Chapter Text
It had been a week, give or take, since the Coyote had returned. Truth be told, things had changed slightly—at least when it came to the chases. Since the canine was now cut off from his usual supply of ACME products, he had been forced to reinvent himself; which practically meant starting all over from scratch.
Their first few chases consisted of Coyote sprinting right behind the Road Runner, hot on his heels, almost catching him, yet never quite managing to pull it off. His fingers would only ever manage to graze the feathers of the bird’s fluffy tail, plucking just a single one before slamming his snout onto the scorching asphalt—leaving him with a scrape and a mild burn (luckily, toon injuries healed quickly enough, so he couldn't complain too much).
But the whole process had quickly become repetitive and a bit dull, for both of them.
Not that Wile ever grew tired of crashing—perish the thought! On the contrary: he was simply getting tired of relying on the exact same approach. He needed to reinvent his methods, and every hard hit against the dirt only fueled his desire to try something new…
For the Road Runner, the feeling was mutual. He was getting tired of watching his friend end up face-first on the pavement, grumbling to himself before vanishing as soon as he stood back up. Sure, Wile was significantly less injured than when he was using ACME contraptions, but his attitude felt entirely different. Despite repeating the same routine for days on end... the last time the bird looked back, he could have sworn he saw a spark in those yellowish eyes: a fiery determination that made his feathers puff up in excitement.
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The Coyote’s cave looked a bit different now. All the ACME products piled up in the corner had "Danger: Do Not Use" slapped across them in spray paint—more as a personal reminder to break his bad habit of relying on them. After all, even during his lawsuit against the corporation, he had stubbornly kept resorting to their gear.
So now he had far more space, along with a small glass jar containing a collection of blue feathers—failed mementos from his most recent hunts. And, despite everything, it felt good to be back. Not just in his home, but back with him…
Wile wanted to be the only one who had the privilege of cornering him, biting at his heels, hunting him down. He didn't want to spend another full day without his presence. That almost pathological drive to reach his goal was mutating into something he couldn't quite comprehend yet; all he knew was that whenever he thought about it, his chest swelled up and he felt an overwhelming urge to do something. He just didn't know what... at least, not yet.
He glanced side to side, checking that there were no minors around. Since cartoon characters were no longer permitted to smoke on screen due to ethical standards, most had given up the habit. Not that he was deeply addicted, but a puff now and then to calm his nerves was something he deemed essential. Mostly because it fed his ego—he loved how pretentious he looked puffing on a cigar while sketching blueprints; it made him feel like a true genius. Which, of course, he was.
So, as he rummaged around for an old box of cigars (whether they were stale or not was a completely different matter), it hit him: his "eureka" moment, as they called it.
He had gotten far too comfortable letting others invent things for him, taking cheap shortcuts courtesy of ACME. He had forgotten the sacred traditions: crafting traps with his very own hands.
With that thought in mind—and hauling his torso out of the junk pile he was digging through, the cigar box firmly clamped between his jaws—he rushed over to his filing cabinets.
He flipped through the tall, grey drawers. ACME… ACME… ACME… He had accumulated far too many blueprints and scrap metal over the course of seventy-seven years.
And there they were, covered in dust: the very first files in line. Records containing his original plans, dating back to when he was just a little pup, right up until... well, until he started buying from a certain evil corporation he had no desire to ever name again.
He blew the dust off the top and tried to yank one of the drawers open. It was jammed, and when he finally forced it open with a bit of leverage, the metallic drawer shot outward, striking him squarely in the face and slamming him against the cave wall. It left a perfect silhouette of his body carved into the rock as papers went flying everywhere, creating absolute chaos.
As best he could, once he managed to peel himself off the wall and tidy up the mess, he began reviewing his old sketches. They were classic, fairly simple designs, but that didn't mean he couldn't repurpose them with a fresh twist.
He had a few blueprints spread out across his desk and others pinned to the rock wall. The cigar remained lit, held firmly between his teeth as he exhaled a trail of smoke and weighed his options. The biggest hurdle was gathering materials: he could try ordering generic supplies, but… the reason he stopped buying regular items in the first place was that no delivery service catered to the middle of the desert. And if they did, they charged a fortune. In theory, money wasn't an issue thanks to the royalties from his various patents, but still—it was a matter of pride.
Until he caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye: the designated corner crammed with all the defective ACME products. Granted, he knew those contraptions were engineered to fail, but not every single component had to be faulty. There had to be individual parts that still worked on their own.
He exhaled another puff of smoke before letting out a ridiculously villainous laugh, thoroughly gloating over his own ingenuity—right up until his stomach let out a loud, desperate growl, reminding him he hadn't eaten a single bite all day.
That didn't just ruin his moment of triumph; it made him choke on the cigar smoke, coughing uncontrollably until he had to lean against a small workbench for support.
When his coughing fit finally subsided and he looked up, his gaze fell upon the small glass jar filled with light blue feathers. It served as a reminder of why he did this, why it was all worth it. One day, he would succeed, and that day would bring nothing short of pure bliss.
Though he couldn't dwell on it for long: the gnawing hunger in his belly was getting so intense it made him feel genuinely nauseous.
He dragged his feet over to the corner of the cave where he kept his food supplies. After all, coyotes were omnivores, so contrary to popular belief, he did eat other things. He just frequently forgot to do so because he was so obsessively set on "saving room for the Road Runner."
Unfortunately, his pantry was completely bare, save for some frozen meal that would take an eternity to prepare. He had been forced to throw away his Turbo-Microwave because, while excellent at thawing food quickly, it had a nasty habit of blowing up in his face. The replacement was a standard model—and infuriatingly slow.
Resigned to his fate, he followed the package instructions and stared miserably at his own reflection in the microwave's glass door, barely able to keep himself upright on his hind legs.
That's when he caught a sound in the distance. His ears perked up. It was coming from outside the cave, so he scurried toward the entrance to investigate: he was positive he had heard the patter of large avian feet shifting the gravel outside.
Reaching the entrance, he found no one. But before he could curse his bad luck or assume he was losing his mind, he noticed it lying on the ground: a couple of plump, slow-moving bugs with no way to escape, a handful of cactus fruits, and a small pile of seeds. Seeds he recognized instantly; they were the exact same birdseed he used as bait.
"...What in the world...?" he muttered under his breath.
He rarely spoke due to his self-imposed vow of silence, but since he was entirely alone, he figured he could afford to break the rule just this once.
Wile gathered the items quickly. They weren't strictly necessary—he technically had food on the way—but he appreciated the unexpected gesture. Even more so when, biting into one of the cactus fruits with extreme caution, he braced himself for a mouthful of prickles or a bitter taste. But no: it was carefully despined and sweet. The pleasant surprise coaxed him into eating more, not caring as the sticky juice dripped down and stained the fur on his cheeks.
He gazed out at the vast, desolate night landscape as the desert chill settled in. He took a deep breath, rationalizing how good it felt to be back despite the utter chaos of it all. Not in an "oh, wow, I'm back" kind of way, but rather a subtle "things just don't feel the same anymore," in a sense he couldn't quite label as good or bad.
Munching on his unusual gifts (setting the insects aside because... he had no desire to find out whether coyotes ate bugs), he found himself pondering: why, out of nowhere, would the bird extend such a warm gesture? They had always shared a somewhat one-sided dynamic, getting along in brief lulls between petty rivalries and endless chases. But leaving little presents for him in the middle of nowhere was... unprecedented. Especially since it wasn't a special occasion. And Wile knew full well who had done it: he could recognize those Road Runner tracks with his eyes closed.
"...He really does see me as a friend... doesn't he?" he mused out loud.
His voice rang out deep, cultured, and soft—a stark contrast to his scruffy, battered, almost feral appearance, which usually got him treated like a mere pest or a wild animal.
A minute later, the microwave chime shattered the quiet. He sighed and rose slowly, feeling considerably less faint with some food in his system. Another thought slipped past his lips:
"He truly is my companion..."
He nodded, feeling far more reflective and anxious than pleased. Having a genuine companion was a comforting thought, and knowing someone cared about his well-being was touching. Technically, he now had a couple of human allies, but this was entirely different! The Road Runner was his prey, his ultimate prize... his dinner.
And if he started developing genuine feelings for his dinner, he wouldn't be able to bring himself to catch it. In any other situation, it wouldn't matter, but when hunting him was his life's sole purpose, the realization was downright terrifying.
A cold shiver ran down his spine the more he dwelt on it, so he abruptly cut that train of thought short. Grabbing his meal from the microwave, he let out a low grumble and buried his face back in his blueprints to plan his next move.
What the Coyote didn't realize was that, the entire time, the fastest bird in the desert had been standing right outside the cave, frozen in place, drinking in every single word.
The Road Runner's feathers were ruffled, and an inexplicable thrill surged through him. For the very first time, he had heard the Coyote’s voice—and better yet, he had heard him confirm they were close friends. Best friends! The sheer excitement almost made him leap out of his skin, but he fought to keep quiet, practically bursting on the inside.
His voice was so refined, melodic... like a true gentleman. He hadn't even known the canine could speak. He was so giddy his plumage fluffed up, a warm flush spreading through him. He needed to release all this pent-up energy somehow! The Coyote had actually appreciated his humble gift of friendship and support!
Unable to contain it a second longer, he let out a thunderous "Beep, Beep!" and bolted, kicking up a massive cloud of dust that echoed like thunder across the entire canyon.
Naturally, the shockwave rattled the entire cave. Wile had to literally multiply himself in mid-air to catch his most prized possessions before they shattered on the ground, managing to save almost everything.
However, he spotted one last object plummeting toward the rocky floor. Acting purely on instinct, he threw himself down to cushion the blow, catching it just in the nick of time. In his paws rested the glass jar filled with blue feathers, as a single feather drifted down to land softly on his long snout. Almost like a gentle tease... or a quiet reminder that things would never go back to how they were. Not after such an open realization of how deeply connected they truly were—a bond that, after all these years, would be impossible to deny.