A/N; Thanks to all the reviewers, readers, and people who accidentally clicked on this story. Stats makes me happy. (No matter how infrequently I update. Ha ha?)

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While one cynical observer may have argued that people were too wrapped up in their own lives and would have ignored something like an apartment fire, this one did not go unnoticed by many people. For most of the crowd gathering around the burned building, they were there because they just lost their homes and possessions to a particularly aggressive fire. For others, they were just waking up to face another day, and stopped to gape at the familiar building they had drove past so many times before, asking what had happened to it, their groggy, pre-caffeinated brains unable to piece two and two together. For one particularly soggy bystander, he was trying to stave off worry for his friend, who he had the worst suspicion hadn't made it out of that building in time.

He should have known something like this would eventually happen! The Doctor's apartment was practically a ticking time bomb, just waiting for something to be hit to hard, or for something to fall, or for two things to be mixed together wrong and explode and burn down everything in sight. That guy had had jars and beakers and boxes of stuff just haphazardly lying around, and while Moist was hardly chemistry major, he was pretty sure a lot of that stuff was flammable to some degree. Because of this, there wasn't a doubt in his mind that the fire had started in the Doc's apartment, whether or not the fireman and police officers that he had listened to talk would confirm it or not.

And if that was the case… Well, where was he? Moist had searched through the crowd, hoping to spot the familiar blond man blending in with everyone else, but to no avail. He wasn't there. The next logical step was to call him—but his cell phone was broken, as Pummeler had discovered the broken halves of his phone under the television (As a rule, Moist wasn't allowed near electronics) while the two henches were setting up for the party a few days ago. He had tried calling a few of the other henchmen, to see if any of them had heard from him, but all he got was a string of "No's" and "If you ever call me this early again, I'll kill you's."

He was running out of places to look, and the increase of the drops of water dripping to the ground were a sure sign he was getting more and more worried as sunrise approached.

His fears weren't unfounded, either. Two bodies, a male and female, had been found and pulled out of the wreckage so far, and a couple of other people were being treated for burns and smoke inhalation, sitting in the backs of ambulances and breathing into oxygen masks while tired-looking paramedics checked their heart rates and did other… paramedic-y stuff. Could one of those bodies been Horrible? Moist had tried to ask to look at them, but had been roughly pushed away by a man in a uniform with a dark mustache who told him it was "None of his damn business," and to stay behind the tape that had been put up.

"But one of them might be-" he'd started, only to be roughly brushed off again.

"The bodies have already been identified. Now, move along!" And with that, the man in the uniform retreated back toward the group of other official looking people to converse with them about something official, probably.

None of this helped to ease his worries. With a despondent sigh, he'd started shuffling back toward the group of people that were still gawking at the building, trying to rationally convince himself that his friend was still alive and was just laying low somewhere, completely unhurt, when a very loud and very obnoxious voice broke through the assorted quiet conversations and comments.

"Come on, let me though!" The voice whined. "This is official… Hero… Stuff!"

Moist winced. He knew that voice, didn't he? Turning back around, he saw a short man in a thick, fluffy blue parka that was totally inappropriate for the later summer morning, sporting ski goggles and impossibly spiked brown hair, obviously trying to convince another officer that he should be let through to the building. Oh, yeah, he did know this guy—Johnny Blizzard, or something else really stupid. Moist had run into him a few times, usually while playing cover-up for one of Horrible's crimes, and thought of all the heroes in the city, he had to be the most pathetic of the lot. And annoying, too, at least to Moist; the guy's powers involved freezing things, and, well, with all the extra water around, Moist wasn't exactly the most freeze-friendly person in the city.

But what was he doing here?

Trying to appear nonchalant, Moist stuck his hands in his pockets, idly wandering a bit closer to the wanna-be hero to see what he was talking about.

"Look, one, you don't have Hero Guild credentials, and two, this has nothing to do with you crazies. Move. Along," the officer, a slightly less imposing man than Moist had had to stand up to (At least in his opinion) ordered, clearly unamused by Johnny's attempts to get in.

"S-so? And this totally has to do with… uh… hero and villain stuff," Johnny clumsily recovered, trying to take a step forward to get in the guys face. This failed, as the officer loomed forward slightly, causing the small hero to retreat a step. "Don'tyou know who lived here?" He challenged.

Moist looked up, surprise etched into his face. Johnny knew Horrible had lived here?

The officer didn't seem to know or care. "No. Now leave."

"Horrible, man!" Johnny blurted out, clearly far too excited for his own good. He was even hopping up down a bit, like a child being given candy. "As in, Doctor?"

This got the officer's attention. "What? That's absurd, he—"

"—He totally does!" Johnny was nearly shouting at the guy. Moist kind of wanted to slap him for being so annoying, and would have if there weren't so many people around. "Look, someone sent me a email to look at the news, and I saw a few shots from inside the apartments, and they totally look like his place from his blogs! Don't you people pay attention to this kind of stuff?"

Wrong question. The officer seemed to take offense to this. "Yes, we do," he snapped. "Look, we'll look into this. You go home and play your little games while the real cops take care of the bad guys. Okay?"

"But--!"

"Go. Away. Now!" His tone left no room for argument. Moist silently applauded the guy, unable to hide a grin on his face. Defeated, Johnny turned away—

And saw Moist.

The soggy henchmen dropped his grin. "Aw, man," he mumbled.

"Hey, you--!" Johnny started. Moist turned and tried to retreat back toward the group of people, when something very cold grabbed his left leg, causing him to nearly overbalance and fall over when he tried to take another step. Glancing down, he saw that a layer of ice more or less glued him to the concrete, where he had been standing and dripping for a few moments now. Damn.

"Yeah, freeze!" Johnny added, apparently trying to cover for not using his signature battle cry before he actually used his power. Moist rolled his eyes. Amateur! "You're—you're Horrible's hench, aren't you?" Johnny asked upon catching up to him, which, admittedly, wasn't very hard, considering he couldn't take another step.

"Maybe," Moist replied. "You're Blizzard, right?"

"Snow."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Johnny appeared unsure of what to say next. Moist frowned.

"Aren't you supposed to be… I 'unno, questioning me or something?" Moist ventured, wishing the ice on his leg would melt already, before he got frostbite or something.

"Uh, yeah," the hero replied, tugging at his gloves. "But, I didn't really think I'd actually get you, so…"

"Oh."

"Yeaaaah." Johnny stared at him for a moment. "So… where's our Horrible little friend?"

Moist raised an eyebrow. Johnny blinked. "Your boss?"

"I know who he is, I'm just wondering why you called him that."

"It sounded cool. Answer the question!" Moist was having trouble taking seriously a guy in a fluffy blue parka. Still, it wasn't like there was anything else he could do…

"No, I don't know where he is. I tried calling him, but his phone's broken, and no one's heard from him or seen him," Moist replied finally, a small note of anxiety worming its way into his voice. Yeah, he was worried about him. So what?

"Oh." Johnny seemed more than a bit disappointed to hear this.

"Why are you here, anyway?" Moist asked. "You're usually the last person to the scene."

"Someone sent me an email, told me to check this place out. I've been looking for your boss, you know." Moist resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Yeah, him and everyone else in LA right now. Almost as an afterthought, Johnny added—"And I'm not the last person there!"

"Dude, you were like, an hour late to the last heist."

"Forty five minutes! The traffic was bad!" Johnny snapped and huffed. "And… I'm not letting you go until you tell me where Horrible is. So there."

Moist couldn't believe this. "I already told you, look—"

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"Because he isn't." Both men were interrupted by a third man, the very official looking guy in uniform with a mustache that Moist had been arguing with earlier. Behind him, two people stood, the first, the man Johnny had been talking to, and the second, a woman with bandages on her arms and a burned pant leg.

"Who're you?" Johnny asked, the first of the two to recover from the surprise.

"Agent Dysart. Can you come with us, please?" The man's request was framed more like a command.

"Who're they?" Johnny asked, pointing to the two people behind him. Moist sighed, beginning to tug at his leg, sincerely wishing the ice would melt already. His toes had gone numb by this point.

Apparently, Dysart shared Moist's impatience. "Agents Conner and Goldschitz. Look, we're investigating your friend, and you need to come with us, please. Now."

"Oh, okay," Johnny seemed more than willing to accept this explanation, and judging by the way his face lit up when the agents mentioned Horrible, was excited about this, too. Moist didn't share this feeling—in fact, he couldn't help but feel a sense of dread. Federal Agents were investigating Horrible? That was bad. And here he was, iced to the cement and unable to run, and unable to warn his friend even if he could run. That was even worse.

"Come on, Moist, let's go find your boss," the hero oh-so-helpfully said, the smirk on his face telling him that he so meant to say that. Dysart frowned, looking to the soggy henchmen, who had sunk his head in vain hopes he wouldn't be noticed. This failed.

"You're one of Horrible's henchmen?"

"Maybe," Moist muttered.

"Then you need to come with us as well."

"I can't."

Dysart frowned again. "Why not?" He asked sternly.

Moist pointed to his frozen leg.

Johnny let out a quiet "Oh," and pointed at the ice. Almost immediately, it turned back into water and trickled down onto the cement.

"Yeah. Okay. I can come now," Moist said, heaving another sigh.

Yeah, this was going to be a long day.

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The best things about motels were their anonymity. Anyone could walk into one, check in with a fake name, and hide for a few days. And that was exactly what Billy did, signing the check in book with the name "Carl Jenkins," paying the modest fee with what money had had left, before grabbing his makeshift bag of stuff, taking his key, and retreating into his tiny, dingy room.

Unfortunately, the anonymity was about the only good thing going for the motel. Doing his best to ignore the scent of mold that permeated everything, Billy sat down on the bed, dropping the coat and assorted rays onto the mattress next to him and trying to not think about what had probably happened on this bed. Instead, he rubbed at his eyes, trying to ignore his headache, which three painkillers hadn't helped stop, and the swirling thoughts and images that were currently cluttering up his brain.

He just needed to stop thinking for a little bit. That was all.

After a quick, admittedly careless glance over his inventions, he deemed them intact before wrapping them back up in his coat and stuffing them under the mattress. He then set about pulling things out of his pockets, finding the two bottles of pills, his keys, his wallet, and a very crumpled piece of paper. Frowning, he smoothed it out, realizing it was the back of a picture.

Damn it.

Turning it over, he stared at the burry shot of the girl he had killed. Had this been any other time, any other place, he would have been upset, would have cried or yelled or sworn or done… something. But he didn't. He didn't feel anything, strangely enough. He killed her. He loved her, and he killed her, and those were the facts.

Those agents. He didn't love them, and had very probably killed them. That, too, was a fact. And he couldn't change facts, no matter how hard he tried.

Maybe he was just tired. He needed sleep. Taking the picture, he folded it up, squeezing the creases until it was very nearly flat, and pushing it into one of the card slots in his wallet. Maybe he would feel something about it later, and could be depressed about it and mourn her then. But right now, he had bigger issues to worry about—Like, federal agents, and not being caught and arrested for yet more killings.

Billy knew he should be worried about that, too. Were this a few days ago, he would be panicking, pacing up and down the room and pulling his hair out and blinking and doing all the stuff he used to do when he was nervous or scared. But he wasn't, not right now, at least.

Going to the pills, he grabbed two more painkillers, as well as a sleeping pill, and set about searching for something he could use as a glass. Finding a stack of plastic ones in the bathroom, he turned on the faucet, frowning as less-than-clear water gurgled out of the pipes, and filled one of the cups, before throwing the pills into his mouth and swallowing them with a gulp of water. That done, he turned off the faucet, killed the lights, and collapsed into the bed.

Billy had a lot of things to think about, but he was dead asleep before the first thought could even worm its way across his brain.