Ronda Riy’s world collapsed quietly, not with one confession, but with pieces of truth slipping into her hands like shards of broken glass. It began when Flint approached her, his tone almost casual, but his words soaked with venom.
“You should know what your husband does when he says he’s ‘working.’”
At first, Ronda dismissed him—Flint was a Faros, and she had learned to distrust the family’s twisted games. But then came the proof. Videotapes, grainy yet undeniable, showing Cal Faros—her husband, the man she thought she tamed with marriage—wrapped in the arms of other women. Not once, not twice, but over and over again. Different cities, different hotel rooms. Each time, Cal smiling, murmuring words of charm that Ronda once thought belonged only to her.
Flint had followed him, tracked him with a secret recording device, a cruelly clever eye behind the lens. He compiled the evidence meticulously, savoring the slow destruction of his cousin’s image. Ronda’s hands trembled as she watched, as she saw Cal’s lies unfold—those “business trips” that kept him away for weeks, the dinners that were supposed to be meetings, the moments he missed with her and their daughter.
The betrayal stung not just as a wife, but as a mother. Cal hadn’t just lied to her—he had lied to their little girl, spinning tales of duty and responsibility while indulging in selfish desire.
In her pain, Ronda turned to the very network Cal once boasted of fighting against. With Flint as her bitter guide, she gained access to Clown Inc.’s vast surveillance and communication technology. The irony was sharp—reaching out through the empire of Mr. Clown, the enemy of the Faros name.
But her message was clear, carved with longing and sorrow:
“Faro, it’s me… Ronda. I need your help. I was blind, and I see it now—Cal was never faithful, not even from the start. He lied to me, to my daughter, to all of us. I can’t stay in that mansion. I don’t want riches, I don’t want lies. I want to go back to when we were real. Our SouthBank apartment, just the two of us. Or three—Rita can come too, with her children. I don’t care if it’s crowded. I just want us to live again. Together. Honest. Free.”
Her voice cracked at the end of the transmission, a mix of desperation and fragile hope. And somewhere, beneath the stars of Planet Thundarr, Faro Faros received the call—his heart torn between memory, desire, and the dangerous path Flint had just opened for them all.
The Oasis of Lovers shimmered in moonlight, its waters still and deceptive, reflecting a paradise that felt more like a prison. Faro and Rita rested against the cool stone, weary, stripped of their powers and the confidence those powers once gave them.
The silence broke with a flutter of delicate wings. A Fairy descended from the palms, her glow painting the oasis in silver. She hovered before Rita, her small hands cupping a glowing mote of light.
“For you,” the Fairy chimed softly, her voice like bells. “A message from far away.”
Rita extended her hand, and the mote dissolved into sound. Ronda’s voice spilled into the air, fragile and breaking, carried on magic rather than wire:
“Faro, it’s me… Ronda. I need your help. I was blind, and I see it now—Cal was never faithful, not even from the start. He lied to me, to my daughter, to all of us. I can’t stay in that mansion. I don’t want riches, I don’t want lies. I want to go back to when we were real. Our SouthBank apartment, just the two of us. Or three—Rita can come too, with her children. I don’t care if it’s crowded. I just want us to live again. Together. Honest. Free.”
The Fairy bowed and drifted back into the night, leaving Rita holding the echo of the words. For a long moment, she did not look at Faro. She only stared at the glowing pool, her jaw tight.
Finally, she turned. Her green eyes glistened, but her voice was steady. “The message was meant for you. But it came to me instead.” She moved closer, kneeling beside him. “So I’ll ask—what do you want, Faro? Do you want her back, with her daughter, with her dream of that little SouthBank apartment? Or do you want me, here, now, even if all we have is this… and no powers left to shield us?”
The oasis was silent again, save for the distant call of night-birds. The question hung between them, heavier than their lost strength, heavier than the chains of the curse itself.
Faro leaned forward, running his hand through the sand, his reflection trembling in the moonlit water of the oasis. The air was heavy with Ronda’s words, but his voice when it came was steady, practical.
“Rita,” he said, “we can’t stay here forever. Not like this. Stripped of our powers, stranded, naked under the sky as though we’re prisoners of fate.” His gaze lifted to hers, sharp with resolve. “The children need a home. A roof, walls, a place where they can sleep without fear. Whatever else we’ve lost, we cannot take that from them.”
He drew a breath, the weight of Ronda’s plea pressing down on him. “SouthBank. It’s not the Cave of Falcon, it’s not a fortress, but it’s something. A place in the city where they can be safe. Where we can be safe… at least for now.”
Then he turned fully to Rita, his eyes holding hers, refusing to dictate the path but refusing to run from it either. “This isn’t just about me—or her. This is about us, about the family we carry whether we chose it or not. You heard her. Ronda is willing. She has a daughter. You have children. They deserve better than this.”
His hand hovered near hers, trembling between pleading and strength. “So I’ll leave it to you, Rita. You make the final decision. Do we take Ronda’s offer? Do we go back to SouthBank, to her apartment, even if it’s only temporary? Or do we try to find another path? Tell me.”
The Oasis of Lovers fell into silence, broken only by the rustle of palms. The stars seemed to lean closer, waiting with them, as if the entire night held its breath for Rita’s answer.
Rita listened to Faro’s words in silence, her green eyes reflecting the shimmer of the oasis waters. For a long moment, she said nothing—only let the wind stir her hair while the Fairy’s glow faded into the night.
At last she spoke, her voice low but firm. “You’re right. The children cannot grow up in the Pigmen village. They deserve a home, not mud huts and fear. But Pifo…” She shook her head, sorrow cutting through her tone. “He cannot stay in Thundarr City. The D.E.C. bars Pigmen at the gates. If he comes with us, he’ll be hunted, caged—or worse.” Her hand curled into the sand, tight with anger.
She lifted her gaze back to Faro. “Still, I agree. We will go to Ronda. A four-bedroom apartment at SouthBank. Enough space for family. But I set one condition—my daughter will not share a room with hers. They each deserve their own walls, their own space, their own place to dream. If Ronda wants to build something new with us, it will be done with respect.”
Faro’s heart leapt at her words, joy bursting through the weariness of exile. He stood suddenly, laughing, the sound echoing off the dunes like thunder against the stars. He reached for Rita, pulling her into his arms. “Yes! Yes, Rita! You’ve made the choice, and it is the right one. A new life waits for us!”
Their laughter tangled together as they stumbled into the soft dunes, the sand cool beneath their bare skin. Faro kissed her deeply, hungrily, the desert’s silence broken by their breath and the rustle of shifting sand. In that moment, stripped of power, stripped of titles, they were only man and woman—clinging to each other, finding fire in the heart of their exile.
The Oasis of Lovers cradled them, its eternal stillness bearing witness as their joy turned to love, their love to surrender.
In the mansion’s high chamber, Ronda sat by the window, the city lights of Thundarr flickering like a restless sea below. Flint’s shadow lingered in the corner, his sly grin never far from her eyes.
“The choice has been made,” Flint told her smoothly. “Rita agreed. She’ll bring her children to SouthBank. Faro too. The Oasis no longer holds them.”
Ronda’s lips curved slowly, her reflection in the glass catching the glint of her round spectacles. She drew in a slow breath, her chest rising, her eyes narrowing as if seeing beyond the walls, beyond the city, straight to the moment she’d been waiting for.
“So it begins…” she whispered. A smile, almost tender, touched her lips. “Now I can make Faro my husband, like destiny meant it to be.”
Her fingers trailed the glass, tracing an invisible circle around the city skyline. The thought of him—no longer poor, no longer trapped—stirred something fierce and determined in her heart. Ronda Riy had suffered betrayal, endured lies, and now she clung to one truth with the grip of iron: the past could be remade, and this time, she would not lose him.
Behind her, Flint’s grin widened, pleased to see his quiet manipulation blooming into resolve.
Ronda’s whisper still lingered in the chamber air—“Now I can make Faro my husband, like destiny meant it to be.”
From the shadows, Flint let out a low chuckle, his arms crossed, eyes glinting with mischief. “My lucky bastard of a brother,” he sneered, “will be living with two wives! Aunty Rita in one bedroom, and you in another—and both of you too blind to see the joke in it.”
Ronda shot him a sharp look, though her smile never fully vanished. “You call it luck,” she said, her voice cool, “but I call it fate. Maybe you’ve forgotten, Flint, but I loved Faro before any mansion, before the riches, before Cal ever laid eyes on me. Besides Rita is his maternal aunt and that marriage is not recognized by the Thundarr City laws!”
Flint shrugged, amused, his grin wide. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. But don’t mistake my honesty for mockery. Two women circling him, both willing to share his bed, his name, his fire… If that’s not luck, I don’t know what is.”
Ronda turned back to the window, hiding the flicker of warmth and jealousy in her eyes. Flint’s laughter followed her, curling like smoke through the room.
Ronda adjusted her glasses, her eyes still fixed on the glittering city outside the mansion window. Her smile faded into calculation, her voice calm but edged with steel.
“Flint,” she said, turning to face him, “I need you to arrange something for me.”
Flint raised an eyebrow, his crooked grin already anticipating mischief. “Go on.”
“I want divorce papers,” Ronda continued, her tone crisp. “Fake ones. Documents that say Cal and I have separated, so there’s no trouble when it comes to the apartment lease. And while you’re at it, draft fake marriage papers between Faro and me. If the authorities look, everything will appear proper—our signatures, the seals, the dates.”
Flint laughed, shaking his head. “So that’s your grand plan? To play wife on two stages at once?”
Ronda’s smile returned, thin and cold. “I still want to be legally married to Cal. His money is mine, his status protects me. I won’t throw that away just to work for a living like the rest of them. But with Faro…” Her eyes gleamed with desire and spite. “With Faro, I’ll have what Rita thinks she owns. I don’t care if the marriage is fake on paper. All I need is the illusion strong enough to bind him—and to break her.”
Flint leaned against the wall, arms crossed, clearly entertained. “You really are a wicked little genius, Ronda. Playing both men at once… Cal for the gold, Faro for the heat. And poor Rita? She won’t stand a chance.”
Ronda adjusted her skirt, standing taller. “Let her watch. Let her crumble. Once Faro is mine again, she’ll learn what it feels like to lose everything she thought was safe.”
Flint smirked, already plotting the forgery. “Consider it done. I’ll give you your papers, sister-in-law—real enough to fool any clerk in Thundarr City. And when the ink is dry… well, we’ll see how long your little empire of lies holds.”
Ronda’s smile sharpened, satisfied. “Long enough. Long enough to get what I want.”