Animaniacs 1. Introduction to the Psycho

_This story is jointly dedicated to my offline friend Leah (who'll probably never read this), Lydia from _Beetlejuice_, and Bob Hoskins' performance as Eddie Valiant in _Who Framed Roger Rabbit_, all of whom in some way inspired my main character._

_**Continuity notes:**__ There's no place in the story that I can really put this without a certain level of awkwardness, so I'll get it over with here. This is sort of "Roger Rabbit"-verse, with toons actually being actors for their TV shows rather than just drawings in front of a camera. It's not vital to the plot to get so far into it, but for excellent explanations of this kind of thing I suggest you read KitchenSink's "The Burbank Confession" and Insane Logic's "The Curious Incident of the Toon in the Nighttime"; both are very good fics and both writers are much better at explaining the "living toons" concept than I am. In addition to the other issue, there's a slight time discrepancy involving the fifteenth anniversary of _Edward Scissorhands_ and the release of _Animaniacs_ volume one, but it's just one year, so PLEASE just ignore it. It's really not that big a deal._

**EDIT: I CAN'T BELIEVE IT TOOK ME THIS LONG TO REALIZE THAT THIS WASN'T HERE!! A ****HUGE**** THANK-YOU TO BANJKAZFAN AND WAKKORYAN FOR AGREEING TO PLAY BIT PARTS IN THIS FIC!**

_I've rambled enough. And now, on to..._

**Not Your Average Hostage Drama**

(The Illustrious Crackpot)

Introduction to the Psycho (That's Me)

Every morning I've woken up to an empty house.

Every morning.

At least, for the past six months. OK, year. Well, it certainly hasn't been more than a year and a half.

...Dammit.

For the past two years, I've woken up every morning to an empty house.

I love how responsible my parents are. As soon as I hit puberty, they automatically assumed that I could take care of myself. And while this is something most teens would _kill_ for, it's not that fun. Especially when your parents are rabid globetrotters on self-proclaimed missions to "bring fortune to those less fortunate"—meaning that they go around pretending to raise funds for third-world countries and then go drink tea with others who're supposedly doing the same thing. All while leaving their impressionable young daughter in California to fend for herself.

All right, so I'm _futz_ing bitter. Why shouldn't I be? My life's been messed up since I was born; when it came time to sign my birth certificate, my parents couldn't agree whether to name me Leah or Lydia. So they compromised.

Who wouldn't be bitter with a crappy name like _Lydeah?_

Well, at least I got to be abandoned in a modern world. As long as you pay your bills and don't kill anyone, nobody questions a thing.

I groan, screwing my eyes further shut as I roll groggily onto my side, pulling the covers with me like a giant tidal wave. It's too _effing_ bright at eight AM, even in June. Burying my face in the quilt, I try to go back to sleep, but it's too late. Slowly the covers slip downwards a little, and a forehead, eyes and nose emerge. The sun, of course, being the demonic ball of gas that it is, immediately decides to fry out my retinas with an intensive blast of light.

With a strangled curse word I hurl the covers away and jolt upwards, bending nearly double in my speed. Long, tangled locks of black hair sweep forward across my neck, itching so badly that I'm forced to rake clawlike fingernails up and down the skin until it's red.

As red as it can be, anyways. Oh, who'm I kidding, dammit, it isn't red at all. It'd clash too much with the _pasty white_.

Heaving another massive grumble, I rudely shove the offending hair out of the way and shield my eyes from the sun, at the same time smoothing down the big Dresden Dolls T-shirt I'm wearing in lieu of "proper" pajamas. My eyes still aren't fully open, and I grope for the curtains, intending to shut them and block out the damned orb. Instead—and this is an example of total effing brilliance—I lean too far out of the bed and instead fall flat on the floor with a _splat_ and a yelp, slamming my chin against the aptly-named _hard_wood.

"Well. At least I'm _awake_."

Rubbing my chin with a fist, I manage to clumsily push myself off the floor, at _last_ successfully grabbing the damn curtains and pulling them closed. The room is instantly darker, a sea of shadows with indistinct outlines.

_Perfect_.

Finding the dresser more easily in the dark than I could have in the blinding brightness, I grab a pair of jeans and tug them on, not even bothering to change my T-shirt. I've only slept in it for one night, after all. Besides, who's gonna rag on me about it?

A few minutes later I'm tromping down the stairs to the kitchen, again attacking the living banshee hair attempting to strangle me and/or chafe my neck off. "Good _morning_, Mom and Dad!" I yell at the top of my lungs, not even hiding the sarcastic note as I yank open the kitchen door. Empty, as expected. I honestly can't care less.

Once I enter the room, I immediately go over to the giant window overlooking the sink, where the hideous sun is _also_ trying to break in. I twist the cord for the blinds, closing it about three-quarters of the way, and use the zebra pattern forming on the table as my source of light.

You don't need a heck of a lot of light to eat a nutritious breakfast of potato chips and Coca-Cola.

I grimace at the empty room as I chew, letting my gaze linger on the grimy countertop. There are dark patches here and there on the marble, hinting to me that I should probably clean it soon. Maybe next week. Although that isn't _futz_ing likely either.

Then, as if magnetically, my gaze is drawn to The Drawer. Yes, with capital letters like that. I kinda start twitching, and I have to put my Coke down and plunk myself in a chair facing the opposite direction.

The Drawer contains a gun—_The_ Gun. I honestly don't know what kind it is, just...a small black handgun of some sort, maybe a revolver. It's—my parents put it in the drawer "for my own protection", in case of a burglar or something. But I've kept it locked. And I've hidden the key somewhere no one else can find it.

All right, I'm the traditional emo teenager and all that crap. That doesn't mean I'm not nervous about certain weapons.

I'm just trying to get my mind off The Drawer when I suddenly spot the calendar hanging slipshod on the sideboard. _What the fudge?_ Rubbing my eyes, I blink and look again. HOLY FRICK! Can it be that day already?!

Immediately the rest of my soda goes down, my fist subconsciously crumpling the Lays bag as I toss it into the trash can. There're never a hell of a lot of chips in those anyway. Pausing only to duck in the bathroom and barrage my head with a few comb strokes, I slam the door shut, lock it and bolt into the garage. Before a minute has passed, I've flung myself into the front seat of a dark red Jeep and buckled myself in.

How the hell could I forget? It's the freaking fifteenth anniversary of _Edward Scissorhands_. I HAVE to get to Target.

Thrusting the key in the ignition, I turn it sharply and stare daggers at the driveway, glancing around for a policeman as I desperately attempt to look older. At least, since I'm fifteen, I don't expect it to be _too_ hard for people to estimate my age up a little, but I've always been worried about cops. That's why I almost never take the car. This time, though, it's an _emergency_.

Cautiously pressing down on the gas, I ease out of the driveway, still keeping my spine erect and trying to seem as tall as I possibly can, spinning the steering wheel until the car's smoothly out of the drive. Then I put pedal to the metal and speed off—though, of course, staying within the acceptable limits.

Driving isn't as hard as adults always pretend it is. I think they just want to keep us kids out of their cars for as long as possible. Or maybe it just comes to me naturally because I'd had to endure my father watching _Dukes of Hazzard_ reruns all day when I was little.

I'm at Target in a flash, having memorized the route through careful examination of maps in preparation of this day. Twisting the key in the lock, I slam the door shut, practically running full-tilt towards the great, glass double-doors. I'm pretty sure that anyone watching thinks that I've been abusing illegal substances, but I don't really care. I NEED MY EDWARD, DAMMIT!

As soon as I reach the front entrance, though, I stop dead and start swearing at the speed of light. _The effing store doesn't open until nine._

Sitting on the pavement with my back against the store wall, I tap my foot listlessly and start quietly humming selections of _Edward Scissorhands_ and _Beetlejuice_, interspersed here and there with a piano solo from the latest Dresden Dolls album. Just as I'm at the crescendo of the best one, though, my eyes wander across the skyline and spot something that I'd rather _futz_ing _not_.

The bright yellow Warner watertower, glinting all "impressive-like" in the sun. _Damn eyesore_. Toons apparently lived in there. Thank God they keep trash like that off the streets.

Making a grumbling noise in my throat, I pointedly look away and start humming _Beetlejuice_ again.

That's how I spend the hour until a security guard (who gives me a strange look, by the way) comes up and unlocks the doors for me. I practically elbow him aside to get in, grungy high-tops slapping the aisles as I look frantically around for the display.

It's the fifteenth anniversary of one of the best effing movies in the history of filmmaking. They've _got_ to have a display.

I speed down an aisle, skidding to a stop as I reach a large cardboard cutout. _This could be it..._

But instead it's some ad for a new cartoon thingy that's coming out—_Animaniacs_. Three black-and-white puppy-looking characters pointing to a DVD cover; two boys and a girl, judging by the clothes. The taller boy's wearing only baggy brown pants, the shorter boy's in a blue turtleneck and red backwards baseball cap, and the girl (the smallest) has on a pink skirt and a yellow flower-shaped scrunchie around two stubby ears. I grumble, seeing that it's not Edward, and unhesitatingly punch the cardboard. It tips backwards and lands on the floor with a soft _whumf_, and I brush off my palms, spitting on it after a moment's thought.

Cartoons _suck ass_. Give me Tim Burton any day.

At last I spot the DVD display and hurry over, practically tripping myself on undone shoelaces as I do so. _EdwardEdwardEdwardEdward_. Forgetting to slow down, I instead slide sideways as though on a waxed floor before coming to a complete halt. _EdwardEdwardEdwardEdwardEdward_. Panting from this latest overexertion, I look up and scan the display, heart pounding.

And then I pause, my expectant smile flickering ever-so-slightly.

The display is set up like the milk section of a grocery store, with nine DVDs standing face-forwards on a rack. Take out the DVD in front, and there's a whole line of the same DVD behind it. Simple, no?

Six of the nine rows are occupied by multiple copies of that same stupid cartoon, _Animaniacs_. Two more are filled with some sort of "Disney Princess" junk. And there, with one row to itself, and that one row as well-hidden as possible, is _Edward Scissorhands_.

My fists start to clench and unclench as I quiver with rage, but I force it down and remind myself that I'm lucky to be getting the DVD at all. But as I extend a hand to grab it, I stop again.

Something about this DVD looks hauntingly familiar.

Within another second I snatch the foremost DVD off the rack, flipping the case violently over and scanning the list of special features. It's exactly the same as the DVD I already own. _EXACTLY THE SAME_.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS CRAP?!" I shout surprisingly loudly, my deepish voice sounding slightly raspy, as I haven't used it a lot recently. "WHERE DOES WARNER GET _OFF_, SKIMPING OUT ON EDWARD'S FREAKING FIFTEENTH BIRTHDAY?! **HUH?!** _BASTARDS!!_"

I throw the DVD roughly to the ground, the plastic case making an odd noise against the tiles. Now that a few other people are in the store, I'm garnering myself some more concerned looks, so I try to tone it down. But I'm still mad. Forget that, I'm _fuming_. I'm so _futz_ing mad that some _color_ is actually coming into my face.

As I seethe, my eyes are drawn back upwards to the _Animaniacs_ set, and I viciously pull a volume off the rack, shaking angrily as I read the back. _Twenty-five episodes_. _Digitally remastered_. _Maurice LaMarche interviews several persons related to the show_. _Volume one of four, with all the trimmings_.

How _dare_ they. How DARE Warner place priority on these stinking, _damned_, **effing **TOONS while neglecting my beloved Edward!

My upper lip curls back in a snarl as I skim the summary on the back of the DVD. So _these_ toons are the ones who live in that damn watertower. Running up to a large glass window, I hurl myself against it and glare daggers at the giant yellow structure. Certain thoughts begin taking form in my mind, and my eyes narrow further.

Well, if Warner loves those toons so _futz_ing much, they're going to have to _pay_ for them.

* * *

Once home (miraculously avoiding a speeding ticket), I grab a large burlap sack out of the hall closet, first removing one of my mother's old sewing projects from it and flinging it across the floor. Then, yanking open a drawer in the kitchen, I pull out scissors, paper and a gluestick, sitting down with those and an old magazine and composing a rather colorful message. Following that, I unceremoniously empty out the same hall closet (which is nearly room-sized itself), checking to make sure that the key still works. All that being accomplished, I burrow through the closet debris until I find a black woolen ski cap, a pair of gloves and an old black Robin The Boy Wonder mask from a Halloween party several years ago. All these I put on with quivering hands, as I'm still pretty damn furious.

Then I storm towards The Drawer, holding the key I've kept hidden for so long beneath a loose floorboard in my room, then I thurst it into the lock and twist violently.

My bravado quickly disappears as the drawer falls open and The Gun rolls slightly towards me, gleaming darkly. Soon I'm shaking again, though this time not quite so much with rage. I can't even bring myself to _touch_ the damned thing.

Guns are an effing serious thing to deal with. Guns can _kill_ people. If I pick it up, I'm taking responsibility for any and all lives that may be lost by this weapon.

_Dammit. Stop getting philosophical._

Gingerly I grasp it, surprised and a little frightened at how light it seems. Silently I will myself to stop shaking, afraid that I'll accidentally set it off. Very, _veeeeeery_ carefully I wrap my fingers around the handle of The Gun, placing my finger just next to the trigger without actually touching it. I click the hammer lightly with my thumb, listening to the sound it makes. I stare at it, enraptured. _How's it that something this small and easy to use can kill?_

Suddenly aware of my thoughts, I shove the weapon into my jean pocket and hurry out of the house.

None of the rest seems quite real as I throw myself into the Jeep and start it up, roaring out onto the highway at fully twice the speed limit, trying desperately to keep my hair inside the ski cap and The Gun inside my pocket. The watertower's easy enough to see, and basically I just choose the roads that seem to be going in that general direction, forcing myself to ease the pressure I'm putting on the gas pedal. It's a miracle that no cops stop me as I go, leaving traffic accidents and near misses behind me. My heart thumps madly in panic, but as I remember the DVDs my determination picks up again.

I don't even really know how I got to the Warner Brothers lot, all memory drowned out by the adrenaline pounding through my system. The adrenaline that makes me barrel straight through the craptastically flimsy gate meant to keep unchecked cars out. The same stuff that makes me screech to a halt outside the watertower, hop out of the car and scramble up the ladder set into the side. The adrenaline rushing through my head as I reach the top, throw open the door shaped like the Warner emblem and jump into the room, waving The Gun around like a deranged lunatic, which I guess I am.

Sitting on the floor playing cards are the same three characters that were on the DVDs, each looking mildly surprised but not overly concerned about my entrance. Emitting some sort of high-pitched primal scream, I grab all three of them by the scruff of the neck and shove them into the burlap sack, squeezing my fist around the top of the bag so they can't get out. The bag remains surprisingly motionless, even though I can feel the feathery-light weight of the toons inside.

Weird. I'd've thought they'd struggle.

I pause to catch my breath, inhaling in massive gasps as I try to get my courage back in. I'm asking for a prison sentence here, but I don't really want to go back on this.

I turn to run back out the door, but I'm startled by a ridiculously short human man with receding white hair, attired in a blue business suit. He also seems quite surprised to see me, even more so when he sees The Gun in my hand, at which he turns white as a sheet.

Barely even thinking, my eyes wide as dinner plates behind my mask, I throw the piece of paper with my message at him, barreling past him out the door and practically jumping three rungs at a time down to the car, throwing the sack into the passenger seat as I jam my foot on the gas pedal again and blast out of there. The tires make a weird squealy noise at my sudden acceleration, but soon I'm out of the Warner lot and zooming back on the highway.

Police cars, sirens blaring, are now following me. _Shit! The geezer must've called the cops!_ I speed up even more, going perhaps half the speed of light this time as I shoot down the road.

Perhaps if this hadn't been a spur-of-the-moment decision, I would've come up with a better hideout than _my own house_. However, as the cards fall, I'm forced to go straight home, where I grab the sack and bolt into the house, double-locking the doors behind me and pressing my back up against the wall, breathing hard.

What in all _hell_ have I just done?


	2. Me VS The Toons VS The Closet

Me VS the Toons VS the Closet

Mr. Plotz jumped out of the lead police car as they pulled up in front of the kidnapper's hideout. However, unlike what you would expect, he was no toon; he was the _real_ Thaddeus J. Plotz, four-foot-five and balding with a bulldog's face, his somewhat goofy-looking appearance leading to his being caricatured for the studio's old cartoon _Animaniacs_. (Of course, Mr. Plotz had never been fully satisfied with his toon counterpart, insisting that the animators had ignored something he called his "rakish charm". The toon Plotz, characteristically, had told him to go jump in a lake.)

The head policeman, a tall, young fellow with shoulder-length brown hair, saluted to Mr. Plotz as he exited the car. "We have the house surrounded, sir," he announced. "What do you want us to do? Storm inside and retake the Warners?"

"NO!" Mr. Plotz cried emphatically, his eyes wide and complexion ashen. "That's just what they _want_ us to do." He pressed a piece of paper into the officer's hands. "Look!"

The policeman unfolded the paper. It was a standard magazine-cutout ransom note, the letters messily arranged as if the writer hadn't been fully concentrating on the work.

_**W**_**A****r****N**_**er**_

**I**** ha**_**VE**_** y**_**O**_**ur b****EL****oV**_**ed**_**Animaniacs****IF YOU**** choO**_**se**__**to**_

**Prom****Ot**_**E**_** that **_**S**_**ort**_**o**_**F ****C**_**r**_**AP****a**_**BO**_**ve**_**mor**_**E de****S****e****R****vin****G**** sta****R****s,**

**I****m**_**t**_**AK**_**i**_**N**_**g**_** a **_**st**_**a****ND.**** i e****X****p****E**_**Ct**_**to**_**SE**_**e a **_**n**_**E**_**w**_

**r**_**EL**_**ea****Se **_**OF**_**Ed**_**W**_**A**_**r**_**D S****CI****sS**_**Or**_**ha****Nd****S' " ' **_**by**_** tHe**

**E**_**n**_**D**** oF t**_**HE**_**Wee**_**K**_**, SLim****Eb**_**ALL**_**s.**

**I **_**wo**_**N't ****HE**_**sit**_**AT****e to Ki**_**LL**_**t****HE****m**** iF y**_**O**_**u ****Try**_**An**_**YTh****in****G **_**Fun**_**N****y**

Mr. Plotz was visibly shaking. "We can't lose the Warners!!" he yelled, waving his arms about. "We're going to make a _fortune_ with those DVDs, and, if they do well enough, we might need those kids for another major project! That—_crook_ can't rub them out!"

The officer nodded sharply. "I understand, sir." He then paused. "Ehhh...so, _should_ we storm inside and retake the Warners?"

"NO, YOU DOLT!" Mr. Plotz's short temper was another thing that had survived in his cartoon double. Even though the officer was nearly two feet taller than him, the executive managed to grab hold of the man's collar, shaking him back and forth. "We can't risk the Warners getting killed!" He paused. "...If it'd been those _hippos_, though..."

"Wh-what about the National Guard, sir? Or the Marines?" offered the policeman, trying to straighten up. But Mr. Plotz was holding on too tightly. "Or the Canine Core...Or something..."

"That's even _more_ preposterous!" Mr. Plotz shot back, shaking him again. "What do you want to do, advertise to the media that Warner Brothers studio can't even protect their star toons from a mere _child?!_ I saw that kidnapper, and that kid was no more than seventeen—maybe even a _girl!_"

The policeman didn't argue this point, even though his own sister was plenty aggressive if she felt like it. However, he was still quite confused. "Then...then what do you want us to do, sir?"

At last Mr. Plotz let go of the officer's collar, causing the man to rub his neck gingerly, and the CEO hopped up and sat on the hood of the police car. "We _wait_," Thaddeus informed him stolidly, crossing his arms and staring at the house. "I've had those Warner kids under my jurisdiction for nearly fifteen years—ever since they were created for _Animaniacs_. They'll take care of themselves, and _then_ we cuff that crook."

"All right, sir," acquiesced the policeman, knowing full well out of_whose_ pocket came the funding for the police force. And he too sat on the car and waited.

* * *

Once I get my nerve back, I rush down the hall to the closet I'd cleared out, kicking random junk out of my way as I do. The sack is still light, as well as motionless, which is still bugging me. I'd thought that those toons were supposed to be _rowdy_. Would they really sit still for a kidnapping?

I kick the closet door open, more because both my hands are full than because I'm trying to emulate an action movie. Then, swinging the sack around, I release the opening and fling the toons into the room.

At least, I _think_ I do, because even as I slam and lock the door I realize that I haven't actually _seen_ anything come out of the sack.

Just as I'm pondering on this fact I feel a weight on my shoulder, and look up with a jolt. Standing next to me and clearly _not_ in the closet are the "Animaniacs", sitting on top of each other's shoulders with the smallest girl one on the top. She'd leaned her elbow on my shoulder, as their combined height still only made them marginally taller than me, and she was fluttering her eyelashes at me.

"Do you do this often?" she asks coyly.

"What th—" I start, then stick the key in the lock and fling the closet door open again.

Inside are the three toons, lounging around and yawning. The shirtless boy absently plays with a paddleball before they sit up and wave cheekily at me.

I slam the door shut again and whirl around to look behind me. The toons are sifting through the junk on the floor, "ooh"ing and "aah"ing. I think I see the boy with the sweatshirt eating a large fur coat, but I can't be sure because I open the closet door again.

Sure enough, the toons are _in_ there, wearing lederhosen and performing as an _oom-pah_ band to boot.

I slam the door and look behind me. They're dancing a ballet out in the hallway.

I open the door and look inside. They're hang-gliding in the closet.

I close the door and turn around. They're dressed as cowboys, with the taller boy and the girl riding on the shorter boy as if he was a horse.

Just as I grasp the doorknob again, though, I sense a pattern and realize that I'm obviously being played for a sucker. So I immediately fling open the door and then turn around to look behind me instead.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. At least, not until the tallest boy's face appears upside-down in front of me.

"What're you doing?" he inquires innocently in a high, slightly nasal voice, a wide and irritating smile plastered across his face.

I yelp with surprise, fumbling around with my hands and, dropping the empty sack, I shakingly point The Gun at him. He doesn't even seem to notice, instead quite calmly getting down from the rafters and standing casually in front of me, both hands in his pockets. The other two toons come out from somewhere behind his back, leaning against one another and seeming utterly at ease.

"D-don't move!" I command, quiveringly aiming The Gun at each of them in turn as I self-consciously back away. "I'll _shoot_ you, dammit!"

The boy in the sweater gasps ridiculously loudly, covering his mouth with gloved hands. "She's got a potty mouth," he informs the other two in a congested Beatles accent, then in a flash he's suddenly standing on my shoulder, attempting to force a plunger down my throat. "DON'T WORRY!! I'LL HELP YOU, POTTY-MOUTH LADY!"

"Get the fudge off of me!" I shout, trying to pry him off my face with my free hand. I can't very well let go of The Gun, not when I'm surrounded by three toons who can do who-knows-what with it.

"FUDGE?!" the girl squeals, pulling a bowl of steaming liquid chocolate out of thin air. She then turns as if looking at an invisible audience and winks, cocking her hip to the side. "Just a little thing I picked up in Home EC."

At last I manage to get the Beatles boy off of me, and The Gun is pointed at all three of them again. "What the hell is your _problem?!_" I splutter.

Even though I never took my eyes off of any of them, the taller boy somehow appears on my back, leaning into my face. "What's _our_ problem?" he demands in mock-astonishment, poking my nose as he affects indignance. "_You're_ the one who's wearing a mask after Mardi Gras! What have you been _up_ to, young lady?"

"Don't you effing _dare_ call me that!" I want to point The Gun at him, but, seeing as he's right next to me, I don't want to risk blowing my own face off.

While I decide this, though, he expertly unties the mask and tugs it off, letting it flutter to the ground. I begin to splutter with rage, gearing up for another bout of swears, but the boy flings himself into my arms and flutters his eyelids at me. "You have _lovely_ eyes," he grins impishly.

I drop him on the floor, pointing my gun hand at the closet and quivering with rage once more. "GET IN THE CLOSET," I bark. "ALL OF YOU."

The taller boy sighs dramatically, his long tail swinging from side to side. "Just think, it's our first date and _already_ we're heading into the closet."

"_GET IN!_"

The girl puts her hands on her hips and favors me with a disapproving glare. "You _masher!_" she scolds. "We don't even know each others' _names!_"

Just as I'm about to repeat my directive again, the two boys jump forward. "We're the Warner Brothers!" they chorus.

The boy wearing pants salutes. "I'm Yakko!"

The other boy sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, puffing out his chest. "I'm _Wakko!_"

The girl pushes her way past both of them and clasps her hands together, leaning forwards. "And I'm the Warner Sister, Princess Angelina Contessa Luisa Francesca Banana Fanna Fo Fesca the Third," she gushes, smiling sappily at me. "But you can call me Dot!"

"I'll call you what I _want_ to call you," I retort, trying to seem braver than I feel at this moment. "Now _get in the fricking closet._"

The Warners glanced at each other, then they looked back up at me with ridiculously wide puppy-dog eyes. "But we don't know _your_ name yet," they state in unison.

I heft The Gun higher, realizing that I've been aiming at their stomachs and not their chests. "I'm not going to _tell_ you my name! Now get in that closet or I'll shoot, dammit, I swear I _will!_"

"You've been doing enough swearing already," Yakko counters, zipping behind me again. He yanks the ski cap off my head and looks over the inside label as I whip The Gun towards him. "Hmm..._Ly-de-ah Hoskins_. Lih-_dee_-uh?"

"Lih-_day_-uh," I correct him automatically, then in my embarrassment at this slip I tighten my grip on the shotgun and focus it between Yakko's inky black eyes. Although by now I haven't _expected_ them to show any fear, he seems even more not-scared than before.

"Aaaaaaaaaah...y'know," he remarks offhandedly, looking at me slyly through half-lidded eyes as he pokes his gloved finger at the barrel of The Gun, "that thing won't hurt toons. Unless the bullets are coated in Dip, a'course."

I blink. Dip? What the hell does he mean by "dip"? Does he expect me to serve him the bullets with _nachos_ or something? Does the heartburn kill 'em?

"They _are_," I bluff, glaring at him. He returns my gaze nonchalantly. "And you'll be _dead_ dips if you don't get in that closet."

There's a sudden pause, then Wakko makes a disturbingly hideous face. "That was a really bad joke," he accuses me with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, then returns to the same gross expression.

At last I've had enough. "IT'S NOT AN EFFING JOKE, YOU LITTLE CRAP-HEAPS!" I shout, swinging The Gun out in front of me again and using my free hand to push against the three of them. "NOW GET IN THE DAMN CLOSET!"

Even as I'm pushing, though, Dot somehow manages to turn around and attach herself to me, wrapping her arms around my neck and getting her red nose up against mine. "But we wanna stay here with _you_," she whimpers unconvincingly, her eyes becoming big and wobbly with tears.

I inform her simply, "Shut the hell up."

At last one of my comments seems to affect the Warners, as both brothers immediately tear themselves out of my hands and whirl around to face me as Dot leaps lightly down, sobbing pointedly. Wakko rolls up his sleeve menacingly, his face dark, and Yakko actually removes his white glove and smacks me across the face with it.

"Foul villain!" he cries dramatically in a faux-English accent, replacing the glove and crossing his arms as his face contorts into an exaggerated glare. "Thou dost not insult a Warner without reprimand!" Then he returns to his normal voice, though still affecting a scowl. "And you're not even reacting to our _best material!_!"

"Shut it, _toon!_" I'm sorely tempted to pull the trigger, but my hands are shaking too much for me to be able to get a clear shot. Besides, if that "dip" line had been their _own_ bluff, I don't really want a murder on my hands. I'm already going to get hell from the cops for _kidnapping_.

By the way, where the crap ARE the cops?

I know that they've followed me, 'cus they'd been _literally_ right behind me. Why the hell aren't they bursting inside and demanding that I release my hostages?

Are they...considering my demand?

Yakko notices my distraction as I think of a rerelease of _Edward_, and before I can snap out of it he's lightly plucked The Gun out of my hands and has begun examining it excitedly. "Heeeeey, a PEASHOOTER!" he marvels, slipping his hand onto the grip and squinting at the barrel. "Neato!"

"It shoots _peas?!_" Wakko's over there in a flash, bending over his brother interestedly. He lifts the hem of his blue sweatshirt and rubs his black, furry stomach. "I _am_ gettin' kinda hungry..."

"Hungry enough for _peas?_" Dot's looking disgusted, and demonstrates this by sticking out her tongue and pointing to it. Yakko doesn't notice, though, instead still goofing around with The Gun.

If my face can possibly get any paler, it's turned sheet white, and I back up as far as I can against the closet door. "G-give it back to me!" I gasp, even though I realize that this is a directive that no one in their right mind would follow. "Give it to me now!"

Yakko looks up, his oddly-shaped ears bouncing a little on top of his head. "Relaaaaaax," he mentions offhandedly, leaning an elbow on Wakko's head. "It's in your pocket, anyway."

I jump, then reflexively my hand reaches for my pocket and finds a hard _lump_. The Gun is actually _in_ there. Had he still been holding it when he'd said that it was in my pocket? I hadn't noticed. What the hell is going—

Taking advantage of my complete distraction, all three Warners lunge forwards and quickly shove me into the closet, locking the door behind me with a key that it _seems_ they'd snatched from me at some other moment. I'm utterly shocked more than anything, but when I get my reason back I begin pounding on the door, demanding that they let me out. My response is a short sing-song chorus:

"_You'll stay there 'till you behave, naughty girl!"_

After a bout of insane giggling and the sound of furry footsteps hurrying away, I begin slamming my fists on the door again.

_Shit._

**

* * *

**

Mr. Plotz remained sitting on top of the police car, idly tapping his foot against the tire and twiddling his thumbs. If anything happened to those kids, the studio was going to lose a fortune. Just the thought of it made his blood run cold.

But then, sifting through his memory, he recalled all of his encounters with the Warners over the years he'd been employed at the studio.

And he began feeling sorry for the kidnapper.


	3. I Hate a Circus

_This chapter is dedicated to the memories of Groucho, Chico and Harpo. If you've ever seen _At the Circus_, you'll know why._

I Hate a Circus

I continue banging my fists on the door, whacking harder and harder with each passing moment. Sure, I know that those damned toons won't let me out no matter _how_ hard I bang, but I need to be doing _someth_—

**OWW!** _Shitshitshitshitshit._

Pulling off my gloves, I rub the bleeding knuckles of my one hand with the forefinger of the other. Hell. How had this day ended up like this? Dammit, dammit, dammit. I just wanted an _Edward Scissorhands_ DVD fitting for its fifteenth anniversary. Jesus, I'm fifteen too, and no one did anything special for me either. I can't let Edward go through the same thing I do.

Holy _crap_ that sounds corny.

I resort to kicking the door instead, even though my dark high-tops are so run-down that I can feel the blows on the tip of my foot. Aw, _hell_. _I'd_ kidnapped the _toons_. THEY're supposed to be the ones locked in this effing closet, not ME!

I stop kicking when I hear a small cracking sound which certainly _isn't_ coming from the door.

With an exasperated sigh, I drop to the floor and sit there with my back against the wall, feet extended. _Damn crap _futz_ing hell_. This's great: either I'm going to get life imprisonment for attempted kidnapping or I'll suffocate in this damn closet.

Suddenly a large _lump_ by my waist attracts my attention, and I remember the presence of The Gun in my pocket, pulling it out with quivering hands. I look towards the door of the closet, but since it's so effing dark in here, I stand up and walk over to it, peering at the hinges as The Gun rattles in my hand.

Can I shoot the hinges off the door, like in some kind of retarded action movie?

Hesitantly, I raise The Gun and aim it at the door hinge, trying to line up a shot. But even before I can click the hammer, The Gun is back down at my side and my eyes are brimming with—dare I say it—_tears_. DAMMIT!! Everything's going wrong. I've been locked in my own closet by those damn Warners, and I don't even have the guts to shoot at an inanimate object.

Out of frustration, I punch the door again.

And suddenly I'm tumbling forwards, letting out an uncharacteristically high-pitched yelp as the door falls right out of the frame and onto the floor outside, scattering the various debris I'd thrown onto the floor maybe an hour earlier and sending up a cloud of dust. I'm trembling again, but this time from total shock. I shakily rise to my feet again, quickly wiping my eyes as I cough and wave at the dust storm swirling about my immediate area. Shit, maybe I should've dusted once in the two years since Mom and Dad had left. Then, thinking of how easily the closet door had caved in, I realize that it might've also been a good idea to run routine maintenance checks or some sort of crap like that.

Once I've got a reasonable amount of sight returned to me, I pick up The Gun again from where it's fallen and look around. Dammit, they've probably already left the house and are telling the policemen to throw in tear gas. Or laughing gas. That seems more like them.

I stiffen spastically and kick myself in the shin, hopping up and down painfully once this has been accomplished. What the hell?! Am I getting Stockholm Syndrome or something? I shouldn't be _that_ familiar with their personalities already!

I'm suddenly aware of a loud cacophony coming from the kitchen, and I immediately barrel down the hallway, skidding to a halt just as soon as I'm inside the doorway.

The Warners are in there, blatantly wreaking havoc. Wakko's going through the refrigerator, grabbing anything in a squeezable container and shooting it into his mouth. I can already see a pile of empty mustard, ketchup and relish dispensers, and even as I watch he tosses a container of whipped cream over his shoulder and dives back into the fridge. Dot's sitting on the grimy, disgusting counter and making noises of revulsion, trying to remove the mold with a jackhammer. Where the frick had she gotten a _jackhammer_ from? And, to top it all off, Yakko's sitting on a cabinet and mock-skeet-shooting, using my plates as the skeets and his paddleball for a gun.

What's even worse, while I'm standing there, horrified and speechless, none of them even seem to _notice_ me. They just pass comments amongst themselves and continue ransacking my kitchen.

"Dees-_gusting!_" Dot exclaims, lifting her mask and turning off the jackhammer, which she throws in a corner. Then she whips a fire hose out from somewhere behind her back and blasts it at the gunk covering the countertop. "This's worse than what Wakko does in the _bathroom!_"

Wakko looks up at her from the fridge and makes a sad face, the effect of which is dampened by the chocolate syrup covering his white cheeks and the front of his sweatshirt. "I couldn't help it," he whines. "It was refried beans and DON KNOTTS day at the commissary!" Then he randomly decides to take the offensive. "'Least I don't take two hours like _you!_"

Dot puts her hands on her hips, letting the hose run amok under its own power as she glares at her brother. "_Mel_ was gonna be at that party!" she shoots back, then kicks into overdrama. "You _cad!_ You don't respect my FEELINGS! I'm _leaving_ you!"

Yakko calmly looks up from his plate-shooting, though wapping his paddleball a few extra times for good measure. "Now, now, kids, don't spat," he informs them amusedly, catlike tail twitching from side to side. "Besides, Dot, that's only legal in Alabama." Then he tosses another plate and cracks his paddleball at it, shattering it into several pieces that conveniently fall into a nearby wastebasket.

As if acting on sudden inspiration, Yakko pulls a huge cooking pot out of the cupboard beneath him and tosses it to the floor, where it lands upside-down with a _clang_. All three Warners perk up at the sound, and within a flash all three are _tap-dancing_ on top of it, suddenly wearing not only the proper shoes for it but white suits and black bowties.

"What th'—" I sputter, eyes probably freakishly wide behind my curtain of tangled black hair. "What th'—what th'—"

At last the toons decide to notice me, jumping off the pot and crowding around me, hanging on to my limbs with childlike passion. "LYDEAH!"

"GET THE HELL OFF ME!" I shout, though my voice is still higher than normal what with all the shocks I've been experiencing. As can be expected, they don't comply, even as I try to struggle out of their grip. I clutch The Gun as tightly as I can so none of them can take it from me again. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?! WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?! _WHAT THE CRAP IS GOING ON?!_"

All three Warners grin somewhat disconcertingly up at me, clinging even tighter. "You're our _special friend_," they chorus in an eerie-sounding tone of voice.

" 'Special friend'?!" What're they _talking_ about? As innocent as the phrase sounds, I'm sure it can't be anything very good.

"Yup," Wakko confirms, his tongue hanging out of his mouth again and some drool dribbling down the side of my T-shirt. I try to push him away, or at least try to mop up the saliva, but he's practically strangling my arm. "You're a _very_ special friend, Lydeah."

"Even though you're insane," Dot adds in an annoyingly cute tone of voice.

I—_hey!!_ Since when am **I** the crazy one? If anything, _they're_ insane!!

Yakko suddenly stiffens, easing his grip on me by a minuscule amount. "Lydeah," he repeats, as if this is the first time he's heard it. "_Lydeah_. LYDEAH!"

Then, without warning, all three toons have let go of me and are nowhere to be seen. I reflexively tighten my grip on The Gun, mostly to make sure that they hadn't wrenched it away from me in a moment of distraction. I heave a small sigh of relief, then look up.

And, for the first time in my life since I've been born, I feel inclined to scream in terror.

The kitchen is gone. I mean _completely_ gone. Instead, I'm standing in what can only be described as a blank space, except it's _purple_. My breath catches in my throat. _HolyshitholyshitholyWHATDIDTHEYDOTOMYKITCHEN?!_

Without warning, Yakko suddenly drops out of the sky and lands on my shoulders, standing completely erect there. Being a toon, he's almost impossibly light, but the shock of the sudden touch makes me wobble dangerously. I look upwards in astonishment, and see that Yakko's bending over to look at me too. For some reason, he's wearing a black suit and tie, with a pair of glasses perched on his nose and a fake black mustache and eyebrows affixed to his face. He grins widely, reveling in my confusion, then straightens up and begins singing to an invisible audience.

"_Lydeah, oh Lydeah, say have you met Lydeah_

_Oh Lydeah the DI-I-sturbed girly_

_She has eyes that she abhors so_

_As she hides them like a floor show..."_

I make a wild overhead snatch for him, intending to rip the pest off my head, but all I grab is empty air. Then, my attention diverted by a strange creaking noise, I look up—and Yakko's swinging by his ankles from a flying trapeze that's extending from the purple space surrounding us. His smile's even more irritating now, and _still_ he goes on singing.

"_Lydeah, oh Lydeah, get an en-cy-clo-peddeah_

_We'll find the disease that's in you!_

_We'll go back to the past that you've made taboo_

_And see if ol' Scratchy can get hold of you_

_It might be from your mom or your own daddy too—_

_You're a mental patient, Lydeah!"_

My senses temporarily return, and, still clutching The Gun, I jump into the air in an attempt to grab the swing and pull Yakko down from it. However, before I even get near the lunatic, Dot and Wakko blast out of an unseen cannon and grab me in midair, flying along with me through the empty space. Dot is dressed in a green suit with a conical hat, and Wakko's wearing a floppy brown overcoat with a shabby top hat and red curly wig. Dot sings too, in an affected falsetto.

"_La la laaaaaaaaaa,_

_La la laaaaa._

_La la laaaaaaaaaa,_

_La la la!"_

Wakko squeezes his nose twice in answer, somehow being able to make a _honking_ noise by it. Before I can shout obscenities about this, though, we're caught in a safety net that appears out of thin, _purple_ air. I make an embarrassing squeaking sound, then get some of my courage back and raise The Gun. But the Warners have disappeared again—until Yakko parades up on some floor-space beneath me, leading a ferocious-looking lion and cracking a whip at it. He bows impishly to me, even as I'm wondering once more what the hell is going on, and turns back to the lion, cracking his whip in time with the song.

"_Lydeah, oh Lydeah,_

_Lydeah, I pity-ya_

_Lydeah the PSY-Y-cho girly_

_When her ideas aren't flyin'_

_She gets testy like this lion..."_

To prove the point, the lion roars ferociously. I start to quiver in the beginnings of fright, struggling to my feet on the thick strands of rope that make up the net the net. Then in a flash the net's gone, and I plummet through the air until I land with a deafening _splash_ in a pool conveniently placed below me. I struggle to the top, panting heavily as I try to keep both my head and The Gun abovewater. Yakko's leaning casually on the edge of the red-and-white striped pool, wiggling his fake eyebrows impishly at me as I make angry swiping motions at him with my gun hand, falling short because I'm so far from the edge. Hands in pockets, Yakko nonchalantly slinks away, whirling about to continue his irritating song in a louder voice.

"_Lydeah, oh Lydeah, can't tell when we're kiddin'-ya_

_Lydeah, we'll clean out your mouth!"_

A seal wielding a bar of soap pops out of the water beside me and forces the suds into my mouth, even as I splutter and curse at it. With this accomplished, it disappears back underwater, and I'm left to cough the crap out while Yakko continues on again.

"_And when we're all done you can move to the south_

_If you really want all of us out of your houTHe!"_

At last I manage to clamber out of the pool and point The Gun menacingly at Yakko, who's carelessly inspecting his nails, but then with a start I feel something thick curling about my waist and lifting me up in the air. I kick frantically, but when I turn around I see that I'm entangled in the trunk of a massive elephant, on the back of which sit Wakko and Dot.

"_La la laaaaaaaaaa,_

_La la laaaaa._

_La la laaaaaaaaaa,_

_La la la!"_

Once again Wakko honks his nose, and the elephant drops me. I shout various expletives as I fall, but I land neatly in the arms of Yakko, who seems surprisingly strong for his size, keeping a secure grip on me no matter how hard I struggle and threaten him. And all this with one arm, even, as he uses the other to gesture theatrically.

"_Lydeah, oh Lydeah, we'll never get rid-of-ya,_

_Lydeah, you're the champ of the brawl!_

_But now there's a toon who's swept you off your feet_

_And c'mon, you girly, let's turn up the heat—"_

Here he flexes his eyebrows again, grinning enticingly at me.

"_So I hope you'll admit that you find me quite SWEET—"_

I suddenly catch his gaffe and roar in indignance and rage, swiftly elbowing him in the gut. He drops me on the floor, though it seems more out of his own choice than by the blow, and nimbly dances out of my way as I try to take another swing at him.

"_FOR YOU'RE STUCK WITH US, OH LYDEAH!"_

Even as I manage to get my fist raised above his head, Yakko spins around and points at his siblings, who've appeared out of nowhere, and sings to them as the butt of The Gun swings through the space where his head had been.

"_I said Lydeah..."_

Wakko and Dot mimic their brother's actions, sweeping a hand towards him as Dot sings and Wakko beeps his nose again.

"_He said Lydeah..."_

I aim another kick at Yakko's bent knees, and, just as I'm about to connect, he straightens up, cocking his index finger at the other two Warners again as the inertia causes my leg to keep moving and me to fall on my backside.

"_They said Lydeah..."_

Then all three line up together, with Yakko in the middle and Dot and Wakko on either side of him, all of them with their arms wrapped around the shoulder of the one next to them.

"_We said LYDEAH,_

_HEY HEY!"_

As they strike a dramatic pose, the strange empty background disappears, and we're back in the kitchen again with all three Warners in their normal attire. I'm still sprawled on the floor, gaping at all that has just happened. You may question why I'm _certain_ that the previous scene has occurred, when I clearly could have been hallucinating. I'll tell you.

I'm still dripping wet.

Dot traipses over to me and leans her face in her palms, perching her elbows on one of my raised knees. "That means we're not leaving anytime soon, kid," she explains with a mischievous smile.

I shove her roughly away from me, scrambling to my feet and pointing The Gun at the three of them again. Then I feel the squelching of my socks in my high-tops and the horribly uncomfortable dampness of all my clothing and can't help but cringe, trying to wring out the corner of my Dresden Dolls shirt. As I'm doing this, Wakko suddenly appears at my side.

"I c'n help you change out of those wet clothes," he offers quasi-innocently, smiling a bit too widely.

This's the final straw. My eyes blaze, and I shout "OH, **HELL** NO!!" before my foot swings up again.

**

* * *

**

A sudden crashing sound alerted the policemen lounging outside the house, and they all reached for their guns as the body of Wakko Warner suddenly smashed through a window, scattering bits of what looks like window blinds and landing with a thump on the car next to Mr. Plotz. The toon groaned at a worryingly high pitch, tongue hanging out of his mouth again, and he gingerly rubbed an area just below his stomach and between his legs. Then, upon spotting the shocked CEO beside him, Wakko grabbed the man's face and planted an exaggerated kiss upon him, waving insolently at Mr. Plotz as he dashed back inside through the broken window.

The long-haired police officer staggered over to the retching CEO, his wide eyes firmly affixed on the broken window. "S-sir?" he stammered. "...What just happened there?"

Plotz grumbled something, furiously wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. Still a bit unsure of what to do, the policeman tried another question. "Should we storm in and retake the Warners _now_, sir?"

"_NO!_" The response was as immediate as before, but with a different emotion behind it as Mr. Plotz shudderingly stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. "Let—let that kid deal with 'em a little longer." He shuddered. "I'm not quite as anxious to get those Warners _back_ yet..."


	4. Multiple Kinds of Pain

Multiple Kinds of Pain

It doesn't take long before I've changed into a pair of gray sweatpants and a Green Day sweatshirt, though twice I've found the Warner boys wedged in my sock drawer and grinning mischievously. I've made triple-sure to keep The Gun in one hand at all times, though this _does_ made it tough to get dressed _and_ chase the damn toons out of my room at the same time.

I have no doubts that they won't actually leave the house. I mean, I kicked Wakko out the window and he still came back in.

Plus they _know_ that they can get on my nerves.

Fastening a ragged belt around my waist and making another swift double-check that I still have The Gun, I attempt to strengthen my resolve. _OK, all I gotta do is storm down there and tell them that they have to _futz_ing listen to me or they're going to get some "Dip" wedged in uncomfortable places._

_Oh hell._

I take a deep breath, tighten my grip on The Gun, then kick open the door for effect and step out into the hallway.

The weird thing is, I've been expecting them to be hovering outside the door or something, just waiting to ambush me with some form of ridiculous humiliation. But they're not there.

I'm not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

Cautiously I creep down the hall and look down the stairwell. They're not there either. Just for good measure I double back and poke my head into my parents' abandoned bedroom, checking inside the wardrobe and beneath the bed, then head back into the hallway and give the bathroom a once-over. The damned Warners aren't anywhere on this floor.

I suddenly realize how quiet the house is and repeat my earlier proclamation of "Oh hell."

Taking no chances whatsoever, I click the hammer of The Gun and cautiously descend the stairs, straining my ears for any noise whatsoever. Finally I hear the faint echo of the pitter-patter of furry toon feet, so I know that they're still in the house. _At least they haven't gotten the cops yet_. Still, I'm nervous. I'd taken long enough changing, and, with the added pressure of them being _toons_, they could've set ANYTHING up for me.

Very cautiously I tiptoe down the stairs, listening for the faint but semi-reassuring toon footsteps reverberating through the woodwork. I can still hear them, but I still don't know where the hell in this house they might _be_. Not in the kitchen this time, though I even go through the refrigerator in case they've hidden themselves in _there_. As I close the door, though, I feel a breeze and my head whips around towards the broken window. Immediately dropping to the floor to avoid being seen through the pane, I grab the curtains and violently tug them across the shattered glass, only daring to stand again when the rays of the sun have been shut out. How could I have _forgotten_ about that? The cops can get _in_ that way!

Or the Warners out. But I can still hear the distant noise of their footsteps, so this idea doesn't seem too likely.

Shooting another quick glance at the curtain to make sure it's securely shut (although I'm not quite sure why I think this insignificant shit will keep the police out), I scramble out of the kitchen and into the rest of the house, thrusting the barrel of The Gun into the pantry, the now-doorless closet, behind the couch and television in the living room, under the table in the dining room, and even at the toilet bowl in the downstairs bathroom.

_The Warners aren't anywhere_.

Crappity crappity **crap**.

Slamming the pantry door shut, I groan and slam my fist against it. Everything's been going _effing_ wrong today. All I'd wanted was for Edward to have a fitting fifteenth birthday. So I kidnapped a couple of toons to make this happen—so? Is _that_ enough reason to have all this back karma?

...Probably.

_Shit_.

Making an exasperated grunt, I whirl around and begin to stomp off. As I do so, my right arm brushes against something which out of the corner of my eye seems very tall and rather black-and-whiteish. I take no notice of it, however, and continue stalking off.

Until I stop dead.

And pause to think about this.

_The Warners_.

Immediately I whip around only to have a bright red nose pressed up against mine as Dot leans cheekily into my face. Once again she's perched on Wakko's shoulders, who's straddled on Yakko's back, and all three are giggling amusedly.

THE DAMN BASTARDS HAVE BEEN RIGHT BEHIND ME THE WHOLE FRICKING TIME.

"Didja' miss us?" Dot asks, batting her eyelashes.

I half-slap her away from me, backpedaling a few steps as I aim The Gun at the center of the toon totem pole. Hellhellhellhell_hell_. I've taken ENOUGH abuse from these crapheads in the past _forty-five minutes_ they've been here, and I'm ready to actually shoot off a few rounds when the toons dissemble, jumping back to the floor. As it is, though, I've still got The Gun pointed directly at the girl when Yakko snatches it out of my hand and, holding it by the barrel, shakes it disapprovingly at me.

"Does your mother know you've been playing _Police Squad_ with this?" he demands in an affectedly angry tone.

"_GIVE THAT BACK!_" I shout, lunging for The Gun. I don't _care_ about any damn repercussions. I've sat through all degrees of crap from these toons, and before the day's up I'll probably be sitting in a jail cell. If one of them actually shoots me, well, I won't be any worse off.

"Ah ah _ahhhh_..." At the last moment Yakko steps back, sending me skidding into the floor a few feet behind him. I groan, raising myself up onto my elbows, and, once I've struggled back to a half-standing position, dive towards Yakko again. He sidesteps again, but, before I can smash into the floor again, Wakko whips a green psychiatrist's couch out of thin air and shoves it beneath me. I land with a thud on the cushions, bouncing twice before I can adequately shove myself off my stomach. Spotting Yakko again, I try to grab The Gun out of his hand, but he holds it tauntingly away from me.

"GIMME THE GUN!"

Yakko _tsk_s condescendingly, tapping his foot. His siblings, standing on either side of him now, mirror the action. "Some kids'd be happy with a security blanket," he sighs as Wakko pulls a giant quilt out of his pocket and drapes it over me. I thrash madly, finally managing to poke my head out from under it as Yakko continues. "Or a good book." Dot, somehow suddenly standing on a ladder just above my head, drops a stack of heavy hardcovers into my lap, all of which I shove to the floor once I recover from the shock of my legs crumpling. "Or, dare I say it, a _teddy bear_."

Without warning, Wakko reaches behind his back and pulls out a very large and very angry-looking toon _grizzly bear_, which he also deposits in my lap with a mockingly sweet smile. I give out a yelp and cover my head, reflexively ducking down—but within moments the quilt, books and bear have all disappeared. All that's left is me, the Warners, the hallway and the couch.

"But _no_," Yakko laments, hefting The Gun tenderly in one gloved hand, "_you_ want a WMD."

Recovering surprisingly quickly from the shock of the grizzly bear, I straighten up and make another pathetic grab for The Gun. "It's not an effing Weapon of Mass Destruction! NOW GIVE IT BACK!"

Dot blinks slowly, her flower scrunchie bobbing slightly up and down with the contractions of her face. Then she scowls. "Weapon of Mass Destruction? What are you _talking_ about, young lady?" Resuming her "adorable" expression, she reaches into the pocket of her skirt and withdraws an impossibly tiny box. "Nooooo...we meant my _pet!_ The **W**eally **M**ad **D**emon!"

As she removes the lid of the box, a _huge_, red, bull-like monster pops out, taking up the entire expanse of the room and giving a thundering roar. I scramble off the couch and shrink against the wall, trying to get as far away from the thing as possible—and then the WMD pulls a piece of paper out of the box and points vehemently at it.

"**HAVE YOU **_**SEEN**_** MY CONTRACT WITH WARNER?!?**" it bellows furiously at me, shoving the paper into my face. "**I'VE BEEN WORKING WITH THESE JERKS FOR TWENTY YEARS AND THEY CUT ME OUT OF ALL THEIR MOVIES!! I WAS SUPPOSED TO STAR IN THE MOVIE **_**BULLS DON'T DANCE**_**, BUT THEY DECIDED TO MAKE IT ABOUT A ****CAT**** INSTEAD! CATS ARE MORE 'AUDIENCE-**_**FRIENDLY**_**', THEY SAID!!!!**" It starts furiously shredding the piece of paper, and its voice gets ridiculously high-pitched. "**OOOOH, IT MAKES ME SO **_**MAD!!!**_"

Dot snaps the lid shut, and the WMD vanishes back into the box. My heart rate is still somewhere around eight hundred bpm, though, and my chest heaves massively with each intake of breath.

"Give—" I gasp, eyes still wide with fear but my mind still on the same track. "G-give me the—the damn gun."

Yakko shakes his head semi-amazedly, relaxing into a more cocky posture. "Geez, you don't give up, do ya?"

Then, as if suddenly struck by an amazing thought, he grins widely and tugs out the waistband of his slacks, dropping The Gun down his pants.

It takes me a moment to react, but then my eyes grow even wider and my breathing becomes less ragged. He did _not_ just _futz_ing do that. But there he is, smirking superiorly and patting a bulge that's settled around the middle of his left thigh.

"I dare ya to get it _now_."

Wakko and Dot look on with interest as I clamber over the psychiatrist's couch and stride towards their smug-looking older brother. But, without even thinking about it, I grab the Warner around the waist and lift him into the air before flipping him upside-down and proceeding to shake him as vigorously as I can. Paddleballs, comic books, packets of bologna and numerous other confections that couldn't _possibly_ have fit in those pants clatter to the floor, as well as The Gun. Once I see _that_, I drop Yakko to the floor and grab it, clutching it against my sweatshirt like a baby.

Oh hell that sounds wrong, but whatever.

I chance a glance back at the Warners to make sure they're not about to ambush me from behind, but, in fact, the three of them are actually looking somewhat _shocked_.

Why the hell is that?

Wakko _literally_ shakes off his surprised expression, whipping his head around until his white masklike face clatters to the floor. Picking it up, he reattaches it to the rest of his head and grins widely, his tongue once more hanging out of the corner of his mouth. "You're _learnin'_," he proclaims approvingly as his siblings nod their heads in perfect unison.

And then I blanch, going (if possible) paler than I naturally am. That hadn't been a _human_ thought. The average human would've either tried to beg The Gun off Yakko or actually _gone in_ for it.

What I've done is a _toonish_ thing.

"Oh _no_—Oh NO—" I stammer, shrinking away from the smirking toons as I try desperately to deny the obvious. "I—it was a REFLEX! A damn REFLEX!"

They remain silent, something that I'd love if they'd just get rid of those annoying grins. They _know_ they've got me over a barrel. And they _know_ this knowledge is going to torment me to the ends of the earth. Until I kill them, eliminating all the other witnesses to this horrifyingly humiliating event.

_What the hell _is_ "Dip" and where can I get some?_

Seeing as I'm distracted, the Warners take this opportunity to leap into my arms, wrapping their thin arms around my neck and cuddling themselves against me. Dammit, this _is_ a smart tactic—I can't shoot at them at this close range without the risk of hitting myself. Oh yes, by this point I _am_ fully prepared to pull the damn trigger. And the temptation just grows greater as Yakko leans back and playfully pokes my nose. "Gee, and I thought you didn't _like_ toons!"

I try and shake them out of my arms, but they're latched on too tightly. Dot starts giggling, idly tracing her finger across my shoulder. "You see? You're not so bad if you give yourself a _chance!_"

"SHUT THE HELL _UP_, YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!" The situation keeps getting worse. Now Wakko is firmly attached to my skull, knees playfully grazing my temples. I whip my head back to try and dislodge him, which naturally fails pathetically. So, panicking slightly and rather desperate, I back up towards another wall to repeat the maneuver in the hopes of giving the little leech a concussion.

Guess who gets their brains knocked out instead.

Wakko blinks innocently up at me from the floor as I make a noise similar to that of a dying elephant, clenching my teeth and swearing at the speed of light. "You shouldn't do that," he advises me sincerely, hands clasped behind his back. "It's not very good for your head."

I give him a glare that could send a professional wrestler _crying_ if my own eyes weren't tearing slightly from the pain. I'm just beginning to raise a hand in preparation for a choice gesture when a unanimous gasp erupts from my tormentors, and the next thing I know I'm lying on my back on a hospital gurney, Dot bending over me in nurse's attire.

"_Awwwwwwwwwww_," she coos, dabbing at my forehead with a featherduster, "where does it hurt?"

I reflexively kick out at her, but my legs won't move. That's when I see a grinning Yakko dressed as a doctor sitting on my knees and expertly pinning me down, waving cheerily as he notices my gaze. I jerk up The Gun and point it at him, but a pain shoots through the back of my head and my weapon clatters to the floor. Hissing, I raise a hand and feel a huge, nasty _bump_ on the back of my skull, throbbing and searing when I touch it.

Yakko smiles craftily down at me, swinging his legs around and hopping off the table. He coughs into his glove, adjusting the mirror affixed to the top of his head, and straightens his back superiorly. "Need some relief? There's a _doctor_ for that!" He claps twice, pointing at something just beyond my head. "Assistant #1, apply some anesthesia!"

My eyes only move fast enough to catch a glimpse of a white-clad Wakko raising a mallet above his head, and even then the comprehension doesn't come until after my skull jitters back and forth from the aftershock of the blow, which has been delivered _right on top of my bump_. Once I've stopped shaking, I give an indignant shout and spring into a sitting position, grabbing Yakko by the throat and hauling him into the air. His neck's so skinny that my fist fits neatly around it, my short fingernails even digging into my palms. Although I'm pretty sure I can kill him this way, the toon seems completely unfazed, and when he speaks his voice is only the _slightest_ bit cracked from the constriction of his windpipe.

"Now, now," he chides, tail swinging pendulously, "is _that_ how you reward your doctor?"

I try and squeeze tighter, but I quickly realize that this is impossible. "What the hell do you mean, _reward?!?!_" I demand, making a façade of increasing my grip anyways. I try not to look towards the floor and at The Gun, in case they notice that I'm not holding it anymore.

Yakko merely crosses his arms over his chest and cocks an ear suggestively at me, waiting for me to figure it out myself. And then I suddenly do.

There's no pain. None at all. Even when Wakko beaned me with that mallet, I hadn't been hurt—I'd merely _assumed_ that I had.

Automatically my free hand shoots towards the site of my bump, and I realize with widening eyes that it's _gone_. As dumb as it sounds, the damn toon has knocked it back into my head.

Still watching me with a sly, knowing smile, Yakko somehow slips his fingers between my hand and his throat and manages to force the two apart, dropping to the floor with the grace of a cat. Dot quietly rolls the gurney out from under me as I subconsciously stand up. _What in the...What the..._

"Feel better now?" Wakko inquires brightly, sidling into my field of view and no longer holding the mallet.

I blink slowly, unsure of what to say. For this moment I'm back to my old self, the not-quite-so-angry Lydeah, the one shocked at where the world had sent her, the one who can't comprehend why her parents left her alone—or, rather, why...

"Why did you do that?" I manage breathlessly, trembling for unknown reasons. "Why—why did you—I—"

If my sudden change in tone surprises them any, they don't show it. Instead, Yakko reaches into his coat and procures a small slip of paper with an absurdly large number written on it. "My bill," he proclaims, then he and his siblings kick it into high gear and zoom out of the hallway.

I'm still quivering, but by now my eyes are blazing in the familiar way and the heat of my indignation is exploding out my eardrums. "**DAMMIT, YOU F--KERS!!**" I roar, scooping up The Gun from the floor and barreling after them with as much force as is humanly possible. But inside I'm cursing _myself_. I've thought that "old Lydeah", the sniveling weak one, had been two years dead. But these damn bastard toons have gotten her to come out, even with all the shit they've done to me.

They can't live. I can't let them.

No matter what "old Lydeah" thinks.


	5. Who Spilled My Guts?

Who Spilled My Guts?

"How long has it been?"

The policeman checked his watch at Mr. Plotz's question, then lifted his head sharply. "About fifty-five minutes, sir, give or take a few."

The CEO exhaled, rubbing a hand over his bald skull. "Amazing stamina that kid has," he commented. "I would've given myself up _long_ ago." There was a pause, then Mr. Plotz cocked his head in remembrance and gave the officer a sidelong glance. "By the way, did the reports come back yet?"

Just as the policeman opened his mouth to answer, he was cut off by the sound of another police car pulling into the already-crowded driveway, and a short, young, uniformed woman with brownish hair and red-rimmed glasses hopped out the passenger door before it fully stopped. Clutching a stack of papers in her hand, she jogged over to Mr. Plotz and the male officer, saluting and handing the packet to the other policeman. "Here you are, bro," she panted as the man perused the papers. "Rush job, but pretty thorough."

"Thanks, C," the man replied absently, furrowing his brow and concentrating intently on one of the sheets. He rubbed his chin in thought, then looked back up and showed the paper to the CEO. "This the kidnapper, Mr. Plotz?"

Plotz squinted at the sheet, which appeared to be some kind of dossier. In the upper right-hand corner was a photograph of a teenaged girl, dated at a few years before. The girl had long, messy dark hair, ivory skin and gray eyes. She was giving the camera a lidded stare, though the edges of her mouth were curled up in a small smile. The background of the shot was the very house they were staked out in front of.

"That's her," Mr. Plotz affirmed, giving the paper back to the male officer. "Her hair was up in a ski cap and she had some kind of mask on, but those are her eyes. I'd recognize 'em anywhere."

"Uh-_huh_..." The man studied the picture a little longer, then turned to the girl. "Carley, where did this picture come from?"

"Don't _call_ me that, Ryan!" Carley snapped, then composed herself and replied in a more professional tone. "It was online. Since none of the official documents had any pictures of the girl, I Googled her name and found this shot on her parents' weblog."

There was a pause, and Ryan blinked slowly and lifted his head to hers. "...Her _parents_ have a blog?"

Carley nodded, taking a breath and reciting as if from memory. "Harriet and Louis Hoskins. They're charity workers who've been touring the Middle East raising funds for struggling cities. Well, they _claim_ that they're doing so; any records of their donations have been surprisingly small."

Ryan raised his eyebrows. "Fraud?"

"No, just lack of interest." She took the papers back from Ryan, flipping through them a little and shuffling them back into an orderly stack.

"Her parents are in the Middle East?" Mr. Plotz interjected somewhat bewilderedly, hopping off the hood of the squad car and striding up to the two officers. He shot an accusatory forefinger towards the house. "Then who's taking _care_ of her?"

Carley shrugged, a serious expression spreading across her face. "We have no record, sir," she stated grimly, "of anyone besides the _fifteen-year-old_ Lydeah having lived in that house for the past two years."

The silence was heavy, punctuated only by a small "Oh..." from the CEO. Then Ryan spoke up. "How did she _live?_ I mean, where would she get _money_ or transportation? Surely there must be a relative or neighbor or—"

"Neither," Carley interrupted, pulling another sheet out of the pile to reaffirm her statement. "According to the bank, every month there's been a sizable withdrawal from her parents' (reasonably cushy) account. A little more probing, and I discovered that Mr. and Mrs. Hoskins periodically send her checks in the mail." She looked back to the CEO and her brother, eyes hard. "As well, I interrogated every officer who walks this beat. That beaten-up, old, red Jeep over there has on occasion been seen with that girl inside. _Driving_."

Ryan whistled slightly, though his expression was serious. "For two years, her whole life has been one big felony..." His eyes darkened. "We can't wait much longer. Who _knows_ what she'll do?"

"_Lydeah Hoskins_," Mr. Plotz murmured, creases lining his forehead. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the crude cut-and-paste ransom note that the young kidnapper had thrown at him, unfolding it and holding it up to the light. "There's only one thing I still don't understand...why would she demand a new edition of _Edward Scissorhands_?"

**

* * *

**

No matter how hard I run the Warners are still ahead, rounding corners and hopping up and down stairs like _they're_ the ones that live here. I can't even take a straight shot at them while running, and, if I skid to a halt to line one up, they'll be out of sight before I've even stopped moving. We've been all across this damn house at least three times; I can't even tell, only managing not to smack into walls by purest instinct.

The only things I see are the backs of those _futz_ing Warners. And how much I want to put a round of bullets in all of them.

As I barrel around another corner and into the kitchen, Dot pops up from behind the refrigerator and smiles sweetly. "You need to work harder in your anger management classes," she coos, but disappears just as my finger starts to squeeze the trigger.

Wakko shows up next, sticking his head out of the cookie jar even though there's no way in _hell_ that he could've fit in there. I whirl around, but he declares "They wouldn't HE-elp!", dives back into the jar and closes the lid behind him before my shot is even lined up.

"DAMMIT, YOU!" I thunder, whipping the gun around so fast that I manage to target just about every possible hiding place in the room during a split second. My voice is hoarse, but it's louder than it's ever been, and even _I_ am a little unnerved by it. Well, I _would_ be if I wasn't ready for pure homicide. "**GET THE HELL OUT HERE AND LET ME WATCH YOU!**"

"Okay!"

This chorused response shocks me, but only for a moment as three pairs of furry black arms drop from the rafters and toss something cubelike and gray at me. I reel, fumbling to keep the gun firmly in my grasp while also catching the new projectile. After a moment's juggling, I look down to see that what I'm holding is a small _television_, with a cartoon playing on it and a corny theme song blaring out of the speakers.

"_It's time for Aaaaa-ni-maaa-ni-acs..."_

With a roar I fling the set away from me, realizing only a split second later that _it's my own TV_. With an excessively loud "CRAAAAAAP!!" I lunge for it, saving it from a surely-destructive crash by only a split second as my stomach scrapes the roughly carpeted floor. Then, as I feel the cold metal of the TV's back panel against my bare fingers, another thought hits me.

_I've dropped the gun again_.

The set hits the floor, though somehow stays intact as I search desperately for the gun. A small, ominous _click_ sounds behind me, and I slowly turn my hate-filled eyes towards its source.

It's Wakko, sitting on top of the fridge and playing with the ice dispenser button. I grit my teeth in frustration, then grab him by the collar of his sky-blue turtleneck and bodily haul him up to my eye level.

"_Where the hell is it?_"

Wakko smiles mock-innocently, sticking his finger into his ear and cleaning it out. "Where's what, potty-mouth lady?" he inquires.

I shake him back and forth roughly, but he doesn't seem at all fazed. "_THE FREAKING GUN! WHERE __**IS**__ IT, YOU LITTLE—_STOP DOING THAT!"

Even though I've stopped jostling him, his head is still vibrating from side to side. I know he's doing it on purpose, but, even so, he claps both hands to the sides of his head and eases the jitters. I snarl at him, anger rising by the moment. "WHERE'S MY DAMN GUN?!"

"Ask Yakko," he replies placidly, hands clasped in front of him and tongue once more lolling out.

Still gripping the boy's collar, I whip around to try and spot the tallest Warner. To my surprise, he's standing right in plain sight, relaxing in one of the wooden chairs surrounding the table and drinking a cup of coffee. Out of _my mug_. With _my_ coff—

Wait a minute. Do I even _have_ coffee in the house?

I choose to disregard this question, instead removing one hand from Wakko's shirt and using it to grab the top of Yakko's skull, pulling him into the air and right in front of me. "**WHERE'S THE GUN?**"

He casually files his nails, even though he's still wearing gloves, and doesn't even deign to look at me. "Ask Dot."

Growling in my throat, I somehow manage to keep a firm hold on Wakko's collar and the nape of Yakko's neck with only one hand while snatching Dot up by the ears (she's been reading a magazine on top of the garbage can) with the other. "_**WHERE THE HELL IS MY GUN?!**_"

Oh, how I'm expecting it and how violently I react when I hear it.

"Ask Wakko."

Even before she finishes the sentence I've run the lot of us to the kitchen counter, pinning the Warners under my arm while using my now-free hand to root around in the cabinet. Within moments I've pulled out a blender and slammed it on the gunky countertop, thrusting the plug into a nearby outlet and the smallest Warner into the chamber.

"One of you give me a straight answer," I intone menacingly, my finger hovering above the "Frappé" button, "or the girl gets blenderized."

"_Oh please, no! We'll do anything, just don't hurt our sister! Here's your gun, and here's some rope to tie us up with! We won't bother you anymore! We'll TELL Warner to rerelease _Edward Scissorhands_'s fifteenth anniversary collection!"_

That's what I want to hear more than anything else in the world right now. But instead:

"Ahhhhhhh...don't look now, but those blades're too _rusty_ ta' work..."

My insides jump a little, and my hard exterior shatters for a moment. "_What?_" I demand half-shrilly, leaning my head over the uncovered top to try and squint past Dot in order to confirm this.

_Mistake_. As soon as I'm within reach, Dot shoves my head inside the chamber and vaults out over it, assisting her now-free brothers in defying the laws of physics and shoving the rest of me inside the blender. I scream in rage and slight terror, but they don't turn it on; instead, they merely zoom out of the room laughing their heads off. I groan, allowing myself a solitary whimper for pity's sake, then as carefully as possible _eeeeeeeeeeeease_ myself out of the chamber, landing shakily on my scuffily-sneakered feet. This feeling of being crunched up...that all of me has been compacted into a place too small to hold me...

My horrified recollection is interrupted once more by all three Warners, who're standing just outside the open kitchen door and making faces at me. My insides start to heat up again, and, somehow spotting the gun lying on the opposite counter, I snap it up and charge after the already-fleeing toons. They're still giggling condescendingly, and I'm pretty sure I can hear a rude remark about the "time of the month" as they round another corner and leap into the ground-floor bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind themselves.

"**GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE, YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!**" I repeatedly slam the butt of the gun against the door, trying vainly to break it down. It doesn't work. Nothing ever _does_ against these damn—

A soap bubble suddenly wafts out through the crack between the bottom of the door and the floorboards, followed by about a dozen more. Then the Warners' annoyingly nasal voices, singing:

"_Rubber duckie, you're the one..._

_You make bathtime oh so fun..."_

I return to smashing the gun against the door, panting somewhat from the effort this (and yelling so loudly) requires. "_I SAID GET OUT OF THERE!_"

My response is the whirring of my dad's old electric razor, which one of them must have found in a drawer, and Yakko's impishly high voice in his own solo.

"_Gee I got a G.I. haircut_

_Gee it's not a pretty haircut—"_

"**STOP IT!**" My voice is cracking, and my shoulders are heaving massively. "Stop it! STOP IT!"

The scraping sound of another drawer being pulled out, then the snapping open of what I can only guess is my mother's auxiliary makeup kit. Then Dot's voice.

"_I feel pretty_

_Oh so pretty..."_

"_STOP!_" I sink to my knees, banging on the door ever more feebly as my delivery gets even more strained. "Stop..._stop_...oh, just sto—st—"

Out of nowhere, I begin to _sob_. Not just a quiet, civil cry, but a huge, hiccuping, choking bawl, eyes buried in my hands. My throat's constrained, occasionally blocking my lungs and causing me to give shuddering gasps. The commotion from the other end of the bathroom door is silenced, but I barely notice, blubbering like I haven't for...for...

"Wh-_why_ won't you l-l-l-let me _catch_ you?" I wail pathetically, knees hunched up against my chest. I feel all of three years old again, all the stress of the past day, and even of they past two years exploding out of me in a sniveling cough. "You're _s'posed_—_s'posed_—you're s'posed to be my p-_prisoners!_ An'—an'—an'—"

I give out another cry and choke out more tears, shoulders hunched up almost to my ears. A small creaking sound alerts me to the fact that the Warners have opened the door, and I squint up at them, vision blurred so badly that Yakko looks more like his hand is plunged into his head than that he's ruffling his fur in confusion. "I—all I want is for E-Ed-Edw—_he has to have a good birthday!_ TO MAKE UP FOR ALL OF MINE!"

I feel a gloved hand on my shoulder, and Dot peers concernedly into my face. I bury it in my arms again if only to shield myself from her pity. "My—my—" I gulp, trembling violently and telling my hostages that which I'd never told another living being, "m-my parents _left_ on my thir—my thir—thirteenth birthday. N-no _forewarning_, not a hint of p-p-_plan_, I just woke up and they were—they were—" Old Lydeah has gotten closer to the surface due to the mallet incident just before, and she purges the core of her being in another huge sob. "_ONLY A NOTE! ALL THEY LEFT WAS A __**NOTE!**__ AND I'D JUST—TURNED—__**THIRTEEN!!**_"

All three of the toons are unusually quiet as I continue to shake, though in the background I'm vaguely aware of a muffled banging sound. What I'm slightly more aware of is a small _plop_ as Yakko and Wakko sit themselves down on either side of me, Yakko half-sharing a space with his sister.

After a moment I remove my face from my hands, turning my face to the ceiling. "**DAMN THEM!**" I scream, voice still choked up with my tears. "**DAMN THEM TO HELL AND BACK!**"

Dot pats me lightly on the head, smoothing out my tangled dark hair. I don't even give a crap anymore, letting her do it. The distant banging has stopped, and now there's instead a rushed chorus of hard taps, somewhat drowned out by my furious sobs.

"Who's 'Edw'?" Wakko asks in a low voice, one hand atop his red cap. I heave a little more, trying to compose myself.

"_Edward Scissorhands_." I wipe the back of one hand across my eyes, giving a congested sniffle. "I—it's my favorite movie. I've seen it at least a h-hundred times since I was eight." I let out a broken sigh. "It's _his_ fifteenth b-birthday, and—and—"

"No special edition DVD," Yakko finishes, elbows perched on his knees. He nods, unable to restrain a quip. "A _very_ merry unbirthday, heh?"

A faraway crash and tinkle, then the hurried taps seem louder. I still barely notice, consumed with trying to keep myself from bursting into tears again. There's a pause in the conversation, then Yakko stands up and crosses his arms decisively. "A'right."

I look up at him confusedly, cheeks still damp. "Wh—what?"

"A'_right_," he repeats, then smiles winningly. "Hey, if all ya wanted was a new DVD, you shoulda' _said_ so! I've heard a' crazy stalker fans, but you're the worst!" My mind not quite registering the statement, he leans against the wall and raps jokingly on my skull, which makes a comical hollow sound that even I can't help but crack a small smile at. "Whaddaya _think_, Liddy? We'll ask 'em ta' redo the DVD! It'll probably be a few months late for his _birthday_, but..."

I start to quiver again, but this time it's from the realization of a hardly-imagined promise. "Y-you..." I stammer, rising weakly to my feet, "you'd really—"

"Yup," Dot returns as she and Wakko move to their brother's side, all three nodding enthusiastically. She cocks both eyebrows dryly at me. "You need to work on your listening skills, sister."

I root around in my memory for the correct words to say, but am cut off as a gunshot goes off with a _bang_ from around the corner, sinking a hot bullet into the wall a few feet away from me. I whirl around to face the entrance of the hall just as a pair of uniformed police officers skid to a halt there, a taller male and shorter female, both with guns raised directly at me and a horde of other cops directly behind them. "STEP AWAY FROM THE WARNERS!" they shout, but I don't even hear them. The shock of their arrival has caused me to accidentally toss The Gun (which I've kept a grip on the whole time) into the air, and I snatch desperately for it, an action which somehow results in the hammer clicking and my finger pressing against the trigger, time slowing down as I register the fact that the barrel is pointed directly at my chest and that, of all things, I've never really wanted these to be my last words:

"OH _**SHIT!!**_"


	6. For Every Action

For Every Action...

_Clunk_.

That's it. No deafening bang, no scream as my insides explode across the hallway. Just one big, loud _clunk_.

I stare at The Gun in my hand, still not quite believing that I'm not dead. I keep staring at it until Yakko extricates it from my grip and opens the—what's it called?—that place where you load the bullets. It's completely, utterly, irrevocably empty.

"Whaddaya know," Dot remarks flatly, staring with a deadpan expression at her brother's palm. "It wasn't loaded."

My knees knocking, I'm about to drop to the floor again in relief before the male officer, whose nametag I randomly notice reads "Ryan" something, points his own gun at me again. "_You're under arrest for kidnapping, assault, driving without a permit AND exceeding the speed limit on a highway!_"

Oh yeah, _that_. I'd forgotten that I'm now destined to a life in jail.

Tiredly, I put both hands up and step towards the officers. "Take me away," I acquiesce in a dead voice. Might as well go without a struggle. Heck, I'm not brave enough to try and take on a cop, even if I _hadn't_ had a near-death experience two seconds ago.

As the female officer (nametag reading "Carley" this time) snaps a pair of cold handcuffs around my wrists, a ridiculously short man, the guy I'd thrown the ransom note at—was it only an hour ago?—rounds the corner, arms crossed superiorly. Apparently he's been waiting for the officers to secure me before making his entrance. He smirks cockily up at me as he walks forwards. "So _this_ is our little miss Lydeah Hoskins," he drawls condescendingly, placing each step deliberately in corny movie fashion. "Thought you could get away with scamming Warner Brothers, eh? But you got _beaten_. Just goes to show that crime doesn't pay."

"It wasn't a _scam_," I shoot back, a twinge of my old anger flaring up in me. "Edward _deserves_ a happy birthday. You just needed a slap in the face to _realize_ it."

He lets out a short, derogatory bark of a laugh, resuming his pacing. "While your ransom demand has admittedly been the most _original_ I've seen, Miss Hoskins, your intents are hardly more rational than the average kidnapper." Here he pauses, giving me the sort of expression of amused bewilderment that you wear around kids who say that babies grow in vegetable patches. "But what, I repeat _what_ gave you the _stupid_ idea of kidnapping the WARNERS?"

My eyes self-consciously flick towards the three toons standing just behind me. "I didn't know," I inform him emotionlessly.

The "Ryan" character steps forwards and faces the old guy, placing a hand on my back. "I think that's a long enough heroic monologue, sir." He then looks down at me—not in a friendly way, but very coldly. "Let's go, Lydeah."

He and "Carley" haven't walked me more than three steps out of the hallway when a mischievous, nasally voice interrupts, "Aaaaaahhh...what're ya doin'?"

I instinctively whip around, and "Ryan" pushes roughly against my shoulder to try and turn me back. The female officer answers instead. "We're arresting your kidnapper, boys. ...And _girl_," she adds as soon as Dot raises her hand. "She'll be taking a little _ride_ with us to the _station_."

Wakko plods forwards, an inscrutable grin on his face. "Why's that?"

"Carley" 's eye twitches slightly. "She's a _criminal_."

"What's she done?"

With a frustrated noise, she turns to "Ryan", who finally stops pushing on me and lets me face whatever direction I want—which right now is the Warners'. Adjusting the brim of his hat slightly, the man recites mechanically the same speech he'd delivered before. "Kidnapping, assault, driving without a permit and exceeding the speed limit on a highway."

Dot twines her hands together, bending forwards enough that her skirt flares up in a strangely cute manner. "But Mister Strange Dreamboat in Blue, Liddy hasn't done any of those things," she chirps innocently.

_What the he—What are they..._

The short old guy stomps forwards again, looking to form an angry sentence—he catches himself, though, and speaks in a calmer voice. "Look, you little bra—I mean, children," he says, squatting down in front of them, "Miss Hoskins is a _bad person_, and she did _bad things_. And we have people, myself included, who SAW her doing those _bad things_. So I don't see _what_ you're—"

"_THAT WAS US!_"

Nobody expects this outburst, and so there's a stunned silence from all involved as Dot jumps on Wakko's shoulders and Wakko on Yakko's, then, once all three are balanced, they start to spin around at such a high speed that all I can see is a blur. Then, when they finally grind to a halt and give us a good look—

_They're ME._

It's a carbon copy of me standing there, same height, same complexion, same long, scraggly dark hair. But it's me wearing a black oversized Dresden Dolls T-shirt, ratty jeans, gloves, a knit ski cap and a Robin mask, holding the gun. _Just how I looked when I kidnapped them_.

When the other me opens her mouth to speak, she does so in MY VOICE, the same pitch, the same occasional weird rasp from months of underuse. "_We_ did it, Plotzy. We wanted to play a joke on you. And boy did you _fall_ for it!"

A smile spreads across the other Lydeah's face, a look that I had completely forgotten. And, self-consciously, I start to smile too. Not a dark smile, or a flat one, but a _real_ smile. _They're giving me a second chance_.

"Plotzy", as I suppose that they've addressed the old guy, is frantically opening and closing his mouth, but no sounds are coming out. At last he manages to speak, flapping his arms about in confusion. "B-but _why?_" he demands shrilly, then tries to compose himself. "I-I mean, how can you _prove_ that it was you?"

The other Lydeah seems to melt, and she dissolves back into the three Warners, who immediately hop off each other and to the floor. "It's just _fun_," Yakko replies, assuming a casual pose. He lifts up one hand, which has the gun in it, and starts to twirl the weapon around his index finger. "You can't prove that Lydeah was ever _wearing_ those clothes—she coulda' been in these sweats all day. Besides, would a smart young kidnapper come after us with a gun that wasn't loaded? Or demand a _DVD?_"

These seem like valid points, and most of the cops seem to agree. "All right, all right, _you_ kidnapped _yourselves_," "Ryan" sighs, though his tone is still gruff, and he unlocks and removes my handcuffs. Then, without any discernible warning, his hand claps back on my shoulder and he starts steering me out of the hallway just as I begin to rub my aching wrists.

"What're you freaking _doing?!_" I demand, wrenching myself out of his grip and backing towards the Warners. "I'm _innocent!_ You've got their confession on that!"

"Carley" takes a step towards me, and I shuffle backwards again until I've almost bumped up against Dot. The officer takes another step, seeming a little irritated. "That's not the only thing we need you for," she informs me, suddenly finding it vitally important to grab a stack of papers from someone behind her and shake it at me. "You've been living unsupervised in this house for two years. As you're not a legal adult, this is against the law. Seeing as your parents abandoned you, though, this falls under child abuse, and so we need your testimony against them. Then, most likely, we'll transfer you to the care of a relative or a foster home."

_DAMMIT. DAMMIT DAMMIT __**DAMMIT—**_

If I'd never kidnapped the Warners, they might never have found out. Shit. It all keeps coming back down to this one mistake, doesn't it? Hell hell hell _hell_ he—

"Whaddaya _mean_, unsupervised?"

My internal monologue is abruptly cut off as three pairs of arms suddenly wrap around my waist, and three Warner bodies press firmly up against me. I spasm reflexively, still unused to physical contact, but they hang on regardless as the adults stare on in confusion.

"We've been visitin' Liddy for _years!_" Yakko proclaims in such a confident, reassuring tone of voice that I almost start feeling like I believe it. "Day in, day out, multiple hours, multiple lunches—_all the time!_"

Wakko nods vigorously, long tail curling around one of my legs. "Lots an' _lots_ of lunches."

"Wh—" "Carley" and "Ryan" stammer in near-unison, "_what?_"

Keeping her hold on me with both legs, Dot reaches into an invisible pocket in her skirt and pulls out three sheets of paper, which she waves gleefully at our audience. "We're legal adults! We're even legal for _retirement!_ Says here on our toon birth certificates that when we were created in '93 we were already legally _sixty-four years old_." She bats her eyelashes at "Ryan". "So, Tall, Dark and Hunky, Liddy hasn't done _anything_ wrong."

When the frick had I become "Liddy"? But I don't even notice, heart still pounding in my chest. _Why the hell are they trying to _save_ me?_ Sure, I've done a lousy job of kidnapping them, and doubtless they've had their twisted fun annoying me—

Yakko pats the top of my head, though his smile is still mischievous. "Liddy's a good kid, fellas. Just a little..._y'know_." He uses his forefinger to trace circles in the air by his ears.

I reflexively elbow him in the gut. He grins, poking me in the nose. Then Wakko kicks me in the kneecaps, Dot pinches my waist and, without even meaning to, I burst out laughing. Whooping hysterics, tears even leaking out again, and I don't care that I look as crazy as Yakko says I am. I really _don't_.

Because it's all good. The Warners forgive me. I forgive them—a _little_, seeing as I'm still sore from head to toe from all their antics.

And, for some insane reason, I'm happier than I've ever been in a long time.

The moment's broken by a pointed cough from "Ryan", who looks at the short old guy. "Plotzy" seems slightly disgusted, probably at the fact that they no longer have adequate evidence to arrest me. Then "Carley" steps forwards. "That's all well and good for _now_," she states in a hard voice, tipping the brim of her hat backwards a little, "but Miss Hoskins needs better supervision for her age. Meaning at least one registered adult living with her until she turns eighteen."

I stiffen, and feel the Warners' sly grins heating up my face. And I feel my own smile coming back. It's gonna be all right. For the first time in two years, everything is finally gonna be all right.

**

* * *

**

_Two weeks later._

"A _squirrel_," I repeat, a steely edge in my voice.

"Yup." All three Warners nod in unison.

I'm standing in front of a huge oak tree in the middle of a goddamn forest with a backpack over my shoulder and the Warners are telling me that I'm going to live with a _squirrel_.

"Let me get this straight," I try again, attempting to break their cheeky smiles with my angry glare. "A squirrel. Meaning those gray and sometimes brown things that live in trees and scamper around collecting nuts."

Wakko shrugs, tongue lolling out once more. "I guess."

"Hey, _she's_ a legal adult," Yakko reassures me, though for my life I can't be sure whether he's joking or not. He drapes an arm around my shoulders, even though he has to stand on his tiptoes to even reach that high. "Aaaah, you'll like it here, Liddy. When we look at you, Slappy's the first one we think of."

"Besides Bela Lugosi," jibes Dot, smiling sweetly. I take a swing at her out of habit, but she twirls lightly out of the way, giggling. Then in a flash all three of them have gotten behind me and are pushing me towards the front of the tree.

"I don't know what the _hell_ you think you're—" I begin, then stop abruptly and dig my heels into the ground. The front of the tree is set up like a regular old _house_, with a door and flight of stairs set in the base and various shuttered windows going all the way up the trunk, some even with windowbox flower gardens. I whirl around to face Yakko again. "What in the name of—"

I'm cut off by a rustling sound, and I turn back around again to see a toon man striding down some kind of _walkway_ towards the tree. He's dressed immaculately in a suit and tie, briefcase at his side. He waves cheerfully to me and the Warners, whistling as he knocks on the door of the tree. It swings open, but my view of what's behind it is blocked by the man.

"Hello," he says, taking off his hat and lifting his suitcase, "do you have your own life insu—"

_KRA-BOOM!!_

The salesman flies backwards at warp speed, completely blackened and sizzling. I stare after him for a while, then my head whips around again to look at the front door. Standing there is a toon squirrel just a head lower than me, old and gray-furred and with a green bowler hat on her head and a _cannon_ sitting next to her. She shrugs at me mischievously, not seeming overly concerned by my presence. "Hey, I don't like salesmen."

A quirky, strange, lopsided grin appears on my face. "I like her," I comment.

I begin to move towards the house which the squirrel has disappeared back into, but I'm suddenly barraged with a triple-barreled flying tackle hug that nearly sends me sprawling onto the ground. Giving a slight yelp, I squirm desperately to try to escape the still-alien sensation of physical contact, but Yakko, Wakko and Dot have too tight a grip, and before long they've managed to wriggle up to my shoulder height. And, before I can figure out what's happening, all three of them plant a huge, sloppy kiss on my face.

This effectively paralyzes me, and it's only after they've bounded back to the forest floor that I manage to get enough feeling back in my limbs to wipe the excess saliva off my burning cheeks. Then Yakko extends his hand to Wakko, who pulls out a large sack out of his pocket, rifles around in it and extracts a pair of rectangular packages, which he hands to Dot, who hands them to Yakko, who hands them all the way up to me.

_Animaniacs_ volume 1. And—my heart jackhammers when I recognize the picture on the second package—_Edward Scissorhands_, Fifteenth Anniversary edition, with special interviews with the production crew, movie trailer, a "making-of" featurette and a bonus cartoon, "Skullhead Boneyhands".

"Happy birthday, Lydeah," says Yakko, smiling widely. "For all three of the botched ones."

My eyes travel over the covers of the DVDs, then towards the door of the squirrel's house, and finally back to the Warners, all of whom are wearing genuine grins.

"Happy birthday", Lydeah. The world is yours.

And you're finally back in it.


End file.

Animaniacs, Angst, Humor