"Born under a bad sign
Been down since I began to crawl
If it wasn't for bad luck, I wouldn't have no luck at all"
— "Born Under A Bad Sign" from Wheels of Fire by Cream
Vincent couldn't feel, smell, touch, hear, taste anything, as if he'd been engulfed in nothing, and his thoughts were disjointed and random. One thought flowed in and out with no connection to the next or the last. Any time he tried to grab hold of one, it would drift away. Finally, an image of two spheres floated into his awareness. The image grew and grew, not stopping even once they'd both filled his vision, continuing to grow until he could only see one.
It was his room. He was in his room. His bed, desk, computer, everything was all where it was supposed to be. He felt awash with relief but couldn't sigh. He couldn't anything. He wasn't anything, just in his room. Looking down, he only saw the carpet.
But he didn't have time to be confused before the world violently shook, a blast launching him down to the ground.
Help! he heard someone scream. No, he didn't hear it, he… thought it? But it wasn't his Help!
H-hello? He thought back in an attempt to respond. Who are you?
Someone else! The voice brimmed with excitement. I'm Short Circuit! Who are you? Why am I in the not-place?
Not… place? Vincent tried to look around, seeing the room had once again been robbed of most of his belongings.
Yeah! It's like where the humans let me sleep, but my nest is gone, and the thing the humans sit on is different, and-
Nest, humans, what? Vincent interrupted, trying to find sense. Are you not human?
I-no? I'm a pichu! Are you? How can you understand me? Sense only seemed to flee further away.
Yeah, I'm human Vincent started, but before he could continue, the room around him disappeared, all replaced by one pale, white sphere, and then it vanished into darkness.
A familiar grogginess filled him in on what happened. Of course, he thought to himself, It was a dream. All a dream. No pichu, no orb, no new room, just a stupid dream. He'd open his eyes and be laying in his bed, looking up at his ceiling, all from his own body. While he would have preferred to continue his slumber and keep his eyes closed, he needed to prove he'd returned to reality. Peeling his eyes open revealed an ajar, greyscale view of his desk holding a nice computer and a printer.
He jerked upright, only to stop halfway and creak back down when his whole body protested in pain. Every muscle, tendon, bone, hurt. He looked down to see what was wrong, confirming his worst fear. He rolled up into a sitting position (more carefully this time) to hold his head in his hands.
How did this happen? Can it be fixed? How? What was he gonna do until then? What would his family—how would he even tell his family? He couldn't believe it, how would he get them to? Whatever, believing would have to be secondary considering he still didn't know how to tell them. Looking around his room for ideas brought his eye to the stack of printer paper. Write! Of course, he could write a message!
He leaned onto his feet and realized he had no idea how to walk. One foot in front of the other, right? But his legs were so much shorter, and his feet so much bigger (proportionally, at least). Carefully, he lifted his right paw up, inadvertently leaning to the left. He thought he'd lost his balance before his tail swished right, righting him once again. A shiver worked his way down his spine and a grimace across his face; having a tail felt so foreign, and feeling it move even more so.
Shaking it off (at least, trying to), he continued waddling forward, trying desperately to ignore the tail swishing back and forth behind him. He somehow managed to make it over to the printer paper and grabbed the sheet on the top by pinching it between his hands, accidentally making a bunch fall off the stack. When he tried to curse, his mind couldn't manage to find a pichu equivalent, so he just let out a frustrated groan.
Still, he had the paper. Now he just needed a writing utensil. Racking his brain, he remembered he used to have various pens strewn about his desk. He looked up with a dejected frown. Getting on top a desk multiple times his own size seemed impossible. He started turning around and noticed the chair. The same rough, uncomfortable wicker chair that he'd always hated, was now perfect.
A normal office chair would have been impossible to climb, but the slanted beams wrapped in wooden thread were perfect. He stepped over to it, dropped the papers, and used all his strength to dig the claws of his right hand into the wood, then doing the same with his left foot. Pushing himself up, he latched onto the wood with his left hand and right foot. It wasn't until he pulled on his right hand that he realized his mistake.
It was stuck. Tugging on it just a bit harder proved as much. With another frustrated groan, he let his head hang down and stared at the ground. His breath hitched. It shouldn't have seemed high. He couldn't be more than a foot off the ground. But that was his entire body-length. His body froze. He didn't know if he could move. He didn't want to. Any wrong move would send him tumbling down, surely resulting in horrible, injurious, painful death.
Then, he felt a lurch. Like a hand turned his brain inside-out. While he winced at the intense discomfort, he realized how short the distance he'd climbed really was. In fact, he knew it'd be easy to climb the rest of the way. With newfound ease, he pulled his paws out of the wicker and continued his ascent. Within moments, his paws rested on the seat of the chair as he looked up to the desktop. On some level, he knew it'd be easy to jump up, but he still felt like the leap would be massive. Plus, since his legs were still sore with a dull ache, he figured he wouldn't be jumping at full capacity either. So, he rolled back onto his haunches tensed up, and launched himself up, over the desktop and smashed into the computer monitor.
The screen shattered, shards of glass slashing his skin as he slid down, a few embedding themselves inside. Finally thudding into the desk below smashed a whimper out of him. He lay motionless for a few moments, trying to fathom the torrent of stinging pain consuming him. Every slice in his skin burned with pain more intense than he'd ever felt in his life. He couldn't think, just bask in the agony assaulting him.
His throat tightened, warm tears streaming from his eyes. A few whimpers forced their way out, soon becoming weeps, even sooner after that becoming sobs, growing in intensity and frequency until he lay there blubbering uncontrollably. Tears poured and poured while he wailed and wailed, convulsing in pain.
His crying did nothing to reduce the pain, but somehow, as he ran out of tears, it became more manageable. Slowly, his wits returned until he managed to raise his paws and wipe some tears away. Forcing himself to sit up, he looked down to asses the damage. As expected, lacerations of various sizes covered his front, a few patches of blood in his fur still growing as more seeped out of his wounds.
He carefully tried to stand up simply to see if he could. A few spikes of pain came as he bent forward and rolled onto his paws, but he still just barely managed. "Chuuu," he groaned, wincing as he took a tentative step to find a similarly agonizing but bearable amount of pain. It hurt, oh did it hurt, but he could walk.
A quick scan of his desk revealed not a single pen, pencil, marker, or even crayon. No writing utensils whatsoever. All this pain for nothing. He wanted to lay back down and cry. A few tears did manage to force themselves out, but he clenched his eyes shut to stop their flow. He had to keep going. He needed to find something to write with.
Walking to the edge of his desk, a touch of dread filled his stomach. He didn't want to fall that distance, and definitely not in his cut up state, so he went over to the chair. Even that seemed like too far a drop, though. Maybe if he hung from his arms first, he wouldn't have to drop at all. He took a deep breath in, out, and cautiously slid his paw over the edge, positioning his arms to grab onto the desk.
Just as his other paw neared the edge, a shock of pain coursed through him, forcing him to cringe. He didn't notice he'd started falling until his head smacked into the side of the chair, his back smashing into the ground before he could react. All the air coughed out of his lungs and a new torrent of tears and cries streamed out.
He just wanted to curl into a ball and weep again, but forced himself to roll over onto his paws, careful to get them under him before any cuts grazed the carpet. He tried to push up onto his hind-paws, but just couldn't muster enough energy. After pressing the carpet down for a third time, he decided to walk on all fours.
Then again, how did that work? One paw at a time? Right then left? Just to get moving, he put his right forepaw forward. Since he didn't have much leverage to pull up his left forepaw, or enough balance to pull up his right hindpaw, he pulled his left hindpaw up. Then his left forepaw, right hindpaw, right forepaw, left hindpaw, he established a rhythm that lasted until he stepped on one of the fallen sheets of paper.
If he left it here, he'd just have to come back for it when he found a pen, but he didn't know how to carry it while on all fours. Mouth? He leaned down and clenched the paper between his lips. As much as he wanted to ignore his relative size at the moment, he couldn't ignore that the paper being significantly larger than him meant he wouldn't be able to walk forward. Backwards, then.
Reversing the sequence he'd already established worked well enough and he quickly managed to pick up a rhythm again, well on his way out of his room.
Had he been facing the door, he would have noticed it was only slightly ajar, not wide open like he'd assumed. If he'd noticed in time, he could have easily nudged it open enough to go through. But he didn't. He didn't notice until his back smacked into the door, a resolute click sealing his fate.
He shut the door. He couldn't open the door. He just trapped himself in his room. The paper fell out of his mouth. With what remained of his energy, he leaned over to his side and curled into a ball. Tears flowed and he didn't even try to resist wailing.
He was so hurt, frustrated, hopeless, sorrow drowned him. His body shook with every sob, cries drowning out any thought other than how much it hurt. He couldn't even acknowledge time's passage, far too busy crying. Only when he heard the front door slam open and shut did an inkling of hope return, instantly squashed when he heard his brother shout, "Vincent! Mom! You here?" It was so loud, and so low, it terrified him. But he recognized it, it was Peter's voice. How could he possibly be afraid of Peter?
Dread only grew as he heard footsteps thump closer. The knob turned and he rolled out of the way just in time for the door to swing open, Peter rushing inside. Vincent cowered up to the wall, watching his brother frantically scan the room. He wanted to call out, let Peter know he was there, but his voice wouldn't sound. Any attempt got stuck in his throat. He could only watch in silence as Peter stepped over to the computer's broken screen. "What happened? Is this blood?" He turned around, reaching for the clothes left on the floor when his eyes met Vincent's and he jerked up, staggering back a step.
By his expression, he seemed equally as scared as Vincent felt, but not for long. He must have noticed Vincent's wounds and panic, because his face softened with concern. "You okay, little guy?" Even though he was clearly making his voice softer, it still put Vincent on edge. Peter took a very slow, careful step forward, and Vincent couldn't help taking two back, gasping when he backed into the wall. Raising his hands and backing up, Peter said, "It's okay, I don't want to hurt you. I just want to help, is that all right?" Peter slowly gestured his hand forward and it took all of Vincent's will-power not to press himself further against the wall.
It's fine! he's your brother! He shouted in his head. Despite terror's best efforts, he forced his head to nod, clenching his eyes shut tight, trembling at Peter's approach. Softly cooing, "It's okay, it's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you," managed to calm Vincent just enough that he didn't flinch and cower away when Peter's hand made contact. The touch felt so foreign, so strange, yet it still felt weirdly comforting as it ran down the length of his back, coming back up to scratch the itch he only just now realized he couldn't reach. Put that together with the soft (if low) cooing, and Vincent didn't even realize when Peter picked him up to examine his wounds.
Delaying the realization, however, did not lessen its effect when he realized his brother held him and was staring down at his body in its (uncovered) entirety. Blood rushed to his cheeks with a familiar feeling of embarrassment. While the sensation was familiar, it had a bizarre effect: instead of his cheeks growing a darker shade of red, they spouted a few sparks of electricity, snapping and crackling right into Peter's hands.
"Stop, stop!" Peter shouted, and Vincent recoiled, shaking with fear. "Sorry," Peter managed to return the softness to his voice, "Please don't shock me, I just want to help." Vincent frantically nodded, and Peter set him back down carefully. "I'll be right back, I have to go grab some stuff to help, okay?" Vincent nodded, taking a few unconscious steps away once his paws touched the ground, sitting back once Peter left the room.
He looked down at his body, feeling his fur with a paw, examining the pads on his paws, even lightly poking at a few wounds. It certainly looked real and he definitely felt his paw touch him, pain's constant sting verifying he wasn't dreaming, but he struggled to believe it really was his body. He doubted he'd ever get used to it. With any luck, he wouldn't have time to.
Peter hurried back into the room, kneeling in front of Vincent and setting a bag beside him. "Now, a lot of this is going to hurt, okay?" Peter explained slowly while delivering a reassuring pet to his head, "But it's just for a little bit, and it'll help you get better. I promise." Vincent nodded, so Peter reached into the bag, pulling out a set of tweezers. "I need you to lay back, okay?" Peter explained, lightly coercing Vincent down with his free hand. Once he'd laid down, the hand stayed on top of him, lightly but firmly holding him down. When Vincent resisted, Peter pulled back just enough to calm him down. "You have some glass in your cuts, I'll need you to stay still while I take them out, so I'm going to lightly hold you down."
The excuse didn't make Vincent feel any better, but he stopped resisting to brace himself for the pain to come. "Ready?" He wasn't, but he nodded anyway. For a number of excruciating moments he couldn't track, spikes of stinging pain shot from his torso where he felt the tweezers make contact. He tried to wriggle himself free, but Peter's grip tightened just enough to hold him without hurting him.
The second Peter lifted his hand, Vincent bolted up, leering up at him with teary eyes, so mad that he just wanted to scream at him, he didn't care if he'd be understood. "Ow!" he tried to shout, the synapses connecting his brain to his mouth translating it to its pichu equivalent, "That hurt!"
Peter had his hands up, awkwardly shuffling a few steps back with a twinge of terror in his expression. "I'm sorry, I had to. I told you it would hurt." He carefully reached for the bag, Vincent took a step back in response, anger giving way to worry. "Are you going to let me finish?" He pulled out a bottle and a roll of bandages.
Much as Vincent wanted to stay mad, he knew on some level that Peter was right. Before he could convince himself otherwise, he sat back and nodded with his eyes clenched shut, consenting to the next barrage of Peter's hellish treatments. Pretty soon after, he felt Peter wrap a hand around his back and lift him up, a freezing spray coating his torso soon after. Though it froze his fur, any cut it touched burned with excruciating fury.
Just as the shout of pain left his lips, he felt a thumb press down on his chest, holding a bandage in place as Peter wrapped the roll around his torso, only barely tight enough to complain about. The bandage softened the burning pain to a dull itch as it covered him, and Peter finished wrapping and set him down before he had a chance to squirm.
The dull itch didn't go away, so Vincent started itching at the bandage with his paw, biting at it when his paw proved insufficient. "Don't pick at it," Peter scolded, gently nudging Vincent's head up by the chin. Right before Vincent could complain, Peter started scratching lightly at his chin. For just a moment, every discomfort, worry, whatever, melted away. Despite having no irritation on his chin, having it scratched seemed to get rid of the itchiness altogether, seeping him in bliss. "Good boy, just leave the bandage alone, okay?"
"Chuuu," he purred, so steeped in contentment he likely would have agreed to any request. Even though he wanted it to go on forever, the lingering euphoria left him happy enough when Peter pulled his hand back.
"Better now?" Peter asked. Vincent absentmindedly nodded, slowly regaining enough awareness to better assess the situation. He didn't like the bandage, how it rubbed against his fur and just felt unnatural, but he could tolerate it for now. If he really needed to, he could probably get it off while Peter wasn't paying attention. As the blessed bliss faded, a growing emptiness in his stomach took its place.
He grabbed his stomach as it developed a vacant ache. What was he supposed to do for food? He'd usually just go for whatever leftovers in the fridge, wait for his mom to cook, or cook something simple for himself, but he doubted he could even open the fridge now. "What's wrong?"
"I, uh, I'm hungry," Vincent mumbled, a few sparks bouncing down his cheeks. He hated already having to ask for help again, especially for such a mundane task. It made him feel so helpless.
Of course, Peter couldn't understand what he actually said, but luckily holding one's stomach crossed the language divide. "Hungry?" Vincent nodded. "Oh, uh, all right. Here, I'll take you to the kitchen," he offered, picking Vincent up and holding the boy against his chest. Vincent squirmed in protest, but stopped once he looked down, opting instead to clutch onto Peter's shirt. "Don't worry, I've got you'," Peter cooed, rubbing Vincent's head with his off hand.
While he hated being carried, they made it to the kitchen a lot faster than his stumble-steps would have allowed. Peter placed him on the counter and went to rummage through the fridge. Vincent stepped just close enough to the edge to take a peek down before scurrying backwards. He really didn't like being this high.
Peter came back and dropped the food in front of him. A single slice of ham. The moment the scent reached his nostrils, he violently crinkled his nose, covering it with one paw and turning away. It smelled like ham always had, but that scent utterly revolted him now, it was like a rotting corpse, not at all the honey-smoked promise on the package. But he didn't want to be rude by refusing the food, nor did he want to comply with instinct.
Unfortunately, pichu being essentially the babies of their species made them some of the worst at deception, so Vincent had no chance at hiding his disgust. "So, you don't like ham?" Peter asked, reaching down to take it back. Vincent fought tooth and nail against his unease to force himself forward and place a paw on the ham, holding it down and looking up with a very unconvincing smile. Peter let his hand drop, looking down with brows furrowed.
Ignoring every fiber of his being that screamed in protest at simply touching the meat, he forced himself to sit back, pinching it between both paws and bringing it up to take a bite. The moment his teeth sunk in and it touched his tongue, he wanted to vomit despite tasting just like he remembered. Even still, he forced himself to chew. Or, at least try to, when he tried to chew the meat, it didn't seem to break down all. He eventually gave up and forced himself to swallow the oversized chunk of meat. Unfortunately, it didn't fall down his throat and into his stomach, it caught halfway down.
He immediately went into a coughing fit, each cough more intense than the last. With three final, strong heaves, he finally jettisoned the ham, covered in saliva, onto the counter in front of him. The ham he held in his paws made his skin crawl more than ever now, so he flicked it away and scooted himself backwards. He looked up to see Peter's confusion had grown significantly. Suddenly aware of how strange his behavior must have seemed, he averted his gaze and felt embarrassed static pop off his cheeks. "Why did you try to eat that if you knew you wouldn't like it?"
After a failed attempt at eye contact, he resumed looking at the counter. "I didn't want to be…" he wanted to say "rude," but couldn't seem to find a pichu equivalent, "Mean." Another flurry of embarrassed sparks bounced down once he realized Peter couldn't understand him anyway. Worse, the process of speaking in pichu had become so quick and easy his mind didn't even have time to intervene.
Ignorant of the boy's internal struggle, Peter asked, "Well, what do you like? Lettuce? Berries? Apples?"
The same part of his mind that thought the ham revolting perked up at the last suggestion. Before he even thought to stop himself, he shot to his feet, vigorously nodding and almost shouting, "Apples, apples! I love apples!" He hadn't cared much for apples before, but now the very thought of them brought the same level of joy as Christmas morning.
His eagerness must have been contagious (or funny), because Peter chuckled and put on his own smile. "Which one? Lettuce?" Vincent shook his head. He knew he should fight his instincts, but a mix of the hunger in his gut and the prospect of so glorious a treat made it impossible to resist. "Berries?" He probably wouldn't mind berries, either, but they weren't close to the same quality as an apple, so he shook his head again. Peter chuckled with a playful grin. "An apple it is, then." He grabbed the ruined ham off the counter with a paper towel and tossed it on his way to the fridge.
Excitement strong as his hunger welled up within him as he imagined sinking his teeth into the apple, its taught skin giving way as he bit a chunk of the delectable flesh. This mix of hunger and excitement made him so anxious that he tackled the fruit even before Peter had let go. His mouth filled with its sweet, tangy goodness and he savored every moment. Even when he'd sated his hunger, he kept eating, going so far as to gnaw on the core even despite his already bursting stomach.
He lay back, beyond satisfied, savoring the taste that lingered in his mouth while contentment washed over him. His brother's chuckling snapped him out of his state, contentment replaced by shame and contempt. What a display. He probably looked like nothing more than a wild animal, how could he convince his brother who he was if he just acted like an animal? Through self-derision, he forced himself to stand up on his hindpaws and face his brother. Talking was pointless, but he said, "Thank you," and bowed his head in an attempt to express his gratitude in a way that seemed human.
Peter just laughed harder. "You're really cute, Pichu." Vincent gasped, shock overcoming him. He immediately shook his head. Peter's amused expression gained a hint of confusion. "What's wrong?"
Wracking his mind for a moment to figure out how to communicate he wasn't a pichu, an idea popped into his head. He pointed at himself, said, "Pichu," and then shook his head, repeating the process until his brother attempted to interpret it.
"You don't want me to call you pichu?" Figuring that was as close as he'd get, he nodded. "Then what should I call you?" Vincent wanted to scream. I still can't tell him! I can't speak English! But his despair only lasted a moment, as he came across what he thought to be a brilliant idea. Writing! I could write it down! He held up his left paw and began mime writing with his right. "Paw? You want me to call you paw?" Vincent shook his head and kept repeating the motion. Had he known he'd face this language barrier, he would have spent much more time practicing charades. He kept up his miming, so Peter kept guessing. "Writing? Are you writing?"
"Yes!" Vincent shouted, nodding his head with an excited hop.
"Wait, can you write?" Peter asked with confused surprised. Vincent nodded with the same level of excitement as before. "Oh, okay. I'll, uh, I'll get you something to write with." His eyes were wide with astonishment as he went off to find paper and a pen. Vincent eagerly nodded his head. He was about to do it! He was gonna tell his brother! He couldn't contain his excitement, his jubilation coming out in a random expulsion of excited syllables. He didn't know what he was saying, but it sure sounded triumphant.
Peter came back and put a piece of paper and a pen down in front of Vincent, looking about as curious as Vincent was excited. Vincent eagerly grabbed the pencil and sat down on the paper, pinching the pencil between two paws and using his mouth to stabilize. He pressed the pen down onto the paper and realized his mind was completely blank.
He felt a hint of dread. Thinking harder didn't help at all. He knew exactly what sounds he needed to put on the paper, but he couldn't remember how. Dread turned to panic. He couldn't write! How far had he already regressed if he couldn't even write? No matter how hard he wracked his brain, he couldn't even remember the first letter of his first name. Any hint of an idea dissipated like a wisp of smoke if he tried to grab onto it. Desperate to write anything, he gave up on his message for the time being, hoping he could remember any letters in general. At least he could prove he was more than a wild animal.
After an intense thought session, he could just barely remember a tune. He hummed it along to himself and the memory became a bit more solid. A bit of the way into the song, he could just barely picture some of the letters. He immediately started sketching them down to solidify their place in his memory. He drew two angled lines down from a point, connecting them with a line in the middle. A.
Once he had that down, the rest of the letters seemed to flow a bit more easily. He scribbled down about half the characters to be as thorough as his attention span would let him. Now, to try writing words. Words presented their own unique challenge in that he had to be careful not to replace them with their pichu equivalents. Despite a long, intense thought, he couldn't figure out what letter "I" started with, eventually giving up on it all together. A full sentence was probably out of his wheelhouse anyway, he'd have to hope he could write his name. Just as he placed the pencil down to try and figure the first letter of his name, the front door slammed open and shut, followed by a shrill, "Peter?! Vincent?! Are you here?"
"Mom!" Peter shouted back. Vincent cringed at the auditory onslaught, flopping his ears down and dropping the pen to hold them against his head. Once his mind processed, "Mom," though, he completely forgot his discomfort, writing, everything. Be it the instinct of a son to seek his mother, the growing strain of remembering characters, the infantilization of his psyche caused by his current form, or some combination of the three, he needed to see his mommy.
Without a second thought, he hopped off the counter, hitting the ground running. His paws skidded on the tile a moment before they finally caught enough friction to propel him forward. Sprinting around a sharp turn, he saw his mother and brother embracing and ran towards them, hoping to join in the reunion.
His mother's shriek squashed that hope. He dug his heels into the ground to stop, looking up with a mix of pained fear. His eyes met his mother's terrified gaze while she pointed a shaky finger down at him, someone hiding behind Peter. "A rat—a big yellow rat!" she shouted, "One of those, those things is in our house!" She grabbed Peter, pulling on him and trying to run away.
"Mom, wait!" Peter protested, grabbing her shoulders with a light shake. Vincent sat back, staring down at his paws with tear-soaked eyes. Thing? Rat? He could believe his mother could call him that. To hear that from anyone would've hurt, but his own mom? But he couldn't even wallow in pain. One of those? Were there others? Why were she and Peter both so panicked when they got home? What happened? "He's not dangerous, I found him in Vincent's—"
"Where's Vincent?" she practically shouted. Peter stayed silent. An oppressive silence filled the air, even Vincent's choked sobs couldn't break it. "Where is he?" She shook him, desperate tears streaking down her cheeks.
"I don't know!" he finally answered, tears of his own dropping to the floor. "He wasn't at school today, he wouldn't answer the phone, he wasn't in his room, but I saw his clothes on the floor." They pulled each other into an embrace, the silence resuming.
Vincent just wanted to go over and tell them, desperately wanted to go join in the embrace, wanted to be part of the family. But he couldn't. Of course, there was the language barrier, but that wasn't all. His mother's shriek echoed in his mind, holding him back more than a physical barrier would. Would she even want to know if he could tell her? Would she believe him? He wiped the tears accumulating in his eyes and got a clearer picture of the embracing pair's sorrow.
Their bodies shook ever so slightly with every sob, tears running down and into each other's shirts, voices hitching softly sporadically, holding each other so tight it seemed they'd never manage to let go. They deserved to know. He had to tell them. Wiping the tears from his eyes again, he turned around and headed towards the kitchen, making it to the base of the counter. He forced himself not to think about how high it was—at least twice as tall as his desk, from his perspective—leaned back on his hindpaws, putting all the power he had into his jump, skittering his paws along the side and finally managing to just barely catch his forepaws on the edge and pushing himself over it with his hindpaws.
A quick gasp from the exertion and he plopped down onto the paper, pinching the pen between his paws. He read the letters he'd already written, hummed the tune to himself, trying to jog his memory. The stream steadily started flowing and he pressed the pen down onto the paper.
After a minute-long eternity, he finally realized his name started with a "V" instead of a "Pi" and started sketching it immediately. It took a few tries, but he eventually managed to get the two slanted lines to meet at the bottom. The dot with a line was much easier, the arch after it took a while to figure out, the curve somewhat less so, but the one with a loop after it took a bit to figure out. He did it. It took more mental effort than any test he'd ever taken, the penmanship was horrible, it had taken forever, but he did it.
Dropping the pen, he started to go get his family when terror glued his paws down. It was so high. He'd already leapt and fallen that distance with no trouble, yet he somehow knew for a fact that trying to fall this distance would leave him a splat on the ground. His heart raced, breaths rapid and ragged. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. In… outinout…inout…in…out…inout…in…out…in…out. It's fine. You're okay. You're fine, he told himself. One paw forward. Then the next. Then the next. When he felt the edge with his forepaws, he shifted up onto his hindpaws, scooting slowly closer until he felt it with the tip of his paws.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Without letting himself think about it, he pushed one paw over the edge and gravity did the rest. Before he had a chance to reorient himself for the landing, he slammed into the ground, smashing the air out of his lungs in a pained, "Chu!" With a clench of his teeth to hold back tears, he forced his paws beneath him, his right forepaw aching slightly when he put weight on it. He did his best to walk but only managed a slow limp.
Still, he made his way to the other end of the kitchen and turned to see his family hadn't moved. Quick as he could on three and a half legs, he dashed over to them and began to prod Peter's ankles. To no response. He kept poking. Nothing. More prodding. Nothing. Peter didn't move. "Hey!" Vincent shouted with growing frustration.
"It wants something," his mom mumbled, a hint of fear mixing with her melancholy. Finally, Peter turned around, lightly bopping Vincent's nose with his heel accidentally. Vincent stumbled back, clutching his nose while Peter knelt down.
"Hey, that hurt!" Vincent shouted at Peter's blank, teary-eyed expression.
"Do you need something?" His voice hitched. Vincent forced himself to swallow his anger and started pointing at the kitchen, turning, and waving at Peter to come along. He glanced back to see Peter standing up to follow. He was gonna do it! He was gonna tell Peter! He—
A violent banging on the door preceded the pleasant ring of the doorbell, another series of bangs followed. Vincent turned back to see Peter give an apologetic shrug and go to the door. Vincent cried out in frustration, sat down and buried his face in his paws. He was so close. He took a moment to pout, then decided it'd be much more productive to go pester Peter some more. On his way over, he noticed his mother. Her face was soaked in tears, familiar and terrifying. He couldn't tell if he wanted to help her or run from her. She noticed him and flinched slightly before meeting his gaze. After a moment of awkward staring, she mustered a terrified smile and waved. Another awkward moment later, Vincent convinced himself standing on his hindpaws and returning the gesture wouldn't put his life at risk, so he did so. His smile was even less convincing than hers.
They were both glad to see Peter running over. Before either could ask, frantically explained, "That's Alex, something's wrong with Chris. He collapsed at school I have to go help." Though she didn't offer any verbal objection, her posture and expression made it clear she hated the plan. "I have to at least try."
His request hung tense in the air. "Fine," she reluctantly agreed. Vincent didn't know what to do. He needed to tell his family. He had the sheet of paper that would one room away. But Chris was his best friend. Of the few friends Vincent had managed to connect with, Chris was definitely the closest. To hear he'd collapsed terrified him, and what if it was connected to what he'd done? He had to go help however he could, or at least go see him. Just as Peter walked off, his mother mumbled, "I'll stay here. Just in case…"
Peter stopped in his tracks, then came back to give her another tight embrace, before walking to the door, Vincent close behind doing his best to keep up with Peter. His brother didn't even notice until they got to the door and Alex frantically pointed at Vincent. "Careful!" he whispered, urgently quiet, "One of those things is following you."
Peter's face contorted into confusion, getting a flash of realization when he looked down at Vincent. "Don't worry, he's not dangerous," he muttered at Alex before kneeling down to Vincent's level. "Hey, buddy," he rubbed Vincent's head with one hand, "I need you to stay here. My mom will take care of you, okay?" His tone was so patronizing it made Vincent want to vomit.
Vincent vehemently shook his head with an equally fervent, "No!" escaping his lips. Not only did he want to go see his friend, but instinct told him spending any more time with that loud predator would be life threatening. Had he given his thoughts any heed, thinking about his mother like that would have appalled him, but he payed attention to instinct about as much as he noticed his sight was greyscale.
Peter opened his mouth to object, but just shook his head and sighed, "All right, fine, but be careful." Vincent nodded and started forward when Peter's hand swooped down and lifted him up before he could object. At least, not verbally, but his body shot out many objections in the form of random spurts of electricity. "Hey! Stop that!" Peter shouted, holding him eye to eye and waving a scolding finger in his face. "No electricity! It hurts and it's dangerous! I told you, you have to be careful!"
Vincent averted his gaze, mumbling, "I don't have any control over it, it just happens. It hurts me, too." Shame quickly changed to indignation, and he shouted back, "What did you think would happen? Picking me up with no warning at all? That's really scary!" He knew very well that his brother wouldn't understand him, but still felt compelled to shout at his brother. As a human, he had trouble showing any emotion at all, but now, he couldn't hide it if he wanted to.
Despite the obvious language barrier, Peter picked up on the anger. "If you don't keep your electricity under control, I'm not taking you."
Vincent clenched his teeth, feeling his blood boil. He wanted to explain exactly how difficult it was to control electricity, that it seemed to have a will of its own, but he knew he couldn't. With a miraculous level of self-control, he held his tongue and nodded. In response, Peter cradled him. Like a baby. He thought he could actually feel his blood bubble up as it went from a liquid to a gas. But he had no way of telling why. He crossed his arms in resentment, face twisted into a grimace as his brother carried him out the door.