I really hate how I wrote this originally, so I've tweaked it! I was delirious with COVID when I started this.
I don't own Over the Hedge, the movie or the comics, or literally anything to do with it :)
Prologue
They say life's real troubles are the ones that strike when you least expect them. The kind that sneaks up on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday. And this Tuesday? Well, it seemed harmless enough at first glance. The sun bathed the suburbs in soft morning light, and the crisp air hummed with the faint sounds of birdsong and distant sprinklers. For the Hedgies, it was the perfect day for a heist.
It had been little over two years since the fiasco with Vincent, Gladys, and the Verminator. RJ and Tiger had found their place within the family, ushering in a period of well-earned peace and relative tranquillity – or as tranquil as things could be when you were causing mayhem in the suburbs!
Verne no longer fretted about securing enough food for the upcoming winter. If anything, the pursuit of sustenance had turned into more of an amusing past time than a necessity. RJ and Verne shared a co-leadership role, or, as RJ liked to put it, 'co-parenting'. RJ took charge of heists and general amusement, while Verne handled the tasks which required a shred of responsibility. Although RJ had matured considerably over the past two years, he still carried his devil-may-care attitude, a trait which often got him in trouble. And today? Well, today was one of those days.
Verne paced impatiently under the shade of a sprawling oak. His brow furrowed as he checked the clock on his phone again.
"He said 10 am sharp. Its almost 11."
"Relax, its barely half-past" Stella, the skunk, chuckled, amused by his irritation. Verne shot her a scathing look.
"Mrs. Wilson leaves for daycare at ten! We had a window of time to make this worth our while, and now he's sleeping through it!"
"Oh, come on Verne. We've all been there," Stella grinned, rolling her eyes.
"No, he's been there. I tried to wake him up with a Twinkie and he didn't even flinch. Completely comatose."
"Twinkies, huh? I thought we'd already established that nothing gets past him when he's in zombie mode."
Before they could debate further, the silence was broken by a massive yawn.
RJ stumbled into view, rubbing his eyes and dragging his feet, his fur a dishevelled mess. A streaming mug of black coffee was clutched tightly in one paw.
"Apologies, team. Truly. From the depths of my cold, dead heart," RJ mumbled, punctuating his half-heated apology with another yawn. "Jeez, I swear this stuff used to do the trick." He grimaced at the coffee like it had personally and deeply betrayed him.
"The amount you consume, you've probably built up an immunity to it," Verne shot back. "Now if you were to get an early night once in a while..."
RJ rolled his eyes. "Ah, Verne. You know, my morning never is quite complete until I've had at least one lecture from you." Then he straightened, suddenly grinning. "Now then – shall we?"
The plan was simple. Sleek. The Wilsons' dog was out back, which would make sneaking across the yard risky. So, instead, they had rigged a fishing line from the tree to an upstairs window in the Wilsons' house, which was usually kept open. Once they were inside, Stella would move the line to ground level for Hammy to ferry back the loot.
By all accounts, it was a routine job.
They climbed the tree with the practised ease of a well-oiled machine. Hammy zipped down the line like a pro, while RJ cracked his neck and stretched, muttering to himself.
"Got to limber up. Getting old," he joked.
Verne rolled his eyes. "More like you're just really out of shape."
RJ shot him a mock-offended look. "Oh, Verne. You know just how to cut me deeply," he said, before attaching a coat hanger to the fishing line and following Hammy with a grin.
Just as Verne was about to follow, an unexpected twinge prickled in his tail – a subtle, sharp sensation that froze him in place. He hadn't felt that tingle since… well for two years. For a moment, he considered pulling the plug on the heist, calling it off and returning to safety. But the sensation faded as quickly as it had come, leaving him unsure whether it had been a warning or his nerves playing tricks.
"Come on, slowpoke! We're both going grey over here!" RJ shouted from the window, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Verne sighed, reluctantly shrugging off his doubts. Maybe he was overthinking. "I'm coming," he muttered, hooking himself to the line and zipping over to the Wilsons' house, joining the others inside.
Inside the Wilsons' house, the operation went off without a hitch. Hammy darted around like a whirlwind, snatching chips, peanut butter, and a box of Twinkies. RJ and Verne worked in sync, ticking items off their mental supply list.
"Last one," RJ said, tossing a pack of cookies to Hammy. Then jumped down from the counter, clutching his side and panting. "Okay, Okay. Maybe I do need to work on my cardio."
"And cut down on the Twinkies, while you're at it." Verne added dryly.
But before RJ could fire back, the sound of a car pulling up on the driveway made them freeze.
"She's back!" Verne hissed.
RJ sprang into action. "Upstairs! Go, go!"
Verne raced up the staircase and into the bedroom, clambering a chest of drawers to reach the open window. He turned to see RJ lagging behind, one paw gripping the newel post.
"RJ?" Verne called, his voice tight with concern.
RJ tried to respond, but something was wrong. A dull roar filled his ears, drowning out everything else. Stars exploded across his vision. His legs trembled, and despite his desperate attempts to steady himself, everything around him seemed to be tilting violently. He staggered back, eyes wide, trying to focus, but the world was slipping away.
And then, just like that, it all went black.
RJ was falling… falling.