DISCLAIMER: Hopefully this will be the only one of these I'll need to write…with a few exceptions, these characters aren't mine. This is not for profit, it's just for fun.

The rating is for some instances of language, violence, and mild sexuality. These situations will be handled in a way that is appropriate for a 'T' rating.

Finally, this is all original content. I am not taking ideas from any of the talented authors in this section. I respect them too much to do so. Any similarities are simply coincidences or the result of reading too much into things. I can guarantee you that everything in this story is either canon, implied by canon, or of my own creation.

That's all I have to say other than sit back, relax, and enjoy the story!


Everything hurt.

His chest, his legs, his elbows, his toes…his entire body felt tender and battered, as if he had just been in a blender and then spit back out again. His lips were cracked, and his tongue was so dry it felt like a wad of paper wedged in his mouth. It even hurt to breath. His ribs…were they broken? He tried to lift his hand to touch them, but pain shot up his arm. He gasped and the air rattled in his raw throat. Maybe it was better to remain still for now.

His head. Oh God, his head. It was like someone had taken a mallet to it. Repeatedly. A new note of pain was struck with each throb, the bulk of it gathering where his ears met his skull. There was something trickling down the side of his forehead.

What was that smell?

As he slowly swam back into consciousness, he realized he was on his back, lying on uneven ground. Gingerly, he stroked the floor with glove-less fingers. It was rough, but also covered in something sticky and warm. Was that ink? Was he bleeding?

He almost managed a snort. For how much pain he was in, it would be nothing short of a miracle if he wasn't bleeding.

Where was he?

The pain in his head was making his brain feel slow and dull, trying to formulate a thought was like swimming in thick mud. His breath was coming in short and shallow. It felt hot against his mouth. The smell was getting worse.

What was going on?

He couldn't see. As he slowly dragged his brain through the thought process, he decided that it was because his eyes were shut. He opened them, and his eyelids crackled.

It was still dark. But his eyes were open. He knew his eyes were open.

Panic blossomed in his chest. His heart began to race, coursing the ink through his veins and causing the pain to dance to a different beat. Oh God, he was blind –

But his brain forced him to acknowledge the heat around his mouth, and the rough fabric that chafed against his swollen nose. Lifting his trembling hand and hissing as the pain exploded in bursts, he touched his face. It was covered with something thick and coarse, like burlap. It was okay. He wasn't blind.

He dropped his hand to his chest, exhaling shakily through the fabric. He held his breath for a few moments, trying to avoid the stench, but the brief lack of oxygen made him dizzy.

Where am I how did I get here what happened what is going on why is there a sack over my head –

His brain was suddenly going into overdrive. Lost in the darkness, his thoughts became a blurred mess of confusion; question after question presented itself in his mind, and each was maddeningly impossible to answer. Nausea swelled in his stomach. Make it stop, make it stop –

And then a thought occurred to him in such an abrupt manner that all the other questions quickly fell silent. He felt the color drain from his face, and his body began to shake even worse.

Wakko. Dot.

Staring into the blackness with wide, frightened eyes, Yakko Warner choked out one word: