Being a toon has perks.
One of them is wardrobe speed.
I step out of a narrow side street and—fwip—I'm now an anthropomorphic cartoon rabbit in a suit that probably costs more than the building I'm standing next to. Dark charcoal. Sharp lapels. Tie knotted perfectly. Shoes polished to a mirror shine that absolutely does not reflect the street correctly.
I look good. Dangerously good.
People pass me like I'm a mirage.
A businessman glances my way, blinks twice, stiffens, then keeps walking with the rigid posture of a man who has decided that acknowledging what he just saw would permanently damage his mental health.
A woman laughs nervously to her friend and says something about stress. Her friend agrees a little too quickly.
They don't see me.
They see the idea of seeing me, decide they're hallucinating, and move on.
Which is hilarious.
I grin, my long ears flicking slightly as I walk. The suit moves with me like it was animated that way on purpose. Which it was.
Then my ears twitch.
Sound.
Not normal street noise. Not traffic. Not footsteps. Voices—muffled, layered, deliberate. Counting. Paper sliding.
I stop.
"Ah," I mutter. "Crime."
I reach into hammerspace and pull out a trombone.
Naturally.
It's gold-plated, curved just wrong, with a mess of wires taped to the side and a small glowing screen near the mouthpiece labeled UNIVERSAL TRANSLATE-O-MATIC. I lift it to my ear like a stethoscope, slide the trombone in and out gently, and the world sharpens.
French voices resolve into clarity.
"…split it evenly—no funny business—"
"…you sure nobody followed—"
"…count again—"
I smile.
An idea pops into my head so cleanly it might as well have come with a sound effect.
Enter the Crew
I step through the door.
No smoke bomb. No fanfare. Just a confident walk into a room full of men with guns and money on the table.
They all look up.
To them?
I belong here.
Toon logic clicks into place like a well-oiled trap.
I adjust my tie, put on a thick French accent I absolutely do not have, and say:
"Hey boss—what about me? I was doing lookout."
The boss squints at me.
Thinks.
Nods.
"Oh. Right."
He slides a stack of cash across the table.
"Here's your portion."
"Merci," I say.
I vanish.
Pop.
I reappear on the other side of the room as a beautiful young woman in a leather jacket, hair tied back, chewing gum.
"What about me, boss? I'm the one with the getaway car."
The boss doesn't even blink.
"You're right too."
Another stack of cash.
"Here. Your pension."
Pop.
Now I'm a lanky guy with a scar and a cigarette.
"What about me, boss?"
"Here's yours."
Pop.
Short. Tall. Old. Young. Male. Female. Voices shifting. Accents bouncing. Hats. Glasses. Mustaches appearing and falling off.
"What about me, boss?""Here's yours.""What about me, boss?""Here's yours.""What about me, boss?""Here's yours."
Over and over.
The money pile shrinks.
The boss keeps handing it out.
To people who were never there.
Finally, silence.
I'm gone.
The boss looks down at his hands.
One bill.
A single, lonely, slightly wrinkled €100 note.
Not two hundreds.
Not a stack.
Just one.
"…Huh," he says.
Outside, Accounting Department
Outside the building, fourteen of me reappear at once, all in different outfits, arms full of cash.
We look at each other.
Nod.
And merge.
Fwump.
I'm whole again, back in my expensive rabbit suit, standing in the sunlight with a briefcase that absolutely did not exist five seconds ago.
I open it.
Money. Lots of it.
I count carefully. Because I'm a professional.
"Well," I say, pleased, "that went efficiently."
I snap the briefcase shut and start walking down the street, humming.
I'll spend some of it on food. Good food. Croissants. Real ones. Not sewer-adjacent.
I'll tip generously. Pay fairly. Support local businesses.
After all—
If I'm going to be in France…
—I might as well be a good citizen.
Even if no one admits they can see me.