For the whedonverse challenge 'sing-a-long blog' sequel

Summary: Dr Horrible isn't happy with how things turned out, but neither is Hammer


Dr Horrible whistled as he entered his apartment. He'd been lauded at the Evil League of Evil meeting for his most recent criminal escapade. He was making them all rich. He was sending out a message of terror. The Evil League of Evil was getting a wonderful (terrible?) amount of bad (good?) press.

Of course he wouldn't feel this happy later. When he slipped off the gloves and the coat and the goggles. When he became Billy again. When he remembered that Penny was dead.

Horrible walked to the refrigerator and pulled open the door. He wanted to put off his disrobing a while longer. He reached for a can of soda – and an arm was suddenly clamped around his throat.

Horrible dropped the can and tried to struggle. He was dragged backwards and to a standing position, caught between the rock-solid arm and the hard chest of his captor.

"Hello, Doctor," whispered a voice near his ear, the epithet dripping with sarcasm. Horrible's eyes widened in terror. It couldn't be. Hammer.

Newspaper reports had the superhero in a mental health facility suffering from a nervous breakdown, or meditating in a monastery in Tibet, or building a Hammer-cave from where he'd deploy his revenge. They were, apparently, all wrong.

Perhaps not about the part where Hammer was insane, however.

Horrible coughed and spluttered and tried without success to pry Hammer's arm from his throat. Hammer eased off, just a little, which Horrible took as a sign that at least his enemy didn't want him dead just yet.

"I've been thinking," Hammer went on huskily. "What happened to Penny was your fault. It was your Death Ray that killed her. It was your appearance at my speech that caused this. Your fault."

Horrible tensed, but instead of continuing to crush his windpipe, Hammer released him, so suddenly that Horrible took two steps forward before he regained his balance. Horrible turned, rubbing at his throat, glancing about for weapons and finding none to hand.

"I never meant for Penny to be hurt," he protested.

"Good." There was indeed madness in Hammer's eyes. He was dishevelled, with stubble on his cheeks, and wearing clothes that looked he'd been sleeping in them for a week. "Then you won't mind helping me."

"Help you with what?" Horrible asked.

Hammer smiled as if was obvious.

"Bringing Penny back."