A/N: I couldn't possibly have Yakko just sit in Scratchy's office and wait for the others to come out of his memory, could I? I suppose I could've, but that'd be no fun to write. Anyway, thank you to those who are reviewing, it pleases me very much!

This Chapter: Yakko's Point of View

Next Chapter: Ummmmm…

As the panel closed behind me, I walked over to Scratchy's desk and sat down on the edge of it. It would be several hours before the memory had run its course, and I looked around for something to do. I noticed Scratchy's desk lamp was the only illumination in the room – the sun had gone down half an hour ago – and turned the beam of light towards the wall. I hopped down from the desk and studied the many pictures. Some were black and white, others sepia; the more recent ones were very colourful. As I looked from one picture to the next, I started to wonder if I had done the right thing. It was okay for Scratchy to know, wasn't it? I mean, it was only the most terrible memory the three of us possessed. But I suppose it felt kind of good to tell him; it meant my sibs and I wouldn't have to keep it a secret from him anymore.

I turned from the pictures and sat down in Scratchy's chair, switching off the desk lamp. The darkness of the room calmed me down a bit as I settled back and propped my feet up on the desk, closing my eyes for a moment. The sweet sound of nothing met my ears, the studio having closed down for the night. I don't know how long I sat there, or even if I was awake, but the sound of footsteps outside woke me from whatever form of rest I had been previously occupied with. I slowly rose from the chair and crept up to the window – keeping to the shadows as much as I could – and peeked out into the moonlit studio lot; I couldn't see anything particularly out of place. I glanced at the clock. This was the time I would normally be out walking. I looked back outside, scanning the surrounding buildings carefully. Then I spotted him. A scruffy man with an empty sack over his shoulder, looking this way and that in search of something he evidently wasn't seeing. I didn't recognize him, although he did have an uncanny resemblance to... no. No way. Brad Hart would be dead by now, wouldn't he? Anyway, this guy was too young. But when the man stepped out into full view, there was no mistake. If not Brad Hart, he was a close relation. I glanced at the clock again. It was a couple of minutes before three o'clock. I'd just be coming back from my walk. The Brad twin was waiting for me, there was no doubt. When I hadn't shown up by three, the guy looked at his watch one last time before heading in the direction I would have come. Ten minutes later he was back into view, looking up at the tower with sickening interest. Then he started climbing the ladder.

He had no luck with the door when he got to the top, and I couldn't keep from thinking how ironic all of this was. The very night that my sibs and I decide to tell Scratchy about our experiences with Brad Hart, the guy – or at least his look-alike lackey – comes looking for us. I would have laughed had it not been for the hatred and (I'll admit it) fear that consumed my thoughts. I stood stock-still as the guy pounded on the door of the tower. He'd wake up everyone on the lot. My prediction came true when Jerry Matthews – the custodian of soundstage five – stormed out of the building and began telling him off. As they talked, the conversation became less heated, and eventually Jerry pointed at Scratchy's office. I quickly pulled the curtains back into place, my heart jumping into my throat. He had seen me for sure. The grin that had formed on his face was proof enough.

I snatched a pen from Scratchy's desk and wrote a quick note before running to the door. I swung it open, and there he was standing right in front of me. Up close, I could tell it wasn't Brad; but the malicious look in his eyes told me he was related. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of him, and he grinned evilly, reaching out to grab me.

I slammed the door in his face.

I clicked the lock into place and bolted back across the room, picking up a paperweight from the desk. The man had started pounding on the door. It wouldn't be long before he broke through it. I took aim, reached my hand back, and threw the paperweight as hard as I could at the window. A loud crash and the sound of tinkling glass followed; and I ran back to the door, unlocked it, and made my way out of the building while Brad Jr. was checking out the shattered window.

It wasn't long before he found me again. He may not have been extremely smart, but he made up for it in speed and determination. I almost slipped as I took a corner towards soundstage eight, nearly falling before I practically ran into him. I stumbled back as he hefted the empty sack from his shoulder, obviously meaning to stuff me inside. But I wasn't about to let him catch me; at least not before I had led him on a merry chase. I ran in the other direction and turned back around the corner from which I had come. He followed, and I watched him run around the building as I sat on the roof watching. Eventually, he figured out that he wasn't really chasing anything, and he slowed to a stop, looking around himself. He spotted me mere seconds later, and I waved at him mockingly. He shook a fist in a threatening way in my general direction, and I backed up towards the centre of the roof where he couldn't see me. It would take him a while to figure out how to get himself up on the roof, so I took the time to devise an escape plan.

I had hardly begun to think my way out of the situation when I felt a sharp pain collide with the base of my neck. I lurched forward in surprise, feeling the small dart protruding from my skin when I reached a hand over my shoulder to pull it out. I turned around as my body slowly began to succumb to the drug; what I saw was Brad Jr. with an all-too-familiar dart gun in his hand and a smug smile on his face. How had he gotten up here so fast? Such tricks were known only to cartoons, and too complex for anyone else to use. My thoughts became mixed and jumbled; my legs gave out while the drug coursed with morbid efficiency through my system, and the only thing I could feel was the dull pain of being picked up by the scruff of my neck as Brad Jr. stuffed me into the bag.