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It wasn't anything unusual.
It wasn't anything unusual, because Ford was Bill's, and Bill liked to play, and sometimes the games that Bill liked to play weren't things that Ford would have thought of as 'fun' before.
Of course he did now. Anything that Bill thought was correct, because he was Bill, because Ford was his, because he was all-knowing and because… because there was no other option. So, Bill's games were fun. Sometimes, fun hurt, right? Right. Of course. Why else would people enjoy roller coasters, or bungee jumping, or boxing?
Sometimes, what Bill thought was fun was making Ford do things he wouldn't otherwise. That could mean a lot of things. Bill was creative. A truly brilliant mind.
Today, it meant that Ford found himself… not himself.
He was Ford, and then the world was so much bigger and there was no more red. What was red? Why did his head hurt? Everything was so… he could smell where he'd been, where Bill was, Pyronica, Teeth… A movement in the corner of his eye.
Bill! Whimpering (and oh, his throat felt so wrong) he limped over to his anchor, his everything, slipping as he tried to make his legs work. He was crawling? No, he wasn't, but he was bending in the wrong directions, and his teeth were too sharp, his vision blurry around the edges. But there was Bill. There was Bill.
"Ha, you're so funny like this, Fordsy," Bill said fondly, roughly patting him on the head. That was him. Fordsy. Yes? Was he? He was Bill's. That's what mattered. One of Bill's hands shot out and pushed his leg to the side slightly, sending him off-balance. He fell to the ground, and despite his best attempts, he could not get back up. "Go fetch!"
Bill threw… something… across the room. He needed to do what he was told. Legs that weren't his, or shouldn't be, or always had been, scrambled against the smooth, cold floor. He needed to get up. He had no arms to push himself to his feet. His shoulders didn't bend how he thought they should.
But Bill had told him to fetch. So he would.
He didn't need to be standing to move. Slowly, painfully, under Bill's watchful eye, he dragged himself sideways across the room. His side burned from the friction, fur rubbed all back and forth, itching. He reached for the thing, his vision all wrong to see it properly.
His legs—his arms—he didn't move like that. Teeth were for grabbing. To bring this back to Bill, he must use his teeth. Carefully, he maneuvered his face (too long, everything in the wrong place) so that his jaws fell around the thing. It tasted salty. Like metal.
"Aw, good dog," Bill cooed.
And then he was Ford again, Ford with fingers and the right kind of eyes and without the ability to smell Pyronica from five rooms over. He gasped, almost spitting out whatever he still had in his mouth, and sat up.
"Come on, Fordsy, I said fetch, that does mean bring it back," Bill said. Ford pushed himself upright slowly. His knees cracked, loudly, and they ached. Everything ached. It always did.
It took just seconds to get back to Bill, though it must have taken minutes before. It was hard to tell time, when he was a dog. Something about the way his neurons had to rearrange themselves, he thought. Everything always got so… muddled. He would love to take some kind of notes about it, but taking notes was hard when you didn't understand what notes were or have opposable thumbs.
Ford spit whatever it was into his hand and gave it back to Bill. Looked like a heart. Maybe human, maybe not; it didn't really matter, did it?
"Oh, good boy, Fordsy," Bill said, a little bit of a laugh in his voice. That was good. A happy Bill meant that Ford was doing this right. Whatever 'this' was. "Hey, tell ya what. You can have this! As a treat! Catch!" He threw the heart into the air, and Ford scrambled to catch it, just barely able to snatch it out of the air before it fell. He looked up for approval.
He didn't get it.
"I meant in your mouth."
With a snap of his fingers, Ford was—
Everything was very clear. Patterns on the Fearamid walls. Things he hadn't noticed. Maybe hadn't seen. He stepped forward, feet clicking on the floor.
Everything was very high up. Bill was above him. Bill was… he was Bill's. Bill was important. The most important. He should listen to Bill. He loved Bill.
Everything was very far away. To his left was food. He was supposed to be eating it. He walked over to it, tried to take a bite.
He didn't have teeth. He tried to feel his face, but no, that wasn't right. How would he do that? Silly him. Wings didn't bend like that. Wings were for… were for…
"Fordsy, you want to make me happy, right? Want to make it up to me?" Bill said. He tried to nod, but his chin didn't tilt the way he expected it to. He bobbed his head.
"Of course you do! Well, here's what I need you to do: fly on up to the top of the Fearamid. It's gotten a little dusty up there! You're basically a feather duster! Just head on up and brush it off! Not hard at all."
Wings were for flying. That was right. Hollow bones. Aerodynamic. He needed to flap. That was what wings did. Some birds can migrate thousands of miles in just a matter of weeks, he thought, and his vision spun with the weight of the thought.
Up and down. That was all he needed to do. Quickly, to get lift. He flapped his wings. It didn't feel right, but Bill said he should, so he would. His primary feathers brushed the ground, over and over, but he stayed on the ground.
"Need a hand there, Sixer?" Bill said cheerfully, scooping him off the ground. He felt… grateful. Grateful. Yes. "Well, up you go!" And he was in the air. He was fast. For a moment, he was sure he'd done it. He was flying!
Something cracked and he was upside-down and it burned, he flipped himself upright and tried to run from the pain, if he could just outrun it, propelling himself forward with wings but one wouldn't move and his head was heavy and his vision was missing the middle and something was wrong—
Ford skidded to a stop. The pain evaporated, and he was left with just the normal aches and pains. Normal, when you were growing old. Perhaps slightly more than most, but Ford had never been an average man.
"Oh, Fordsy, you just can't do anything right today, can you?" Bill said with a disappointed sigh.
I'm sorry, Ford tried to say, but he couldn't remember how to speak. He was dizzy, his feet firmly planted so he didn't fall over. Two legs felt like the wrong number, somehow. Which was ridiculous. He was wired for two legs. He needed to snap out of this, quickly, he was upsetting Bill.
"Well, you're still funny, I guess!" he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "But, hey, wanna see a cool new trick I learned?"
Yes, Ford wanted to say, of course, always, always, always. What came out was a little grumbling noise. Hopefully, Bill knew what he meant.
"You'll love this one," and with another snap of his fingers, Ford—
needed cover needed to hide where is there to hide
such an empty space so wide so tall too big to see either side
hold still hold still hold still
a threat above
something precious above
Mice see green and ultraviolet wavelengths, so the world appears very differently to them. Like all creatures, they have evolved to fit and best survive in their environment.
too far to run no cover nowhere to hide
predator watching something staring nowhere to hide
not fast enough for safety have to hold still
safety from BILL
BILL is safety
nowhere is safety nowhere to hide watched forever no escape eyes eyes eyes everywhere there are eyes
eyes are safety must remain watched to leave his sight is to abandon him he is everything he is everything he is everything
close close close BILL eyes hands touching laughter words speaking
Ford was sitting on the floor. His hands were shaking. He tried to tuck his tail close, but he didn't have a tail, because he was a human being.
"Never gets old! What'd you think of that one? Never turned you into a mouse before! You just stood there! What goes on in that head of yours?" Bill was ruffling his hair, and he relaxed into the contact. "I guess half the time you just stand here anyways! Could you even understand me? I guess not. You wouldn't disobey me on purpose, would you?"
Ford shook his head. Of course not. Never. He couldn't say it, but Bill knew. Bill had to know.
Bill was everything. Ford would do anything he asked. That was the order of things, because he was Bill's.
He was BIll's. And that's exactly how he wanted it to be.