“Piper?” Moxie Bravo gasped.

The two sisters stared at one another, frozen in shock. Moxie couldn’t breathe. She felt like the world had turned sideways. The person who stood before her was Piper, there was no doubt of that. She had Piper’s fiery orange hair and Piper’s sparkling eyes. But the Piper she had last known was just a girl of twelve, a little kid. This Piper was different. This Piper was a young woman. The fiery orange hair was fuller and longer, the sparkling eyes shone with maturity. And…

And on her head, she wore…

“Moxie…” Piper breathed.

And suddenly, the weight of the last six years crashed down on Moxie’s heart with a force she was entirely unprepared for. It all flashed through her mind in an instant: the adolescence that Piper had faced alone, the questions she had never gotten to ask her big sister, the birthdays and school tests and crushes and laughs and tears that Moxie had missed.

Six years. Six years in which her little sister had become a young woman, while she herself had become… Become…

But that was too much. The guilt she felt was overwhelming. It yawned before her like a bottomless chasm from which she could never escape.

Then she heard a voice. Toothpick’s voice. It was a sound that brought Moxie back to reality with terrifying suddenness. She was breathing again. A single tear she didn’t remember crying was growing cold on her cheek. She felt horribly present, hyper-aware of the confused expressions on the guards’ faces and of the fact that Dr. Myasey was shifting uncomfortably just behind her.

“Babydoll?” Toothpick said again.

Moxie blinked. When she opened her eyes again, she was Babydoll once more. She looked imperiously at the mobster. “I’ll take this one, Toothpick.” She stepped forward and grabbed Piper’s arm.

Suspicion flickered across Toothpick’s face. “Sorry Babydoll, I’m supposed to bring both of ‘em to Spats. And, if youse don’t mind me asking, why’d you call her-”

“Shut. Up,” Babydoll snapped sharply. “Do what you’re told, Charlie.”

Charlie - “Toothpick” Charlie - swallowed. The authority in Babydoll’s voice was not to be ignored. He didn’t like this, not one bit, but he didn’t dare disobey the First Lady.

“Well… I guess Patchwork is the one the boss really wants,” he said hesitantly.

“Good,” said Babydoll. She pointed to one of the thugs guarding the door. “You. Escort Dr. Myasey out. And not a word to Spats, any of you. Not one damn word.” Babydoll’s gaze fell on Toothpick as she said this last. Her eyes smoldered dangerously.

Toothpick nodded stiffly. “Yes Ma’am.”

Without another word, Babydoll strode down the hallway, dragging Piper along with her.

Piper didn’t dare to speak. Honestly, she couldn’t think of anything to say anyway. Her mind was spinning. She had been thinking of Moxie so much since this whole thing began. The idea of running into her big sister here at the Colombo Mafia HQ had never stopped dominating her mind, not even when the scanning machine’s torture was at its most painful. But it was only now, now that her arm was caught in Moxie’s grip, now that her big sister’s cascading dark hair was flowing and bouncing with each footstep, that Piper realized how little she had actually believed she would see Moxie again.

It had been six years. Six long years. And although Piper could never be sure of exactly when it had happened, at some point in those six years, she had finally let go of Moxie. She had stopped trying to call her, she had stopped thinking about her, she had stopped crying over her.

The unreality of it all was overwhelming.

Piper glanced back over her shoulder at Gramps. Toothpick was pulling the office door open and ushering the old man through. Just before he stepped through the doorway, Gramps looked back at Piper. He looked very old. Very old, and very worried. Piper nodded to him, and he nodded back.

Piper looked back at Moxie. Emotions roared and raged within her, too numerous and too confused to identify.

Then the two sisters rounded a corner and passed out of sight.

***

SLAM!

Green winced as Nico’s shoulder struck the cell door and it CRASHED open. The heavy door didn’t stand a chance against the power of his pinstripe shirt. Green bit their lip nervously. Between the din of Nico opening the cell door, and the racket of the cage door a minute ago, their escape wasn’t exactly off to a subtle start.

“Sorry!” Nico whispered, wincing as well.

“Just get moving!”

Nico nodded and peered out of the cell. The coast was clear. He gestured for Green to join him. They emerged into a large, square room. It looked like it had once been a utility room of sorts. A huge, long-abandoned furnace stood in the room’s center, black with old soot. Dismantled machinery and broken metal pipes leaned against the corners like open sarcophagi. At the opposite end of the room, a staircase began to wind its way to the upper floors.

“Well, here goes nothing,” Nico said.

The two of them crept across the room, giving the furnace a wide berth. It gave them both the creeps. When they reached the base of the staircase, they paused and listened for any sign of mafia thugs. To their relief, they didn’t hear anything. It seemed their escape had - at least for now - gone unnoticed.

“Whew,” Green sighed. “I really thought they’d come running.”

“Yeah,” Nico frowned. “Me too. It’s weird, isn’t it? Where are the guards?”

“Yeah. Weird,” Green said.

“So… Up the stairs?”

“Hm!” Green nodded.

They began climbing the stairs, pausing at each landing to check for approaching mafia. Green’s heart was beating so hard, they felt sure its thunder was echoing through the entire building.

“Do you know where we need to go?” Nico asked as they reached the fifth landing.

“I have no idea,” Green admitted. “Those bastards kept me in that cage ever since I got here, and I was blindfolded. I just remember going down stairs. Lots of stairs. But wherever they’ve got Blue, I bet it’s near the very top, close to where Spats is.”

“Gotcha,” Nico said.

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Spats… Gramps hadn’t said much about the head of the Colombo Mafia, but if Toothpick was to be believed, he and his friends had been kidnapped on Spats’ orders.

“So… Spats,” Nico said. “He’s the boss, right? He’s the one that kidnapped you and Blue?”

Green’s eyes glinted with anger. “Yeah.”

“So, all of this is his fault, then.” Nico’s voice was hard, his expression unreadable.

Green looked at him warily. All at once, the terrifying reality of the situation was overwhelming. They were alone in the heart of Colombo Mafia territory, surrounded by enemies who might discover them at any moment. Blue was being held captive somewhere high above them and was surely under heavy guard. Their mafia enemies were surely all Dressed in Powerful Fashion Statements that would make them dangerous opponents. And all Green had was their desire to save Blue, and the help of a stranger who had somehow – how? – smuggled in a single Powerful shirt.

They were outnumbered, outclassed, and utterly outmatched.

Then, suddenly… Nico smiled at Green. “Hey, don’t worry! We’re gonna save our friends. I promise.”

“Ah,” Green gasped, stunned. For a moment, just a moment, that smile wiped away their fear. A confidence that went beyond desperate hope sparked within them. It was a thrill of enthusiasm and determination that burned, like…

Like fire.

“Yeah! Right, we can do this,” Green grinned back. “But wait… What about Spats? He’s not going to just let us go.”

“Don’t worry about him,” said Nico.

“Huh?”

Nico’s smile broadened. His eyes flashed. He looked ferocious, powerful, unstoppable. Green stared, stunned. The fire within them roared into an inferno.

Who is this guy?

“We’re gonna make Spats regret hurting our friends. We’re gonna make him pay. And…”

DA-DOOM!

Nico clenched his fist. “…I’m gonna kick his ass!”

Green laughed; they couldn’t help it. “Alright, I’m in! Let’s do it. You’re my kind of crazy, Nico!”

Nico winked, remembering what Gramps had said. “Apparently we’re in the business of crazy around here, didn’t you notice?”

“Heh. I’ll take crazy,” he said.

“Okay!” Green growled. “Let’s go. It’s a long way to the top!”

Moving faster now, the two of them continued their ascent up the staircase.

***

Several floors later, Nico paused as they reached the top of the staircase. He glanced at Green and put a finger over his lips. Green’s eyes narrowed. For a moment they weren’t sure what Nico had detected, but then they heard the sound of men’s voices.

The staircase had ended on the ninth floor, emerging onto a hallway that branched off in multiple directions. The walls were lined with doors, some of which were open. The voices were floating out of one of these open doorways about twenty paces to their left.

Now where do we go?

Green was certain that this wasn’t the top floor – not even close – but despite the danger, they felt that the presence of mafia on this floor was a positive sign. They were getting closer to their goal. Closer to Blue.

Nico pointed at the open doorway and began to creep toward it. He pressed up against the wall and listened carefully. Green followed his lead reluctantly. As they pressed their back against the wall, a gale of laughter erupted from the men inside. Nico and Green exchanged a look, listening intently.

“…Aces, Queens, Kings,” one high, nasal voice was saying. Green recognized that voice. Mongoose.

“Screw you,” said another voice. This one was gruff, like a barking dog. “I’m done playin’ with you, Mongoose. Done.”

“Sure you are,” Mongoose replied. “Just like you was done yesterday. And the day before that. Huh, Bob?”

Bob… Fat Bob? Green wondered. They had seen Fat Bob before, but they had never heard his voice before now.

“Ahh,” Fat Bob scoffed disgustedly, “Just you wait, Goose. Next time I’m gonna wipe that stupid smile off your face.”

“Sure,” Mongoose chuckled. “Sure, Bob. What about you, Fingers? You in for one more?”

“Nope,” said a new, soft voice. Green recognized this voice as belonging to Two-Fingers. “I’m out, too, huh?” There was a scraping sound of a chair sliding back as Two-Fingers stood. “Besides, we should get back down there before Tiny gives us hell, huh?”

Green blinked. Suddenly, the lack of guards outside of the cell made sense. All three of the thugs who normally guarded Green’s cell were up here, playing cards. Goofing off.

“Yeah, that was a close one,” Mongoose said fervently. “If we’d left five minutes earlier, the boss woulda-”

“Exactly,” Two-Fingers interrupted. “So let’s not tempt fate, huh? C’mon, Bob.”

“Yeah, alright,” Fat Bob said reluctantly.

There was another chorus of scraping chairs and clinking bottles as the other two thugs stood. Nico’s heart panged. The thugs were walking toward the doorway, headed right for them!

Green’s face was a mask of horror. It would have been bad enough if the mafiosos had been standing guard outside when Nico burst the cell open, but being caught in the open like this was surely worse, wasn’t it?

“Shit, shit, shit!” Green hissed.

“Guess we have no choice,” Nico whispered. His eyes met Green’s. “You with me?”

“What are you talking about?!”

Nico took a deep, steadying breath, and summoned the power of the pinstripe shirt. Energy surged through his body with a force that made his hair stand on end. To his surprise, the power of the shirt felt much stronger than it ever had before. It was almost as though the shirt could somehow sense the approaching danger, and was responding by opening previously unknown floodgates of power.

“Nico, what are you-?” Green began, but the sound of a high, nasal voice split the silence like the crack of a whip.

“What the HELL?!”

It was Mongoose’s voice. Green looked up at him, eyes wide. We’re caught!

Mongoose’s face was pale, his eyes wild, his expression a mixture of shock and fury. His hand clutched at the door frame for support. Immediately, the other two thugs appeared at his side. The three men glared down at Nico and Green, who were still crouched against the wall.

Mongoose was the tallest of the three, a spindly man who was all arms and legs. An unbuttoned striped vest hung like bat wings from his thin frame. Behind him, Fat Bob, whose bulk had clearly inspired his nickname, gaped in utter confusion. A too-short belt strained against the man’s vast belly, its silver buckle gleaming wickedly. Last was Two-Fingers. His gloved hands writhed in the air like leather spiders searching for prey.

“How did you get out?” Fat Bob asked in his barking voice.

Nico stepped away from the wall and stood between the mafiosos and Green, raising his right arm to block their path.

“Nico, we have to run!” Green whispered urgently. “They’re Dressed, remember?”

Nico glanced over his shoulder and Green was shocked to see him smiling back at them reassuringly.

“So am I,” he said.

A wave of fresh confidence washed over Green. The fire that had faded to a dim smolder flared up again, and they stepped up behind Nico, fists raised. They gritted their teeth, suddenly angry with themselves. They had imagined escaping countless times, but they had never imagined that they would nearly be undone by fear of their captors. The idea was so alien that it had nearly shaken them to their core. They had taken beating after beating, had endured day after endless day, had trained again and again… for what? To freeze up in fear when they reached the first obstacle?

No. No way!

Come on, Green. Blue needs you. Come on, damn it! COME ON!

Nico turned back to the mobsters and pounded his fists together. “Get out of our way,” he said. “We’re gonna save our friends.”

The three men burst out laughing. “Damn, kid, you’re an idiot!” Mongoose howled. “What are you gonna do, huh?”

Green stepped forward, standing at Nico’s side. “You stupid or something? He just told you. We’re gonna save our friends. And you’re gonna get the hell out of our way.”

The thugs stopped laughing. Two-Fingers grinned ghoulishly. “No chance of that, huh? You got two choices. Get back in your cage and we only beat you up a little bit, or else, we kills you right now, huh?”

“Bring it on,” said Nico.

“Hm!” nodded Green.

Mongoose grabbed the flaps of his vest and jerked them into place. His eyes glittered maliciously. “Well, boys, you heard ‘em.”

Two-Fingers twitched his arms. There was a flash of silver and two soft pops. Two switchblades appeared in his gloved hands as if by magic. He began to twirl the knives, their shining blades swirling mesmerizingly. Green saw that the handle of each blade was shaped like a gnarled finger.

With a barking cough, Fat Bob gripped his pants and violently tugged them higher on his belly, slipping his thumbs into the beltloops. His stomach jiggled as he slammed his feet onto the floor like a sumo wrestler.

Nico and Green glanced at one another and exchanged a nod. They lowered into fighting stances and faced their opponents with fists raised.

***

The tip of Tux’s tail flicked back and forth. She sniffed the air. It stank of alcohol and sweat. So uncouth, the tabby cat thought.

She was still cradled in Monroe’s arms. The mafia woman hadn’t let go of Tux for even a moment. She scratched behind Tux’s ears with absent-minded serenity as she watched the television that stood on a shelf of booze nearby. The scratches felt very nice, indeed, but Tux was determined not to succumb to their hypnotizing pleasure. Her friends were in danger, and it was up to her to save them… Somehow.

“No!” Monroe shouted at the television.

The men nearby laughed at her enthusiasm, but she ignored them. She had kept up with every new episode of Stitched Together, a Clothiers-sponsored romance soap opera, for the last three years. The dashing Claus had just confessed his love to the scheming Giselle, a pairing Monroe heartily disapproved of.

“She’s not right for you,” Monroe said, shaking her head. “Oh, Claus… Stupid, stupid Claus…”

One of the men looked up from his drink. “Why do ya watch that shit, Monroe? It sucks!”

Monroe ignored him. At the moment, part of her actually agreed with the comment. Stitched Together hadn’t been the same since they killed off her previous favorite couple, Louisa and Victoria. She sighed and leaned back, looking down at the kitty in her arms with adoration.

“How do you like that, Switchblade?” Monroe asked, scratching a bit harder. Against her will, Tux began to purr. Curse these weak feline instincts!

Monroe’s eyes sparkled with happiness. “Kawaii!”

Stitched Together was ending. Giselle and Claus were kissing, and the camera was slowly panning over to reveal Harold, who was also in love with Claus, crestfallen. He was wearing a new Clothiers suit - all of the characters’ wardrobes were one hundred percent Clothiers fashion - and he had stumbled across the scene while on his way to finally confess his affections.

Monroe sighed and rolled her eyes. As much as she hated to admit it, the cliffhanger had gotten her again. She would definitely be tuning in tomorrow to see what happened next, just like she did every day. She stood, still holding Tux tightly against her chest.

“Night, boys,” she said.

The men scattered throughout the room grunted in return, too focused on their card games and booze to look up. Monroe flounced out, humming to herself. Tux turned her large eyes this way and that, searching for any sign of her friends. There was none.

Monroe sighed. “It’s so boring around here, Switchblade. Hmm… Let’s go find Toothpick! He’s fun to mess with.”

Tux mewed in agreement. If anyone here knew where her friends were being held prisoner, it would be Toothpick, or perhaps the giant man who had carried Nico away. She needed to escape Monroe to conduct a search, but the girl’s arms were holding her too tightly.

“I bet he’s with Spats,” Monroe continued, talking more to herself than to the cat. Her mouth twitched into an impish smile. “Want to eavesdrop on them? Huh, Switchbladey-wadey? Sound fun? Let’s go!”

And without waiting for another meow from Tux, Monroe set off for the top floor.

***

“Hiya, Patchwork,” said Spats. He smiled cordially at the old man. “It’s been a while.”

The Head of the Colombo Mafia sat on his throne, one leg crossed over the other knee, his pristine white spats almost glowing. Toothpick shoved Gramps forward. The office door BOOMED as it shut behind them.

Gramps returned Spats’ smile. “Sure has, Don Colombo. But I gotta be honest with you, if this is how you conduct business now, I’m not a fan.”

“That right?” Spats’ voice was light. Too light.

“Yeah, that’s right. I don’t know about you, but I don’t make a habit out of kidnapping my buyers.”

Spats nodded slowly. “I see. Well, Patchwork, you know what I’m not a fan of? Disrespect.” He spat the last word out a syllable at a time like the hiss of a cobra. The Don stood and stalked toward Gramps with his hands in his front trouser pockets. He seemed more dangerous with every step, like a bomb that might explode at any moment.

Gramps’ brow furrowed. His eyes were hard. “When did I disrespect you? I offered Toothpick a generous price for a unique item. You don’t like money anymore? That it?”

Spats stood before Gramps, meeting the old man’s gaze. He wasn’t much taller than Gramps, but he seemed to tower overhead with terrifying authority. A lesser man might have faltered, but Gramps, Mr. Wyatt Coller, stood strong.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Patchwork,” Spats growled. “That’s even more insulting than what you already did. You the boss of my men, Patchwork? You in charge, you the Head of Colombo now? No? Then what the hell gave you the balls to make demands?” Spats’ anger was growing, and his voice was rising to match it. He was nearly shouting now. “You wanna bring your own people to an exchange? You wanna give Toothpick a fifty grand tip for his trouble like he’s a damn waiter? What else can the Colombo Mafia get ya, old man? You want a glass of wine with that license tracer, huh?! HUH?!”

Spats’ finger jabbed painfully into Gramps’ chest. Gramps felt like the world was swimming around him. None of this made sense. None of it. What the hell was happening?

“I didn’t make any demands!” said Gramps. “I never showed you any disrespect, Spats. I just called Toothpick to make a deal for-”

“For this?” Spats interrupted. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small black object. It was about the size of the thumbnail on a pinky finger, with rounded edges and a smooth surface. “Class 3 Item. License Tracer. Unused,” Spats mused, looking wistfully at the license tracer. “You know how rare these things are, Patchwork. You’ve been in this business a long time. So tell me, old man… Who’s the rat?”

Gramps blinked, confused. “The rat?”

Spats’ eyes flashed. “THE RAT, PATCHWORK! THE GODDAMN RAT! WHO IS IT?” He roared.

WHAM!

Gramps saw stars. Spats’ foot had crashed into his side before he could even see it coming. For a moment he felt weightless, then pain exploded in his entire body as he tumbled across the office floor and slammed into a wall. Spats was still shouting, stalking toward him with murder in his eyes, but Gramps couldn’t hear him. Everything was spinning. Slowly, agonizingly, his senses returned to him.

“You got one chance, old man,” Spats was saying. “One chance. I don’t like killing kids, Patchwork, but I’ll do it. You hear me? I’ll do it, damn you! I’ll kill both of your grandkids right in front of you if you don’t tell me the truth. WHO. IS. THE RAT?!”

The old man lay on the floor, rocking feebly. Spats’ head snapped to face Toothpick. “Get him up,” he ordered.

Toothpick grabbed Gramps roughly and pulled him to his feet. The old man hissed as pain sliced through his side. Damn rib must be broken, he thought. He felt light-headed. Groggy.

Spats paced back and forth like a caged animal. The only sound was the click of his footsteps against the floor and the ragged wheezing of Gramps’ breathing. Finally, the old man caught his breath enough to speak.

“There’s no… rat…” he said slowly. “And those kids aren’t… my grandkids…”

“Bullshit,” said Toothpick. “The same day we get a license tracer, You call trying to buy it?”

The same day? Gramps thought, awed. Whatever he might have said to Nico and Piper, unused license tracers were extremely rare contraband. He had felt sure it was a long shot when he’d made the call, but he’d done it anyway. Maybe Toothpick was right. Maybe I really do have some kind of angels or devils on my side… Feels more like devils right now, though…

“I swear,” he said, “I swear, Spats… I didn’t… know. You think I don’t… know better than to cross you?” His voice was growing stronger, but it was still strained with pain. “I don’t… work with rats! How do ya think I’ve survived… in this line of work… for so many years? I don’t make stupid mistakes!”

Spats stared at Gramps for what felt like an eternity. Gramps clenched his teeth against the pain that radiated from his broken rib, returning Spats’ stare without flinching. The two men fought a silent battle of wills that raged between them like the crashing of storms. Toothpick chewed on the toothpick in his mouth, feeling inexplicably nervous.

At long last, Spats turned away. Gramps’ head slumped forward and he hissed with pain.

“I want to believe you, Patchwork, but…” Spats’ voice trailed off. His anger seemed to have evaporated. He sounded calm, reasonable, even friendly. Then he seemed to get an idea.

He strode over to a sleek wardrobe that stood in the corner opposite his throne and opened it, retrieving a tie with silver stripes. It was rumpled and stained with spots of blood. The Don turned back toward Gramps, tying the tie loosely around his neck as he walked. Gramps eyed the tie warily. Whatever power it held, it couldn’t be good.

“Remember Leroy?” asked Spats. “Guess not, I don’t think you two ever met. This tie used to belong to him, see. But it turned out, he was a damn rat. I, uh… cut him loose… earlier today. It’s like you said, old man. We don’t make stupid mistakes. We don’t work with rats.”

Gramps’ stomach tensed. His instincts were screaming for him to brace himself. The silver stripes on the tie gleamed sinisterly.

Spats sighed. “It’s a shame. Some people just ain’t born with brains. Poor old Leroy. He could never see things how they really were, you know? Including… this.” He touched the tie. “See, Leroy, he thought this tie made him convincing; that it put ideas in people’s heads, started scandals. He was wrong.”

Spats was eye-to-eye with Gramps now. He put one hand on the old man’s shoulder. “You know what this tie really does, Patchwork?”

Gramps didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the tie. The silver stripes were almost hypnotizing.

Spats chuckled. “This tie doesn’t convince people of things, see? It doesn’t put ideas in their heads. It forces them to tell the truth - the truth of what they really think. People carry some nasty stuff inside of them, Patchwork. Really nasty stuff. So what about you? Why don’t you share with the class?”

Shit! Gramps thought. He could already feel the power of the tie compelling him to speak. It felt like something was crawling around on his brain, squeezing it for information like a wet sponge. He tried to resist, but he didn’t think he could hold out for long…

Toothpick began to laugh. Spats’ smile broadened. “I think you should speak your truth, Patchwork. Now.”