Sir Jeffingham’s sorcerer’s hat tips a little as a sly grin dances across his squirrel muzzle. “I think I have an idea,” he announces, holding his elegant, rune-engraved cybernetic arm level with the others. A gentle click-and-whir later, the world shifts for Mike.
Mike reappears, only now he stands at the same size as the other squirrels—albeit broader across the chest with a sturdy, rolling gait. His fur has become a deep, burnished red-brown, dense and sleek, poking out at the cuffs and collar of an old-fashioned flying jacket. The leather is scuffed and lovingly battered, lined with creamy fleece at the collar, wrists, and waist. Over his eyes perch a pair of round, bronze-rimmed goggles. A brown leather flight cap is snug over his ears, complete with chin straps bobbing by his cheeks. A faded, white silk scarf flutters around his neck, trailing behind as if caught by the wind.
Black boots encase his hind paws, and a belt slung low around his waist boasts some odd-looking map scrolls. His whiskers twitch in agitation as, on each side of his snout, juts a fixed propeller blade—sleek wood painted with yellow tips. They don’t turn, but their weight makes his muzzle dip unwillingly down with every movement. Completing the peculiar look, the auburn fur of his thick tail parts at the tip, revealing a miniature tail rudder: red stripes alternating with white, the vertical fin sticking out as if ready to steer.
Mike scowls, adjusting his goggles with a tiny, gloved paw. “What in the world?” he grumbles, feeling the propeller blades clack into the edge of his jacket every time he turns. He cranes his neck, noticing the little plane tail flaring from his rear. “Very funny,” he snaps, shooting Jeffingham a glare.
Sir Nuttingham circles Mike, studying him with genuine interest. “Most curious, good Michael. But what is your intended purpose in this… garb?” He nods toward the odd protrusions on Mike’s face. “Such tools—are they for foraging, perhaps? Or… a display to impress rivals?”
Jeffingham snickers and shakes his head, robe swirling around his legs. “Not exactly. This is just the first step, Dad. Trust me—I’ve got something fun in mind.”
Mike folds his arms, muttering darkly. “It better not involve more things sticking out of my face,” he warns, trying to swat his tail experimentally.
Jeff's whiskers twitch with anticipation as he studies his father’s new look. Mike, noticeably disgruntled by the propeller blades jutting from his muzzle and the airplane rudder sprouting from his tail, scowls up at his son.
“Would someone please tell me why I look like I should be leading some squirrel biplane squadron?” Mike gripes, feeling the propeller thump softly against his chin as he tries to cross his arms.
Jeffingham suppresses a smirk and gestures grandly with his rune-engraved cybernetic arm. “I need you to hop down to the floor. There’s a second part to this, and You need more room.” His sorcerer’s hat bobs as he tips his head toward the desk’s edge.
Mike eyes him warily. “You’re not going to turn my tail into a propeller, are you?”
“Just trust me,” Jeffingham replies smoothly, motioning toward the floor.
With a resigned little hop, Mike scampers to the carpet. The goggles slip down his snout, nearly crossing his eyes. Sir Nuttingham, plate gently jangling, follows him down with a neat leap. Jeffingham lands beside them, and Jeff brings up the rear in a flash of chestnut fur and canvas sneakers.
Jeffingham trots ahead to a clear stretch of floor, about a meter wide. He spins, the hem of his robe flaring dramatically. “This spot’s perfect. Come on, right here.”
Mike follows, the fur-lined jacket swishing softly. “Fine, but if this is another of your experiments…”
Jeffingham grins and folds his cybernetic arm across his belly, nodding. “Relax. You’re not in any danger. I just installed something a little different in you: a trigger word. If anyone says it near you, it’ll make you change, whether you want to or not. You’ll have a bit of warning—enough time to move somewhere safer if you don’t want people to see you transform.”
Jeff flexes his tiny paws, intrigued despite himself. “Seriously? What kind of change?” he asks, looking from his dad to Jeffingham.
Mike just frowns. “You’re saying a word will turn me into… something?” He raises a paw and nudges his propeller blade, which stubbornly refuses to budge.
“Exactly,” Jeffingham says, tail flicking with anticipation. “And the word is—” he pauses, flashing a mischievous grin “—Flyboy.”
Mike’s eyes widen, the propeller on his muzzle trembling as an electric ripple runs through him—
Mike’s protests catch in his throat as a ripple of strange, tingling pressure rushes through his body. His eyes widen behind those vintage goggles as something shifts between his hind legs. With a low, involuntary grunt, the soft, furred bulge at his groin swells powerfully, pressing outward—a hard, rounded form rapidly forcing itself through the fabric of his little flying pants. With a sharp tearing sound, the seams give way; a single black wheel pops free, sturdy rubber supported by strong chrome struts—his new tail-dragger’s rear landing gear.
“Whoa! Jeff…!” Mike tries to yell, but his voice cracks with the strain.
His feet are next. He yelps, falling backwards and instinctively curling up as his toes stiffen and fuse, the bones and fur reshaping, swelling outward and lengthening into hard, rounded tires. His legs thicken, subtle patterns of metal and colored trim tracing their way down the length of them, the fur receding as the soft squirrel flesh is overtaken by cold durability. They lengthen and lock into the geometry of classic landing gear, the axles and shocks gleaming even as his midsection shivers and seems pulled skyward.
“Amazing…” Sir Nuttingham murmurs, eyes wide as saucers, as Jeff stares on, breathless.
Mike gasps as his body bends forward, spine compressing, hips swiveling. His newly minted landing gear fold upward as his torso flows back, the soft pliant flesh merging seamlessly into the metal and rivets of his upper calves. Fur melds into polished sheet aluminum painted with British roundels and the markings of a vintage warbird.
His arms tingle, pitch, and shudder. Mike tries to clench his fists but his fingers fuse, forearms flattening and expanding, bones stretching with a hollow, metallic echo. Feathery brown fur gives way to burnished metal and canvas stretched taut over a framework of spars—broad elliptical wings blossoming from either side of his shrinking, reforming chest. Control flaps and the suggestion of gun ports appear. Both spread wide—his trembling arms now the powerful wings of a Spitfire.
Mike’s back arches hard. A bump forms between his shoulder blades, then bulges upward into the sleek glass canopy of a pilot’s cockpit. The glass sparkles with glossy reflections; within, a tiny control stick and detailed dials spring up, as if awaiting the touch of an aviator’s hand.
Not finished yet, Mike’s head tingles and recedes. He feels his muzzle squish, then flatten into a wide, streamlined nose. His face twists and merges into the painted nose-art on the tip of his new form—a classic, grinning shark mouth with a gleaming set of white teeth, given a surreal squirrelish twist by a pair of rodent incisors in front. His leather flying cap and goggles become mere decoration on the stylized art.
There’s one last shift—his tail, now capped with the striped rudder, merges completely into the tail assembly of the plane, vertical stabilizer and elevator forming with a soft whumph of displaced air.
A moment later, resting awkwardly in the middle of the room, is a gleaming, squirrel-sized Supermarine Spitfire, wings stretching more than a meter tip to tip, the body finished in classic camouflage paint. The plane’s “nose”—where Mike’s squirrel face grins eternally—points toward the far wall, the space utterly insufficient for flight or even a decent taxi.
Jeff, Jeffingham, and Sir Nuttingham cluster around, eyes wide with shock and awe.
Jeff snickers, crouching close to inspect. “Dad… you look absolutely wild.”
Sir Nuttingham circles, dumbfounded. “Sorcery! The transformation is… magnificent.”
Mike’s voice, deeper now and echoing slightly, vibrates from somewhere inside the cockpit: “You couldn’t have at least tried this outside? I need a runway—or at least another meter of living room!”
Jeff scampers with glee up Mike’s olive camouflaged wing, his little claws clinking on the painted metal. “Whoa, this is the coolest thing ever!” he chirps, peering into the glass canopy. He wipes away a smudge, his nose almost pressed to the crystal-clear cockpit.
Jeffingham strolls up beside the gleaming Spitfire, his robe billowing over the floor. “Stand aside, Jeff,” he says in his usual theatrical tone, reaching out with his cybernetic arm. With a smooth click, he slides the small canopy back, letting the scent of cured leather and machine oil rise from the tiny pilot’s seat.
Jeff wastes no time. He vaults over the edge of the cockpit and plops down inside, paws gripping the scale-flight stick. His tail flicks with excitement. “Everything’s so detailed in here! There’s even a working altimeter!”
Mike’s voice booms from within the machine, his tone mixing pride and anxiousness. “Just… be careful in there, son. I can feel everything!”
Sir Nuttingham continues his slow circuit around the plane, drawn to the polished nose and the cunning smile painted where Mike’s old face used to be. “Astounding! What sort of marvel is this contraption? Is it some kind of mechanized chariot?” he asks, paw touching a wheel in awe.
Jeffingham, still beside the cockpit, leans in and points to a hidden panel just below the edge of the seat. “Jeff, see this? These are the controls. This stick works the ailerons and elevators, just like in a real Spitfire. Anyone sitting here can steer—well, provided Dad isn’t moving on his own.” His finger hovers over a little red toggle switch marked Mind Override. “And this? It shuts off Mike’s awareness—leaves him as a plane, pure and simple.”
Mike’s voice cuts in, alarmed and echoing from the dashboard speakers, “What? Hold on, you can just… turn me off? Without asking?!”
Jeffingham holds up his paws innocently. “It’s just a feature. Relax! And look—this button, right here”—he points to a blue toggle with a tiny squirrel icon—“lets you turn back to your squirrel self, cockpit and all, no muss, no fuss.”
Jeff leans forward, wide-eyed. “So, I could just press this and—bam! Dad would be squirrel-Dad again?”
“That’s right.” Jeffingham grins, tail curled mischievously. “But not until you’ve taxied him around a bit, eh?”
Mike huffs, making the nose art seem to frown beneath its eternal grin. “Just don’t press anything I wouldn’t press…”
Sir Nuttingham steps back, marveling at the full wing and tail. “This is a wondrous thing indeed,” he murmurs, lost in the strange mechanical beauty before him.
Jeff settles into the tiny pilot’s seat, eyes shining. “Okay, let’s see what this baby can do.” He fingers the start switch. Instantly, there’s a whirring noise as the little propeller on Mike’s nose spins to life, kicking up a little breeze across the floor.
Mike’s voice vibrates around them, a blend of nervousness and surprised excitement. “Hey, slow down—watch the throttle! That’s really me!”
Jeff giggles, paws gripping the flight stick as he eases it gently forward. The landing gear creaks, Mike’s wheels rolling inch by inch across the carpet. Jeff carefully taxis the squirrel-sized Spitfire in a tight circle, the left wing nearly brushing a table leg. Sir Nuttingham leaps aside, marveling at the strange contraption’s movement.
“Marvelous!” declares Nuttingham, eyes following every turn. “You say this thing flies?”
“Uh, not in here,” Jeff laughs, feeling the controls respond under his paws. “But he sure moves!”
Mike’s engine purrs under the hood, and the propeller spins faster with a whine. “Alright, alright, that’s far enough! Don’t want to scuff the paint,” Mike protests gently. Jeff brings the plane to a stop and flips the small lever to cut the engine. The propeller slows and finally clunks to a halt.
“Whew,” breathes Mike, relief in his voice. “Just remember to keep me in one piece, alright?”
Jeff’s paws fumble excitedly over the panel of toggles and switches. “What does this button do—?”
Suddenly, he knocks the red switch by accident. There’s a soft click, and instantly, Mike’s voice ceases. The cockpit lights dim faintly. Everything is still.
“Uh...” Jeff says, blinking. “Dad?”
Jeffingham leans over the canopy with a wry smile. “Relax—just turned off his mind. You can turn him back on like flipping a light switch. All reversible.”
Sir Nuttingham peers into the cockpit. “He slumbers, then? Most curious…”
Hesitantly, Jeff flicks the mind switch back. Instantly, Mike gives a mechanical gasp, the speakers in his dashboard crackling to life. “Whoa—what happened? I just… lost a second there.”
Jeff snickers. “Sorry, Dad. Guess I put you in airplane nap mode.”
Mike groans, the painted grin on his nose seeming to roll its eyes. “Just be careful with those, Jeff!”