Chapter 14: A Trio Torn
As he lay on the ground, Yakko tried to decide which was worse: the pain, the thirst, or not knowing what was going on. He finally decided that dwelling on these thoughts was actually the worst of all and that it would be prudent to think of something else entirely. Besides, it might take his mind off the fact that he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown at any second.
How had they – whoever "they" was – caught him? How did anyone know they were in Pendleton? Had they been followed? Bugs had been so fanatical about secrecy, it wasn't like any of them had gone around broadcasting the fact that they were making a day of it in Pendleton –
Wait. Minerva.
He'd told Minerva.
Feeling a headache coming on that would put all others to shame, Yakko groaned and lifted his hands to his covered face. Dot had been right. Minerva was up to no good, and he'd blown it. Big time. But then his heart began to pound again. Wakko and Dot, his Wakko and Dot, were in trouble with her around and he wasn't there to stop it. He had to get out of here. Right now. But where was here?
Well, if he was going to start somewhere, it may as well be figuring out where he was.
Careful to keep his face shapeshifted, Yakko lifted the hem of the sack and peered out. It appeared as though he was in some sort of cave; a single lightbulb hung from the rocky ceiling, beaming dim and dirty light into the room. The ground was hard and covered in dirt and grime and what looked horribly like ink. Yakko gingerly touched his head and winced – judging from that and the ink that glinted on his fingertips, he had a pretty nasty cut up there. He turned to survey the rest of the room. There was only one way out: a carved out doorway that was closed off by a thick, barred gate. This wasn't a room. This was a cell.
Turning further, Yakko jumped slightly when he discovered nearly two dozen toons lining the wall behind him. Each one of them had a sack over their head with two eye holes torn into it, giving them a hollow, soulless look and Yakko wanted nothing more than to look away, but it was impossible. They were huddled together but still shivering, and all clothed in the same ratty, gray jumpsuits. Frowning, Yakko looked down and saw he was wearing one as well. It was covered in mystery stains and he had the sudden, strong urge to tear it off.
"Cover your face up!" one of them hissed.
Yakko blinked. The voice had come from the sea of masks staring at him.
"Put the sack back on stupid, they're coming!" the voice whispered again, but hushed immediately when the cell door swung open with a clang.
Yakko tugged the sack back over his face. He barely had a moment to breathe before a heavy hand grabbed him by the back of the neck, pinching as much skin between its fingers as it did cloth. Holding back a shout, Yakko felt himself being dragged across the floor as though he was as light as a feather. Despite being swallowed up in the blackness of his hood, he knew he had been taken out of the cell. Not only was the air slightly less muggy, but he heard the sharp clang of the door slamming shut.
His captor seemed to be dragging him down a series of hallways. Yakko tried to commit the twists and turns to memory, but his brain was foggy and the throbbing wouldn't stop.
Trying to smother the panic that was bubbling up again, Yakko opened his mouth to speak but quickly shut it. He'd nearly forgotten that he was pretending to be someone else. Altering his voice to something more nasally, Yakko took a deep breath and asked, "Who are you?" He meant it to be threatening, but it came out as a weak rasp. When no answer came, he asked again, "Are you the one who brought me here? Where are we?"
Still no answer aside from the deep, labored breathing of someone who was very large. Yakko heard what sounded like a heavy door being opened, and he was struck with the same putrid, nauseating smell from before. It was then that he realized it was smell from the desert. It made him want to get as far away from there as possible, as if he didn't have enough reasons to want to do that already. But he didn't have time to dwell on this, because he was suddenly tossed into the air like a rag doll. Remembering at the last second not to squash himself, Yakko landed rather painfully on his side. He was suddenly flooded with sympathy for Class C and D toons, who never had the option to squash – in addition to everything else, his hip was killing him right now.
"So eh, found another sap trying to clear the border?" snarled a nasty, sniveling voice. He sounded vaguely familiar to Yakko, but he couldn't place it.
"Nope, they found this idiot goin' south, chased him through the whole night," another voice replied. Again, familiar.
"What?"
The sack was ripped from Yakko's head and he blinked in the bright spotlight, thankful he still had his face shapeshifted. When his eyes adjusted he saw that he was in a small room that was barely an improvement from the cell. Strange guns lined the walls; at first glance Yakko thought they were brightly colored machine guns, toonish even, but they were lined with small tubing and tanks. They would have reminded him of squirtguns if they didn't look so deadly.
On the opposite wall were three steel tubs that were covered with large slats of plywood, a broad paintbrush resting on one, and a table sat in the middle of the room beneath the single light.
"So you're dumb and stubborn, huh?" said the sniveling voice.
A figure leaned out of the shadows and into the light, and Yakko's eyes widened at the sight of Mortimer Mouse. Mortimer's eyes were hooded, glaring at Yakko over his long, crooked snout that ended in greasy whiskers. The large, yellow front teeth that poked out from his lips looked unusually sharp. Yakko had to bite back an insult that was born purely out of nerves.
"Looks like he's a mute too," came the other voice. A much smaller, rounder figure came into view. With another small jolt, Yakko recognized Bosko. His pot belly had grown since Yakko had seen him on the Tiny Toons set, and it looked like he was working on a bald spot on the top of his head in addition to the five o'clock shadow that lined his chin. His brow and mouth were bent into a rough sneer.
Yakko's eyes flicked between them, then at the guns on the wall.
Mortimer…Bosko…guns…no, squirtguns…
Memories were flying at him, he remembered holding the newspaper in New York City, reading the headline of Shirley's column: Bosko acquires squirtgun manufacturer in Tijuana…Mortimer Mouse appointed as COO…
Was that where he was? Tijuana? There was no way those were squirtguns were toys, what were they doing here…what was he doing here…
"Yer eyes are glossin' on me, idiot," Mortimer said, and he slapped Yakko across the face. The pain made his eyes water, but he didn't care, he was too focused on keeping his face shapeshifted, keeping his identity hidden. "What's yer name?" Mortimer asked.
Yakko blurted the first name that came to mind. "Ears."
"Ears? What were Mommy and Daddy smokin' when they labeled you with that shit?" Bosko scoffed.
"Well, Ears, now that I've got yer attention, allow me to introduce myself," Mortimer said with a tiny bow, "the name's Mortimer Mouse but, who am I kiddin', you probably knew that already."
"I betcha he already knows who I am," Bosko cut in, turning to Yakko, "dontcha kid?"
The fur on the back of Yakko's neck bristled. Only Bugs was allowed to call him "kid." So he snapped, "Yeah, you're Mickey, right?"
Bosko's sharp snarl contrasted with Mortimer's burst of laughter.
"This one's got a sense of humor," Mortimer chuckled, but Bosko shoved him aside and suddenly Bosko's face was inches from Yakko's.
"Think yer funny?" Bosko growled, showing his full set of teeth. His breath smelled like an old tuna fish sandwich, and his eyes searched Yakko's. There was something strangely familiar about Bosko's eyes, and not just because Yakko had seen him before. It was more than that. Bosko must have noticed it too, because his intimidating demeanor faltered for a moment as he searched Yakko's disguised face. Yakko concentrated on keeping his own face neutral, terrified with every second that went by that Bosko would somehow recognize him. To his relief Bosko returned to scowling and continued, "My name's Bosko and I'm going to make sure you don't forget it. Mugsy, bring us the water."
Yakko frowned. Surely that couldn't be…
A towering figure stepped from the shadows. He had been waiting so silently that Yakko had taken no notice to him. To his shock it was Mugsy, the Mugsy. But hadn't Bugs told him that Mugsy had swallowed paint thinner? Though as Mugsy stepped into the light, Yakko noticed that something wasn't right. Something was off. It was more like a cheap imitation of Mugsy than anything; the features on his face were jumbled and uneven, and his shuffling walk was unsynchronized. His eyes stared in two different directions, and a hint of drool was glinting from his gaping mouth.
"I thought he was dead. What's wrong with him?" Yakko asked before he could stop himself.
"You mean aside from being a butt-ugly oaf?" Mortimer drawled, scooping up a rock from the floor with his tail and flicking it at Mugsy. It bounced off of Mugsy's head, but he didn't seem to notice.
"Brought him back from the grave, we did," Bosko said.
Mugsy lumbered to the tubs that lined the wall and dragged the first one to the center of the room. It rasped against the dirt floor as it moved, and Yakko could hear liquid sloshing to and fro inside it.
"Now, to make sure you don't forget who I am, we're going to play a little game," Bosko said, cracking his knuckles.
Mortimer stepped closer to him and continued, "You see, you're lucky enough to be a part of a little club we like to call the Compound and, while we love all our members dearly, we are especially fond of members of a certain…Class."
Bosko swooped in and delivered a hefty kick to Yakko's ribs. Yakko cried out, surprised he could still feel any more hits at this point, and tried to drag himself away.
"No squash eh? C'mon, you gotta be at least a Class B, you're an inky stain just like Chunky over here," Mortimer said, jerking his thumb at Bosko.
Bosko growled and pulled a switchblade from his hammerspace, which he chucked at Mortimer. Barely ducking out of the way, Mortimer let out a string of swear words that would've made even Fowlmouth blush.
"Watch that rat trap of yours," Bosko snapped before turning back to Yakko. With a look in his eye that made Yakko's fur stand on end, Bosko reached behind his back and pulled out his mallet. Instinctively, Yakko's hand twitched toward his own hammerspace. Bosko's eyes flicked toward his hand immediately, and he inwardly cursed.
When Bosko snapped his fingers Mugsy began lumbering toward Yakko. Panic coursing through him again, he tried to scramble away but Mugsy seized him by the scruff of his neck and held him over the tub.
"If I didn't know any better I'd say you had a hammerspace," Bosko crooned, "Is it true? Do ya got one?"
Which was better? Did he lie, or did he grab his mallet and try to smash his way out? He was so exhausted and weak at this point he'd be lucky if he could hold his mallet above his head. Yakko eyed the guns on the wall. Nope, he wouldn't get very far.
"I'm a C, a Class C," he wheezed.
"Funny how you're all Class C's," Mortimer drawled. "Now, I ain't sayin' I don't believe ya. I would never call an honest toon a liar. But just in case, let's do a little test. We don't wanna hurt ya…if you're high Class, that is. We like to keep our A's and B's in tip top shape. They're the only toons worth a salt after all. So we'll give ya one last chance. What class are you, splot?"
"I'm a C, don't you think I would've malleted you into next week if I wasn't?" Yakko lied.
"Sorry mutt, they don't have a smartass Class," Mortimer said with a sneer.
"Quit wastin' air," Bosko said, "let's just get to the good part. Mugsy, dunk 'im."
Mugsy flung the plywood slat off the tub like it was made of paper, revealing a tub full of what Yakko prayed was water. Having the feeling that this couldn't mean anything good, he tried to twist out of Mugsy's grip but a sharp pain reverberated from his ribs to his chest. Before he even had a chance to wince, Mugsy thrust him face first into the tub.
The cold was like a slap in the face. It punched the air out of Yakko's lungs, made the wound on his head prickle. Instinct prompted him to push himself out, to struggle, to kick, but Mugsy's meaty hand, wedged between Yakko's shoulder blades, held him down. Air bubbles were escaping from his mouth and nostrils, and Bosko and Mortimer's distorted voices were echoing from above him. It dawned on him what they were doing. A Class B could breath under water for five minutes. Hell, as a Class A he could breathe for ten. Somehow his brain recalled these facts out of the garbled mess of fear, as though it wanted to remind itself that there were still things that were logical, that were normal. But a Class C couldn't breathe underwater. A Class C would drown. It was a test, to see if he would break and try to breathe. He could fake struggling for breath, but he couldn't fake drowning. Would they pull him out after he passed out, or would they let him die, slumped over a tub of water?
Yakko let more air bubble to the surface. Something in his gut told him that the special treatment of the upper Class was anything but good. The edges of his vision were blurring, and his heart began to race as his lungs burned for a single breath. He would have to risk it. At this point, what did it matter? It was getting harder to see. The fear was palpable, it was a flavor in his mouth, a weed in his brain. Yakko's heart was ready to explode from his chest, making the searing pain in his lungs multiply and scatter to the rest of his body. But then the pain began to drift away…he was becoming pleasantly numb…this was nice, this was better…but wait, if he fainted, his face would switch back…he couldn't think anymore…
A moment before he passed out he was yanked from the tub and thrown onto the floor. Yakko gasped and choked, writhing on the ground, trying to remember who and where he was, but Bosko was suddenly in his face.
"Who are ya, huh? What Class are ya?" he demanded, but his words twisted and contorted in Yakko's mind.
"C," Yakko coughed between breaths.
"Quit lyin' ya dimwit! Dunk him again!" Bosko yelled.
Yakko body flopped lifelessly as Mugsy hauled him back to the tub and plunged him in the water for a second time. Feeling his muscles ache, Yakko let his face shapeshift back to normal. Only a few moments rest, that's all he needed. His vision blurred much more quickly this time, and his struggles were nothing but weak nudges against Mugsy's massive frame. He probably didn't even feel them. Bosko's voice snarled something, and Yakko only just managed to change his face before he was on the ground again, coughing water out of his lungs.
Bosko was there again, but this time he grabbed a fistful of Yakko's hair and ears to drag him so they were face to face. Someone groaned in pain, and only later did Yakko realize it was him.
"Open yer eyes, loser, and look at this!" Bosko snapped, and shoved a paper in Yakko's face. Yakko blinked dully, trying to focus on the jumble of lights and darks on whatever it was that Bosko was showing him. When his vision cleared a picture swam into focus, and Yakko's heart nearly stopped. It was a picture of him. And his siblings. And god, if his head wasn't so messed up he'd swear it was taken at Buster's house…but that couldn't be…
Yakko found himself staring at his siblings. Tried to soak them in, burn them in his brain, because just the thought of them made him want to find his place by their side again, even if it meant tearing his way out of the room with his bare hands. But after far too brief a moment Bosko pulled the picture away.
"Well?" he barked, "The Warner brats. Have you seen them?"
A small part of Yakko was quite proud of himself – he'd disguised himself well, Bosko had no idea who he was. But at the same time terror was finding its way through his veins: why was Bosko seeking out them, of all toons?
"No, I've only seen the show," Yakko croaked.
Bosko stared at him without blinking. His face was very bulbous up close, like he had been overinflated. "You watched that excuse of a cartoon? Mugsy, dunk this maroon," he snarled.
Mugsy dropped him in the water once more. Convinced that this was it, Yakko forced the picture of him and siblings into his mind, and thought only of them as the air wrestled free from his mouth. His vision was dark and there was pinprick of pain in his skull when, to his shock, he was thrown flat on his back. He shuddered and gasped.
"Aw, I was enjoyin' the show," Mortimer said with a snicker.
Everything was moving slowly, and the voices seemed far away.
"Any idiot with half a brain would have used his hammerspace by now. This one must be one of the worms," Bosko sneered. "But, just in case…Mugsy, bring 'im here."
Yakko was only dimly aware that he was being dragged across the room. He was shaking, and could only really concentrate on breathing in and breathing out. In and out. That was good enough for now.
Mugsy deposited him in front of the second tub and dropped the cover to the floor. Yakko felt his shirt being removed, and it was landed on the floor with a wet splat. By now Mortimer had strolled over, and he used his foot to kick Yakko onto his stomach. Above him, Bosko picked up the paintbrush and dipped it into the tub. A thick, glue-like substance dripped from it. Bosko dropped down and painted a single strip down the middle of Yakko's back. It hardened almost instantly, pulling Yakko's fur and skin tight.
"Let's just call that our little safety net," Bosko drawled. He sniffed. "God, he smells like shit. Get this worm out of here before I lose my lunch."
"Just a sec, we have to make sure he's decent first," Mortimer cut in. He kicked Yakko's shirt into his face, and Mugsy, without being told, dutifully clothed him. Then Mortimer held the up the sack and tore two eye holes in it with his nails. He tugged it roughly back over Yakko's head.
"There," he said, laughing, "now you're all prettied up for the ball."
Yakko winced beneath the mask when Mortimer kicked him again, flipping him onto his back. Bosko stomped a foot on his chest, pinning him to the ground. As if he could have gotten up on his own.
"Before you go, let's get a few things straight," Bosko said, flinging spit from his mouth, "you're under Class. You're a worm. And your name ain't Ears no more, 'cause you're nothing. You're less than nothing. You don't take off your hood, you don't talk to no one, and you do what we say. Got it?"
"Or what, you'll give me another bath?" Yakko croaked. He was glad to know he could still rely on his mouth in times of crisis.
"Wiseguy huh?" Bosko snorted, then he kicked Yakko, hard, in the stomach. Yakko, who probably couldn't have squashed even if he wanted to, ground his teeth and clutched his stomach. Bosko and Mortimer laughed as he struggled for breath, but Mugsy simply stared.
"Get him outta here, it's ruinin' my reputation just bein' in the same room," Mortimer said snidely.
Mugsy did not move. He stood, unmoving and breathing through his mouth. Clenching his fists, Mortimer marched up to him and slapped him in the face. It shook Mugsy's beefy jowls, but otherwise he remained unchanged. "You heard me!" Mortimer roared, "Take him back to the cell!"
Mugsy did not even blink. Storming forward, Mortimer grabbed him violently by the ear and bellowed, "You deaf? Get him outta here ya damn yutz!"
When Mugsy still had yet to acknowledge Mortimer was in the room, let alone screaming in his ear, the mouse made a fist, reared back, and swung. But before his fist could connect with Mugsy's temple Bosko snatched him by the tail and yanked him away. Mortimer's swing went wide and the momentum caused him to stumble and hit the ground face first.
"Let a pro show ya how it's done," Bosko cooed, "Mugsy, take him back to the cell."
Mugsy grunted something and stooped down to clutch Yakko by the back of his neck again. Yakko let himself be dragged, he no longer had the energy to do anything otherwise. As they left the room, he heard Bosko gloat, "He only listens to me. He obviously recognizes a leader when he sees one."
"That's sayin' a whole lot for someone who can't recognize his own ass from a hole on the ground," Mortimer shot back.
Bosko swore profusely and lunged at the lanky mouse, but Mugsy had taken Yakko out of the room before he could see what happened. Through the small openings in his hood Yakko could see he was being dragged down poorly lit hallways, his body leaving a trail in the grime as they went. They passed by several cell doors. The first few were empty. But when Yakko looked into the fourth door, he gasped – a weasel in a black uniform was standing guard outside it, holding one of the strange guns to his chest, the stench radiating from him. Yakko craned his neck slightly to look inside. There were quite a few toons huddled against the far wall. At least fifteen, if not more, and none of them had sacks over their heads. He squinted, and then his stomach plummeted violently – Shirley and Plucky. And Montana Max. They were clustered together, leaning their heads on one another. Shirley looked like she had been crying, and Plucky had ink across his front –
They passed another guarded room. More toons were in this one, including Wile E and Roadrunner. But Mugsy turned a corner, and Yakko could not see inside any longer. He was glad that Mugsy seemed oblivious to the outside world, because his heart was pounding so hard it had to be sending tremors through his body. He had found them, he had found Shirley…too bad it looked like someone was going to have to find him now too.
When Mugsy approached the last cell door, a uniformed weasel promptly unlocked the heavy gate. Mugsy flipped it open like it was made of toothpicks and threw Yakko inside. The door was shut before he landed on the floor. Yakko lay there for a few minutes, bowing to the steady drum of pain his skull and willing himself to remain conscious. He felt disconnected from his body…this surely couldn't be him in this dark place, beaten and tortured, this kind of thing didn't happen to toons like him. He supposed he should be happy he was alive, but he felt like he had left a part of himself in the room with the water.
Yakko tried to review the facts in his head, but they were like pieces of separate puzzles that could never fit together. Bosko and Mortimer had been running this operation the whole time, but what was it? Why were toons of different Classes separated? What were they planning to do?
What was he planning to do?
Pushing himself up on shaky arms, Yakko looked at the group of hooded toons that still lined the walls. Most of them had their heads bent low, avoiding eye contact with him at all costs, but a few watched him. He didn't like that he couldn't see their faces, there was almost no way to distinguish one toon from another aside from size differences and various kinds of feet poking out from beneath the prisoner uniform.
Feeling more defeated than he ever had in his entire life, Yakko dragged himself into the corner farthest from the group. Every inch he pulled himself highlighted a new ache in his body, and by the time he reached the corner he collapsed to the floor again. Dully, he reached to his hammerspace to pull out something of comfort. Anything familiar, to remind him that he was still sane. But his hand thumped uselessly against his back.
Yakko's heart stopped. He tried again, but there was no familiar swoop into great expanse, no treasure trove of possibility at his disposal. There was only his fur and the hard line that Bosko had painted. Yakko tried again, his mouth going dry, but he only managed to punch his own back. Panic bubbled up inside him, and he held back a whimper as he began clawing at his back wildly. Where was his hammerspace? What was wrong with him? Had he been so thoroughly destroyed that he had lost his powers?
"You've been painted. Your hammerspace has been locked."
Yakko jumped and flung himself into the corner. Unbeknownst to him, one of the prisoners was still watching him. She was smaller than he was, and her legs were tucked to her chest.
"I don't have a hammerspace," Yakko lied, knowing it was already too late.
"I won't tell," she said. Her voice was hoarse, and Yakko wondered if it was from screaming.
He watched her for a moment. "What do you mean, painted?" he asked finally.
"Shh," she hissed, looking toward the door. Yakko followed her gaze. When the weasel did not turn around, she continued, "That stuff Bosko painted your back with, it's RIP. Stands for Resin Impenetrable. It seals a toon's hammerspace."
Yakko swallowed. "Is…is it, is it permanent?" he asked, his voice trembling. Did he want to hear the answer?
"I don't think so. One of the others told me Bosko has a chemical that takes it off," she replied.
Yakko exhaled and let his head fall back against the wall in relief. But the relief was swallowed up by an overwhelming sense of loss. Without his hammerspace he was vulnerable, with little more than his fists to protect himself and god knew how little good that did. And besides, he'd grown up with his hammerspace. He was cut off from a part of himself. He felt like he had lost a close friend.
"Where are we?" he asked after a moment.
"I'm not sure. All I've been able to figure out is that we're underground."
"Why are the higher Class toons in another room?"
"I don't know, I think they might be – "
The guard weasel suddenly battered his gun noisily against the bars of the door. "Bad!" he yelled at them. "Bad!"
"They really need to work on expanding their vocabulary," Yakko muttered to himself, but the girl scurried away from him.
"We can't talk," the girl hissed.
The weasel glared at them, then nodded when he deemed them under control before returning to his post. Yakko made a face at him beneath his mask before letting his face shapeshift back to normal. Relief flooded through the muscles in his cheeks and jaw. He laid his swimming head on the floor, trying to ignore the throbs of pain and hunger. He didn't know what was going on or what was going to happen, but he had to escape. He had to get back to Wakko and Dot. That was the only solid thing he could hold onto right now.
Wakko poked at the noodles in his soup with his spoon. It had gone cold long ago. This was the same bowl he had left untouched the night before.
The drive home from Pendleton had been miserable. Wakko had slid into silence and so did Scratchensniff, which meant the only thing he had to occupy himself with were thoughts of Yakko and Dot. Every other minute he looked at his phone, hoping to see a call spring up from Yakko or Bugs. But there was nothing. Things got worse when they got into Toontown. Wakko realized this was the first time he'd been able to get a good look at the city in months.
What was once a bright place bursting with life was now little more than a ghost town. Stores were boarded up, and the ones that weren't had their windows shattered from a looting. The streets were covered in filth and trash. Occasionally he would spot a toon darting along the street, pulling the collar of their jackets up to hide their face as they ran. The color and vibrancy seemed to have drained out of the city, leaving its lifeless shell behind.
Wakko felt like the city looked. Robbed of everything he knew, everything he loved, leaving him empty and alone. It had taken him a long time to accept the fact that what was happening to him was real. In just a few hours everything that was important to him had slipped from his fingers. And if only he hadn't been so stupid, so selfish, Yakko could have come back to the car and Bugs would have protected him. He would have come home and things would be just like they were.
And he had been such a jerk. Not only to Yakko, but to Dot too. He was the older one, he shouldn't have let her get to him. He was supposed to be good to her. He was supposed to protect her. Instead, he had torn all three of them apart and now he didn't know if he'd ever see either of them again. Wakko had begged to be taken to her, but Scratchensniff explained that since they had been compromised, it was too dangerous for them to be in the same place. He couldn't even call her and risk the signal being tapped. There was something coldly logical about the way he had laid that out, as if it were a medical procedure.
Without Yakko and Dot he felt like he had when his arm was hurt: unbalanced and weak, unsure about how to do normal, everyday things. Even now, as he watched a carrot bob up and down in the broth, Dot wasn't there to spoon all the celery she wouldn't eat into his bowl, nor was Yakko to make wisecracks at him until he snorted soup through his nose.
Wakko smiled at the memory, but in the next second that smile contorted into a grimace and then there was a lump in his throat. Tears threatened his eyes and Wakko swiped at them with the heels of his palms. Embarrassed, he looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was there. Who was he kidding, the only other person in the house was its owner, Scratchensniff. Scratchensniff's house was much smaller than Bugs' mansion, and it was miles more conservative in décor. It was exactly what Wakko had pictured it to look like: lots of books on shelves, lots of framed paintings of landscapes on the walls, and lots of bronze busts of old, bald guys.
Scratchensniff had pulled the can of soup from the pantry nearly the instant they'd dragged themselves through the door. 'Wakko wants food' seemed to be the only solid thing he was clinging to, and had thrust the bowl in front of him with an accomplished air. Like something had been done right that day. Scratchensniff had checked on him periodically, encouraging, almost begging him to get some sleep. There was a small guest bedroom with a couch that pulled out into a bed that apparently was Wakko's new room. If he had slept, it was only two hours at most. Most of the night was spent wondering where Yakko was. When that became too exhausting, he read, and reread, Mickey Outwits the Phantom Blot.
Shoving the bowl to the other side of the table, Wakko trudged out of the kitchen. He wasn't really aware of where his feet were taking him. His sense of purpose seemed to have vanished with his brother and sister. Rubbing at his eyes to make sure there were no last traces of the despair that had leaked out, Wakko followed the sounds of dedicated typing until he found the study. Scratchensniff was buried behind massive piles of books and papers, alternating between scrawling things down and pounding numbers into a calculator with punishing fury.
Wakko watched him from the doorway unnoticed. When he finally asked in the quietest voice possible, "What are you doing?" Scratchensniff yelped and bounced several feet out of his chair.
"Wakko, do not scare me like that," he wheezed, clutching his chest.
"Is that gonna help find Yakko?" Wakko pressed.
"You look very tired, did you eat your soup?"
"That's not gonna help me get back to Yakko and Dot."
Scratchensniff paused at this, furrowing his brow and watching Wakko carefully. "Yes, Wakko, it will. It would do your brother and sister no good if you stopped eating."
Wakko rolled his eyes, but stepped into the room to get a better look at Scratchensniff's work. The doctor's hand twitched toward his papers, an instinct from having to snatch them away from Wakko so many times, but they came to a rest on the edge of the desk instead.
"What are you working on?" Wakko asked again.
"It is very complicated," Scratchensniff sighed, "why don't you eat your soup, yah?"
"You don't want to tell me."
Straightening his back, Scratchensniff placed his pen down and knit his fingers. "I don't want to frighten you," he said, and it sounded like the truth.
"Wanting to find out what people wouldn't tell me got me into this mess," Wakko said, "I'd be a lot less scared if you would just tell me what's going on."
There was a beat before Scratchensniff began to chuckle. Wakko frowned. That was it. Scratchy had lost it. After all these years he'd finally made the old fogey crack.
Swiping a tear away from beneath his glasses, Scratchensniff said, "Some psychiatrist I am. You are right Wakko. You are very right, you know."
"I know, I've been saying it this whole time. Nobody listened," Wakko grumbled.
Scratchensniff flipped through his papers as he said, "You have to be mature to hear this. We are dealing with very serious matters."
"Duh."
"No jokes or silly business now."
"Got it."
"I suppose I will start at the beginning. That seems right, yah? Okay," Scratchensniff rambled, "It begins with Slappy, shortly after her passing. After much convincing, our friend Nutsy was kind enough to provide us the information from Slappy's autopsy. Brain – this is before he disappeared, now – Brain and I did some tests, and we concluded that her death was the result of the DIP. The DIP is of course lethal on contact to toons, and very much illegal to produce. A big no-no. In order to find the culprits, Brain and I wished to narrow down the list of suspects to those capable of creating the DIP in the first place, you see?"
At Wakko's nod, Scratchensniff continued, "Now, the DIP is made from three basic components: acetone, benzene, and turpentine. We need to know not only who has access to these ingredients, but who can acquire them in great quantities. You see, because of the dangers that the DIP incurs, any one of those ingredients are not sold to toons without a license, nor can they be purchased together in bulk. Toons who have been cruel enough to wield it in the past have made it from scratch. If you did not know, acetone and benzene are derived from petroleum, and turpentine is derived from resin."
Wakko stuck out his tongue in thought. Petroleum…that word was sparking something in his memory…
"In the meantime, Brain and I also wanted to find a way to combat the situation. We might not be able to stop the criminals from making the DIP, but maybe we could stop the DIP itself. We were running experiments, but unfortunately all of Brain's empirical research was stolen…along with Brain himself. I am trying to carry on the research myself, but as far as toons go, no brain compares to Brain's."
As far as toons go…toons go
"ToonGO!" Wakko he shouted, jumping off the globe. "It's a petroleum plant!"
"My goodness Wakko, how on earth do you know about that? Have you been reading the newspaper?" Scratchensniff asked, as though the very idea of Wakko reading was inconceivable to him.
"No way, I heard Max and Yak – " Wakko halted. Saying Yakko's name out loud was painful, like opening up a wound that was trying to heal. "…and my brother talk about it at Slappy's viewing, and Shirley brought it up again the last time we saw her. But, they're both gone now…"
This had never occurred to Wakko, but he pushed the troubling thought aside as he said hurriedly, "Scratchy, do you think ToonGO is where they're getting the stuff to make DIP?"
"It is a possibility that had occurred to Bugs," Scratchensniff informed, "He had Shirley try to investigate, though she was unable to uncover very much information. Oswald is quite secretive, and he runs the facility as such. That is why I tracked the weasel sightings – you should know this, with all your snooping of my things – I found it odd that there was an influx of weasels at the same time as Slappy's passing. I wanted to see if their whereabouts correlated with the plant, but the results were inconclusive."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the data did not support the theory."
"So no one found any weasels around there?"
"Well, of course there were a few in the vicinity – "
"Oh, there, that supports it."
"Not necessarily."
"But you just said you found weasels there."
"This is science! The data does not support – you know, nevermind. The point that I want to make is that ToonGO is a possibility, not a certainty. Besides, we have no leads on who the petroleum was issued to, who has the means to create acetone and benzene from it, the list goes on."
Wakko sighed and stared at the globe. He didn't care what the man said, he was filing ToonGO away as "highly suspicious" in his mind. That Oswald guy had been a creep, and if Pete was involved, that had to mean trouble. But now that he had this information, he had no idea what to do with it. What was he gonna do, march up to ToonGO's gate and demand to know where Yakko was? Regardless, he felt better now that he was no longer completely in the dark. Like he had a few pieces of armor before going into battle.
Turning his attention back to the globe, he picked out Toontown, nestled in Southern California. He traced the west coast of North America, letting his finger trickle down past Mexico and toward Peru. He was suddenly vividly reminded of Yakko dancing and singing in front of the map of the world, and he yanked his finger back as though the globe had bit him.
"Scratchy," Wakko said after moment, "how do you know if someone has DIP?"
"Toons are naturally repulsed by the smell," Scratchensniff said, "its a survival instinct. The stench is quite horrific. We had to take a whiff of it in medical school and I, well, I fainted."
"Does it smell worse than a skunk?"
"The DIP smell is a different kind of bad. It is frightening, in a way. Which is quite useful really, that way you know to stay away from it."
"Is the DIP in a tub, like in Roger Rabbit? Is that how they got Slappy?"
Scratchensniff pinched the bridge of his nose. "That we do not know. It seems cumbersome to carry a tub of it around, and it would be difficult to hide. You cannot put the DIP in your hammerspace, you see. It would dissolve it immediately, from the inside out. The criminals seem to be propelling the DIP without causing injury to themselves. We are not sure how."
An unbidden image of Slappy being doused in DIP jumped into his mind and Wakko swallowed. Thinking of what Slappy's last moments must have been like had always upset him, but now with all his uncertainties about Yakko it made him positively nauseous. What he wouldn't give for his brother and sister now…he would never be mean to either one of them again, he swore it…
"Wakko, you are looking a little ill," Scratchensniff said, looking concerned, "You know, I think this was enough chitty chat for one night. Why don't you eat your soup and get some rest, does that sound good? Do you want me to reheat your food?"
"I can use a microwave," Wakko muttered.
He waited as the doctor studied him for a moment. Probably deciding if he really was smart enough to use a microwave, or if he was just the stupid middle child –
"Wakko, I am thinking that, in light of…everything…it might be best to take your mind off of things. You are sixteen now, yah?"
Wakko frowned but nodded. Did Scratchensniff really think you needed to be sixteen to use a microwave?
"Once the hubbub settles," Scratchensniff began, smiling hesitantly, "we will need little breaks from work for our mental health, which is very important you know. So I was wondering if you – now remember, we cannot go very far and we will have to stay away from riffraff – but I wondered if you would like a few driving lessons."
Wakko blinked. "Driving? Like, in a car?"
"Yes Wakko, in a car. You seem like you need some confidence, and I think this will do just the thing. What do you think?"
In spite of everything, a small grin tugged at the corner of Wakko's mouth. He nodded. Scratchensniff smiled back, but then looked away to swipe at his eyes with a finger.
Dot rolled over on her bed as another sob rocked her small frame. After waking up that morning to find out that there was no hint of Yakko, not even a footprint, Dot had returned to her room and hadn't left since. The curtains stayed drawn, and she spent the day fading in and out of sleep when the crying became too exhausting.
It was as though she had been dropped into a churning ocean without the two life preservers she had been promised. Dot did not know life without her brothers, and had barely gone a day without seeing at least one of them. They'd taught her how to walk, how to talk, how to sing. They'd shown her everything, they'd taught her how to love, how to stand up for herself, they'd been her guiding light in the world. Without them she wouldn't have gotten on Animaniacs, let alone JTAP. Scratch that – she'd probably still be stuck at the orphanage. She would have never met any of her friends, she would have never danced on stage in front of an audience or, far more importantly, given them impromptu dance recitals in their own apartment.
She just wanted to be little again, she wanted Yakko to hug her and tell her everything was going to be alright. She wanted to be back in their little room on the lot, warm and safe, just the three of them, watching a movie, chattering to each other about whatever carefree thought had crossed their mind. She wanted to go to sleep at night knowing that Yakko and Wakko would be there when she woke.
But they weren't going to be there. They'd abandoned her. And Yakko, he said he'd never leave her. Never.
How could he just walk out on her like this? Yakko had promised he'd come back, he'd promised. How many times had he said he'd always be there for her? That he'd never let anything happen to her? Where was he now?
Dot unleashed a fresh sob into her pillow. It was always easiest to blame Yakko, even when it wasn't his fault. She'd known Yakko her entire life, and she knew that he was probably doing everything he could to get back to her. But while that should have been comforting, that thought only launched a thousand more poisonous little questions: was he hurt, was that why it was taking him so long? Was he kidnapped? Was he lost? Was he even still alive?
As a new wave of sobs washed over her Dot clung to her pillow, desperately trying to convince herself it was one of her brothers. When she was upset, she would go to Yakko and he would hold her, giving her words of comfort until she felt better. In the rare event that he was unavailable, she would curl up next to Wakko and he would be his goofy self until she cheered up. There were no limits to how silly he would act, as long as it got her to laugh then it seemed worth it to him. But now she couldn't do that. She had lost both of them.
And she'd been horrible to Wakko. She'd be surprised if he even thought she still loved him. It was pathetic, really; she had viewed him as a threat to her social status at JTAP, but was paper thin popularity worth it to her now? And after JTAP, it just seemed like second nature to fight and argue, because they'd learned so well how to push each other's buttons. She wanted to take it all back, all of it…okay, maybe not that time she punched him for leaving an old grilled cheese sandwich in her dresser for days, he had that coming…but she would take it back if she could at least have him to cling to right now. She hated being alone. Having never known what it was to be alone in the first place, it frightened her. So she gave in the to the overwhelming urge to leave the room and the encompassing feeling of loss.
Bugs' house seemed hollow now, like all the life had been sucked out of it. The hallways stretched on without the benefit of Bugs guiding her through the menagerie of old movie props or Yakko and Wakko racing each other until Bugs howled at them to do something less threatening to his bazillion dollar sculptures. There was only one person in the house now, and she would have taken Baloney over him. Yosemite had not spoken a word to her since yesterday, unless she counted mumbling obscenities under his breath as light conversation. She hated that she had to resort to him, but she was out of options. She was going to have to seek comfort from Yosemite Sam.
She found him in Bugs' living room, cleaning his pistols with a cloth. He had managed to smear grease stains all over Bugs' nice couch, and the room stank of gunpowder. Dot hovered in the doorway, waiting for him so say something. But after several minutes he did not look up from his guns. Hmm, maybe he hadn't noticed her. So she sniffed a little bit – that always got Yakko's attention – but he just kept scrubbing away at his pistol. Dot began to tap her foot.
"Well?" she huffed, crossing her arms.
"Well what? Whaddaya want?" Yosemite spit back gruffly.
"I'm obviously having a bad day, the least you could do is see how I'm doing!" Dot cried.
He glared up at her with his beady eyes for a millisecond. "There. I saw ya. Yer doin' fine."
"That's not what I mean!"
"Button yer yap, I was busy tryin' to settle things down in town today, I didn't have time to witness yer mopin'."
"I wasn't moping, I'm upset because – wait, you went to Toontown? You left me here by myself?" Dot blurted.
"Looks that way, don't it?" Yosemite muttered, holding a gun to the light and squinting at it.
Dot plopped her hands on her hips. "I thought you told me I was in danger! What if those weasels came after me?"
"Then they woulda got tangled up in the rabbit's security system," Yosemite said, "Look, yer fine enough to stand here belly-achin' at me, so no harm done. Now shut up already, I've got guns to load."
Dot grit her teeth. No one talked to her like that and got away with it. Clenching her fists, Dot marched straight up to him. When Yosemite didn't even bother to look her way, Dot scooped up the pile of bullets he had assembled on the couch.
"Hey!" he snapped, jumping to his feet and waving his pistols, "Give 'em back, yer gonna shoot yer damn toe off or something!"
"With what, my good looks? You're the one with the guns," Dot retorted.
Blinking down at the guns in his hands, Yosemite seemed to remember they were there and quickly stuffed them in their holsters. "Hand over the bullets," he said, stretching out his hand.
Dot promptly dropped them in her hammerspace.
"What're doin'? Ya deaf? Give me the bullets!"
"What bullets?" Dot asked snidely.
"The bullets ya just – oooh!" Yosemite growled, "Yer a damn brat, you know that?"
"Watch who you're calling brat, short stuff," Dot retorted. Simple, but effective, judging by how red Yosemite's face was growing.
"You are too a brat. That damn chatty brother a' your's spoilt you rotten," he barked.
The fur on Dot's neck bristled. Taking an aggressive step forward, she snapped, "He did not!"
Yosemite stepped forward as well. "He done spoilt ya, he treated ya like a freakin' princess! Look at ya, ya spent the day holed up in yer room with yer problems. In the meantime, I was doin' my job and tryin' to track down the suckers. Cryin' never solved nuttin'. You got problems? Then deal with 'em, instead of fartin' around waitin' for yer brothers to slave away and do it for you! Those two are fools, both of 'em, for lettin' you get away with all this malarkey!"
"Say one more word about my brothers and I'll knock your block off!" she shouted, pushing forward so they were nose to nose.
Yosemite raised an eyebrow at this, and Dot could have sworn he looked somewhat impressed. Turning his back toward her, he gave her a cool look over his shoulder and said, "Fine, I'll go easy on 'em. Guess it ain't right to kick a man while he's down…or hopelessly lost in the desert, rather…"
"Thanks for the tact," Dot spat.
"Oh dry up. Now give me my ammunition, yer wastin' my time."
"Wasting your time doing what? Admiring all your shiny things?" Dot retorted, nodding toward his pistols.
"These here shiny things are what're helpin' me help the rabbit, which helps your brother, which in turn helps you, so shut yer yap," Yosemite shot back.
Dot frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I owe the rabbit, so I'm helpin' him. And the rabbit thinks yer brother walks on water, god knows why, so what helps him helps Warner, got it? So you wanna give me those bullets or do you want to want to make it even harder to find the Warner kid?"
They glared at each other, neither willing to blink first. At long last Dot reached slowly into her hammerspace and withdrew the handful of bullets. She tossed them on the couch, watching them bounce and scatter, before grumbling, "I'm really gonna miss your pleasant disposition when you leave."
Yosemite dropped bullets into the cylinder. "I ain't thrilled to be saddled with you either. If the rabbit thinks I'm his babysitter he's got another thing comin'. The second he shows face I'm dumping you on him."
"I relish the thought," Dot snapped. Unable to stand another second with him, she marched out of the room.
She didn't stop marching until she reached the balcony. Great, a lot of comfort he was. She probably would have felt better if she hugged a cactus. The smell would have at least been an improvement. Tears began to surge again; there was nothing else she wanted more in this world right now than her brothers. The last lights of dusk faded to give way to twinkling stars. They mocked her, reminding her of things that were unfettered by pain and fear and self-doubt. She wanted to climb into the sky and push the stars out of the way. She would wait until Yakko or Wakko saw her up there and they would pluck her down so they could be together again. She sobbed.
But between her shuddering gasps she heard Yosemite's obnoxious voice in her head… Cryin' never solved nuttin'. You got problems? Then deal with 'em…
Dot wiped at her cheeks before the salt from her tears could dry and make her fur crunchy to the touch. Then she pulled a hankie out of her hammerspace and blew her nose; she never understood how Hollywood starlets made crying look so attractive. When she cried there were tears and snot and just all around grossness. But she scrubbed her face clean until her eyes were dry and her breath was steady. As much as it pained her to admit it, Yosemite was right. Crying was not going to bring Yakko or Wakko back.
Besides, that's not what they would do. Yakko was smart, he would use his head and plan something brilliant while Wakko would do something way out of the box that no one saw coming, just because his brain worked that way. Well, Dot wasn't helpless. She wasn't just going to hide in her room and cry. She took a deep breath as she stared into the night. After all, she was the Warner sister.
It was much easier to get out of Bugs' estate than she thought. Heck, she could've done it in her sleep. It was all a matter of dropping off the balcony and squashing when she hit the ground. A quick toon sprint to the far end of the property line, jumping the wall (that took her two tries, admittedly) and she found herself in the Hollywood hills. And all this time she thought there'd be some fanfare.
She would find her brothers one by one. Dot knew that Wakko was with Scratchensniff, and she knew where Scratchensniff lived, so she knew where she was going. It was a bit of a hike, but she could make it before dawn if she kept a good pace. And then, after she got Wakko, maybe they could find Skippy, and then they could all find Yakko…
The sound of a twig snapping made Dot jump and reel around. The roads leading out of the hills twisted through trees and brush that, in the shade of night, seemed like the hulking silhouettes of monsters. Dot swallowed; she was fourteen-years-old for crying out loud, she had to get a grip on herself. There was no such thing as monsters. But there sure as hell is a such thing as weasels, she thought when she heard a rustle in the bushes.
Dot chewed on her lip. Okay, so maybe this wasn't such a good idea. She hadn't gone very far, she could probably go back –
Three weasels bounded from the shadows and onto the street. Their teeth glinted in the streetlight as they sneered at her, and Dot felt rooted to the ground in fear. How did they find her so fast? They must have been waiting outside Bugs' place. Waiting for her to be alone. Somehow they knew she was there.
"B-Back off, I mean it!" Dot shouted. It probably would've been more threatening if she didn't sound like she was going to faint. She reached behind her back for something big like her mallet, but she was so nervous that her hand came up empty.
The weasels advanced on her, slowly. One of them pulled something from his belt – a black sack. Dot let out a squeak of fright and jumped back, promptly tripping and falling on her rear. The foremost weasel crouched low to the ground, preparing to lunge, and her breath caught in her throat.
A gunshot split the air and Dot heard the pop of breaking class as the streetlight was shot out. Darkness engulfed the narrow street. She could hear the hisses and whimpers of the confused weasels, and Dot looked around wildly for whatever gun-wielding lunatic was currently making her night worse than it already was. But it was too dark, she could barely make out her white gloves.
Then Dot screamed as an engine revved beside her, loud and angry like an animal. A single, blinding headlight illuminated the weasels and they squealed in surprise. Something grasped Dot by the back of the neck and she kicked and squirmed as she was lifted into the air.
"Quit fidgetin'!" Yosemite Sam barked at her.
"Sam?" Dot blurted, blinking at him as her eyes adjusted.
"Who'd ya think it was, Santa Claus?" he retorted. He dropped her down behind him, and Dot realized they were on a rather robust motorcycle.
Yosemite took aim and shot a round of bullets at the feet of the weasels, making them scatter instantly. He twirled the gun around his finger as he bellowed, "Scram, varmints! And think twice about moseyin' on up to these parts, I'll skin ya alive next time ya show yer ugly mugs!"
The tires spun out beneath them for a moment before they wheeled sharply around and began to speed back up the hill. "What were ya thinkin'?" Yosemite hollered. "Told ya we been compromised, them damn smugglers have been sniffin' around the rabbit's doorstep all day!"
Dot didn't respond, she simply clutched at his jacket as relief flooded through her.
"Don't you Warner nuts know a thing or two about not getting' in trouble every – holy tarnation!"
Dot had barely looked over her shoulder when she caught a face full of fur and sweat. A weasel had latched on to the back of the motorcycle and was currently clawing at whatever it could get it claws on, which seemed to be primarily Yosemite's vest. He bellowed like a banshee and the motorcycle weaved violently. Images of a fiery wreck flooding her mind, Dot reached behind her back and her heart jumped happily as she pulled out her mallet. The motorcycle swayed again, and it was all she could do to hold on to the bike with her legs and she raised the mallet over her head. With a mighty swing, Dot connected with the weasel with a satisfying thwack, and she noticed a pair of cuckoo birds flapping around his head before the weasel fell slowly back and toppled off the bike. He lay spread eagle in the middle of the street before they rounded a corner and he disappeared from view.
"Crazy varmint, ruinin' my best vest," Yosemite muttered, brushing off his chest with one hand. He squinted at her over his shoulder. "You all right?"
"Fine, relatively speaking," Dot breathed as she slid her mallet back into her hammerspace.
"Any more of 'em back there?"
"Nope."
He stared at the road. "You pack quite a punch, little lady," he muttered gruffly.
Dot quirked an eyebrow at him. "And you're a better shot than you are in your cartoons."
"Damn right," he said.
She watched him for a moment as the trees whipped past them and revealed Bugs' house around the bend. "Thanks for saving me," she said.
"Yeah, whatever," he grumbled.
Dot grinned and leaned forward, letting Yosemite block most of the wind.