When in doubt, Lysandre could always find it in himself to blame Tyrone Speedwagon. One minute, Lysandre had been reporting a dimensional irregularity and a trace of one of his old employees no one had seen since he blew up the region, the next, somebody just had to make use of the wormhole machine room because the makeout closet was taken, and before he could say anything to the effect of "I am still under house arrest," he'd fallen through to a...

What was this? A camp?

He stumbled -- keeping your footing going through those things was always harder when you were seven feet tall -- and looked around. He had to admit that he'd never actually been to a summer camp, but this looked a good deal like they'd always appeared on television and such. Cabins, a mess hall, greenery, a flag...

A flag with a Monobear on it.

"C’est des conneries," he grumbled, and reached for his Holo-Caster. "I had better get a signal in here..."

"Boss-man?"

Lysandre paused, finger on the dial button. Slowly, he started to turn around. He hadn't made it the whole way when something hit him from behind.

"Whoa," he heard Clarice (unmistakably) say as he fell. "Sorry, but I guess this is my lucky day. Wherever you came from, you're gonna be easier to frame than the lance lady from medieval Orre or wherever, y'know?"

He didn't know, but he wasn't in any condition to argue the point.