Chapter Text
Yakko, Wakko, and Dot were skipping down the street, their usual chaotic energy filling the air. They were on their way to grab some pizza, a rare treat that they had somehow managed to convince Dr. Scratchansniff to approve.
As they passed ACME Labs, they heard a faint, desperate sound coming from inside. It was a whimper, a cry of pain that was almost lost in the city's cacophony. Yakko, always the responsible one, stopped in his tracks. "Did you guys hear that?" Wakko and Dot paused, their ears twitching.
"Hear what?" Wakko asked, already eyeing the pizza parlor across the street.
"I think someone's hurt," Yakko said, his brow furrowed with concern. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
Without hesitation, he pushed open the lab's heavy doors and stepped inside. Wakko and Dot, ever loyal, followed close behind. The scene that greeted them was one of unspeakable horror.
“Pinky?!”
Pinky lay on the floor, surrounded by a pool of blood. His body was twisted at unnatural angles, his fur matted and soaked with crimson. His eyes were wide with terror, and his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. Yakko gasped, his hand flying to his mouth. He had seen plenty of cartoon violence in his life, but this was different. This was real. This was… monstrous.
"Pinky!" he cried, rushing to his side. "What happened? Who did this to you?"
Pinky struggled to focus, his eyes glazed with pain. He coughed, another stream of blood spilling from his lips. He reached out a trembling paw, clutching at Yakko's hand. "Brain…" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Brain… did this…" His words were barely coherent, but Yakko understood.
Brain, his friend, his partner… had done this. Rage surged through Yakko, a burning fire that threatened to consume him. He wanted to find Brain, to make him pay for what he had done. But he knew that he couldn't leave Pinky. "Wakko! Dot! Call an ambulance! Now!" he barked, his voice trembling with emotion. Wakko and Dot, their faces pale with shock, scrambled to obey. They fumbled with their phones, their fingers shaking as they dialed for help.
Yakko knelt beside Pinky, cradling his head in his arms. "Hang on, Pinky," he said, his voice thick with tears. "Help is on the way. You're going to be okay." He knew he was lying. He could see the life draining from Pinky's eyes, the blood pooling beneath him. He knew that Pinky didn't have much time left.
He held Pinky close, whispering words of comfort and encouragement. He told him stories, silly jokes, anything to distract him from the pain. He wanted Pinky to know that he wasn't alone, that he was loved. The paramedics arrived moments later, their faces grim as they assessed the situation. They worked quickly and efficiently, stabilizing Pinky as best they could before rushing him to the hospital.
The hospital waiting room was filled with a suffocating sense of dread. Yakko, Wakko, and Dot sat huddled together, their faces etched with worry. Pinky's parents were also there, their eyes red and swollen with tears. They clung to each other, their bodies trembling with fear. They knew that Pinky was in critical condition. The doctors had told them that his injuries were extensive, that his chances of survival were slim. The Warners tried to comfort Pinky's parents, but their words felt hollow and inadequate. There was nothing they could say to ease their pain, to reassure them that everything would be alright. Because nothing was alright. Hours passed, each one feeling like an eternity.
His parents were worried that they were gonna lose their only child.
In the operation room, All the surgeons were trying so hard to save Pinky by stabilizing him, to make sure they keep him from losing anymore blood from his torn limbs and open flesh wounds as to be described as something out of a “gory horror film”.
The sterile scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the ordeal they had all just endured. Pinky's parents sat huddled together, a silent prayer escaping their lips with every shaky breath. They had waited, agonizingly, for what felt like an eternity, pacing the waiting room floor worn thin with countless worries of other families.
TWO HOURS LATER…
the nurse emerged, her face etched with the weariness of a long shift, but her eyes held a glimmer of hope. "Pinky's alive," she announced, her voice cracking slightly. "And the surgery was surprisingly successful."
A collective gasp rippled through the room. Pinky's parents surged forward, relief washing over them like a tidal wave. They were led to the recovery room, a sterile sanctuary where Pinky lay connected to a tangle of tubes and wires.
He was pale, weaker than they had ever seen him, but his chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open. He blinked, confusion clouding his gaze as he registered the blurry figures surrounding him. His parents were there, their faces etched with worry and a profound, almost unbearable, love. And in the background, Yakko, Wakko, and Dot, the Warner siblings who had rushed Pinky to the hospital, offered weak, but undeniably genuine, smiles of relief.
As Pinky's vision cleared, his parents enveloped him in a tight embrace. “Oh, Pinky, we’re so glad you’re okay!” his mother sobbed, her voice choked with emotion. His father simply held him, his hand trembling as he stroked Pinky's fur.
Confused and disoriented, Pinky weakly pushed back. "What...what's going on?" he stammered, his voice raspy. "Why am I in the hospital?"
A heavy silence descended upon the room. Yakko stepped forward, his usual playful grin absent, replaced by a somber expression. He gulped, dread pooling in his stomach. He didn’t want to upset Pinky, not in his fragile state, but he knew the truth had to be told.
"Pinky," Yakko said softly, his voice laced with a hesitant tenderness. "I know you’re not gonna like what I’m about to say, but...I think Brain tried to kill you earlier."
The words hung in the air, heavy and disbelieving. Pinky's brow furrowed in confusion. Brain? Kill him? It was impossible. Brain was his best friend, his partner, the closest thing he had to family. Brain wouldn't, couldn't, hurt him. He shook his head weakly. "No," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "You're wrong, Yakko. Brain would never..."
But then, his gaze drifted downwards. He saw the bandages, the uncomfortable tightness around his left arm and the base of his tail, all his limbs discolored and floppy. A cold dread began to creep into his heart. He looked closer, and he saw it – the crude stitches, the uneven seams where his severed left arm and tail had been painstakingly reattached.
Suddenly, the repressed memories flooded back. The sharp, searing pain. The blind rage in Brain's eyes, a rage he had never witnessed before. The brutal, horrifying attack. The sickening realization that Brain, the being he trusted more than anyone, was trying to end his life.
Brain, not the brilliant, albeit misguided, genius he knew, but a monster. A creature consumed by an insatiable hunger for power, willing to sacrifice anything, even their friendship, to achieve his twisted goals.
The realization hit Pinky like a physical blow. He felt nauseous, a wave of bile rising in his throat. He was betrayed, violated, and utterly, devastatingly alone.
Just then, the nurse returned, her cheerful demeanor faltering slightly as she assessed the room's heavy atmosphere. "Pinky needs to stay in the hospital for the next eight months," she announced, forcing a smile. "It will give his left arm and tail the time they need to properly reattach, allowing bone cells to form and fuse everything back together."
The words were the final straw. Pinky gagged, and then vomited, the contents of his stomach splattering onto the sterile floor. He began to tremble, his body wracked with sobs. His breathing became shallow and ragged, bordering on hyperventilation. The trauma, the pain, the betrayal, were all too much to bear. He was breaking.
Pinky’s parents watched in helpless horror, their faces etched with fear and concern. They had seen him through scrapes and bruises, through failed attempts at world domination, but they had never seen him like this. Broken. Shattered.
The Warner siblings stood in the background, their usual playful banter replaced by a profound sadness. They were powerless to ease Pinky’s pain, to mend the wounds that ran far deeper than any physical injury. They could only stand there, witnesses to his suffering, their hearts aching with a shared sense of grief and helplessness. Seeing Pinky break down like this was agonizing, a stark and brutal reminder of the darkness that could lurk even in the most unexpected places.
THE NEXT DAY…
The sterile scent of the hospital room did little to mask the bitterness clinging to Pinky's soul. It was his 46th birthday, usually a joyous occasion filled with silly dances and enthusiastic "Narf!"s and "Poit!"s. But today, the sounds were absent, replaced by a hollow ache. His parents, bless their kind hearts, arrived bearing a cake frosted with bright pink icing and a single, flickering candle. They'd hoped to bring some cheer, a sliver of normalcy to the stark reality of his situation.
Pinky looked at the cake, a wave of nausea washing over him. The pink was too bright, too cheerful, a mocking reminder of the vibrancy that had been ripped away. He was a shadow of his former self, the trauma a heavy shroud.
They began to sing, their voices wavering with forced optimism. "Happy birthday to you..."
He couldn't stand it. The saccharine melody, the forced smiles. It was all a lie. He wasn't happy. He was broken. The image of Brain, his lifelong partner, his friend, consumed by a manic obsession and attempting to… He couldn't even bring himself to think the words.
"Stop!" he cried, his voice cracking. He hadn't meant to shout, but the words erupted from him like a dam bursting. "Just... stop! Leave me alone!"
His parents froze, their faces crumpling with hurt and confusion. "Pinky, dear, what's wrong? We just wanted to--"
"I said leave me alone!" he repeated, his voice sharper this time. "I don't want the cake. I don't want the singing. I just want you to go!"
The nurse, her face etched with concern, gently guided his parents towards the door. "Perhaps it's best to give him some space," she murmured, her eyes conveying silent understanding. "He needs to process what happened."
As the door clicked shut behind them, Pinky curled up in the sterile hospital bed, tears streaming down his face. He was alone, truly alone. Brain, his constant companion, had betrayed him in the most profound way imaginable. The image of Brain's distorted face, the crazed glint in his eyes as he'd tried to… He shuddered, burying his face in the pillow.
He was alive, yes. The doctors had managed to reattach his arm and tail, but they were encased in heavy casts, a physical reminder of the brutality he had endured. He was told it would take eight months for the bones to heal, eight months of limited mobility, of constant pain.
And then there was the other news, the news that had chipped away at the last vestiges of his former self. The nurse, her voice gentle but firm, had explained that his hair follicles were irreparably damaged. All the pulling, the tearing… his signature hair would never grow back. He was condemned to a life of baldness.
He sobbed, a broken, despairing sound that echoed in the empty room. He, Pinky, the lovable, optimistic mouse, was gone. In his place was a fractured being, haunted by nightmares and consumed by a gnawing fear of the one creature he had trusted implicitly.
He was trapped in a prison of his own mind, battling the demons of PTSD, wrestling with anxiety, depression, and a volatile anger that surprised even himself. The "Narf!"s and "Poit!"s were gone, replaced by a heavy silence that threatened to suffocate him.
His world domination obsessed friend had taken more than just fur and limbs. Brain had taken his joy, his innocence, his very self. And as Pinky wept in the sterile silence of the hospital room, he wondered if he would ever truly recover, if he would ever be Pinky again.
Brain was found and apprehended quickly. The evidence was overwhelming, the scene of the crime undeniable. He didn't resist arrest. He seemed numb, almost relieved. He was charged with aggravated assault and attempted murder. He pleaded guilty.
Brain was sentenced to life in prison, without the possibility of parole. But for Pinky, justice offered little comfort. Brain’s imprisonment didn’t erase the pain, didn’t heal the wounds. It didn’t bring back the Pinky he used to be.
To Be Continued...