Daffy was fairly certain he was going to regret this. Actually, that wasn’t quite right. Daffy already regretted this. He was fairly certain he was going to hate himself for it later. It was also entirely possible that later was going to be in about five seconds.
But Jonny had done him a solid, getting him this information. Daffy didn’t know Toons from studios beyond the Big Three very well, especially ones who hadn’t done more than a picture or two, so he hadn’t immediately recognized the one in the statement and wouldn’t have known how to get hold of them if he had. Jonny had managed to ask just the right questions to wheedle the information out of Porky—Daffy didn’t ask how, and it didn’t matter, since both Porky and Tweety were unlikely to fall for the pronoun trouble kind of manipulation—and got him a way to get in touch. He’d made his appointment, assured Jonny he didn’t need backup, and accepted the loan of a coat when it turned out to be significantly colder than he’d expected, then set off.
Maybe he did need backup, actually, but he wasn’t going to tell Jonny that. Jonny was human. Daffy wasn’t sure how far along on the scale Foghorn Leghorn had spoken of he himself was, but Jonny had absolutely zero Toon in him despite the ludicrous getup he’d been wearing when he got home from his gig and could definitely die. And as anyone who’d been around in the forties could tell you, while it might be hard for a human to kill a Toon, for a Toon to kill a human was child’s play. So no, thanks, he wasn’t risking an innocent bystander any more than he had to.
He wasn’t surprised, from the description he’d been given, about the location of the coffee shop where they’d arranged to meet. It was right in the shadow of a factory, gloomy and sagging and slightly hopeless looking. Obviously it was too pretentious for anyone who worked in the factory and too close to said factory for anyone who could afford it, so the only patrons were a few rebellious teenage hipster types. There didn’t seem to be anyone who would recognize him—or at least not call too much attention to him if they did—so it seemed appropriate.
He really didn’t need coffee, but he rationalized that it would help kill the potential smell. So he had ordered the strongest brew on tap and was currently sitting with it cupped in his hands, directly under his nostrils, not sipping it, just inhaling the steam and the scent and waiting.
Would he recognize his contact? No, that was silly. Of course he would recognize his contact. This was not a place frequented by Toons, anyone could see that, so the likelihood of an unrelated Toon walking in was slim to none. There was no way he would…fail…to…
Daffy stiffened as a heavy, oppressive sense washed over him. He felt…slimy, like something disgusting had just been poured down his back, and something bitter and acrid slid onto his tongue. A thick, oily black smoke wisped through the air; the scattered patrons mostly just waved hands in the air to clear it away from them, and one of the baristas—or whatever they called them here—shouted to the other about unplugging the coffee pot before the smoke detector went off. Daffy didn’t think that was likely, though. Casually, he slid his hand into his borrowed coat, brought out the tape recorder, and laid it on the table in front of him.
Sure enough, the smoke flowed over his head—he only just held back his urge to start coughing—and poured itself into the seat opposite him, slowly coalescing into a more solid—or at least solid-appearing—form. Like a cross between Chernabog and the Genie but black as ink, with rather impressive abs that gave way to a broad chest and thick arms, the form towered over Daffy by a good two feet. Daffy gulped and dug around for the remaining shreds of his courage as the neck appeared, then the chiseled jaw, then the broad, sharp grin, then the glowing eyes below a tousled hairstyle made of smoke.
No. No, not smoke. Smog.
Daffy managed—just—to choke out his opening statement without squeaking. “Hexthuth, I prethume.”
“Archivist.” The Toon before him practically purred the word; Daffy only barely suppressed a shudder at the way it caressed him. Hexxus’ gaze traveled down the length of Daffy’s torso, then back up. He—there was no other word for it—snickered.
The laugh did at least serve to give Daffy some shred of confidence, even if it was cloaked in the annoyance of being laughed at instead of with. He narrowed his eyes. “Ith thomething funny?”
“Of course, Archivist, isn’t it obvious?” Hexxus waved his long, spindly fingers at Daffy in quick, fluid gesture.
It made him feel dirty, which made him even more annoyed. “Look, I lotht my regular coat, and it’th cold outthide, okay? Thome of uth actually feel the cold.”
Hexxus hummed. “Oh, you think it your attire that amuses me?”
“Well, it’th not my thparkling wit, tho what elthe could it be?” Daffy challenged.
“I’m sure it’s a—oh, what is the word you Looney Toons use? A gag you’re quite familiar with.” Hexxus’ eyes seemed to glitter and his eyebrows raised suggestively on the word gag, which made Daffy want to…well, gag. “Imagine if you will, a scenario where the hero of the cartoon knocks on the door of the cottage, walks right in the door, and climbs into the pot of boiling water, then begins…scrubbing himself with a stalk of celery while other vegetables are sliced in. Only in this scenario, unlike most of such pictures, the hero is perfectly aware that the cottage is owned by a witch and the open recipe book right next to the cauldron calls for him as the centerpiece of the dish. Is it any wonder that the witch would laugh?”
Daffy snorted. “Well, you’re no Witch Hathel, that’th for sure, tho let’th cut the preliminarieth and get to the point.”
Hexxus smirked. “If you insist. This factory runs all night, you know.”
“Right.” Daffy tried to sort out which end of the conversation he wanted to start at. “Did you dethtroy a thection of the Gwydir Foretht latht year?”
“Well, not on my own, but yes,” Hexxus said carelessly. His grin curled even further at the edges. “You should have seen how devastated they were. Such a loss.”
“I’m sure the Forethtry Commiththion wath mortified,” Daffy said dryly. “Why?”
The wicked glowing eyes narrowed and the grin faded noticeably. “Don’t do that. And it was because the Dancer asked quite nicely. She was done with the place, and we’re always happy to help, when that help is destroying something someone loves. Especially something so worthless.”
“But—” Daffy began.
“No more questions, Archivist,” Hexxus said, his voice dropping to a snarl. Daffy flinched back before he could stop himself.
Recovering himself, he pressed on. “I jutht—you were friendth with Agneth Montague, weren’t you?”
“I knew of Agnes,” Hexxus agreed. “But not too terribly well. Not all desolation is fire, you see, and while it has its uses for the likes of me, it is not my first choice of weapon.”
“Detholation,” Daffy repeated. “Jutht what in tarnation ith that thuppothed to mean? Ith that your god?”
Hexxus tilted his head thoughtfully at Daffy. “Now, what do you mean by that?”
“It’th jutht…I have a god, too, right?” Daffy had never really thought about gods per se; most Toons swore on animators or directors more than anything, which were close enough to a higher power for them to be getting on with. But the longer he’d been at the Institute, and from what he’d heard from Foghorn Leghorn, he was starting to suspect there was something more out there. Who animated the animators, and all that nonsense.
“You are joking.”
“No! No, I’m—I’m new to thith.” Daffy hunched his shoulders in Jonny’s ostentatious coat, which he was pretty sure was part of a costume he never wore. “Everyone keepth calling me ‘Archivitht’, like I’m thomething thpecial, and thaying I therve the Eye. Trying to kill me for it.”
Hexxus’ smile returned. “That’s right.”
“Tho it’th…it’th like your ‘god,’ right?” Daffy pursued.
“Oh, really.” The lip curled into a sneer, while still smiling, which was truly an expression only a Toon villain could pull off. “Your god is nothing. The Eye, the Ceaseless Watcher, the Beholder…whatever you choose to call it, that’s all it does. Watch. No different than those useless fairies. It watches and knows, sitting bulbous and comfortable in the…ignorance of knowledge. I serve a reckoning. A surging tide of destruction and pain.”
“Not the Lightlethth Flame.”
“That is one aspect of the Desolation, but hardly the only,” Hexxus said smoothly. “It’s blackened earth and wasted potential. Land scoured of life. Unthinking, unfeeling, painful, agonizing loss. When it triumphs, it will leave the Eye a burned and shriveled husk that sees nothing but its own agony.”
“I—I think I thee,” Daffy said, half to himself. His mind was racing. “Tho if…if one wantth to watch everything and the other…wantth to dethtroy…”
“You don’t even know what this is about, do you?” Hexxus sounded smugly delighted.
It snapped the last of Daffy’s self control, and he slapped a hand on the table, making the cup rattle and the recorder jump. “Tho tell me!” he half shouted.
“An Archivist, pleading for knowledge,” Hexxus practically purred. “That…oh, that is satisfying to see.”
Daffy sighed. “Lithten, Buthter. You’re jutht about my only lead, and if you’re…” He snorted. “Jutht kill me, all right? If it’th tho eathy, if you’re not going to tell me anything worth my time—”
“And now you’re starting to sound like an Archivist,” Hexxus said. Daffy snorted. “And now, obviously, I’m not going to kill you.”
“Why not?” Daffy asked. “It’th not that I want to die, goodnethth knowth, but—”
“Consider it a favor.”
“Oh. Thankth?”
“Not for you.” Hexxus waved him off with a dismissive flick of the wrist that really highlighted the fact that he’d been drawn to be a villain in the late ‘80s when it seemed every villain was queer coded or racially coded or both. “For Elias.”
“Eliath. Bouchard?” Daffy asked incredulously. “He’th dead.”
“Yes…the late, unlamented Elias Bouchard.” Hexxus took a delicate sip of his coffee and sighed. “My kingdom for a sludge pipe.”
Daffy frowned, turning the statement over in his head—not the one about the sludge pipe, that was obviously connected to the coffee and not the conversation—but the one about Elias. “Wait, but if he’th…and even if he wath alive, if I therve the…the Beholding or whatever it ith, he had to have been much deeper into it than I am. Or tho I would aththume.”
Hexxus gave an eloquent shrug. “The rumor is that he was the one to kill G—hmm. May I call her Granny?”
“Thpeak her name and thpeak it with rethpect, or keep it out of your mouth,” Daffy growled. “Tho you’re thaying if Eliath killed her…you owe him for that?”
“Yes,” Hexxus said simply. “And Bugs Bunny is his successor, and clearly wants you alive, my little friend, so here we are.”
Daffy sighed. “Here we are. Great. Thankth for the thour perthimmonth, couthin. Tell me the thtory of why you wanted Granny—urk—”
He broke off abruptly as Hexxus seemed to suddenly swell in size, swathing the spot in which they sat in smeary, smelly, smothering smog. His voice deepened. “Try to compel me again, and I will choke it from your lungs.”
Terrified, Daffy could only squeak what he hoped would be taken as acquiescence. Hexxus laughed. “Now you’re scared. Now you’re getting it. There is no safety in sitting on the sidelines watching. The audience is only safe when the story isn’t about them.” He withdrew back to his normal, though still impressive, size, smiling with undisguised pleasure. “This is no cartoon, you know.”
“Tho I’ve heard.” Daffy tugged at his feathers and attempted to give himself some kind of dignity. “Fine. Keep your darned thecretth.”
Hexxus studied him. “No. Perhaps I do want to tell you a story.”
“Well, if it’th not about Granny or Gwydir, then what?” Daffy demanded.
Hexxus smiled. “I’m going to give you some…advice.”
“Fantathtic,” Daffy said. He waited a moment, then snapped, “Well?!”
Hexxus’ smile broadened, taking on both a smug and a decidedly cruel aspect. “Aren’t you going to say your words?”
“Okay. Have it your way,” Daffy said, exasperated. “Thtatement of Hexththuth, regarding…thome advithe. Recorded direct from thubject, April twenty-fourth, two thouthand theventeen. Thtatement beginth.”
“If you smother a flame, it dies,” Hexxus said. “The only way to make it flourish and grow is to feed it. You must spend your time finding fuel for it, and most importantly, you mustn’t care what you feed it. The moment you start worrying and fretting about who lives and who dies, you’ll sputter, and you will simply…snuff out, as surely as any candle. Never be afraid to burn.” He laughed. “The pain is…exquisite. To feel it, to truly feel the heat and burn rush through you is a delight and a glory I could never convey. At least, that’s how it is for the likes of me. For you, perhaps, it will manifest differently—an itchy eye, maybe. It truly does not matter one way or another. What matters is that you feed it, let it grow strong. Otherwise…well. The thing it feeds on will be you.”
He ran a long, skeletal finger around the rim of his coffee cup. “Have you seen my film? A strange question, is it not, little Archivist? You know in some places, it’s considered unconscionably rude to ask another actor if they’ve seen your work, only to offer up that you’ve seen theirs. Perhaps that’s true where you come from. Where I come from, though, there are…so few animated films, relatively speaking. Or at least they aren’t as well known. Few of us were fortunate enough to cross the oceans, after all. Of course we have all seen yours, and to some it would seem the height of egoism to ask a celebrity such as yourself to have watched our humble little offering. And yet, here I am, asking. Oh…no, I can see in your eyes, you haven’t. That’s good. It means you aren’t burdened with the trappings of the stage and screen, and you might…listen.
“It began with fire, not poison. I know that may be hard for you to believe. It’s hard for many to believe, even those who fight me. But I was created from the smoke of the fires. Not the warm, cozy bonfires that helped to cook food and provide warmth and light and chase away monsters, no. No, those fires served other Fears. My fires were swift and hungry and stole away homes and livelihoods. My fires chased away the animals—well, those it did not consume or cripple—and tore down the trees. My fires drove the people away and left them hungry and helpless, if they survived. They were beautiful. Soon the people grew to fear me—the black clouds on the horizon—the smoke that signaled the all consuming greed of a bushfire.
“The Europeans, now. They were truly the gift that kept on giving. Greedy, entitled men who believed the world was theirs to own. Cutting down trees without a care for the history or the significance. Destroying homes that didn’t look like they believed they should look. Do you know, I never thought, until I saw them, that one could truly desolate a community without fire or poison? But the utter destruction of a people can be done in, oh, so many delicious ways. Perhaps from the outside it looks like Slaughter, but to take the children…that is truly a form of Desolation. For my part, though, it was always the smoke I was drawn to, and these greedy men brought new kinds of smoke. Smoke that nature could only dream of, smoke that settled in the lungs and on the body and brought about new sicknesses never before imagined. Their poison could destroy entire forests and populations in so little time, and I thrived on it.
“I was never trapped in a tree. Those pathetic fairies—they never could stand a chance against me. After all, it is a part of nature. And perhaps they were more…amenable to me. More forgiving. After all—” Hexxus laughed cruelly. “I could hardly help what I was, could I? It was only after the white men came and built their factories, their foundries, their coal plants, that they began to realize that I was feeding on something far less wholesome than nature, and wielding it against everything they loved. They feared but respected me, but now…now it was all fear. Magi Lune knew what I was, but then, I knew what she was, too. She was a true Archivist.
“Was I always a Toon? Or am I Fear given a Toon’s form to adapt? Who’s to say? Do you know that in the oldest caves, there are still moving pictures—horses that were drawn to run in the firelight? There has always been animation, Mister Duck, and there has always been fear, and who is to say which gave substance to the other? But when that pathetic man agreed to draw the story, there I was, ready and willing to play the villain. I even gave them Magi’s story, such as it was, and encouraged them to make her the beating heart of the picture. Of course, they wanted a younger protagonist, a more relatable teen character, and so Crysta came about…but after all, she would need a mentor. And I pushed for that, oh, so hard. Because what most movies in that time did was have the mentor character die partway through the film, to spur the protagonist on. And she couldn’t die easily, no. She had to be killed. By me. In that way, I got at least a semblance of my revenge.
“Not ‘for all those years locked in a tree’, like the song sang. As I said, I was never trapped. I made that up. No, but greedy human beings will always lend a hand. And Magi Lune knew that. She would always find just the right person to grant the gift of fairy sight, someone who would stop me. I got close, Mister Duck. So very close. But never close enough. And isn’t it ironic that a film meant to show children how to save the earth did the opposite? So many wanted to see the real Fern Gully. And we helpfully gave them a map, right in sight of Mount Warning. And they came. Oh, yes, they came, in their beautiful cars with their noxious fumes. They touched things that ought to have been left alone and trampled new paths where they should never have existed. And they wanted somewhere to stay, so trees had to be cut down, new structures built. Places for RVs, for hotels, for tour buses. And with every one that came, the destruction grew closer.
“It was never quite enough for me, of course. I knew I would need to leave eventually, to find somewhere the stewards of the land held even less sway than they did where I was. Oh, the beautiful ships, with their foul breath to guide them…yes, it was hardly a challenge to get away. And here I am, and here I shall remain. There is still so much to destroy.”
Hexxus fell silent for a moment, then laughed. “I suppose you did compel me after all.”
Daffy had no idea what he’d actually done, but he wasn’t about to say that. Instead, he swallowed hard. “Tho—what, you’re thaying I might…?”
“You aren’t listening, are you?” Hexxus still sounded amused. “You have your god, as I have mine. Feed it, fearlessly and without hesitation, or it will feed on you.”
“What do I feed it?” Daffy asked dryly. “It doethn’t theem like the carrotth and honey type.”
Hexxus shrugged. “How should I know, little Archivist? It chose you. Not its best option, if you ask me.”
“Well, I didn’t athk you,” Daffy snapped. “Look, ith there anything elthe you can tell me?”
“Yes,” Hexxus purred.
Daffy waited several seconds, but nothing else was forthcoming. He scowled. “Anything elthe you’re willing to tell me?”
“No,” Hexxus replied simply.
“Great. Jutht great,” Daffy growled, throwing up his hands. “Thankth for the advithe. And the dead end.”
He started to stand, but Hexxus stopped him. “Wait just a moment. You have one more question, don’t you?”
Daffy did, but he’d assumed the answer would be no. The Lightless Flame was a thing, but Hexxus didn’t seem like part of it. On the other hand…“Ith there anyone elthe I can talk to?”
“Well.” Hexxus’s eyes flickered with the banked flames within them. “If you really want to keep…talking to things that want to kill you, I might know someone. We aren’t on great terms, as he’s closer to your kind than mine, but I know where he…exists.”
Daffy swallowed. “Who—” he began, then corrected himself. “What is he?”
“I believe he calls himself…Rocky.”
Daffy hadn’t met anyone going by Rocky since coming to the Institute, or seen the name in any statements—yet—but that didn’t mean anything. “Short little guy, wearth a hat pulled down over hith eyeth, lip thtickth out to here…?”
“Hmm?” Hexxus frowned. “Short, yes, and a hat, certainly, but not so low. His eyes are visible, and it is not his lip but his teeth that protrude.”
Daffy’s beak dropped. “Wait, Rocky J. Thquirrel?”
Hexxus nodded. “That is the one. I know where you can find him.”
“Where?” Daffy asked eagerly.
“Oh, not for free,” Hexxus said, putting a delicate hand to his chest.
Daffy sighed in exasperation. “Fine. What ith it you want?”
Hexxus grinned. “Oh, nothing much. Just one little kiss.”
Daffy blinked at him. “What?”
“Live and let live.” Hexxus’ smile broadened. “One tiny kiss. That’s all. It won’t hurt you.”
It would. Daffy was sure it would. But he had done way worse in his time…right? “Okay. Have it your way.”
He leaned forward and closed his eyes. Hexxus’ skeletal, smoky hand came up to cup his cheek almost lovingly. The smell hit his nostrils in the second before Hexxus’ lips, such as they were, found his, and almost immediately he found himself coughing and choking as the poisonous fumes curled down his throat and into his lungs.
Somehow without breaking the kiss off, Hexxus whispered, “I lied.”