Jeff grinned as he scrolled through the Chronivac’s menus, eyes gleaming with intrigue.
“You know, Uncle,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Boris, “you shouldn’t mess with things you don’t understand.”
Boris folded his arms. “Yeah, yeah. So, what are you going to do? Give me purple hair? Make me shorter?”
“Better,” Jeff replied, finding a new option labeled “Media Integration.” He selected it, entering a file path with a few quick clicks. The Chronivac interface flashed, asking for a target. Jeff smirked and pressed “Boris.”
Suddenly, the world seemed to ripple around Boris. The familiar hues of Jeff’s bedroom melted away, colors sharpening into bright, exaggerated tones. He blinked as he found himself standing in a cluttered wooden shack, paper blueprints tacked to the walls and wrenches hung on nails. A scent of sawdust filled the air, and sunlight slanted in through a crooked window.
“What the—?” Boris muttered, looking down at himself. He wore baggy overalls smeared with oil and an oversized cap tipped jauntily forward. He pulled at the strap, bemused. “Well, this is a new one.”
From outside, the chug of an engine, the call of seagulls, and some distant laughter floated through thin slats in the walls. Boris rolled his eyes as he stepped around a model biplane on the floor. “Nice prank, Jeff!” he called back, uncertain if Jeff could even hear him. “Very creative!”
He wandered over to a workbench, picking up a wooden mallet. “Alright, I’ll bite. Let’s see what this place has to offer.”
Boris set the mallet down, his hand feeling oddly... stiff. He flexed his fingers, frowning as his nails began to darken, thickening into dull, curved claws. “What the—?” He reached up instinctively to scratch his jaw, only to feel rough whiskers sprouting out, tickling his face. The cap on his head felt tighter as his ears pressed up and out—suddenly, he let out a yelp as they grew furry and triangular, twitching atop his skull.
He stumbled back from the bench, his heart pounding. “Jeff! This isn’t funny, I—” His words faded into a confused mumble as his tongue thickened. Speech felt clumsy, and his voice slipped up an octave, softening into a gentle, dopey drawl. “Er, my words’re all fuzzy, Jeff buddy. Ya might wanna—I mean, I was a cop, right? Police stuff? Badge, donuts, the whole—uh, what was I saying?”
He lifted his hands to examine his face, claws glinting in the light. White and tan fur popped out along his arms, pushing through his skin with an odd, prickling sensation. His nose widened, flattening into a feline snout. Trying to steady himself, Boris tripped over his own feet as they shifted, toes merging and bursting through his shoes as coarse paw pads formed.
Panic surged through his foggy mind as his thoughts jumbled together, details slipping away as new ones asserted themselves: fixing engines, flying, listening to propellers whirr, feeling a comforting dullness where sharp intuition used to be. “Aw, jeez, this is all kinds of weird. I, uh, used to have hands, now I got... big ol’ fuzzy soup ladles.”
Boris grabbed desperately onto a chair, his tail lashing out behind him—wait, a tail? He spun, nearly knocking over a workbench, eyes wide and scared. He tried to cry out, to explain, but his voice cracked into a friendly, clueless tone: “Jeff, pal! Buddy! Ya gotta stop pushin’ buttons—I’m, uh, real good with engines now, but I dunno how to do cop stuff no more.” He clamped his paws to his head, frustration spilling over. “I was in a big city—cuffs and sirens—but I made a sandwich and—wait, no I didn’t. Did I?”
The last of his change settled in. Boris blinked, eyes going a little vacant and kind, tail idly swishing. He fought back a whimper, realizing it wasn’t just his body that was lost—his thoughts zigzagged, memories slipping like fish through his fuzzy mind. He tried to focus, tried to scream, but all that came out was a slow, easy-going laugh and a lopsided grin. It was like his whole self had turned into a gentle storm of fur, confusion, and motor oil.
Boris blinked slowly, his eyes drifting across the cluttered workbench until they fixed on a curious contraption set amid a mess of blueprints and gears—a half-disassembled gyro compass. The sight of it pulled his attention in, tugging his thoughts from the storm of panic and confusion. He shuffled over, tail tracing a lazy arc behind him, and picked up the device, his big paws surprisingly deft despite their new fur and claws.
“Whatcha got here…? Kinda spinny… thingy…” he murmured, examining it with a deep, vacant fascination. The world seemed to shrink around him: tools, wires, compass parts, all suddenly captivating. There was a loose screw and a misaligned gear—he clicked his tongue softly, utterly absorbed. His thoughts narrowed, all worry sliding away except for a bubbling curiosity and a raw urge to tinker.
Boris hummed to himself—an off-key, cheerful little tune—as he carefully set the gear in place, then tightened the screw with fat, furry fingers that somehow knew exactly how to move. “Just needs a little twisty here…” he giggled softly, tongue sticking out the side of his muzzle. “Hoooo boy, she’ll spin nice now, I bet.”
He finished the last adjustment and flicked the compass with a claw. The arrow swung and balanced, spinning smoothly for the first time. Boris beamed, childlike pride shining in his goofy grin. “Lookit that, it’s all fixy-wixy now,” he said, presenting it proudly to the empty air, “Y’know, I used to fix all kinds o’stuff. Or was it cars? Or boats? Eh, don’t matter, I like this compass plenty.”
Utterly entranced, Boris cradled the gyro compass in both hands, swaying gently on his broad, furry feet—the mechanical puzzle was all that mattered now, every other thought floating away like clouds in a blue cartoon sky.
The workshop door swung open, and a broad-shouldered, jovial-looking bear in a red shirt strode in, brushing sawdust off his fur. “Hey, is that gyro-compass ready yet?” he called, voice booming with friendly expectation.
Boris’s ears perked up, and his goofy grin stretched even wider. “Oh! Yup-yup! All spinny now, see?” He rushed over, proudly presenting the freshly repaired device in both of his furry hands.
The bear took the compass, turning it over with an approving nod. “Great job, buddy! You’re a lifesaver as always.”
As the bear examined the compass, something sharp cut through Boris’s hazy mind. His eyes widened and he grabbed the bear’s arm, desperate. “Wait—please, listen! I ain’t really—uh, I mean, I used to be—look, I’m not just your mechanic, I was a cop! A real one! My nephew, he’s doing weird stuff with buttons—You gotta help me, I don’t belong here! I’m—” His words tumbled out, frantic but jumbled, teetering between logic and nonsense.
The pilot looked down, blinking in confusion. “Whoa, easy there, buddy. Maybe lay off the glue fumes, huh? You’re talkin’ nonsense again.”
Boris’s ears drooped, and he stared at his paws, frustration bubbling up as the bear patted his shoulder and ambled out, whistling. He opened his mouth to plead again, but all that came out was a soft, silly giggle and another stream of cartoonish muttering. The pilot was gone, leaving Boris alone with his workshop and his fractured memories.