Daffy flattened himself against the wall, holding his breath, as a shadowy shape shuffled past him. He wasn’t looking closely enough to tell if they were Muppet or mannequin or man or monster, and honestly he didn’t care. What he needed was them to just be not there so he could get this done and get out.
They hadn’t had nearly as much time to plan as he would have liked. They’d had a council of war, discussed their options, realized there weren’t many, and gone to get supplies. Tweety remembered Granny had had a storage unit, Daffy had found the key, and they’d found more nitroglycerin and TNT than you could shake a stick at. At that point, Bugs had called in Basira over Daffy’s strenuous objections, and she’d driven them the three hours to Great Yarmouth in a van he’d been careful not to ask out loud where she’d got it, even though he knew it was stolen.
Maybe this would go more smoothly if there were more of them, but that just wasn’t an option. Bugs was needed at the Institute, and the only other people Daffy might have considered calling on simply weren’t available. Well…that wasn’t exactly true. Basira was waiting at the other end of the block with the van. She’d wanted to come in with them, but Daffy had put his foot down and said absolutely not. Not Basira, not Jonny, not Alex. No humans. Period. He wouldn’t risk them. Not that risking the others was a great idea either, but at least they were…more likely to be fine.
Daffy wasn’t stupid. He knew he probably wasn’t the only one being affected by the distance from Toon Town—the only one becoming more human. Porky’s skin was still dotted with scars, too, and the hours were clearly telling on Tweety. But he told himself that they were still Toons. The chances of them making it out of this unscathed, or at least alive, was higher than they were for a human. Jonny only pretended to be an immortal space pirate on weekends, and Alex and Basira didn’t even do that. Better they stay away and safe, and let the Toons risk it.
There—the coast was clear. Daffy darted forward, splashed some nitroglycerin along the baseboard of the wall, and stuck a bundle of TNT in the middle of it. The wire spooled out behind him, joining the cluster he held in his hands from his other endeavors. There was probably a better, less obvious way to do this, but he was banking on everyone being too preoccupied with the Unknowing to notice what was going on. The plunger was back in the main room they’d started in—at least he hoped it still was—and that was his last bundle. He’d better get back.
He darted through the halls, desperately hoping this would work in his favor. For once, he was just hoping for an unqualified win. No surprise twists, no stings in the tail, no ifs, ands, or buts. Just the Unknowing stopped, all his people out safely, and the world saved thanks to the Magnus Institute. Daffy didn’t even want recognition for it. Surely that would count for something.
Panting with exertion, he skidded back into the room they had all started in, wires rattling softly behind him, just as Porky stumbled in from another direction with his fistful of wires.
“Got ‘em all?” Daffy gasped.
“Eh-y, eh-y, eh-y, eh-yup,” Porky panted out in reply. “All the eh-r, eh-r, eh-r-rooms we marked on the, eh, way up. You?”
“Yep. Jutht need to wait on Tweety and we’re thet.”
As he said it, Tweety fluttered in from a third direction, wires gripped tightly in his toes. “Hewe, Daffy,” he said, dropping them to him; he just managed to reach out and snag them before they scattered. “I tink I got dem aww.”
“You think?” Daffy repeated as he jammed the wires into the slot on the plunger for them. “We can’t go on thinking for thith one, Tweety. We have to be sure.”
Tweety frowned. “Weww, thewe is one woom I didn’t go in, but I tawt it wasn’t wowf it.”
“Which one?” Daffy reached for Porky’s wires.
“Dat one.” Tweety indicated a door to his left.
Daffy stared at it pensively. It looked innocuous enough, but he knew he wouldn’t be sure until he looked. He held the plunger towards Porky absently. “Here, hold thith a thecond, Porkthter.”
Porky took the plunger without question, and Daffy crossed over to open the door. Carefully, he eased it open and peered inside.
And, uncharacteristically, swore.
Turning back to the other two, he hissed, “Who hath more TNT?”
“I’ve stiww got one weft,” Tweety volunteered.
“Porky?” Daffy turned to Porky.
Porky shook his head. “I eh-u, eh-u, eh-used all mine, but I’ve still g-got some, eh, some n-nitroglycerin.”
Daffy pursed his lips. “I’m not thure that’th going to be enough, but it’ll have to do. Come on.”
“Eh-w, eh-w, eh-w, eh-w-wait, Daffy, what’s g-going on?” Porky protested.
“We have to blow thith room,” Daffy said. “It’th the latht one. If you two want to get out of here, go on, I’ll thet the chargeth and be out, but—”
“Don’t be widicuwous, Daffy, we won’t weave you.” Tweety glared at Porky. “Wight, Powky?”
“Of c—eh, c—eh, c—eh, course not.” Porky didn’t look particularly convinced—in fact he looked pretty pale—but he followed Tweety and Daffy into the room.
Just like the last time he’d been in this room, it was cluttered with half finished toys, or things that looked like they might have been meant to be toys at one point. The hook he’d been hanging from, complete with the remnants of the ropes he’d been bound with, still dangled from the ceiling. It was eerily silent, and thankfully—or perhaps not so thankfully—there was no yellow door anywhere nearby. Max wasn’t helping this time, not that Daffy blamed him.
“Right,” he muttered to himself. “Where’th the betht plathe to plant the explothiveth tho thith plathe goeth up?”
“Do we r—eh, r—eh, r—eh, really have to?” Porky asked. “We have tw—eh, twenty tons of it planted everywhere else. Will, eh, t-this room really make a d—eh, d—eh, difference?”
“Yeth,” Daffy said positively. “Thith ith the room they were all heading into. The actual Unknowing ith thomewhere clothe by. If nothing elthe getth dethtroyed, thith one hath to.”
“Ovew hewe,” Tweety called, fluttering towards a support post.
“Keep your voithe down!” Daffy hissed, scuttling towards where Tweety was. “We can’t let them hear uth. If they catch uth, we’re worthe than dead.”
“Sowwy, Daffy,” Tweety said contritely.
“You know, we’re eh-g, eh-g, eh-going to look, eh, s-silly if this isn’t the place at all,” Porky pointed out.
Daffy opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, faint music began filtering towards them from behind the door nearest them, just a few feet from where Daffy was poised with the nitroglycerin. It was the sound of a steam organ being warmed up, haunting tones calculated to send dread down the spine.
He jabbed a finger at the door and raised an eyebrow pointedly at Porky, who at least had the decency to look sheepish.
Daffy poured out all the nitroglycerin he had left, then reached for Porky’s. “Watch your feet,” he murmured as he began pouring.
“Do we r—eh, r—eh, really need that much?” Porky kept his voice down this time, too.
“It’th bigger on the inthide. I only caught glimptheth of it while they were working on me, but it’th a pretty big thpace. And I don’t want anything walking out of that door.” Daffy finished emptying out the can, then jammed the TNT in the middle of it. He grabbed the wire and shoved it into the plunger. “Done!”
Tweety was staring at the door. “Daffy?”
“Yeth?”
“You keep saying ‘it’ and tawking about this ‘Unknowing’. I know what you and Bugs said. And you wead us dat statement on the way up.”
“Yeth?” Daffy stared at Tweety, then at the door. He had a horrible idea of where this was going.
“Awe dewe—peopwe in dewe?”
Daffy hesitated. “Maybe. At leatht they uthed to be people, onthe.”
Tweety looked horrified. “We can’t just weave them!”
“We c-eh-can,” Porky insisted.
“At leatht it’ll be quick,” Daffy tried.
“Dis isn’t wight.” A look of determination crossed Tweety’s face, and he darted forward.
“Tweety, no!” Daffy tried to rein back his volume and conceal some of his terror as he lunged for Tweety.
Too late. The little bird jumped on the door handle, causing it to turn, and pushed his way into the room. Daffy chased after him, Porky hot on his heels. All three of them skidded to a halt at the sight before them.
The bright red steam powered pipe organ that had been stolen from Artifact Storage was set up in the orchestra pit, its keys being manipulated by a furry brown lumpish shape coaxing the haunting music out of it at a volume that nearly drowned out thought. Lining the edges of the stage was a crowd of forms, not quite Muppet and not quite Toon and not quite human and not quite none of those things, all of which had their heads tilted backwards and their mouths open as they sang in a harmony that ought to have been discordant but wasn’t, a song just on this side of familiar—a song that bothered Daffy in a way he couldn’t explain. Other figures stood in various dramatic poses, poised to begin dancing at a moment’s notice. And spotlighted in center stage was a curvy nightmare of a form, clad in a skirt and blouse and feathers.
“Will the audience please take their places?” a voice that was at once Miss Piggy’s and Granny’s and Foghorn Leghorn’s called out. “It’s time to play the music! It’s time to light the lights! It’s time to get things started…!”
The music swelled to an almost painful degree, accompanied by the static, which rose to a discordant squeal. Daffy, his arms futilely spread out to either side in a desperate attempt to hold his colleagues back, felt it fill him. If this were a cartoon, he thought numbly, the static would be in his eyes…
And then, suddenly, everything evened out. The music had dropped back to the comforting levels of background music Daffy was familiar with and hadn’t realized he’d sorely missed. His arms fell to his side, and he looked around in bewilderment. He was…hadn’t he just been in a theater? An empty theater, carved out beneath…? No, not empty, it was never empty, it was—was this a set? It had to be a set, this had to be a cartoon, this—where were the cameras? Who was directing? Where was his script? He’d never done well without a script…
“Thcript! Thcript! I need a thcript!” he called, a little desperately.
“What’s that?” A figure suddenly appeared in front of him. He knew this figure, he did, he—hadn’t they worked together before? Why couldn’t he think of their name?
“What—who are you?” he managed.
“What an excellent question.” The voice was—it was familiar, wasn’t it? Was it? Did he know the voice? The figure took a step closer.
He drew back, clutching the thing in his arms to his chest. “Th—thtay back! Thtay away from me!”
“Sarah, Daniel…sometimes I just think I’m not meant for names,” the figure mused, as if it hadn’t heard him. “A hundred puppets, a hundred pointless names.”
“I don’t underthtand.”
“Of course you don’t. Not anymore.”
“What? I don’t—who are you?” he shouted, his voice taking on a slightly hysterical edge. Had he done that in a cartoon? Was this…who was the director?
“It’s me, Daffy,” the figure in front of him said, almost kindly. “It’s Tweety.”
He blinked. “Da—D-Daffy?”
“Yes,” said the figure. “That’s your name. And I’m your friend Tweety.”
“Oh, Tweety!” Daffy relaxed, then blinked. “Wait—you’re not Tweety.”
“Of course I am!” The figure—Tweety?—no, no, not Tweety, it couldn’t be—spread out its arms and spoke in a faux sweet voice. “You can relax, Daffy. Everything’s going to be okay.”
The voice, the voice, the voice was wrong—Tweety had three separate articulation disorders, this couldn’t be—but he said he was, and why would he lie? Daffy swallowed hard. “No—no, Tweety, we have to thtop it!”
“Stop what?” the figure asked.
He went blank. What…what were they trying to stop? “I—”
“And how are you going to stop it?” the figure continued.
“I—I don’t—thith!” He flailed one hand around, then became aware that there was something in his other hand, something he didn’t recognize. “What the…?”
“Give it to me.” The figure held out its hands.
He started to hand it over, then suddenly snatched it back, clutching it to his chest tightly. “No! Go away! It’th mine, you hear? All mine!” Instinct took over, and he began jumping up and down, trying to leap on the figure in front of him. “GO! GO! GO!!! MINE! MINE! MINE!!!”
With a cackle, he rushed away, cradling the thing in his arm. “I’m rich! I’m a happy mither! I—I—I—”
He slowed to a halt, slightly bewildered, and looked around him. The world was…blank. No up, no down, no ceiling, no floor—just a blank white page. Nothing there but him. And he didn’t even know what was supposed to be happening. He didn’t have a script, just…whatever this was. What was it?
“Hey!” he called, head on a swivel. “Whoever’th in charge here! The thcenery! Where’th the thcenery?”
“Oh, no,” said a new voice, syrupy sweet and just a little malicious. “Did we forget that? Whoopsie. Here you go, sweetie!”
He blinked—Daffy blinked—and suddenly he was standing in a land of sharp angles and twisting zigzags, lines that implied mountains and paths and chaos all at once, and before him was another figure he didn’t recognize, and the music, the music, the music was still playing, but—no, it wasn’t background music, there was an actual organ, that wasn’t right, it wasn’t—
“It ithn’t real,” he managed.
“What isn’t real, Daffy?” asked the figure in front of him, still sweet as pie.
“I—” Daffy. Daffy. He was Daffy Duck, this was—this wasn’t just another cartoon, he didn’t have a script. “None of thith! None of thith ith real!”
“Oh, but it is,” the figure said, tilting its head to one side. “Just because vous doesn’t understand it, that doesn’t make it not real.”
“Who are you?” Daffy was scared. He was—he was definitely scared, and for once it didn’t come out as anger.
The figure laughed. “Why—I’m Tweety, of course!”
Daffy pulled himself together, with effort. “You’re not Tweety.”
“You’re right,” the figure agreed instantly. “You caught me! I’m Wile E.”
“Shut up,” Daffy snarled. Anger pushed aside some of the fog in his mind. This person—this thing—did not get to pretend—
“No, really, it’s moi!” the figure trilled. “Wile E. Whatsit, back from the dead, just like you wanted!”
“Get away from me!” Daffy took a step back. “Or I thwear I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Hit me?” The figure’s voice dropped to a growl. He knew that growl, knew the voice, it—she—it had attacked him once before, hadn’t she? It? “Go ahead. Make a fist.”
“I—” Daffy looked down. There were…hands. So many hands…is that what they were?
“Do you even know which one is yours? Do you even know what a hand is?” The figure’s form didn’t change, but its voice suddenly did, taking on an older, sharper quality. “Pathetic.”
“Wait.” That voice, that was—he knew it, he did. Daffy tried to concentrate. “I—I know you.”
“I should certainly hope so.” There was a weird quality to the voice, almost an echo, but—no, Daffy’s vision sharpened, and he recognized the voice, the form. It was her. It was Granny.
“How are you…here?” he managed.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Daffy. I’m here because you failed.” Granny frowned at him.
“I didn’t! I didn’t!” Daffy protested. “I, I can thtill thtop it—”
“How?” Granny asked pointedly. “You didn’t even know what it was. Do you know how many people I killed to keep the world in one piece? The sacrifices I made? And you didn’t even know what you were fighting.”
“I don’t—I don’t have to—” Daffy was getting confused again. “I-it’th—it’th not too late! What can I do?”
“You could cry, maybe. Scream.” Granny laughed, but it—it didn’t sound right, it wasn’t—did Granny really laugh like that? “Have you tried sucking your thumb and whimpering?”
“Why are you doing thith?” Daffy asked. He meant it to sound challenging, but it just came out…pathetic.
“I’m not!” Granny shook her head. “Honestly, it’s probably a good thing I’m dead. Can you imagine how much I would have hated having to watch you fumble around as my replacement? What a disappointment. No wonder you were always the second banana.”
“N-no, I jutht—I need a thcript, I—” Dead. Right. Granny was dead, she couldn’t be here, she—Daffy got hold of himself. “Lithten, thithter, it ithn’t my fault you died!”
“No, I suppose it isn’t.” Granny turned away, and…suddenly was gone. In her place was Foghorn Leghorn, sticky red crimson still staining the feathers on the side of his head. “On the other hand, mine is definitely your fault.”
“Oh, no,” Daffy choked out, backing up. The pathways were narrow, he was going to fall, he—no, this wasn’t real, he’d been in a theater, there was nowhere to fall. “Not you, too.”
“Ohh, yes it is,” Foghorn Leghorn said darkly.
“You told me—why didn’t you warn me it would be like thith?” Daffy demanded. “Why didn’t you thay thomething?”
“Well, I hardly—I say, I hardly had the chance to before you left me to get m’ head bashed in, did I, son?” Foghorn Leghorn strode towards him with the dramatically angry bowlegged stride he was familiar with, but it seemed…off somehow. “Of course, I understand. You needed a cigarette. Don’t you know smokin’ kills, boy?” He laughed, and again—it was wrong. It was a laugh Daffy had never heard from Foghorn Leghorn, it was too high, too feminine, too—
“Wait jutht a durned minute.” Daffy drew himself up. “You’re not Foghorn Leghorn! Not any more than you were Granny, or Wile E., or Tweety! You’re Mithth Piggy!”
“Now why would you think that?” Granny—no, not Granny, Miss Piggy, she was just wearing Granny’s face and using her voice—said with a frown.
“Becauthe—becauthe—” Daffy shook his head hard, then decided to do the one thing that had always cleared it before. He twisted slightly to one side, trusting there would be a hard surface there, and slammed his head into it as hard as he could. He saw stars for a moment, but it did clear his mind, and for one brief, shining moment, he Saw.
He Saw the theater. He Saw the things that were not toys and were not human and were not neither. He Saw the coffin starting to slide through a door. He Saw the figures converging on him and the one in front of him from all directions, and he Saw that the thing before him was Miss Piggy in a crude costume stitched together with half of Granny’s skin and half of Foghorn Leghorn’s.
And he Saw what he held in his arms.
And he Knew what was going on, and what to do.
He laughed, a little hysterically, a little desperately. “Wanna thee a trick? It’th my betht one.”
Granny/Foghorn Leghorn/Miss Piggy frowned. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Sure I would!” Daffy sneered at her. “The only problem ith…I can only do it onthe.”
He lifted the plunger of the detonator as high as he could, slammed it down with all his might, and blew the Unknowing, the Theater, and anyone unfortunate enough to be caught up in it to hell.