The Wabbit hopped with caution down the gloomy cavern. It was in a poor state, or it had never been finished. The cavern was silent except for water dribbling down the walls. The Wabbit knew that outside, noise levels were grim. In his head he could hear car alarms, ambulance sirens, leaf blowers, revving mopeds. A flickering on the roof was composed of his old documentary. "They're trying to torment me with my ancient film," thought the Wabbit, "they'll have to do better than that." Scenes changed. Barcelona gave way to Amsterdam to Dublin to London to Athens to Porto. The Wabbit shrugged. "That's all in the past." He hopped on. His glasses glowed a deep blue in the gloom. His head groaned. His feet were wet. His hands clammy. The voice returned, whispering. "Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?" The Wabbit knew that they were serious. His radio was under his paw, but he murmured into it. "Come in, come in" This time there was a signal. It must have been the metal rods. "Wabbit to base, come in," A soft crackle gave way to a familiar voice. "I know where you are, Commander. I've got a fix." The Wabbit hissed. "I could use some help here." Wabsworth was self-assured as always. "Shall I bring an excavator?" The Wabbit shrugged. "And explosives." There was a long silence. "Don't worry, we're on our way." He cut off. "Do what you like," hummed the Wabbit, "but don't keep me waiting."
