Once the sluggish elevator doors crawl far enough apart for Willy to comfortably fit betwixt them, he pads his way out to the 8th floor.

With the extra bit of floor space from his parting, those still within the elevator shuffle around, much akin to a sliding block puzzle, working to empty out the space directly in front of the door for both Miss Chievous and Jonathan to have a clear path out.

When the gap between the slothful doors grows to a human-sized opening, Miss Chievous shoves her way past Jonathan, running out of the elevator and charging straight to the nearest service bot.

She skids to a halt a short distance in front of the bot, throwing her arms up in a variant of overhead jazz hands, all while grinning toothily.

“PAMPER ME!” Upon Miss Chievous’s enthusiastic request, the service bot rotates and begins leading the way, guiding her through a similar route as the one to the fitting room Miss Masher used earlier.

“...Right this way. Is there anything, in particular, you wish to begin with, Miss Chievous?” Whether it is due to some of 23’s influence, or some other reason, the service bot has no trouble identifying which of the twins it is dealing with.

Not that she was necessarily making it all that much of a challenge.

Miss Calculated openly laughs at her chaotic equivalent’s antics, whereas Mark only chuckles a few times.

Jonathan, however, sighs with relief. Maybe he really will get to enjoy that nap, after all.

Before the bot travels too far out of its range, 23 has a high-speed beeping session with it.

Once Jonathan is out of the elevator, he turns to timidly wave farewell to the three still inside. After he and Willy have exchanged their partings with the others, he crouches down and removes the mask for the best barky boi.

Freed from the tyranny of the modified sock, Willy gives Jonathan an affectionate nuzzle against his hand, as well as an appreciative bark, then trots over towards the lounge area they were milling about in earlier.

Before Jonathan has much of a chance to worry about figuring out where he should go, two service bots come out to the lobby section for the spa. One has a white plush waffle-weave bathrobe draped over one arm, and the other is carrying a moderately-sized natural canvas tote bag. The one with the bathrobe heads in Jonathan’s direction, while the one with the bag goes over to intercept Willy.

Willy notices the approaching bot before long, as he is observant, unlike the eldest of the Lynns. And so, he stops, turning in place to face it with his head tilted curiously. Something else he noticed just now is the fact that the towel pile has already been cleaned up, but now there is a large and luxurious dog bed over near the kiosk instead.

“Greetings sir William. Sir Black Ash Snow had a care package delivered. Do you wish to bathe before resting? By the way, we are already aware that one bark indicates yes, and that two barks are for no.” As the service bot questions Willy, he delightedly hops in place a few times, wagging his tail vigorously.

Upon Willy making his enthusiastic bark of agreement, the bot turns to lead the way, which is a far more direct path to the region where Lucas’s dressing room was earlier. While they are in transit, the bot speaks up again.

“Once we are in your private room, I will line everything up so may select what you desire, and in what order. Apart from proper canine shampoo and conditioner, we have; a blueberry facial, some paw balm, a medicated mud bath, and also a canine appropriate toothbrush with toothpaste, should you be so inclined. Additionally, there is a variety of snacks for your enjoyment.” While the bot is elaborating, Willy manages to, somehow, wag his tail even harder.

This is quite the accomplishment, considering how fast it was already going.

Prancing a bit as he trots after the bot, Willy gives a triumphant bark, making Jonathan giggle.

Preparing for his own pending pampering, Jonathan closes the distance between himself and the bot approaching him. Once they’re just a few steps apart from one another, it addresses him.

“Greetings, sir Jonathan. In anticipation of your arrival, courtesy of a message from the 13th floor, we have prepared one of the full-service bathing suites, and have already begun drawing a colloidal medicated bath for you. It should be ready by the time you have finished washing up. An array of cleansers, exfoliants, moisturizers, and ample towels are in place for you. I was just picking up… an appropriately-sized bathrobe for you.” By saying it this way, what the service bot is politely not mentioning is the fact that it is one of the women’s bathrobes, as the men’s ones are too long for him.

As a private spa, they usually aren’t concerned with servicing children nor teens.

Since Mark was involved when picking things out, the men’s bathrobes are all extra long. He also has his own personal one, but even still, he was adamant about not settling for short robes in general.

The elevator doors finish creeping shut as Jonathan follows the bot around a corner, on their way to the men's changing area.

23 is standing in front of the elevator’s button bay, which has the 7th floor's button lit up. With it out of the way, Mark and Miss Calculated finally have a comfortable amount of space each.

23 rotates its head around to face Miss Calculated once more, as it had still been facing the door after its interaction with the unfortunate service bot that Miss Chievous laid claim over.

"Surprisingly, all the permutations of a dictionary attack haven’t made it through yet. I suppose they used something resembling a real password. Even though the bots don’t know the password itself, they were able to confirm that it is exactly 8 characters, thankfully sparing me the 65,545,047,154,954 unnecessary brute force attempts for the 1-7 character length permutations.” When 23 says this, Mark winces, but Miss Calculated smiles.

“Oh, that simplifies things quite a bit. Only 8 characters… pathetic. If you could do me a favor; the first thing you should do when you get in, change it to a random 16 character alphanumeric with special characters for me. We can worry about a better password later. Obviously, document what it is, but not in plain text, of course. I’m sure you know that already, though.” Upon Miss Calculated making her request, 23 nods.

“Of course. I’ll reverse it, cipher it, and then hash it. In light of their… lack of professionalism, I will go through the first 218,340,105,584,896 brute force attempts without special characters. At my current rate of speed, while running it as a background process, that will take a maximum of 1 day, 6 hours, 19 minutes, and 30 seconds.” While 23 is saying this, Miss Calculated is nodding along, but Mark has begun frowning.

Miss Calculated adjusts her glasses and crosses her arms, standing off to the side as the elevator doors open to reveal the 7th floor.

“Mn, I agree with that decision. I find it unlikely that they bothered having their techs memorizing anything too complex with special characters… And if they did, perhaps they use it for more than just this network. Ah, even though we’ll change the password, you should definitely save the one that they currently have in use, once you crack it.” As Miss Calculated is saying this, Mark is the first to leave the elevator, turning to look at them once he’s a few feet away.

23 gestures at the doorway, and Miss Calculated proceeds through next. As 23 follows behind her, it continues the conversation.

“Certainly. In the event that it turns out that they did, in fact, actually use any special characters, I’ll then proceed with the remaining 5,877,349,279,825,920 attempts required. Altogether, the absolute maximum time required should be 35 days, 6 hours, 37 minutes, and 25 seconds. So, if possible, perhaps you should still attempt to acquire the password through other means, as a precaution for the event that it is one of the later permutations.” While 23 elaborates, Miss Calculated makes a thoughtful hum, but Mark groans.

“...Ugh. Math never was my strong suit. Just hearing numbers that large gives me a headache.” As Mark laments this, he pinches and rubs the bridge of his nose while slumping forward as he leads the way to his office.

Miss Calculated barely holds back a chuckle, and 23 politely stays quiet.

-----

Lucas’s total kills: 7

Lucas’s total deaths: 11

Lucas’s total assists: 1

Lucas’s current GDV: 17.39

Lucas’s fame level: 6.0* (Local fame is completely maxed, he’s creeping up on minor celebrity status even on a global scale. Thanks, internet.)

Lucas's hero suspicion level: 2.0*

Jonathan’s total kills: 7

Jonathan’s total deaths: 2

Jonathan’s current GDV: 6.09

Jonathan's fame level: 4.0* (Local fame is near-max, but everyone thinks of him via his affiliation with Lucas, and not often just for him, alone.)

Jonathan's hero suspicion level: 2.5*

Willy's fame level: 4.75* (Recently increased thanks to a new wave of memes featuring him and Mr. Quacks.)

Mr. Quacks’s fame level: 5.25* (Recently increased thanks to a new wave of memes featuring him and Willy.)

Supervillain social circle size: 15

-----

Little character theater:

Jonathan, constantly glancing around the area as he goes from the men’s changing area over to his reserved suite, making sure he doesn’t see any potential signs of Miss Chievous: ‘She… she’s gonna leave me alone, right? She has to be too busy enjoying herself…’

Willy is being soapily massaged in a bubble bath by not just one, but two service bots at once. He absolutely deserves it.

Lucas and Miss Masher FINALLY noticed the bot-collected mannequin parts. Now they’re assembling secondary all-damaged-parts versions for roughhousing purposes. A few of them have already been shattered to bits by Miss Masher smashing them across Lucas’s back while laughing hysterically.

427, his digital heart full of exaggerated sighs: [At least you’re having fun… I guess. ...Why does it feel like you replaced Natalie as Miss Masher’s best friend, over the course of the past hour?]

Author, with a grin while directly facing the audience: What, did you expect me to purposely have Jonathan in a too-large robe, so he has to run around lifting the hem like a ballgown? Perhaps be startled by Miss Chievous on his way back to the dressing rooms, slip on a bar of soap he didn’t see because of the luxurious robes, and fall face-first into her chest?

I may be a weeb, but I’m not doing that trope, sorry if you wanted it. He would die from embarrassment. Or, well, commit suicide ASAP in the hopes of a far enough rollback to avoid the situation.

Mr. Quacks, floating around in the nearly-full mineral bath, supervising its preparedness in progress, accompanied by the rubber ducky that has eyelashes and a little red bow on top of its head: Quack!