Just as we turned onto the next street, a small child playing alone in a front yard spotted us. He paused mid-hop, blinked at our clearly suspicious approach—and waved.
We waved back, trying to look less like the kind of people who were accidentally about to foil a love-crazed inventor.
"Such a cute kid," Raven whispered, his smile returning for the first time in what felt like thirty houses and two emotional breakdowns.
"Yes, they are," I murmured, narrowing my eyes with sudden, tactical realization. "More importantly… that adorable little gremlin might know where Mr. Witson is."
Raven nodded, face solemn, as if this made complete and unshakable sense.
With the unearned confidence of two lunatics pretending to be responsible adults, we strode over to the child.
I crouched slightly, flashing a smile that was probably more suspicious than sweet. "Hi, little dove. How are you today?"
The kid, too busy hopping in place like a one-person dance crew, chirped, "Fine. Fine!"
"I have a question for you," I said, voice low, conspiratorial. "Have you seen a man—tall, frantic, hopelessly in love, possibly talking to himself? Wears a lab coat like it's a second skin and carries the weight of unrequited love and deeply questionable inventions?"
The child blinked. Then shook his head.
I nodded solemnly. "That so…"
Raven sighed beside me. "What do we do now?"
"Fear not." I grinned and leaned close to the kid, whispering something that made him gasp and immediately bolt off down the street like a tiny missile.
Raven gawked. "What did you say to him?"
"I instructed him to gather his friends, form a reconnaissance unit, and scour the neighborhood for signs of Mr. Witson. When they locate him, they are to report back to me immediately."
Raven blinked in awe. "That's… actually a smart method."
"I learned it from Chinese drama shows. The Beggar Sect." I nodded sagely, proud of my totally legitimate cultural education.
Raven stared at me, horrified. "They're not real beggars!"
"It's a method, Raven." I sighed, knocking lightly on his head as if trying to dislodge the doubt. "Have some imagination."
After a solid quarter hour of nervously pacing and mild existential despair, the child returned—hopping down the street like nothing in the world could possibly be on fire (unlike our situation). He was humming a merry little tune, utterly unfazed.
He skidded to a stop right in front of us. "I found him! I found him!"
"That was quick. Where, kiddo?" I asked, crouching slightly like a medieval merchant closing a black-market deal.
With an air of dramatic importance, the child pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and unfurled it with flair. "Here!" he declared, jabbing a sticky finger at a red X scribbled onto what appeared to be a hand-drawn map of the neighborhood, complete with doodles of monsters and one suspiciously muscular unicorn.
I squinted at the paper. "Ho ho! Finally found ya, you lab-coated menace."
Ruffling the kid's hair with approval, I tossed him a coin. "Good kid. Here's a penny. Don't spend it all in one dystopia."
He snatched it gleefully and bolted off down the street, whistling a song only children and chaos spirits could understand.
I handed the map to Raven with the gravitas of a war general passing sacred scrolls. "Lead the way, Raven. Time waits for no madman."
Raven gave a single noble nod, eyes focused, breath steady, and then took off at a brisk run. I followed, cloak flapping dramatically—if not literally, then emotionally.
The map led us to the outskirts of the neighborhood—where polite suburbia gave way to wild hedges, crooked mailboxes, and houses that looked like they'd been built during a fever dream and then abandoned during a worse one.
We skidded to a stop in front of a lopsided, three-story house that leaned slightly to the left, like it was trying to eavesdrop on the neighbors. The front yard was a graveyard of half-assembled machines, scorched lawn chairs, and a birdbath that was very much on fire.
"This is it," Raven panted, bending over with his hands on his knees.
I looked around, "Looks normal on the outside. How deceiving." I narrowed my eyes in suspicion.
The ground trembled beneath our feet—just a soft, ominous thrum, like a warning heartbeat. From a basement window, smoke billowed in thick plumes, tinged an unnatural shade of glittering gold.
"We're too late," I breathed.
"No! Don't say that!" Raven cried. "We can still stop him, right?"
I took a deep breath, cracked my knuckles, and looked at the door.
"Only one way to find out."
We crept up the front steps, each board groaning beneath our weight like it was auditioning for a horror film. The door was slightly ajar, inviting us in like the entrance to a trap-laden funhouse with bad lighting and worse intentions.
I pushed it open slowly.
The air inside was thick with the smell of melted wires, rose-scented air freshener, and pure, undiluted madness. Blueprints were pinned to every surface. Tools buzzed and whirred on their own. A toaster levitated ominously in the corner.
And in the very center of the chaos, bathed in the flickering light of an overloaded generator, stood Mr. Witson—wearing welding goggles, a cape made from his own curtains, and holding what could only be described as a flamethrower shaped like a bouquet of roses.
"There you are," he said without turning. "I was wondering when love would send its last trial."
I froze.
Raven made a squeaky sound that might've been a whimper or a hiccup.
Mr. Witson turned around, eyes gleaming with wild intensity. "BEHOLD! The Flame of Passionator 9000! It can vaporize any witch within a five-mile radius and deliver a handwritten poem at the same time!"
Raven clutched my arm with the strength of someone on the edge of an emotional cliff.
"What do we do?" he hissed. "You're going to die!"
I shoved him away gently. "Gee… thanks for the reminder."
"I don't want you to die!" Raven wailed, loud enough for a nearby lamp to flicker in concern.
"Don't send me off yet, drama queen," I muttered, patting his face with mild irritation.
Then, as his tears began to spill, I sighed and wiped them away with the corner of my sleeve. "Geez. For a guy with a build like a brick wall, you sure do cry like a leaking faucet."
Raven sniffed. "But… you're my friend."
I stared at him, heart warming slightly despite the very real risk of being flambéed by a love-powered death bouquet. "Aw, Raven. That's sweet. But if you want to help me stay alive, maybe cry after we deactivate the homicidal toaster with a vengeance complex."
Behind us, the Passionator 9000 hissed with rising pressure. Mr. Witson cackled and flipped a switch that made the weapon sprout heart-shaped antennae.
Time was running out.
"Alright," I whispered, crouching behind a stack of unidentifiable machinery. "I've got a plan."
Raven leaned closer, hopeful. "Really?"
"Yes. You go over there and give Mr. Witson a good one-shot punch. Bam. Right in the back of the head. Lights out. Problem solved."
Raven recoiled like I'd just asked him to headbutt a bear. "Why do you solve everything with violence?"
"Because," I said, flicking the dust from my shoulder, "violence is fast. And we don't have time for a therapy session. Now go!"
As I casually picked at my ear, Raven flailed in muted protest. "But… why me? Why can't you punch him?"
I sighed like a martyr explaining the obvious. "Because it won't be effective if he gets knocked out by a crossdresser."
He blinked. "But I'm a crossdresser too."
"Yes, but you look like his unrequited love. That makes all the difference. The poetic irony will hit harder than your fist."
Raven opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. "This feels ethically questionable…"
"Raven," I said, placing both hands on his shoulders with grave seriousness, "time is more selfish than me. It waits for no one. Now go."
With a tragic little whimper, Raven steeled himself and began creeping toward Mr. Witson, who was now lovingly stroking the Passionator 9000 and whispering sweet nothings to a control panel.
"Soon, my darling. Soon, justice shall be ours," Mr. Witson cooed, patting a big red button labeled "VAPORIZE WITH LOVE" like it was a baby chick.
I crouched lower behind a suspiciously buzzing generator and slowly peeked my head out, just high enough to spot Raven's hulking frame inching forward like a very nervous refrigerator on tiptoes.
"Go on, big guy," I whispered under my breath. "You've got this. For dignity. For survival. For not getting vaporized by a poetic laser cannon."
Raven looked back once—eyes wide, lower lip trembling like a puppy soak in the rain. I gave him a double thumbs-up and a dazzling wink, though my left eye was twitching from nerves.
And with that, he turned back toward the love-stricken madman and crept forward.
But then, as I crouched behind the humming generator, a thought struck me like a bolt of inconvenient lightning.
"Hmmm…" I muttered, stroking my chin. "In the highly likely case that Raven completely borks this up… I'd better have a backup plan."
I ducked back behind the generator and got to work—frantically digging through my bag of random nonsense.
Meanwhile, poor Raven was creeping ever closer to Mr. Witson… completely unaware that he'd just been abandoned.