A/N from TIC: Sorry the chapter took so long...I've really got to start watching the show again...

Chapter 3: Dubious Delirium

While not exactly the poshest or most extravagant hotel in Burbank, the Staldrof Wasstordia was a reasonably well-furnished dwelling, with smoothly-glazed coffee tables squatting unobtrusively at knee height and pleasantly-arranged vases of flowers in exactly the right places. During the day, quiet people usually milled quietly about the reception area, doing quiet little things like solving crossword puzzles or disarming time bombs that had been found (rather demurely) underneath a pair of seat cushions. But, seeing as it was nearly one in the morning, the entire lobby was dark, and the receptionist—a young woman with neat sandy hair pulled up in a ponytail—had drifted off to sleep, head lolling on her desk.

...She was new on the job.

The woman was also a heavy sleeper, as she very easily snored through the crashes, pile-ups and police sirens blaring outside amidst the fair California traffic. She didn't stir when a large potted plant tipped over and crashed onto the floor a mere ten feet from where she was seated. Nor did she wake up when several large paintings toppled off the wall behind her, nor when the sound of clatteringly awkward tap dancing reverberated across the lobby, or even when someone started making airplane noises just above her head.

Finally there was a sigh, and a strained voice whispered, "I dun' think she's gonna wake up, Brai—"

The woman shot straight up. "WHO'S THERE?!"

There was a cry, and a little crash, and the receptionist clicked her desk light on to see two figures sprawled on top of another devastated plant. They quickly scurried to their feet—(Two men? she thought, or were they boys?)—keeping just out of the range of the circle of lamplight. It didn't matter, though; their matching silvery-white hair seemed to glow in the dark, like their oddly-tinted eyes.

"My companion and I wish to rent a room," stated the shorter male matter-of-factly.

The woman blinked.

The stranger seemed to take this as a sign that she didn't understand him, so he leaned forwards, making sure to enunciate every syllable as plainly as he could. "My. Companion. And. I. Wish. To. Rent. A. Room."

Rather than being hard of hearing, however, the woman was more hypnotized by their appearances. Granted, their exotic hair and eyes, as well as the clear paleness of their skins, were attention-grabbers on their own...but their clothes! The collared, checkered shirts were several sizes too large even for the taller one, but the short guy was nearly DROWNING in his! Their dress slacks were of similar make, and the duo were utterly devoid of belts, so the shorter one was practically holding his pair up by the waistband, clutching a...thingamajig of some sort in his other hand. The taller one, however, apparently had no concept of decency, as he didn't even bother to keep HIS pants hiked up—they were hanging somewhere in the vicinity of his knees.

That one, she decided, was definitely a teenager.

It didn't take long for the short stranger to get irritated, and soon he slammed his fist on the desk, glaring up at the woman...though quickly removing his fist in order to regain his grip on his trousers. "I warn you," he warned, his gaze nearly boring holes into her forehead, "I shall only repeat this once more, and THAT only because my companion has had a harrowing night and I doubt he would enjoy sleeping on the sidewalks when—"

"Oh, no, I like the sidewalks, Brain!" the nearly-pantsless boy protested, clasping his hands innocently behind his back and rocking back and forth on his heels. "I mean, where else can you get that nice, granite-y feelin' in your toes?"

The short man—"Brain"?—turned to glower at his companion in the half-light, then shook his head, muttering distastefully, "For Nobel's sake, Pinky, pull up your pants."

"Pinky" cocked his head to the side, blinking slowly, as if trying to absorb a foreign concept. "...Pants?"

"Those things on your legs. You know what your LEGS are, don't you?"

The receptionist just kept looking from one to the other, still almost half-asleep and so a bit more at ease with the situation that she would have been had she had full command of her senses. "...I'm on one of those camera shows, aren't I?" she mused at length, stifling a yawn. "Or is this just some kind of fraternity prank?"

This directed both the strangers' attention back at her, the tall boy gasping indignantly. "We ain't rats! We're MICE! Of ALL the—"

The shorter one elbowed him sharply. "Excuse my friend," he stated to the woman through gritted teeth, "the doctors have informed me that he's incurable but harmless." Taking advantage of her momentary confusion, he slipped in, "Now, about that room...?"

The receptionist sighed. Might as well go with it, she decided, and responded automatically, "Single or double?"

...Then she remembered that she was addressing two males.

"Oh—oh, sorry!!" she apologized flusteredly, jolted further awake in her mortification. "I—I didn't mean to sound like I—oh, please don't take that the wrong way, I just—"

Both strangers blinked, seeming just a little bit bemused, though the shorter one hid it slightly better. They exchanged glances, seemed to come to some unspoken conclusion, and the short man turned back to the receptionist. " 'Single' is cheaper, right?"

She hadn't expected that. "Ummmm...yes...?"

"Then we'll take that."

This knocked the poor woman almost completely off her guard, and she nearly tumbled out of her chair before she reminded herself that it was probably just a dream anyways. "W-well...well, all right then," she replied, still a bit dazed even in her half-conscious state, and fumbled around on her desk until she managed to find the sheet headed "Guest List". Another excavation revealed a pen, which she hovered just over the paper. "Names?"

Without warning, the taller male was leaning right over her, practically jumping up and down in excitement. "MISTER AN' MISSUS SMITH!"

"PINKY!!" The shorter man delivered a swift kick to his companion's ankle before directing his attention to the receptionist once again. "That'll be 'The Brain' and 'Pinky', if you will."

The woman started to write, then stopped, deliberated over whether or not it was worth writing down even if it was just a dream or a prank or something, then finally sighed and put the pen down. "...I'm sorry, but I can't take nicknames."

"Nicknames?" The man sounded indignant—no, BEYOND indignant! "NICKNAMES?!" Eyes blazing, he lifted a fist in anger before remembering to return it to his slipping waistband. "My good woman, I'll have you know that 'The Brain' is my given name, and I'll—"

Before he could finish, his companion tapped him on the shoulder, bending down to whisper something in his ear. The short man blinked once or twice, and they had a small exchange so hushed that the drowsy woman didn't hear a word. But at length the strangers returned their attention to her, and, seeming reluctant but determined, the shorter one spoke.

"Brian and Peter Mouskowitz."

The key had some difficulty twisting, but soon enough the door swung open to reveal a small, but suitably spacious room, a king-sized bed dominating the far corner while the entryway was cluttered with more of the decorative but tiresome coffee tables that had been in the lobby. However, one of these coffee tables was flanked by a small refrigerator, which Pinky made a beeline for, his trousers finally falling fully to the floor as he scurried over.

"Pinky, is the idea of modesty so immense for your tiny cranium to comprehend?" Brain complained wearily, stowing the door key into his own slipping slacks before bending to pick up the remains of Pinky's. Completely oblivious, the pantsless Pinky was kneeling in front of the fridge and perusing its contents thoroughly—more than likely, the room's previous occupant had stored the items there, and nobody had bothered to clean it out afterwards.

Brain deliberated over whether or not to inform his companion that most of the snacks had probably expired, but, upon seeing his companion already scarfing down a moldy-looking fruit cup, decided not to. After all, it was nothing that the gawky mouse—the gawky HUMAN, he mentally corrected himself—couldn't digest.

"Mmmm-mmm-MMMMMMM, yummy," Pinky was gushing, fervently licking up the sticky trails of peach juice congealing on his chin. "Oh, Brain, these're great! I've been starvin'...I haven't eaten in HOURS!!"

"I admire your fortitude."

Brain dropped into an armchair, and his own unattended pants dropped down to his ankles. He snatched at them, deliberated a moment, looked around to see if there was anything nearby that he could convert into a belt...then just gave up and let them slide off. He was "decent" enough, since his stolen shirt went all the way down to his knees, and it wasn't like Pinky would mind. He probably wouldn't even notice.

So Brain got down to business, gingerly setting the remains of the Atomic Vibrational Regulator onto one of those irritating (but convenient) coffee tables. The machine was certainly in a sorry state. Even after combing the rooftop thoroughly, the most they'd been able to find of the satellite dish had been the "dish" part itself, with no sign of the tower or wires that had connected it to the Regulator in the first place. As well, though the VCR had been badly damaged before, its subsequent meeting with the scientists' heads had put several huge dents in it, and it looked as though even more of its inside pieces had gone missing. Brain groaned, rubbing his hand through his hair. Very likely, he'd have to replace all of the components, and that would mean tracking down that particular model of VCR and that specific kind of satellite dish, both of which had been obsolete for several years and thus harder to find.

And the entire Regulator had to be fixed in three months.

Then it finally hit him, and he stiffened with shock, his blood running colder than ice.

HE WAS GOING TO BE A HUMAN FOR THREE MONTHS.

Just as Brain's hands had started twitching and a torrent of sweat had started cascading down his forehead, Pinky did something utterly unexpected—he yawned. Very widely, and very loudly, so much so that it actually jolted Brain out of his impending mental breakdown.

"WHOOOOOOOO-boy, 'm'I tired, Brain!" He yawned once more for good measure, stretching his arms out so far that it looked like they were going to pop out of their sockets. "I'm goin'a' bed. You comin'?"

The Brain nodded stiffly, his movements suddenly seeming jerky and alien. This body wasn't his. He wasn't meant to have it. It was only on pure instinct that he was able to get it to rise from the armchair and shuffle clumsily to the bed in the corner, slipping beneath the sheets on the far left of the bed just as Pinky clicked the lights off and got in on his own side.

As he lay in that bed, his cheek on his pillow and his back to his companion, Pinky too was experiencing very deep thoughts. They were massive, immense, and so outside his normal realms of musing that they frankly frightened the newly-human creature.

He couldn't take it. He had to ask.

"...Brain?"

A groan came from the other side of the bed. "What is it, Pinky?"

"Where do stars go during the daytime?"

All was silent for a moment, then Brain took in a deep breath and recited mechanically, "They don't go anywhere, Pinky. They're still in the same place. We just can't see them from the ground because of the subtle workings of the Earth's atmosphere."

"Oh."

There was another pause.

"...They 'turn invisible', Pinky."

"Oh, okay."

The covers shuffled slightly as Pinky moved his feet, trying (out of habit) to find his tail to grasp between the two. Outside, a car honked its horn, and another's tires squealed abominably as someone braked in a hurry.

"Brain?"

Another groan. "Yes, Pinky?"

"D'ya think mimes really can't talk? Or are they just pretendin' they can't?"

Once more the covers scuffled, but this time they were being pulled over to Brain's side of the bed as he tried to use them to cover his ears.

"I'm sure I don't know, Pinky. Now will you TRY to get some sleep?"

He did try—he really did, massaging the side of his face with his palm like his mother used to do when he had trouble falling asleep. But at length the movement slowed, and ceased, and the hand fell limply to the pillow.

"...Brain?...We're humans now, i'in't we? I keep fergettin'..."

Brain didn't answer for a moment, but the fists clenching his covers tightened.

"Yes, Pinky, we are. For the next...three...MONTHS."

"...Uh-huh..."

The soft acquiescence trailed off into nothingness, ending in an anxious squeak.

"Brain...d'ya think we're ever gonna be mice again?"

This time, there was no reply.