If you've ever wondered what an Animaniacs movie would be like... well, this is just my take on the idea. It's a shame the series was given the axe before 2000 - can you imagine the fun they would have had with the Y2K stuff? Since they never got around to it, I'm taking the opportunity to spring the Warners from the water tower and pick up where the original series left off.

This story, set in late 1999, details the studio finding the Warners a babysitter to keep an eye on them while preparations for the big millennium party at the studio are underway. They eventually find a teenager named Nori, who loves Wakko and Dot but is exasperated by Yakko's constant attempts to flirt with her. What happens from there? Let's just say they all find out that the Y2K scare may be more real than they thought.

I'm following the original series continuity here, so expect to see Hello Nurse and Slappy making appearances! Also, I've hidden a few pop-culture and BTS Easter eggs in this opening chapter - see if you can find them all!

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.

"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here." – Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

Don't take life too seriously. You'll never get out of it alive! – Bugs Bunny

Newsreel of the Stars, dateline Hollywood, 1930, the Warner Brothers studio. Here at the studio's new animation department, the artists toil endlessly to come up with cartoon stars, ultimately creating three new characters: the Warner brothers and their sister, Dot. Unfortunately, the Warner kids went totally out of control. The trio ran amok throughout the studio… until their capture. The Warners' films, which made absolutely no sense, were locked away in the studio vault, never to be released. As for the Warners themselves, they were locked away in the studio water tower, also never to be released. Publicly, the studio disavowed any knowledge of the Warners' existence until 1993, when the Warners escaped for the first time to wreak havoc on the studio lot. And this very day, on the cusp of a new millennium, they are about to escape again…

September 13, 1999

It's quiet… too quiet.

By all rights, Thaddeus Plotz should have been giving thanks for the quiet spell. There was never a day when the Warner studio was out of work, but 1999 had been, so far, the busiest year they'd had. The Matrix had come out of nowhere to become a blockbuster smash, The Green Mile would soon hold everyone in suspense, and Deep Blue Sea, dumb though it was, had managed to make people laugh, if not scare them. More than once that year, Mr. Plotz had thought what a crying shame it was that they'd only just managed to secure the rights to Harry Potter – seven movies out of that would make him a fortune. Lord knew, he'd relish the chance to roll around in a pile of cold, hard cash during a blistering Burbank summer.

But summer was on its last leg, and the first Potter film was in the infancy of production. Though The Matrix had padded his wallet quite nicely (how else was he able to stand eye-level with others? Everyone knew he was taller when he stood on his wallet), and he was looking forward to seeing how much The Green Mile would bring in (because let's face it, Stephen King movies drew viewers like garbage drew flies), this quiet day, which was out of the ordinary, didn't sit well with him. Quiet at Warner Bros. Studios didn't mean break time. More often than not, it meant a lull before a storm. Knock wood, nothing will happen, Mr. Plotz thought to himself, as he knocked wood, grabbed a rabbit's foot (no, not that rabbit, thank you very much) and threw some salt over his shoulder. Stay quiet, was his mantra as he warily eyed the water tower.

It was the weirdest thing – there hadn't been a peep out of them for months, not since filming on their upcoming TV special wrapped. There was one time before principal photography began on The Matrix, when the youngest one threatened to get her paws all over Keanu Reeves, but Mr. Plotz had ensured to nip that in the bud. He'd sent in the big gun to keep her at bay, and it had worked. Otherwise, they had been pretty quiet, which was not a good sign. Waiting to see what the three brats would do was like waiting for a volcano to erupt: tense, nerve-wracking, and holding your breath for noxious gas. Okay, that last one pertained more to the middle kid, but let's not split hairs. Mr. Plotz could almost hear the oldest brat – the one with a mouth bigger than Texas and attitude to match – saying You need hair to split first, T.P. It was enough to make steam pour out of the studio chief's ears.

"Calm down, Thaddeus," Mr. Plotz said to himself, willing his nerves to cool off. "Think rave reviews. Think Oscars. Think cold, hard cash. Lots of it." With visions of dollar signs dancing in his head, Mr. Plotz inhaled deeply and let it out, feeling some tension go with it. "That's better." He glanced at the clock on the wall, which pointed to noon. "Well, I might as well go get lunch. What could happen between here and the commissary?" Just in case he was tempting fate too much, Mr. Plotz grabbed his whole saltshaker and threw it over his shoulder. The water tower remained silent. Expelling a sigh of relief, Mr. Plotz rose from his desk and made his way out of his spacious office.

"Going to lunch, Mr. Plotz?"

Mr. Plotz stopped to face his new secretary, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. He'd for sure thought it would be a mistake hiring Miss Flamiel's cousin to field his calls (considering Miss Flamiel could barely field those three), but he'd been forced to eat humble pie. So far, Teressa Flamazel had proven efficient and organized, and her shorthand actually looked like shorthand, not chicken scratch. Not to mention she could direct calls better than Ma Bell. "Just to the commissary, Miss Flamazel. I see you've been already," he said, nodding at the salad that graced her desk.

Miss Flamazel grinned. "Chicken Cobb salad, minus the bacon." She speared a forkful of chicken, lettuce, and hard-boiled egg. "You ought to check out the specials. They have a grilled turkey on brioche and teriyaki salmon today."

"Considering I deal with turkeys on a daily basis, I'd better go for the salmon. I'll be back in a few minutes. Hold down the fort while I'm gone."

"With all due respect, sir, I don't think the studio's going to burn to the ground while you're gone," Miss Flamazel called after him; Mr. Plotz quashed the urge to say That's what you think as he left.

The day was typical for a late summer day in Burbank: blue skies, sunshine, and heat just-this-side-of-Hades hot. Cartoon characters and humans alike were milling about the Warner lot, socializing on their way to the next soundstage. It wasn't uncommon to run into the Looney Tunes at any given time – heck, they were the studio's biggest stars and had been for years, no matter what the human actors tried to tell you. Mr. Plotz, who wasn't above schmoozing the stars to work on WB films, would have bent over backwards and kissed Bugs Bunny's feet to keep him happy. He'd even do the same for Daffy Duck, obnoxious jerk he was most of the time. However, Daffy's antics looked like chump change next to the shenanigans of the three brats. Clamping the lid on his thoughts yet again, Mr. Plotz shot a panicked glance at the water tower. Still as silent as the grave. Plotz, you're paranoid, he silently chastised himself. And you're trying to jinx yourself. Think food. Think quiet. Think money. He was still repeating these like a mantra when he hopped a tram bound for the commissary.

Once he was inside, Mr. Plotz breathed a sigh, grateful for an uneventful trip. Now he could breathe easier. As he made his way to the counter and placed an order for teriyaki salmon with a side of rice and stir-fry veggies, he cast an admiring eye in the direction of the commissary's spectacular dining room. All honey-oak floors and white pillars with swirling ceilings and gilt-edged windows that glowed golden in sunlight, it had long been the host of many a studio party. God willing, this year it would be the host of the biggest bash yet – to welcome in the new millennium. Pending, of course, any foolish outbursts about the world ending at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve. Mr. Plotz didn't hold with such nonsense. However, he did believe in gate-crashers. If there did end up being chaos when Y2K finally came, those three would have something to do with it. Yet again, he had to remind himself to stay calm as he took his food and high-tailed it back to his office.

Miss Flamazel didn't even bat an eyelash when Mr. Plotz returned. "Still not eating in the commissary, huh?"

"That dining room is too precious to risk. The other studio execs can eat in there if they want, but I'm parking myself in here where it's safe. Away from vandals," Mr. Plotz grumbled, almost to himself.

Good-naturedly, Miss Flamazel rolled her eyes. "Those vandals are just a bunch of kids who want to have fun. Granted, I've only met them once, but they seem sweet."

Mr. Plotz looked at her like she had lobsters crawling out of her ears. " Sweet? Miss Flamazel, have you lost your marbles? Those three are not sweet! They're completely insane! They make Daffy Duck and Taz look catatonic, for crying out loud! They've been banned from the commissary already because they bring destruction in their wake! And considering we've got the biggest party of the year coming up in less than four months, I really don't want to throw it for our stars in a room that looks less like a banquet hall and more like a set from Twister!"

Mr. Plotz's voice had steadily climbed during the tirade and he could feel heat rising in his face, so he could only imagine how he looked to his secretary. Indeed, Miss Flamazel was gazing evenly at him, the barest hint of amusement curving her lips. Once he had run out of steam, she grinned at him, her blue eyes twinkling, and asked dryly, "Are you done, sir?"

Mr. Plotz blew out a sigh, mentally exhausted. He didn't even have the heart to chew her out for her sassiness. "For now, Miss Flamazel. For now."

Miss Flamazel laughed and brushed a piece of her dark bob haircut out of her face. "Mr. Plotz, you've gotta relax! Maybe if you'd be a mensch to those kids now and then, they wouldn't aggravate you so much."

"Do you have kids?"

"No, but I do have a niece and two nephews, one of whom is a world-class smart-aleck. I do know something about dealing with kids, trust me."

"Maybe you can look after them, then."

Miss Flamazel hooted with laughter. " And stamp your mail, field your calls, and arrange your schedule? Mr. Plotz, you don't pay me anywhere near enough."

Now it was Mr. Plotz's turn to roll his eyes. "Remind me why I hired you."

"My cousin did you a favor by not quitting." Miss Flamazel shot him a grin. "And I'm the only one willing to put up with you."

Mr. Plotz couldn't say much in response. He knew his temper more than compensated for his height, which was one reason among many why he was a regular on the studio shrink's couch. In his defense, though, he often had a good reason (or three) for blowing his stack. "I'm going to eat now. Hold my calls."

"Stranglehold or full nelson?"

"Ha-ha," Mr. Plotz deadpanned as he shut himself inside his office. Once at his desk, he cracked open the takeout container and inhaled the delicious aroma of freshly cooked salmon smothered in teriyaki sauce. "Come to Papa," he said, cutting into the salmon filet. He'd no sooner popped the bite into his mouth than a loud creak from outside startled him. His heart leaping into his throat, Mr. Plotz bolted to the window. The water tower was still standing, not a girder out of place. He stared at it through slitted eyes, as though daring anything to happen. Nothing did. Reluctantly, he turned around – and another sound, this time a banging noise, came through. He zipped back to the window – again, nothing.

"You're paranoid!" he said to himself for the second time, plunking himself back into his chair. "That could be a soundstage door or noise coming from one of the sets." He picked up his water glass and stared at his reflection. "Repeat after me: you are going to finish your lunch in peace. Nothing is going to happen." He raised the glass to his lips and threw back half of it like it was Jack Daniel's.

KABLAM!

An eardrum-shattering blast sounded from outside, rocking the entire building and causing Mr. Plotz to spit his water clear across the office. Swiping a hand across his mouth, a cry of "What the…" escaped him as he made a beeline for the window. The CEO's jaw hit the floor at what he saw.

The top of the water tower had been blown off completely and fireworks were shooting out in torrents, exploding against the blue sky in whirls of red, green, purple, and gold. Of course, each explosion was accompanied by a boom like cannon fire, which prompted all sorts of screams from below. Confetti was also pouring out like the tower was Vesuvius and this was extremely glittery lava. And just when Mr. Plotz thought things couldn't get any worse, they did. Three rockets flew out of the tower on a wave of multicolored sparks, ridden by the banes of his existence: the Warner brothers (and the Warner sister), Yakko, Wakko, and Dot. All three of them were shrieking with laughter; Yakko, the eldest, was hollering "I'm the King Kong of the world! Yeehaw!" at the top of his lungs, waving a cowboy hat in the air.

Screw the salmon, Mr. Plotz was too angry to eat now. Curse his big mouth, he'd finally tempted fate and the Warners were loose again, in full-blown chaotic fashion. And now that they were out, they'd stay out, forcing everyone on the lot to try and keep them under lock and key.

"I'd say great balls of fire, but I think that'd be an understatement."

Mr. Plotz turned to see Miss Flamazel behind him; apparently, he'd not heard her come in. Then again, who could over all that racket? "I swear, I'm cursed. Every time I think things are going great, the Warners break out and wreak havoc. This is just what I need with our millennium celebration coming up!"

"Sir, relax! They're not gonna screw anything up. Just come over here and sit down," Miss Flamazel said soothingly, leading the red-faced boss to his chair. "They'll get bored sooner or later and head back to the water tower. For now, just calm down, stay here, and eat your…"

"DUCK!"

"Sir, you have salmon, not duck. Do you really want to give Daffy a heart attack?"

"No, incoming! Duck!" Mr. Plotz yelled, diving under the desk and dragging Miss Flamazel with him, just before the window shattered. In flew the Warners on their rockets; the siblings cruised around the office before pausing over the desk. "Peekaboo, we see you!" came the voice of Dot, the sister.

"Are we playing hide and seek?" That was Wakko, the middle Warner.

"If we are, I get dibs on seeking Miss Flamazel," said Yakko, who let out a Casanova growl.

Miss Flamazel chuckled and stood up. Mr. Plotz firmly remained under the desk. "Call off the dibs, Yakko. I'm right here," she said.

The boys chorused "Helloooo, Miss Flamazel!" while Dot simply said, "Hi, Miss Flamazel. Ignore my brothers."

"Don't worry. My cousin already gave me plenty of advice on what to do."

"Flamiel and Flamazel, what a team!" said Wakko.

"Did you two work at Hasenpfeffer Incorporated before you came here?" Yakko asked.

Before Miss Flamazel could answer, Mr. Plotz finally emerged from his hidey-hole and faced the Warners. They were still perched atop their rockets, smiling like butter wouldn't melt. "You three are going to be knee-deep in hasenpfeffer if you don't explain this mess right now! Are you trying to burn the lot down?"

Yakko barked a laugh. "Why would we burn down our favorite playground? We're practicing for the biggest night of the year!"

"My early retirement?"

"No, silly!" Dot chortled, leaning down to pinch Mr. Plotz's cheek. "New Year's Eve! We heard about the big party and we wanna help celebrate!"

"And you know us," Yakko said. "Go big or go home."

" Go home is what you need to do!" Mr. Plotz ordered, but the Warners just kept on going.

"How'd you like our little fireworks display? That part of it was mine, 'cause I've always been a firecracker," Yakko said proudly.

"The confetti was my idea," Dot chimed in.

"And I built the rocket launcher," Wakko spoke up, flourishing a remote control and pressing the button, which fired off more chrysanthemum, peony, and flying fish fireworks, with a few Roman candles thrown in for good measure.

"Nice kaboom, little bro," Yakko complimented while Wakko beamed with pride.

Mr. Plotz had had enough. In between explosions, he roared, "GET OUT!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, we know the drill," Yakko waved him off. "Come on, sibs; let's blow this popsicle stand. We've got work to do." Wakko and Dot soared out the window, but Yakko turned his rocket around at the last second. "Oh, uh, Thad? We left you a little present. Hope you like cherries." The toon winked and flew out to join his siblings.

Instantly, Mr. Plotz's puce-colored face drained to white. "Cherries? He can't mean…"

"Yes, he can! Amscray!" Miss Flamazel yelled, pelting toward the window with a round red, sparking firework in her hand. Mr. Plotz dove out of the way, narrowly avoiding being mowed down by his secretary, who screeched to a halt in front of the window and hurled the cherry bomb out into the sky. And not a moment too soon, as the bomb exploded, raining fat red cherries down on the lot.

"Ughhh," Mr. Plotz groaned, dragging himself up into his chair. "Miss Flamazel, get me two things."

"A drink?"

"That, and Dr. Scratchansniff. I need to do something before those Warners give me a stroke."

Dr. Otto von Scratchansniff, fondly known around the studio as Scratchy, didn't even need to ask why he was being summoned to the CEO's office. It had been impossible not to hear and see the Warners' latest escape from the water tower. He couldn't deny that it was impressive – those three, for all their zaniness, were not stupid by any stretch. Scratchy just wished that the kids wouldn't get so destructive sometimes, for their sake, if not for his. If the pranks did end up burning the studio to the ground (the neighboring studios of Universal and Paramount had running bets on when it would happen), Mr. Plotz would find a way to keep the Warners locked away for all time. As much as they drove him bananas, Scratchy didn't want them caged up. They were children, after all, and children needed freedom. Especially an eldest child who had been both father and mother to his siblings for years.

Scratchy chuckled as he walked through the WB administration office. While the whole escape spoke of the three kids' creativity – including Wakko's engineering genius and Dot's flair for over-the-top glitz – there was no doubt in his mind that Yakko had masterminded the plan. The toon's mind was permanently locked on a 90-mile-an-hour cruise control, forever crafting plans, pranks, and puns when his nose wasn't buried in a geography book. And Scratchy had to give Yakko credit: whenever they did carry out one of their wild pranks or escapes, he never failed to allow his little brother and sister their moments to shine, encouraging them to use their own talents to best advantage. Long story short, the boy was a great big brother and sharp as a tack – and yes, he did have a heart as big as his mouth.

It was this defense among many that the studio psychiatrist was mentally rehearsing on his way to see Mr. Plotz. Yes, the studio has a big party coming up, but do we have to keep the Warners locked up? It would only cause more trouble, and poor Mr. Plotz is too shortsighted to see that.

That ain't the only thing short about him, Scratchy. Shortsighted, short-heighted, short tempered, short-fused… heck, you could add short end of the stick, but that's referring more to his brains.

The fact that Scratchy even cooked up a joke that Yakko could have responded with made him laugh, this time at himself. How ironic was it that he'd spent six years trying to get inside the Warners' heads, only to have them get inside his? It was funny and frightening at the same time; Sigmund Freud would have had a field day at the implications of it. Not to mention it was probably for the best that Scratchy had never mentioned this to Mr. Plotz. Knowing how the CEO felt about the Warners, he would have had Scratchy locked up in the water tower as well, complete with straitjacket and thorazine. Scratchy had already seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and he was in no hurry to recreate it, thank you.

Upon reaching the correct floor, the psychiatrist turned a corner and made for the door marked Chairman of the Board. Inside, past the long meeting table where the studio executives played frequent games of hardball, was the secretary's office and, finally, the boss's inner sanctum. Normally, Scratchy would have entered the main office right away, but today, he paused at the secretary's desk. " Guten tag, Miss Flamazel."

Miss Flamazel raised her eyes from her computer and smiled. "Long time, no see, Dr. Scratchy," she teased, referring to his frequent visits to the office. "Seems like only yesterday you were just here."

"It vas only yesterday," Scratchy said.

"How time flies. So, do you know why you're here?"

"I assume zis is about ze Varners escaping again?"

"You assume right. Mr. Plotz is mad as a hornet about that little pyrotechnics show they put on." Miss Flamazel's blue eyes glittered and she leaned in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I thought it was pretty cool," she said quietly.

Scratchy's mouth quirked. "Zey are nothing if not creative."

"You ain't just whistling Dixie. I mean, a cherry bomb that explodes in real cherries? Those three could give Acme a run for their money."

"Ach." Scratchy's eyes looked heavenward. " Gott help Vile E. Coyote if zat ever happens."

Suddenly, an irate voice snapped over the intercom, "God help you if you don't haul your keister in here NOW, Scratchansniff. Miss Flamazel, cut the chitchat and send him in."

Cool as a cucumber, Miss Flamazel pressed the intercom, responded "Right away, sir," and returned her grin to Scratchy. "Mazel tov," she whispered; he murmured " Danke" back before entering the boss's domain.

Mr. Plotz was seated at his desk, squeezing the living daylights out of a water tube toy until it bulged. Scratchy thought of warning him about getting soaked in glitter water if he squeezed too hard, but self-preservation made him bite his tongue. "Good afternoon, Mr. Plotz," he greeted.

"Save the pleasantries and sit down, Scratchansniff," Mr. Plotz ordered, waving a hand at a nearby chair. "I'm just going to cut to the chase: we have three huge problems on our hands, and their names are Yakko, Wakko, and Dot."

"Sir, if you're referring to zeir escape zis afternoon –"

"No, I'm referring to their escape last Thursday. Of course I'm referring to their escape this afternoon!" Mr. Plotz thundered, slamming the water tube down on his desk. Fortunately, it didn't burst, although it did bounce and fly right into Scratchy's lap. When he spoke again, it was clear he was struggling to keep his voice level. "We've had one of the best cinematic and financial years at Warner Brothers so far. We're set to release a highly-anticipated thriller this fall, and we're capping off the end of the twentieth century with the biggest party of the year."

" Ja, I know," Scratchy said, nodding eagerly. "Ve're all looking forward to it. I've not yet asked my date, though. She's been… busy."

"You won't get to ask her at all if the Warners throw a monkey wrench in the plans. Those little hellions need to be kept as far away from the party as possible. I've toyed with the idea of airmailing them to Antarctica, but I don't want people to think I'm heartless."

"No one could think zat about you, Mr. Plotz," Scratchy said, internally cringing. Dear Lord, now he was lying like a Persian rug. He could almost hear the Warners chanting liar, liar, pants on fire – and knowing them, they'd take it literally. "You'll figure out a way to keep ze Varners busy. Really, zat's all zey need. Zey're kids; zey get bored and zey need a distraction."

"All factors I've taken into consideration while you dragged your feet getting here." Mr. Plotz leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers like he was the Godfather. "Obviously, we can't leave the Warners unsupervised. I'm in no position to play nanny. You have enough on your plate already as their psychiatrist, and Heloise doesn't want to do it for obvious reasons."

Scratchy stifled a chortle. Heloise, otherwise known as Hello Nurse, was fond of the Warners, but not enough to watch them 24/7… largely because Yakko always tried to play doctor with her. "So… vat is your plan?"

Mr. Plotz's mouth quirked up, but there was no humor in the smile. "We get the Warners a babysitter."

Scratchy's eyebrows flew up into his scalp. "Mr. Plotz, are you sure? Ve've tried zat before and…"

"And your point is? We've only tried it once, maybe twice, and neither time was when we had a party of epic proportions coming up. Also, Scratchansniff, think about this: this is no ordinary New Year's Eve we're talking about. What is happening at the stroke of midnight?"

Suddenly, everything made sense. Now Scratchy understood the urgency to ensure the Warners were watched. "Ze year 2000. Ze new millennium!"

"Bingo. There are too many whackjobs out there who are convinced the world will end on New Year's Eve, and the media hasn't helped at all, hyping this crap like it's going out of style. All it's done is scare the bejesus out of people. If the Warners go through with their plans to start the party with a bang, the whole state of California will be in full-blown, four-alarm panic. And if the news picks up on it, it'll spread like wildfire to the East Coast, which means it'll go international. And if that happens, we really might just have the end of the world on our hands!"

Scratchy squeezed the water tube hard at this. The end facing him swelled like a bullfrog and a flurry of glitter and plastic stars came rushing into the bulge. A ball the size of a quarter also got trapped, painted to resemble Earth. He understood where Mr. Plotz was coming from, but… "I do see your point, Mr. Plotz. Ze Varners are crazy enough to make ze vorld panic. But… you haff to admit, most people can be…"

"Stupid?"

"I vas going to say gullible, but zat vorks too," Scratchy muttered dryly.

"Oh, believe me, I'm well aware of that. And they don't need any help, especially not from three destructive little brats who glory in laughing at other people's misfortunes!"

"I know zey love schadenfreude, but zey don't do it to everyone! Zey save ze big pranks for people who –"

"If you value your tongue, Scratchansniff, you won't finish that sentence," Mr. Plotz growled, his face brick-red.

Scratchy gulped. Considering that Mr. Plotz himself was quite often the butt of the Warners' schadenfreude, it was probably for the best that deserve it went unspoken.

Mr. Plotz seized the moment of silence to lean across his desk – which, thankfully, wasn't all the way. "Listen and listen good, Scratchansniff. We are going to find a babysitter for the Warners if it kills us. And if we can't find a babysitter, than forget what I said about having too much on your plate. I'll give you an all-you-can-eat feast until we've auld langed our last syne. Is that clear?"

Scratchy swallowed around the heart thumping in his throat. As fond as he'd grown of the Warners, he still wasn't ready to spend four months chasing after them; it made herding cats look like a piece of cake. " Ja, sir," he finally said. " Kristallklar." May God help me, he prayed to himself, stealing a glance at the now-intact water tower, which was again quiet… for now.