She wasn’t wrong. That was the worst of it.
Not that Daffy had actually thought Basira was wrong. Even before she’d said the words, he had known, really. But he’d had to go investigate. Actually, his first thought had been to run to Bugs, but Rosie had snidely informed him that Mr. Bunny has a meeting elsewhere this morning and he had had to content himself with that. Instead, he’d rushed off with Basira to the offices of Hare and Hound, which were being shuttered. Edward Hussein, né Valiant, was in the process of packing up his office, but he had welcomed Daffy readily enough and given his daughter and her friends—Jonny and Alex having joined them there, bringing Sasha along, who seemed torn between annoyance and worry—access to whatever they needed. The interview and research had left Daffy with no doubts whatsoever. Sometime while he’d been lying in a hospital bed, not quite dead but not quite alive and with just enough activity that the staff had assumed it was Toon weirdness rather than something more sinister, every single cartoon Daffy Duck had ever had even the smallest cameo in had been transferred to the Vault.
The Vault, capital V. Not just the storage room every studio had where they put films they no longer thought were profitable. This was where cartoons went to never be released. He’d seen it once, long ago, when he’d been part of the committee that had been convened to discuss what to do with the reel someone had found and watched and discovered to be the sole cartoon featuring the Toon that had later been known as Judge Doom. It was a concrete bunker, deep beneath the surface, somewhere between Los Angeles and Anaheim, with no door whatsoever, only a slot in the top to slide the reels through. He still remembered the hollow clatter as it had fallen atop those films deemed irretrievable.
Deeply shaken, Daffy made his way back to the Archives. He was tired, he was hungry, and he’d accidentally caused a fight between Basira and her father over whether it was his fault that he’d compelled her to answer him. Despite Sasha—of all people—pointing out that he hadn’t technically instigated the fight, just his actions, he still blamed himself, and he’d fled the detective office to make his own way back to the Institute. The others were probably—no, definitely safer without him around, anyway. Maybe everybody was.
He paused, just for a moment, at the top of the steps, then sighed to himself. Quietly, he opened the door, closed it as soundlessly as he could, and made his way into the main part of the room.
“Hello, Tweety,” he said.
Tweety didn’t look up from what he was doing. Didn’t even give Daffy a glare. “I tawt you wewen’t coming in today.”
“I could have thaid the thame about you.” Daffy came closer and frowned. Tweety was going through his desk drawers, but he couldn’t clearly see what he was pulling out or looking for.
The Ceaseless Watcher nudged eagerly at the back of his mind, like a confidence man elbowing a mark, but Daffy resisted the temptation to just…Know. It wasn’t the same as having a script. He couldn’t do that. Not to Tweety. Not now.
“You…theem to be looking for thomething,” he said carefully.
“How pewceptive of you.” Tweety slammed a drawer shut and opened another.
“I would very much like to know what that ith.”
Tweety snorted—actually snorted. “What, you awen’t going to puww it out of my widdwe head?”
“I could,” Daffy agreed, startled and more than a little stung but trying to keep his composure. “But I would really rather not do that.”
“Oh, stop pwetending, Daffy.” Tweety finally looked up at him, and Daffy actually took half a step back at the force of the anger and—yes—hatred in his expression. “We both know dis is evewyting you evew wanted.”
“I never wanted thith,” Daffy protested.
“Didn’t you?” Tweety was suddenly right there, right in Daffy’s face. “Didn’t you want to be in chawge? Didn’t you want to be top biwwing? Didn’t you want evewyone’s attention on you and onwy you?”
Daffy gaped at Tweety. “What ith with you, Tweety?”
“What is wif me?” Tweety repeated. “You want to know what’s wif me? Can’t you just wead my mind?”
“That ithn’t—I can’t do it like that,” Daffy stammered. At least he was pretty sure he couldn’t. Or could he? Maybe with a little effort—no! No, he—okay, he could. Technically, theoretically, he could read Tweety’s mind. But he wouldn’t. Tweety deserved better than that.
Tweety didn’t seem to hear him. “I can give you a hint. It ends in ‘off’.” He pushed off of Daffy’s beak and went back to what he was doing.
“Tweety!” Daffy was getting close to the end of his patience. “When have I ever been your enemy?”
Tweety let out one bitter laugh. “Awen’t you da one awways saying dis isn’t a cawtoon anymowe? It doesn’t mattew what da scwipts said. You’we pawt of…de Eye, wight? Ow whatevew it’s cawwed? Dey’we not human. It’s instinct.”
“I’m thtill me, Tweety,” Daffy protested.
“Awe you?” Tweety scowled. “Weww, you’we stiww you in one wespect. You’we nevew awound when tings get sewious.”
“That’th not fair! Thometimeth I wath kidnapped,” Daffy snapped. “And for a while I wath dead.”
“Dat’s supposed to make me feew bettew?”
“What about you? You’ve been here thith whole time.” Daffy stepped closer, hands balling unconsciously into fists. “Bathira told me you wouldn’t acthept her help. Jonny thayth the thame thing. Alexth—all right, he didn’t exthactly athk, but if thith ith tho hard on you, you could have had three humanth to help you—”
“Dat’s youw job, Daffy!” Tweety shouted. “You’we de Awchivist! You wewe supposed to be hewe! You wewe supposed to keep Walph—no, Wiwe E safe, and Powky—and me. And what did you do? You pushed. You pwied. You meddewed in tings dat ought not to be meddwed in. And wook what happened. Wiwe E. Coyote is gone, wepwaced wif someone we tawt we knew. Powky is twapped in a coffin, maybe fowevew. Dwanny is dead, and you know what, I stiww don’t know it wasn’t you who kiwwed hew! Even Bugs won’t tawk to us anymowe. And it’s because of you.”
He slammed the drawer shut. Daffy, shaken, angry, and completely out of control, asked without thinking, “What are you doing, Tweety?”
“I’m packing my tings,” Tweety answered immediately. “I’m going back to Toon Town. I qu—I qu—”
He visibly struggled to spit the words out, but they wouldn’t come out of his mouth. He poked his tongue at his beak for a moment, then looked at Daffy with a rage he’d never seen. “What did you do to me?”
“It’th not me,” Daffy said, horrified, as the knowledge slammed into his brain hard enough that it practically left an impression on his skull. “All right, I did forthe you to anthwer me—I didn’t mean to do that—but the not being able to quit thing…that’th not me. That’th the Theathelethth Watcher itthelf. We’re bound to it, forever. We’re trapped here, Tweety. You can’t leave.”
Tweety’s chin came up defiantly. “Watch me.”
“I don’t know what will happen to you! I can’t protect you if you leave!” Daffy shouted.
“Suwe, because you’we doing such a dweat job of dat now!” Tweety shouted back. “I awweady cawwed Sywvestew—he weft, so don’t teww me it isn’t possibwe—and Hectew. Dey’we meeting me at Heatwow. You do whatevew you want, Daffy. I won’t be pawt of it anymowe. I’m weaving, and if you want to stop me, you’we going to have to kiww me fiwst.”
Before Daffy could come up with a coherent response to that, he scooped up his carpet bag, flew to the door at top speed, and left, slamming it behind him, leaving Daffy behind.
Completely, totally, and utterly alone.