Somehow, the milling, congested crowd seemed to make the hotel ballroom appear even bigger than it actually was, a sense only magnified by the outdated, art-deco mirrors plastered across the distant walls. From a sitting position, the combined effect made the crowd look like a human ocean, stretching out towards some imagined horizon.
This would have been almost peaceful, had the people in the room not also been about as loud as a faulty rocket engine, talking all at once like that.
It would have been bad enough on its own, but for Bolt the experience was particularly unpleasant. He'd never really minded his big ears before, but now he was starting to wonder if perhaps that particular trait hadn't been a backhanded curse along with all of the advantages it offered.
Bolt was sitting up as straight as he could manage on a chair that was about as comfortable as one could expect an orange plastic chair to be. He was sitting behind a table at a booth, which actually offered a small degree of comfort as a barrier between himself and the throngs of people beyond. It wasn't as though Bolt found anything repugnant about the crowd; quite the opposite, really. It would likely be going against contract as a dog, in fact, to be even slightly antisocial when any humans at all were in the room.
It was just that even Bolt found it a little difficult to remain brave and steadfast when faced with – horror of horrors – fans.
Some of them were even wearing costumes, for heaven's sake.
The only real solace Bolt had at the moment was sitting next to him, in a slightly larger but equally uncomfortable plastic chair, conversing amiably with a member of the crowd and looking as bored as one could possibly be, but making an admirable and almost successful attempt to hide it all the same. His eyes were slightly more symmetrical than Bolt was used to, but he was still dressed sharply in a skinny suit, and held himself with all the poise one could expect from a would-be world conqueror.
Finished with his conversation of the moment ("No, the eye is special effects. No, I don't actually look like that . . .") Dr. Calico sighed, leaned back, and glanced at Bolt with an expression of ennui that bordered on suicidal. It was funny, the friends you found yourself making in dire circumstances.
Bolt honestly wished he could think of Dr. Calico as something besides that, but so far he hadn't managed to overhear any utterance of the elderly actor's real name. So, for now, Dr. Calico it remained. He was surprisingly different out of character, though looking back Bolt wasn't sure why he'd been expecting anything else. Force of habit, he supposed. It had been five years, after all, that Bolt had known Calico as the thoroughly evil Green Eyed Man. Seeing him now as a perfectly friendly old man who was fond of animals was going to take a little bit of getting used to.
It wasn't that hard, though, which was probably why Bolt had found himself warming up to the man over the past few hours that he'd been trapped inside the booth. Calico had been speaking to Bolt during the lulls, and it was likely for this reason that neither of them had died from boredom quite yet.
"I suppose," Dr. Calico said, his tone the special brand of mock cheerfulness that was always borne of a shared misery, "That this is my punishment for committing both of the cardinal sins."
Bolt tilted his head questioningly.
"Children and animals," Calico replied with a deadpan expression. "There isn't a single faster way to curse yourself in this business, as I understand it."
Four stories above, in the same hotel, it was impossible to hear the roar of the crowd below. It didn't really matter, though, because the hotel room itself was loud enough on its own, what with all of the explosions coming from the television set.
Rhino, watching the big-budget action unfold from within his scuffed, plastic ball, was absolutely enraptured. Mittens, who was sitting on the foot of the bed beside him, was quietly, gradually, finding herself going just the tiniest bit insane.
Having been limited to one small hotel room for the past day or so, the cat was starting to feel herself go a little bit stir crazy. Sure, back at the house she usually spent most of her time sleeping in one spot, but she didn't feel right not having any options. It was just the way cats were. She had, of course, been doing her best to keep herself amused with what was available: She had explored every part of the room that was completely inaccessible to humans, and subsequently spent some quality time on top of the wardrobe. She'd played with a piece of string, shed on the furniture, and even unraveled all of the toilet paper in the bathroom.
And now, having exhausted all of those options, Mittens was completely, inescapably bored. Which was more or less the only reason she was sitting next to Rhino now, watching things blow up with him. Beside her, the hamster giggled excitedly. He clearly wasn't having any trouble dealing with the situation.
Boredom, though, was something she could deal with. One of the advantages of being a cat was an ability to cope well with inactivity. More and more, as the hours ticked away, the problem was less of what to do and more of what to eat. Mittens hadn't been fed all day, a fact she was increasingly aware of. She'd been doing her best to ignore it so far – another talent of cats – but that solution was hardly going to hold her for very long. When she could hardly stand it any more, she angrily voiced her concern to Rhino.
"Don't worry," the hamster said, dismissively, without even bothering to look away from the TV. "Penny's mom'll feed us when she gets back to the hotel room."
"Yeah? And when will that be? She's been gone all morning! I'm hungry!"
Rhino shrugged. Food, obviously, was not a concern for him at the moment. Mittens, however, was undeterred. She stood up, and wandered farther up the bed, to where Penny was still sleeping. Mittens prodded the girl experimentally.
"I don't see why Penny can't just get up and feed us herself," she said.
"Not likely," Rhino said, looking over. "Jetlag is a nefarious thing, you know. I don't think you could wake her up with an air horn right now."
"So then what am I gonna do?" Mittens sulked, annoyed and out of options. Rhino didn't seem to notice for a while, but eventually the movie on TV went to commercial, and out of a lack of anything to stare at he found himself forced to confront a very unhappy looking cat. He hesitated for a moment, and then spoke up.
"Look, if you're that hungry, I think I know where we can find some food."
Mittens brightened. "Really?"
"Yeah." Rhino stretched, and rolled off the edge of the bed, bouncing to the floor. He began trundling towards the hotel room window. "Follow me – but be careful. This is going to require stealth!"
"It's not that I don't like animals," Dr. Calico said. Bolt fixed him with a suspicious look, which Calico returned with a reproachful expression of his own. "No, of course I'm not just saying that. How could you possibly accuse me of something so duplicitous?" He held his hands to his chest in mock offense.
"I actually look forward to working with the little fuzzy beasts, really," he said, patting Bolt affectionately on the head. "That's no healthy way to go about my line of work, of course, but that's just how it is."
Before he could go on, Dr. Calico found himself distracted by yet another member of the crowd bearing a piece of paper and a hopeful look. In response, he produced a pen, and the click it made sounded almost as worn out as he did. Bolt had been signing autographs as well, with the aide of his own paw and an extra-large inkpad. He had yet to find this tiresome, but nevertheless he couldn't help considering it somewhat ridiculous. Dr. Calico seemed to share this sentiment, having generously offered a handkerchief for Bolt's overly inky foot, but the fans clearly got a kick out of it. Bolt had to offer up half a dozen smudgy paw prints, just in the amount of time it took Calico to deal with one signature.
Bolt tried to read what the actor was writing for his name, but he could only make out a letter or two from the fancy scrawl.
"Kids aren't that bad, either, really," Dr. Calico continued, when he was finished. "Of course, some are . . . not quite as easy to work with as others." He glanced over Bolt's head at the booth's other occupant. Sitting on the other side of the dog was Penny – not his Penny, of course, but the actress who'd replaced her. She looked even more cowed by the crowd than Bolt and Dr. Calico did. "Not unpleasant to work with," Calico said, looking away, "but not as professional as one could hope. It seems like they'll let anyone into acting these days."
Bolt barked.
"I suppose you're right," Calico said. "Though it helps somewhat if you're the one trying to squash them every time. I certainly won't say it isn't fun being the bad guy." He stared into space, thoughtfully. "Fun, but repetitive. Though I'm not sure why I'm trying to get any sympathy out of you for that." He looked at Bolt. "I don't know if it's even possible for a dog to get bored of doing the same thing over and over again."
Bolt thought about it. No, he couldn't really argue with that. He stepped on the inkpad, and gave another autograph.
"Are you sure this is the right way?" Mittens clung desperately to the tiny metal balcony, doing her absolute best to avoid looking down. She'd made it down one story already, and they weren't that high up, but the wind was deceptively strong here and she'd never really been one for heights in the first place. Ahead of her, Rhino rolled on, undeterred. His ball made little hollow plunking noises as he bounced down the rickety metal staircase.
"Yeah, this is definitely the way to go!" He called back. "I've seen them do this a million times on the box. They say you're only supposed to use these as a fire escape, but it's really a secret passageway to anywhere else in the building!"
"Does a secret passageway have to be this windy?" Mittens demanded, but Rhino was already too far ahead to answer. Having gotten this far already, Mittens couldn't really turn back now. She steeled herself and ventured down the rest of the fire escape, very slowly and very, very carefully. When she reached the last balcony, Rhino was already there, eagerly pressed against the window and peering inside.
"There it is!" He said, looking at the sight inside reverentially. "Every big building has one. All the food you could possibly want!"
Mittens looked past him. They were standing outside of the hotel kitchen. The window was easy enough to push open, and the room beyond looked as though it was temporarily, mercifully devoid of any staff. Mittens jumped through the window, landing easily on the metal countertop just below the windowsill. Rhino followed, bouncing off of the counter and sailing ungracefully to the floor. He stumbled to his feet and rolled about uncertainly for a moment, regaining his bearings.
"Here we are!" He proclaimed, triumphantly. "The center of it all! The very source itself!"
Mittens wasn't listening. Rather, she was, with a great deal of satisfaction, acquainting herself with some fish that had been conveniently left out on the counter. Rhino, unable to get back on top of the counter from inside his ball, had to content himself with staying amused by rolling about the floor and merrily bumping into things. This kept him busy for several minutes, until an unexpected shadow fell across him from outside.
"Ah . . . Mittens?"
"What do you want now?" Mittens looked up from her meal, annoyed, but halted when she saw what had caught Rhino's attention. One of the cooks had come back, and was standing in the room, glaring directly at Mittens and not appearing pleased in the slightest.
"Any ideas for what to do now?" She asked the hamster, hopefully.
Rhino considered. "Hmm . . . Tactical retreat?"
"Barr bodies," Dr. Calico said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Can you believe that little twerp actually asked me about Barr bodies?"
Bolt arfed sympathetically.
"Though, to be fair, I have to admit that one always bothered me as well. 'Dr. Calico.'" He grimaced. "Every biologist in the world is probably laughing at me for that by now. I shan't be able to go home again."
Bolt scratched irritatedly at the lightning bolt painted on his side. He was looking forward to washing that off again. Dr. Calico watched him with a despondent look, seeming to take the act as a suggestion from the dog.
"Well, it's a good idea in theory," he replied, "but I don't think I could actually pull it off. If I could quit, I never would have joined on in the first place." His expression turned reflective. "'Course, work didn't used to be that scarce for me. I must have been in dozens of shows back on the Beeb. Mostly silly costume bits and adaptations of books nobody'd read, but everybody does that. I was big in my day. I even did Claudius once; they all said I was brilliant at it."
Bolt snuffled, vaguely. It was difficult to appreciate the Bard when you'd never heard of him.
Calico sighed. "It's the same there as it is anywhere, though. Don't watch where you're going, and what happens? You get stuck trying to take over the world every Thursday at eight, that's what."
He slouched in his chair, looking depressed. Bolt waited for him to glance back in his direction, and then gave his best Dog Face, carefully ratcheted down from 'beg' to 'empathy.' He'd only recently managed to perfect it, and it seemed to do the trick. Dr. Calico's mouth twisted up crookedly, and he allowed himself a friendly smile.
"You're right," he admitted. "It could be worse. Why, if I wasn't doing this, I'd probably have to settle for hosting some naff arts anthology show." He straightened up in his chair and struck a mocking pose that somehow managed to evoke armchairs, a fireplace, and many leather-bound books. He mimed puffing on a pipe, and addressed an imaginary audience: "Hello, and welcome to Masterpiece Theater. I'm a British person."
Dr. Calico laughed, and Bolt barked cheerfully as well, if only because he was happy at having been able to cheer the man up somewhat.
Mittens ran as fast as she could. She'd lost sight of Rhino almost immediately, but the frenzied clattering sound of plastic on linoleum behind her let her know that at least he hadn't abandoned her. She skidded around a corner into a larger hallway, and tore down that as quickly as she could. An angry, clumsy thudding behind her signaled that the cook still hadn't lost her tail.
At the end of the hallway was a loose crowd of people, milling about aimlessly. Mittens skirted around their feet, and ducked into the room beyond. Inside, she dodged more feet, scooted underneath a table, and shot through the nearest exit. Beyond that room, there was a high-ceilinged ballroom, with mirrors covering the walls, and jam-packed with people. Mittens ran inside without hesitation, hoping that she might be able to lose her pursuer in the dense crowd.
"What I don't understand," Dr. Calico said, finishing off another autograph, "is how they even managed to get ahold of you in the first place. I mean, I remember the big fuss they made at the studio about how the other dog couldn't do it, couldn't relate to people the same way or somesuch nonsense. But you'd already been retired for, what, a year? I suppose your girl having college to look forward to in a few years is incentive enough for any job, but still."
He raised an eyebrow, knowingly. "I'll bet it was the letter that did it," he said, with a smirk. "I was there when they were drafting it, you know. 'Oh, please, please, please let us have Bolt back! Pretty please! Just for the convention! We need him to – '"
There was a sudden yell of surprise from the crowd in front of them. A very angry looking staff member burst through the doors on the far side of the room, and at more or less the same moment the crowd itself began doing what appeared to be a spontaneous, awkward jig. The effect rippled towards the booth in a haphazard, zigzagging pattern, finally culminating when a small group in the middle of the floor managed to trip over each other all at once and send themselves crashing to the ground. An errant kick from one of them sent a screaming ball of black fur arcing into the air. It soared, clumsily, and landed heavily in the surprised arms of Dr. Calico. Bolt yelped in shock. Penny's actress screamed.
Dr Calico held the frantic cat at arms length with a look of utter bemusement. "What on Earth . . . ?"
Before he could get an answer, Calico was distracted by a sudden growling at his left. He looked over in surprise. Bolt had his front legs up on the table, glaring purposefully at the man.
"Ah." Calico said. "Yours, I presume." He set Mittens down gently in front of Bolt. She scrambled off the table and jumped behind the dog, who sat back down with a protective look about himself. The staff member, only halfway across the room at this point, saw Bolt's expression and was almost immediately discouraged. He wasn't going to push his luck that far.
On the other side of the doorway at the other end of the room, a small plastic ball, which had been peering cautiously in, seemed to notice this and discreetly rolled away.
Next to Bolt, Mittens settled down, still a little bit shaken but hardly any worse for wear. Bolt looked at her concernedly for a moment, then turned back to Calico and barked gratefully.
"Don't mention it," Dr. Calico said, with a calculatedly blasé look. Bolt barked again, and Calico laughed, brushing a strand of cat hair off of his sleeve.
"No, please," he said. "Call me Malcolm, if you don't mind."
He turned back to the crowd, which had managed to recover from its recent activity without a great deal of difficulty. Bolt stared after him for a long moment, stunned at having finally learned the man's name, but eventually shrugged and turned towards the crowd himself. Beside him, Mittens was sitting peacefully, finally relaxed. Cats, Bolt thought, amused. They could be comfortable anywhere, even in orange plastic chairs. Mittens started purring. They could make anything comfortable, too.
The crowd's onslaught resumed once again, but Bolt was starting to mind less and less, and it looked as though the man sitting beside him seemed to feel the same way.
Even the direst of circumstances were survivable, with the right sort of friends.