Before we start, I reckon I have some 'splainin' to do.

Nicktoons Beyond has been cancelled. It was poorly planned and in the end it collapsed entirely - it wasn't helped by a six-week holiday in the middle of the writing process, not that I'm complaining about that. I took a long break from regular writing, focused on my study, made a few abortive story attempts (and one successful one - Unstuck's still going well and it's about at it's halfway point). I took a few weeks towards the end of last year, sat down, and made a proper plan for the next step in the Nicktoons series.

I now have a full plan for the next set of four stories, much of which is taken from the old Nicktoons Beyond plan (so don't worry, you won't lose most of that). We're going back to basics - starting with a largely self-contained story that hints at a larger arc, ala Chaos and Eggnog all that time ago (has it really been five years?). Here's hoping this goes well.

In any case, I invite you to sit back and enjoy Otherdale. Enjoy!

Prologue

Otherdale, California. Eleven pm. Night. Crime hour.

I look down from my perch on the Neo-Gothic Building and I see crime, injustice and filth as far as the eye can see. I can see the criminal rot that has befallen our fair city. Crime stains everything. Crime motivates our politicians, crime entices our businessmen, crime forces our poor into more crime. A vicious circle – of crime.

Crime. I hate crime.

Below me, I can see the criminals – gangsters, dressed as you might expect a gangster to dress, in their suits and hats bought from the dark profits of crime. They come here every night, to talk to the businessmen in this building on how to design the crime, to build the crime, to export the crime, to sell the crime 24/7 to good people across the country. It makes me sick.

It would be a crime not to do anything about the crime. And I hate crime.

There are a lot of gangsters now, including one of their leaders – a crimelord serving a crime king. I know this because he is called The Crime Lord and he works for The Crime King. Also because I am the world's greatest detective.

I can see the Crime Lord in the alley, talking to his gangsters about his nefarious schemes to commit nefarious crimes. His dress sense is criminally astute, save one thing – trench-coat, pinstripe suit, fedora, and a carnevale mask designed to look like a cat's face. The vibrant mask clashes with the dull tones of the man's clothes – it's a fashion crime.

(I know fashion crime isn't actually a felony but it should be.)

I narrow my eyes and raise my arm, a grappling hook in my gauntlet. It's prime time to end crime.

Thisis my destiny. This is what I was born to do. I am the night. I am the fear that stakes the heart of crime. I am the one who internally monologues in bold text.

Iam the gosh-darn Foxm-wait did I miss that ledge oh crud whaaaaaaaaa-!

There was a loud crash as the 'gosh-darn Foxman' slammed into the open dumpster behind the two gangsters.

"Foxman again?" asked one, not even bothering to look.

"Yep," replied the other.

The two turned around and hurled him out of the dumpster while their leader and the four other gangsters turned to face him, weapons drawn.

"Well, well, well!" declared the Crime Lord, "If it isn't Foxman, the brooding knight of justice nobody actually wanted or needed. I'd say it's a nice surprise but come on, you do this every night."

"I will keep doing this," Foxman declared boldly, "Until all the crime is forever destroyed!"

He pointed at the sky for emphasis. The gangsters, having been hired for brawn rather than brain, gazed up in mild confusion.

"Come on, Foxy," sneered the Crime Lord, "The only person you've ever 'brought to justice' was One-Armed Bob, and he had one arm. And asthma. You're out of your league, boy."

"So what do we do with him, Mr. West?" asked a mobster.

The Crime Lord slapped him hard in the back of the head.

"My name is the Crime Lord!" he bellowed.

"Oh yeah, jeez, sorry Mr. W-err, Mr. Crime Lord," stammered the gangster, "But still, what do we do with him?"

The Crime Lord grinned nastily.

"I think you've used up your chances, boy," he declared, "Besides, this is really getting old, it's the thirtieth time, I've got better things to do. Much better things to do."

"Are you sure it's a good idea to imply that we're working on a real big secret plan, boss?" asked the mobster.

The Crime Lord stared at him, eyes wide.

"It's better than outright telling him, you stupid cretin!" he bellowed.

"But we're gonna kill him."

"So?!" demanded the Crime Lord, "What do you think this is, a Jim Bund movie? You don't tell people your secret plans! That's why they're secret!"

"Oh. Uh...sorry."

The Crime Lord massages his temples.

"This is why I have therapy sessions, you know?" he muttered.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol. It was silver, and was engraved with the image of a cat drawn in the style of the ancient Egyptians.

"Well, it's been fun, Foxman," he declared, "But I think it's time to..."

"Let him go!"

"No, it's time to shoot him, who said that?"

The Crime Lord looked up the alley. At the other end, silhouetted by the moon, was a masked figure in a cape, gazing down on them with arms crossed. The gangsters visibly recoiled in fear.

"Oh sweet mother of Mary," whispered one of the gangsters, "It's...it's..."

"Uh, I only moved here three days ago," gulped another, "Who is that and why is everybody afraid?"

"It's her," whispered the first gangster, "It's..."

"The Protector," hissed the Crime Lord, "You're wasting your time! We're done here!"

"We're done here?" quizzed a mobster.

"Just shut up and deal with her," muttered the Crime Lord.

He made a run for it as the Protector attacked.

She leapt through the air, inhumanly high and far, and landed in front of the gangsters, cracking the pavement as she did so. The nearest two gangsters fired their Tommy Guns to absolutely no effect.

She ducked down and swung a low kick into the abdomen of the first gangster, kicking him into a wall. The second tried to club her with his gun – she caught it mid swing and swung both it and the gangster over her head, smashing him headfirst into the pavement.

She charged ahead at a third gangster, who was wildly firing towards her, and uppercut him. He flew backwards into the dumpster, which fell shut on him. The fourth and fifth gangsters, just about smart enough to realise that numbers meant strength, leapt at her in an attempt to tackle her.

She dodged the first, who tripped and fell, and grabbed the second in a headlock. She punched him in the face, before kicking him away. She followed it up by stamping the first gangster's chest, knocking the wind from him and ensuring he'd stay down.

She turned to the sixth gangster, who was standing a few feet away. He was shaking badly, his Tommy Gun raised but swaying wildly.

"Well?" she asked.

The mobster screamed and bolted, throwing his gun to the ground.

The Protector rubbed her gloved hands together and turned to Foxman, who had crawled to his feet.

"I had that one," he said, dizzily.

"You've got to stop doing this to yourself, Francis," said the Protector.

Francis pulled off his mask and wiped his brow, shaking his head.

"Not until all crime is vanquished!" he declared, "Forev-ow!"

He had attempted to raise his left arm to point at the sky again, but a sharp pain had stopped him.

"Uh...can you pop my shoulder back in?" he muttered.

The Protector rolled her eyes and grabbed his shoulder, pressing it back into place.

"Gah...thanks," muttered Francis, "I...I'm gonna go to bed."

"You do that Francis," nodded the Protector, "You do that."

Francis put his mask back on and limped onto the street, thumb extended in an attempt to find a cab.

The Protector shook her head. Francis was a good sort, but he just wasn't cut out for superheroing.

She leant down over one of the unconscious gangsters, rifling through his jacket for anything that might tell her what the Crime Lord was up to. She grinned as she found a small piece of note paper.

She pulled it out and turned it over.

Mr. C

This is your last chance. You WILL provide the resources we need for THE SECRET PLAN to access DIMMSDALE or we WILL use extreme measures.

And we do mean extreme measures this time. If you thought buying the house next door and playing nothing but country music out the windows was bad, you have no idea what we'll do next.

I await your immediate response,

THE CRIME KING

"Dimmsdale?" quizzed the Protector, "The heck is that?"

It was clear that something very wrong was afoot. And as always when something very wrong was afoot, the Protector, Vicky Delisle, was going to set it right.

The City of Otherdale.

A city in the heart of the Province of California, in the United Commonwealth of America. An island in a sea of what-if's and might-have-beens. A town under the thumb of the evil Crime King, about to be drawn into a plot seeping across the barriers of dimensions. For in another world – our world – the eyes of Majestic-12 now gaze upon it.

The Project is about to begin.

Our story – my story – begins in Otherdale's counterpart.

The City of Dimmsdale.

Three months before the End of the World.

AN: It's an alternate universe so of course Vicky and Francis are heroes.