A/N: Dreadfully sorry for the excessively long delay, I guess I'm just not really into writing at the moment, but I promise I will finish this fanfic. I hope the characters aren't OOC, please tell me if they're getting that way. Anyhow, enough rambling on my part. Enjoy.

Yakko's POV.

I woke to blinding darkness. Everything within my vision was completely black. I opened my eyes; same thing. I closed them again – it wasn't like it was going to make much of a difference. A somewhat familiar pinprick of a pain in the back of my neck made itself known when I tried to move my head. I attempted the movement of my arms, but that did nothing. I must still be in the sack over the Brad look-alike's shoulder. The question was: where was I in the sack over the Brad look-alike's shoulder?

As the rest of my body began to wake up, I could feel the slight swinging motion of my prison as my captor walked to who knows where. My eyes were still closed, but I could almost see the slight glow of the silver-coloured collar at my neck. I could definitely feel the unpleasant warmth it was generating. I would have attempted its removal had I not tried it a thousand times the last time I had it on. I sighed and settled back as far as I could. I had no way of knowing how much longer I'd be in this sack, but I was determined to figure it out.

The guy carrying me over his shoulder definitely wasn't Brad Hart, but he looked a heck of a lot like him. He seemed to have the same mindset, too. But somehow he had managed to get up on the roof within seconds of seeing me, and no one that wasn't a cartoon could do that. Very puzzling. I thought about it for a few minutes more before a idea hit me, as well as a rather hard object from outside my feeble prison. It took me by such surprise that I hardly made a sound, and moments later I was dumped unceremoniously out of the sack and onto a cold, hard, very white floor. I shielded my eyes against the sudden brightness that met them before being whacked by the hard object again. I yelped and grabbed my arm, looking in the direction from which the blow had come. I got to my feet just in time to dodge the next swing and I rolled once again to the floor. Not-Quite-Brad advanced; this time I could clearly see the rough club made from scraps of plywood he held in his hands.

As I dodged the next swing, I glanced around the room – the very familiar room, and I hate to say that a prickling fear ran up my spine. In that very short moment of pause, I left my guard down, and I paid for it with a hit to the back of the head. I fell onto the floor once again; an army of small black spots invading my vision. Sensing he was going for another shot, I rolled away in time to see the plywood snap on the floor beside me. I scrambled to my feet, immediately regretting it as I braced myself with a hand on the wall against the dizziness. This just sucked.

To my complete and utter surprise, the Brad look-alike (I'm just going to call him 'Bla' for now) started laughing. After I got over the initial shock of it, I couldn't really blame him. I probably looked really pathetic – something I could use to my advantage. This was the last clue I needed – if it was the real Brad Hart, he'd know better than to stop long enough to let me start thinking. I concentrated on ignoring the throbbing headache, the dizziness, and the inevitable bruise taking form on my arm – instead contemplating the best escape strategy. Not much was coming to mind.

"You are a lot weaker than my creator made you out to be," Bla said. I glanced up.

"I'm flattered," I said sarcastically in return. "I'm guessing he's the one who taught you your manners, too."

"Manners?"

"Case in point."

As Bla took a moment to recover from his momentary mental incompetence, I was thanking anyone who cared to read my thoughts that this guy was as stupid as most of the cartoon villains I've encountered. Might as well play on his ego.

"So, now that you've got me, what are you planning on?" I asked in a conversational tone. Bla looked at me as though he had forgotten I was there; then he started to think about the question as though he had forgotten what he had actually been planning on. Better change the subject before he remembered.

"Come now, it had to be something very clever. You are CGI after all," I said. "You came from a computer, not a page – computers are smart, wouldn't it transfer?"

"Of course it would!" Bla said, slightly exasperated, but more or less puffing out his chest in pride.

"And you can do anything a simple cartoon can do, right?" I continued.

"Yes, and more."

"And more?"

"Yes! I am stronger than the strongest cartoon! And I can be programmed for a single purpose before I'm out of the computer!" He said proudly. I didn't see how being programmed for a single purpose was a good thing, but this was an idiot I was talking to.

"That's very impressive," I said. Bla nodded and went on to outline all of the other amazing things he could do as a computer generated image, most of which I could do if I didn't have this collar on. At least while he was droning on, I could further analyze what could be used against him. Since he was CGI, his options were limited in the way of manipulating his features and surroundings. They had to remain within the boundaries of their rigging... at least, that's what I kept hearing from the new animation department back at the studio. It could be useful.

A loud clanging sound made itself evident when the door at the far end of the room began to open. Bla immediately stopped talking and rushed over to the door as though his life depended on it. He heaved it open and a very, very old man rolled in on a wheelchair. My heart nearly stopped up my throat and I found myself unintentionally backing further into the wall. It seemed obvious now, and it probably was before; but there was something inside me before this point that was vainly hoping that Brad Hart was no longer alive.

A/N: And there we are! The next part will hopefully be up within the week.