Chapter Text
Monday.
Kevin Avery wakes up with these symptoms:
1. Headache.
2. Surprisingly light limbs.
3. Itchy skin.
4. An overwhelming craving for meat.
Naturally, he ignores them. Only a paranoid or a reasonable person would take these symptoms seriously. He attributes the headache to not having slept very well and the itchy skin to simply needing moisturizer. Who would worry about light limbs? And since he's an omnivore, it's only natural that he'd want a nice piece of chicken breast. In any case, he jots it down as a noteworthy event in one of his many notebooks. Some time ago, a psychologist he saw for only a very short time—and who agreed to see her only at Paige's insistence—recommended that he keep a journal to write down what happened to her day by day. Many pages are blank, others are scribbled on, and some are memorable because he wrote on them while intoxicated. There are others, but they were torn out long ago out of an unfounded fear that someone would see what was on them—and those are the ones he used one day when a former coworker offered him drugs. One can imagine what he wrote in that thing.
He goes to work. Today, a… teenager? who looks like a zombie shows up and wants to sue a guy named Chris McLean. Actually, he's heard a little about this guy. He's popular for his live shows with other cartoon characters. A while later, the living (heh, living) embodiment of Death himself (forget it—he's too old for this) shows up, and he explains to him that no, he can't sue two little kids for "emotional abuse and absurd demands" just to get out of a bet he made out of sheer stupidity—he put it another way. The day flies by until, before he knows it, it's eight o'clock at night. By this time, the esquites guy is supposed to have shown up, and with that, he considers his day—and his dinner—served up.
The day ends with him arguing with a nineteen-year-old about why charging two dollars for a small cup is absurdly expensive.
Tuesday.
Paige officially becomes an employee of Avery, Jones & Malteses. He's the one who signs her contract. Who would have thought? Despite all the times Kevin told his brother there were better jobs out there, as always, he'd always shake his head and reply wearily that if there were, there would be nothing left for him to do—because the girl had always looked up to the lawyer as a role model. Neither he nor his family knows exactly why.
Wednesday.
When someone stares at you, it can only mean two things: 1. You're weird enough. 2. You're good-looking enough. If it's the second one, sometimes they'll come up to you and point out the feature that stands out about you: "You have such beautiful eyes!" "Your hairstyle is great." "What elegant legs you have."
Rarely is it the ears. Sure, there are always people who notice the details. The human body isn't completely symmetrical; to observers, if something stands out in terms of proportions, it's worth paying attention to. But Paige definitely isn't meticulous about those details—one of the few things they have in common. That's why he's surprised when she runs into him at the office and she looks at him with a strange mix of confusion and sweetness.
"What pretty ears! Where did you buy them?" she asks. "Are you cosplaying?"
Another trait they sometimes share is their overwhelming need to ask questions. However, this has—or rather, had—a couple of conditions. For example, Kevin used to keep quiet, believing that "don't ask what you don't want to know" and "everyone is a little odd—there's nothing we can do about it," unlike Paige, who displays her over-the-top behavior to whoever happens to be spending time with her.
Ever since the Coyote came into his life, he's put those ideas somewhat behind him and allowed himself to open up more to the people around him. He can't help but be fascinated by the Toon's antics and behavior, acting like someone who's close to a major celebrity, or like a high school student stalking those he aims to befriend by the end of the year. Some of his classmates have mentioned that his attraction "is more of a slightly obsessive fixation."
However, none of them can deny the positivity that Wile E. has brought. The firm is now three times as vibrant as it used to be. The optimism is doing them good. Similarly, it has led Kevin to undergo a sort of transition from being an unwitting leader for the others since the case began. His ambition to conquer the world is slowly returning. If he had to use a metaphor, he'd say he's a tightrope walker in his final act, crossing with clumsy steps, adrenaline, and fear, while a highly demanding audience watches him like the judges on the show.
Naturally, the question throws him off. "Ears?"
"Ears!"
"…Ears."
"Yes, ears, Uncle Kevin."
"I don't have ears of any kind."
"We all have ears," Sal is heard saying, having abruptly stopped what he was doing to turn his attention to the family duo. "Or do you have microtia and we just didn't know about it?"
"I mean, of course I have ears!" he exhales. "But why is that important?!"
"I think she's referring to the furry ears you're wearing," Dottie interjects.
"Furry ears?"
"Oh my gosh, man. Didn't you really notice when you woke up this morning and put on a cartoon-style headband? Look at yourself in the mirror!" Sal replies humorously.
"I'll find one!" Paige exclaims, reaching into her work bag; the items clatter against each other, making little noises. She frantically pulls out a small round hand mirror and holds it out to Kevin.
And there they are: a pair of droopy, pointed ears on top of his head, outlined by a thin black line, with thick tufts of fur lacking texture or detail. They're the same color as his hair. Captivated by the discovery, he brings a hand to his head and tries to feel them, but there are no muscles or bones there. They're elastic—he realizes this when he pulls on them and they simply stretch. He notices that they're easy to manipulate, and that they still convey the sensations of an innate part of the body upon his touch, though the perception is slightly distorted. They blend into his skull, and he finds it impossible to remove them.
"I have coyote ears!" he shouts, in a strange mix of delight and horror. The belated surprise is so great that he accidentally drops the object, which shatters into tiny pieces on the fall. His gaze shifts to his coworkers, and instinctively, he glances sideways at his most loyal ally—the only one he believes might be able to help him: Paige. "I have coyote ears!"
"We know. Stop yelling." That's Dottie's expressionless reply.
"Why do I have Coyote ears?!"
Paige stammers, searching for an explanation. It's clear she's only reacting this way because of the older man's panic, getting worked up solely by his terror. "Kevin, listen, whatever's going on, we'll find a solution."
"What are you supposed to do if someone wakes up with Coyote ears? Go to the doctor?" Sal chimes in. "What would you even say to him, anyway? 'Hi, doctor, I woke up and now I'm a furry.'"
"I don't know! Maybe it's a disease? Is it contagious? Oh, no! I don't want to turn into a cartoon! What would my boyfriend say?" Paige blurted out.
"What's wrong with being a cartoon character?" Avery defends himself, for no particular reason. "Coyote is a cartoon"
"But you're not the Coyote!" Paige reflects on her words. "Well, okay, you do have his ears."
"He doesn't have his ears. Look closely—his ears are darker and look softer." Thanks for clarifying that, Sal.
"Enough! What am I supposed to do?!" Kevin breaks down. "I don't want this stuck to me forever!"
"You won't have it forever, Kevin. Let's see—what if we send a letter to Wile? I know he usually takes a while to reply, but..."
"And what do you want me to do in the meantime, Paige?!"
A few moments pass before his niece puts a finger to her lips. "You could wear a cap."
After an argument that lasts about forty minutes, he reluctantly agrees to wear a cap they buy for him at a street stall for the rest of the day and decides to take the rest of the week off.
Thursday.
He looks like a guy who never grew out of his teens wearing a cap with an angry bulldog embroidered on it. That's the photo they took of him when he wasn't looking—when his colleagues decided it was funnier to see him with something covering his head than with those damn coyote ears. It doesn't match his style at all, and to cheer himself up, he searches online: suit with cap outfit for men.
However, overnight, the ears have become the least of his worries, as he tosses and turns in the motel bed and tries not to think about the fluffy tail sticking out of the shorts he's wearing.
He hasn't wanted to touch it since he discovered it a few hours ago. And aside from his inquiry about its appearance, the rest of the history is:
What to do if I'm turning into a Toon
Suddenly I have a coyote tail and ears.
Caricatures
Disease of slowly transforming into a cartoon
The most beautiful women in the world.
Why everyone thinks I'm gay
Quiz to find out which cartoon character you are
I think I'm going to die, I'm turning into a caricature
Actually, his attempt to find a reason for his tragicomedy isn't in vain: on an old website—one of those dedicated to answering all kinds of questions—there's a post from twelve years ago describing the exact opposite situation: a Toon asking for a little help. Apparently, he was some kind of sorcerer or something like that who became human while hunting some small blue creatures, and now he doesn't know how to go back to normal. The post has only one reply from a guy with no profile picture and a one-letter username: P.
"Sometimes that happens. If the problems persist after 24 hours, call this number: 52 XXX XXX XXX"
Well. Twenty-four hours had definitely already passed.
It's not like he'd have any other options.
Chapter two.
"If you have any of these symptoms, consider yourself dead immediately. "
He'd arrived at some apartments on the other side of the city after the brief phone call and the directions he'd been given. Looking at the place, he regretted not having brought at least a pocketknife. Or Paige, in the worst-case scenario. She knew karate.
The streets were gloomy, and it seemed as if the sun never rose in those parts. A man shoved him as he got out of his car, and the building where he was supposed to show up only heightened his unease. He would have bet everything he had that these apartments weren't exactly… clinical.
Still, he climbed the stairs leading to the main entrance and pressed the apartment number he'd been given on the building's intercom. After a few seconds, a trembling voice answered: "Y-yeah?"
"Uh. Hi. I'm the one who called... to ask for help with a problem involving transforming into a cartoon character—yes, that."
"A-Ah! Yes, they told me about you! I-I'll be d-down in a moment!"
The prompt response was welcome. The problem was that ever since the person on the other end answered, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd heard that voice before.
A figure covered with a blanket and a pair of holes where the eyes should have been opened the door. To each their own fantasies, he supposed. It surprised him even more to find that the person was half his own height. He almost tripped as he stepped aside to let the person enter the building.
"W-welcome. The office is o-on the top floor, my good friend."
"Listen, I don't know what you're up to, but if this is a kidnapping attempt, I hope you know that I'm a pretty famous lawyer. My name is Kevin Avery. Have you heard of me? I was the one who represented the case of Coyote versus Acme. Besides, I'm pretty good at fighting," he warned. The last part was a lie; once, in high school, he'd challenged a guy taller than him who was bullying him to a fight. Obviously, the fight ended with his face unrecognizable, but it got his bully expelled. Still, he was sure he could easily take down the small man if he tried anything. And saying it out loud helped calm his nerves.
"C-calm down, man! I'm n-not here to do anything to you. And yes, I k-know you. In fact, most of the people I'm close to do. Just come with me."
"Are you sure? Because this place...," he left the sentence unfinished as he made his way up the stairs leading to each floor. His destination was the fourth, and he tried to convince himself that, if his suspicions were true and they wanted to sell his organs on the dark web, he could always try to jump out the windows there. The chances of survival were never zero.
They found themselves face to face with an unvarnished wooden door, with a sign at the top that read: "Doctor's Office —the "i" was placed over a black smudge, and you could make out a bit of the letter "y" below it, a hasty grammatical correction— for cartoons, humans, and other peculiarities."
Any other peculiarities? Who were they going to treat here? A Martian?
"We're—we're here," he said timidly as he opened the door. "Come in, come in."
Surprisingly, the place did look like a doctor's office. There were images of the human body, a desk, an examination table, and a bookshelf, and the walls were painted white. He sat down on the examination table while the doctor gathered the basic tools to check his vital signs. When everything was ready, the doctor said, "V-very well, Mr.... Avery. Tell me your symptoms."
The question infuriated him for no reason at all, reminding him that he was tired of this sort of thing happening to him. He jumped up, took off his cap, and unzipped his pants. Midway through the act, the doctor shouted, "S-sir! T-this is completely inappropriate! I'll call the p-police!"
"Look at my hair," he growled, as he finished unbuttoning his pants and a bushy tail came into view.
"O-oh, I see. Yeah, that's what my-my partner told me was happening to you on the call, but I didn't-didn't w-want to believe it. How am-amazing! I never expected to see a-a case like this! I-I mean, it's relatively no-normal for Toons to go through this, but a human…," he suddenly fell silent, as if remembering something, and then asked what the lawyer considered important. "Co-could you tell me how it all started?"
Pissed off, he told his story. "Yesterday I woke up with the ears, and today with a tail. It's impossible to get rid of them. I don't know what I'm going to do. How am I supposed to go to work like this?!" he cried.
"I-I see, sir. Yes, I can help you. B-but first, I must apologize for what I'm about to do."
"What are you going to do?"
Suddenly, the short man pulled a metal rod from under his hood.
That answered his question.
Friday.
Slowly, he regained consciousness until his eyes finally focused without the double vision. Panic washed over him as he recalled what had happened, and he spun his head in all directions. It was a warehouse that looked much worse than those apartments. To make matters worse, he realized he was tied by his hands and feet to a wooden chair. Oh God! He'd been right! That guy just wanted to kidnap him and sell his intestines! Or worse, kidnap him and demand a ransom! Who would pay a huge sum to rescue him?! Although, maybe Wile could do it—the bastard had money from who knows where to buy all those products, but...
A figure in the distance made its presence known in the darkness, though he could barely make it out. It took careless steps that made his heart race past a hundred beats per minute. The silhouette took its time getting close enough for him to see a pair of round ears sticking out from the black raincoat it was wrapped in, and from its pocket it pulled out something… something that looked like… a carrot?
"Hmm, what's up, Doc?"
"BUGS?"
Finally, the acquaintance showed his full face. This was exactly like when they found him at that festival in the middle of the night, but unlike that time, this time Avery was practically a hostage.
"What are you doing here?! Why did you tie me to this chair?!"
"Ehhh, I admit that might have been a bit excessive. Daffy convinced me to do it—how could I say no? He can be very persuasive when he wants to be."
"Daffy?!"
"Oh my! You're so intense, Doc. Let's relax and have a little coffee. Cappuccino, mocha, mocha cappuccino... coffee imported from Japan?" As the physics of cartoons dictate, he conjured out of thin air a table, an industrial coffee maker with multiple settings, and a couple of cups. Then, as if remembering something, he pulled a marker out of one of his pockets, which he used to draw a sort of sofa on the floor that quickly became solid, and he sat down on it.
"I don't want anything! I want you to untie me! Do you hear me? Un—tie—me."
"Well, definitely you want something. Listen, my intention is to help both of us. So if, um, you'd answer my questions, I'd really appreciate it. That way we can all go home happy! Did you know I had to go back to the woods to avoid—that guy, Elmer? He's a fanatic! Anyway, some people say I talk too much. Especially Daffy—and coming from him! Between you and me, there's no shutting him up," he winked, pouring himself some coffee that Kevin hadn't even noticed he'd put in the machine. "Anyway, how long have you been, hm, like this?"
He knew he was referring to his current predicament. Realizing there was nothing he could do but wait for the rabbit to deign to let him go, he played along. "…I woke up like this on Wednesday."
Bugs frowned. "And nobody said anything to you?" He dipped the carrot into his coffee, then took a bite.
"I guess they must have thought it was a headband. Sal, my coworker, did."
"Eeeh, it's not that I'm criticizing your friends' intelligence or anything—or your own, obviously—but I'm talking about the… rest," he said, pointing at him with his index finger.
"The tail appeared yesterday morning, if that's what you mean. I was kidnapped that same day, and today I showed up here," he said bitterly.
The rabbit rolled his eyes. "You really don't know, do you? These humans these days," he hopped off the couch and went over to one of the shelves in the room, where several cardboard boxes lay beneath. He tore open one and rummaged through it until he found a full-length mirror, which he dragged over to the lawyer and placed in front of him.
Avery's jaw dropped.
"AM I A COYOTE?!"