Providence, PITS Headquarters. Neil was staring at the phone with an expression of abject depression. Greg walked in, looked at him and shook his head, then laid an avuncular hand on his friend's shoulder and said, "You owe me ten bucks."
    Neil decked him and stormed out of the room.

* * *

Boston, Variant holding facility.
    "Cell number 18?"
    "Check."
    "Cell number 19?"
    "Check."
    "Cell number 20."
    Silence.
    "Hey, Carrier, get out! What're you doing—guys! I think the Postman's escaped!" Guards swarmed around for the next several hours, searching frantically for the missing theme villain, but found no sign of him.
    "But how could he have gotten out of here?!" one wondered.
    Meanwhile, in a dark and abandoned nightclub, Count Bastard sliced open a large cardboard box.
    "It's just a matter of packing yourself properly," the Postman explained happily as he emerged. "How have things been going in my absence, partner?"
    "They're going very well, very well indeed! The invitations that you sent out are having the desired effect. Soon we will have the most influential people, the wealthiest people in the city, exactly where we want them."
    "Have you gotten together everyone we're going to need?"
    "Yes! Meet the new Jazz Trio!" He waved at five figures looming in the shadows.

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