A guttural laugh tore through the grease-stained air, Jolene’s eyes, black as burnt sugar, still locked on Nadine’s. “You think this stops anything?” she rasped, her voice thick with insane glee. She twisted in Vance’s firm grip, ignoring the bite of the handcuffs on her wrists. “I already set the timer on the main factory pressure valve—you have ten minutes before Mudlark County goes bankrupt!” Panic, thick and immediate, seized the small crowd. Shouts erupted, a cacophony of fear and accusation. Vance’s grip on Jolene tightened, but his gaze darted to Nadine, a silent question in his usually unreadable eyes. Sheriff Grimsley, momentarily stunned, snapped back to attention, barking orders into the chaos. “The main cannery release valve? That’s where they process the fermented sorghum!” someone yelled, the realization turning into cold terror. The sorghum, the town’s primary agricultural export, was the lifeblood of their economy. Without it, Mudlark would be a ghost town, and everyone knew it. Nadine, however, simply sighed. Ten minutes. That was barely enough time to settle back into a comfortable reading position, let alone participate in a full-blown town-saving emergency. She hated deadlines, especially ones that involved high-stakes industrial sabotage. She shot Vance a pointed look. “Malt balls?” she murmured, already missing the calming weight of her paperback. Vance, despite the urgency, managed a faint, reassuring smile. “Later, darlin’. Right now, we got a ticking clock.” He handed Jolene off to a deputy, then grabbed Nadine’s hand, pulling her along with the stampede of townsfolk already rushing towards the towering, soot-blackened walls of the sorghum processing plant. Brenda Gable, still looking haggard but with a fresh burst of frantic energy, was already several paces ahead, her sensible walking shoes pounding the dirt path. The air around the refinery entrance hummed with panic. Supervisor Fitch, a man whose permanent pallor usually only deepened with new paperwork, was practically green. “The override valve! It’s deep inside the secondary purification pipe! It’s… it’s a crawl space, barely wide enough for a marmot, and full of boiling grease and steam!” he wailed, wiping sweat from his brow with a grimy handkerchief. “No human can fit! Not without getting cooked!” The crowd groaned, a collective sound of despair. Ten minutes was already dwindling. The rhythmic *hiss-thump* of the relief mechanism could be heard from inside, growing steadily louder. Brenda, ever the pragmatist despite her exhaustion, pushed through the crowd. Her face, usually flushed with determined ambition, was now simply pale and drawn. “I can fit,” she announced, her voice surprisingly steady, though a tremor ran through her hands. “I’m small enough. I’ll do it.” A ripple of protest went through the onlookers. “Brenda, no! You’ll be scalded!” “It’s too hot!” Vance stepped forward, his expression grim. “It’s too dangerous, Brenda. Even if you fit, the heat and fumes will incapacitate you.” “We have no choice!” Brenda insisted, already loosening the collar of her polyester blouse. “Someone has to go!” She moved towards the dark, narrow opening in the wall, a pipe spewing visible steam and smelling of rendered fat. Nadine, who had been leaning against a rusted oil drum, suddenly pushed herself upright. The effort was considerable, a slight grimace on her face. “Whoa, whoa, hold your horses, Brenda,” she drawled, stepping between Brenda and the pipe. “You just got out of the hospital, remember? You’re going to pass out in there and then we’ll have to rescue you *again*. That’s way too much effort for everyone involved.” Brenda stared, her mouth slightly agape. “But… it’s the only way!” Nadine merely raised an eyebrow, then turned to Vance. “That little contraption you built,” she began, a flicker of something almost resembling a plan in her eyes. “The one for fetching my malt balls from the kitchen without me having to move.” Vance’s face lit up. “The… the ‘Snack-Caddy’?” “Exactly,” Nadine confirmed. “It’s small. It’s remote-controlled. And it’s surprisingly nimble when navigating around discarded wrappers.” She gestured towards the hellish pipe opening. “Think it can navigate… that?” Vance grinned, a rare, wide flash of white teeth. “Darlin’, if it can get past your feet on a Monday morning, it can get through a little grease pipe!” He sprinted towards his auto shop, returning mere moments later, clutching a small, wheeled device that looked suspiciously like a toy car, albeit one heavily modified with a tiny mechanical arm and a bright, battery-powered headlamp. He also carried a small, clunky joystick controller. “Alright, folks, clear a path!” Vance commanded, kneeling to position the Snack-Caddy at the pipe’s entrance. The countdown on a hastily propped-up stopwatch read 00:07:32. Nadine, with a sigh of relief, accepted the lawn chair Vance magically produced from the trunk of his pickup truck. She settled in, propping her feet up on another nearby oil drum. “Alright, let’s get this over with,” she mumbled, taking the joystick controller from Vance. “I still have three chapters left.” The crowd watched, mesmerized, as Nadine’s fingers, surprisingly delicate on the chunky toggles, guided the Snack-Caddy into the dark, steaming maw of the pipe. The tiny headlamp cast a weak beam into the murky depths. On a monitor Vance had rigged from an old television set, they could see the car’s progress, bumping and sliding through the greasy interior. “Left, just a little left!” Vance urged, leaning over Nadine’s shoulder. “Watch that drip, it’ll short the circuits!” Nadine’s brow furrowed slightly in concentration, her eyes fixed on the fuzzy screen. “Got it,” she said, her voice calm, almost bored. The car swerved, narrowly missing a cascade of hot, viscous liquid. The *hiss-thump* of the valve grew louder, more frantic. The air shimmered with the building steam. The stopwatch ticked down: 00:00:15. 00:00:10. 00:00:05. “There!” Brenda shrieked, pointing at the monitor. “The red lever! It’s right there!” With a final, precise flick of the joystick, Nadine manipulated the Snack-Caddy’s tiny arm. It extended, a miniature robotic finger, and pushed the bright red lever with a soft *click*. The *hiss-thump* of the relief mechanism instantly ceased. A collective gasp, then a roar of relief, erupted from the crowd. The stopwatch blinked to 00:00:01. Brenda Gable, who had been holding her breath, crumpled to the ground, tears streaming down her soot-smudged face. She didn’t look exhausted this time; she looked utterly, completely relieved. She scrambled to her feet, rushing towards Nadine, and to everyone’s astonishment, enveloped her in a tight hug. “Nadine,” Brenda choked out, her voice thick with emotion, “I… I was so wrong. All this time, I thought you were just… lazy. But your… your methods… your… relaxed approach… it saved us all. You saved us.” She pulled back, sniffling. “Maybe… maybe there’s something to doing absolutely nothing after all.” Nadine patted Brenda awkwardly on the back, a rare display of physical affection. “Glad we could clear that up,” she mumbled, already reaching for the remote to guide the Snack-Caddy back out of the pipe. “Now, about those malt balls…” Jolene, being dragged away by Grimsley and his deputies, her hands cuffed behind her back, caught sight of Nadine and Brenda. Her face twisted into a mask of pure fury. “It’s not fair!” she shrieked, her voice hoarse, echoing across the newly silent mill yard. “It’s always her! She doesn’t even *try*! How does she always win?!” Her protests faded as she was shoved into the back of a waiting police cruiser. The cannery owner, a portly man named Supervisor Quigley, emerged from the now-safe plant, his face beaming. He clapped Vance on the shoulder. “Hollister! That magnificent little contraption! That remote-controlled marvel! We could use something like that to inspect our internal machinery, prevent future… incidents!” He pulled out a thick leather bound wallet. “I’m talking about a major corporate buyout, Vance! We could make this a Mudlark-wide sensation! Millions!” Vance, still basking in the glow of Nadine’s unexpected commendation, turned to Supervisor Quigley, a thoughtful expression on his face. He glanced at Nadine, still casually operating the Snack-Caddy’s retreat from her lawn chair, then back at the eager industrialist. “Well,” Vance said, a slight smirk playing on his lips, “I have to ask my boss.”

Remote Control Heroics