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Chapter Text

Brain paced back and forth on the stone floor. Every time he stopped to turn around, his black cloak flared and his tall headpiece ringed with Corequenque feathers precariously shifted over his ears, and he had to adjust it to keep it from falling off. After doing this for the fifth time, he stopped and glared impatiently in Pinky's direction. Pinky was peering through a curtain into the large and opulent throne room.

"Pinky, is the emperor ready for an audience yet?" Brain asked.

"Oooo, I think he's still in the middle of his musical number. It's very catchy, Brain!" Pinky started waving his hands in the air and spun in a circle as he sang. "Hippest cat in creation… something something… A to Z… and this perfect world will spin… something something?"

Brain sighed, the sound audible over the chorus as they began singing the emperor's name in a long, sustained note. He shook his head and then stopped to reset his headpiece once more. "What sort of ruler has a 'theme song guy'? It is a frivolous waste of imperial resources. This is why we must proceed with our plan tonight, Pinky!"

Pinky blinked. "Gee, Brain, what are we doing tonight?"

Brain grinned, a diabolical glint in his eye. "The same thing we do every night, Pinky! Try to take over the Incan Empire!"

"That's brilliant, Brain!" Pinky exclaimed. He pulled the curtain back to peer into the throne room again. "Oh, now the emperor is doing a traditional Irish stepdance with his guards!"

Brain's eye twitched. "Pinky, that doesn't even make sense. This is the pre-contact Americas."

Pinky shrugged. "I guess when you become emperor, you can do Irish jigs, too, Brain."

"I do not think that will be necessary, Pinky."

Pinky closed the curtain and turned to Brain with an excited grin. "I think Emperor Kuzco is almost ready for us!"

Brain straightened his unwieldy headpiece once again. "Very well, Pinky, let us proceed."

The throne room was a dazzling display of extravagance, clearly designed to remind everyone entering that Emperor Kuzco was both fabulously wealthy and completely full of himself.

Rows of towering stone pillars lined the hall, each carved in the ornate likeness of Kuzco striking a different pose, from "contemplative philosopher" to "beach-ready sun god." Between the pillars, long tapestries in vibrant reds, blues, and golds fluttered gently in the breeze from hidden ventilation ducts, each depicting a scene of Kuzco doing something heroic—or just absurd—like wrestling a jaguar, posing dramatically on a mountaintop, or inventing the world's first mirror. The ceiling arched impossibly high, painted to resemble the heavens, with swirling constellations all centered on one enormous star shaped suspiciously like Kuzco's face.

In the center of it all, atop a massive dais with stairs that shimmered as if made of pure sunlight, sat the emperor's golden throne. It sparkled with inlaid jewels, and the cushions were so plush they appeared to swallow Kuzco entirely.

Pinky gasped the moment they stepped inside, clutching his cheeks in awe. "Oh, Brain, look at all the shinies! The walls are gold! The floors are gold! Even the chandeliers are gold!" He pointed up at the largest chandelier, which was indeed an elaborate golden sculpture shaped like Kuzco's head, complete with glowing gemstones for eyes.

"Pinky, those are just impractical lanterns," Brain muttered, adjusting his headpiece.

Pinky twirled around, nearly knocking over a massive urn painted with images of Kuzco surrounded by adoring subjects. "This place is so fancy! Ooo, do you think they make Kuzco-shaped chocolates for the guests?"

Brain pinched the bridge of his nose. "Pinky, focus! This level of excess is precisely why the Incan Empire needs my leadership. Kuzco's reign is a frivolous drain on resources that could be used to fund my vision of a—"

"Brain, look! A golden waterslide!" Pinky pointed excitedly to a chute spiraling down the far wall, which emptied into a pool at the base of the throne.

Brain's ears flattened. "That is not a waterslide, Pinky. That is an aqueduct."

"Ooooh," Pinky said, blinking. "What's an aqueduct?"

"A slide for water," Brain deadpanned.

Pinky gasped. "I knew it!"

The two mice approached the towering dais beneath the emperor's throne. In front of them stood one of the royal heralds and a small crowd of little children, dressed in simple peasant garb. They were propping up a life-size Kuzco doll. It was, without question, the stuff of wholesome nightmares.

Its body was stitched from scraps of festival banners and quilt patches, the bright colors clashing in a way that felt both festive and slightly hostile. One arm was longer than the other. Its legs didn't quite match in width or bend in the same direction.

The face was lovingly embroidered in bright yellow thread, with overly large eyes and an unblinking smile that stretched far too wide across its lumpy head. Someone had glued a small blue stone to each ear to mimic the emperor's earrings, and a paper crown sat askew on its head, clearly cut from an old tax scroll.

It looked… vaguely like Kuzco. If Kuzco had been reassembled from memory by someone who saw him once, upside-down, in a thunderstorm.

The royal herald, clearly regretting today's assignment, cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, may I present the children of Kuélap, and their… gift for you."

Kuzco blinked once, then leaned forward, peering down from his throne. "Is that…?"

One of the children piped up, her voice ringing through the room, "We made it for you because it was Kuzco Appreciation Day and our mommies and daddies said if we didn't do it then the emperor would be sad and then he would come and tax us extra and all our toys would be taken away."

"Aw, that's sweet!" Kuzco said, his smile clearly showing that it was not. "Thank you. So much." He waved the children away with a flick of his fingers. "Maybe next time use less terrifying threadwork," he muttered just a little too loudly.

The group shuffled out, giggling and waving, as one of the palace attendants awkwardly accepted the life-size doll with both hands, trying not to make eye contact with its unsettlingly cheerful face.

Kuzco gestured vaguely. "Yeah, yeah. Put it with the others." 

The attendant sighed and carried it out of the throne room. Kuzco watched just long enough to make sure the felt doppelganger was no longer in his line of sight. He sighed with relief and cracked his neck.

That's when he spotted the two mice approaching. 

"Hey, if it isn't my favorite shortest advisor!" the emperor grinned, giving the two mice anachronistic finger guns in greeting. "I've blocked out five minutes before I meet with a peasant to let him know I need to raze his village for my new lavish summer home. Maybe you can come visit me there. No, wait. I don't like the idea of seeing you in a swimsuit. Offer withdrawn!"

Brain's eye twitched again as Kuzco reclined dramatically on his golden throne, snapping his fingers for an attendant to hand him a goblet of what appeared to be sparkling chicha. "Now, what's this about? You two have, like, four minutes of my time left. Impress me."

Brain cleared his throat, stepping forward with a stiff bow. "Your Imperial Majesty, it is an honor to bask in the brilliance of your presence."

"I like your shiny hat!" Pinky helpfully interjected. 

"Yeah, yeah, I know I'm great. Keep it moving, small fry." Kuzco waved dismissively, taking a long sip from his goblet.

Pinky waved his hand like an overexcited festival-goer. "Hi, Mr. Emperor! It's me, Pinky! You probably don't remember me, but I was the guy clapping too loudly during your musical number yesterday. Narf! Great show, by the way!"

Kuzco leaned back in his throne, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, I remember. You ruined my big dramatic pause before the final note."

Pinky gasped. "I'm so sorry, Your Empanada-ness! Wait—was that the same note where your backup dancers did that thing with the sparkles?"

"It was," Kuzco said, visibly pleased that someone had noticed. "Man, those sparkles were genius, right? I knew it needed more sparkles!"

Brain stepped in quickly, clearing his throat. "Yes, well, Your Radiant Majesty, it is no wonder that your creative vision shines so brightly. It is only fitting for someone as majestic, as… incandescent as yourself."

"Incandewhat-now?" Kuzco frowned, tilting his head.

"It means shiny!" Pinky whispered loudly.

Brain's face froze in a mask of suppressed rage. "What my esteemed companion means," he said quickly, "is that we have a deep respect for you and your empire. Which is why we were hoping to discuss a matter of great importance with you… over dinner."

Kuzco reclined further in his throne, twirling the golden goblet in his hand as he stared at Brain. "Dinner, huh? Hmm…" He tapped his chin theatrically, drawing out the silence as Brain's feathers quivered with barely concealed impatience.

"I mean, I am a busy emperor," Kuzco continued, pretending to examine his nails. "I've got, like, a dozen plans for getting more statuary in my throne room, a village to raze, a summer home to build, and I can't just go having dinner with anybody." He glanced over at Brain, smirking. "Are you anybody, little guy?"

Brain cleared his throat and forced a smile. "I assure you, Your Majesty, we are far from ordinary. Our insights and devotion to your imperial glory will undoubtedly—"

"Yeah, yeah," Kuzco interrupted, waving his hand. "That's what they all say. But what's in it for me? Are you bringing something to the table? Like… metaphorically?" He grinned. "Or literally?"

"Both, Your Majesty," Brain said quickly, his mind scrambling. "We bring… a new perspective on leadership! A chance to share ideas that will undoubtedly elevate your already legendary reign! And, of course… an exquisite dish of unparalleled quality. Something truly worthy of your greatness."

Pinky perked up. "Ooo! Spinach puffs!"

Kuzco raised an eyebrow. "Spinach puffs?"

Brain glared at Pinky but quickly nodded. "Yes, Your Highness. A specialty crafted dish made with precision and care. Perfect for an emperor as discerning as yourself."

Kuzco leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Hmm. You're lucky I love spinach puffs. But they better be the best." He suddenly pointed a finger at Brain. "Do you know what happened to my last advisor?"

Brain swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "No, Your Greatness."

Kuzco leaned back in his throne, steepling his fingers. "Well, let's just say—" He paused dramatically, eyes glinting. "I have no idea, either! That's why I hired you. Anyway, I'll see you two tonight. Don't mess it up!"

Brain gave a stiff bow, his mind racing through a dozen different contingency plans. "Of course, Your Majesty. We will ensure this evening is… unforgettable."

"Oh, it better be!" Kuzco said with a grin, standing up from his throne and snapping his fingers at a nearby attendant. "Unforgettable is kind of my thing. Also, remember: the spinach puffs. If they aren't perfect…" He paused dramatically, letting the tension build.

Brain swallowed hard. "Yes, Your Highness?"

"I won't eat them!" Kuzco declared, smirking as he sashayed down the golden steps of his throne, the nearby servant holding his cape behind him. "I mean, what else would I do? Sheesh. It's just food. Anyway, you've got your chance to impress me. Don't blow it!"

Brain watched in silence as Kuzco strolled out of the throne room, already humming a tune and throwing finger guns at passing guards. As the doors slammed shut behind him, the sound echoed through the cavernous room.

Pinky clapped his hands excitedly. "Oh, Brain, this is going to be the best dinner ever! I've never even seen a spinach puff before, but they sound delicious! Are we going to make them all puffy and spinachy? Narf!"

Brain turned to Pinky, his eyes narrowing. "Pinky, do you have any idea what we're up against?"

Pinky tilted his head. "Uhhh… a demanding emperor with great dance moves?"

"Yes, Pinky! A demanding emperor who can order us flung into the nearest jaguar pit the moment something displeases him!" Brain began pacing, the feathers on his headdress quivering with every agitated step. "And what's worse, he expects us to prepare spinach puffs—a culinary atrocity of inflated greens and unnecessary flourishes!"

"Maybe we can just use the recipe," Pinky helpfully added.

Brain rolled his eyes. "What recipe, Pinky?"

"The recipe I found in the old secret laboratory. The one with all the potions."

Brain stopped in his tracks, blinking at Pinky. "…What did you say?"

Pinky grinned. "The recipe, Brain! For spinach puffs! It's in the old secret laboratory. Oh, and there are all sorts of funny-smelling potions, too! Narf!"

Brain's jaw dropped for a moment before he quickly regained his composure, his mind racing. "A secret laboratory, you say? With… potions?" His eyes gleamed with sudden excitement.

"Yup!" Pinky chirped. "Oh, and there was this big, scary bat statue with big, scary teeth! And I bumped into a tooth, and it wasn't a tooth, it was a lever! And I pulled it, and I went on this really nifty ride, and went 'Wheeee!' and I raised my hands in the air because it's a lot more fun that way! And then I was in the secret laboratory!"

"Pinky…" Brain began, his voice low and dangerous. "You mean to tell me that in the course of your usual tomfoolery, you stumbled upon a secret laboratory… and you didn't think to tell me earlier?!"

Pinky scratched his head. "Well, I was going to tell you, but then I got distracted by the fun ride, and then the dancing, and then you were planning your plan stuff."

Brain pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to stay calm. "Take me there, Pinky. Now."

"Narf! Right this way, Brain!" Pinky skipped ahead, leading Brain down a series of dimly lit corridors deep within the palace. They arrived at a dead end where Brain discovered that Pinky's description was not inaccurate. At the end of the corridor, there was a large stone bat-shaped head with wide, round ears and two protruding fangs mounted in the middle of the wall.

Brain eyed the bat statue with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. "So, to make sure I understand you, Pinky—you claim that this oversized gargoyle contains the entrance to a secret laboratory?"

Pinky nodded enthusiastically. "Uh-huh! But only if you pull the right lever, Brain! I mean the left one! Or… wait… which one was it again?"

Without waiting for any input from Brain, Pinky reached out and pulled one of the fang-shaped levers. The floor beneath Brain instantly vanished, and with a startled yelp, he plummeted through the trapdoor. He landed somewhere below with a splash. 

Pinky leaned over the edge, peering into the darkness. "Oh dear," he muttered, "Somebody should have installed handrails."

A minute later, Brain appeared in the doorway, soaked head to tail, his ears plastered to his head, dripping wet. Behind him, a crocodile waddled in, licking its lips and eyeing him hungrily. Brain stopped and turned with a glare that could melt steel. 

"If I see you again," he hissed, pointing sharply, "I will turn you into a handbag."

The crocodile let out a small whimper and slunk away.

Brain turned to Pinky, his wet footfalls squelching. "Wrong lever, Pinky!" he growled.

Pinky tapped his chin. "Huh. Maybe it was the right one after all—"

Before he could finish, Brain growled and reached for the right fang instead. The moment he pulled it, the floor beneath flipped them up and forward as the wall in front rotated away.

Brain had just enough time to scream, "PINKYYYYYYYYY—" before they were flung forward into darkness.

They dropped into a small, round roller coaster car, stylized as a smiling animal. From somewhere in the darkness, a voice intoned, "Please remain seated. Keep your arms and legs in at all times."

What followed was a ride more terrifying than any roller coaster devised by man or mouse. They zipped through a winding stone chute, twisting and turning at impossible angles. Gears clanked, torches flickered by in a blur, and somehow, inexplicably, they looped through a spiraling section that completely defied the laws of physics.

"Wheeeeeee!" Pinky shrieked in delight, flailing his arms above his head.

Brain, meanwhile, clung desperately to the ride, his tiny fingers gripping the edges as he was whipped around like a ragdoll, and his cloak flailed behind him. His headdress flew off somewhere along the way, and he was fairly certain he'd just lost five years off his life.

Finally, the chute spat them out onto a long, slanted stone track. The roller coaster shot forward like a torpedo, skidding over smooth rock as if gliding on ice.

Ahead of them, a massive stone sign loomed in the dim light, reading "NOW ARRIVING: SECRET LABORATORY."

Brain barely had time to register this before they hit the end of the track, launching them into the air. They went tumbling over what looked like a pair of white lab coats suspended in the air on wires before the ground came up at them. Pinky landed tail first, skidding on the floor with a chuckle. Brain groaned, sprawled on his back. "Ugh… remind me to have that entrance removed when I take over."

Pinky popped up beside him, completely unfazed. "Ooo, I forgot how much fun that was! Can we go again, Brain?"

Brain dragged himself upright, straightening his bent ears. "No, Pinky. We are never doing that again."

He finally looked up—and despite himself, his breath hitched.

The laboratory stretched before them, vast and shadowed. Gigantic shelves loomed along the walls, stuffed with dusty scrolls, half-finished potions, and various labeled vials of ominous-looking substances. Oddly enough, some of them still had tags reading "DO NOT DRINK" in spidery handwriting.

Dominating the center of the lab was a massive cauldron-like workstation surrounded by precariously stacked glassware, rusted metal tools, and potion bottles of every shape and size. A creaky, barely functioning conveyor belt rattled lazily beside it, as if waiting for new concoctions to be assembled.

Brain slowly rose to his feet, his hands trembling—not from fear, but from sheer, unadulterated glee. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, his tail twitching with anticipation.

"Yes…" he whispered, adjusting his cloak as he stepped forward. "This… this is magnificent."

Pinky clapped his hands excitedly. "Ooo, I know! It's even shinier than I remembered! And look, Brain! The spinach puff recipe!"

Pinky dashed toward a dusty worktable and triumphantly held up a crumpled scroll, waving it like a prize. "See? It's got little pictures and everything!"

Brain barely acknowledged him. His gaze was already locked onto a nearby shelf, where rows of neatly labeled vials stood in perfect formation. His fingers twitched with eagerness as he read through them.

Transformations… Sleeping Draughts… Temporary Amphibianism…

And then, at last—

Poison.

Brain carefully plucked the vial from the shelf, lifting it reverently. The liquid inside was a deep, rich purple, swirling ominously under the dim green light. A small, handwritten tag dangled from the neck of the bottle, the ink slightly smudged: "Perfect for dinner parties."

Brain's lips curled into a slow, wicked grin. Dinner was indeed going to be perfect.

Chapter Text

The laboratory was silent save for the bubbling of potions and the scratch of Brain's quill against parchment. He hunched over a stone worktable, meticulously measuring out each ingredient with the precision of a master alchemist.

"It's finally complete. Just three drops," he murmured, holding the vial of poison between his tiny fingers. "Enough to ensure Kuzco's swift, painless demise. No theatrics. No suspicion."

Meanwhile, across the lab, Pinky had transformed the cauldron workstation into his personal kitchen.

Bowls of ingredients were haphazardly scattered across the table. A precariously tall stack of spinach leaves wobbled next to an oversized mound of cheese. Flour dusted everything—including Pinky. He held up a wooden spoon like an orchestra conductor.

"Alright, my little leafy friends, today's the big day! We're gonna make the puffiest spinach puffs ever! I call this recipe… Pinky's Puffs of Delight!"

He dumped an entire bag of flour into the mixing bowl. A cloud of white dust exploded into the air, coating the table, himself, and Brain in a fine powder.

Brain coughed violently from across the room. "Pinky! What in the name of all things rational are you doing?!"

Pinky turned, beaming. "Cooking, Brain! Narf! The trick is love! And cheese! And a completely unnecessary but dramatic twirl!" He spun in place, sending flecks of food flying.

Hearing something plop into his concoction, Brain scowled. A perfectly square block of cheese bobbed gently in the vial of what was supposed to be a deadly poison.

Slowly, painfully, he turned his head toward Pinky.

"Pinky…" Brain's voice was eerily calm, though his eye twitched like a frayed wire. "Did you just throw feta cheese into my potion?"

Pinky gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense. "Oh no, Brain! Of course not!"

Brain's expression darkened. "…You didn't?"

Pinky shook his head furiously. "Nope! Feta cheese is a protected designation of origin product, Brain. That's just feta-style cheese!"

Brain stared at him, silent. Motionless.

"Would you like me to sing the song about all the cheeses of the world to help you remember for next time, Brain?" Pinky asked eagerly.

Without breaking eye contact, Brain reached up, plucked the cheese chunk out of the vial, and hurled it across the room. It splattered against the stone wall with a slight sizzle.

Brain exhaled sharply. "Pinky. Leave."

Pinky beamed and grabbed the spinach puff recipe scroll. "Righty-o, Brain!"

As Pinky merrily skipped away, Brain turned back to his now contaminated potion and muttered under his breath, "I loathe my existence." Unfortunately, there was no alternative except starting the laborious process over again. With a tired sigh, Brain dumped all of his hard work down the drain and once again consulted his notes.

Pinky wandered through the dimly lit corridors, happily humming a little tune. Brain had told him to leave, but wasn't very specific about where he should leave to. Pinky figured he could surprise Brain by being extra helpful. He could make another batch of spinach puffs—just in case!

That's when he saw it.

A massive stone door, slightly ajar, with an engraving of a chef's hat over a crossed pair of spatulas.

Pinky gasped. "A secret kitchen laboratory!" He shoved the door open, and his eyes widened in delight. Inside was the most wondrous anachronistic kitchen he'd ever seen.

A gleaming double-door oven stood against the far wall, next to a mechanized egg beater powered by an elaborate pulley system. Rows of mixing bowls, measuring cups, and chef's knives lined the stone counters—or at least, the ones that weren't already covered in flour, half-used ingredients, and abandoned utensils.

It was clear that someone—a very passionate but easily distracted chef—had been in the middle of a grand baking project weeks ago and had simply… stopped. A half-mixed bowl of dough sat forgotten on the counter, now hardened into a rock-like lump. A wooden spoon was still sticking out of it at an odd angle, as though someone had been stirring and just—walked away.

Next to it, a rolling pin rested halfway through a flattened piece of dough, like the baker had suddenly vanished mid-roll. A cutting board still had neatly chopped vegetables on it, long since dried out.

Pinky barely noticed the mess—his eyes sparkled as he took it all in. There was even a refrigerator—or at least, a large icebox, which Pinky chose to believe was magical. And hanging on a hook on the wall was a light blue apron, designed for a chef with very broad shoulders.

Pinky spun in a slow circle, overwhelmed with joy. "It's perfect! Everything I need to make more spinach puffs! Oh, Brain's gonna be so pleased with me!"

He clapped his hands together. "Somebody's gotta clean up this mess first, though!" Pinky turned his head around, looking for a mop. He spotted a tall cabinet door and pulled it open so he could start cleaning up.

At least, he would have if it wasn't for a pair of angry flies that swooped out from behind the cabinet door as soon as he opened it. They flew in circles, buzzing angrily above his head.

"Oh!" Pinky blinked. "What's that?" He flailed his hands. "Shoo! Shoo! You'll get fly cooties on my spinach puffs!"

The flies dive-bombed his ears, making it very difficult to focus on finding cleaning supplies, let alone the delicate art of puff-making. Pinky ducked under the counter and tried to appease the irate insects. "If I was stuck inside a dark cabinet all day, I'd be cranky too! Well, I'd probably take a nap first, but then I'd be cranky."

He rubbed his chin. "Hmm… but you're really making it hard for me to work. Especially with all of this mess!"

Pinky narrowed his eyes at the buzzing insects. Something felt familiar. The flies and the chaotic mess were distracting him… just like Pinky distracted Brain when Brain was trying to work.

Pinky gasped. His eyes went wide. He froze in place. "Wait a tick…" he whispered. "Is this what Brain feels like? All the time?!"

A deep moment of realization settled over him.

For the first time in his life, he truly, truly understood what it meant to be… Brain.

The flies buzzed louder.

"Maybe," Pinky stared into the distance, deep in thought. "Maybe I should—" Pinky yelped and grabbed a nearby ramekin, flipping it over and trapping the flies beneath it.

"There!" He clapped his hands. "Now, what was I thinking about?" There was a pause for a long moment. "Spinach puffs!" He looked around. "But first, some cleaning!"

Pinky had just started sweeping when he heard Brain's voice echo through the halls. "Pinky!" He froze mid-sweep, the bristles of his oversized broom sticking out at an odd angle. Brain had sent him away earlier, but the moment Brain called for him, Pinky didn't hesitate. Dropping the broom with a loud clatter, he dashed out of the kitchen and down the winding corridors, skidding dramatically to a stop just outside the secret laboratory.

"Brain! I came as fast as I could!" Pinky huffed, out of breath but beaming. "Did you miss me?"

Brain, hunched over a massive bubbling cauldron, didn't even look up.

"I require assistance," he said briskly, his gaze locked on the swirling liquid. His hands stirred with precise, deliberate movements, his ears twitching in concentration.

Pinky tilted his head. "Ooo, what are you making? Some kind of fancy soup?"

Brain's eye twitched. "This is not soup, Pinky. This is a highly delicate alchemical mixture, the culmination of my genius, and if I stop stirring for even a moment, the molecular structure will collapse."

Pinky's eyes widened. "Oh no! What happens if the moleycular thingy collapses?"

Brain's stirring did not falter. "Best case scenario? The potion becomes completely inert."

Pinky gasped. "And worst case scenario?"

Brain's expression darkened. "It explodes."

Pinky gasped again.

Brain contemplated other alchemical disasters. "…Or possibly turns me into a frog. I haven't entirely ruled that out."

Pinky nodded seriously. "Right, right. Definitely wouldn't want you to be a frog, Brain. You wouldn't want to eat bugs!"

Brain gritted his teeth and pushed forward. "Which is why I need you to grab a very specific vial from that shelf." He jerked his head toward a large wooden shelf, stacked from floor to ceiling with neatly arranged potions.

Pinky skipped over to the shelf. "Uh… Brain? Which one?"

Brain sighed. "The lilac-colored potion, Pinky."

Pinky looked at the shelves. All of the bottles held a potion that was some shade of purple. Or violet, or possibly even mauve. Pinky squinted at the rows of bottles. "Lilac?"

Brain's stirring did not pause. "Yes, lilac. Third shelf."

Pinky's face scrunched in confusion. "…Which one's lilac?"

Brain's eye twitched. "It's between the amethyst-colored potion and the indigo-colored potion."

Pinky turned back to the shelf. "Ohhh. Uh…" His brows furrowed deeper. "What's amethyst look like again?"

Brain exhaled sharply. "It's a rich purple with cooler undertones. Not as deep as violet, but darker than lavender."

Pinky blinked. "Ohhh, got it!" He reached for a bottle. "This one?"

Brain, still stirring, finally glanced over. "That's magenta, Pinky."

"Ohhh. Okay." Pinky picked another. "This one?"

Brain glared. "That is periwinkle." 

Pinky lifted the bottle towards the light. "You sure it's not lilac?"

Finally, with every ounce of patience he could muster, Brain took a deep breath and said, "Pinky. It has a label with a skull painted on it."

Pinky perked up. "Ohhh! A skull! Why didn't you say so, Brain?" He turned back to the shelf and scanned the rows of nearly identical purple bottles—until his eyes landed on one with a faded label.

A skull was definitely painted on it. Most of a skull, anyway. The top of the label had curled slightly, distorting the image. If he looked at it a little sideways, it almost looked like… well, it was close enough to a skull. Probably. Pinky shrugged and grabbed the vial and scampered back to Brain, holding it up triumphantly.

"Here you go, Brain! One lilac-colored skull potion, fresh off the shelf!"

Brain did not look up. "Excellent. Now, on the count of three, you are going to very carefully pour one drop into the cauldron."

Pinky tilted his head. "One drop?"

"Yes, Pinky. One. Singular. Not two. Not three. Just one."

Pinky squinted at the potion. "Huh. Feels like a two-drop kinda potion."

Brain's ears flattened. "One."

"Riiight, one. Definitely not two. And I guess five is right out. Got it, Brain!" Pinky uncorked the bottle and tilted it carefully over the cauldron. A single drop of shimmering purple liquid fell into the swirling mixture.

Brain sighed in relief.

Then, Pinky sneezed. His hand jerked, and three extra drops of potion splashed into the cauldron. The mixture instantly changed color.

Brain froze.

Pinky froze.

The cauldron let out a loud, ominous gurgle.

Brain slowly, slowly turned to Pinky.

Pinky offered a weak smile. "Gesundheit?"

Kuzco lounged across a pile of velvet cushions, absentmindedly inspecting his nails as a team of attendants fussed over his hair and his outfit for dinner tonight. "Ugh, I am so exhausted," Kuzco complained with an over-dramatic sigh, stretching like he'd just spent a hard day doing anything other than making life harder for his subjects.

One of the attendants—an old man holding a clipboard—cleared his throat. "Your Excellency, you've spent the entire afternoon in the royal hot tub."

"Exactly!" Kuzco groaned. "My stamina and mental fortitude are unmatched, but even I have my limits."

"But—"

Kuzco glared briefly in the attendant's direction. "Un. Matched." The attendant gulped instinctively and took a few steps back.

Kuzco sighed and examined his freshly trimmed and polished fingernails. With a grimace, he turned his hand over and noticed the wrinkly pads of his fingers, the results of hours of unmatched stamina resting in the royal hot tub.

"Ugh. They're so," Kuzco grimaced, "Wrinkly." He tilted his head thoughtfully, and his voice was surprisingly touched with a wistful tone. "It reminds me of someone I used to know. Someone old and… wrinkly."

He whipped his head around to the clipboard-holding attendant. "You! What's the name of someone old you know?"

"N—N—Nyunyuma, Your Majesty," he stammered, his lovely grandmother coming to mind.

Kuzco shook his head forlornly. "No, that's not right."

"Uh, I'm pretty sure that was her name—" the attendant started, but Kuzco swiveled sharply, fixing him with a piercing stare, his eyes burrowing into the servant's very being. Kuzco snapped his fingers, and two burly guards quickly grabbed the attendant from under his arms and dragged him away, the clipboard clattering to the floor. The room was quiet and still.

"I think he was about to tell me I was wrong," Kuzco said sternly. "Me? Wrong?" Kuzco laughed. He looked around expectantly, and the other servants, guards, and attendants in the room began laughing along with him, although with decidedly more nervousness.

Kuzco leaned back into his cushions with a satisfied sigh, waving a lazy hand toward a random attendant. "Alright, new clipboard guy. You—Remind me what's happening tonight."

A nervous-looking young attendant hurriedly grabbed the fallen clipboard, flipping through the notes. "Uh—you have dinner tonight, Sire. With your, ah, advisor."

Kuzco perked up. "Oh, finally! I've been craving spinach puffs all day." After a moment, his eyes widened in horror. "Wait. What if the spinach puffs are… subpar?"

The attendant hesitated. "Uh, well, Sire, I'm sure the palace chefs can—"

Kuzco bolted upright, tossing his silk dinner robe over his shoulder. "Nope. Unacceptable. I need official confirmation on the spinach puff situation, and I need it now." He clapped his hands twice, the sharp sound echoing off the golden walls. "Alright, people! Let's move, move, move!" With a dramatic flourish of his dinner robe, he marched toward the kitchen, his entourage of nervous attendants scrambling to fall in line behind him.

"You!" Kuzco pointed at a palace chef. "Where are my dinner guests?"

The chef paled. "U-uh… I don't know, Your Majesty! I haven't seen them since—"

"Unacceptable!" Kuzco barked, already striding out of the room. "How hard is it to keep track of two tiny weird guys with big ears?!"

The attendants exchanged panicked glances before scurrying after him.

Kuzco's pace quickened. "I want answers, people! I want results! I want—" He threw his hands in the air. "I need to know what my appetizers are up to!"

The line of servants lengthened as more attendants, guards, and confused palace workers joined the impromptu procession.

Kuzco's frustration mounted with every empty hallway and every servant who failed to provide a satisfactory answer. "Where are they?!" he huffed, spinning on his heel. The unfortunate servant closest to him yelped and nearly dropped a tray of golden plates.

Kuzco narrowed his eyes. "Is this some kind of conspiracy? Are they…?" He gasped. "Are they hiding the spinach puffs from me?"

The attendants murmured uncertainly.

Kuzco's dramatic gasp deepened. "That's it! It all makes sense! They're stalling! Probably plotting against me! Well, joke's on them, because I—"

Suddenly, from down the hallway, the sound of small, hurried footsteps echoed. Pinky's voice called out, "Fear not, Your Empanada-ness! We have arrived!"

The crowd parted as two tiny figures scurried forward. Pinky was grinning and proudly carrying a steaming tray of spinach puffs over his head. Brain plastered a smile on his face and gave a deep bow, eyeing the large crowd behind Kuzco.

Kuzco's expression darkened. He crossed his arms, tapping his foot. "Oh, now you show up," he drawled. "This better be good."

Pinky beamed and lifted the steaming tray higher. "Oh, it's more than good, Your Royal Chewiness! Behold—" He tilted the tray dramatically, letting the scent waft through the air.

Kuzco's nostrils flared, betraying his interest in the spinach puffs. His eyes widened—just a little. He quickly hid his reaction, schooling his face into bored disinterest. Brain, too, kept his expression neutral—though inwardly, he was gloating when he noticed the emperor's growing interest in the spinach puffs.

Kuzco sniffed again. He tilted his head slightly, like he wasn't completely interested, but also wasn't not interested. Then, casually, he reached out to snatch a spinach puff off the tray.

Brain's hand shot out, grabbing Kuzco's wrist just before he could claim his prize.

Kuzco blinked.

The crowd gasped in unison. Up and down the hallway, the sharp ring of guards drawing weapons filled the air.

A bead of sweat formed on Brain's temple. With impressive speed, he recovered, smoothly slipping into his most diplomatic tone. "Your Majesty, I beg your forgiveness," Brain said, bowing deeply. "But these exquisite delicacies have just come out of the oven. They are, undoubtedly, far too hot for Your Imperial Palate."

Kuzco arched a skeptical brow. "Too hot?"

"Indeed," Brain nodded sagely. "And it would be a true tragedy if such a magnificent ruler were to, say, burn his tongue on an improperly cooled appetizer."

Kuzco considered this.

Pinky nodded furiously. "Oh yes, Your Emperor-ness! And it's not just a tongue burn! First, your tongue burns—then the roof of your mouth! And then?" Pinky gasped in mock horror. "Then the peeling starts!"

The crowd shuddered while Brain resisted the urge to rub his temples.

Kuzco pulled his hand back, wrinkling his nose. "Ew. Peeling? Yeah, no thanks. I can't have flaky mouth while I'm mid-monologue."

Brain exhaled, relieved. "Precisely, Your Majesty. Which is why I humbly suggest we retire to a more…" He glanced at the massive audience of palace attendants, servants, and confused bystanders. "…private location."

"For a quiet and relaxing dinner for His Imperial Majesty."

Kuzco perked up at the idea. "Ooo, private dining? Like a VIP Emperor's Exclusive Banquet Experience? Designed exclusively for me?"

Brain smiled tightly. "Something like that."

"Hmm." Kuzco tapped his chin. "Yeah, I do like the sound of that. Way classier than a normal dinner."

Pinky nodded enthusiastically. "Ooo, ooo! Can we get one of those little tables with a candle in a bottle? It's so romantic!"

Brain clenched his jaw. "Pinky."

Pinky giggled. "What? I just think they're neat."

Kuzco snapped his fingers. "Alright, subjects. Let's move this party to my ultra-exclusive private dining chamber!"

The attendants immediately scurried to prepare things.

As Kuzco sashayed ahead, Brain leaned over to Pinky. "I am certain, Pinky," he muttered, "that if this plan succeeds despite you, it will be nothing short of divine intervention."

Pinky grinned. "Thanks, Brain!"

Brain sighed. As they followed Kuzco toward the private dining chamber, he tightened his grip on the potion vial beneath his cloak. The empire was nearly his. Soon. Very soon.

Chapter Text

The private dining chamber within Emperor Kuzco's palace was the very definition of excessive.

A long, ridiculously oversized banquet table stretched from one end of the room to the other—so long that Kuzco and Brain had to squint to see each other. The gleaming gold candelabras, the intricately woven silk table runner, the giant fish mosaic on the wall, and the over-the-top carved chairs all screamed luxury. And impracticality.

Kuzco sat at the head of the table, lounging with one leg thrown over the armrest of his ornate chair.

At the opposite end, Brain perched stiffly on a chair far too big for him, gripping the edges of his napkin like he was holding onto the last remnants of his sanity.

Between them, Pinky danced from place to place, enthusiastically serving as host, waiter, and self-appointed maître d'.

Brain cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, allow me to express my deepest gratitude for this opportunity to dine in your esteemed presence."

Kuzco lazily examined his nails. "Yeah, yeah, big honor, life-changing experience, et cetera, et cetera." He waved a hand with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Listen, can we just cut to the food part? My royal stomach demands sustenance."

Brain's eye twitched, but he forced a smile. "But of course, Your Majesty."

Pinky bounced up beside them. "So, I thought we'd start off with soup and a light salad and then see how we feel after that."

Kuzco narrowed his eyes. "No, I was told there would be spinach puffs."

"Of course, Your Empanada-ness! But…"

"Spinach. Puffs." Kuzco repeated, slower this time, accenting the words with a pointing finger.

Pinky swallowed. "Uh, yes. They're in the warmer. I'll go get them!" He scampered off the table and into the kitchen next door.

A brief silence settled over the absurdly long table. 

"Sooo," Kuzco cleared his throat, then lazily turned to Brain. "He seems nice."

Brain blinked. "Pinky?"

Kuzco held up his hands. "No judgement! Just saying." He shrugged. "My last advisor definitely had a type, though."

"Type?" Brain repeated, his mind momentarily buffering in confusion.

"She definitely had an eye for a signature style."

Before Brain could think of a semi-coherent response, Pinky arrived, balancing a steaming tray of spinach puffs above his head. "Dinner is served! One ultra-exclusive, VIP-quality plate of spinach puffs!" 

He set the tray carefully on the table, then—with great flourish—picked up a single spinach puff with a set of tongs and placed it directly in the centre of Kuzco's golden plate. He next whipped out a napkin, shaking it so dramatically that Brain half-expected doves to fly out.

Kuzco peered at the spinach puff, nodding approvingly. "Alright, yeah, I gotta admit—these smell amazing."

Brain sat up just a little straighter. If Kuzco started eating, that would give them the perfect opportunity to slip the poison into his drink. Kuzco reached for the puff, but before he could grab it, Pinky let out a horrified gasp, snatched the plate back, and spun away toward the tray, fussing over it like an overprotective mother.

Kuzco let out a strangled noise. "Okay, what is happening?"

Brain clenched his jaw. "Pinky."

"Just a moment, Brain!" Pinky hummed happily, arranging the spinach puffs in a very specific pattern.

Brain leaned forward, his voice low. "Pinky, we must proceed with the plan."

Pinky grinned over his shoulder. "Oh, don't worry, Brain! I know exactly what to do!"

Brain raised an eyebrow. "…You do?"

Pinky responded by looking meaningfully at Kuzco, then turning back to Brain and waggling his eyebrows. 

Brain stared, deadpan. "I hope that was not supposed to fill me with confidence."

Brain put on his best, most scintillating diplomatic smile and turned it towards Emperor Kuzco's direction. "One moment, if you please, Your Majesty, while I confer with the chef."

Kuzco, already admiring his teeth in his reflection in the silverware, simply waved a bored, dismissive hand in reply.

Brain's smile instantly dropped into a scowl. "Pinky, we need to give the Emperor his food so that he has a drink." He leaned toward Pinky and whispered, "So that he ingests the poison."

"The poison?"

Brain pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh. "Yes, Pinky. The poison for Kuzco. The poison chosen especially to kill Kuzco. Kuzco's poison. That poison."

Pinky's face lit up in realization. "Ohhhhh!"

Brain narrowed his eyes, and Pinky sheepishly lowered his volume. "You mean the poison that puts Kuzco to sleep?"

Brain froze. His eye twitched. "…No, Pinky. It is a lethal poison."

Pinky suddenly looked to his left, staring at a spot just above his shoulder. After a moment, he turned his head to fixate on his right shoulder.

Brain watched, nearly speechless. "...Pinky, are you expecting something to appear on your shoulders?"

Pinky sighed. "Admittedly, I'm a little disappointed."

Brain took a deep, steadying breath. "Pinky, after multiple failed attempts at brewing this poison thanks to your meddling, I will not tolerate any more of your shenanigans. Give the Emperor his food." Brain's face twisted into a wicked grin. "And then the poison."

Pinky nodded quickly, then scampered back to the tray of spinach puffs. "Sorry about that, your Empada-ness! I just needed to find… the secret sauce!"

Kuzco's face twisted in disgust. "I hope it doesn't have relish in it. I loathe pickles."

Pinky shook his head vigorously as he replated the Emperor's spinach puffs. "Oh no, it's not that!" He hoisted the plate up with a proud grin, the puffs arranged in the shape of a heart. "It's love!"

Kuzco stared at him. "...Hmm. Maybe pickles wouldn't be so bad."

Brain stepped in swiftly. "What my esteemed colleague means, of course," he said smoothly, "is that none of this would be possible without… the glowing love and reverence we, your adoring subjects, devote to Your Majesty." He folded his hands, bowing his head slightly. "I hope that tonight will be a reflection of your esteemed glory."

He paused, as if struck by inspiration. "Ah! I know—a toast to the Emperor!" He turned. "Pinky, go fetch us a drink worthy of His Majesty."

"A special drink, eh, Brain?" Pinky leaned in conspiratorially, waggling his eyebrows once again.

Brain stared at him flatly. "The drinks, Pinky."

Pinky saluted smartly. "Aye aye, El Capitan!" He scampered off to the little bar in the corner as Kuzco gazed longingly at the spinach puffs. Pinky carefully poured chilled chicha into three goblets, and then he took the tiny vial of poison. Squinting, he delicately measured three drops into one goblet.

Pinky stared at the goblet. "Brain said three drops," he quietly told himself. "Maybe just one drop would just put him to sleep. And then we can tuck him into bed. With a bedtime story. And a blanket. Maybe a teddy."

Pinky tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe I can dilute it? Three drops divided into three cups… convert from milliliters to ounces, carry the seven…"

"Hey, little guy, everything okay back there?" Kuzco called out over his shoulder, still staring at the spinach puffs.

"Sorry, Your Emperorness! Just trying to do math in my head!" Pinky replied. Brain rolled his eyes.

Pinky stared at the poisoned goblet a moment longer, his brow furrowed in thought. He glanced back toward the table, where Kuzco was now tapping impatiently, eyes still locked on the spinach puffs. 

"Maybe I should even things out," Pinky muttered. "That way, everyone is just a little bit poisoned."

He grabbed a nearby cocktail shaker, cheerfully humming to himself as he poured all three goblets into it. "Shake-a shake-a, stir-a stir-a, fancy fizzy poisony blur-a!" He then cheerfully poured the mixture back into all three goblets, each drink emitting a puff of pinkish smoke as it settled.

Then he picked up the tray and beamed. "There! Three drinks—equally suspicious!" He trotted back toward the table.

Pinky placed drinks in front of everyone, keeping one goblet for himself. Then Pinky quietly stood off to the side, out of Kuzco's line of sight.

Brain rose beside his goblet, clasping his hands together. "A short toast to our beloved Emperor Kuzco!"

He paused—just long enough to notice Pinky waving frantically from the corner. Pinky held up three fingers, shaking them like they were on fire.

"Three?" Brain blinked. "Words?"

Kuzco perked up. "Three words? I like short speeches!"

Brain cleared his throat, covering his confusion. "Yes! Three important words!"

Pinky, now desperate, held up one finger, then waved both hands side-to-side like he was landing a tiny plane.

Brain squinted. "First word. No?"

Kuzco sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. "No?"

Pinky mimed drinking, gagging, then pretended to keel over.

Brain hesitated. "Second word, uh…" 

He turned back to Kuzco and forced a chuckle. "Just kidding! The second word is, uh, 'better'!"

Kuzco raised an eyebrow. "'No better?' What kind of toast is that?"

Pinky, now fully panicked, began spelling out the word "poison" in the air with his finger—backwards.

Brain groaned under his breath and raised his goblet. "None better than Kuzco! To Kuzco!"

Kuzco, satisfied, clinked his goblet against Brain's. "To me!" He lifted the goblet to his lips. Paused.

Brain's pupils shrank. Time slowed. He clutched the edge of the table so tightly his tiny knuckles turned white.

Kuzco tilted the goblet… then suddenly pulled it back.  "Although that's actually four words…"

Brain's eye twitched so violently it nearly launched itself from his face. "Don't think. Just drink," he whispered under his breath, as if willing the emperor to follow his mental commands.

Kuzco shrugged and finally downed the contents of his goblet in one giant gulp.

Behind him, Pinky poured his drink into a nearby potted plant. The stalks shriveled, the leaves crisped up, and the whole thing keeled over like it had been personally offended. Brain tossed his drink, goblet and all, over his shoulder, where it clattered to the ground.

Kuzco smacked his lips. "Ah, tasty!" Without warning, he slumped forward, face-planting directly into his plate of spinach puffs.

Brain gasped, eyes wide. "…It worked."

He grinned wickedly, triumph lighting up his face. "It worked! Finally! Good work, Pinky!"

Pinky clapped politely. "Yay! Nap time!"

But before Brain could savor the moment, Kuzco suddenly lifted his head, blinking casually as if nothing had happened. He had mashed spinach puff in his eyebrows. "Okay! What were we saying?"

Brain froze. "I… you… you just…" He shook himself, forcing a smile back onto his face. "We… we were just making a toast!" he said quickly. "To Your Majesty!"

Kuzco grinned. "Nice! Short and sweet and only three words. I like it."

And then, his ears twitched. They stretched, slowly elongating and growing tufts of fur.

Brain's voice faltered. "…to your long and… uh… glorious reign…"

Kuzco's neck extended—his royal collar slipping downward as coarse fur crept across his skin.

Pinky's eyes bounced between Kuzco and Brain like he was watching a very slow tennis match. He leaned toward Brain and whispered, "…Is this part of the toast?"

Brain didn't answer. He was too busy trying not to hyperventilate.

Kuzco continued on, completely unaware. "Y'know, I've been thinking," he said casually, swirling the last drops of Chicha in his goblet, "I'm already the most beloved emperor in history—obviously—but what if I took things in a bold new direction? Fresh branding. A new look. Something people can obsess over."

Brain mutely nodded, his eyes fixed on Kuzco's right hand, which had just become a hoof. 

The emperor raised his goblet lazily in his other hand. "Hey, little chef guy, can you top me off, pal?"

"New. Look?" Brain echoed, his voice cracking slightly.

"Exactly!" One of Kuzco's ears twitched—now long, floppy, and furry—but he didn't seem to notice. "I'm thinking of introducing tunics over long-sleeve turtlenecks. Big bold colors."

As Kuzco rambled, Brain turned sharply to Pinky and began pantomiming. First, he mimed a dramatic karate chop, but Pinky only stared blankly.

Kuzco, oblivious, rambled on. "Oh! And those little round sunglasses that make me look like a mysterious artist-slash-world leader. The people eat that up."

Brain raised both hands in exaggerated smash motions, then mimed falling asleep with his hands under his cheek.

He pointed furiously at Kuzco, then at Pinky, then at the floor.

"You want me to," Pinky blinked. "Tuck him in on the floor?"

Brain silently screamed.

Pinky gave Brain a double thumbs up, then reached for the tray of spinach puffs. 

Kuzco's head had finished transforming into that of a llama, though his blue stone earrings still dangled from each ear, like some sad vestige of his former self.

"I'm also thinking fur's going to be big this year," Kuzco added, still utterly unaware.

Pinky launched a spinach puff across the table like a tiny golden cannonball. It collided with Kuzco's now llama-like head, hitting him square between the eyes. His head wobbled and his eyes crossed. "Whoa, okay, who—"

Kuzco collapsed face-first into his plate for the second time that evening. This time, he didn't get back up.

Pinky looked up from the other spinach puff he was preparing to throw. "Oh dear… I hope that wasn't the spinach puff with the vegan cheese."

Brain, still frozen mid-pantomime, slowly lowered his hands. He blinked. Then he straightened his shoulders, and adjusted his headpiece. He took a deep breath. Then he flung one arm dramatically toward the unconscious llama wearing the Emperor's embroidered silk dinner robe.

"A llama?!" he barked, his brow furrowed. "He's supposed to be dead!"

Pinky nodded sagely. "Yeah. Weird." He chuckled nervously, still holding the second puff like it might be useful.

Brain whipped his head towards Pinky. "Pinky. Where is that vial you gave me to make the potion?"

Pinky fished into his apron pocket and handed it over. The label was curled over at one side, the visible part showing a symbol that vaguely resembled a skull—if you squinted.

Brain took the vial slowly. His eyes narrowed. He carefully unfurled the label, revealing the unmistakable symbol of a llama.

"Pinky!" he shouted, shaking the bottle. "This isn't poison! This is extract of llama!"

Pinky blinked. "Oops!" Then he tilted his head and smiled brightly. "But it is lilac-colored, right?"

Brain let out a long, pained sigh, like someone who'd just watched their Nobel Prize get flushed down the royal latrine. "Just take him out of town and finish the job. Now."

Pinky gently lifted Kuzco's llama head off the plate. "Finish? Taking him to bed and tucking him in?"

"No, Pinky." Brain's eye twitched. "The poison was supposed to have lethal results. And I expect there to be lethal results. Am I clear, Pinky?"

Pinky looked around, clearly checking if someone else might know the answer. "...No, not really."

Brain growled, clenching his fists. "Just get this llama out of my sight, Pinky!"

Pinky began trying to carefully push Kuzco out of his chair. "Right-o, Brain! I'll find a nice quiet hilltop to tuck him in."

"What about dinner?" Pinky added suddenly, spinning back around.

Brain groaned, rubbing his temples. "Pinky, this is more important than dinner!"

Pinky tapped his chin. "How about dessert?"

"Go, Pinky!" Brain roared, pointing dramatically toward the door.

A short time later, Pinky stood back, admiring his handiwork. The emperor—now a full llama—was nestled comfortably in a pile of freshly laundered linens inside a large wooden laundry cart. His head was resting on a folded towel, his legs poking out at awkward angles beneath a throw blanket embroidered with little suns.

"There we go!" Pinky whispered proudly. "All tucked in. So warm. So cozy. So unconscious." He gently fluffed a towel over Kuzco's face like a blanket. "Sweet dreams, Your Fluffiness."

Pinky dusted off his hands, pulled a laundry cap over his ears, and grabbed the handles of the cart. "Time to find you a nice quiet nap spot outside the city!"

Pinky whistled happily as he wheeled the cart out of the palace gates. It wobbled slightly on the cobblestones, but he kept it steady, muttering soothing things to the linens. "Almost there! Just a quick trip down these dramatically steep stairs that I'm sure are perfectly safe."

He reached the top of a very steep, very long stone staircase that led to the road below.

Pinky paused. "…Maybe I should go around." 

He turned the cart to steer sideways, only for it to hit a pebble at the top of the stairs. The whole cart jolted and then lurched forward. Pinky grabbed for the handles. "Nononononono—Narf!"

The laundry cart launched itself down the stairs with escalating speed, rattling, bouncing, and shedding linens like a fabric-based avalanche.

Pinky sprinted after it, arms flailing. "Wait! Come back! The emperor's in there! And also my favorite towel!"

At the base of the stairs, a large man with a kind face and a tired slouch guided his rickety cart down the cobblestone road, his expression somewhere between resigned and mildly betrayed. He wore homespun clothes and a simple hat, and his slow trudge suggested he wasn't in any particular hurry. He was so wrapped up in his own morose thoughts—mostly about his village being wiped out to make room for the emperor's lavish summer home—that he didn't notice when a linen-covered llama flew out of a laundry pile, bounced twice off the steps, and landed squarely in the back of his cart.

Pinky stopped as he reached the bottom of the steps, trying to catch his breath. He called out, "Stop! Wait! You look like you could use a hug! And there's an emperor in the back of your… oh, he's gone." He put his hands on his hips, shook his head solemnly, and sighed. "Narf. I hope that doesn't come back to haunt me."

Chapter Text

Kuzco trudged through thick brush, his fur catching on every branch and thorn. Twigs tugged at his ears. A burr lodged itself somewhere he did not want to talk about. Ahead, Pacha kept a steady, unrelenting march like someone who had done this more times than he wanted to.

With a splash, Kuzco stepped into a dark, sludgy puddle.

"Ugh." Kuzco lifted his hoof distastefully. "Mud. Again. Awesome." He glared up at the sky as though the weather owed him an apology. "Hey, how much further?"

Pacha turned, cheerful as ever. "We've been walking for thirty minutes."

Kuzco stopped. His ears slowly drooped. One eye twitched. "Thirty. Minutes."

Pacha nodded. "Yup! Making great time!"

"Yay. Only another ninety-five and a half hours to go."

Pacha chuckled. It was quiet, but deep. "Well, we won't be walking the whole time."

"Four days is a long time! There's so many things I have to do!" 

"Oh? Like what?"

Kuzco paused, clearly digging for words he'd never used—words that described the actual job duties of someone in power. "Like… imperial… diplomatics. And… administrative… stuff." 

"Don't you have people to help with that?" Pacha smiled again. "You know, so you don't have to do all of the imperial diplomatics yourself."

Kuzco laughed a short, hollow laugh. "My top advisor is not only short, but he's also boring. He wouldn't be able to handle all of the diplomatics that I do every day."

Brain sat at his desk—correction, Kuzco's desk. Although the emperor—former emperor—had never sat at the desk because the chair was never opulent enough for his liking. That, and sitting at a desk implied one was working and that was not an image Kuzco ever wanted to present. Brain had already dusted off the golden sun-emblazoned chair and moved it two degrees to the left for better light. Parchments were stacked in precarious towers on either side of him, each marked with cheerful bureaucratic phrases like "For Review," "Requires Seal," and "Explain Why This Is A Thing."

He dipped his quill and resumed writing, muttering under his breath. "Section 12-B, Subsection 4: Feral llamas may not be kept as emotional support animals in residential zones… unless certified by a royal therapist." He paused. "Pinky will be thrilled," he noted dryly.

A servant entered timidly, dropping another scroll onto the stack. "The new leash law amendments from District Eight, Your… um… Eminent Advisor?"

Brain grunted. "Leave it. I'll deal with it after revising the ceremonial robe import tariffs."

The servant nodded and fled.

Brain exhaled slowly. He was in charge. Finally.

Sure, he hadn't declared himself Emperor—yet. That would be… premature. Foolish. Dangerous. No, better to work from the inside. Reshape the empire from beneath the throne.

Even if, for now, that meant…

He glanced at the next scroll.

…goat census discrepancies.

Brain sighed and rubbed his temples. "Absolute power," he muttered, "comes with absolutely endless paperwork."

 "Brain, Brain! Good news!" Pinky burst in, wearing something that looked suspiciously like a crown made from paper-mache and brightly colored yarn, most of which was fraying at odd angles. "I've been asking around, and I found the perfect venue! We can use the palace! Because it's ours!"

Brain froze, quill in hand. He turned very slowly. "Venue for what, Pinky?"

"For your coronation, of course!" Pinky clapped his hands in delight. "I've got the Theme Song Guy warming up! We're serving empanadas! I told the guests it's BYO-Cloak!" 

Brain blinked once. Slowly. He set down his quill. And inhaled through his nose like a kettle trying not to boil. "Pinky," he said with strained calm, "what… precisely… have you told the people?"

Pinky held up a glittery scroll covered in scribbles. "Just a little announcement!" he chirped. "I put it on the message board in the main plaza, handed out just a few copies… like, maybe one hundred or so… hired a dance troupe—oh! And the balloon arch should be arriving any moment now. They're shaped like llamas! Isn't that adorable?"

Brain gripped the edge of the desk like it might float away. "Pinky, I do not yet rule this empire. Not officially. Not legally. And most importantly—" He stood up, adjusting his cloak with dignity. "—not publicly."

Pinky's paper mache crown drooped slightly. "But… Emperor Kuzco is gone. I'm almost certain of it." He paused. "Pretty sure, at least."

He scratched his head and muttered quietly to himself. "I mean, I did watch him roll away in a laundry cart then land in the back of some sad peasant's wagon, but I never saw where he went after that..."

Brain closed his eyes. "I cannot move quickly without causing turmoil and chaos. Your… coronation event is exactly that, Pinky. For now, I must remain in the shadows. I will rule, yes, but subtly. Silently. Strategically."

Pinky looked down at his feet. "Does that mean… I have to cancel the guanabana cupcakes?"

"Yes."

"And the confetti cannon?"

Brain's voice tightened. "Especially the confetti cannon."

Pinky sighed, removing the handmade crown from his head with a little pout. "Aw, narf. I already picked out my victory gown for the coronation."

Brain pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just… clean up the mess before anyone asks questions."

Pinky nodded solemnly. "I'll let Theme Song Guy down easy." He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. "Do you think he'd still sing if we made it a very quiet coronation?"

Brain let out a sound that could only be described as a strangled groan.

Pinky simply nodded. "Right. I'll put that in the 'maybe' column, then."

Pinky left Brain to his administrative duties, closing the door softly behind him. He stood in the hallway for a moment, looking down at his now slightly drooping paper-mâché crown. The yarn fringe had gotten caught in the door and hung limp like a sad party streamer.

With a sigh, he pulled it off and held it against his chest. "I just wanted to make him smile," he murmured to himself.

He wandered through the palace halls, hands behind his back, humming a little tune under his breath. Occasionally he paused to peek out a window or boop the nose of a passing statue of Kuzco. But nothing quite cheered him up.

That is, until he passed a familiar stone corridor. Seeing a familiar sight, his ears perked up. "Ooo!"

With a grin slowly returning to his face, Pinky scampered toward the oversized bat statue at the end of the hallway.

"Brain never said I couldn't make my own cupcakes! Secret kitchen laboratory, here I come!" He paused, then rubbed his chin.

He squinted at the bat's fangs. He shrugged his shoulders and closed his eyes, reaching out blindly for a fang-shaped lever. It pulled forward with a soft clunk sound, and the floor disappeared from under Pinky. He dropped into the darkness, landing a short distance on the soft cushioned seat of a roller coaster car.

From somewhere in the darkness, a voice intoned, "Please remain seated. Keep your arms and legs in at all times." Pinky giggled in anticipation as he grasped the lap bar.

The cart zipped forward, twisting and turning through spiraling stone tunnels, flickering lights, a steam-blasting geyser, before the track split suddenly, sending the cart over a loop-de-loop.

Pinky threw his arms in the air and laughed. "Best commute ever!"

At last, the cart skidded to a stop at the end of the track. Pinky hopped out and dusted himself off. He hummed to himself as he strode to the kitchen.

Everything was just how he left it, clean and orderly, and not at all like the post-baking disaster the kitchen looked like when he first walked in. The countertops sparkled. The mixing bowls gleamed. The spice rack spun with a satisfying click when he gave it a whirl. "Well done, me," Pinky said with a proud little nod. "Martha Stewart would be impressed."

He grabbed a mixing bowl and began gathering ingredients, humming all the while.

Then he paused. There was something… slightly off. He tilted his head, and then he saw it.

Under the far counter, half-tucked in the shadows, sat a single little ceramic dish—a ramekin—flipped upside down. Its edges were damp with condensation. A faint, high-pitched buzzing could be heard if Pinky stood very, very still.

"Oh, right! I forgot about you bugs," he whispered. "I hope you're not still mad about the whole… trapping you forever thing."

The buzzing got louder.

Pinky placed his hands on his hips. "Well! If you're going to have that sort of attitude, maybe I should just leave you there."

The buzzing quieted, and then stopped. 

Pinky knelt down and squinted. He carefully lifted one edge of the ramekin, and the two flies immediately shot out from under it. One zipped straight out of the kitchen and vanished down the hall. The second paused, landing delicately on Pinky's head next to one ear.

Pinky blinked. "Oh! Well—hello to you, too."

The fly buzzed once, then took off after the first.

Pinky watched them go, tilting his head.  "…Narf."

Pinky clapped his hands together. "Time to bake delicious cupcakes!"

It had been a long morning.

Brain had rewritten two entire tax clauses, cross-referenced three contradictory agricultural policies, and spent forty-five minutes trying to explain to a palace official why you couldn't both ban llamas from city limits and also mandate llama parades every Tuesday.

His eye twitched.

Brain finally set down his quill and slid from the massive chair behind the desk. He straightened his cloak, sighed through his nose, and stepped into the hallway for a much-needed breather.

He did not get one.

"Advisor Brain, I need approval on new street vendor permits—"

"Sir, the festival celebrating Kuzco's eighteenth birthday is next week. We need to know the theme—"

"There's been a run on bedazzled ponchos—should we declare a fashion emergency?"

"Also, when is the emperor planning his next public appearance?"

Brain turned in place. More voices. More questions. A growing sea of expectant, smiling faces. Every single one of them assuming that somewhere, behind the scenes, Emperor Kuzco was making decisions.

He adjusted the collar of his cloak. "Yes, well—um—His Majesty is currently… indisposed."

"Indisposed how?"

"Indisposed when?"

"Can he be disposed of differently?"

Brain's pupils shrank. Without another word, he dove into the nearest door, slamming it shut behind him.

He leaned against it, panting. Darkness surrounded him. The faint smell of cinnamon and glue hung in the air. Dust motes floated lazily in the golden shaft of light from a high window. As his eyes adjusted, Brain saw where he'd taken refuge:

A supply closet.

Or more accurately… a shrine.

Piled from floor to ceiling were gifts, tributes, and handcrafted tokens of love, all bearing the smiling face of Emperor Kuzco. There was a skateboard emblazoned with "KUZCO RULES (so do ollies)!" A tapestry with a picture of Kuzco breakdancing. A makeshift puppet theater labelled "Kuzco and the Time Llamas," complete with a series of llama marionettes in different outlandish colors. A poorly stapled novella titled "The Emperor and the Forbidden Hot Tub"—with a disturbingly detailed cover.

Brain looked away quickly.

And then he saw it.

The doll. The one from Kuélap, lovingly handcrafted by children.

Its felt face grinned at him through the shadows, its paper crown crumpled but still perched. The head tilted slightly, like it had been listening the whole time.

Brain's eyes narrowed. The wheels began to turn. A slow, wicked smile crept across his face.

"Perhaps," he whispered to himself, "His Majesty isn't quite so indisposed after all…"

Pinky carefully balanced the tray of cupcakes as he wandered the palace halls, humming a cheerful tune that mostly involved the word "cupcake" repeated in various keys, with "frosting" thrown in every other stanza for good measure.

He turned a corner, kicked open a door with his foot, and beamed.

"Brain, I made you something to cheer you up! A lovely tray of—" Pinky stopped cold. 

Standing in the center of the room—arms outstretched in a vaguely regal pose—was Emperor Kuzco. Or at least, it looked like him. The posture was stiff, the smile unsettlingly fixed. But there he was. Seemingly in the flesh.

Pinky gasped and took two terrified steps backward. "Golly… I didn't tuck him in that well…"

He looked left, then right, then leaned in closer.

"Oh no. Oh no no no no," Pinky whispered, panicking. "He found his way back! He's here! And he's still smiling! That can't be a good sign. Oh Brain's going to be so mad at me. Maybe I can throw him off with cupcakes!"

He shuffled forward nervously, holding up the tray like a peace offering.

"Hello, Your Emperorness, sir! Lovely to see you looking so upright and—uh—unfurred? Look, I can explain! I can honestly say that I had no idea you were going to turn into a llama! Brain just wanted to poison you and—"

Suddenly, a clank echoed through the room.

Kuzco's chest panel flipped open with a mechanical whirr, and Brain popped out like a very serious jack-in-the-box, goggles perched on his forehead and a wrench in one hand.

"Pinky," he said flatly.

Pinky screamed and flung a cupcake into the air, where it plopped on the floor frosting-side down.

"Gah! Brain?! You've been living inside the Emperor this whole time?!"

Brain adjusted a lever near his elbow and climbed the rest of the way out of the puppet's torso. "No, Pinky. And for future reference: shouting criminal confessions before verifying someone's identity is a suboptimal strategy."

Pinky blinked at the stiff, not quite lifelike, puppet.

Then at Brain.

Then at the puppet again.

"…Ohhhhhh," he breathed. "You're being Kuzco! That makes so much more sense. Sort of."

Brain nodded. "I needed a temporary substitute until we can announce the unfortunate demise of Emperor Kuzco."

Pinky was a little too eager to agree. "Yes, yes, so sad. Very demised. Not getting any less llama'd, that's for sure."

Brain only partially listened, more focused on admiring his handiwork. "I've repurposed the llama marionette strings for the internal manipulators, and once the skateboard is mounted to the feet, he'll be mobile. Articulated. Convincing enough for our very own Kuzco!"

"Oh, yes, that's brilliant, Brain!" Pinky was quick to change the subject. "Why do we need our own Kuzco?"

"With the real Emperor dead, we require a convincing stand-in—one who can publicly declare in a grand ceremony that his beloved, indispensable advisor is to be his rightful successor. After the puppet's proclamation, we can arrange for an accident to remove Kuzco from the picture once again."

"So… you want to kill Kuzco a second time?"

"Yes, Pinky," Brain said, a rare, wicked smile forming. "It will be very cathartic."

A short time later, Brain adjusted the final control lever, stepping back to admire his handiwork. Strings from the marionettes had been carefully threaded through the puppet's arms and neck, while the skateboard now affixed to the feet gave it the potential to glide—in theory. The end result was Emperor Kuzco: softer on the outside, stiffer on the inside, and perhaps looking a little bit like a haunted doll.

He took hold of the primary control sticks and gave them a tug. The arms raised stiffly, elbows locked. He pushed a foot pedal. The puppet coasted forward two inches before hitting a crack in the floor and teetering dangerously.

Brain cleared his throat and adopted his most Kuzco-like tone. "Greetings, my loyal subjects," he intoned. "It is I, Emperor Kuzco, here to declare that my trusted advisor, Brain, shall henceforth rule in my place just in case I unexpectedly perish."

Which is to say, it did not sound like Emperor Kuzco at all.

The puppet's arm jerked upward in what might have been a wave. Or possibly a distress signal.

Pinky squinted. "Ooo, I dunno, Brain. That sounded more like someone reading a ransom note."

Brain climbed out from the center of the puppet and glared at Pinky. "Do you have a better suggestion, Pinky?"

Pinky raised a finger. "Well actually, yes! You'll want to stand next to the Kuzcopy during the ceremony, right? For dramatic effect? With a spotlight? And a dramatic swell of music when he says your name?"

Brain hesitated. "...Ideally."

"Then you can't be inside him pulling strings. Unless you've invented time travel. Or cloning. Or a Brain-sized emperor exosuit. Oooh—have you invented that yet?"

"No, Pinky," Brain admitted while grinding his teeth together loudly.

"Then maybe I could be the Kuzcopy!" Pinky beamed, already climbing into the puppet. "I've been practicing my emperor voice!"

Brain rubbed his temples. "This can only end in flames."

But Pinky had already slipped inside, gripping the rods and shifting the limbs with surprising finesse. He struck a pose, then cleared his throat with an exaggerated ahem. "Heyyyy! What's up, my adoring peasant people! Emperor Kuzco here, looking faaaaabulous and definitely not a felt puppet with wheels!"

Pinky pressed down on the foot pedals, and the puppet did a little twirl, its cloak billowing around it.

Brain blinked.

The Kuzcopy bowed with a flourish. "I hereby proclaim that my totally brilliant, definitely underrated advisor, Brain, is now second-in-command! Just like I rehearsed in my dreams!"

"...Huh," Brain said. "That… was disturbingly effective."

Pinky poked his head out of the puppet's mouth. "Did I sound royal?"

"You sounded like a narcissist with flair," Brain muttered. "Which is accurate."

Pinky grinned. "Narf!"

In the bowels of the palace, the secret laboratory was eerily busy. Candles were lit and the sounds of a bubbling cauldron echoed through the stone tunnels. Wisps of smoke curled lazily from its rim, drifting through the dim chamber. And yet the laboratory seemed otherwise empty, with no one around to tend to the alchemical equipment.

Then—a faint, persistent buzzing—just barely audible.

Two flies, their wings beating frantically as they slowly flew through the laboratory, were carrying a small glass vial between them. Their flight path was erratic and their altitude kept dropping as the vial—heavy for only two flies—rolled along their backs, but they inched closer and closer to a bubbling cauldron.

The vial suddenly tumbled free, nothing between it and the stone floor except empty air. One of the flies darted forward. It collided with the falling glass vial and spiraled away, crashing into a nearby mortar and pestle with a muffled buzz.

The vial ricocheted up. It bounced off a hanging ladle. Then a stone countertop.

Then—it hit the rim of the cauldron, rolling along the edge precariously.

The second fly zipped into action, zooming forward with desperate precision. It buzzed hard against the side of the glass—pushing, nudging, willing it toward the edge.

The vial tipped and fell into the bubbling potion below with a small splash of purple light.

A low rumble echoed from deep within the stone, as though the very room were holding its breath. The glow of the cauldron deepened. The flies hovered back, wings twitching nervously.

And then the bubbling stopped. For one impossibly long second… nothing happened.

Then the cauldron burst upward in a puff of glittering smoke. A swirl of pink and purple mist exploded outward, engulfing the two flies mid-air.

They convulsed. Twitched. Glowed.

Legs stretched. Wings shriveled. Fabrics knit back into shape.

With a dramatic thump, a boot slammed onto the stone floor. An elbow hit the rim of a counter. A cough echoed through the mist.

Yzma, hair frizzed and eyeliner somehow still perfect, staggered out of the haze and took a deep breath.

"...I'm back," she whispered, touching her face like she couldn’t believe it. Her hands trailed down to her hips, her slinky gown, the tips of her perfectly manicured nails. Then, with a triumphant laugh, she shouted "I'M BACK!"

Beside her, Kronk sneezed. "You ever taste magic mid-transformation? Tastes like pickles and regret." He sneezed again. "Do you think I could be allergic to regret?"

Yzma didn't answer. She was already stomping toward the nearest cabinet and rifling through it for something sharp and threatening.

"Come on, Kronk. It's time to finish what we started. That insufferable twit may have outwitted me once, Kronk—but this time? We finish him. Once and for all!"

Chapter Text

Kuzco trudged to a stop, panting. "That's it. I can't go another step." His legs splayed out dramatically, like a llama-shaped marionette cut from its strings.

Pacha looked up at the sky. The sun was still high enough to offer light—but probably not enough patience. "You sure? We can make it a bit further before dark."

Kuzco groaned, not unlike a small, overworked accordion. "Nope. My unmatched stamina has officially met its match." He lifted his head with the strength of someone performing a noble sacrifice. "Unless you want to carry me?" he asked hopefully.

Pacha smiled without smiling. "Then I guess we're going to set up camp here." He surveyed the hillside. "Might be some good foraging by the trees there."

Kuzco's ears twitched. "Foraging?" he echoed, as if it were a slur.

Pacha chuckled. "For food." He gave Kuzco a wry grin. "Not all of us can eat grass, you know."

Kuzco visibly retched. "I just want a plate of fresh spinach puffs."

Pacha straightened his tunic. "Well, if I find any, I'll let you know." And with that, he trudged toward the treeline, leaving Kuzco dramatically sprawled like a fur rug in need of therapy.

The palace throne room was bustling. Llama-shaped balloon arches stretched between every column like latex gothic architecture, while workers on scaffolding worked diligently to hang even more of the balloons. In a loud corner, Emperor Kuzco's Theme Song Guy was warming up, practicing a riff that sounded suspiciously like "Kuuuuz-coooOooooOOO!" A stage was being constructed below Kuzco's throne, where dancers rehearsed dramatic pirouettes.

Pinky took it all in from inside what he has dubbed the Kuzcopy… a life-size puppet that almost looks like Emperor Kuzco. He pulled a few strings, and the felt-skinned Emperor waved to a nearby group of balloon artists, who waved back uncertainly. The Kuzcopy strode confidently through the throne room on a skateboard firmly attached to its feet, though its limbs flopped with every bump like an opinionated octopus.

Brain walked beside him, gripping a clipboard so hard it was starting to warp. His forehead was slick with sweat, almost causing his feathered headpiece to slide forward.

The Kuzcopy stopped and turned to the nervous advisor. "Don't worry, Brain! We're lucky I got distracted and made cupcakes instead of cancelling your coronation! I mean… Pinky got distracted. Because I'm Kuzco."

Pinky cleared his throat and deepened his voice with all the grace of someone doing a sock puppet impersonation of a baritone. "Ahem! We can now have an amazing event all about me, the real Emperor Kuzco! And making my favorite person Brain my number two guy!"

Brain scanned the throne room, variables turning in his head. "The balloon inflation rate seems excessive. Streamers are drifting dangerously close to open flames. Does that stage have enough room for all of the dancers during their routine?"

Kuzcopy flashed finger guns at Brain, although it looked more like the emperor was trying to play an imaginary keytar. "I think it's going great! Don't worry about it, Brain! I mean, little advisor guy!"

Brain rubbed his temples. "Pinky, do you understand the monumental risk involved in holding a public ceremony with a marionette emperor operated by string, pulleys, and sheer delusion?"

"Aw, Brain, that's the most accurate description of our relationship I've ever heard!"

"This must go perfectly, Pinky!" Brain reiterated, hitting his fist on the clipboard for emphasis. "Once I'm officially next in line for the throne, we can get rid of this fake Kuzco. Hopefully that task will be easier than when you disposed of the real Kuzco."

"Uhhhh. Right, Brain! It was a very successful disposition!" The Kuzcopy's head bobbed up and down. Then side to side. Then it did a slow, unnerving 360 degree spin before snapping back with a boing. Pinky quickly changed the subject. "Oh! We need to talk to the Theme Song Guy. I was thinking we should ease people into mouse emperorship with a song!" Pinky started singing. "It's not unusual to be ruled by smarty mice!"

Brain sighed. "Please, let's leave the music to the professionals."

High above the proceedings in the throne room, hidden in a shadowy alcove among stone beams and red curtains, Kronk crouched in full spy mode. He leaned forward from his perch, watching intently, taking in every detail that his brain had room for—which wasn't necessarily much. He pressed two fingers to his ear, even though there was nothing in his ear.

"This is Condor X to Night Panther. Come in, Night Panther. I've got visual on the target. Repeat—visual confirmed."

He squinted harder.

"And it looks like they're going to serve pizza bagel bites at the ceremony. Fresh. Not the frozen ones."

"Kronk, what are you doing?"

Kronk flinched, and slowly turned around. "Oh hey, Night Panther! I didn't hear you come in."

Yzma stared at him for a moment. "I've been standing here. The whole time. Right behind you."

Kronk simply nodded. "Nice and stealthy."

She rubbed her temples, muttering something to herself before speaking out loud. "What's going on down there?"

Kronk pointed a thumb through the alcove behind him. "Some sort of ceremony is being set up. There's dancers, and the Theme Song Guy…"

Yzma's eyes gleamed as she rubbed her hands together. "So Kuzco is throwing a party, is he?" She grinned wickedly. "Perfect! Let him celebrate. Tonight, we end it!"

Kronk looked longingly at the tables and chafing dishes below. "Could I get a few pizza bagel bites before the mayhem starts?"

Yzma rolled her eyes. "Yes, if there's time." Kronk squealed in delight. Yzma shoved past Kronk and looked out of the alcove to the ceremony preparations below. Dancers were swinging, banners were unfurling, and an absurd number of llama-shaped balloons were being placed into arch-like shapes. And at the center of it all—Kuzco.

Her eyes narrowed at the Emperor gliding through the room like he owned the place—which, technically, he did. Even for Kuzco, he seemed to be doing a lot of gliding on the floor. Also grinning. And waving. But mostly preening like a peacock in gold trim. Yzma narrowed her eyes. "Look at that stupid grin on his face. It's like he just can't stop smiling when he's the center of attention."

She watched as someone else moved beside him—a small figure in formal robes with a ceremonial headdress covering his head. He was composed, taking careful notes on everything around him. And slightly hunched, as if weighed down by the crushing burden of competence. Yzma's frown deepened.

"I don't recognize him. He's far too in charge for my liking." Yzma felt something uncomfortable grew in the pit of her stomach. "Is he… a new advisor?"

Kuzco gestured animatedly, his arms moving like some new dance craze as the short one said something to him. The emperor nodded vigorously. Yzma's scowl twitched. "Since when does Kuzco listen to his advisors?"

She grabbed Kronk's shoulder, startling him. "That one," she hissed, pointing to Brain. "Who is he?"

Kronk blinked. "Oh. Dunno. But I think he's the new advisor. Kuzco and him seem really buddy-buddy, though." He tilted his head, looking at Yzma carefully. "You okay? You're making your face do that thing where your eyebrows get extra angry."

Yzma's voice was low and dangerous. "I've waited too long for this moment, Kronk. We will strike tonight!"

She turned back to the stage below, her eyes fixated on Kuzco and his latest advisor. "I want to keep the element of surprise. No one can see us moving about the palace. Just in case, we'll need some sort of disguise," she mused aloud.

"Oh, I got it!" Kronk announced behind her.

Yzma turned around and stared at him in confusion. Kronk gave a small, reassuring smile and raised a calming hand. "Don't worry! It's me, Kronk!" He slowly lifted his little conical hat off his head and rotated it 180 degrees before setting it back down. "See? It was me the whole time. I know, I looked like a completely different person. Neat trick, huh?"

Yzma ground her teeth together before forcing a smile. "Maybe you should just stay here and I'll go back to my laboratory." Her eyes narrowed into a dangerous scowl. "I want to know who's been getting into my laboratory. And why."

"Gotcha," Kronk agreed with a nod. "You ask around. I'll stay here. And if you don't see me," he paused to give a sly wink, "I'm incognito. With my hat on backwards."

"Kronk," Yzma flatly stated. "You can't 'ask around' about a secret laboratory that isn't supposed to exist."

"Oh!" Kronk raised a finger, enlightened. "So it's like a figurative lab?"

Yzma wasn't even aware she was clenching her jaw until she heard the sound of her own molars ferociously scraping against each other. "No, Kronk. It's secret. The only people that know about it are you and me." She paused briefly. "Only people still living, at least."

"And Kuzco," Kronk added casually.

"Oh, yes, and Kuzco," Yzma agreed. She stopped mid-nod and her eyes froze. "Wait, what?!"

Kronk grimaced. "He made me! I had no choice!" The memories of that fateful day flooded back.

Kuzco sauntered up to Kronk, who was idly examining his fingernails. "So, Kronky-baby—" Kuzco nodded towards the bat-head statue Kronk was leaning beside. "—what's so special about this bat thing?"

Kronk immediately stood up. "What? What bat thing?"

Kuzco chuckled. "You're always hanging around here." He leaned forward, encroaching into Kronk's space. Kronk took an uneasy step back as Kuzco poked his chest with a definitive finger. "You're up to something, aren't you, Kronk?"

Kronk laughed nervously. "Up to something? Me? Nope! Just, uh… standing. Enjoying the… hallway vibes."

Kuzco arched an eyebrow. "The hallway vibes?"

"Yeah!" Kronk nodded too quickly. "Good airflow. Nice acoustics. You ever try whistling down here? Real crisp."

Kuzco folded his arms. "You're hiding something."

"Nope!"

"You're guarding something."

"Noooope."

"You're stalling."

"I mean… a little?" 

Kuzco took another step forward. "Kronk."

Kronk's forehead beaded with sweat, and he bit his bottom lip in panic. "…I have to go now." Before Kuzco could blink, Kronk spun, grabbed one of the bat's fangs, and pulled it. An opening suddenly appeared beneath Kronk, and he plummeted through the floor. 

"Wrooooong leeeverrrr!" Kronk's scream faded into a distant splash.

The stone floor resealed itself, slamming shut with a thunk. Kuzco blinked. "Huh." He peered closely at the bat's two protruding fangs. "Wonder what the right lever does."

Kronk's memory quickly faded as he set his sights on Yzma's expression. Her eyes widened. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks. Her hair frizzed out half an inch. "He made you?! What is he, a hypnotist?"

Kronk fidgeted. "He was real persuasive! He used charisma and… finger poking."

Yzma's voice rose several octaves. "And so what? You just handed him the location of my top-secret laboratory?!"

Kronk held up a finger. "No, I didn't hand it to him. Technically, I yanked a lever and fell into crocodile-infested waters." He paused. "Voluntarily."

"Are you trying to tell me that somehow that gilded, preening narcissist figured it out all by himself?"

Kronk rubbed the back of his neck. "That depends. Does that sound believable?"

Yzma cracked a short, humorless laugh. "Ha! I'd just as soon believe a llama could do it!"

Kronk laughed, just a little too long. "Oh, that would be too funny." He wiped a tear from his eye. "Could you imagine? A llama walking around and talking and pulling levers. Talk about suspension of disbelief."

As Kronk prattled on, now attempting an impersonation of a llama complete with hoof gestures, Yzma simply stared at him. Sighing heavily, she interrupted him before he tried to demonstrate a llama reading a book. "Kronk… I need you to focus."

Like an excitable puppy, Kronk immediately perked up. "Yes, ma'am!"

Yzma narrowed her eyes at the massive stone beams above the throne room. "You're staying here. Keep watch. And set the trap."

Kronk tilted his head. "Trap?"

"Yes, Kronk. You see those masonry blocks and precariously angled support beams?" Yzma pointed at a suspiciously cracked lintel. "Those could fall at any moment." She lifted her eyebrows ominously. "Especially if someone… loosened some mortar and nudged them."

Kronk gasped. "That would be a horrible accident!"

Yzma grimaced. "Sometimes, Kronk, I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or just stupid."

Kronk gasped again. "Wait!" He tapped his finger against his chin for a moment. "You want me to booby-trap the palace?"

Yzma smiled, all teeth. "I want you to make an accidental tragedy look like a case of poor infrastructure."

Kronk gave an enthusiastic salute. "Roger that, Night Panther!" He tapped his ear as if adjusting a radio. "I'll maintain communication while you're gone."

"And remember Kronk: timing is everything. We strike during the ceremony, when everyone is distracted. Understand?"

"You got it! One harmlessly disguised fatal accident, coming up."

The hidden lab was silent, save for the distant gurgle of some forgotten cauldron. Shadows stretched long across the stone floor as Yzma stepped inside, her heels clicking with surgical precision.

She moved like a predator returning to its den—not to rest, but to sniff out who'd dared trespass. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the interior of her laboratory. The shelves were as she'd left them... mostly. To the untrained eye, the room was immaculate. But Yzma's eyes were anything but untrained.

"Someone's been using my laboratory," she hissed. A scroll was half a centimeter off from its companions. A stool, subtly moved—not in her path, but out of someone else's. Her eyes were drawn to the mixing table. Everything was laid out neatly, every surface spotless and every tool clean. "Neat. Tidy. Fastidious." But not Yzma clean. A tiny smear of green residue clung to the lip of the mortar lip. She picked it up with a sneer. "Mostly."

She turned to her ingredient shelf. Her eyes darted over the familiar glass shapes and purple hues. Then her gaze landed on the gap. A clear, undeniable space. 

She stepped closer. Her long fingers hovered over the empty spot. "...essence of llama."

Yzma's eyes flicked downward. Something yellow poked out from beneath a rack of labeled vials—barely noticeable against the polished stone floor. She bent down, snatched it up, and held it close. A note. Handwritten and sloppy, done in purple crayon.

Yzma read the note to herself. "Shopping list. Spinach. Puff pastry. Cheese. All kinds of cheese. More cheese. That other kind of cheese. Don't forget the cheese." Yzma scowled at the little smiley face drawn at the end of the list. Her brow twitched as something like a memory came to her. Or perhaps more like a phantom image implanted behind her eyes, a flicker from just before her world had fractured into buzzing chaos and multifaceted light.

A shape. A blur. A small figure, white and possibly furry, darting into the shadows.

She clenched the note in her fist until it crumpled with a dry crackle. "It wasn't an accident. Someone turned me into a fly." Her lip curled. Her hand trembled with rage. "Someone with a shopping list."

She turned on her heel and marched toward the exit, the note now a crushed wad in her grip. "I don't know who you are, mystery cheese enthusiast—but you're about to become a very sorry appetizer."

Yzma rejoined Kronk in the shadowy alcove above the palace's grand hall, her eyes sharp and dangerous. The note was still clutched in her fist.

Kronk beamed. "Oh, perfect timing! You gotta see what I've been working on."

He gestured proudly to a complicated series of ropes, pulleys, and counterweights snaking through the ceiling beams like some ancient Incan version of a Rube Goldberg machine.

"I started by removing the secondary support brace on the upper lintel," he explained, tapping a beam with a soft thunk. "Then I swapped out the bronze fasteners for tin—they've got a lower shear strength under oscillating pressure, you know. Real important."

Yzma stared blankly as Kronk pointed to the opposite corner.

"And over there, I chiseled out a quarter inch of mortar from the keystone arch—precisely calibrated so a single tug on the primary rope initiates a load-bearing shift. The weak point collapses, sending that decorative column toppling forward, striking the crossbeam, which—"

Yzma slammed her hands onto his shoulders. "Kronk. How. Does the death trap. Make somebody. Go splat?!"

Kronk paused, collecting himself with a serene smile. "Oh. You just gotta pull this rope here." He pointed to a loop of rope hanging by the wall near him.

"Don't worry," Kronk added cheerfully. "I reset it. Safety first." He pointed down to the front of the stage. "But when somebody is standing right there, they'll experience the pain of sloppy structural engineering first hand." He shook his head. "Shame, really. No one appreciates craftsmanship—"

"Yes, yes, Kronk," Yzma said with a dismissive wave. With an excited grin, she made a square from a finger and thumb with each hand, framing the spot on the stage Kronk had pointed to. Theme Song Guy stepped on to the stage to loud applause. Yzma's grin seemed to grow even bigger. "Now we just wait for the show to start."

Behind the heavy red curtains, about ten feet away from Yzma's target, the Kuzcopy stood waiting.

Pinky tugged on a few strings inside the oversized puppet, making the head tilt side to side with casual, exaggerated flair. "I think we're ready, Brain! The crowd's warmed up, the spotlight is just right, and I'm 87% sure my left foot is still attached to the skateboard."

Brain paced in tight circles nearby, clutching a folded cue card and muttering to himself. "Timing must be precise. Diction—clear. Trajectory of streamers: non-lethal." He stopped suddenly and glared at a nearby stagehand. "Is that a condensation streak on the ceremonial banner?!"

The stagehand, bewildered, fled.

Pinky poked his puppet head out slightly between the curtain's edges. "Ooo! Theme Song Guy's finishing! Look at those jazz hands! That man is a pro!"

Onstage, Theme Song Guy struck his final pose, the backup dancers mid-split behind him. He caught his breath, microphone trembling slightly. "Ladies and gentlemen, and those of you wearing ceremonial ponchos—presenting your emperor and mine: the fabulous, the incredible, the ever-adorable… Kuuuuuzcoooo!"

Polite applause rolled through the crowd like a lackluster wave at sea.

With a creak, the curtain parted. The Kuzcopy glided forward on its skateboard wheels, wobbly arms outstretched in greeting. The puppet's stitched smile gleamed. Pinky, unseen inside, gave a little cheer. "I'm flyin' without strings, Brain!"

"You have many strings," Brain whispered tensely from beside the Kuzcopy. "That's the entire structural design!"

The large puppet spun once—too far—and wobbled dangerously before recovering.

Kuzcopy raised one hand, the fingers jerking into a shaky thumbs-up. The audience responded with a smattering of applause and some confused murmurs.

Brain wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. "So far," he whispered, "this is only mildly catastrophic."

Kuzcopy waved stiffly at the puzzled crowd. "Hello, loyal subjects! I, Emperor Kuzco, am so glad you're all here to witness a historic moment in fabulous leadership!" The puppet's arms flailed upward in celebration, one elbow almost knocking into Theme Song Guy.

The crowd murmured, eyebrows furrowed.

As Pinky launched into his next exaggerated gesture, Brain frowned as he looked out at the crowd. "Where are the ceiling streamers? The specifications clearly called for mid-speech streamers."

The puppet's head tilted awkwardly. "Oh, right! The… palace ceiling inspector made some last-minute changes. He said something about load-bearing beans? And lentils, I think."

Brain slowly looked up.

High above, nestled between the ornate rafters, something glinted—a strange structure woven between support beams. Brain's eyes darted from one unexpected element to another. Rope. Pulley. Counterweight.

His pupils shrank. "That's not a streamer cannon. That's a—"

Up above, Kronk stood beside a coiled rope, sweating. On one shoulder, his devil half flexed an impressive bicep. "Let's do this thing! CRUSH TIME."

The angel half twirled a tiny harp. "Crushing is so extreme! Have we tried reaching a less flattening solution yet?"

Kronk hesitated, one hand tugging at his collar. He stared at the rope. "Oof… yeah, this is a thinker."

Yzma's eyes burned from the shadows beside him. "Kronk," she growled. "Is the death trap working or not?"

"Oh, yeah, it's working fine, see?" He reached out and pulled the rope to demonstrate. Somewhere in the structure, a soft click echoed ominously, followed by the faintest creak of strained wood. "Oh."

Back on stage, the Kuzcopy held out its arms dramatically. "And now, my people! I, Kuzco, have decided to appoint a worthy and brilliant successor. A noble advisor who will lead the Empire into an age of wisdom, grace, and possibly a high number of questionable fashion choices! The one, the only—" The Kuzcopy's head dramatically looked upwards.

"LOOK OUT!" Pinky shouted.

The crowd gasped. Brain looked up just in time to be shoved out of the way by the Kuzcopy as a massive slab of decorative masonry plummeted from the ceiling.

It landed with a thunderous crack, and a wooden plank from the stage floor sprang up from the other end, striking the Kuzcopy in the chin and knocking the head clean off. The puppet's limbs twitched and then crumpled to the stage floor with a long, wheezy creak.

The audience froze. The large chamber was quiet for only a second, and then the crowd began screaming.

And in the chaos, Brain lay sprawled on the stage—his ceremonial headdress knocked askew, ears fully visible.

From the rafters, Yzma's eyes widened as realization struck. "Wait a moment… those aren't decorative flourishes. Those are mouse ears!"

Kronk followed her gaze and frowned. "You know, I just realized I didn't get any pizza bagel bites."

Chapter Text

A gentle breeze rustled through the trees, swaying leaves with a soft, whispering hush. In the glow of a small campfire, Pacha lay flat on his back, hands folded behind his head, staring up at the stars. The fire crackled quietly beside him, casting warm flickers of light across the nearby rocks and grass.

Crickets chirped. A distant owl hooted.

And somewhere close, someone was snoring.

Pacha turned his head slightly. Kuzco lay sprawled on his back, his four furry legs sticking up like a tipped-over chair, his mouth hanging open, a tiny string of drool glistening on his lower lip. The snores came in uneven bursts, occasionally punctuated by a sleepy snort.

Pacha raised an eyebrow. "Huh," he murmured. "I don't think llamas are supposed to do that."

He looked back at the stars, letting the silence stretch. It was peaceful out here. There was no royal trumpet fanfare, no endless parade of servants, no one shouting about monogrammed bathrobes or dance routines.

The corner of his mouth tugged upward in a small smile.

"Bet the palace is a lot quieter without him."

The felt head of the Kuzcopy—the life-sized puppet of Kuzco—bounced once on the stage. It rolled into the back of a giant block of masonry that had mysteriously fallen from the ceiling. The yarn grin was still perfectly stitched across its face. One googly eye, slightly off-kilter, stared blankly into the middle distance like a haunted craft project brought to life. The rest of the puppet lay on the ground behind the stone block, its arms twitching.

Somewhere off to the side, Theme Song Guy leapt into the arms of a backup dancer, clutching his microphone like a weapon. "Nobody panic!" he shouted with the shrill confidence of someone absolutely panicking.

Brain staggered to his feet beside the crumbled puppet, one hand clutching the edge of the stage. His ceremonial cloak was ripped, his headdress gone, and his vision blurry. He shook his head, trying to clear the fogginess he felt.

The crowd beyond the stage erupted. Screams echoed through the throne room. Buffet tables overturned as the audience scrambled, seeking a hasty exit. A tray of guanabana cupcakes soared through the air like a fruity discus before crashing into a decorative ice llama sculpture. An entire llama-shaped balloon arch went up in a chain reaction of pops that sounded like ceremonial fireworks gone horribly wrong.

And above it all, nestled in their hidden alcove, Yzma's jaw fell open. "Wait a moment… those aren't decorative flourishes. Those are mouse ears!"

Kronk followed her gaze and frowned. "You know," he said with a sigh, "I just realized I didn't get any pizza bagel bites."

Yzma shoved past Kronk and kicked open the trapdoor exit to the rafters. "Out of my way, Kronk! If you want something done right, you've got to stab it yourself!"

Brained turned to the fallen Kuzcopy. "Pinky…" He took a few unsteady steps before something else caught his eye.

He turned just in time to see a furious, sharp-shouldered silhouette elbowing her way through the retreating crowd, eyes locked onto him with murderous focus.

"Pinky," Brain said, calmly yet urgently, "we have a problem." An arm twitched, but Pinky made no reply.

Meanwhile, Kronk stepped to the edge of the rafters and grabbed one of the loose ceremonial ropes with a gleam in his eye. "It's showtime." He leapt, swinging with gusto, only to realize, halfway down, that his trajectory was... overly optimistic.

Yzma, still marching toward the chaos, shrieked, "KRONK, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

He belly-flopped onto the stage with a heroic THWAP, skidding across the polished floor. "An inward pike?" he muttered into the floor.

Yzma stomped down the center aisle like an avenging specter, her claws twitching and her eyes aflame. Nobles parted around her, nervously throwing glances in her direction as they hastily made their way to the exit.

Brain backed up one step. Then another. "This… may require a tactical retreat."

"YOU!" Yzma pointed a gnarled finger straight at him, her voice slicing through the chaos. "You're the one! You turned me into a bug and tried to replace me as advisor!"

Brain raised a hand. "Now see here, madam—"

"Don't 'madam' me, vermin!" Yzma screeched, lunging forward and producing a gleaming ceremonial knife from the folds of her cloak.

"Pinky, now would be an excellent time to—"

The collapsed Kuzcopy twitched. One felt arm flailed. Then both legs kicked upward, skateboard wheels spinning. With a sudden, jerky lurch, the puppet sat bolt upright.

Yzma froze mid-lunge. Her eyes bulged. "What—?"

The Kuzcopy turned its still headless body and blindly scooped Brain up under one arm.

Then with a whirr of an inner pulley and wheel, the Kuzcopy launched off the stage, soared past the first few rows, kickflipped off a toppled snack table, and disappeared into the chaos.

Yzma screamed. "He escaped?! With flair?!"

Kronk, still facedown on the floor, raised one finger. "That sounds like a very Kuzco thing to do. And that kickflip was a solid eight."

The Kuzcopy rocketed out of the throne room like a felted thunderbolt, limbs flopping wildly, skateboard wheels squealing across polished stone. Brain's eyes watered from the wind, clutched under one limp arm like a very concerned football.

Behind them, Yzma roared, "AFTER THEM!"

She charged forward, skirt flying, brandishing the ceremonial dagger like she'd been waiting for an excuse to monologue and maim.

Kronk scrambled after her with one longing gaze at a tray of pizza bagel bites. "Do I bring snacks or—nope, no snacks, okay, focused now." He paused and turned around. "Well, maybe just one…"

The chase blasted through mosaic-lined corridors and decorative gardens. The Kuzcopy ollied off banisters, manualed across fountain rims, and somehow landed a nosegrind on a ceremonial brazier stand.

"Pinkyyyy!" Brain shouted over the rush of wind. "Where are you taking us?!"

"I don't knoooow!" Pinky sang cheerfully from within the puppet, guided by feel and instinct and absolutely no logic.

They burst through the palace gates. A startled guard dove aside. The Kuzcopy soared off the final step, skateboard wheels catching the torchlight as it hit the ramp beyond and sped down the sloped road into the city.

Yzma, panting, made it to the gates just in time to see them vanish into the dusk. "NO!" she shrieked. "They got away again?!"

Kronk jogged up beside her, carrying a plate of slightly squashed pizza bagel bites. "Want one?"

Yzma grabbed one, crushed it in her fist, and pointed toward the city. "They're not safe for long. I'll destroy whoever gets in my way."

Pinky sat on the stoop at the back door of a marketplace store, kicking his legs and holding a partially smushed cupcake. The city was unusually quiet for the evening—after the chaos at the palace, most citizens had taken refuge indoors. They had long ago learned that it wasn't wise to be noticed when strange things happened, especially when Yzma's shrill screams could be heard echoing from the palace.

"Y'know, Brain," Pinky mused, licking some guanabana frosting from his thumb, "I think I really captured Kuzco's essence. The flair, the sparkle, the unshakable belief that everyone showed up just to see me…"

Brain, hunched over a patch of dirt, was scratching a frantic diagram with a stick. "We've lost control of the palace, which means control of the guards, the staff, and the imperial archives. There must be something I can leverage. With Kuzco dead and the ceremony in shambles, the line of succession is unstable—"

"Oh, well, yes, I tucked Kuzco in real good!" Pinky said. "Yes, I most certainly did. But what about the scary lady from the laboratory?"

Brain stopped drawing in the dirt and slowly turned to look at Pinky. "Pinky. What aren't you telling me?"

Pinky froze, his smile twitching while he held a cupcake halfway to his mouth. "Uh… I mean, Kuzco's totally dead! Definitely expired! Narf!"

Brain stood abruptly. "Of course he is, you saw to it yourself. I mean the laboratory."

Pinky tapped his head with a frosting-covered finger. "Hmm… let's see… It all started when we first got to the palace…"

The palace glowed under the light of hanging torches, each flame flickering against golden columns and polished stone floors. It was quiet—too quiet. Somewhere in the distance, the faint echo of a flute lilted through the air.

Pinky tiptoed behind Brain, his eyes wide with wonder. "Wow, Brain, this place is so huge! And full of so many shinies!"

He spun around, trying to take it all in. He excitedly pointed. "Look at that vase!" He scampered up to another vase, running his hand reverently along its glossy surface. The vase began to wobble on its pedestal.

Without looking, Brain said, "Touch nothing."

Pinky yanked his hand away with a guilty "Narf."

"This palace represents the most concentrated seat of power in the region. Centuries of rule, generations of wealth, and all of it centered around one person." He glanced at a massive mural depicting Emperor Kuzco taming wild jaguars. "A child with a crown. Not even eighteen. And yet he rules an empire. And I use the term 'rule' lightly."

"And I hear he's got really good dance moves!" Pinky helpfully added.

Brain narrowed his eyes. "I've heard rumors. Lavish waste. Eccentric behavior. Something about a swimming pool shaped like his own head. But if I am to seize control of the Incan Empire, I must first understand the variables at play. We are here to observe. Gather intel. Locate the seat of true influence."

"Is it under a cushion?" Pinky asked.

"No, Pinky, it will be the place where decisions are made." Brain sighed, voicing a decision he was worried he might come to regret. "Are you pondering what I'm pondering, Pinky?"

"Well, I think so, Brain. But I don't know if I could tell the difference between a llama and an alpaca even if you did convince them to wear clothes."

"No, Pinky." Brain took a deep breath. "We will cover more ground if we split up. Against my better judgment. Make sure not to be seen." His eyes darted to Pinky's paws. "And do not. Touch. Anything."

Pinky saluted smartly. "Aye aye, Brain!" Slowly, he lowered his hand from the side of his head. "Oh no! I touched myself, Brain! I already failed!"

Brain pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just… don't do it again."

"You got it, Brain! I'll stop touching myself!" With a joyful little skip, Pinky disappeared through the nearest doorway.

Brain pressed his paw against his temple, watching Pinky's retreating figure weave dangerously close to a priceless tapestry.

"I've made a terrible mistake." He heaved a sigh and turned down a different hallway, his mind already returning to Machiavellian calculations.

Pinky tiptoed down a corridor, nose twitching, ears perked. He froze, his ears twitching at the sound of voices around the corner and down the hall. Somewhere from that direction, he heard the sound of squelching footsteps, stomping with intensity.

Then came the sound of a raspy voice filled with velvet but underlined with menace. "I don't understand why we even have two levers!"

A deeper, friendlier voice replied, "I suppose it makes more sense than three levers."

There was a loud smack and the sound of someone or something yelping. Then the sound of claws—rapid, scrabbling claws against the floor, coming closer.  Pinky's eyes widened as a terrified crocodile rounded the corner at full speed, its eyes bulging in panic. 

Pinky looked frantically left and right for a hiding place. His eyes landed on a large ornamental urn nearby, decorated with smiling depictions of Kuzco.

"If I just jump in—then I'm not actually touching anything!" Pinky shoved his paws into his armpits and leaped into the urn like a furry cannonball. He held his breath inside the urn, listening to the sound of crocodile claws closing in.

Pinky breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the crocodile continue down the hallway. "Now, how do I jump out of an urn without touching anything?"

He squirmed, twisted, and accidentally pressed one foot against the interior wall. The urn wobbled. Pinky tried pulling back and correcting, but it was too late. The whole thing tipped and crashed to the floor, cracking into large ceramic pieces and launching Pinky onto the stone like the inside of a squeezed empanada.

He blinked up at the ceiling, dazed but triumphant. "Success!"

He scrambled upright and peered down the hallway. The voices had stopped. No footsteps. No shadows. He crept forward, cautiously padding toward the end of the hall… and stopped.

A dead end. No doors, no entryways, no windows, just the slightly grotesque bust of a bat at the end of a hallway.

Pinky rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Where did they go?" His face brightened. "Ooo! I'll look for clues! Without touching anything!"

But Pinky hesitated, glancing at the broken urn behind him. "Right, well, that didn't go so well last time."

His face lit up as an idea struck him. "I know! I'll just close my eyes! That way, if I do touch something, I won't know!"

Pinky squeezed his eyes shut and held his hands out in front of him. With wiggling fingers, he made his way forward. His shoulder bumped into a pedestal, and something teetered and crashed to the floor. "I didn't see that!" Pinky exclaimed.

He grinned proudly and shuffled onward.

Ahead, a faint draft brushed his fur. He sniffed the air. Something smelled of grease and dust. His paw brushed against something cold and rough.

Pinky peeked through one eye—and immediately gasped. He had almost walked directly into the stone-carved bat head mounted on the wall at the end of the hall, its fangs grinning ominously down at him. With a quiet "eep" Pinky closed his eyes again. With one hand over his eyes, he reached out with his other paw, slowly stepping forward. His fingers brushed against the smooth stone of a carved fang. It gave, and suddenly there was a rush of air around Pinky as the floor and wall rotated upward, sending him flying forward.

Pinky dropped into a waiting roller coaster car, which immediately shot forward with a mechanical launch, whisking him into the hidden depths beneath the palace.

Beneath the palace, Pinky's ride came to a sudden stop at the end of a twisting stone slide. Pinky tumbled, somersaulting onto a smooth stone floor.

He bounced once, skidded twice, and landed in a heap at the base of a massive alchemical workbench.

Pinky popped up to his feet, shaking his head. "Narf… ten outta ten for style, one outta ten for landing."

He looked around with a gasp. Before him stretched a massive secret laboratory, bigger than any laboratory he'd ever imagined. Which admittedly hadn't been many.

Gleaming glass beakers bubbled with strange, colorful potions. Gears and pulleys whirred overhead. Scrolls sat open on long wooden tables, ink still fresh with alchemical notes. Smoky tendrils rose from mysterious cauldrons lit by flickering green flames.

Pinky clapped his hands in excitement. "Ooooooh… Brain is gonna love this."

He spun around, trying to take everything in without actually touching anything. "I gotta tell Brain about this place. I have to. No matter what. I must remember."

He nodded firmly to himself, already putting the idea into the steel trap that was his mind.

Pinky took two steps forward. He turned his head when he spotted a shiny copper distillation coil that looked like a duck if one squinted. 

"Ooo, a ducky!" He giggled and wandered deeper into the lab, all thoughts of his solemn promise forgotten. His ears perked up as he heard the same two voices from before.

Pinky tiptoed closer carefully. He ducked behind a stone column, ears twitching.

"So, anyway, I've got this great spinach puff recipe right here," came the deeper voice.

There was a long, weary sigh as the other voice replied, "Kronk. Why are you obsessed with spinach puffs? We have more important things to focus on!"

"I thought you said you wanted to feed Kuzco."

"No! I said one day I'll make him eat his words."

"Oh." There was a brief moment of silence before a response came. "That's not the same thing?"

A murderous sigh sounded, coming closer. "Kronk…"

Pinky's ears perked higher.

He pressed himself against the column, circling around to the opposite side as two blurry shadows approached. He held his breath, but a warm, savory aroma wafted into his nostrils, smelling of freshly baked puff pastry and spinach.

Pinky wasn't sure what it was, but it smelled good.

The two figures swept past, too engrossed in their bickering to notice the little mouse hiding nearby. Pinky waited out of sight until their footsteps began receding. Then he slipped around the column, following their shadows and whatever that delicious smell was.

"Ooo... that smells like happiness wrapped in pastry." Pinky's nasal instincts led him down the hallway towards the freshly baked tray of spinach puffs. He crept back into the laboratory, his nose twitching.

The tray of spinach puffs sat on a shelf like a golden shrine, steam still curling from their buttery crusts.

Pinky peeked around the corner. The two figures from earlier had their backs turned—deep in conversation. "Just one. One little, teeny, itty-bitty, not-even-gonna-miss-it bite." He padded forward over to the shelves and climbed up.

The spinach puffs were lying on a tray in front of him, and Pinky took a long whiff of warm aromatic steam. He squeezed between the tray and the vials lining the shelf, and reached forward for a puff. His elbow hit something, jostling a vial filled with purple liquid. The vial wobbled and tipped forward off the shelf.

"Narf!" Pinky quietly gasped. He twisted, caught the vial in one paw, and braced himself against the shelf with the other. 

He glanced at the label: a stylized insect with sparkly wings and a suspicious swirl around it. "Ooooh. That would've been bad. No one wants bugs in their puffs!"

He carefully slid the vial back onto the shelf, giving it a friendly pat before turning back to the tray. He did not notice the vial lean forward ever so slightly.

Pinky plucked a spinach puff from the tray and took a delicate nibble. "Mmmm... buttery clouds of joy wrapped around a spinachy sunrise."

He took another bite, crumbs flaking onto the countertop. "Perfectly flaky crust. Not too soggy on the bottom. Just the right amount of spinach so as not to overwhelm the cheese."

He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his tail. He sighed contentedly. "I must tell Brain about this. Yes! He needs to know about—" Pinky paused, trying to dig for something in the recesses of his memory. "Well, it was something important."

He turned slowly toward the hallway, licking his fingers. "Too bad I can't remember what it was. Oh well! It's always in the last place you look."

Pinky cheerfully scampered off, completely unaware that behind him, the vial on the shelf continued its slow decline. It now rested flat on the shelf, the stopper hanging loosely from the lip of the vial. The purple liquid inside slowly dripped onto the spinach puffs with a soft sizzle.

"…and then I left very, very quietly," Pinky finished, licking the last of the frosting off his paw. "So, nothing to worry about, really."

Brain stared at him. For a long moment, he said nothing. "Pinky," he began slowly, "Let me make sure I understand. You followed two strangers into a secret laboratory, took a spinach puff, ate it without being noticed, and left without anything untowards happening?"

Pinky nodded proudly.

"I find that hard to believe. Especially since a madwoman pursued us claiming that I had turned her into a bug!"

"Yeah, she sure was mad, wasn't she? Why did you turn her into a bug, anyway?"

"I didn't!" Brain snapped. "I have never seen that woman before!"

"She does have an unforgettable face," Pinky admitted with a slight shudder. "And I'm sorry I forgot to tell you about the laboratory earlier. The ducky-shaped coil, you know."

Brain rubbed the space between his eyes. "Remarkable. In a single act of snack-based negligence, you've somehow managed to create a new mortal enemy, lost us control of the palace, and quite possibly destabilized the entire Incan Empire."

Pinky beamed. "Narf! Well, I do try, Brain."

Brain sighed. "Come. We need to make a new plan."

He turned toward the alley's mouth, already muttering strategy.

Behind him, Pinky lingered just a moment longer, looking at his cupcake. "…Still worth it."

Chapter Text

The fire had died down to a low, red glow. Crickets chirped somewhere in the tall grass. Pacha sat propped against his pack, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on the stars above.

Beside him, Kuzco snored softly, sprawled out in the dirt like a shaggy, overindulged dog. A thread of drool glistened on his chin, catching the moonlight.

Pacha sighed.

He wasn't used to being this far from home without a reason—no market trip, no neighbor to help, no tools to deliver. Just a stranger (who also happened to be both the emperor and a llama) and a promise. He glanced over at Kuzco again.

"Maybe I should've just let you stay in that jungle," he murmured.

He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I waltzed into the palace expecting… I don't know what. But not somebody pointing to a model of my village, and saying, 'Let's flatten this and put in a pool.' Hmpph. Just the man you wanted to see."

The llama snorted, rolled onto his side, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Tell the dancers to add more sequins."

Pacha shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself.

"And now I'm helping you get home." He leaned back and looked at the stars again. "I really don't know what that says about me."

Scrolls unfurled as a dozen palace functionaries dashed between offices, desperately cross-referencing census records, birth registries, and obscure naming conventions. Somewhere in the confusion, one frazzled scribe began drafting a decree clarifying the proper hyphenation of names.

To say that there was a general sense of confusion would be an understatement as the officials shouted to each other.

"Has anyone checked the northern provinces?"

"Do you think there could be two Ks in the name?"

"Check again! Yzma's pacing like a puma with a pebble in her paw!"

Up and down the hall, the tension mounted. The senior registrar gulped as he passed another scroll forward to be scrutinized. "Just keep looking. Naming his successor was the emperor's last decree! There must be someone named Look Out. Somewhere." He pushed down the memory of the night before, watching Kuzco on stage just before… the masonry incident. One moment, the emperor was naming his future successor, an unknown up and coming person—it had to be, no one had ever heard the name before—known as Look Out. They were the emperor's final words.

In front of the shattered remains of the ceremonial stage, Yzma paced furiously, the felt-stuffed head of the Kuzcopy clutched in one hand.

"Do you honestly believe this—this abomination—was Kuzco?" she hissed, shoving the wool-filled cranium in Kronk's face. "Since when does Kuzco have llama wool stuffed between his ears?!"

Kronk scratched his head, squinting. "Is that a trick question? Because you've definitely mentioned Kuzco's head being full of strange things before."

Yzma groaned, dragging the puppet head down her face like it might erase the past twelve hours. "It's not just that he was made of yarn and fake jewels. It's the voice. The limbs. The fact that he flopped like a piñata. Something's not right."

Kronk nodded thoughtfully. "He did seem more flexible than usual. And the skateboarding! When did he have time to practice?"

Yzma narrowed her eyes. "So, where is the real Kuzco? Who was that little rodent? And more importantly—" she shoved the head behind her back and turned to a nearby functionary with a snarl "—why does everyone think someone named 'Look Out' is now in charge?!"

The official blinked and cleared his throat nervously. "Well, ma'am, the emperor's final proclamation before the unfortunate… masonry incident… was, quote, 'The one, the only—Look out!' So we're searching every census record for a 'Look Out' born within the capital jurisdiction and adjacent provinces. Possibly hyphenated."

Yzma's eyelid twitched. "You think his chosen heir is named Look. Out."

"We were wondering if it's short for something. Like… Lookoutta."

Kronk offered helpfully, "Or maybe it's an anagram. Ootluko. Sounds Incan."

Yzma took a long, deep breath. "Until we find this… Lookoutta… Ootluko… whoever! I am in charge. Do you hear me?" she snapped.

The functionary nodded hurriedly. "Of course! Until 'Look Out' steps forward to claim the throne, as the former advisor to the emperor, you will, of course, be steward in the meantime."

"Former advisor?" Yzma growled through clenched teeth.

Kronk leaned over. "Should we get new business cards made?"

The official cleared his throat. "I meant the advisor who recently returned from an unexpected vacation, of course!"

Kronk frowned. "I don't think that'll fit on a business card."

The official still stood beside Yzma, nervously shifting on his feet. Yzma rolled her eyes. "Yes, what is it?"

"Perhaps the royal advisor who recently returned from an unexpected vacation would like to examine the goat census discrepancies?"

Yzma stared at him for a moment. "Absolute power," she muttered, "comes with absolutely endless paperwork."

The sky was painted in soft orange hues. Birds chirped as the day came. Somewhere, a llama sneezed. A makeshift tarp shelter rustled as Pinky sat up, yawning and stretching with a contented sigh.

"Ahhh, morning!" He declared with a smile. "Another beautiful day in the empire! Time for breakfast and scheming, in that order."

Next to him, Brain was hunched over a flattened scroll, scribbling furiously. His eyes were bloodshot, looking like he hadn't blinked in ten minutes, and his ears twitched with exhaustion.

Pinky gently touched him on the shoulder. "Did you sleep, Brain?"

Brain didn't look up. "I attempted slumber. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw that woman's face. Her mascara reached into my soul."

He let out a tiny, caffeine-free cackle. "But no matter! I have spent the night productively devising a new plan!" He turned, his eyes wild. "We simply need to clone ourselves, form a barbershop quartet, infiltrate the noble districts disguised as wandering minstrels, and then build a hot air balloon powered by volcanic steam—"

Pinky looked at his friend with growing concern. "Awww, poor Brain. Come on, I know just the thing. Let's get some juane and chicha morada. Nothing says strategic takeover like banana leaf-wrapped chicken!"

Brain opened his mouth to object… and his stomach answered with a rumble instead. He narrowed his eyes and sighed.

"Very well. Sustenance may improve cognitive cohesion."

A short while later, the two mice walked through the early morning streets of the city, slowly eating their juane. Shopkeepers opened stalls to start their day, and a town crier marched through the square, holding a scroll and ringing a bell.

"Hear ye, hear ye! In accordance with the late Emperor Kuzco's final proclamation, the Incan Empire seeks his declared successor, known as 'Look Out'—possibly hyphenated, shortened, or rearranged! Ootluko! Lookoutta! Luke Otto! All potentially eligible!"

Brain stopped in his tracks, his eyes gleaming with new clarity. "Pinky, are you pondering what I'm pondering?"

Pinky squinted in thought. "Uh, I think so, Brain, but if our clones had their Y chromosomes changed to X, is that still a traditional barber shop quartet or just the start of a hastily written fanfic?"

Brain blinked, then shook his head briskly. "No, Pinky. We are 'Look Out.' And the empire is looking for us."

Pinky gasped. "They're looking out for Look Out?"

"Precisely! We still have a chance to seize power before that execrable woman cements her control. We shall become… Look Out!"

Pinky instinctively ducked. "What? Where?"

Brain pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Pinky. The name—your final words of the ceremony—"

"Emperor Kuzco's final words, you mean," Pinky interjected. He shook his head sadly. "Poor Kuzco. He's definitely deceased now. Not that he wasn't before!"

Brain's eye twitched. "Yes. The final words named his successor. And that successor… will be us."

"Then, Look Out better look sharp!" Pinky grinned.

Brain stared at the half-wrapped banana leaf bundle in Pinky's hand. "…And speaking of looking sharp," he added, a dangerous smile forming, "we need a new head."

Pinky hurriedly ate the rest of his meal as Brain snatched the banana leaves. "These will have to do." He led the way back to where they had stashed the damaged Kuzcopy.

Brain unwrapped the banana leaves with the reverence of a surgeon or artist. "We'll need structure. Volume. Integrity."

Brain grabbed a spool of thread and began stitching the leaves together into a rough oval shape. Pinky, meanwhile, stuck his tongue out in concentration and shaped a nose from a wad of mashed yucca.

Brain grimaced. "That's not even remotely anatomically correct."

"It's whimsical!" Pinky chirped, patting the squashy feature proudly. "He can smell opportunity from a mile away!"

Brain carefully placed the newly shaped head onto the Kuzcopy body, stuffing in the last bit of cotton and tying off the chin. He paced back and forth in front of the freshly headed Kuzcopy, which was technically no longer Kuzcopy. Like a store mannequin, it stood waiting, ready to dress for the occasion.

"Look Out is a blank slate, Pinky. A figure the empire can project its hopes onto. He must be everything they desire: trust, wisdom, relatability—perfection, with plausible flaws."

Pinky tilted the banana leaf head slightly. "And a good side profile! Ooo, see how the leaf wrinkles give him smile lines?"

"An acceptable bonus. Now, we must establish Look Out's look." 

Pinky clapped his hands excitedly. "Oh boy, a fashion montage!"

Brain and Pinky dressed the life-sized puppet. It was soon resplendent in shimmering gold, a towering headdress filled with feathers casting a long shadow.

Brain scratched his chin uncertainly. "Hmm. Too regal. Next!"

The mice next adorned the puppet in feathered armor and a snarling jaguar cloak. Pinky carefully placed an obsidian sword in its hand, securing it with duct tape.

Brain shook his head. "Too jingoistic. Next outfit, Pinky!"

"Oh, I have just the one!" Pinky declared.

Within minutes, Pinky had the puppet dressed in new attire. On its banana leaf head was a wide-brimmed hat with brightly colored fringes. It had a jacket covered with shiny sequins and a thick rhinestone belt. Pinky carefully tilted the hat until it was at a jaunty angle.

"Tada!" Pinky grinned."Can you believe somebody threw this in the trash?"

"Yes, Pinky. I would. Next outfit."

Brain unceremoniously dumped the anachronistic mariachi outfit back in the trash while Pinky redressed the puppet. It now wore a simple green woven poncho over earth-toned garments and a white shirt. A plain woolen cap completed the ensemble. Pinky tilted his head as he examined the outfit.

"Perfect," Brain said as a grin spread across his face. "Humble. Honest. Trustworthy. A man of the people."

With a piece of charcoal, Pinky drew thick eyebrows on the banana leaf head. Brain watched quizzically as he next reshaped the nose, enlarging it and giving it an aqualine appearance.

Pinky stepped back, carefully looking over his work. Brain stared, momentarily dumbfounded. "Pinky, I can't believe I'm saying this, but… well done!"

"Don't you think he looks familiar, Brain? Like some sort of sad peasant pushing his little cart through a market without realizing there's an unexpected llama on it?"

"Pinky, please leave the backstory to me." Brain said. His face took on almost a proud look. "But you have somehow captured the essence of the Incan everyman!"

Pinky gave it an approving nod. "He looks like someone I'd trust with my village," he said.

"Precisely!" Brain declared. "A face fit for leadership."

Evening had returned to the capital, casting golden light across the cobblestone paths and palace walls. Torches flickered to life along the main boulevard, lighting the path from the city to the palace entrance.

The puppet moved with slow, deliberate gravitas. Its poncho fluttered gently in the breeze, concealing the haphazard patchwork stitching down its back. The banana-leaf head tilted respectfully to a pair of passing guards. Beneath the fabric, two sets of eyes peered out from mesh-covered seams.

"All right, Pinky," Brain whispered from within, bracing his knees beside the internal pulley system. "Remember the protocol: I speak, you steer."

Pinky nodded enthusiastically. "Steer and cheer! Got it!"

The puppet swayed wildly for a moment before Pinky regained balance. The wheels beneath its feet clicked softly as the puppet glided toward the front plaza with all the dignity of a drunken boat. Look Out, future ruler of the Incan Empire, rolled to a quiet stop in front of the palace gates. 

Two imperial guards, each leaning lazily on a spear, straightened as the puppet rolled forward.

Brain's voice rang out in his usual haughty flourish, tinged with disdain. "Stand aside, you cretins. I am Look Out, rightful successor to the throne. Open these gates at once."

The guards exchanged glances. The taller one sighed. "Third one today."

The shorter one nodded. "Nah, fourth. There was that guy with the chicken."

"Oh, right. Look Oot. From the hills."

"Then that kid, what was it—Luke-Oh?"

"Hyphenated. Claimed it was an ancient family name."

The taller guard squinted at the puppet's oddly stiff posture and wagging foot. "Right. So. You got proof you're the real 'Look Out'?"

From inside the puppet, Brain bristled. "Proof? The Emperor's final decree was clear. You heard it!"

From inside, Pinky whispered, "Psst! Brain! Maybe you gotta sound more like Look Out."

Brain turned his head a fraction. "You mean like the fictional rustic archetype I fabricated out of marketing necessity?"

Pinky nodded so hard the puppet's ear flopped. "Exactly!"

Brain hesitated. He inhaled slowly. "Yes… of course. An honest, trustworthy man of the people." He cleared his throat, adjusted his tone—and stepped fully into character.

The puppet leaned forward slightly in a friendly gesture as Brain spoke in a rich, humble voice with just the right amount of gravel. "Evenin', fellas. I know it's been a mighty confusing time since… the incident." The puppet removed his simple hat and placed it over his chest. "I don't want to cause any ruckus or anything. I only want to help the fine folks of this empire, like any good citizen."

The short guard blinked. "Huh."

The tall one scratched his chin. "Y'know… that doesn't sound like any of those others."

"Sure doesn't. He's not high and mighty at all! Got that whole trustworthy-staring-into-a-cornfield vibe."

"Yeah. Like he owns a modest number of llamas, and isn't looking for power for the sake of power."

The puppet bowed its banana-leaf head.

The short guard stepped back and saluted. "Right this way, sir."

The tall guard pushed open the gate. "Glad you could make it."

As the puppet rolled forward on its wheels, Pinky whispered excitedly, "You did it, Brain! You Looked Out like nobody's ever Looked Out before!"

Brain muttered, "I can't believe it. By acting like I don't want to be in charge… I might actually be placed in charge?"

Two new guards from inside the palace flanked Look Out as Brain and Pinky watched nervously. A palace functionary soon bustled alongside them, clipboard in hand and a pen tucked behind one ear.

"Ah, Sir Look Out! Welcome to the palace. We're all terribly relieved you've arrived. We've had quite the time sorting through the impostors. There was a fellow this morning who claimed 'Lookoutta' was short for Lookoutta-the-way-I'm-royalty." He chuckled nervously.

From inside the puppet, Brain gritted his teeth, but the puppet's banana-leaf smile was fixed in place.

"Yes, yes," Brain said in his gravelly, trustworthy Look Out voice. "I heard it was quite a… colorful crowd."

The functionary nodded eagerly. "We've prepared a formal audience chamber for your first official meeting. Her Excellency the Emperor's Advisor will be with you shortly."

Brain stiffened.

"…Her Excellency?" he asked, voice wobbling.

The functionary beamed. "Yes, the late emperor's closest confidante. Brilliant mind. Always had the empire's best interests at heart."

Brain's voice dropped to a whisper. "Would this be a tall, angular woman with a gaze like a poisoned spear and cheekbones sharp enough to open a coconut?"

The functionary raised an eyebrow. "So you do know Yzma!"

From inside the puppet, Brain hissed a sharp inhale through his teeth.

"Well now," he said quickly as Look Out, "she sounds mighty important. Wouldn't want to interrupt her while she's doing all that… advising. Maybe someone else could show me around for now?"

The functionary frowned for half a second before shrugging. "I suppose we could send for her assistant. Kronk, was it?"

A few minutes later, the palace doors creaked open once more.

"Hey there!" called a cheerful voice. "Somebody said we've got a visitor!"

Pinky whispered to Brain, "Oooh, I like him! He makes good spinach puffs!"

Kronk practically skipped ahead of the puppet, pointing with both arms as he gave an enthusiastic tour.

"And this is where we host the Imperial Hot Sauce Festival every summer—though it's not officially sanctioned. I got fourth place last time! And over there, that was a koi pond until last year, when Kuzco was worried the fish were shinier than his crown."

The Look Out puppet wobbled slightly on its wheels, struggling to keep up. Brain, inside, tried to sound regal and casual all at once.

"Fascinating. And your… superior, the advisor—she's still handling matters of state, I take it?"

"Oh, yeah," Kronk nodded. "She's been totally in charge ever since the old emperor… well, you know. Sorta. There's been some confusion."

"I see. And this… confusion," Brain pressed delicately, "perhaps related to a suspicious puppet body and questionable demise?"

Pinky swallowed nervously at the mention of a questionable demise.

Kronk blinked. "You're very well-informed for a provincial llama herder who just arrived."

Brain winced, then continued as Look Out. "Er, yes, I suppose that's why beloved Emperor Kuzco picked me as his successor."

From inside the puppet, Pinky tugged on Brain's shoulder. "Psst! Ask him about spinach puffs!"

"Not now."

"They had a delicate crunch, Brain! Delicate!"

Brain cleared his throat. "So. This… Advisor Yzma. Where is she now? Busy with statecraft, perhaps? Distracted? Far, far from here?"

"Nah, she's probably in her lair-slash-office. She's got this giant desk made of dark mahogany and jaguar bones. It looks intimidating, but that chair has the best lumbar support. You'd love it!"

"I… doubt that." Brain pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Kronk—"

"Oh, you can just call me Kronk. Mister Kronk was my father."

"…Kronk. I would greatly appreciate a summary of what exactly transpired following the, er, masonry incident."

"Oh! You mean after the emperor got—" Kronk looked around before drawing his finger across his throat. "Well, there was a lot of screaming. Then some crying. Then Yzma wanted a celebratory cake. Then the screaming again when she realized the cake had raisins."

"That's very helpful."

"It would have been more helpful if Yzma let me bake a cake instead of store-bought," Kronk muttered, crossing his arms. "I had this great idea for a layered quinoa sponge with a mango reduction and edible gold dust. It would've been tasteful and regal."

He paused, his expression tightening just a bit. "But, y'know, store-bought's fine too. It's… fine."

Kronk's face brightened. "Anyway! Then Yzma stepped up and said she should be in charge. Then an official reminded her of Kuzco's final words." 

Kronk sighed. "Then more screaming."

"That sounds like an inordinate amount of screaming," Brain mused carefully.

"Yeah," Kronk readily agreed. "Thank goodness no one got on her bad side today. It could've been a lot worse."

Brain swallowed, his throat unexpectedly dry.

Yzma sat behind an enormous desk carved from black mahogany and inlaid with jaguar bones—especially teeth. A single candle flickered atop it, illuminating her sallow face as she scowled at a parchment the length of a small carpet.

"Section 12-B, Subsection 4: Feral llamas may not be kept as emotional support animals in residential zones… unless certified by a royal therapist," she read aloud through gritted teeth. "What kind of idiot wrote this?"

She slammed the scroll down with a puff of displaced dust, startling the nearest official. "I should be preparing for my coronation, not imperial animal control!"

A second official, shaking slightly, held out a fresh scroll. "This just in, Your Eminence. New leash laws from District Eight."

Yzma snatched the scroll and tore it open with her teeth. "I swear, if I see one more clause about llamas—"

There was a knock on the door. The officials all breathed a sigh of relief as Yzma's attention turned from them.

A third official poked his head in nervously. "Um, pardon the interruption, Your Eminence. Just thought you should know that Kronk is currently giving a tour to the emperor's—" He gave a forced, awkward cough into his sleeve. "—successor."

Yzma froze. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks. The parchment in her hand began to crinkle under her tightening grip.

"Successor?" she hissed.

"Yes. Someone claiming to be 'Look Out.' Large fellow. Very salt of the earth. Face that looks like banana leaves."

"Banana leaves?!" Yzma exclaimed.

The newly arrived official nodded, oblivious to the growing stormfront that was Yzma's expression. "Soft hands, though, almost like… felt."

Yzma didn't speak. She rose from her chair like a thundercloud rising over a doomed village. With a slow, deliberate turn, she faced the jeweled Kuzcopy head mounted on the wall. Her fingers clenched into fists.

"…Kronk," she muttered darkly.

The air went still.

"KRONNNNNNNNK!"

"…and this is where I usually feed the ducks on Wednesdays," Kronk said cheerfully, gesturing to an ornamental fountain that suspiciously lacked ducks. "They don't show up unless you've got breadcrumbs or gossip. They loooove gossip."

The Look Out puppet nodded stiffly, its felt-covered banana-leaf head bouncing with each jolt of Pinky's steering. Brain's voice emerged through gritted teeth. "Pinky. Something is wrong. I can feel it."

"You mean like the time I drank chicha that had been sitting out in the sun and kept seeing llamas with jazz hands?"

"No, Pinky. Worse."

A sudden commotion echoed across the courtyard. A red-faced official, flanked by no fewer than twelve palace guards in ceremonial armor, came sprinting down the corridor.

The official stopped in front of Kronk, gasping for breath. "Mister Kronk! His… their… Your Eminence!" He gave the puppet a stiff bow, nearly toppling over. "You are urgently summoned to an audience with Advisor Yzma. Immediately."

The puppet tried to back away, wheels squeaking softly. "Well, shucks," Brain said with forced humility, "I'd hate to intrude. I reckon she's mighty busy with statecraft and doesn't need the distraction of a humble servant like myself—"

"She insisted," the official snapped, his smile twitching. "She was very specific." Behind him, several of the guards fingered the shafts of their spears nervously.

Kronk beamed. "Ooo, that means you're really important! She never lets me interrupt paperwork."

"…We're doomed," Brain muttered from inside the puppet.

The guards formed a tight ring around the puppet as Kronk grinned in Look Out's direction. "Wow! A private audience with Yzma herself. That's a big deal. I bet she'll be so excited to meet you!"

"I would prefer a swift and silent escape route," Brain snapped under his breath. "Pinky, begin calculating optimal exit trajectories."

Brain then turned his attention upward toward Kronk. "Mr. Kronk—"

Kronk chuckled. "You can just call me Kronk, remember?"

"Yes, Kronk. Listen carefully. We may be entering a delicate diplomatic situation. It's imperative that you keep things… subtle."

Kronk gave a thumbs-up. "Don't worry, I can do subtle. One time, I threw a surprise birthday party for Yzma, even though she insisted she didn't want one. I had on full marching band regalia, but I lost count of the number of candles after I passed fifty, so I just went with fireworks instead."

Brain stared blankly through the mesh of the puppet, trying to gauge if Kronk was serious or not. "That's not subtle at all," he replied flatly as Look Out.

"I know! I sure learned a lot that day!" Kronk beamed.

Before Brain could question further, the double doors ahead creaked open with ominous finality. A dim office lay beyond, draped in black and blue tapestries, with a massive mahogany desk commanding the center of the room. Yzma slowly rose from behind it, her silhouette stretching like a shadow at sunset, casting a gloom across Kronk and Look Out. The guards on the other side quickly closed the door.

Yzma's eyes narrowed as she stalked forward, her expression sharp enough to shear wool. She stared at the worn skateboard on its feet, the strange way the elbows bent. The soft felt and stitching for skin. Her fingers twitched. "This is a giant puppet!"

Kronk blinked. "Are you sure?"

Yzma turned slowly towards Kronk, her jaw dropping. "Are you serious? It's just like that fake Kuzco!"

Kronk pointed to the felt-and-jeweled Kuzcopy head that Yzma had triumphantly mounted on her office wall. "Well, yeah, but the head is totally different!"

Yzma didn't reply. Her eyes flared wide, and with a furious snarl, she lunged towards the puppet.

"There is no Look Out!" she howled, ripping open the patchwork seams. Within, Brain and Pinky tried scurrying away to the side, but Yzma reached in with her cadaverous hand and managed to wrap her fingers around Brain. She pulled him out as the internal pulleys and strings collapsed on top of Pinky, covering him. "There's just you!"

Brain squirmed in her grasp. She held him up to her face, looking him in the eyes. "I'm going to turn you into a bug, just like you did to me!"

"Unhand me, you melodramatic banshee!" Brain exclaimed as he flailed.

"Oh, don't worry," she cooed with maniacal delight, "I'll turn you into a flea! A harmless little flea. And then I'll put that flea in a box, and then I'll put that box inside of another box, and mail that box to myself—" She grinned. "—and when it arrives, I'LL SMASH IT WITH A HAMMER!"

She cackled, mad with triumph. "And then—then!—once I've gotten rid of you, there'll be nothing to stop me from taking Kuzco's throne and becoming the ruler of the Incan Empire!"

She struck a dramatic pose, arms high in victory. "Mwahahah—"

"Kuzco isn't dead!"

The cackling stopped mid-laugh. Yzma's arms slowly lowered.

She turned, stunned, as Pinky emerged from the remains of the Look Out puppet, strings still hanging from his ears. His eyes were wide, focused on Brain.

"What?!" Yzma gasped, the sight of another mouse only increasing the frenzied look in her eyes.

"What?!" Brain sputtered, still dangling from her grip, the thought of Kuzco still out there somewhere—alive and turned into a llama—causing his mental gears to spin wildly in confusion.

Kronk scratched his head. "What?" he said helpfully, despite not really following any of it.

All eyes were on Pinky. He stood among the unraveling puppet threads, ears drooping beneath tangled strings. His nose twitched, and he looked down at the floor, his usual cheerfulness nowhere in sight.

He had tried. He really had. But the truth wouldn't stay buried. Pinky had failed, and now Brain was in danger. "I didn't want to disappoint you," he whispered to himself, "But I didn't want Kuzco to die either."

Pinky took a breath. His back straightened. His eyes, for once, didn't wander as they locked with Yzma's. With quiet, steady conviction, he said again, "Kuzco. He isn't dead."

Chapter Text

After his outburst—after admitting that Emperor Kuzco was still alive—Pinky went silent.

Brain stared at him, even though he was still clutched in Yzma's thin fingers. 

Yzma also stared at Pinky, which somehow managed to be even more unsettling.

Brain's gaze didn't waver. He blinked once, slowly.

The initial shock in his eyes faded, replaced by something far more familiar: disappointment. Not the loud, flustered kind. The quiet, worn-down kind—the kind that settled in his shoulders and pressed at the corners of his mouth.

Pinky fidgeted under the scrutiny, swaying on his heels. "I, uh… I'm sorry?"

Still no response.

Then Brain closed his eyes. Just for a moment. When he opened them again, the disappointment was still there—but underneath it was something else.

Resignation. Acceptance. The unspoken knowledge that, of course, Pinky didn't do it. That maybe he couldn't.

He let out a quiet breath.

"No, Pinky," Brain said at last, his voice lower than usual. "You acted according to your nature."

Pinky's ears perked up.

Brain continued, more to himself than anyone, "It would be foolish of me to expect otherwise."

Yzma groaned. "Touching. Truly. Are we finished with the dramatic pause? Because I have a very strong urge for vengeance and retribution."

She glared at Brain. "You seem to be the smart one. Even if you couldn't brew a working poison."

Brain straightened. "On the contrary, I possess an empirical knowledge of alchemy. The failure lies entirely with a mislabeled ingredient."

Yzma arched her brow. "Ah, yes. A little mix-up with extract of llama, perhaps?"

Brain hesitated a moment too long.

Yzma smirked. "I thought so. I saw the signs of tampering in my laboratory."

"The poison was made exactly to specification," Brain sniffed. "Thanks to meticulous documentation and proper note-taking."

"Oh, yes, thorough notes are very important," Yzma agreed. "You can't achieve consistent results without—" She stopped. Her expression twisted. "Why am I talking to you instead of squishing you?"

"Oh! Oh! I know!" Kronk raised his hand enthusiastically.

Yzma groaned. "Kronk, this is not—"

"It's because if everything goes sidewise, you've got a scapegoat!" Kronk continued.

Yzma opened her mouth to object. 

Then, she paused. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Fine!" she growled. 

She turned her glare back towards Brain. "Yes, you turned me into a fly."

"Actually—" Pinky started, but Yzma talked right over him.

"And yes, you tried to take over the Incan Empire, which should be mine. But… you navigated my lab without burning your whiskers off. So you're not useless." She sniffed. "Yet." Yzma set him down on top of her dark desk.

Brain tried to match Yzma's stare, but it didn't have quite the same intensity without the mascara. "A rational decision. Cooperation, however temporary, is in both our interests."

Yzma raised an eyebrow. "Don't flatter yourself, rodent. This is a contingency strategy. The moment you're more trouble than you're worth—"

"Yes, yes, your wrath will be swift and theatrical," Brain said dryly. "I'm quivering."

Pinky raised a hand. "Ooh! Does this mean we're all friends now?"

"No," Brain and Yzma snapped in unison. 

Kronk pouted.

Yzma crossed her arms. "Fine. A truce, then. We each search separately. Whoever finds Kuzco first wins."

Brain tapped his fingers together. "Wins what, precisely?"

Yzma gave a feral smile. "The Empire."

They stared at each other in tense silence.

"Temporary truce," Brain said at last, "pending the elimination of our mutual obstacle."

"Agreed." Yzma extended a spindly hand. Brain hesitated a moment before reaching out and clasping Yzma's bony, overly moisturized palm.

They released their handshake instantly.

"Pinky," Brain said, not breaking eye contact, "we're leaving."

"Okie dokie!" Pinky gave Yzma and Kronk a cheerful wave. "Bye, new almost-friend!"

Yzma didn't respond. She was already striding across the room toward a massive scroll-strewn table. "Kronk! Get my personal palanquin ready. We're going hunting."

Kronk snapped to attention. "Ooh, I'll pack some snacks!"

Yzma wasn't listening. She was unrolling map scrolls. "That rodent may have brains, but he doesn't know the area like I do. We'll find Kuzco first. And when we do—"

"We can eat our snacks!" Kronk enthusiastically added.

Yzma gave him a thin smile. "Yes, Kronk. And after that, we'll squash the competition. Preferably under something very, very heavy."

Outside Yzma's office, Brain strode with confidence as Pinky hurried to keep up. "Gee, Brain, how are we going to find Kuzco?"

"Science, Pinky! We'll isolate Kuzco's scent using residual fur samples and his uniquely crafted imported shampoo."

"Brilliant, Brain!" Pinky exclaimed. "I'll ask the kitchen to make us some snacks!"

Brain didn't acknowledge the comment. "This Yzma cannot be trusted. She is certain to double-cross us." He smiled coldly. "So we'll just have to do it first."

The jungle was thick with vines and buzzing insects, and the tree canopy cast heavy shadows. Brain marched forward, holding a curious contraption: a bronze snout, sniffing the ground ahead like a nasal periscope. It was connected by a fibrous hose to a series of gauges, more pipes and tubes, and a large pair of leather bellows. The two bellows pushed and pulled air as Pinky jumped from one to the other, the bellows compressing with a quiet squeak every time.

"Brain! This is so much fun!" Pinky exclaimed. Squeak!

"Yes, Pinky. You've said that once every thirty yards." Brain scanned the ground in front of him, waving the bronze snout over it. "If you continue your jumping, then my Llama Locator Device will isolate the scent pattern of Kuzco's llama fur and the emperor's unique scent from his imported shampoo."

"Right-o! One, two—" Squeak! "Three, four—" Squeak!

Pinky giggled. "That last one sounded like a goose with a cold!"

Squeak!

Brain only shook his head in response and dragged the machine forward. He carefully examined several gauges and grimaced at the readouts. Squeak!  "The olfactory signature seems muddled here." Squeak! "A local mammalian pelt is confusing the Llama Locator Device."

Squeak!

"A predatory migration, perhaps? That would explain the heightened levels of—" 

Squeak!

"—volatile compounds in the—"

Squeak!

Brain stopped. His eye twitched. Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned.

"Must you always bounce with the unrelenting cadence of a squeaky metronome in clown shoes?!"

Pinky landed mid-jump, wobbling in place. "But I thought you needed the airflow to keep the Llama Locator Device breathing."

Brain's ears flattened. "It's not breathing, Pinky. It's sampling. It's called science." He glanced back at the gauges. "Now kindly desist before I develop a Pavlovian response to accordion music."

"You mean polka music will make you hungry?" Pinky asked, shifting his weight on the bellows. 

Squeak!

Brain's fists clenched. "Pinky, cease your cacophonous racket!!" he shouted.

The forest fell silent. A leaf fluttered to the ground.

That's when the eyes opened.

Dozens of golden slits blinked in the darkness—above them, beside them, behind them. The sound of low growls swelled from the brush.

Brain blinked up at the now-very-awake jaguar stretching on a tree branch. "...Oh."

Pinky smiled nervously. "Brain? Is this the part where we politely ask for directions?"

The sun peeked over the jungle canopy as two travelers made their way along a dusty, winding path that could generously be called a road. Rocks jutted out like forgotten teeth, and roots seemed to conspire against even the steadiest of feet.

Pacha trudged along with practiced patience, hands gesturing broadly as he spoke. "—and then I told Chaca, 'No, sweetie, we do not glue the guinea pigs to the basket.' And she says, 'But it's performance art!' I mean, she's creative, but that's not the kind of creativity you want near small animals."

Behind him, Kuzco plodded along at an almost lazy pace. "Uh-huh," Kuzco muttered. Nearly eighteen years of ruling had blessed him with one uncanny skill of statecraft: pretending to pay attention, which apparently worked whether one was human or llama.

Pacha kept talking, either not noticing or politely ignoring the lack of engagement. "Then Tipo tried to sell the glued basket to a traveling priest, claiming it was a relic from a forgotten age."

"Fascinating," Kuzco said, staring off into the middle distance.

Neither of them noticed the merchant approaching from the opposite direction, pushing a cart full of trinkets and herbs. The man slowed as he drew near, his brow furrowing at the sight before him. There was a man, animatedly chatting away... to a llama, a llama who was nodding thoughtfully and humming.

The merchant gave Pacha a wide berth as he passed, casting a wary glance over his shoulder.

Pacha didn't notice. "So anyway, the guinea pigs are fine, but now my mother-in-law thinks the house is cursed."

"Mmm. Probably," Kuzco replied.

Pacha trudged along, stepping over a root that barely qualified as part of the so-called road. "So Chicha's obviously upset," he was saying, "but I can't really complain her mom isn't randomly stopping by every other day. I mean, don't get me wrong, she's a sweet lady—but she keeps bringing fermented cactus jam. You ever had that stuff, Kuzco? It tingles on your tongue like prickly in a jar—"

"Okay, that's it!" Kuzco suddenly declared, coming to a dramatic halt. "I can't take it anymore!"

Pacha blinked, startled. "Whoa, what? What happened?"

"I have been holding it in for two days, Pacha. Two. Do you know what that does to a llama's insides?"

"You mean you haven't—? Wait, seriously?"

Kuzco made a strangled noise. "I am an emperor! I do not lower myself to—ugh—natural inconveniences without proper accommodations!"

Pacha crossed his arms. "We've passed like ten trees and a whole grove of bushes."

"Yes, but I require something soft, Pacha. Luxurious. You think I'm going to finish the job with a leaf? I've been waiting for high-thread-count cotton at minimum! Maybe a silk blend!" He shuddered.

Pacha tried to keep a straight face. "So you've been waddling around for two days hoping a fancy towel just falls from the sky?"

"Well, it could happen," Kuzco huffed. "Water comes from the sky. Why not monogrammed linens?"

Pacha sighed and reached into his pack. "I got a rag I used to clean out the grain chute. It's mostly soft."

Kuzco narrowed his eyes. "What's the thread count?"

"It exists."

"Ugh. Fine. Turn around and don't look at me."

Pacha waited, arms folded, eyes on the sky. Several minutes and one satisfied "ahhh" later, Kuzco emerged looking several kilos lighter and at least five times smugger.

"Feel better?" Pacha asked, shouldering his pack.

"Immeasurably." Kuzco flicked an imaginary bit of dust from his fur. He swayed slightly.

Pacha raised an eyebrow. "Are you okay?"

Kuzco stumbled forward, leaning against Pacha. "I feel so weak all of a sudden!"

Pacha steadied him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong? Were there leeches in there?"

Kuzco shuddered—the thought of leeches interrupting his hasty bathroom break had never occurred to him. Pacha placed his wrist on Kuzco's forehead. "You're shaking," he said with concern.

Kuzco looked up with wide, pathetic eyes. "Can you… pick me up?" he asked quietly.

With the resigned patience of a man who had raised children—and stubborn llamas—Pacha scooped the emperor up bridal-style. "Fine." He turned and made his way back to the road.

Kuzco couldn't help but stare at the concern on Pacha's face. "I'll be fine," he quickly said. "It's just low blood sugar."

Pacha arched an eyebrow. "Low blood sugar, huh?"

"Yeah," Kuzco muttered, leaning into Pacha with a dramatic sigh, "It's a curse."

Kuzco wasn't sure, but a small smile might have briefly tugged at Pacha's lips. The peasant sighed. "Well, as soon as we get something to eat, you're walking the rest of the way."

Kuzco settled into Pacha's arms with alarming comfort. "Deal. Remember, I like my travel snacks organic, ethically sourced, and—"

"—And small-batch sun-dried on the north side of the mountain," Pacha finished, already trudging up the path. "Got it."

Kuzco blinked. "Oh. You've been listening."

"I pick my moments."

The pair continued under the canopy, Pacha's steady footsteps crunching over leaves while Kuzco lounged like a pampered cat. Somewhere ahead, the road curved toward the capital—still a long journey, but at least the emperor's mood (and digestive tract) were finally lighter.

Pacha rounded a bend in the path, brushing aside a leafy frond—and stopped.

Kuzco, still nestled contently in his arms, craned his neck. "Why'd we stop? Is it another bathroom break? Because I swear I—"

"No," Pacha said, squinting. "It's Mudka's Meat Hut!"

There, perched on the side of a tree-covered mountain, was a restaurant. Hanging in front of it was a massive painted figure, beaming with toothy approval. The mascot—a wide-eyed man in a blue-checkered tunic—held a sizzling tray above his head like a sacred offering. An offering of what appeared to be a charred lizard.

Kuzco blinked. "Is that… cooked iguana?"

Pacha was practically salivating already. "Oh, this place is the best!"

Kuzco squinted at the painted mascot, nose wrinkling in disdain. "And how many sommeliers does it have? I require at least three. One for water, one for sparkling chica, and one for—" he sniffed and pointed his nose in the direction of the oversized mascot, "—whatever that is on the tray."

Pacha hoisted him a little higher. "Just trust me."

"Oh, I do trust you," Kuzco said, patting his shoulder with a hoof. "To carry me. But for food? Questionable."

"Hey, I remembered about your snack requirements," Pacha said with a grin. "Besides, what choice do we have? We need to get your low blood sugar taken care of right away."

"... riiiight. The low blood sugar thing," Kuzco muttered. He eyed the restaurant with suspicion. "Do they at least have silk napkins?"

"The napkins are two-ply paper," Pacha admitted as he carried Kuzco towards the restaurant. "But the menus are laminated!" 

He climbed the steps to the door, but stopped short. Hanging above it was a round sign with a silhouette of a llama and a clear red line striking through it.

"No llamas," Pacha grunted. He looked at the llama in his arms. "We're going to need a plan."

Kuzco blinked. "What kind of place bans llamas? This is species profiling!"

"I think it's mostly for sanitation reasons."

"Well, I am very clean. I even use imported shampoos with rose petals."

"I don't think they're normally worried about the emperor showing up as a llama." Pacha looked around for something—anything—that could help. "C'mon."

"You're still carrying me, of course I'm coming," Kuzco huffed as they began to circle the building.

Pacha scanned the wall, and then by the kitchen door, he spotted a bright pink metal box bolted to the wall. A placard was hanging above it. "Emergency Hostess Touch-Up Kit – As Required by Subsection 7-F of the Hospitality Cosmetics Act."

"Do you see this?" Pacha said, nudging Kuzco. "It's official!"

Kuzco squinted. "What kind of tyrant would mandate makeup?"

Pacha slowly turned his head down to the llama in his arms and stared at him. Kuzco chuckled nervously. "Oh. Right. I'm sure I had a good reason. Maybe… to increase the beauty of the land?"

Pacha set down Kuzco and popped open the pink box. Inside were three shades of blue eyeshadow, a cracked compact labeled Andes Blush, and two slightly melted tubes of crimson lipstick.

"I still don't understand what this law is," Kuzco muttered.

"I thought you would know all the laws."

"I have people for that," Kuzco said, sniffing indignantly.

Pacha held up the two lipsticks. "Do your people usually recommend Lip Red 14-C or 14-D?"

Kuzco narrowed his eyes. "What are you suggesting?"

Pacha shrugged. "I know this sounds kind of strange, but between the two of us, you'd look better in makeup than me."

"Flattery accepted," Kuzco said. "But if you pick the wrong season for my undertones—"

"Noted. Now hold still."

The jungle had not been kind.

Leaves clung to Pinky's ears, and a twig was twisted in his tail. The torn remnants of bellows were still strapped to his feet, flapping and wheezing sadly with each step—squeak-thwup, squeak-thwup. Behind him, Brain marched grimly onward, dragging the battered husk of the Llama Locator Device. Only the bronze snout and a length of frayed hose remained, wheezing faintly with each jostle.

"Remind me," Brain panted, "never to go into the jungle again."

Pinky wobbled beside him. "It's not all bad! The Llama Locator said that Kuzco should be around here somewhere, and you discovered that jaguars don't respond to reasoned negotiation. That's science, isn't it?"

Brain shot him a look so flat it could level a rainforest.

Then, like a shimmering oasis through the trees, they saw it: perched on a slope, crowned with smoke wafting with the unmistakable aroma of charred protein, was Mudka's Meat Hut.

Brain's eyes lit up with cautious optimism. "A public establishment. Local residents. A statistically significant chance that someone inside has seen a talking llama. Come, Pinky."

They trudged up the front steps. Brain dusted off his singed fur, adjusted the crooked bronze snout under one arm, stepped towards the doorway—and stopped.

At rodent eye level, affixed neatly to the wooden frame, was a tiny wooden placard. It had a little circle with a line through it in careful red ink, on top of a black silhouette of a mouse-like head.

Pinky squinted at it. "Ooh, look, Brain! We're famous!"

Brain stared at the sign in silence. One ear twitched. "Of course. Imperial sanitation law, specifically Article III, Section 8, forbids rodents from public eateries."

"Maybe we can disguise ourselves as hamsters?" Pinky suggested helpfully.

Brain exhaled through his nose. "No. If they bar us entry, then we go around them. Subtlety, Pinky. Deception." He peered up at the building's wooden siding, calculating.

"But why do they have laws against mice? I'm pretty clean. I think…" Pinky lifted an arm and gave his armpit a sniff.

"Pinky, are you pondering what I'm pondering?" Brain asked.

"Uh, I think so, Brain, but is there really enough room in this market for us to start a competing restaurant? I mean, unless we shift our brand identity to focus on vertical integration and customer retention metrics."

"No, Pinky! I will prey upon their legal requirements for sanitation and disguise myself as a health inspector to gain entry." He furrowed his brow in thought. "And as for you—"

Pinky giggled from around the building. "Look, Brain! Free makeup!"

Brain slowly turned to see Pinky already smearing blue eyeshadow across his lids with one paw while balancing a dusty compact on his knee. A scrap of fabric, taken from the remains of the bellows, was knotted around his head like a kerchief, and another served as a makeshift apron.

"…I presume this means you've chosen your disguise," Brain muttered.

Pinky beamed. "Oui oui, monsieur! I am le waitress! I am ready to serve ze fine cuisine!"

Brain pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. But stay in character. Minimal disruption. And drop the atrocious accent. We are here for reconnaissance, not whatever… this is."

Pinky gave a hasty salute and scampered around the building. He emerged moments later into the dining area, clutching a notepad.

Mata, the aging waitress, spotted him immediately and raised a skeptical eyebrow. She had towering red hair tied with a bow, gold earrings the size of saucers, and blue eyeshadow that had weathered decades of double shifts. Her tone was as tired as her posture. "Where's Cusi? This was supposed to be her shift."

Without missing a beat, Pinky put on his best dramatic gasp. "Oh, Cusi? Oh, she was called away very suddenly on a diplomatic mission of great urgency involving a herd of angry alpacas!"

Mata blinked. "…What?"

"Yes! She said to tell you she'll be back after the full moon, and her lovely old grandmother was feeling better."

Mata opened her mouth—clearly about to question everything about that sentence—when the front door slammed open.

"Imperial Health Compliance Auditor, Tier One!" Brain barked, holding up a folded napkin like a badge and striding in with the air of someone who had absolutely no time for nonsense. "Sanitation metrics, food prep certifications, and vermin regulation documentation must be produced immediately." He was wearing a tie made out of the hose from his Llama Locator Device, and spectacles from bits of bronze.

Mata stared at him. Then she looked at Pinky. Then back at Brain.

She sighed.

"Check on the honeymooners at table twelve," she muttered to Pinky. "I'll deal with the surprise inspection."

Pinky clicked his heels together. "Aye-aye, hostess supreme!" He wobbled off with his notepad held high, one false eyelash drooping over his left eye.

Mata crossed her arms and stared at Brain. "All right, the last time somebody said they were an inspector, they were here trying to get some free food. So let's see your credentials."

"I apologize for the delay. I was beset by jaguars during a routine inspection in District 8, and most regrettably, my official identification was lost during the escape."

Mata crossed her arms. "You expect me to believe that?"

"You're welcome to confirm it with the Office of Rural Oversight," Brain said, straightening. "But I believe Article VI, Section 14 of the Hospitality Sanitation Charter allows for provisional field audits in cases of compromised documentation. Subsection B clearly outlines the precedence of public health over bureaucratic delay."

Her eyes flicked over him. He was damp, singed in one corner, and still had signs of minor scratches all over him.

"…Fine," she muttered, turning away. "But if you so much as touch the condiments, I'll swat you flat."

"Your cooperation is noted," Brain replied smoothly, already making a beeline toward the kitchen with a critical eye on the patrons. "Now. Let's begin with your ice storage practices."

Pinky trotted up to table twelve, clutching an order pad he had definitely not been given and a pencil he'd just plucked off the floor and tucked behind his ear with great pride.

Pacha looked up from his seat at table twelve, nodding politely. In front of him, a large plate of roasted giant pillbug steamed ominously. The booth opposite him was empty.

"Hiya!" Pinky beamed. "I'm your waitress today! Or waiter. Or—wait, what's the gender-neutral term for food-bringer?"

"Uh…" Pacha started.

"Oh, wait, I remember! It's 'server'. So, what can I getcha?"

"Well," Pacha said, glancing around, "my darling wife ordered an onion log as an appetizer… but it hasn't shown up yet."

"Oh!" Pinky scribbled a squiggly line on his pad. "One oniony log of love, coming right up!"

He turned to leave, then paused. His nose wriggled slightly. He squinted at Pacha. "Say… have we met before? You look familiar. Were you a really sad man once wearing a green poncho?"

Pacha blinked. "I don't think so."

"You sure? Big shoulders? Kind eyes? General air of quiet resignation?"

"…Still no."

"Could you just frown for me, like you can't stop thinking about your whole village being levelled because of the whims of a capricious emperor?"

Pacha's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "How about that onion log?"

Pinky nodded. "Right! I'm probably just thinking of somebody else. Back soon!"

Pacha breathed a sigh of relief.

Two new customers slid into the table behind him: a broad-shouldered man with a cheery grin on his face, and a rail-thin older woman with an expression like she'd bitten into something sour and wanted to stab somebody over it. Pacha did his best to ignore them, turning his attention back to the delicious roasted exoskeletal remains of the pillbug still steaming on his plate. He took a hearty bite—one that Chica would have absolutely scolded him for—when a sharp voice from the neighboring table cut through the din of the diner.

"I should have done away with Kuzco myself when I had the chance!"

Pacha choked. He hacked and coughed, pillbug bits flying. His heart leapt into his throat, and sweat prickled at his brow.

He turned his head ever so slightly, not daring to look too long. Whoever these people were, they were looking for Kuzco.

And if they found him… trouble wouldn't be far behind.

Chapter Text

First, the small waitress asked questions. And the equally small health inspector marched around the restaurant, eyes everywhere, looking for more than just code violations. And now, two strangers sat down at the table next to Pacha. One of them—a sharp-featured woman with an equally sharp voice—had made it very clear they were looking for Kuzco. And that if they found him… things wouldn't end well.

Pacha never expected any of this.

Then again, he also never expected to one day meet a talking llama.

The broad-shouldered man turned in his seat, smiling warmly and looking directly at Pacha. Pacha involuntarily gasped as he swallowed the last bit of a pillbug. "You using that fork there, pal?" the man asked.

Pacha, eyes wide, lowered his gaze and ducked his head. He groped blindly across the table, grabbed Kuzco's untouched fork, and held it out stiffly over his shoulder.

The stranger accepted it with a cheerful nod but squinted at him. "Hey, don't I know you?"

Pacha hunched deeper. "I don't think so."

"Wrestled you in high school?"

Pacha shook his head. "Don't remember that."

"Metal shop? I got it!" The annoying stranger snapped his fingers. "I got it—"

Pacha suddenly stood up from the table. "I have a very distinct and unique face, and I have no idea how you people keep thinking I'm somebody I'm obviously not." Without a look back, he turned and walked swiftly towards the kitchen after Kuzco.

Kuzco was talking to the head cook of Mudka's Meat Hut. The cook stood over a pot of something bubbling on an open flame, stirring more and more vigorously with every word Kuzco said. "Look, all I know is the food looked iffy. I'm not the only one who thinks that, I'm sure."

Little bits of food flew out of the pot as the cook beat the mix with increasing ferocity with his spoon. Kuzco, oblivious, continued, "So I'm just checking to make sure you're going to take the main course up a notch."

Pacha pushed open the door to the kitchen and leaned in. "Pssst! Hey!" he hissed, but Kuzco ignored him. With an impatient growl, Pacha stepped into the kitchen.

Back in the dining area, the aging waitress Mata was leading Brain on a slow, wary circuit of the restaurant.

"So," she said, eyeing him sideways, "if your credentials were destroyed by jungle cats, how do I know you're really with Imperial Health Compliance?"

Brain adjusted his makeshift glasses with dignified offense. They were made from a scrap of brass, and Brain had a napkin shaped like a badge reading Imperial Health Compliance Auditor, Tier One. "Madam, the very fact that I am concerned about sanitation while clearly still recovering from a wild animal attack should only bolster my credibility."

Mata raised an eyebrow. "Mm-hmm."

He waved a tiny paw toward the ceiling. "Besides, as per Regulation 14-D, Paragraph 7, all establishments with seating capacity over thirty must maintain quarterly inspections—unless exempted under Appendix G for limited-sauce vendors. I see no limited sauce."

Mata blinked. "You're pretty familiar with the regulations, I'll grant you that."

Brain pushed down the smirk threatening to cross his face. He wasn't just familiar with imperial regulations—he'd once rewritten an entire subsection over breakfast. "Your appreciation is noted," Brain said coolly, "But I still require access to your condiment shelf."

But just as Mata opened her mouth to respond, Brain's gaze flicked across the room—and froze.

At a nearby table sat a tall, sharp-featured woman in heavy mascara and an expression of withering contempt as she glared at her menu. The same woman Pacha overheard moments before. Brain repressed a shudder at the unexpected sight of Yzma. She scowled. "Is there anything on this menu that is not swimming in gravy?"

Kronk set his menu down. "Hang on. I'll go ask the chef."

Mata followed Brain's stare, narrowing her eyes. "You know the folks at table thirteen?"

Brain immediately straightened. "No. Absolutely not. Never seen her in my life. In fact—oh dear, is that an unsupervised sneeze guard?" He darted off toward the buffet counter before she could ask more.

Pinky was still on the floor, bouncing from table to table, refilling drinks, and humming to himself. He turned and headed for the kitchen, determined not to let anything else stop him from delivering the onion log to table twelve. He was not about to disappoint the newlyweds.

If he'd finished refilling chica drinks just a few seconds earlier, he might have spotted Pacha—one half of the supposed newlyweds at table twelve—slipping through the kitchen door.

Pinky pushed open the swinging kitchen door with his back, not even glancing inside. A customer at table eight gave their glass a dramatic shake, the ice cubes clinking like a bell, summoning the underpaid.

"Oh, waitress!" the woman trilled.

"I'll be right there!" Pinky called back. Then he raised his voice toward the kitchen. "Onion log for table twelve, and make it snappy!"

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and marched off toward the service station to grab a tray, mumbling to himself about table eight. "I hope they're good tippers. Or at least leave me some of their nachos."

He didn't see Kronk get up from his table and amble towards the kitchen.

Inside the kitchen, the cook's spoon was a blur in the cauldron, flinging little droplets of mystery stew in every direction. His jaw clenched. His eyebrows twitched. And his grip on the stirring spoon had turned his knuckles bone white.

Across the kitchen, Kuzco remained blissfully oblivious. "Look, it's a simple question," he said with the breezy arrogance of someone who'd never cooked a day in his life. "Is there or is there not anything edible—"

Pacha, sensing imminent disaster, lunged forward. "Time to go!" he hissed, grabbing Kuzco by the hindquarters and dragging him toward the kitchen door.

Kuzco's hooves skidded slightly on the tile as he tried to slow his exit. "—on this menu?"

Pacha turned just in time to spot Kronk through the porthole window in the kitchen door. Without a word, he yanked Kuzco back through the kitchen, muttering something under his breath.

"Hey," Kuzco protested, "I didn't ask him about dessert yet!"

Pacha didn't answer. He shoved open a storage room along the back wall, jammed Kuzco inside, and slammed the door behind them.

Kronk sauntered into the kitchen and pointed to the cook. "Hey, pal, what's your policy on making special orders?"

The vein on the cook's forehead throbbed dangerously. "All right, buster, that's it! You want a special order, then you make it!" He yanked the chef hat off his head and slammed it down over Kronk's, blinding him.

Before Kronk could react, the cook ducked under the prep table and dragged out a battered suitcase. He began furiously cramming it with utensils, kitchen tools—starting with the large pot he had been stirring just moments earlier.

Kronk sputtered in confusion, lifting the hat just enough to peek out. "Yeah, but I—"

"I try and I try, but there's no respect for anyone with vision!" the chef shouted, jamming in a toaster and a pizza peel. He snatched a gray fedora off a hook from the wall and planted it on his head. "That's it! There's just nothing I can do about it!"

"Hold on a second," Kronk said, holding out a hand. "Please don't go—"

But the cook had already stormed out the back, suitcase banging against the swinging door behind him.

A bell dinged from the kitchen window.

Kronk turned to look. No one was there, until Pinky popped up, peeking over the ledge in his waitress disguise, clutching an order pad. "I need three pork combos, extra bacon on the side, two chili cheese samplers, a basket of liver and onion rings, a catch of the day, a steak cut in the shape of a trout… oh! And table twelve is still waiting on their onion log."

He looked up from the pad, blinking. Kronk locked eyes with him and squinted. "You look kind of familiar… are you—?"

Pinky waved. "Oh, hi, new friend!" Memories of an angry Yzma filtered into his head as he shuffled his feet nervously. "Ummm… look, I know that maybe we're not supposed to be friends. But there's a lot of hungry people out there. And I could really use the help!"

Kronk reached up and touched the chef's hat still perched on his head. "Well…"

He turned to the shoulder angel on his right. The small angel gave a dignified nod and plucked the strings of a tiny harp before answering. "The patrons here are blameless. They shouldn't suffer hunger because of Yzma's ambitions."

Kronk turned to his left shoulder. His shoulder devil was already wearing a matching chef's hat and holding up a burning spatula. "FIRE!"

"I think you're a really good cook!" Pinky added earnestly. "Your spinach puff recipe was ah-mazing!"

Kronk beamed. "Gee, thanks. It's an old family recipe."

"So… about those orders?"

Kronk nodded, muttering under his breath as he committed it all to memory. "Three oinkers wearing pants, plate of hot air, basket of grandma's breakfast, change the bull to a gill, and one fried onion on rails."

He clapped his hands and smiled. "Got it." And with a twirl of a ladle, he turned to get to work.

Pinky grabbed a dish and went back to the dining area. As he passed a booth, a small paw shot out and grabbed his apron.

"Pinky," Brain hissed. He was seated at a table near the wall, trying to keep an eye on the hectic coming and goings of everyone in the diner. "Have you discovered any signs of Kuzco?"

"No, but I did discover table three's allergic to tomatillos," Pinky replied. "It was very dramatic when I brought out the salsa verde."

"I mean discreet reconnaissance," Brain said, tapping a list he had written out on a napkin, complete with diagrams and surveillance codes. "You're to scan each table for suspicious behavior, analyze condiment arrangements for patterns, and cross-check vocal registers for tonal anomalies that might correspond to llama vocal mimicry—"

"Uh-huh," Pinky said, blinking. "Let me just take this dish to table six before it gets cold."

Back in the storage room, Pacha was reaching his wits' end. His hands were on the wooden shutter keeping the window closed, but it stubbornly refused to budge.

"What's going on?" Kuzco asked.

"No time to explain." Pacha shook his head. "We gotta get out of here!"

With a loud grunt, Pacha convinced the window to open. He pulled himself up, straddling the windowsill. He reached a hand out to Kuzco. "Come on!"

Kuzco narrowed his eyes. "In a minute!" He turned back and pushed open the door. "I'm still hungry."

Pacha leaned forward, trying to grab the llama, but his perch halfway through the window kept him from reaching far. "No, Kuzco!"

Kuzco sauntered back into the kitchen, blissfully unaware of Pacha's frantic gestures behind him—or Kronk in an apron already setting out bowls at the prep station, his back turned towards him. Kuzco was focused only on the gurgling noises his stomach was starting to make. "Ok, I'll make it simple for you," Kuzco said, dripping with derision. "I'll have a spinach omelet with wheat toast. You got it?"

Without turning around, Kronk answered with a cheerful, "Can do."

Kuzco left through one side of the kitchen doors just as Pacha carefully stepped out of the supply room. He reminded himself not to panic—at least not visibly. Panic never helped when dealing with llamas or emperors… and Kuzco was somehow both. All he had to do was convince a hungry Kuzco with low blood sugar not to eat and instead make a hasty retreat.

Pacha got about two steps out of the supply room and only part way through his internal panicking when Yzma stormed into the kitchen, somehow entering through one half of the kitchen's swinging doors as Kuzco left through the other half. "What's taking so long?" she demanded.

Pacha, who had just started sneaking out of the pantry, dove under the prep table before she could spot him. He fervently hoped the cloth draped over it would be enough to hide him.

Kronk set down a few dishes in the serving window—including a steak cut into the shape of a trout. "Pickup!" he called, ringing the bell.

A small furry blur popped up in the window. "Narf! That looks lovely!" Pinky said brightly, snatching the plate. He gave Kronk a cheery little wave before disappearing again.

Yzma clenched her fists. "Kronk! What are you doing?"

"Kinda busy here," Kronk said, eyes still on the skillet in his hands. He crouched, reaching under the prep table and lifting the cloth as he searched for something, his eyes on the skillet as food sizzled.

Yzma shook her head. "Why am I not surprised?"

Pacha shuffled frantically away from Kronk's hand, only to have a ladle thrust toward him. With a resigned sigh, he passed up a bowl.

Kronk ladled something green into it. "Order's up!"

"Thanks, buddy!" Pinky's head appeared again in the window, snatching the bowl. Another wave. Another friendly grin.

Yzma either didn't notice or didn't care. She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Oh, well… while you're at it, make me the special. And hold the gravy!"

"Check!" Kronk replied, already starting a new dish. As Yzma walked out through the left half of the kitchen, he set another dish out. "Pick up!"

Kuzco walked in through the right half of the kitchen door. "You know what, on second thought, make my omelet a meat pie."

Kronk nodded briefly, once again focused on cooking. "Meat pie. Check." Kuzco was already turning around to leave.

Pacha, hearing Kuzco's voice again, perked up. He could still salvage things and get them to safety. He scrambled out from under the table, only to freeze at the sight of Yzma's rail-thin silhouette gliding into the kitchen. He screeched to a halt, flattened himself against the wall, then dove behind a life-size wooden statue of Mudka's Mud Hut's grinning mascot. He lifted his arms in the air, contorting them to line up exactly with the shadow cast by the mascot, hoping to hide himself.

"Kronk!" Yzma snapped, "Can I order the potatoes as a side dish?"

Kronk doesn't hesitate with his answer. "I'll have to charge you full price."

Yzma growled and stalked out.

Brain had been quietly edging toward the kitchen door for the third time in as many minutes, calculating how quickly he could cross the floor without drawing Mata's eye. He needed to find Pinky—before Yzma did.

"Going somewhere?" Mata's voice had the dry crackle of parchment.

"Merely ensuring the buffet's sneeze guard remains up to code. Are they installed at the correct angle?" Brain replied smoothly, inching sideways without breaking eye contact.

He didn't see Kuzco swagger into the kitchen. "Hey, how about a side of potatoes, my buddy?"

"You got it," Kronk said. "You want cheese on those potatoes?"

Kuzco pushed back through the doors without answering.

Yzma entered the kitchen a half-second later. "Thank you, Kronk—cheddar will be fine." She swept out.

Kronk blinked, shrugged, and called after her, "Cheddar spuds coming up."

Kuzco reappeared. "Spuds, yes. Cheese, no." Then back out the door.

Kronk frowned at the skillet. "Hold the cheese."

Pacha could feel the sweat dripping off his brow as he stayed absolutely still behind the statue, only his eyes moving as they darted between Kuzco and Yzma.

Yzma opened the kitchen door and walked in. "No, I want the cheese."

As she closed the door, Kuzco poked his head through the doorway on the other side. "Cheese me no likee."

Kronk stared at the wall in front of him. "Cheese out," he said solemnly.

In the dining area, Brain's eyes flicked over the dining room, taking in every piece of potentially distracting machinery. Coffee urn—too far. Table eight's wobbly leg—insufficient chaos potential.

Then he saw it: the slushie machine, a three-cylinder monstrosity whirring lazily behind the counter, its transparent canisters full of brightly-colored ice mush.

He snapped his fingers at Pinky. "You, there, random waitress, I  need to inspect the slushie machine!"

Mata placed her hands on her hips.

"No need for alarm," Brain soothingly said to her, weaving through the tables. "Simply a minor inspection to ensure frozen beverage dispensers meet Imperial beverage standards."

He turned to Pinky and whispered, "This investigation has been fruitless. Yzma and her brain-dead lackey are here, and we must make a hasty retreat before we are discovered."

Pinky nodded. "Sure thing, random health inspector! Lemme just get the onion log for table twelve and say goodbye to the chef!" He didn't wait for Brain's confused response.

Brain simply rolled his eyes. He scanned the machine again. No time to wait for Pinky.

Pinky entered the kitchen, expertly weaving between the two pairs of furry hooved feet of the bride from table twelve, who stood in the kitchen doorway.

"Cheese in!" Yzma snapped, jabbing a finger toward the skillet before disappearing again.

"Come on, make up your mind!" Kronk groaned.

"Okay, okay, on second thought—" Kuzco began, just as Yzma burst in through the opposite door.

"Make my potatoes a salad," they said together.  For a moment, a flicker of confusion crossed both of their faces. Then they simply left the kitchen.

Kronk stared at the potatoes, lips pressed into a thin line. With a flick of his wrist, he lifted the skillet and flipped the potatoes. It sizzled as it landed back in the butter.

Pinky climbed up to stand on top of the prep station. He gasped. "Ooooh, you've got a lovely wrist flick! Did you learn that at chef school?"

"Nah," Kronk said, flipping another dish with a flourish. "You pick up a lot when you've been in the kitchen as long as I have. It's all in the flexors and deltoids."

Pinky nodded sagely. "So how'd you and Yzma find this place? Brain's Llama Locator Device nearly got us eaten by jungle cats!"

Kronk topped a plate of fried bugs with a hearty scoop of chili and cheese and garnished it with fresh parsley.

"Oh, I talked to a squirrel," Kronk replied casually, flipping a skewer with one hand and dusting seasoning with the other.

Pinky blinked. "You talked to a squirrel?"

Kronk nodded proudly. "I was a Junior Chipmunk. I had to be versed in all the woodland creatures' languages. That's how I can talk to you. Squirrel and Mouse are in the same language family."

Pacha, still wedged behind the mascot statue, felt every muscle in his body twitch with strain. He couldn't stand still much longer without fusing his joints permanently in place, and he was fairly certain his left foot had gone numb. His ears strained to catch any hint that the coast might be clear. Instead, he got… whatever this conversation was.

"Oh, no," Pinky said cheerfully. "I'm not speaking Mouse."

There was a pause. Kronk stared at him. "…Then what are you speaking?"

Pinky tapped his chin. "English?" he said with some hesitation.

Kronk's brow furrowed. "But… this is the Incan Empire."

"Maybe… maybe I'm speaking Quechuan?" Pinky offered.

Kronk tilted his head. "But I don't remember learning Quechan."

Pinky nodded solemnly. "Well, someone must be translating." He tapped his finger on his chin. "Right?"

They both stood in silence, each clearly trying to puzzle out the situation.

Finally, Pinky hopped down. "Right! Well, Brain says it's time to go." He hesitated, then smiled. "You're a good cook, Kronk. I liked working with you!"

Kronk's expression softened. "You too, little guy. Take care of yourself."

Pinky gave a cheerful wave before darting back into the dining room.

Brain hopped onto a counter, slipping behind the slushie machine with practiced nonchalance. He unscrewed a small access panel and twisted a pair of tubes until they reluctantly knotted together. Then he added just enough pressure to the valve to create a ticking time bomb of frozen sugar water.

By his estimation, the internal pressure would build just quickly enough for him to locate Pinky and make their escape before the entire contraption erupted in a Technicolor geyser.

Brain replaced the panel and dusted off his paws, moving away as if nothing had happened. "Imperial beverage standards," he muttered to himself, "are a fragile thing."

Pacha tiptoed out of the kitchen, easing the door open just enough to peek into the dining room.

Yzma and Kuzco sat at separate tables… directly across from one another. If they weren't both studying their menus at the exact same time, they'd have already made eye contact and ended the world as he knew it.

Just then, Pinky hopped up to Kuzco's table with a flourish. "One onion log! Sorry about the wait, miss!" he announced, setting it down like it was a culinary treasure. Kuzco didn't even look up from the menu. Yzma, still glaring at hers like gravy was the cause of all of her problems, didn't notice either.

Pacha spotted Mata and sidled over. "Excuse me," he murmured, tilting his head toward Yzma. "See that woman over there?" He cupped a hand to his mouth and whispered, "It's her birthday."

Mata nodded. "No problem, hon. We do that all the time."

At that moment, Yzma finally lowered her menu—and froze. Across the room sat… something odd. It was wearing makeup. And a little brown hat and a green poncho. And had a suspicious amount of fur with a long snout. But between the menu that the thing was holding and the towering onion log, she wasn't certain.

She started to rise, but the waitstaff swarmed her table, holding a slightly lopsided cake with an uncountable number of lit candles on top. They started clapping and swaying in unison. "One, two, three, four, five. Happy—"

That's when the slushie machine erupted.

A high-pitched whir, a clunk, and three cylinders of brightly colored ice mush exploded like sugary geysers. Patrons shrieked. Brain grabbed Pinky by the hand, making a beeline for the back exit.

"Sorry about the slushie thing!" Pinky called over his shoulder to Kronk as they ran through the kitchen.

Pacha didn't wait for Yzma to recover—he lunged across the room, scooped Kuzco into his arms, and barreled out the front door.

Kronk stepped out of the kitchen, surprised and happy. "It's your birthday?" A spray of lurid red slushie splashed him across the face. "This is even better than that time I threw a birthday party for you dressed in marching band regalia!"

Outside the diner, Pacha kept running, hopping down a short platform without breaking stride. Kuzco kicked and wriggled in his grip. "What are you doing?!"

Finally, Kuzco squirmed free, landing in a puff of dust. Pacha spun on him, still running on pure adrenaline. "Look, there are two people in there looking for you."

"What?"

"A big guy and a skinny old woman," Pacha said, holding his hands a few inches apart to demonstrate.

Kuzco froze mid-step, a hoof lifting in question. "Wait—was this woman scary beyond all reason?"

"Oh yeah," Pacha said grimly, the memory flashing in his eyes.

Kuzco brushed off his disguise makeup with one foreleg. "That's Yzma and Kronk! They're back! That's great!"

Pacha grabbed him by the poncho—his poncho, still draped over Kuzco's back. "Trust me, that's not great."

But Kuzco was already half-smiling, shaking him off. "They'll take me back to the palace." He turned away. "Thanks for your help. You've been great. I can take it from here."

Pacha darted in front of him. "No, no, you don't understand—they're trying to kill you!"

Kuzco laughed incredulously. "Kill me? When Yzma was my advisor, her whole world revolved around me." He stepped to the side.

Pacha caught him by the neck and yanked him back. "I'm serious. I can't let you go to them."

Kuzco blinked, then his eyes widened with sudden realization. "Ooooh, I get it."

"What?"

"You don't want to take me back to the palace. You want to keep me stranded out here forever!"

Pacha's jaw dropped. The appeal of sticking with Kuzco out in the wilderness was growing less and less by the second. "What? No!"

"This has all been an act, hasn't it? And I almost fell for it."

Pacha's patience frayed to the breaking point. "Will you just listen to me—"

"No, no, you listen to me," Kuzco snapped, pointing an accusing hoof. "All you care about is your stupid hilltop."

"What?"

"You don't care about me. Now… just get out of here." He waved a hoof dismissively.

"But—"

"Go on! Get out of here!" The wave turned into a frantic shooing motion. "Shoo! Bye-bye!"

Pacha's teeth ground together. "Fine!" He threw his hands up and turned away, stomping off with a grunt.

Oblivious, Kuzco trotted off in the opposite direction, head high and humming to himself. His eyes lit up when he spotted Yzma and Kronk emerging from the diner. They were both spattered with streaks of red slushie, and Kronk was happily eating a slice of birthday cake with a fork.

"This entire mess is the mouse's fault!" Yzma snarled.

Kronk paused mid-bite, picturing the cheerful little waitress mouse from inside. "What'd he do?"

"If he hadn't weaseled his way into becoming emperor's advisor, I'd already have Kuzco by now!" Yzma jabbed a finger into Kronk's chest. "No more diversions—we find that llama and kill him!"

Kronk chewed thoughtfully. "Would it help if the mouse said he was sorry?"

Yzma ignored him, stalking toward her palanquin. "Kuzco must be eliminated. The empire will finally be rid of that useless slug… and then I'll squash the mice, too."

Kronk hefted the palanquin onto his shoulders as Yzma climbed inside. "Yeah, I guess you've got a point. Nobody really seems to care that Kuzco's gone, do they?"

Kuzco froze where he stood. At first, he thought he'd misheard. But the more he replayed the words in his head, the colder his stomach felt. Nobody cared? Nobody… except—he turned toward the road Pacha had taken, but the hilltop was already empty.

Too late.

Chapter Text

Sad and alone, Kuzco walked an uncertain path, head down, lost in his own thoughts. The green poncho still clung to his back, the faint smell of hearth smoke and earth still lingering. It reeked of Pacha—honest, hardworking, humble Pacha. It was a smell Kuzco had never noticed before, but now it seemed to follow him, nagging at the edges of his mind.

Cresting a ridge, he saw it: the golden palace gleaming in the distance amongst the mountains. His palace. Once, that sight filled him with smug pride. Now, standing out here in the mud, it looked impossibly far away, like it belonged to someone else.

The people he thought he could count on wanted him dead.

The advisor he thought was brilliant for somebody so short had never even let him eat a spinach puff.

Even the peasants he'd dismissed, the villagers beneath him—he had driven them away with nothing but arrogance.

For a moment, he tried to twist it into his old narrative. He was the victim here. He hadn't done anything. Everyone else had ruined his life. But even as he thought it, the lie tasted sour.

"Who are you kidding, pal?" he muttered to himself. His own voice sounded small, swallowed by the rustling trees.

The sky darkened. Thick clouds gathered until the first drops began to fall, cold and heavy, plastering his fur flat. Kuzco tried to flick the water off, like it was beneath him and his imperial dignity. But the storm didn't care. The rain came harder, until he was soaked through, his legs caked in mud. His nose stung, though whether from the chill or… something else, he couldn't bring himself to admit.

He discarded the poncho and hat, letting them slump into the mud, and stumbled forward until his strength gave out. He sank down onto a cold rock, his body curling in on itself.

The emperor who once lounged in silk now sat shivering in the rain, small and alone. And for the first time, Kuzco didn't try to convince himself it was anyone else's fault. He pressed his eyes shut, curled tighter, and prayed that sleep would come.

Pacha stomped down the path away from Mudka's Meat Hut. He muttered several words and phrases under his breath he wouldn't normally use in front of the children, especially Chaca. Mostly because Chaca would repeat them back with the same emphasis, and he'd never hear the end of it from Chica. He shoved aside a low-hanging branch as his colorful litany continued.

"He's such a spoiled brat! Doesn't listen to a word I say. Struts around like he owns the place—oh wait, he thinks he does! Doesn't even like grilled giant pillbugs. Who doesn't like pillbugs? Oh, sorry, it's not royal enough for His Highness' delicate palate."

He kicked a loose stone down the road. "And my poncho! Borrowed it and probably smeared it with makeup and got it covered in filth. Perfectly good poncho ruined."

Pacha went on, complaining about Kuzco's dietary habits, lamenting the onion log that he didn't get to try, and how Kuzco went and ruined a perfectly good thing. Again.

The adrenaline drained out of him as the rant looped back on itself. His words began to taste bitter, and the fury on his tongue soured. Chicha would have told him off by now.  "What good is all this grumbling, Pacha?" she'd have said. And she would have been right. (As usual.)

Pacha stopped, rubbing the back of his neck. Kuzco was still out there, wearing Pacha's poncho and hat. And Pacha recalled with growing fear that the kid's first thought was to get help from the very same people that wanted him dead.

He turned back, looking down the trail he'd stormed away from. He'd gone farther than he realized in his fit of temper. And a thought, heavy and cold, sank in his gut.

It might already be too late.

He broke into a run, retracing his steps as fast as his legs would carry him. For all his faults, Kuzco was still just a kid—a kid in a llama's body, lost in the jungle, with assassins on his trail.

Pacha never should have left him alone.

Pacha crashed through the undergrowth, following the trail Yzma and Kronk had left behind. Broken branches, deep bootprints, the occasional scrape where a palanquin pole had brushed against a tree—it was all clear enough. Clear enough, at least, to fill his mind with dread.

If Yzma and Kronk had already found Kuzco…

He forced himself faster, lungs burning, until the sound of their voices drifted back through the trees.

"…blast this weather!" Yzma snapped. "We'll never spot him with this rain coming. Kronk, find me somewhere dry before my mascara runs."

"Sure thing," Kronk said cheerfully, shifting the palanquin on his back. "Bet there's a cave around here somewhere."

"Ugh! No caves!" Yzma replied.

The first fat drops of rain began to patter through the leaves above. Pacha froze, chest heaving, listening hard. They hadn't found Kuzco. They were still searching.

Relief nearly made him sag to the forest floor, but the rain came heavier now—sheets of it, soaking through his tunic and plastering his hair to his forehead. The sky had opened at the very moment he'd thought he was too late. Maybe it wasn't too late after all.

As Yzma's grumbling faded into the distance, Pacha turned and retraced his steps, back toward the road. This time he wasn't following bootprints. He was looking for lighter signs. Llama signs.

Although it wasn't a llama sign, he did spot his hat, skewered on a low branch off the road where someone had tossed it aside. Pacha plucked it down, brushing the rain from the fabric, and set it firmly back on his head.

A little further on, he spotted the poncho. His poncho. Soaked through, crumpled in the grass at the edge of a rocky overlook. He stooped to pick it up, wringing water from the fabric, then straightened.

The overlook stretched before him, palace lights twinkling faint and golden in the far distance, half-shrouded by the storm. The same view Kuzco must have seen.

Pacha pulled the poncho around his shoulders, clutching it tight against the wind. If Kuzco had been here, then he was close. And Pacha wasn't about to lose him again.

Brain snored fitfully in his tiny sleeping bag, muttering equations under his breath even in dreams. Beside him, Pinky lay on his back, hands folded over his stomach, staring at the sagging canvas ceiling of their tent. Crickets chirped. Somewhere in the distance, a jaguar gave a low growl, and Pinky pulled the blanket up to his chin.

His thoughts wandered back to Mudka's Meat Hut. To the bad tipper at table eight. To the onion log that the newlyweds at table twelve had to wait for. To Kronk wearing a chef's hat and helping in the kitchen.

Poor table twelve. Pinky brought an onion log to an empty table. He sure hoped they didn't leave without paying their check. He didn't think so, though. There was something about that man that made him seem rusticly trustworthy.

Kind of like Look Out. They were both familiar in the same way, although Look Out was decidedly more of a giant puppet.

Pinky blinked, a thought slowly forming in his mind.

Didn't they create Look Out based on someone Pinky had met before?

A sudden flash of lightning silhouetted Pinky against the tent wall as he bolted upright. "The sad looking peasant pushing a cart with Kuzco hidden on it!"

He grabbed Brain by the shoulders and shook him. "Brain, Look Out!"

Brain sputtered awake, his head bobbing side to side with every shake. "Pinky! What is the meaning of this?! It's the middle of the night!"

"Brain, it's like lightning has just struck my brain! I have an idea!"

"If you've put cactus jam in your socks again…"

"No, even better! It's about the sad peasant! You remember, the one with the cart? And the llama-shaped bump under the blankets?"

Brain stared at him, unimpressed.

"No, no, don't you see?" Pinky's voice cracked with excitement. "That's who Look Out looks like! Not because he is Look Out, but because I made Look Out look like him! And if Look Out looks like him, and he was with Kuzco and I saw them at the diner, then—"

Brain's eyes narrowed, his irritation slowly giving way to interest. He sat up straighter in his sleeping bag.

Pinky's rambling continued, "Then the man at the diner who looks like Look Out would look if he didn't have banana leaves for a face was with Kuzco—"

"Which means Kuzco must have been at the local eatery as well!" Brain declared.  "At last, tangible evidence!"

"Yes!" Pinky clapped. "See? I knew you'd get there eventually!"

Brain's scowl softened into something thoughtful, even calculating. He rubbed his chin. "Pinky, for once, your meandering synaptic firings may have yielded something useful."

"Aw, thanks, Brain! By the way, do you have a pair of socks I could borrow? Mine have jam in them. Somehow."

Pacha had been walking all night.

The rain had not let up—cold needles that worked their way through his poncho and down his spine, soaking him to the bone. Each clap of thunder rattled his chest, and each flicker of lightning reminded him how alone he was in the dark. He had told himself he would turn back, that it was pointless, that maybe Kuzco deserved a taste of his own arrogance. But every time he slowed, every time he considered stopping, guilt pushed him forward again.

By dawn, his legs felt like stone. He stumbled down a muddy embankment, nearly pitching headfirst into a swollen creek. Only sheer stubbornness got him across the slick rock, until he half-fell into a field dotted with llamas. They lifted their heads as he entered, ears twitching, then went back to grazing.

Pacha swayed on his feet. "Seen a scrawny llama with an attitude problem?" he rasped, his voice hoarse from the night. None of the llamas so much as glanced at him. With a weary sigh, he dropped onto the grass, too tired to stand. His eyes burned, his shoulders sagged. Maybe he'd lost him after all.

Movement at the edge of the herd caught his attention.

Kuzco.

The other llamas gave him a wide berth, pinning their ears back and shifting away from the strange llama like he was contagious. Kuzco's ears drooped at their reaction. He bent down to try grazing, jaw working clumsily, but the grass just clung between his teeth. He spat it out, ears flicking irritably.

Pacha's throat tightened. He almost called out—but something stopped him. Instead, he glanced at the llama beside him, a patient creature chewing cud with slow indifference.

"So, there we were," Pacha murmured, voice soft, "standing on the cliff, and the ground started to rumble. And just as it started to go, he grabbed me before I fell." He gave a small, incredulous chuckle. "Do you believe that?"

The llama blinked, unimpressed and clearly not believing a word of it.

"You know, call me crazy for following this guy all the way out here, but as much as he tries to deny it, I know there's some good in him." Pacha's voice caught, heavy with exhaustion. "Besides, I couldn't just leave him out here all alone." He looked across the field at Kuzco, ears drooping, grass stuck on his muzzle. "He's a lousy llama. I mean… a really lousy llama."

Kuzco's ears twitched. Slowly, his head lifted and he looked around. He had heard.

Pacha slowly stood up, his muscles complaining about his change in posture as Kuzco approached.

He walked towards Pacha slowly, his eyes never quite looking directly at him. "Hey, listen, Pacha… you know, about what I said to you back at the diner, that—that—I… I didn't really..."

Pacha held up his hand, a touch of a smile on his face. "So… you tired of being a llama?"

Kuzco's llama lips quivered, and tears welled up in his eyes. "Yeeeeeessss!" he blubbered.

Pacha nodded. "Then we're going to take the short route."

"But… the bridge is out," Kuzco argued. "We've been going the long way for days!"

"Yeah, and if we keep it up, Yzma will beat us back to the palace. I've got gear on the farm. Ropes, harnesses, the works. We can set something up to help us over the chasm."

Kuzco blinked. "...you keep harnesses and climbing ropes in your dinky little village? What, does your family rappel down to breakfast every morning?"

"Listen, I practically live on the side of a cliff."

Kuzco threw up his hooves. "So we just… walk all the way back where we came from?"

Pacha chuckled. "I know by all accounts, it doesn't make sense. But we'll lose Yzma and Kronk and can get back to the palace tonight!"

Kuzco squinted. "You do hear how crazy this sounds, right?"

"Yup!" Pacha heartily agreed. "Now keep up."

Chicha shuffled to the front door, one hand resting against the small of her back, the other over her very pregnant belly. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" she called, irritation just barely softened by exhaustion.

She cracked the door. Outside stood an older woman with sharp angles to her face and a glint of self-satisfaction in her eyes. Behind her loomed a broad-shouldered man with the eager, untroubled grin of someone who had never considered the possibility of a bad day.

"Can I help you?" Chicha asked flatly.

"Ah! Yes!" Yzma swept forward, forcing a friendly grin. "We are… relatives. Of your husband."

"Are you?" Chicha asked, brow arched.

"Of course!" Yzma declared, then coughed delicately. "I am his third cousin's brother's wife's step-niece's great-aunt. Twice removed."

Chicha nodded as though this made perfect sense. "Well, why didn't you say so? Come on in." She opened the door wide.

Yzma glided past, triumphant grin spreading across her face. Kronk followed cheerfully.

Chicha closed the door behind them with a firm click. "I wish I'd known there was a family reunion in town," she said, gesturing them toward the kitchen. "You can sit with the others."

"Others?" Yzma echoed sharply.

She turned—and froze. At the kitchen table, a small white mouse was sipping from a teacup far too big for him, looking for all the world like he'd been there forever. He glanced up and calmly said, "Ah. You must be the other branch of the family tree."

A sudden crash echoed from the bedrooms, punctuated by a loud, unmistakable "Narf!"

Chicha sighed, already turning toward the hall. "I'd better check on the kids." She gave the guests a pointed look that carried all the weight of a mother who knew exactly how much mischief adults could get into when unsupervised. "Try not to break anything while I'm gone."

The moment she left, the atmosphere shifted. Kronk wandered through the kitchen, humming a jaunty tune as he rolled up his sleeves. "Don't worry, I'll handle the dishes," he said cheerfully, already up to his elbows in suds. Plates clinked gently as he worked, blissfully unconcerned with the tension building behind him.

On the far side of the table, Brain and Yzma locked eyes like duelists. Their tones were civil, even cordial — but every syllable dripped with daggers.

"So." Yzma broke the silence. "What brings you here?"

"No need for subterfuge. We both know why we are here. I located the peasant by systematically cross-referencing census records with local livestock ownership rolls," Brain said smoothly, adjusting his teacup. "Hard data. Indisputable."

Yzma scoffed, tapping a clawlike nail against the tabletop. "Please. I performed alchemical divination on the fork he abandoned at the diner. It led me straight to this village. A much more elegant method than… paperwork."

Brain's whiskers twitched. "Elegance without reliability is mere theater."

"Reliability without finesse is drudgery," Yzma shot back, eyes narrowing.

The clink of a clean plate being set on the drying rack punctuated the standoff. Kronk glanced over his shoulder, smiling brightly. "Hey, you're both doing great!"

Neither answered him. They simply continued to stare across the table, their polite smiles stretched just tight enough to crack as their eyes narrowed.

Kronk continued, "Wow, I can't believe you two are related!" He nodded to himself. "Yeah, I can see it. You've both got that… squinty angry thing you do with your eyes."

Yzma and Brain froze. Then, very deliberately, both widened their eyes to look less "squinty."

For a fraction of a second, they glanced at each other—only to realize they'd both done the exact same thing.

Brain tried his best to smile. "Preposterous. My eyes convey razor-sharp intellect, not… squinty anger."

Yzma sniffed, lifting her chin. "And mine convey authority and terror. Entirely different."

Kronk just beamed. "See? Totally the same!"

The door creaked as Chica returned, wiping her hands on her apron. Kronk brightened immediately.

"So, how are the kids?" he asked cheerfully, as if he'd been part of the family for years.

Chica blinked, caught off guard. "Uh… fine. Playing jump rope in their room."

Kronk chuckled knowingly. "Kids are great at that age." He gave a sage nod, like a man dispensing hard-earned wisdom.

Chica's eyes narrowed just slightly. "Riiight." She let the word stretch, not quite believing he knew what he was talking about.

Still, she turned toward Yzma with practiced hostess grace. "Can I get you some tea?"

"Oh, I'll get it!" Kronk piped up, bounding halfway across the kitchen before Yzma shot him a glare sharp enough to pin him to the spot.

Chica smiled politely. "So… tell me again how exactly you're related to my husband?" She set a steaming kettle on the table and began pouring a cup for Yzma. "Third cousin's… brother's wife's… what was it?"

Yzma cleared her throat, stalling. "Step-niece's great-aunt." She smiled, and then quickly added, "Twice removed."

"And you?" Chica's eyes flicked to Brain as she refilled his cup with fresh tea.

Brain steepled his hands. "A cousin, thrice removed. On his mother's side. Though not nearly as removed as I would prefer."

He turned his head back to the bedrooms. "Isn't that right, Pinky?"

"I'm his father's brother's nephew's cousin's former roommate!" Pinky shouted back.

"And what does that make him?" Chica asked.

Brain mentally stumbled for a moment. "I… have no idea."

Chica's smile didn't falter, but her eyes sharpened. "Mm-hmm." She slid the tea across the table, studying both of them carefully.

Kronk grabbed the kettle and sloshed tea into his own cup with an earnest grin. "Family reunion, huh? Love it. So glad we could all get together."

Chicha cleared her throat. "You know, I am so sorry that everybody has come all this way for the family reunion I didn't know about, but as I've said to Pacha's… cousin?" She gestured to Brain.

"Cousin thrice removed," Brain responded. "Maternal."

"Yes, of course. Pacha is not here. But I'll be sure and tell him you came by."

"Oh, would you please?" Yzma said with a polite smile, all teeth and cheekbones.

"Yes," Brain added with a smile just as artificially polite. "That would be beneficial."

A loud crash rattled the bedroom door, followed by another cheerful "Narf!"

Chica pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.

Yzma batted her lashes innocently. "I wonder what that could be?"

Brain gave a sage nod. "Yes, someone should observe the children."

Chica pressed her lips into a tight smile, very nearly throwing her hands up. "Yes, of course, I suppose I'd better check on the kids—since clearly no one else here will." She pushed herself up and strode toward the bedrooms, muttering something about family reunions, my foot.

As soon as the door clicked shut, the air in the kitchen grew taut. Brain and Yzma sat in silence, calculating stares leveled at one another—each very careful not to squint too much, as though Kronk's earlier observation still lingered between them.

"She's hiding something," Yzma said at last, voice a smooth hiss.

"Indeed," Brain replied coolly. "The question is what."

Yzma tapped a lacquered nail against the table. "Kronk! We need to search the house."

"That," Brain countered, "would draw unnecessary attention." A small, sly grin curved his mouth. "Far more effective to ask for a tour of the domicile."

Yzma tilted her head, reluctant but intrigued. "Hmph. I hate to admit it… but that is a good idea."

Chica returned to the kitchen and froze. Both Yzma and Brain were smiling at her—wide, fixed, unnerving smiles.

"We've decided to take you up on your generous offer!" Yzma declared with false warmth.

"What?" Chica blinked.

"Yes," Brain added smoothly, tenting his little fingers. "We look forward to the tour of your lovely dwelling."

"…What?" Chica repeated, slower this time.

Kronk stepped in helpfully. "You've done so much already. Why don't you sit down, rest your feet? I'll give the family a tour!"

Chica turned her head toward him, eyes narrowing. "…What."

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted frantic movement at the window—Pacha waving like a man possessed. Chica's lips pressed into a tight line.

"Uh—excuse me, won't you?" she said quickly, backing toward the hall. "I think I left something in the oven." She vanished before anyone could respond.

Kronk clapped his hands together, beaming. "Great! So, allow me to start your tour with the pantry right over here…"

But neither Yzma nor Brain were listening. Both had bolted out of their seats, heading in opposite directions.

Chica stepped out the front door, holding a frying pan in her hands, no longer sure what to expect. She exhaled through her nose, hands braced on her hips. She was tired, annoyed, and very pregnant—not a combination to trifle with. Pacha was there, crouched low beside a bush, waving her over with the same frantic urgency he'd used outside the window. And the night he asked her to marry him.

Chica stepped a little further outside, lowering her voice. "Pacha! What is going on? Who are these relatives who showed up out of nowhere?"

Pacha pulled her aside, speaking quickly. His words tumbled over one another—the real reason Emperor Kuzco had summoned him to the palace, that he had somehow got turned into a llama, and about Yzma trying to kill the emperor. He admitted he'd spent the entire night chasing the emperor through the jungle, but now they had to return to the palace and find Yzma's lab.

Chica's face shifted through disbelief, exasperation, and finally alarm. "So the skinny woman who's scary beyond all belief wants him dead? What about the two really really short guys?"

Kuzco, who had been crouched in the shrubbery with all the stealth of a llama could muster, suddenly sprang upright. "That must be my newest advisor! I'm saved!"

Startled, Chica reflexively swung the frying pan. It connected with Kuzco's head with a loud clang, sending a vibration up Chica's arm. Kuzco toppled backward into the bush with a pitiful "ow."

Pacha pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and muttered, "And… that is Emperor Kuzco."

Chica looked at the unconscious llama, then at the frying pan still in her hands.  "Oops."

While Pacha knelt to check for signs of any serious damage, Chica's gaze flicked back to their home, where four uninvited "relatives" lurked. Her voice dropped. "I don't know about that short fellow. He's got the same look as the scary lady with his squinty angry eyes."

Pacha straightened and nodded gravely. "I trust your judgement." His tone softened. "I hate to ask you to put yourself in danger, but—"

Chica smirked. "Please. I can handle it. I'll stall them. You need to get that llama back to the palace."

"I know you can handle it." Pacha said with a chuckle, "I figured it was polite to ask, though." He reached out and took her hands in his. "When this is all over—"

She leaned forward on the tip of her toes to kiss Pacha, a mischievous smile on her face. "You better. Now go."

Pacha grinned. "You have a plan."

Chica nodded, the mischievous smile still on her face. "I have a plan."

Chapter Text

The unexpected family reunion at Pacha's and Chica's house was a full one. Brain, Yzma, and Kronk sat in the kitchen, plotting with all the warmth of distant relatives they weren't. Chica, the hostess of the reunion she didn't know about until people showed up at her doorstep claiming to be relatives, had only just recently learned from her husband Pacha he had been traveling with a talking llama who was actually the emperor.

But Pinky wasn't worried about any of that at the moment. His jump rope slapped the packed dirt floor, a steady thump-thump-thump as he hopped and sang nonsense syllables with the children Tipo and Chaca. Their shrieks of laughter filled the house, rising over Brain’s carefully measured baritone.

"Pinky!" Brain hissed from the edge of the room, trying to wave him over without catching Kronk's notice. "We have no time for childish diversions! We must—"

"Double-dutch!" Tipo shouted. Pinky instantly jumped in with surprising grace.

Brain pinched the bridge of his nose, but before he could retreat, the rope swung his way.

"C'mon, mister cousin-thrice-removed!" Chaca squealed. "Your turn!"

Brain's dignity lasted approximately three seconds before the rope tangled his feet. He flailed, then to his horror, landed upright and bouncing in rhythm. Pinky cheered. "Hahaaa! Go, Brain, go!"

From the far corner, Yzma returned from her own "search" of the house. She froze in the doorway, watching Brain jump rope with wide-eyed children, and her glare could have melted steel.

Brain caught her eye mid-hop. He smoothed his expression into something perfectly polite—while refusing to break cadence. "This is… a strategic distraction," he muttered through clenched teeth.

Pinky leaned in cheerfully. "You're doing great, Brain! I'm very distracted! Narf!"

Chica swept back into the house, her smile polite but tight. She poked her head into the children's room. She stopped short, blinking at the sight before her: Tipo and Chaca happily jumping rope with Pinky and Brain. Pinky was clearly enjoying himself far more than Brain.

"Kids," Chica said in her firmest mother voice. She folded her arms, waiting. The children didn't break rhythm, but they looked up at her attentively. "It's time. Operation Traveling Hawker."

Tipo and Chaca's eyes lit up. They dropped the rope and bolted from the room, still laughing, leaving Brain tangled and tripping in their wake.

Yzma smirked from behind Chica, clearly enjoying the sight of Brain flailing. He straightened, brushing himself off as if nothing had happened.

Pinky's ears drooped. "Aww, but we were having so much fun together!" His eyes followed the children as they ran and giggled out of the house.

Chica sighed, rolled her eyes. "Fine. You can help too. But quietly."

Pinky perked up at once. "I'll be as quiet as a mouse! Narf!" He ran after the two children.

Chica then clapped her hands once, the sound sharp as a whipcrack. "All right. If you're truly family, then you'll want to see the pantry. Everyone always does."

Yzma froze mid-squint. "The… pantry?" She smoothed her dress and forced a gracious smile. "Ah, yes, of course. A pantry tour. How delightful."

Brain steepled his fingers, his eyes glinting. "Agreed. A proper domestic inspection of our relative's domicile is… long overdue."

Kronk beamed, oblivious to the tension. "Oh, I can't wait! A good pantry's all about organization. Like my spice rack at home—I alphabetized the whole thing. Allspice, basil, caraway—"

Yzma's eyes snapped to him. "Kronk."

He wilted a little, scratching the back of his neck. "…Guess I'll save the list for later." He shuffled over to the sink. "I'll just finish washing the dishes, then."

Chica swung open the pantry door with the grand flourish of someone showing off a crown jewel. "And this," she announced, pitching her voice high and sweet, "is our pantry. Nothing strange in here at all, nope!"

She leaned against the doorframe, her smile stretched a little too wide. "Certainly no—oh, I don't know—llama fur caught in the shelves, or oddly misplaced ponchos that clearly belong to my husband, heavens no!"

Chica swung the pantry door wider, her voice syrupy and sweet. "See? Perfectly ordinary. Absolutely nothing suspicious in here at all."

Yzma and Brain didn't even wait for her to finish—they surged forward, both intent on being the first to uncover whatever was inside that would lead them to Kuzco. If they were the same height, their shoulders would have collided at the threshold, but Brain's wide head did bump into Yzma's angular ankles. They each muttered something sharp and indignant as they shoved past one another into the narrow space.

The moment their backs crossed the doorway, Chica's smile sharpened. With one smooth motion, she swung the door shut. There was a heavy click as the latch caught.

Yzma froze. Brain turned slowly.

From outside, Chica stood holding the handle of the door, now entirely detached from the rest of the door. She twirled it once in her hand like a trophy, her smirk widening into a triumphant smile.

"What do you think of the family pantry?" she asked sweetly.

"It's rather dark," Yzma said.

"And crowded," Brain added as he moved out from under her feet.

"Watch it, rodent," Yzma snapped.

"Perhaps if your extremities weren't quite so… pointy," Brain shot back.

Kronk sighed. "I wanted to see the pantry…"

Yzma pressed her ear to the door of the pantry at the sound of his voice. "Kronk! Open the door!"

Kronk leaned close, examining the door intently, then straightened. "I can't. There's no handle."

"There's no…" Yzma ground her teeth together before throwing her hands up in the air.

Brain smirked. "Astounding. Humanity will perish, not through plague or war, but because one imbecile cannot overcome a simple carpentry flaw."

Yzma glared down at him in the dark. "Don't you start, rodent! Your little assistant can't even focus for three seconds. He's probably—oh, I don't know—chasing butterflies instead of helping you."

Pinky was actually not chasing butterflies.

He was clinging to the handles of a powerful floor buffer as it roared across the house like a runaway llama, spinning him in crazy circles. The machine squealed, and the cord whipped behind it like a tail as Pinky whooped with delight.

"Wheeee! Look at me, I'm polishing and dancing at the same time! Narf!" The floor beneath Pinky shined and gleamed as he and the buffer waltzed across it.

Outside the house, Chaca squinted one eye and stuck out her tongue, holding her fingers up in a little square frame as she lined up the wheelbarrow with exaggerated precision. "No, no—little more to the left," she instructed, shuffling sideways to adjust her angle.

Her little brother Tipo huffed as he wrestled the wobbly wheelbarrow into place. "Like this?"

"More!" Chaca said, her tongue poking out even further as she framed him again. "A liiiitle more—there! Perfect!"

She dropped her hands and grinned. "See? Told ya I'm good at this."

Tipo rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his smile. "Fine. Can we go now?"

Chaca gave a nod, then they both broke into a giggle as the two of them darted down the hill, their laughter echoing as they carried the next part of their mother's plan into position. Tipo stopped partway, holding a buzzing beehive balanced high on a stick. Chaca ran further down the hill, a fluffy pillow tucked under her arm.

Yzma's patience finally snapped. She futilely pounded a bony fist on the pantry door. "If you can't use your brains, then use your big dumb shoulders and break the door down!"

Kronk bent down, running his broad palm lovingly across the wood. "This door is solid mahogany. Real good craftsmanship, too." He sniffed and rubbed his fingers together thoughtfully. "You can tell by the grain."

Yzma's eyes twitched. "Mahogany?" she hissed. "Fine! I'll do it myself!"

She backed up a few steps, bracing like a charging bull.

Brain raised an eyebrow. "Really, must we resort to brute force? A more measured approach would—"

He didn't get to finish. Yzma's bony ankles clipped him as she barreled past, knocking the mouse clean off his feet. He huffed indignantly as he skidded across the dark floor, his tiny limbs flailing.

"Uncivilized," Brain muttered under his breath, trying to straighten himself again—just as Chica swung the pantry door open from the outside.

Yzma lunged forward at full speed. Brain darted sideways to avoid her, but too late—his tail was caught in the frayed hem of her trailing robe. He yelped as he was dragged out of the pantry, bouncing helplessly along the polished floor like an unwilling tassel.

"Release me this instant!" he shouted, digging in his heels. But the momentum carried him forward in a flurry of yelps and sputtering indignation.

From the corner of the room, Kronk looked up from drying a plate. "Huh. Guess he's hitchin' a ride."

Pinky popped up in the middle of the floor, balancing a tray almost his own size. "Look, Brain! I found snacks!"

Yzma shrieked incoherently as she went by, skidding wildly across the polished boards. She shot past him in a blur, with Brain screaming behind her, dragged along like an unwilling tassel.

Pinky blinked after them. "…Maybe next time?"

Kronk ran up to the front door. "Don't worry! I'll get the door—" He grabbed the latch and swung it wide. Unfortunately, it was a split-door, and only the bottom half swung open.

Yzma had no time to stop. She slammed face-first into the still-closed top half with a loud thunk. Stars spun above her mascaraed eyes as she pitched forward—directly into the wheelbarrow waiting on the other side. Brain was flattened beneath her with a muffled squeak. He tried to protest, but the wheelbarrow was already careening downhill.

Tipo's trap triggered first: the cart barreled under the suspended beehive, which tipped and poured sticky golden honey all over them.

Next came Chaca, shaking out her fluffy feather pillow with glee. The feathers clung instantly, sticking to the honey in a ridiculous, downy coat.

Finally, the wheelbarrow struck a rock, flipped forward, and catapulted its passengers skyward. With a splat, the honey-and-feather-coated duo collided with the rope where a papier-mâché piñata had been dangling. The piñata itself sailed off into the bushes as the sticky feathered pair hung in its place.

An old woman clapped her hands. "Okay, children! Go!"

Blindfolded kids swarmed, giggling and shouting, swinging their sticks with wild abandon at the "piñata."

Yzma shrieked, feathers flying. Brain, stuck to Yzma now in hem and honey, grimaced silently.

"Wretched children!" Yzma squawked indignantly.

"For once, we are in agreement," Brain muttered darkly.

Before Yzma could reply, a flash of movement caught her eye—two figures darting along the crest of a hill, several hilltops away. A llama and a broad-shouldered peasant.

"Kronk!" she shrieked in between strikes from the children, "They're getting away!"

"Pinky, after them!" Brain echoed.

At the doorway, Kronk beamed proudly as he finally managed to open both halves of the front door at once. He turned to Chica with a warm smile. "Thanks for the lovely time. Let's not wait until another family reunion, huh?"

Chica blinked, bemused. "...Sure?"

"And can I come back to play again?" Pinky asked the children.

"Of course!" Tipo grinned.

Chaca gave him a thumbs-up. "Best cousin ever."

Chica refrained from anything more than rolling her eyes.

Kronk and Pinky locked eyes. Both hesitated.

"So…" Kronk began slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was kinda thinking—"

Pinky perked up. "I was thinking, too!"

They blurted out together: "Do you wanna go together?"

They froze, then broke into identical grins.

"No way!" Pinky gasped. "We were thinking the same thing! Narf!"

"Totally awesome," Kronk agreed, practically glowing. He scooped Pinky up in one big hand and set him proudly on his right shoulder. "All right, little buddy. Let's do this!" Kronk took long, quick strides down the hill.

Ahead of them, Yzma flailed uselessly against the ropes, feathers drifting down like mocking confetti. Brain, plastered to her side, grimaced.

"They're leaving without us!" Yzma screeched, feathers puffing out of her hair.

"Wait!" Brain snapped, trying to wriggle his tail free. "Don't run off without—"

But the plea fell on deaf ears. Kronk had already charged out the front door, Pinky clinging happily to his shoulder and waving back at the children as they cheered.

The sticky, feather-coated pair were left behind, sputtering in indignation.

Pinky held his hand over his eyes, scanning the hills ahead of them. "How are we going to catch up?"

Kronk rolled his shoulders, limbering up as he ran. "Don't worry, I've got this."

"Got what?" Pinky asked, still perched happily on his shoulder.

"The chase music," Kronk said matter-of-factly. He leaned back, cupped his hands around his mouth, and launched into a thumping rhythm: duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh!

"Oh, I love this part!" Pinky cheered, clapping along. "I'll do the guitar—budda budda beeyooooow! Narf!"

Together, the unlikely duo barreled down the hill after the fleeing llama and peasant, their self-supplied soundtrack echoing across the valley. Pinky leaned into each turn like an eager co-pilot, shouting, "Faster, Kronk! They're going that way! No, wait—this way! Narf!"

Up on another hilltop, Kuzco risked a glance over his shoulder. "Seriously? They're still coming? With their own theme song?!"

"Don't look back!" Pacha huffed, pulling him along. "It'll only encourage them!"

Further back on the path, Kronk skidded to a halt, one arm shooting out to block Pinky like a protective seatbelt.

A line of fuzzy ducklings waddled across the jungle path in perfect formation. Their tiny "quack-quack-quack" cut through the pounding chase music Kronk and Pinky had just been performing.

"Oh no," Kronk whispered reverently. "A crossing."

Pinky gasped. "Ducklings! Tiny little baby duckies, narf!"

Kronk's brow furrowed. He pulled out a whistle from his pocket and stood in the middle of the road, back straight with purpose. "Junior Chipmunk Troop 817 procedure. Standard street-crossing protocol."

Pinky, still standing on his shoulder, watched intently. "Remember, little duckies! Use the buddy system!"

The ducklings marched onward with military precision, their tiny feet pattering across the path. Kronk raised both hands, palms out, signaling a complete stop to any potential cross traffic like the world's most intimidating crossing guard.

A weary traveler came trudging up the trail with a pack slung over his shoulders. He blinked at the sight before him—Kronk standing, whistle in his mouth, Pinky perched on his shoulder like an overexcited drill sergeant, and a solemn line of ducklings.

"Uh… what's going on?" the man asked hesitantly.

"Crossing," Kronk said gravely.

"Junior Chipmunk business!" Pinky added, saluting. "Very official!"

The traveler glanced down the empty jungle road, then back at the ducks, then back at Kronk. "...Right." He adjusted his pack and waited.

When the last duckling hopped into the undergrowth, Kronk gave a sharp blast on his whistle. "All clear."

The traveler stepped forward—only for Kronk to throw an arm across the traveler's chest again. Another duckling waddled out of the grass, scurrying to catch up. "Straggler," Kronk explained.

The traveler just sighed and muttered, "I just can't stand this rush hour traffic."

Kronk simply nodded to him. "Thank you for your patience."

Pinky shaded his eyes with a hand, peering down the trail. "Narf! They're miles ahead, Kronk!"

Kronk cracked his neck confidently. "Don't worry. I know a shortcut."

Without another word, he veered off the main road and charged downhill into the jungle, Pinky clinging to his shoulder like a furry figurehead.

"Shortcut!" Pinky cheered. "Brilliant idea!"

The first obstacle came fast: a wall of thorny bramble. Kronk tried to bull through, arms pumping. Pinky squealed, "Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!" as both emerged covered in scratches, bramble leaves still stuck to their ears.

Next was a china shop, sitting inexplicably in the middle of the jungle. Shelves of delicate porcelain vases and llama-shaped teapots rattled as Kronk burst in one side and out the other. A crash followed them like an avalanche.

"Sorry!" Kronk called back towards the shop.

"Oh, that was a lovely pattern, too!" Pinky cried, clutching his cheeks.

Before Kronk could reply, a different sound hit their ears: the clatter of small plastic bricks being poured. They skidded around a bend to find a pair of children kneeling in the dirt, upending a woven basket full of colorful blocks.

"Clean those up right now," their exasperated mother scolded. "What if somebody comes running through the jungle all over your toys?"

Kronk's foot landed on the first piece with a sharp crunch. He froze, eyes wide. "…Oh no."

A heartbeat later, he and Pinky were dancing across the minefield of LEGO blocks, Kronk yowling in pain, knees buckling as bricks stabbed his soles, the tiny bricks somehow hurting his feet even through his boots. Pinky clung to Kronk's head like a shrieking hat.

The mother pointed after them as they crashed through the undergrowth. "See?!"

They staggered into a clearing at last, battered and bruised.

"Shortcut," Kronk wheezed triumphantly, puffing out his chest.

The ground immediately gave way. Both vanished into a pit with a startled yelp and a tangle of snapping branches.

The jungle was silent, except for a rolling plastic brick settling with a click.

From below, Kronk's voice floated up, sheepish. "…Now that I think of it… the shortcut was in the other direction."

Kuzco stumbled across the slick stone floor, water dripping from his fur in steady rivulets. He staggered to a halt and glanced back just in time to see the problem still attached to him.

An alligator dangled from his tail. Its jaws clamped down on the tuft of fur at the end, its eyes narrowed in stubborn determination.

"Great," Kuzco muttered. "My royal tail's a chew toy."

With a sharp kick from his back leg, he sent the beast yelping across the room. It hissed, and then fled through an open archway.

"Honestly!" Kuzco threw his hooves skyward. "Why is there even a second lever?!"

Pacha winced, already standing sheepishly at the face of the stone bat statue sitting at the end of the hall. His hand hovered over the carved handle. "Uh… maybe this one?"

He pulled.

The wall beside them spun with a grinding rumble, and suddenly the floor disappeared. Kuzco and Pacha yelped as they tumbled headfirst into a waiting stone rollercoaster car.

They barely had time to look at each other, both wide-eyed and gripping the edges of their seats, before a deep voice echoed through the chamber. "Please remain seated and keep your arms and legs inside at all times."

The rollercoaster slowly crept forward… then plunged straight down the stone track.

Their combined screams echoed through the palace halls, swallowed by the roar of rushing wind and rattling wheels.

"Okay, okay, it's just a little ride," Pacha said, clutching the lap bar tightly. "Maybe it's not so—"

The track tilted sharply and hurled them into a corkscrew spiral. Both screamed as their world spun upside down, the car miraculously clinging to the track with no visible mechanism.

"THIS IS NOT PHYSICALLY POSSIBLE!" Kuzco shrieked.

The track pitched downward into a dark tunnel, then whirled into a hairpin turn. It screeched upward, its momentum taking it up an impossibly steep stone ramp, before finally plunging down one last vertical drop.

Both passengers screamed themselves hoarse until the car slammed to a stop at the base of a cavernous chamber. Pacha and Kuzco, fur and clothes sticking out at crazy angles, blinked blearily as the dust settled.

They had landed squarely in Yzma's laboratory.

Cauldrons bubbled by worktables covered in equipment. Racks of vials clinked against one another, and multiple strange smells wafted from various containers.

They tore into the lab with none of Brain's precision. Pacha darted from worktable to worktable, pawing through bubbling beakers and stacks of alembics, purple smoke curling around his ears. He picked up one potion after another, eyes wild. "What does it look like?"

"I don't know!" Kuzco snapped, rummaging through a shelf. "Just keep looking!"

Pacha spun toward a stone rack against the far wall, its shelves lined with neat rows of potions. His heart leapt. "Over here!"

He scanned the iconographic labels one by one, finger flying along the carved images. "Lions… tigers… bears…"

His hand froze on the final symbol: a man. But the shelf itself was empty.

"Oh my," purred a voice behind them.

They turned. Yzma stepped from the shadows, a potion clutched in her clawed hand. Brain emerged at her side, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

"I believe we have what you're looking for," he said.

Kuzco's jaw dropped. "No! It can't be! How did you get here before us?"

Yzma opened her mouth to gloat… then froze. Her smile faltered. Slowly, she glanced down at Brain. "…Yes. How did we?"

Brain smirked and tugged a cord. A roll-up chart unfurled from the ceiling with a snap, covered in meticulous diagrams.

"While you subjected yourselves to the full rollercoaster's unnecessary centripetal loops," he began crisply, "we simply entered the adjacent service corridor." He tapped the diagram with a pointer. "A direct stairway, running parallel to the track. No corkscrews, no improbable drops, no alligators."

Pacha blinked. "…There were stairs?"

"Indeed," Brain replied. He quietly added, "A fact I wish I was made aware of days ago."

Kuzco threw his hooves up. "Oh, come on! I screamed my royal lungs out on three different drops, and there were stairs the whole time?!"

Brain rolled up the chart with a sharp snap. "That is the price one pays for failing to think rationally."

Kuzco groaned, flopping back against the lab wall. "Fine. Whatever. But you—" he jabbed a hoof toward Brain—"I get that Yzma's been trying to get rid of me since, like, breakfast. But what's your deal, Short Stack? What do you want?"

Brain's eyes narrowed, but his tone was cool and precise. "What I want, Your Former Majesty, is an empire that isn't squandered on vanity projects and water slides in the shape of your head. What I want is a ruler who doesn't drain the treasury on banquets and theme songs while peasants toil in poverty. And what I want most of all…" He straightened. "…is a sovereign who reads the decrees he signs, rather than simply autographing whatever parchment happens to be shoved under his nose."

Kuzco opened his mouth to retort—then faltered. His ears drooped a little. "…Okay, ouch. But… not wrong."

Pacha glanced at him, eyebrows raised. Kuzco muttered, "I was gonna read that one about llama grazing permits. Eventually."

Brain folded his hands neatly behind his back again. "I do not seek your demise out of petty jealousy or hunger for spectacle. I seek it because you are a poor steward of this empire, and I can do better."

Kuzco frowned, searching for a comeback. Finally, he blurted, "So why didn't you just tell me all this?"

Yzma didn't wait for an answer from Brain as she stepped forward, the potion glinting in one hand. "Back to business," she purred.

Kuzco flinched under her glare. "Okay, so maybe I wasn't as nice as I should've been," he blurted. "But… but you really want to kill me?"

Yzma's lips peeled back in a smile too sharp to be kind. "Oh, don't play the innocent now. You never noticed me when you were on the throne. You never noticed anyone." She tilted her head, her voice dripping with venom. "Why should you expect mercy from me now?"

Kuzco shook his head, voice cracking. "I can't believe this is happening!"

"Believe it," Yzma hissed. Her hand slid beneath her skirts and drew out a wicked, curved knife that caught the purple glow of the bubbling cauldrons. She held it aloft, eyes gleaming with a mad light.

Yzma held the knife aloft, the gleam of the blade dancing in her eyes. Kuzco shrank back against the worktable, ears flat.

But instead of striking, she gave a disdainful snort and twirled the blade in her claws. "Please. Do you really think I'd dirty my hands with this?" She tucked the knife back under her dress and turned toward the wall. "No, no. I have people for that."

With a sharp yank, she pulled down a great iron lever. A gong reverberated through the chamber as crimson lanterns lit one by one along the walls.

Kuzco jumped at the sound. "What did you just—"

"Guards!" Yzma's voice rose with gleeful venom. "Seize them! All three of them—" she jabbed a claw toward Kuzco, Pacha, and Brain in turn, "—are the traitors who murdered your beloved emperor!"

Kuzco's eyes bulged. "Murdered me? I'm standing right here! I'm the emperor!"

"That's exactly what a guilty imposter would say!" Yzma shot back.

Brain stiffened, his voice dripping ice. "How opportune for you to eliminate two rivals and an inconvenient ally with a single fabrication."

"Exactly," Yzma purred, stepping close enough to sneer down at him. "You weren't so naïve as to think I'd share, were you?"

Pacha lunged, seizing Yzma's wrist with both hands. She hissed like a cornered cat, jabbing her bony elbows and stabbing with her lethal knees.

"Give it up!" Pacha grunted, straining against her wiry strength.

"Never!" Yzma shrieked, her clawed fingers tightening.

For a heartbeat the two struggled, teetering back and forth. Pacha's bulk finally won out, wrenching her arm wide, and the potion flew out of her grasp. The vial arced across the lab in a glittering streak of purple.

Kuzco bolted forward, hooves outstretched.

But before he could reach it, Yzma slammed her shoulder into the nearest stone shelf. Dozens of other potions tumbled down with a thunderous crash, vials clattering together in a muddled heap across the floor.

Kuzco skidded to a halt, staring at the mess in horror. "No, no, no! Which one was mine?!"

Yzma smirked, brushing herself off. "Good luck finding it now, llama boy."

The chamber doors burst open, and a squad of burly guards stormed in, spears gleaming, their footsteps pounding on the floor.

"There's no time!" Pacha said, grabbing the nearest intact vials. He swept his poncho wide and used it like a sling, bundling as many bottles as he could into the fabric. Clutching the makeshift satchel tight, he backed toward Kuzco. "Just take them all!"

Javelins clattered against the stone floor, one splintering inches from Kuzco's hooves. He yelped and ducked, clutching Pacha's arm.

Before either of them could decide which way to run, a small figure darted past. Brain charged straight through the line of worktables, running under the furniture to stay out of the line of fire.

"The back door is this way!" he snapped, his voice carrying even over the clash of steel.

Pacha blinked. "There's stairs and a back door?!"

"Of course there's a back door!" Brain retorted, weaving nimbly as another javelin whistled past. "Even tyrants need fire exits!"

Kuzco scrambled after him, muttering, "Why am I following the short guy?!" but another spear embedded itself in the stone where his head had just been. "Right, right—short guy knows the way!"

Clutching his poncho full of rattling potions, Pacha barreled after both of them, his broad shoulders knocking aside a workbench as the guards roared and gave chase. Glass shattered and purple liquid splashed across the charging guards.

The effect was immediate. One by one, the soldiers morphed into an absurd menagerie: a cow blinked in confusion, an ostrich flailed, a gorilla pounded its chest, a lizard darted across the floor, an octopus flopped wetly against the tiles, and a warthog squealed in indignation.

Yzma's eye twitched. "Get them!" she shrieked.

The cow guard raised a hoof. "Uh, hey, I've been turned into a cow. Can I go home?"

Yzma paused, then gave a curt nod and gestured toward the door. "You're excused."

"Thanks." The cow trotted off, hooves clopping.

Hands on her hips, Yzma glared at the rest. "Anyone else?"

A chorus of animal voices answered, "No, we're good."

Her face hardened, eyes blazing. She jabbed a claw toward the retreating fugitives. "Then what are you waiting for? Get them! I don't care what you do with the llama and the peasant…" Her voice dropped to a low, venomous growl. "…but I want that rodent brought back to me."