Chapter 1
The Stage is Set

No no no.

This wasn't right.

This shouldn't be happening.

This was wrong.

All of this was wrong.

Sportacus looked behind himself, to the person that he had just failed to protect, to the person that had just been slammed bodily into the bunker wall.

No.

No.

He heard crying, saw a flash of pink run toward the person. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her grab onto them like they were going to evaporate.

Sportacus' fists clenched, but he didn't move.

His focused turned singularly to the figure before him, Sportacus keeping himself between them and two of the most important people in the world to him.

How had it come down to this?

He could of stopped this.

It was bright. It was sunny, and if one were to say that Sportacus was excited, that would be somewhat of an understatement.

If one were to say that Sportacus was poorly attempting to bottle up his energy because of said excitement, that would be an understatement.

If one were to say that if Sportacus had not suddenly decided to do a large exercise routine lest he would explode? That would also be an understatement.

Sportacus breathed, his glee finally tampered down by the rigorous and long sets of the various exercises that the computer shot out of him in the form of cards.

He was at the last one, bicycle crunches, and he had been doing them counting down from one-hundred.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

He puffed, sweat rolling down his forehead and into his hair. His fists were clenched tight - nearly white-knuckled as he poured all of his focus into the exercise so he could lose the burst of energy.

Even he, Sportacus, the slightly-above-average sports-hero was tiring, this wasn't his first set of the crunches in the first place, and he had to push through the last few numbers to get to -

"- Zero!" he announced, and flopped on his back, breathing.

'Good job, Sportacus. Might I suggest water?' his airship on-board computer suggested.

"Yes," he breathed, and he held up his hand from where he lay on the ground to catch the bottle that came whizzing toward him.

He sat up, arm draped over knees as he took a swig of the water, relishing in it's coolness.

Eventually he pushed himself up, and stretched, working out any tension and ache from his muscles. He snatched his hat and goggles from the ground, and gingerly put them back on, tucking in his blonde curls, and pulling the brim over his ears.

Now that he felt remarkably calmer, he decided to go tell the kids the news.

He picked up the glass delivery tube, and flipped it in his hand and caught it with a laugh. A red '9' was emblazoned on either end of it, and inside, it held a letter.

Sportacus pulled it out to read it again.

Number 10,

I hear that you are still residing where I used to spend some of my early years as a hero. Seeing as it's been so long since I've seen you or my old nostalgic stomping grounds, I thought I would come by and visit you while I am nearby.

Your father also told me that you haven't been back up north recently, and thought maybe you'd appreciate some company of someone other than the townspeople - we can trade stories and tales when we see each other.

There might even be some good stories about Lazytown to tell you, too.

I can't let my mentor's favorite and only child be lonely, now can I?

I look forward to seeing you, 10. I should be arriving on August the ninth and leaving again after the two weeks following.

Hope I won't be accidentally interrupting anything you might have had planned;

Sincerely,
Number 9.

PS : I still can do more push-ups than you.

Number Nine was coming to visit.

Number Nine who had trained under his father, and Number Nine who had helped his father to train him was coming back to Lazytown to visit.

The other hero was right, after all, it had been some time since he had gone up north to see his family, or visit any of the other heroes, even the non-numbered ones.

Lazytown just kept him so busy.

Not that he regretted it for one moment. Lazytown was more than just a town that he looked after, it was far more than that. Lazytown was home, and Lazytown felt like family.

And Sportacus was more than excited to show off Number Nine to his newfound family.

"Door!" he called, and the airship complied.

The kids were absolutely beside themselves with excitement.

Sportacus smiled as the babbled excitedly, talking about how 'awesome' it was going to be that another hero was going to be in their town, even if it was for a short while.

Funnily enough, the children had immediately assumed that Number Nine was his father.

He learned that the kids had a long-standing theory that he was from some long line of heroes that saved the day in Lazytown and his family had been doing so for generations since the founding of the town.

While not completely true, some of it wasn't too far-off.

Like, for instance, as he explained to them, his father was a hero, just not Number Nine.

His father was Number Eight.

That just got them more excited as they demanded explanations from him.

He wondered why he never explained it all before.

While yes, there were certain aspects to who he was and where he was from that he did not have the liberty to explain to them, there were other things that he could tell them.

Like how Number Nine had been trained by his father.

Or how Number Nine and his father trained him when it was his turn to take up the mantle of being the next numbered hero.

Or like how there were more heroes than just the numbered, and how they were all over the globe rather than just Lazytown.

There was so much to explain.

But before he could do any of that, his crystal went off.

He promised that he would answer their questions to the best of his ability later, before he dashed off.

Sportacus flipped, vaulting over some walls and back-springing over others.

The call was not dire, but it was serious. So he was not surprised in the least when he came to the large cow-billboard that poorly hid the bunker behind it.

Robbie Rotten.

Was that smoke poured upwards from some distance behind the billboard?

Sportacus sniffed. Fire? If not, something was definitely burning.

Concerned, Sportacus moved quicker, rounding the billboard, and going past the top of the bunker, to the large field that surrounded the majority of Lazytown.

He could see Robbie, and a pile of something smoking, small flames flickering.

Sportacus could immediately tell why his crystal had gone off.

It had a handy ability where it could forewarn him of dangerous situations before they got out of hand.

Like right now.

It was hot, in the beginning of August, and the grass of the large field was dry and brittle from the lack of rain in the past few weeks; and if Sportacus didn't do something now, the fire could blow out of control.

He looked up, by the look of the clouds, the wind was picking up.

Acting fast, Sportacus doubled back the the bunker's entrance. Thankfully, Robbie had a random assortment of tools strewn about the place messily.

Sportacus grabbed a bucket, filled it, and dashed to the source of what could very soon become a massive problem.

He didn't even greet Robbie, instead pushing past him and over-turning the bucket of water on the thankfully small flame.

"What - hey!" Robbie cried out. "What are you doing!?"

Sportacus stamped on the wet burnt ashy mush that had been a fire, to be sure there was no flaming remnants. He heard the crunch of glass breaking.

"Robbie -" Sportacus breathed in relief as a gust of wind cut across the field. Just in time. "- that was extremely dangerous."

Robbie did dangerous things at times, yes, but this was an unusual lack of responsibility. Why was he setting a fire, of all things? Didn't he have a furnace to burn away whatever litter he had?

"I don't care if it was dangerous," Robbie yanked the bucket from Sportacus' hands and knelt down. He began jamming the sopping wet remains of whatever-it-was into the bucket before Sportacus. "Mind your own business."

"The fire could have spread," Sportacus immediately scolded. "It could have set the field on fire, it could have spread to the town." He paused. "Robbie - there's glass, you shouldn't -"

"Shut up. I don't care. The fire wasn't going to do anything besides what it was supposed to."

"Robbie. The wind."

"I said shut up," Robbie growled.

Sportacus frowned.

"Now go away," Robbie's voice his tone venom.

Robbie was being rather... hostile.

"... What were you burning?" Sportacus peered at he pile.

"None of your business," Robbie spat, scrambling to pick up wet burned sheets of paper, and leaves. He winced, pulling back his hand.

Sportacus moved forward, knowing that Robbie must have cut his hand, but the glare he received stopped him. Robbie shook out his hand, before going straight back to what he was doing.

"What's going on?"

"I said - none of your business."

Robbie stood, arm around the bucket, the other smearing the ashy mud onto his clothing.

His behavior was... disconcerting.

Sportacus could see his hand was slightly bleeding, the fist balled up tightly, Robbie seemingly unaware.

"Robbie...?"

Something was wrong. Something had to be wrong.

"What?" Robbie asked, pushing past him. "You know what? I don't care. Go away."

"Robbie - what's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Robbie -"

"Go away."

Sportacus nearly listened to him. He had half a mind to stop in his tracks and let the man skulk away and go back down into his lair.

But he followed. "Robbie."

"If this is about the fire, I won't do it again. Happy?" he spat. "Now leave. Ruin some other person's day."

"Robbie what is-"

"Leave."

Sportacus held up his hands. "Okay. Okay. I'm sorry."

The villain looked like he was going to storm off. He stopped in his tracks, the bucket still under one arm, his injured hand balled into a fist.

The tight posture suddenly wilted.

"I... er..." the previous venomous tone melted away. "Er..."

Sportacus took that as an invitation to approach, he did so, carefully. He walked around the villain to his front.

"I didn't mean to snap," Robbie finally dithered, gesturing with his free hand.

Sportacus captured it, frowning at the cuts, however shallow.

Robbie winced, but didn't pull his hand back, his expression one of regret.

Sportacus moved to pull out his handkerchief, and pressed it into Robbie's palm. "I just want to help," he explained, closing Robbie's fist over the balled up fabric, his own hand over Robbie's holding it closed.

"I know. That's... sort of your thing isn't it?"

"Can I ask you what happened?"

Robbie shrugged.

"What were you burning?"

"... Things."

Things?

"Do you want to tell me?"

Robbie moved the bucket more out of Sportacus' view.

"Not particularly. I just want to -" the villain cleared his throat. " - apologize," it sounded like it hurt to say that, Robbie even made a gagging sound, "For... for... snapping. That's all. Not give you my life story."

Sportacus hummed, his hand still closed over Robbie's.

A long silence fell between them, Robbie shifting where he stood, holding the bucket in such a way as to make sure Sportacus couldn't see inside it, and Sportacus himself trying to search the villain's expression for any explanation of his odd and variable behavior.

Sportacus decided to break the silence.

He let go of Robbie's hand and opened the palm to check if the bleeding had stopped. "We're going to have a visitor in Lazytown."

"O-oh...?"

Sportacus spoke as he examined the palm for any traces of glass, "Number Nine is coming to visit."

Robbie's fist reflexively closed, then opened again. Sportacus looked up at him curiously.

"That's... nice." Robbie said carefully.

Sportacus stared.

Nice?

Nice?

"What?" Robbie blinked. "What did I say?"

Sportacus chuckled a little, though he was confused. "Not what I expected you to say."

"What did you expect me to say...?"

Well, not nice, first of all.

Maybe a tantrum, maybe for him to call and cry that his life was ruined that there were going to be two 'flippidy-flippity' heroes in town to ruin his peace and quiet.

He expected Robbie to yank his hand away and stomp away in his more classic theatrics, grabbing onto the idea of the old hero visiting to distract from the situation at large.

Sportacus expected all manners of things dramatic, theatrical, but not just... 'nice'.

Sportacus was going to reply, telling him that he expected Robbie to react a little more to the information, but he saw a tightness in the man's features.

Maybe now was not the time to tease the man.

"Never mind."

"... Right..."

Sportacus gestured to Robbie's hand instead. "It looks okay, just make sure you wash it really well and keep it clean."

Robbie pulled his hand away. "... Right."

Sportacus crossed his arms, unsure of what to do next.

Robbie looked around himself, scratching his chin.

"Well," Robbie suddenly announced. "While this has been absolutely riveting I have to... to..." he thumbed at his bunker. "... take a nap."

Sportacus nodded.

"- and you probably have to go and be annoyingly healthy at children somewhere."

Sportacus smirked a little, raising an eyebrow.

Robbie cleared his throat again. "Thanks. Sorry. Whatever."

He stalked off to his hatch, and descended down into it.

Sportacus would look back at this moment and scream at his past-self that he didn't do enough.

That he didn't ask enough questions.

That he didn't look, really look.

That he absolutely, completely, failed.

But he did not know all of that right then. Sportacus was only confused, concerned maybe, but mostly confused. He only looked at his crystal, feeling that the crisis had been adverted, and he eventually left.

If only he knew.

My take on the whole "Number 9 was an asshole to Robbie" bandwagon. But with a TWIST.
Íþróttaálfurinn ISN'T Number 9! Íþróttaálfurinn is Number 8! Íþróttaálfurinn is pure and good and will NOT be happy when he learns of any of this from his dearest son.

R&R!

Sorry Robbie...