BEST ANIMATED FEATURE

"I still think you're overdressed."

Clank's keen green eyes widened at Talwyn's words, the gears inside his heard whirred, the wheels in his body struggled and, with all the unquestionable logic of a machine, he too decided to mock Ratchet's neckerchief. "Talwyn is correct." He said, holding up a scholarly finger when he saw his friend roll his eyes. "A more modest garment would have made you appear significantly humbler and improved your chances of winning."

Ratchet folded his lean arms and gave them both an indifferent pout. "I know what this is." He sighed. "You're both jealous that you don't look this good."

"Incorrect." Frowned Clank.

"Whatever you say, pal."

"Jealous?" Somehow, Talwyn managed to both scowl and smile at the same time, she knew all about the paparazzi, and how every little facial tic and angry word would be reported, distorted and altered until they had her roaring down that red carpet with foam in her mouth and an axe in her hands. "Sweetheart, we're not jealous. Embarrassed? Possibly. Mortified? Yeah, maybe. On the verge of drowning ourselves? It seems likely. But no, not jealous."

"Don't hate me because I'm beautiful." He grinned, waving a furry hand at the masses of fans barely kept at bay by the metal railings.

With an annoyed huff, Talwyn stretched her face to his and planted her soft lips on his cheek. She seemed to admire his delusion, even as she despaired of it. "Beautiful," she nodded, "sure. D'you know who else was beautiful? That wild peacock we saw in Metropolis. Remember? We were sitting on the grass, chatting away, and Clank suddenly started screaming about a rabid marmoset."

"In my defence, it was an understandable error." The robot stated humourlessly. "Both creatures have two legs. The rest is just semantics."

"The point is," Talwyn grunted, "that it was really beautiful, just like you. It had blue feathers, remember? And a little patch of green on the breast? And do you remember what happened then? What you did next?"

"Not really." He mumbled.

"Ratchet."

"Igaveitabeer."

"You gave it a beer." She nodded, triumphantly smacking her lips. "And not just a can, but a whole bottle. When it finished the beer, what happened next?" Ratchet just shrugged, unaware of his guilty chuckle until he heard it escape his lips. "It started to lose its balance, didn't it? It tried to peck out Clank's eyes?" The robot grumbled at the memory. "And what then, Ratchet?"

"There may have been a - some vomiting." He sheepishly admitted.

"And that's you." She smiled. "Peacock vomit. Stinky, lumpy, steaming peacock sick, that's what you look like."

"But still beautiful, right?"

"As far as puddles of vomit go? Yes."

"I choose to take that as a compliment." He beamed, leading his lover and his best friend along the red carpet and into the shadow of the great theatre.

For all her talk of drunken peacocks, Ratchet knew she had a point. Talwyn had dressed for the occasion in a characteristically Spartan black dress, and though her hair had been brushed and teased and flowed about her shoulders in beautiful, dark locks, she still appeared the very picture of professionalism. Clank, too, had arrived in attired more suited to a funeral than a star studded awards ceremony. With his little waddle and black tuxedo, Ratchet thought he rather resembled a penguin.

He himself had decided against such modesty. After all, it wasn't every day that an entire theatre full of people gathered together to pat him on the back. His suit was rich, tyrian purple, and about his neck had been tied a sash the colour of ripe mango and decorated with a fine emerald in its centre. He had tried to wear a monocle, thinking it made him look sophisticated, but realised that it required his left eyes to constantly squint, and so lobbed it over his shoulder, hearing Val Kilmer cry out in rage and not really caring.

It was certainly a strange series of events that had led them to Earth. Their exploits had, of course, been common knowledge to the humans, and Ratchet's heroics had been immortalised for years on computers, allowing all who played to wield his wrench and clobber his foes with a modicum of his actual talent.

Other creatures from other worlds had tried the same trick and failed miserably. He heard stories of a movie-obsessed Gecko found floating in a sleazy Motel swimming pool, a Voodoo priest named Akuji now selling care insurance and a one-fanged crocodile eaten alive by a race of feral Gobbos. They'd all failed, and yet Ratchet hadn't. The Earthlings still played his games, and the royalties just kept rolling in.

It had been nice to be worshipped, to have his every adventure looked over and analysed by a legion of admirers, but when those strange humans decided to make a movie of him, he was beside himself with glee. The experience had been strange, and not altogether pleasant. The director was a nice enough man, once he got past his crazed obsession with making Ratchet repeat the same scene twice, but the rest of the crew were a shameless array of incompetents, halfwits and Jeremy Irons. By the end, he was sure they were spitting in his coffee.

"And yet I still drank it." He thought, biting his lip and resolving to see a doctor the very next day.

In the end, though, it had all been worth it. He had completed the movie, bagged the merchandising rights and had flown all the way to Los Angeles, where he was sure that all his hard work and two a.m. Ferrari jousts would be rewarded with a solid gold statue.

The three of them, as was customary, were meant to simply mingle upon the carpet before the ceremony. There was certainly no shortage of people to speak to, everywhere he looked where all the famous actors that the Earthlings loved so much, and the journalists who seemed similarly despised in every world.

"Look!" He heard Talwyn whisper, following her finger to a greasy, balding man urinating into a flowerpot. "It's James Belushi!"

"Pfft!" Scoffed Ratchet. "He's a poor man's Dan Aykroyd."

"Who most studios hire because they can't afford John Goodman." Nodded Clank.

"Yeah," Talwyn conceded, "but still - JAMES BELUSHI! Aren't you impressed? Just look at him go!"

Clank stared at the man and tapped a metal finger upon his chin. "He seems to be having trouble keeping his balance."

"Nonsense!" She scolded. "He's just playing up for the cameras!"

"He just fell over." Replied Clank.

"Theatrics!"

"But he's not moving. And his trousers are around his ankles."

"Method acting!" She shrieked, hustling them along. "Oh, look, there's George Clooney, and is that? Is it? Keanu Reev-nope, palm tree."

"This is confusing." Lamented Ratchet, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Look, let's just go hide behind Hugh Grant, he's talking about Shakespeare again, so everyone'll give us a wide berth."

Grateful for the breathing room, the three friends made a mad dash through the entire cast of The Hobbit, braved the arid graveyard of Mel Gibson's career and skulked behind a pale, impish looking man who was covered in sweat and regaling an uncaring security guard with his theories on Macbeth. But no deep analysis of the social norms of feudal Scotland could enliven the dead, soulless void where once had been an actor.

Feeling their shadows behind him, Hugh Grant seemed to turn without moving, revealing a pallid, blank face cruelly treated by long years.

"Hello! Hi!" He chirped, holding out a hand. "Hugh Grant - seat filler."

"Ratchet and Clank - award winners." The Lombax replied, trying to find a way to greet the man without making physical contact. Eventually, he just settled for pointing at him and grinning like a fool until that damp, rancid ham lowered itself again. "So...you're still alive? That's something."

"Of course." Smiled Hugh, showing a mouth of crooked teeth. "Those supermarkets don't open themselves. Say, you three look pretty smart. Do any of you know how to get blood stains off the backseat of a 1999 Ford Fiesta?"

"Of course." Clank began. "I have extensive records. To remove a bloodstain from -"

Ratchet's hand shot out and closed around the robot's mouth. "Oh, don't mind him!" He stammered. "Clank's a stand-up guy, but he doesn't understand the problems with aiding and abetting a...well, whatever you are."

"Hey!" The actor snapped. "I'm just like any other guy. I put her lungs on one leg at a time!"

"Wait, what?" Talwyn spluttered, her sharp features growing pale.

"Did any of you ever watch Four Weddings And A Funeral?" Grant asked, with a suspicious snort of his nose. "Great movie! I played the Prime Minister...or a singer. Either way, I'm pretty sure there was a kid involved and a guy in a kilt."

"No." Talwyn frowned. "Really. What the Hell was that?"

Ratchet felt Clank's hand tug on his trouser leg and point to a strange figure approaching them. "God." He winced. "Not him. Not now."

"He's wearing someone's lungs!" Screeched Talwyn. "Why is this not a big deal?"

"Anyone but him." Mourned Ratchet, lowering his ears, turning his head and hoping the raccoon didn't see him.

Sly Cooper, however, had eyes strong enough to detect the smallest scratch in the tiniest ruby, there was no way he'd miss a Lombax in a plum-coloured suit. Perhaps it should have given Ratchet some consolation that his adversary had worse fashion sense than him. Not only was his suit a shade of sickly mustard, but he hadn't even bothered to remove the flea-bitten blue flat cap atop his brow or think to leave his strange, golden walking stick at whatever hovel he'd chosen to live in that week.

How he got a movie was anyone's guess, but Ratchet knew that it probably involved a lot of bricks through windows and severed thumbs.

Kicking Clank out of his way, the raccoon slid beside Talwyn, looked his rival up and down, and gave a dismissive snort.

"Well, well, well." He jeered, brown eyes moving over his suit and a mocking smirk crossing his wiry grey face. "You actually showed up. What happened? Ran out of wardrobe assistants to kill?"

"I was aiming at his foot!"

"And I'm aiming for greatness." He hissed in his smarmy, con-mans voice, pointing dramatically at the theatre. "Tonight, monsieur, mademoiselle...Clank, I'm itching to pull off my greatest heist - I'm going to steal your career."

"Please, you couldn't steal second base."

"Wait, wait, wait!" Hugh Grant stammered, scratching his forehead and peeling away a layer of larded sweat. "Does anyone want to introduce me to the raccoon?"

"I'll introduce you, all right." Snapped Clank, giving Sly a damning, withering glare and motioning to the thief with his thumb. "Mr. Grant, this is the only person ever officially rebuked by Sony Computer Entertainment for vulgarity, misuse of the cloak room and defrauding a charitable organisation."

"They were just Nuns." Sly shrugged. "Maybe you losers can give them a call, ask them to talk to the Big Guy, see if He can lend a hand? I have the feeling you'll need all the help you can get. My movie can't lose. It has the better lead, the better story, the better soundtrack."

"You mean that one Björk song you stole from Gladiator and kept playing in the trailer?" Asked Talwyn, raising an eyebrow.

"There were other songs!" The thief cried out.

"Like what?"

"Look, I'm not the one on trial here. Well, not until next Tuesday, at least. The point is, I can't be beat, and after I've won the Oscar, given my speech, and identity theft'd Seth Rogen, you losers'll go the way of the Three Stooges!"

"Become celebrated comedy legends admired throughout consecutive generations?" Smiled Clank.

"What? No. No. I mean you'll be dead. All dead. The Hell's wrong with you?"

The raccoon gave a confused shake of his head and slunk away, leaving Ratchet and his friends to stare at effigy on either side of the theatre door. It was the solid gold statue that they all coveted, the reward they had earned for all their labours.

Frowning, Ratchet knew that the thief would cheat him out of his victory. Sly by name, sly by nature. He'd bribe judges, forge votes, push puppies down the stairs, and Marisa Tomei the lot of them.

Ratchet cursed beneath his breath and shook his head, he couldn't let that happen.

"Talwyn," he growled, "Clank. Get my guns."