“Oh, crud!” Danny exclaimed quietly, “Of all the days to oversleep…” He swung his legs over the bed’s edge, lurched forward, grabbing a shirt from his closet, and stumbled toward his dresser. Raising an arm, he managed to stand up straight, grunting as he yanked at the cloth’s hem, finally pulling it down over his head. “Can’t have Lancer keep me after on the last day of school,” he muttered, rubbing his hair into the usual jags, “so…!” His eyes darted right.

Stepping back, turning to face the door, he extended his arms to either side. A sparking blue spiral wound its way up his body.

He’d only just drawn the breath for his next line, when a voice barked loudly. “CUT!”

“Ow!” Danny cried as the boom dropped onto his head. He reached up, grabbing it, and pushed it aside. He looked out, off of the set, with an almost blank, innocently blinking face.

The word echoed across the room, and filming skidded to a halt. He felt a cold pulse as Hartman approached him, script in hand, tightly grasped. Butch opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off. He looked up and Danny turned his head.

“I’m sensing a hold-up…we’re not GETTING to my scene today, are we?” Sam said bitterly as she approached the two, hands in fists, planted firmly on her hips.

The window beside the bed opened, and Jack leaned through it, already sporting a flowery pink shower-cap. “Am I on yet?” he asked.

“QUIET!” Hartman commanded, both arms raised, palms outstretched. He lowered then, putting a hand to the level of his eyes, sighing. “Danny,” he began, jabbing a finger at the printed page, “read the script: it says, ‘Danny faces camera, transforms with blue rings –rings! Not some weird sparkly, spirally --!” He gestured energetically in his frustration. Midway, he turned and shouted, “Kill the transition music, will you!?”

Danny looked away. “I – I’m sorry, jeez! I know, but…”

Hartman rose, and walked back toward the far wall. “Look, let’s just break for lunch…I don’t want to think about this anymore right now…”

“Wait, Butch, wait!” Danny cried, jogging to catch up to him. Hartman stopped, and Danny stood in front of him. “I’ll do the rings – just lemme try it one more time, please!”

“No, you ‘please’ – we’ve restarted this same scene thirteen times, and the last ten you kept having trouble with your shirt!”

Danny hung his head, cheeks lightly flushed.

Hartman continued walking. Stephen Silver soon joined him. “Aren’t you being a little harsh on him?” He stole a glance at Danny, in plain clothes, now standing at the refreshments table throwing back a cup of lukewarm coffee. His square digits seemed to glow, even against the bright white of the Styrofoam cup. “He’s only a kid – albeit a ‘toon kid…”

“I guess I’m just kind of scared, almost – remember the ‘Secret Weapons’ fiasco? We got set back TWO MONTHS on that premiere…I just don’t want anything remotely like that happening again.” Butch explained.

“You ever think that maybe when he’s not up to snuff, it’s some sort of personal problem?” Silver suggested, “I know Secret Weapons was a disaster…and you didn’t want to spend anymore company time on anything outside of the show, but really, you can’t just work these guys to the bone. They’ve got issues just like any of us.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Steve, really, but…I mean, when did ‘toons get this political correctness lobby? Twenty years ago, you could drop a full-scale replica of the Titanic on them, a hundred times, and you wouldn’t’ hear a PEEP –“
“…and in eighteen sixty-four, you could still own slaves, your point? Actually, you still can beat ‘em up quite a bit – look at Hillenburg…but you’re dealing with human-form ‘toons, my friend. Anything in God’s image strikes more of a chord with civil rights’ activists nowadays.”
“All right, all right…I guess the premiere’s not ‘til June, so we’ve still got a good month…”
“Told you it would be a good idea – and that’s the spirit!”

Hartman threw an arm around Silver, pulling him close. “Thanks for helping me out, Steve – you’re the best ‘toon therapist I’ve ever known! …hackneyed as that may sound.”

Silver chuckled. “I’m the ONLY ‘toon therapist you’ve ever known…hackneyed as that may sound.”

“Don’t say it too loud, the writers might overhear…the last thing you want is a script based on our dumb ramblings…” Butch said, with a wide grin.

“Meh, those guys from Colorado already have it covered, I don’t think we need to worry…” Silver shot back, with a grin of equal size.

As they chummily walked out the studio doors, they made a wide arc around the usual mob. Marjorie Cohn stood at the window of her office, leaning on it, eyeing the crowd. Her lips were tweaked to one side, her eyes squinted.