When Rigby falls, he falls hard, and it's minutes before he stops taking large, wet gasps of breaths (predictably, the fall hurt; he can feel it everywhere, from the crown of his head to the tips of his fingers and toes to the curvature of his spine) and, shakily, stands. The Duchess had snatched her pigchild back before booting him out onto the street, and he had wandered aimlessly (as if he could wander in any other fashion – everything in this world was wrong, very wrong, and he could barely navigate properly in his own world on a good day) until tripping quite foolishly on a rock and falling through another blasted rabbit-hole until he smacked onto solid, packed dirt shortly after.
He hobbles his way over to a tree and, after a liberal, timely inspection of the grass around it and the branches protruding from it, sits cautiously beneath it. He doesn't cry, though he most certainly feels the overwhelming urge to, and he focuses on his breathing to calm himself until he hears a quiet chuckle coming from somewhere near him.
"I won't be made a fool of – " he starts, snarling, but he silences himself when he peers up at the branches at the sound of another chuckle. There's a bird there, perched precariously (though no less comfortably for it), smiling calmly and small, secretive. He's dressed impeccably, and while his suit-jacket dwarfs him, he manages to look put together. In fact, Rigby would go so far as to call him the most sensible creature that he's encountered yet.
The laughing, though – that should cease.
"Don't laugh at me," Rigby calls up to him. "I'm very lost, you know."
"Oh, yes," the bird croons, still quiet, too quiet – his voice is monotonous, even and droll, but Rigby much prefers it to The Duchess's worried, incensed chattering. "I know that you're very lost. I've been following you."
"Following – " Rigby splutters. "Following me? For how long?"
"Long enough to know that you're very lost," the bird says with a wicked grin. Rigby feels a warm surge of abashment. The bird uncurls himself and flutters down, landing without a sound at Rigby's feet. From Rigby's position on the ground, the bird looms over him.
"Can you help me?" Rigby asks after a moment. "Can you help me find my way back home? I've been wandering, and everyone that I've encountered has been … " he pauses and takes a deep breath. "Well, you see, they've all been mad."
The bird covers his mouth with his wing and muffles his laugh with it. "Oh, Rigby," he says, "we're all mad here."
"That's not very reassuring," Rigby says weakly, and then – "How do you know my name?"
"Intuition," the bird says, leaning over to dust off the spot next to Rigby and taking a seat next to him. He's no less intimidating from this angle. "You look like a 'Rigby'."
"I look like a Rigby," Rigby repeats slowly. "Yes, I – look like a Rigby."
"Mm-hm," the bird agrees lazily. "A disoriented Rigby, separated from its pack and searching, nose to the ground and eyes to the horizon, for the family which it has lost."
Rigby ignores the metaphor and instead focuses on the fabric hanging loosely over the bird's wing. The buttons at his cuffs glint independent of the dim light in the sky; Rigby is transfixed by them. He only tears his eyes away once the bird clears his throat indelicately and asks, "Do you like the buttons?"
"Very much so," Rigby says before reluctantly granting his full attention to the bird. "What is your name? I believe that I have a right to know – "
"Mordecai," the bird responds distractedly. He raises one of his shirt cuffs to his beak and nibbles at the thread attaching the button to it before the button comes loose. He spits it back on into his wing, polishes it briefly on his shirt, and hands it to Rigby.
"For you," he says. "I am not in the business to comfort lost Rigbys, you know, but you're – " He ducks his head. "You need a little bit of encouragement. I'll be watching, of course, as I always have, but – "
"Thank you," Rigby says lamely, almost questioning. When he looks up, Mordecai is gone. He clutches the button tightly in his paw and, heavy-hearted, stands. He does not intend to stay lost for much longer.