It didn’t take Daffy more than a week to realize how much things had changed. Not just in the Archives themselves; Tweety wouldn’t even talk to him, but even if he still seemed to be doing the work like he always had, he’d changed the setup and organization. Daffy had at first assumed that it was to make things easier on himself as a one bird Archives, until that first evening, staring into the depths of his desk drawer and grumbling about why someone had taken all of his pens while he was in a coma, when he’d suddenly just…known that something had attacked the Archives. Basira had confirmed later—reluctantly—that there had been two or three, the worst about three months back, and only Bugs’ timely intervention had saved the Archives and their lives.
Things were different upstairs, too. Nobody actually knew what had happened—and how he knew that, he still wasn’t sure, although he was beginning to guess—but even people who’d been at least passingly cordial to him before now ignored him completely. Not that he went out of his way to try and talk to them, although maybe he should. Still, it was…disconcerting at best. Painful at worst. Daffy couldn’t explain why it hurt him so badly, but it did.
Even Bugs wasn’t really talking to him, and that still stung. Granted, they weren’t as close as they used to be…but still, you’d think he could have at least popped down to find out how Daffy was even doing. But no. No, he was left to his own devices. If it hadn’t been for Basira, Jonny, and even Alex, who kept popping by whether they were supposed to or not—since now that he was back, there was the understanding that he could decide who had access to the Archives—he’d have gone crazy from having no one to talk to.
“Not that that ever thtopped me before,” he muttered to himself as he headed back from the break room, cup of tea in hand. “Goodnethth knowth I talked to mythelf plenty before, goodnethth knowth. I don’t know why it feelth different now. It ithn’t ath though I haven’t thpent time on my own, goodnethth knowth. It ithn’t that.”
He paused at the top of the stairs, perfectly still, and listened. There was nothing to hear, nothing to see, but…somehow, he knew.
He sighed and continued the rest of the way down into his office.
“Daffy!” The voice from the darkness was full of false cheer and clearly coming from between clenched teeth. “How are you? Where’s Basira? Don’t turn on the light.”
“It’th all right, Jonny,” Daffy said calmly. His eyes had adjusted; far from just being able to see two pairs glinting in the darkness, he could make out both shapes standing there. “I know he’th here.”
“Oh?” Jonny’s voice sounded a little strangled now. “So…what are you doing exactly?”
“I imagine he’th here to deliver thomething.” Daffy switched on the light, making both Jonny and the figure holding a blade to his throat blink. “Thought it might need thigning for.”
“That’s right!” The figure—Daffy recognized it now as Statler—eased back from Jonny, but didn’t let go of the blade. “Just wanted to…drop off a package.”
Jonny surreptitiously reached up and rubbed at his throat as he edged away from the figure. “Did you…uh…bring him here?” he asked, sounding like he was trying too hard to be casual.
“Nope.” Daffy drew out the N and popped the P, keeping his gaze fixed on Statler.
“Then…what’s he doing here? Revenge?”
Daffy hesitated. “I don’t know. Athk him.”
“Don’t think he’ll answer me, mate,” Jonny muttered.
Daffy sighed. “Fine.” Taking a deep breath, he stared into Statler’s eyes. “Are you here for revenge?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Statler answered instantly. “Just like when we—” He faltered, then corrected, “—when I fed the pig to the pit.”
Daffy narrowed his eyes. “What pit?”
“Right here.” Statler patted the top of the coffin—thump, thump—right next to him. “It’s getting to be a real—drag.” He looked to his left, then slumped ever so slightly and added, “I’m not tied to it on my own anymore, so I thought you’d like it. Pay your respects. If you have any respect!”
Jonny, behind him, straightened up a little. “Wait, Porky’s in there?”
“Is that what it’s called? Good name for it,” Statler said casually. “Sure, it’s in there—whatever’s left. Probably not right, though.”
“Would you thtop with thothe ridiculouth punth?” Daffy snapped.
“Mee, meemee.” Statler’s face didn’t change, but his voice did—rising in pitch and taking on a slightly shrill timbre, the corners of his mouth somehow drawing even more sharply downward. “Mee mee meemee?”
“That’th even worthe.” Daffy was getting angry now. “You’ve never had anything to do with Richard Hunt, tho knock it off.”
Statler laughed. “Miss Piggy said you were funny. I didn’t believe her.”
“What do you want?” Jonny asked, sounding somewhere between panicked and angry. “Why are you here?”
As he had predicted earlier, Statler didn’t answer. Daffy sighed. “Why are you here?”
“I don’t know,” Statler said immediately. Daffy waited, knowing he would have to continue; he’d literally asked, after all. “I’m not used to being on my own. It’s never happened before. There’s no point. I thought maybe I would just kill you, but I missed my chance. Then I thought I’d deliver something. So—here’s a coffin. In case you want to join your friend.”
“Fuck off, mate,” Jonny said angrily.
“Jonny,” Daffy said, warning and worried in one package. He didn’t know why Jonny was suddenly so upset about this—it wasn’t like he had ever met Porky—but—
Statler just smirked, inasmuch as a Muppet could actually smirk. “Make me.”
That sounded like a challenge. And since Daffy didn’t want anyone else to get hurt on his account, not if he could help it—especially not someone like Jonny, who had friends and family and whose podcast really had the potential to be something great if he marketed it right instead of just vaguely hoping it would catch on outside the very limited circles it was in right about then, and when had he told Daffy he’d actually launched that podcast anyway—he decided to take the challenge up. Especially when he heard the rising rushing of air—the idea that Statler was going to definitely do something.
He stood between Jonny and Statler and reached for the Ceaseless Watcher, silently begging it to give him something, anything.
“Thtop,” he said, calm but firm.
The static began rising, a sensation both comforting and terrifying in equal measures. Statler shrank back. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Daffy, what are you doing?” Jonny hissed.
Daffy ignored him in favor of staring at Statler. Not just looking at him, but Seeing him—Seeing what he had always been regardless of the form he wore, what he would always be even once the cloth rotted and the wires rusted away. Seeing his past and present and pathway, Seeing how he had become part of the Theater even as he had always been part of the Stranger, Seeing the games he and Waldorf had played over the years, the fun they’d had, the pain they’d caused. Seeing and Knowing everything he wanted to keep hidden.
“What—stop it! Stop it!” Statler shouted.
Daffy didn’t even blink. This tasted better than the finest meal he’d ever consumed. “No.”
“No! Nooooooooo! Stop looking at me! Gyah!” Statler threw the knife to the ground and bolted for the door.
The static died away abruptly as Daffy lost his immediate focus, and he collapsed against his desk, shaking as he—barely—kept himself from falling to the ground.
“Daffy? You okay, mate?” Jonny asked uncertainly.
The words were sloshing around in his head. He needed to get them out, and he needed to get them out now. Still panting, Daffy looked up at Jonny.
“Get me a pen,” he rasped out. “Pleathe.”