ball shot toward the plate in a perfect arc, landing once again in Candle Jack's mitt with an audible thwack.

"Striiiiike two!" the Huntsman roared, pointing dramatically toward the sky as though he were heralding the end of days.

Freakazoid stood completely still, the bat resting on his shoulder. He blinked and looked back at Candle Jack. "Wow. That one was even faster! What do they call that? A zoom ball? A speed throw?"

"They call it a pitch," Candle Jack said flatly, tossing the ball back to Arms Akimbo. "You're supposed to swing at it."

"Ah, I see, I see," Freakazoid said, nodding thoughtfully. He adjusted his stance again, tapping the bat on the ground like he was testing it for sturdiness.

The Huntsman leaned forward from behind Candle Jack, his eyes narrowing behind the umpire's mask. "Are you experiencing some sort of problem, Freakazoid?" His voice carried concern. "I learned about the game by renting A League of Their Own from Blockbuster last night. I can give you a pep talk if you need it."

Freakazoid spun around, giving him a thumbs-up. "No, no, I got this!" He turned back to the plate, lifting the bat high over his shoulder. "Third time's the charm, right? This one's going straight to the moon!"

Candle Jack sighed, resting his chin on his hand. "Oh, good. Can't wait."

Arms Akimbo wound up for the pitch, his elbows performing an oddly mesmerizing loop as he released the ball. This time, Freakazoid swung with everything he had. The bat cracked against the ball, sending it soaring high into the air.

The crowd erupted in cheers as the ball sailed deep into the outfield. Freakazoid stood for a moment, admiring his handiwork, before the Huntsman's voice rang out. "You're supposed to run now!"

"Oh, right!" Freakazoid yelled, dropping the bat and sprinting toward first base, his arms flailing wildly.

Chet sighed and raised his microphone. "And Freakazoid is… running? Yes, I think we can call that running. He's on his way to first base. The villains appear to be… somewhat competent. The Lobe in the outfield has strolled over to the ball and picked it up."

The Lobe, adjusting his tie, hurled the ball toward the infield with surprising accuracy. Chet raised an eyebrow. "I have to say, for a guy whose superpower is… having an oversized brain for a head, that was a pretty solid throw."

Zach chuckled as he panned the camera to Cave Guy, who caught the ball at second base. "You think he's been practicing, Mr. Chipsworth?"

"I don't know, Zach, but he's certainly showing more athleticism than expected," Chet replied, his voice dripping with reluctant professionalism. "Now Cave Guy's winding up for the throw to home plate—probably trying to prevent Freakazoid from scoring."

Chet watched as Freakazoid, now rounding third, waved to the crowd and yelled, "Coming in hot!" before diving into a slide.

"And Freakazoid is… sliding toward home!" Chet continued, his tone growing more animated despite himself. "It's a race now—Cave Guy throws the ball, and—wait, where's the catcher?"

Zach zoomed in on the empty spot behind home plate, tilting his camera slightly in confusion. "Uh… he's not there."

Chet blinked. "Well, that's… odd. Did he just leave? What kind of game is this?"

"Maybe he had… bathroom emergency?" Zach offered with a shrug.

"Great," Chet muttered. "Only in this game could the catcher vanish during a play. Anyway, the ball's coming in hot, and—oh! Arms Akimbo has run up and is now standing by home plate. He leaps into the air! He's caught it!" Chet leaned forward slightly, his voice picking up excitement despite himself. "He's back on the ground, turning to tag Freakazoid. This could be it, folks—will he make it?"

Dust billowed from home plate, and the crowd held its breath as it slowly cleared. Freakazoid's outstretched hands were planted firmly on home plate, a triumphant grin on his face. Arms Akimbo stood towering over him, his elbow mitt pressing lightly against the top of Freakazoid's head.

"Take a hike. You're out!" Arms Akimbo confidently sneered.

"No way, Akimbo!" Freakazoid shot back, springing to his feet. "You missed the tag."

Cave Guy stomped over, his hulking frame casting a large shadow over both of them. He folded his arms and glared down at the superhero. "Freakazoid, you were out by a country mile."

Freakazoid shook his head vehemently and crossed his arms in defiance. "No, no, no."

Cave Guy groaned, rolling his eyes. "Can we get a ruling here, please?" He turned his head, his eyes searching for the Huntsman.

The Huntsman marched toward them from the sidelines, his umpire's mask askew. He stopped a few feet away, fists clenched at his sides. "Have you all gone stark raving mad?!" he bellowed, shaking his fists at the sky. "This is a baseball game! Play ball!"

"Come on, Huntsman. What's the call?" Arms Akimbo pressed, gesturing towards the plate.

The Huntsman froze, clutching the top of his chest protector as if bracing for impact. His perfect teeth ground together audibly. "I turned away to have some berry water, and I missed the play!" He slapped the palm of his hand against his forehead. "Darn the luck! Darn!"

Freakazoid, Arms Akimbo, and Cave Guy exchanged bewildered glances, watching in silence as the Huntsman dramatically dropped to his knees, his hands raised toward the heavens in despair.

"Right, then," Cave Guy muttered, turning back to Freakazoid and Arms Akimbo. "Let's settle this ourselves."

"Fine by me," Freakazoid said, poking a finger at Arms Akimbo. "But you definitely missed the tag."

"I most certainly did not!" Arms Akimbo barked, crossing his elbows indignantly.

The three of them launched into a full-blown argument, their voices overlapping as the crowd began murmuring in confusion. Somewhere in the stands, someone started a slow clap, which promptly fizzled out as no resolution seemed forthcoming.

"Zach, can you rewind the tape or something?" Chet asked his cameraman. "Tell me you got all that on camera. Please, just once let this circus give me something marginally newsworthy."

Zach didn't respond immediately, his camcorder aimed toward the stands rather than the diamond. He adjusted the focus, muttering under his breath. "Come on, where'd he go…"

Chet frowned, leaning closer. "Zach? Hello? Are you even recording the game?"

"Oh, yeah, no," Zach said, not looking away from his camcorder. "I was following Jack. He left home plate and—oh, there he is! He was trying to rope up some folks in the crowd."

Chet blinked, staring at Zach in disbelief. "What?"

"Yeah, it was wild!" Zach said, his grin widening as he zoomed in. "He started tying up this guy holding a 'Go Freakazoid' sign. And then Cosgrove showed up with the t-shirt cannon and used it to fire shirts at Jack until he got tied up in them! Talk about action! Oh man, too bad you missed it, Mr. Chipsworth. It was awesome."

Chet sighed, his shoulders sagging and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course. I'm at a softball game, and somehow the real story is a rope-wielding maniac getting thwarted by a guy with a t-shirt cannon. Truly, journalism at its finest."

Zach gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder while still holding the camcorder. "Hey, maybe next time, Mr. Chipsworth."

Chet slumped forward, his face in his hands. "There's going to be a next time?"

Chapter Text

Chet Chipsworth adjusted his blazer collar against the cool breeze, his expression appropriately somber. His usual pompadour was a touch more subdued, combed with extra precision for the serious tone of the day. A crowd had gathered behind the police barricades, their murmurs barely audible over the occasional wail of a distant siren.

The camera light blinked on, and Zach gave him the go-ahead. Chet adopted smile number twenty-two—a blend of empathy and professionalism—and began.

"Good evening, Washington. This is Chet Chipsworth, reporting live from the scene of what can only be described as a truly tragic day for our city. Earlier this afternoon, Freakazoid's beloved sidekick, Fan Boy, was critically injured while in pursuit of a dangerous suspect."

Chet turned slightly, gesturing toward the line of ambulances parked down the street. "Details are still emerging, but witnesses describe a chaotic chase that ended with Fan Boy heroically confronting the suspect before suffering life-threatening injuries. The suspect, whose identity has not yet been released, remains at large."

As the recording light turned off, Zach suddenly let out a low whistle, drawing a sharp glare from Chet. "What?" Chet hissed, his professional tone dropping for a moment.

Zach pointed toward a cluster of people milling near the barricades, most of them dressed in elaborate costumes. "Klingons. Cool. There's a whole group of them. Must be from that sci-fi convention over at the convention center around the block."

Chet blinked, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Zach, we live in a city where people with superpowers battle in the streets. There was one just the other day that covered whole city blocks in glitter! A literal alien landed in front of the White House! Who cares about fiction?"

Zach shrugged, still staring at the cosplayers. "I dunno, Mr. Chipsworth. They're pretty committed. Look at that guy's forehead ridges. They're, like, movie quality."

"Focus, Zach," Chet snapped, gesturing toward the ambulances. "Fan Boy is in critical condition! Do you think anyone watching cares about Jedi?"

"Uh, Jedi are in Star Wars. Klingons are from Star Trek," Zach gently corrected. "Don't you watch any of that stuff?"

"No," Chet responded curtly, his tone making it clear the conversation was over.

Chet barely had time to recover from Zach's smirk when an all-too-familiar voice rang out. "Well, well, if it isn't old Chipsworth. Reporting live, or just trying to figure out what's going on?"

Chet turned, his professional smile number eighteen—mild irritation masked as politeness—already in place. Brett Newsman stood a few feet away, his immaculate suit and golden hair looking annoyingly flawless. Standing beside him was none other than Dr. Lorna Wilde, clipboard in hand. Her tailored blazer hugged her figure perfectly, and her piercing gaze had a way of making Chet's stomach flip—a fact he refused to acknowledge even to himself.

"Brett," Chet said coolly. He never referred to him as "Newsman" on principle. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I was already on-site," Brett said with a grin, gesturing grandly toward Dr. Wilde. "I was interviewing Dr. Wilde about her latest paper on the ethnography of pop culture. What better place than here at the convention? Fascinating stuff, really. Did you know fandoms are modern tribes with their own rituals and social hierarchies?"

Chet's eyebrow twitched. "Riveting."

Brett chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. "Of course, I wouldn't expect you to understand. You're… how should I put this? It sounds like you're a little out of touch with the fan world." He tilted his head mockingly. "What's next, Chet? Forgetting which one is Mulder and which one is Scully?"

Dr. Wilde glanced between them, her professional demeanor unshaken. "It's not uncommon for people outside fandoms to misunderstand the cultural impact," she said, her tone neutral but with a hint of amusement.

"I don't misunderstand it," Chet protested, straightening his tie. "I just think people could focus on something more meaningful than fictional characters."

Brett's grin widened. "Like Emmy reels in the living room? Or, say, idolizing a certain red-suited superhero?"

Chet froze, his thoughts flickering briefly back to Valerie's Freakazoid-covered desk. "That's… entirely different."

"Of course it is," Brett said smoothly, his tone dripping with mock agreement. He gave Dr. Wilde a charming smile. "Shall we get back to discussing the anthropological significance of cosplay?"

Dr. Wilde nodded politely, though she cast a brief, curious glance toward Chet before Brett led her back toward their camera setup.

Chet clenched his jaw as he watched them go, his frustration simmering. Zach, as always, was quick to chime in. "You know, he's got a point, Mr. Chipsworth. You really do need to brush up on this stuff."

"Not. Helping," Chet muttered, adjusting his blazer and staring resolutely toward the scene of Fan Boy's tragedy. "Let's just stay focused on the story."

Before Zach could push further, Chet's beeper buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and flipped it open, groaning at the name on the LCD display: Weena Mercator.

Chet read the scrolling text aloud with growing irritation: "'Talk about Freakazoid's other sidekicks. People love context.'" He lowered the beeper, glaring at Zach. "What context? Freakazoid has other sidekicks?"

Zach nodded. "Oh, yeah. There's a whole lineup. Didn't you know about Handman?"

Chet stared at him blankly. "Handman?"

"Yeah. He was Freakazoid's literal right hand. Retired after getting married." Zach grinned. "Apparently, his spouse wasn't a fan of vigilante life."

Chet blinked, his brow furrowing. "How… how does a right hand get married?"

"Oh. I think it was to Freakazoid's left hand."

"That… doesn't help to make any more sense," Chet muttered, rubbing his temple.

Zach counted off from his fingers. "Then there was Expendable Lad."

"That's… an unfortunate name," Chet muttered, wondering what sort of superhero HR department allowed someone to be called Expendable Lad.

Zach nodded solemnly. "Yeah, it was a real shame what happened to him."

Chet paused, waiting for Zach to elaborate. "And what did happen to him?"

"Oh, right—a bruised clavicle. Very sad."

"Perfect," Chet sighed, the weight of absurdity pressing on his shoulders. "What's next, a dog sidekick?"

Before Zach could answer, his attention shifted, his camcorder tilting slightly to capture a new target. "Whoa, check it out! Two-Face!" he said, pointing toward a cosplayer near the barricades.

Chet squinted at the figure, who wore a half-scorched suit and a dramatic split-color face makeup. "Two-Face? Is that the one who killed Uncle Ben?"

Zach turned slowly, his expression a mix of disbelief and pity. "Mr. Chipsworth, Two-Face is from Batman."

"Whatever," Chet muttered, waving dismissively. "I still don't understand why people are so obsessed with fictional superheroes."

Zach grinned, raising an eyebrow. "Kinda like how some people"—he leaned slightly toward Chet—"are obsessed with real superheroes?"

Earlier that day…

Valerie was sitting at the kitchen table, her Trapper Keeper wide open and covered in stickers of Freakazoid's grinning face. Her notebooks and pencils—also Freakazoid-themed—were strewn across the table in a chaotic attempt at homework. She was also wearing a slightly oversized red t-shirt that had Freakazoid's face and the phrase "Freakazoid Fanatic!" in bold yellow letters.

Chet frowned as he grabbed his keys from the counter. "You know, Val, it's a little concerning how much you're into Freakazoid. Isn't this… excessive?"

Valerie barely glanced up, twirling a Freakazoid pencil between her fingers. "Says the guy who has six copies of his Emmy submission reel in the living room."

"That's different," Chet said defensively, pointing a finger. "That's professional pride. This?" He gestured toward her cluttered table. "This is… fandom. What's the appeal? He's just a guy in red pajamas."

"He's hilarious!" Valerie said with a grin, closing her Trapper Keeper and revealing the custom Freakazoid cover art. "He saves people, he's funny, and he's not boring. And he's got those broad… shoulders."

"I'm not boring," Chet muttered under his breath.

Chet froze for half a second, then shot Zach a warning glare. "We're not talking about that."

Zach held up his hands innocently, though his grin didn't fade. "I didn't say a word."

"Good. Keep it that way," Chet muttered, tugging at his tie as if to compose himself. "Now, can we focus on what actually matters here?"

Zach cleared his throat and turned his camcorder toward the barricades, zooming in. "Oh, look, it's Sergeant Cosgrove!" he said, a grin spreading across his face.

Chet followed Zach's gaze to where the unflappable sergeant was casually leaning against a police cruiser, sipping from a paper cup of papaya juice. Zach waved him over enthusiastically. "Hey, Sergeant Cosgrove! Over here!"

Cosgrove ambled over, taking his time as he navigated the crowd. When he reached them, he gave a small nod of acknowledgment. "Chet Chipsworth, right?" he said in his usual monotone. "Still reporting the big stories?"

Chet forced a professional smile (reliable number four). "Always, Sergeant. Speaking of which, we're trying to get some clarity on what happened with Fan Boy today. Care to comment for our viewers?"

Cosgrove shrugged. "Sure. Fan Boy was chasing someone down the street. Got a little overexcited and tripped on the curb. Might have a dislocated toe."

Chet blinked, waiting for more. When nothing came, he prompted, "And the suspect? What about them?"

"Oh, not a suspect," Cosgrove said casually, taking another sip of his juice. "It was Mark Hamill."

"Mark… Hamill?" Chet repeated, the name sounding almost ridiculous in the context.

Zach perked up. "Wait, the Mark Hamill? As in Luke Skywalker? What was he doing here? Was he at the convention?"

Cosgrove shrugged again. "I dunno. Fan Boy spotted him and got a little starstruck. Chased him across the street."

"Starstruck?" Chet repeated, his professional veneer cracking. "Fan Boy stubbed his toe because he was chasing a celebrity?"

Cosgrove nodded, taking another sip. "Yup. Big fan of Star Wars, I guess."

"So Fan Boy isn't in critical condition?" Chet asked, his brow furrowing. He wasn't sure where this once-newsworthy story was going, but he didn't like the direction.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Cosgrove replied with his usual calm detachment. "He knocked himself out. The medics can't get him to wake up."

Zach let out a low whistle, panning the camera toward the ambulance. "That's… wow. Honestly, it's kinda impressive in its own way."

Chet groaned, rubbing his temple. "Impressive? Zach, this story has gone from tragic to downright embarrassing."

Cosgrove glanced at Chet, who was visibly deflated after the interview. He scratched his chin thoughtfully, then shrugged. "You know, I could take you over to the accident scene if you want. Give you the inside scoop."

Chet's face lit up, his professional enthusiasm restored. "You'd do that? Cosgrove, you're a gem."

"Don't mention it," Cosgrove said nonchalantly, already leading the way. "Seriously. Don't mention it."

Zach eagerly hoisted the camcorder onto his shoulder and followed, grinning. "This is great! We're going straight to the action."

When they arrived at the scene, the EMTs were still gathered around the prone figure of Fan Boy, who remained unresponsive. The nearby crowd of onlookers had thinned, but a few curious cosplayers lingered, snapping pictures and murmuring about the drama.

Chet straightened his blazer and looked around. "Alright, let's see if we can get some real answers."

"Not too close," Cosgrove warned, leaning against the hood of a police cruiser and sipping from another papaya juice cup. "Don't want to mess with the medics."

Chet nodded, strolling toward the action while Zach trailed behind, camcorder rolling. "Make you get some good shots of Fan Boy's fallen, injured form." Chet said, his tone taking on a calculated edge. He paused, adding with a small wave of his hand, "But… tasteful."

Zach rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, but nodded silently as he adjusted the camcorder.

Chet stopped a few paces away from the scene, squinting toward the medics huddled around Fanboy. The sidekick's short frame was sprawled on the pavement, his thick glasses askew. His outfit—a white t-shirt with "FB!" on the front, bright red short shorts, and a green cape tied loosely around his neck—looked as disheveled as he did. Chet gestured vaguely at the commotion. "So this is it," Chet muttered, taking in the scene. "The aftermath of one man's misguided devotion to… whatever it is he does."

Zach tilted his head. "Sidekick duty?"

"Something like that," Chet said, distracted. "What's that thing in Star Wars? All the security guys in blue shirts get hurt on away missions?"

Zach blinked at him, incredulous. "You mean red shirts in Star Trek?"

Before Chet could respond, a medic suddenly gasped. "Wait! Look—he twitched!"

The EMTs leaned in, their excitement palpable. One of them turned toward Chet, his eyes wide. "Keep talking! Whatever you just said, it worked."

"What?" Chet asked, baffled.

"Just say more stuff!" another medic urged, motioning for him to continue. "Anything!"

Zach nudged him, grinning. "Go on, Mr. Chipsworth. Say something else."

"Uh… Superman was raised by Uncle Ben and Aunt May."

Fan Boy's finger twitched, and the medics exchanged hopeful glances.

"More!" one of them called out.

Chet pinched the bridge of his nose, but complied. "Right, right. Like what?"

Zach recommended, "Tell me about Sailor Moon!"

"Uh… Popeye becomes an astronaut?"

Fan Boy groaned, his arm jerking slightly.

Zach was barely containing his laughter as he zoomed in with the camcorder. "You're killing it, Mr. Chipsworth."

Chet rolled his eyes but continued, his tone increasingly sarcastic. "Right. John Conner went back in time with the Tardis to protect the Stargate."

That did it.

Fan Boy bolted upright, his eyes wide and his voice ringing out loud and clear. "Noooooooo, that's wrooong!!"

The medics cheered, rushing to check his vitals. "He's awake! We've got him back!"

Chet stood there, stunned, as the EMTs thanked him profusely. "You might've just saved his life!" one of them exclaimed, shaking Chet's hand vigorously.

Zach, still recording, was beaming. "This is incredible. A real human interest story."

In the background, Brett Newsman stood frozen, his jaw hanging open as he processed what had just unfolded.

Chet adjusted his tie, trying to regain his composure. "Well… I suppose it's all in a day's work."

Fan Boy pointed at him weakly, his voice still indignant. "You… you need to read a comic book."

Chapter Text

The morning sun cast a bright glare on the storefront windows of Toy Mart, where a small crowd of eager parents and customers had gathered, clutching coffee cups and talking animatedly. Brightly colored banners with "Freakmobile Release Day!" screamed for attention, and a life-sized cardboard cutout of Freakazoid grinned from the entrance, one hand pointing at the store like a carnival barker.

Chet Chipsworth paused before the reflective glass, tilting his head slightly to admire his perfectly styled pompadour. He straightened his tie with practiced precision, using the storefront as an impromptu mirror. With a quick adjustment to his blazer, he gave himself a nod of approval. "Still got it," he murmured under his breath, flashing smile number seven—subtle confidence—at his reflection.

Zach cleared his throat behind him, juggling the camcorder and a clipboard. "Mr. Chipsworth, I think we're ready to start."

Chet turned away from the window with a sigh, his expression shifting to smile number twenty-five—professional tolerance. "And here we are," he muttered, gesturing toward the line behind him. "Another chapter in the ongoing saga of crass commercialization."

"C'mon, Mr. Chipsworth," Zach said cheerfully, already panning his camcorder across the line of customers. "Look at the turnout! The Freakmobile's got everything—real lights, sound effects, extendable wings, even a detachable grappling hook!"

Chet shot him a skeptical glance. "Yes, because nothing says 'hero of justice' quite like turning your image into a hunk of overpriced plastic."

Zach shrugged, his enthusiasm undeterred. "It's not just plastic—it's die-cast metal in some parts. And the wheels are real rubber!"

"Fascinating," Chet said flatly, shifting his weight as he scanned the line. "And here I thought we were covering news, not a glorified sales pitch."

Zach shifted on his feet. "Uh, actually, Mr. Chipsworth, Mizz Mercator specifically said to treat the story like a glorified sales pitch. Because of the investors."

Chet rolled his eyes. "You can't be serious."

Zach handed Chet a piece of paper, complete with the perforated edges from the dot matrix printer. "Here's the list of bullet points showcasing the toy's features you're supposed to cover."

Chet took the paper reluctantly, scanning the list with growing irritation. His voice dripped with sarcasm as he read aloud. "The amazing new Freakmobile. We want you to buy one. It has realistic engine sounds… glow-in-the-dark headlights… extendable grappling hook… retractable wings… Zach, this thing sounds less like a toy and more like something Q forgot to give James Bond."

Zach gasped in mock astonishment. "Mr. Chipsworth, I thought you didn't like any of that stuff!"

"What? I saw Goldfinger in theaters," Chet said defensively.

"Oh, one of the really old ones!" Zach replied with a grin.

Chet's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't that long ago."

Zach nodded quickly, suppressing a laugh. "Of course, Mr. Chipsworth. Those thirty-year old movies are simply classics."

Chet sighed, his eyes scanning the crowd once more. Suddenly, he straightened, adjusting his sleeves and adopting a more confident posture. "You know, Zach, what we need is a human interest piece. An interview with one of the customers here."

Zach's smile brightened in surprise. "Hey, Mr. Chipsworth, that's a great idea! Normally you don't like interviewing the 'rabble.'" He paused, turning his camcorder to follow Chet's gaze. "Ohhhh! Is that Dr. Wilde?"

Chet straightened his tie for the second time in the last five minutes and put on his most charming smile (number seventeen) as he approached Dr. Lorna Wilde, who stood near the front of the line with a notepad in hand. She was impeccably dressed, as always, her blazer perfectly pressed and her blonde hair pulled back in a neat bun. Yet, there was a subtle softness to her today—a hint of excitement in her eyes that Chet hadn't noticed before.

"Dr. Wilde! Fancy seeing you here," Chet began, extending a hand.

Dr. Lorna Wilde looked up from her notes, a surprised but pleasant smile forming on her lips. She shook Chet's hand. "Mr. Chipsworth. Covering the toy release this morning?"

"Absolutely," Chet said. "We thought we'd capture the... enthusiasm surrounding the new Freakmobile." Behind him, Zach aimed his camcorder and began filming.

"There's certainly a lot of it," she replied, glancing around at the eager faces in the crowd. "I'm here conducting research on consumer behavior in pop culture phenomena."

"Fascinating," Chet said, nodding as if he fully understood. "And, uh, joining the line yourself?"

She chuckled softly. "Guilty. I'm also picking up a Freakmobile for my son. He's a huge fan."

"Ah, mixing business with family duty. Very efficient," Chet commented, trying to keep the conversation flowing.

Lorna tilted her head slightly. "What about you, Mr. Chipsworth? Any little ones at home excited about the Freakmobile?"

Chet hesitated, a slight flush creeping up his neck. "Well, you know, work keeps me busy. Hard to keep track of all these... superhero gadgets."

Zach raised an eyebrow but remained silent, the camcorder trained on them.

Lorna gave a sympathetic smile. "Understandable. Though, I must say, Freakazoid does have a certain charm. He's quite the character."

"Sure, if you're into that sort of thing," Chet said, forcing a laugh. "Crazy superheroes and their antics aren't really my thing."

"Really?" Lorna tilted her head slightly. "I see you reporting at so many Freakazoid-related events."

Chet was briefly flustered at the thought of her watching those news stories, of her noticing him. Before he could say anything, Zach piped up. "Actually, Dr. Wilde, Mr. Chipsworth was just saying how the Freakmobile's features rival those of James Bond's gadgets."

Chet shot Zach a quick glare. "Yes, well, in a manner of speaking."

Lorna raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in her smile. "Interesting. I thought, based on what I overheard at the science-fiction convention, that you were…" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Unfamiliar with most of popular culture."

Chet straightened his tie, his voice adopting a defensive edge. "Well, I don't feel the need to follow the latest fads in toys and movies."

"Oh," she said lightly, her tone curious but nonchalant. "So, I suppose you have no children then?"

Chet opened his mouth, words failing him for a moment. "I, uh—"

"Hey, isn't that Valerie?" Zach suddenly interrupted, pointing toward the middle of the line.

Chet turned sharply, following Zach's pointing finger. Sure enough, there was Valerie, standing near the middle of the line. She was chatting animatedly with another customer in the queue, her Freakazoid-themed backpack slung casually over one shoulder.

"Excuse me," Chet said abruptly, his professional demeanor slipping. He marched toward Valerie, leaving Zach and Dr. Wilde behind.

Valerie spotted him approaching and froze, her eyes widening. "Dad?! What are you doing here?"

"I should be asking you the same question," Chet replied, crossing his arms. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

Valerie fidgeted, looking everywhere but at her father. "It's just a little detour. I was going to go right after I got the Freakmobile. Everyone's talking about it!"

From the front of the line, Zach and Dr. Wilde watched the exchange unfold. "Family drama?" Lorna asked with an amused smile.

"Yeah, that's Valerie," Zach confirmed. "Mr. Chipsworth's daughter. Big Freakazoid fan."

"Ah," Lorna said knowingly. "That explains the hesitance."

"Yep," Zach said, turning his camcorder to capture the scene. "Mr. Chipsworth tries to keep work and personal life separate. Usually." He hesitated, glancing between the scene and Dr. Wilde. "I probably need to head over there. In case I need to catch something on camera."

"It looks like your camera is always on," Lorna observed, her smile growing.

Zach gave a sheepish chuckle. "Yeah, that's kind of the job." He turned to leave but paused, looking back at her. "Just so you know, Mr. Chipsworth is a pretty stand up guy.  A little stiff sometimes, but he means well." He shrugged and added, almost as an afterthought, "He cares. Even if he doesn't always show it."

Lorna raised an eyebrow, intrigued, but before she could respond, Zach gave her a quick nod and headed toward the unfolding family drama.

Chet was about to launch into a parental offensive when a familiar, steady voice interjected from nearby. "Hey, Chipsworth."

Chet turned, his professional smile freezing into place as Sergeant Cosgrove stepped forward in line, holding a cup of papaya juice and looking perfectly at ease among the crowd. Valerie eagerly took a step back to let the police officer stand closer to her dad. She stared at her feet while the two talked.

"Sergeant Cosgrove?" Chet blinked. "What are you doing here?"

"Same as everyone else," Cosgrove said, patting the line divider casually. "Getting a Freakmobile. Two, actually."

"Two?" Chet repeated, incredulous. "Why would you need two?"

Behind Cosgrove, Valerie's eyes widened as she muttered to herself, "You can buy two of them?"

Cosgrove shrugged. "One to play with, one to keep mint in the box. Gotta think about the future, Chipsworth."

Zach lit up, his camcorder trained on the scene. "Smart! Collectibles in mint condition can go up in value!"

"Exactly," Cosgrove said, taking a sip of his papaya juice. "Plus, the best feature? The boot-kicking attachment. For kicking things." He demonstrated with a small kick in the air, his tone completely serious.

Chet pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why am I not surprised?"

Cosgrove leaned on the divider, glancing toward the toy display in the store window. "I buy other stuff, too. My favorite right now is that old bearded stone guy from Gargoyles. Pretty neat action figure."

Zach grinned. "You mean Hudson?"

"Yeah, him," Cosgrove said with a nod. "Solid build. Stands up real nice on my shelf."

"That's great. Love to hear about your interior decorating another time, though." He turned to Valerie, his stern tone returning. "You're going back to school. Now."

Before Valerie could begin to interject, Cosgrove spoke up. "Hey. I can get one for you."

Valerie blinked, stammering, "But… there's a one per person limit!"

Cosgrove gave a slow, exaggerated wink. "I've got an inside connection to Freakazoid. I'm allowed to buy as many as I want."

Valerie practically squealed with excitement, her earlier guilt about skipping school momentarily forgotten. Chet sighed deeply, rubbing his temple.

The line surged forward as the store doors opened, a cheer rising from the eager shoppers. Chet instinctively scanned the crowd, his gaze darting back to where Dr. Wilde had been standing moments before. But she was gone, swallowed up by the sea of parents and customers eagerly shuffling into the store, leaving behind a faint impression of sharp blazers and sharper wit.

Cosgrove gave a small nod of farewell as he followed the flow, his papaya juice still firmly in hand. "See you around, Chipsworth," he said casually, disappearing into the crowd.

Chet sighed, the moment feeling simultaneously chaotic and anticlimactic. Then Zach's voice cut through the noise.

"Got it all on tape!" he announced, looking far too pleased with himself.

Chet froze, narrowing his eyes. "You were recording that?"

"Of course! It's good stuff—family drama, collectible insight, and Sergeant Cosgrove's little kick right near the end! Viewers will eat it up!" Zach grinned, reviewing the footage on his camcorder.

Chet groaned, rubbing his temple. "Fantastic. My personal life is officially public record."

Zach, unfazed, slung the camcorder over his shoulder. "Speaking of the record, we still need an interview and to cover those bullet points from Mizz Mercator. You know, the features?"

Chet's shoulders slumped as he glanced at Valerie, who was still bouncing with excitement despite her earlier guilt. "Fine," he muttered, straightening his tie. "Valerie, come here."

Valerie hesitated, but Zach gave her an encouraging nod. "C'mon, Val. You're already here—might as well make it count."

With a sigh that was more performative than genuine, Valerie stepped forward, clutching her Freakazoid-themed backpack like a security blanket. Chet adjusted his mic, giving her a resigned look.

"Alright, Valerie," he began, his tone professional but weary. "Tell our viewers why the Freakmobile is worth skipping school for."

Valerie grinned, her nervousness melting away. "Well, it's got everything! Realistic engine sounds, glow-in-the-dark headlights, retractable wings for high-speed chases…"

"And what are your thoughts on the—" Chet glanced down at his notes. "—extendable grappling hook?"

"Oh, that's probably my favorite feature!" Valerie said, her enthusiasm bubbling over. "It's basically the coolest toy ever."

Chet forced smile number two. "Thank you, Valerie, for your… passionate insights."

Valerie beamed, oblivious to her father's sarcasm. Chet sighed deeply, staring into the camcorder with the weariness of a man who had truly seen it all. "And there you have it, folks. The Freakmobile: bringing families together, one improbable gadget at a time."

Zach gave a thumbs-up from behind the camera as he turned it off. "Nailed it, Mr. Chipsworth! Perfect ending. Mizz Mercator will be thrilled."

Chet muttered to himself, "I should have become a meteorologist and covered the weather…"

Chapter Text

Chet Chipsworth adjusted his tie, tilting his head slightly to admire the sharpness of its angle in the reflection of the one-way mirror. He smoothed a hand over his blazer, ensuring the fabric lay perfectly flat against his chest. His hair, as usual, was a monument to precision—a pompadour so impeccable it could withstand a hurricane. He flashed smile number four, the polished professional, just to confirm that his teeth gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

"Still perfect," he murmured to himself, satisfied.

On the other side of the one way mirror, a beefy security guard stood with arms crossed, watching him through the glass. His badge read Rugg, and he turned on the intercom before clearing his throat loudly, breaking Chet's moment of self-appreciation.

"Sir, we need you to empty your pockets," Rugg said, his voice a low rumble that suggested he didn't like repeating himself.

Chet blinked, his smile faltering. "Oh, right. Of course." He reached into his pockets, pulling out a pen, his press badge, and a small tin of breath mints. He placed them carefully in the tray provided, each item arranged with the same meticulous care he applied to his appearance.

Behind him, Zach stood awkwardly, clutching his camcorder like it was a newborn baby. His eyes darted nervously between the imposing security guards and the tray he was reluctantly placing his equipment in. A broad-shouldered guard with a badge reading Riba loomed over him, waiting with a look of mild impatience.

"Uh, be careful with that," Zach mumbled as he placed the camcorder in the tray, along with a tangled mess of cables and a small microphone. "It's… really expensive. And delicate."

Riba raised an eyebrow. "We know how to handle gear, kid."

Zach nodded rapidly, his fingers still lingering near the camcorder. "Right, of course. Just, uh, you know, maybe don't—"

"Zach," Chet interrupted, glancing back with an air of exasperation. "Let the professionals do their job."

Rugg cleared his throat loudly, drawing Chet's attention. "And the other pocket, sir," he prompted.

Chet sighed and produced a neatly folded handkerchief, a spare tie clip, and a small comb. "Happy?" he asked, his tone polite but clearly irritated.

Rugg ignored the question, gesturing toward the metal detector. "Step through, please."

As Chet approached the machine, Zach leaned toward one of the other guards, whispering, "Could you not touch the lens? It's calibrated just right…"

Riba gave Zach a deadpan look before rolling his eyes. "Just step through when you're ready."

Chet hesitated, glancing at the imposing machine as though it were a personal affront.

 "You know, I could've just sent a letter. It's a dying art, really—penmanship."

"Step through," Rugg repeated, his expression unmoved.

Chet muttered something under his breath but complied, walking through the metal detector with as much dignity as he could muster. When it beeped loudly, Rugg raised an eyebrow. Chet froze, then patted his chest pocket and retrieved a bright red pen. The top was molded into Freakazoid's grinning head. He exhaled sharply through his nose.

Of course.

Valerie must have slipped it into his pocket—or, more likely, he'd grabbed it by mistake that morning in his rush to leave. Either way, it was somehow even more annoying in this context.

"Forgot about this one," he admitted sheepishly, dropping it into the tray.

The detector stayed silent on his second pass, and Riba handed Chet's belongings back without a word. Chet straightened his tie again, muttering, "And here I thought journalists were supposed to be treated like royalty." He glanced over his shoulder at Zach, who was nervously watching his camcorder get scanned. "Zach, stop hovering. Your little gadget will survive."

"It's not a gadget; it's my livelihood," Zach muttered, watching anxiously as the guards finished inspecting his gear. When they handed it back, he exhaled in relief and cradled the camcorder like it had survived a near-death experience.

Riba motioned for Chet and Zach to follow, and the trio walked through a series of sterile hallways, their footsteps echoing against the gray cement walls. Eventually, Riba opened a door and gestured them inside a small conference room. The space was as dull as the rest of the prison, with cement walls, a basic metal table, and two uncomfortable-looking chairs. The only splash of color came from a faded poster taped to the wall—a kitten dangling precariously from a tree branch, accompanied by the words "Hang in There, Baby."

Chet glanced at the poster, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. "Well, that's reassuring," he muttered.

Riba either didn't hear or didn't care. He placed Zach's camcorder on the table and pointed to a corner of the room. "You can set up over there."

Zach nodded, quickly crossing the room to inspect his gear. "Nice lighting," he quipped, his voice nervous as he adjusted the tripod. "Really sets the mood for hard-hitting journalism."

Riba gave no response, his expression as flat as the walls around them. Once Zach was finished adjusting the camcorder, he stepped back, hands resting on his belt as if to admire his work. "Alright, Mr. Chipsworth, you're all set—"

"Actually," Riba interrupted, his tone firm, "you won't be staying during the interview."

Zach froze, his smile faltering. "What?"

Riba crossed his arms, his gaze steady. "Special protocol. Only Mr. Chipsworth is authorized to speak with the prisoner. You'll wait outside until the interview is over."

Zach glanced at Chet, then back at Riba. "But I'm the cameraman. I need to—"

"You set up the camera. That's enough," Riba said bluntly. "No exceptions."

Chet raised an eyebrow. "Is this a security issue?"

Riba nodded curtly. "We have strict rules here at Martin Zoomer Maximum Security Prison, and we need as few variables in the room as possible with such a high-profile prisoner."

Zach opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it, deflating slightly. "Alright," he muttered, glancing at Chet. "I guess… good luck, Mr. Chipsworth. And remember to smile for the camera."

Chet gave him a dry look. "When do I ever forget to smile?"

As Zach reluctantly gathered his things and stepped toward the door, he hesitated, looking back. "I'll be right outside. If anything happens, just yell. You'll probably need to be extra loud."

Chet waved him off with a sigh, turning his attention to the camera. "Hang in there, indeed," he muttered, casting a glance at the kitten poster before settling into his seat, awaiting the next part of this surreal assignment.

Chet sat at the metal table, his hands folded neatly before him. Outwardly, he radiated the calm, collected demeanor of a seasoned journalist—a man perfectly at ease, no matter the setting. But inside, his nerves buzzed like a frayed electrical wire.

He glanced at the "Hang in There!" poster again, the kitten's wide-eyed desperation feeling strangely relatable. Bigger than Barbara Walters, he thought bitterly. Why does every 'opportunity' sound like a trap?

It had started two days ago, in Weena Mercator's office.

two days ago…

"Mizz Mercator, I'm not sure this is the right fit," Chet had said, his hands gripping the arms of his chair tightly. Her office always made him feel on edge. The oversized glass desk, the abstract art on the walls, and the faint scent of citrus air freshener—none of it felt grounded.

Weena Mercator sat across from him, her hands steepled, a shark-like smile playing on her lips. "Chet, this isn't just an interview—it's the interview. Armondo Guitierrez doesn't talk to just anyone. Do you know how many reporters would kill for this chance?"

Chet frowned. "Yes, but those reporters wouldn't be interviewing a man accused of kidnapping, corporate sabotage, and… what was it? Throwing someone out of a window?"

Weena held up a patient finger. "Alleged defenestration. He's still awaiting trial. It's all part of the story. High stakes, high drama—it's exactly what viewers love. And think about it, Chet. You pull this off, and you'll be unstoppable."

He raised an eyebrow. "Unstoppable how?"

Weena leaned forward, her grin widening. "I'm talking about your own weekly interview special. Chet Chipsworth Tonight. Imagine it: hard-hitting interviews with political figures, celebrities, the works. You could be bigger than Barbara Walters."

Chet's skepticism faltered. The thought of his own show was intoxicating. "And if I don't pull it off?"

Her smile didn't waver. "Then I'll know you're not ready."

The memory made his stomach churn. He wondered yet again why he let Weena Mercator get under his skin. He adjusted his tie for the third time, glancing at the door. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the overhead lights, a dull, oppressive sound that seemed to amplify the passage of time.

He shifted in his seat, running through his prepared questions in his head. Stick to the facts. Keep it professional. Don't let it rattle you. But the longer he waited, the harder it became to ignore the knot tightening in his gut.

For the first time, Chet wondered if agreeing to this assignment had been a mistake. Hang in there, Chet. Just hang in there.

The heavy metal door creaked open, and Chet straightened instinctively, masking his unease with a practiced smile. A short, balding guard with a slouched posture stepped inside. He nodded once, avoiding eye contact as though he'd rather be anywhere else. Behind him, a man strode confidently into the room, a stark contrast to the guard's nervous demeanor.

"Thank you, Jocko," the man said, patting the guard on the shoulder. His voice was smooth and confident, with the faintest hint of mockery in the way he said the guard's name.

Jocko smiled awkwardly, the kind of grin that reeked of eagerness to please. He muttered something before quickly stepping back outside and closing the door behind him.

Chet's eyes narrowed as he took in the figure now standing before him. Armondo Guitierrez was everything Chet had imagined and more. His gray hair was thick and impeccably styled, not a strand out of place. His left eye was covered by a black patch, lending him a rakish, dangerous air, but his right eye was dark, piercing, and brimming with intensity. A slight smirk tugged at his lips, one that suggested he knew more than anyone else in the room.

Even in the orange prison jumpsuit, he carried himself with the kind of authority and confidence usually reserved for men in tailored suits. He moved with purpose, his steps unhurried but deliberate, as if he were still the chairman of the board for Apex Microchips and not a man awaiting trial in a maximum-security prison.

Chet rose from his seat, his professional smile number four sliding into place as he extended a hand. "Mr. Guitierrez. Thank you for agreeing to this interview."

Guitierrez glanced at the offered hand but didn't take it. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his smirk widening. "Of course, Mr. Chipsworth. It's not every day I get to speak with such a distinguished member of the press."

Chet's smile faltered for just a fraction of a second before he recovered with a quick smile number six. "Well, let's get started, shall we?"

Guitierrez gestured toward the chair opposite Chet's with a flourish, as if this were his office and not a bleak, gray prison conference room. "By all means."

Chet adjusted his tie as he took his seat, pulling out his notepad and glancing briefly at the prepared questions from Mizz Mercator. He cleared his throat, the faint click of Zach's camcorder still echoing in his mind even though Zach was no longer there. Professional, polished, and in control. That's how this had to go.

"Mr. Guitierrez," Chet began, his voice measured and steady, "let's start with the basics. Apex Microchips was once at the forefront of technological innovation, with you as its charismatic and influential leader. Can you tell me about the early days of the company? What inspired its founding?"

Guitierrez leaned back slightly, folding his hands together as his smirk softened into a thoughtful expression. "Ah, the early days. A simpler time," he said, his voice rich with nostalgia. "Apex Microchips was born from ambition, of course. The desire to push boundaries, to create something that would outlast any of us. Technology has always been a tool of power, Mr. Chipsworth, and I've always believed that those who harness it shape the future."

Chet nodded, jotting down a note or two as Guitierrez spoke. "And do you feel that your company succeeded in shaping that future?"

Guitierrez chuckled softly, the sound almost predatory. "Oh, it did more than succeed. It thrived. Until, of course…" He trailed off, his expression darkening for a brief moment before the smirk returned. "Well, let's not dwell on the unpleasant, shall we?"

Chet raised an eyebrow, his pen pausing mid-word. "Speaking of unpleasant, some would say that your pursuit of power led to… less-than-ethical decisions."

Guitierrez's smirk widened. "Ah, journalism at its finest. Straight to the heart of the matter." He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. "Yes, I made enemies. Yes, I took risks that others wouldn't dare. But isn't that what makes a leader? Taking risks? Isn't that what society admires in its so-called heroes?"

There it was—a shift, subtle but deliberate. Chet felt the conversation slipping out of his carefully constructed frame. He adjusted his notepad, trying to regain control. "You seem to have a… unique perspective on leadership. You've been charged with multiple counts of kidnapping, corporate espionage, endangering public safety, and... oh, forcing innocent civilians to endure The Best of Marty Ingels television special as a form of psychological torment?"

Guitierrez leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening. "Ah, yes. That was not my greatest moment."

Chet raised an eyebrow. "That... somehow made it onto the official record?"

"But of course," Guitierrez said smoothly. 

Chet shook his head, scribbling something in his notepad. "Well, I guess we've officially redefined 'cruel and unusual punishment.' But let's talk about accountability. "

Guitierrez tilted his head, his single eye gleaming with amusement. "Accountability. Such a heavy word. And yet, isn't it subjective? After all, I've heard stories of a certain... red-suited menace who seems to operate above such mundane concepts."

Chet blinked, caught off guard by the sudden pivot. "You're referring to Freakazoid."

"Of course," Guitierrez said smoothly, his voice tinged with mockery. "The so-called hero. The bringer of chaos." Guitierrez's eye glimmered with something between dramatic conviction and absurd theatricality. "He's made a mockery of my work, my vision. He's turned my quest for power into a punchline. But I shall have my revenge."

Chet raised an eyebrow, sensing the dramatic turn, but couldn't stop himself from asking, "Revenge?"

"Oh, yes," Guitierrez said, his voice dropping to a menacing tone. He leaned forward, his words quieter and more deliberate. "I shall leave him as he left me. Marooned for all eternity in the center of a dead planet."

Chet stared, unsure how to respond.

"Buried alive…" Guitierrez continued, savoring the words. "Buried alive…" He suddenly sat straight and returned to a normal speaking volume, his smirk creeping wider. "Under a pile of boxes with half-eaten pizza and novelty socks!"

Chet blinked. "Novelty socks?"

Guitierrez shrugged, his expression sly. "My resources are somewhat limited while incarcerated. I must make do with what's available, and you'd be surprised at how many novelty socks I can buy at the prison commissary."

Chet cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation back to something coherent. "So, ah…"

Guitierrez didn't let him finish. "Tell me, Mr. Chipsworth, as a man of reason, as a journalist with a clear, logical mind—how does someone like you tolerate the circus that surrounds him?"

Chet hesitated, his pen hovering over the notepad. This wasn't where he'd planned to take the interview. "My job is to report the facts, not to form opinions about superheroes."

"Ah, but surely you've formed opinions," Guitierrez pressed, leaning forward, his tone almost conspiratorial. "How could you not? A man like you, who thrives on order, on structure, on truth. How do you reconcile that with someone who flaunts the rules at every turn?"

Chet felt a flicker of unease, but he buried it beneath his professional veneer. He knew what Guitierrez was doing—probing, manipulating, trying to draw him into some twisted camaraderie. And yet, he couldn't completely ignore the uncomfortable kernel of truth buried in the villain's words. Freakazoid was chaos incarnate, and Chet had spent more than his fair share of time trying to make sense of that chaos in his reports.

"My personal opinions aren't relevant, Mr. Guitierrez. This interview is about you."

"And yet, here we are," Guitierrez said, his smirk widening as if he'd already won a small victory. "Two men who see the world for what it truly is—who understand the dangers of unchecked power. You're not like the others, Mr. Chipsworth. You see through the facade. You know the truth about Freakazoid."

The room felt smaller, the air heavier. Chet straightened in his chair, his grip tightening slightly on his pen. He was aware of the game Guitierrez was playing, aware of the manipulation. And yet… what if Guitierrez wasn't entirely wrong? What if, beneath the theatrics and obvious self-interest, there was a point worth considering?

"And what truth is that?" Chet asked, his voice calm but edged with tension.

Guitierrez chuckled, low and calculated. "The truth that he's a danger to society. That his antics, his chaos, undermine everything you stand for as a journalist. And I believe that, deep down, you agree."

Chet's grip on his pen tightened. He didn't have any love for Freakazoid—there was no denying that. The so-called hero was unpredictable, ridiculous, and, more often than not, an absolute menace to journalistic integrity.

But then, flashes of memory surfaced. The Daylight Savings Time dance at Harry Connick High School—Valerie and the other students, trapped and helpless, until Freakazoid came crashing in, turning chaos into salvation.

The deli. The way Valerie had lit up at the sight of the old superheroes, how they had spoken of Freakazoid—not as a fool, but as someone who cared. Someone who showed up.

The softball game. A circus, yes, but a circus raising money for charity. And even then, Freakazoid wasn't just goofing around—he was rallying people, bringing them together, making the absurd fun rather than dangerous.

Chet exhaled slowly through his nose. He might not like Freakazoid. He might never understand him. But even he wasn't blind enough to pretend that Guitierrez had anyone's best interests at heart but his own.

Chet forced his voice to remain neutral. "Freakazoid's not perfect. But at least he's out there trying to help people. Can you say the same, Mr. Guitierrez?"

Guitierrez chuckled, slow and knowing, as if he had expected this resistance all along. He leaned forward, his fingers lacing together, his single eye gleaming with something almost patronizing.

"Help, Mr. Chipsworth? Oh no, no, no. I don't settle for helping. I seek to fix things. To bring order to chaos." His smirk widened. "A goal I suspect you might find some appreciation for."

Chet felt his stomach twist. There it was again—the manipulation, the push and pull. Guitierrez knew what he was doing, and Chet knew it too. But the worst part?

Some small, cynical part of him still wasn't entirely sure if Guitierrez was wrong.

Guitierrez leaned forward in his chair as if drawing Chet into a great conspiracy. "You're a reasonable man, Mr. Chipsworth. You see things clearly. You understand the delicate balance of power, the unchecked chaos that runs rampant in the name of so-called heroism."

Chet drummed his fingers against his notepad. "I understand that you have an… unflattering opinion of superheroes. Especially Freakazoid."

Guitierrez smiled. "And you do not?"

Chet hesitated. He thought back to the softball game, to Freakazoid bounding around the field with reckless enthusiasm, more concerned with showboating than actual sportsmanship. To Valerie's Trapper Keeper, plastered with stickers of the grinning blue lunatic. To the ridiculous Freakmobile toy. 

But then, there was that night at Harry Connick High School. The chaos, the screaming students, Valerie among them. And Freakazoid, for all his ridiculousness, had been there.

Chet exhaled, shaking his head. "Freakazoid is ridiculous. But he's not the reason I'm here."

Guitierrez chuckled. "Ah, but you see, that's where we differ. Because he is the reason I'm here. And he is the reason you are too, whether you realize it or not."

Chet frowned. "I'm here to conduct an interview."

"Of course," Guitierrez said smoothly. "And I do so appreciate the chance to speak. After all, the justice system has been… how should I put this? Restrictive." He let the word hang in the air. "You understand, don't you? A man in my position, once at the pinnacle of innovation, now cut off from the very world he helped shape."

Chet's grip tightened on his pen. He knew where this was going. "You're referring to your lack of Internet access."

Guitierrez smiled, and there was something feline in the way he watched Chet, like a predator testing how much it could push before its prey fled. "Perceptive. You see, Mr. Chipsworth, I only ask for a small thing. A mere trifle." He gestured loosely with one hand. "I helped build the very infrastructure that so many take for granted. It is, after all, only fair that I be allowed to keep up with the times."

Chet narrowed his eyes. "The court ruling was pretty clear. No access to the Internet. Something about high risk of danger?" He raised an eyebrow.

Guitierrez sighed dramatically. "Ah, the paranoia of bureaucrats. They see shadows where there are none." He spread his hands in a disarming gesture. "I only wish to stay informed, Mr. Chipsworth. A man in my position should not be left to stagnate. I have contacts. Business associates. Even friends who would wish to remain in touch." His voice took on a subtle note of persuasion, the kind used by men who could talk investors into giving them millions without so much as a second thought. "All I ask is access to one of my company's computers. Surely, a harmless request?"

Chet frowned. A simple request. Harmless, even.

Except nothing about Guitierrez was harmless. Chet repressed a shudder when he thought back to the Marty Ingels incident.

Something told him this wasn't as innocent as it seemed.

Chet looked down at his notes, his pen rhythmically tapping on the paper. A small grin—one with no number—touched the edge of his mouth. He reached for his pen in his jacket pocket and laid it flat on the table. With a flick of his finger, he rolled it across the table to Guitierrez.

Guitierrez caught it with a curious expression, glancing down at the pen in his hand. His smirk faded slightly as he turned it over, his thumb brushing against the ridiculous bright red plastic casing. The tiny molded head of Freakazoid grinned up at him mockingly.

Chet leaned back, his own smirk creeping in. "You know, maybe you could just send letters. It's a dying art, really—penmanship."

Guitierrez's grip tightened around the pen, his eye twitching as he realized the insult. His fingers hovered over the clicker for a long moment before he slowly set it down on the table, as if it physically pained him to hold it.

"You are cruel, Mr. Chipsworth," he said smoothly, his tone measured but with a distinct edge. "Perhaps I misjudged you."

Chet folded his arms, tilting his head slightly. "That tends to happen."

Guitierrez exhaled slowly, rolling the Freakazoid pen between his fingers as if contemplating its weight. His smirk returned—not triumphant, not defeated, but something in between. Something patient.

"Well, Mr. Chipsworth," he mused, placing the pen neatly in the center of the table like a chess piece left for a future move. "This has been… illuminating."

The door on the other side of the table opened as the electronic lock buzzed. Chet glanced at the clock on the wall. Time was up. The guard at the door cleared his throat, stepping forward to escort Guitierrez back to his cell.

Chet rose to his feet, smoothing his tie, his posture as rigidly professional as ever. "I appreciate your time, Mr. Guitierrez."

Guitierrez smiled as he stood, exuding confidence despite the restraints on his wrists. "Oh, I think you'll appreciate it more than you realize."

Chet narrowed his eyes. "And what exactly does that mean?"

Guitierrez merely chuckled, rolling his shoulders as the guard led him toward the exit. Just before he stepped through the doorway, he half-turned, throwing one last glance over his shoulder. "You don't need to believe me. Not now. Not yet. But one day, when you're staring at the chaos he's caused, when you find yourself wondering how much longer you can stand the absurdity… You'll hear my voice in your mind."

With that, the guard pulled him out of the room, the heavy door clanking shut behind them.

Chet let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The room was quiet again, save for the hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint sound of his own pen tapping against the table. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the empty chair where Guitierrez had been.

Then another buzz sounded, and the door opened again—this time, admitting Zach, who practically bounced inside with his usual energy.

"Finally! So what happened?" Zach asked, already heading for the camera setup. "Did he monologue? He totally monologued, didn't he? Any maniacal laughter? Oh! Did he try to hypnotize you? Because I read that if you break eye contact every ten seconds, you can resist mind control."

Chet rubbed his temple. "It wasn't mind control, Zach."

Zach stopped adjusting the camera, turning to study Chet with uncharacteristic seriousness. "Okay, but… it was something, right? You look like you just watched your whole life flash before your eyes."

Chet gave a humorless chuckle. "No, just my career choices."

Zach grinned. "Ah, so business as usual. At least it's not like he made you some sort of offer you couldn't refuse."

Chet hesitated just a fraction too long.

Zach caught it. His grin faded. "Wait. Did he actually get to you?"

Chet let out a slow breath. "No. But he knew exactly what to say." He frowned, staring at the empty chair again. "He made it sound… logical."

Zach watched him for a moment before shaking his head. "That's the thing about guys like that. They take something true, twist it just enough to make it sound reasonable, and suddenly you're rethinking everything you believe in."

Chet gave him a sideways glance. "Since when did you get philosophical?"

Zach smirked. "Since I started filming interviews with criminal masterminds. Alleged."

Chet huffed a laugh despite himself. He grabbed his pen off the table—then noticed the Freakazoid pen Guitierrez had left behind. The ridiculous little grinning face stared up at him.

With a sigh, he picked it up and slipped it into his pocket.

Zach raised an eyebrow. "Souvenir?"

Chet shook his head. "Reminder."

Zach didn't push further. Instead, he nudged the door open and held it for Chet. "So, uh… where to next? We going straight to the station? Lunch break? Or do we finally get to cover a story where nothing explodes?"

Chet exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he stepped through the door. "If Mizz Mercator has her way? Probably a hard-hitting exposé on limited-edition Freakazoid action figures."

Zach grinned. "Hey, I'll take it."

As they walked down the hall, Chet couldn't shake Guitierrez's parting words. He knew the man had been manipulating him. He knew the angle, the ploy, the carefully placed doubts.

And yet…

He shook his head, pushing the thought away.

Chet decided that one thing was certain—whatever came next, he was going to keep his eyes open. And maybe—just maybe—he'd start listening to that voice in his head a little more carefully. Even if it was telling him to be more careful around megalomaniacs in jumpsuits.

Zach interrupted his train of thought. "So, do you think the interview is going to make Mizz Mercator happy? Are we going to get to do Chet Chipsworth Tonight?"

With a final sigh, Chet muttered, "I really should've been a meteorologist."

Zach laughed, clapping him on the back as they walked out of the prison.