So, anyway, I was watching Curse of the Were-Rabbit, and laughing my head off, and suddenly, I thought, well, why exactly is Gromit so faithful and loyal and all that to Wallace, of all people? So, me being the wonderfully angsty person I am, I immediatly went home, pulled up MSWord, and procedeed to write this. I've already got more than this written, but I wanted to post this to see how many people are interested in a Wallace & Gromit origin fic.

So, angst warnings as per usual, violence and abuse, be careful of the rabbits, and I don't own W&G. Please review! Any feedback is always appreciated! Thanks!


It was a dark and stormy night.

Well, it couldn't really be any other kind of night. Not in this neck of the woods. No, in Transylvania (proud English suburb, old established family estates), the weather was renowned for its dark and stormy qualities. Indeed, Mr. Igor, of Igor's Estates & Servants (serving the Transylvanian community since it's establishment, as he was fond of saying, posing dramatically next to the portrait of his great-great-great-great-grandfather) would tell any prospective buyer that the weatherman had actually stopped coming to check the weather, because it was always thick grey fog during the day without a ray of sunlight, followed by heavy downpours starting early in the evening and deepening to dark, full-fledged thunderstorms well before midnight.

The moon also had a funny tendency to always be new or full. But no one quite knew what to make of it, so they dismissed it as one of those unexplainable oddities that occur once in a while.

Once in a while happened a lot in Transylvania.

Anyway, on this particular dark and stormy night, most of the population of Transylvania was well awake by now, their stone slabs lifted up to the full moon (as it happened to be) and their well-paid assistants sent from Igor's Estates & Services firing up the generators for another batch of experiments. Some residents would be loping off towards the weekly WWA meetings (Werewolves Anonymous), and a few would be flapping through the night on leather wings, seeking out innocent victims. The only exception was the last house on Thirteenth Street, because that was always the exception.

Dr. Frankfurt didn't really like the term "mad". He preferred "eccentrically absent-minded". He didn't have an Igor (that's a registered trademark, by the way) because he couldn't afford one, and he only had one lightning rod and no stone slab. He always considered himself to be more of a mechanical genius than a biological one, and so most of his tiny castle was filled from top to bottom with ingenious inventions, most of which didn't work.

It was a humiliating situation for the poor doctor. He was no medical doctor, no, but instead had a doctorate in engineering, and unfortunately he also possessed a kind heart towards living creatures that prevented him from being truly "evil". He was a public embarrassment to the community, and several times he had been told to leave, but had managed to sell off some invention that earned him enough money to buy something ridiculously evil for his front garden, and then he would be left alone for a little while longer. Still, his life was a stressful one, always nervously seeking out his next financially lucrative invention while trying desperately to keep up appearances.

Usually, at this time of night, he'd be busy at work on his latest money-making machine, but tonight, something was different.

Tonight, something was wrong with Sally.

The dog was a sad-looking thing, growing old quickly as her odd life among nightmarish creatures gave her shocks that took years off her life. Dr. Frankfurt kept her around because she was useful – he found that he could get her to hold or push or pull something, as long as he could make it clear what he needed her to do. He had rarely seen her leave the house, so he didn't understand how she could have gotten pregnant, but that she was. And she was about to deliver.

He wonders sometimes what would have happened if he had been brave enough to ask one of the veterinarian-turned-mad-scientists for help. Maybe more of the pups would have survived, and then maybe things would have been more normal for the one pup that did live. Maybe he would have sold them when they were weaned, and then who knows where the pups would have gone? But he didn't, and they died, and there was only the one pup left.

He held it in his hands, he remembers, and looked at its eyes. There was something there, something he couldn't quite pinpoint, something that made him pause, and blink. He noticed he was trembling a little, and quickly put the puppy back down, but the feeling still remained.

"There's something odd about that dog," Dr. Frankfurt said softly to himself. "Like the moon in Transylvania."

He frowned. That wasn't right.

"No," he corrected himself. "More like a sunny day in Transylvania."

The puppy looked up at him with big, bright eyes, and he almost felt it understood him.

TBC . . . R&R, Please!