Chapter 8

The details we had been given took us to a dark back alley in the quieter side of town. Most of the homes were either empty or inhabited by elderly people who wouldn't dare go somewhere so meaningless and haunting. The path took us around old bins and abandoned furniture. Ivy trickled from the ragged wall into our hair, and our shoes trudged through sloshy mud. My foot caught an old rusty pram, and George was alert enough to stop me smashing my face on the ground.

"I could be home right now," George grumbled. "Mum always makes a Ruby on Saturdays."

"Stop whining," Kiani told him. "You're worse than Oli."

"Me? Whine?" Oliver laughed. "That's all you ever do, Kiani. It's because you're a scummy southerner."

"And you're a northern numpty," She responded. "Although I'd hardly call Kettering northern."

"Anything north of Bristol is northern." George interjected.

George chuckled. "So all the important places, then."

"Oh, go eat your pie and mushy peas, you bastard." George laughed.

I shushed them. "Come on, guys, we're meant to be quiet."

"Yeah, right," Oliver said. "You never know when great-gran Mavis is going to give chase."

The path continued on for what seemed like infinity, but there was a smell break in the wall on our left. George, first in our single-file line, placed his hands into it. "Found a door. It's metal."

"Think that's it?" Kiani asked.

"He said to go to the metal door," He replied. "Must be the one."

He knocked lightly on it, and we waited in anticipation of an answer. It came quickly in the form of light rustlings from behind, and then a soft voice. "Who is it?"

"It's George. We're all here."

There was a squeak of old metal, followed by a bang. Then the small metal door crept open, splaying orange light into the dark alleyway. Through the glow, as the door opened further, the bulky silhouette of Bert appeared. Rays of light reflected cruelly off the top of his head. "Quickly then," He whispered, making room for us to squeeze through. "Don't want any pensioners casting eyes. Might rush their zimmers straight to the local constable."

George went through first, ducking down to get under the door frame. I followed him through, not having to adjust my posture quite as much. It led into a narrow corridor. Bert was laid flat against the wall so that we could just barely scoot past. At the other end, over George's left shoulder, I spotted a white wooden door.

Bert closed the metal opening behind us. "Go on ahead. Don't wait for me."

In silence we marched through to the end. The corridor cast no shadows, with overcompensated lighting catching every corner. Despite that, it shed little information on what was to come next. When George opened the door, a slight draft welcomed us, and the ambient colour change dull greys and brown, illuminated with white strobes from the ceiling. Stepping inside felt like a turn to history, when my Dad used to own a large garage where he would hoard everything useless he could lay his hands on. All around were items of no apparent significance, gathering dust or mould or whatever else decided to call them home. I saw an old kettle, a treadmill with the tread missing, a pile of rotting newspaper tied up with string. On the far wall were old posters, conjoined by cut-outs of Page 3 girls. Oliver, of course, made a comment about those beneath his breath.

In the centre of the room, most things had been cleared to allow walking space. Cobwebs continued to lurk on what was remained (and I suddenly received vivid memories of searching for toys in my Dad's old garage, only to come across big terrifying spiders that sent me screaming. I hated spiders, especially big hairy ones.) Isaac was present, looking cheery as he'd been previously, and he presided over a few large tables covered by filthy old rage. There were oddly shaped things on those table, but the fabric shared no secrets.

As we walked closer, the smells of mould and ancient dust were replaced by a swathe of chemicals. It was an odd ensemble. I hoped it wasn't Isaac's deodorant, because it was pretty foul and I wouldn't have the heart to tell him.

"Glad you could make it!" Bert said, raising his voice to a joyous volume. "We were beginning to think you'd ran for the hills."

"We wouldn't miss this for the world," Kiani replied sardonically. "I skipped Blind Date to be here tonight."

"Excellent," Bert responded obliviously. "Okay, we'll make a start." He waved a hand towards Isaac, handing over the baton.

"You have been given one of the most impressive powers known to the universe," He started, resting his hands on the secretive table before him. "Tonight is the night you learn to use it. The power to morph is a complicated procedure that is easy to do."

"How does it even work?" George interrupted. "I'm no biologist, but it doesn't seem normal."

"The Andalites are a far superior race," Isaac hummed. "The Human knowledge of chemistry is at a primitive level. Andalite chemistry has seen far deeper, to the point where they can change to very structure of DNA at will. The mind is a powerful thing."

"If the Andalites are so superior, why don't they come here and give the Yeerks a good arse-kicking?" Oliver asked. It was a good question.

"The Andalites have many issues to attend to," Isaac told bluntly. "Now please, stay on topic. You have all acquired the DNA of four lifeforms commonly found in this area. The first thing we'll get you to do tonight is turn into one of those creatures."

Bert had made his way around us to stand beside one of the large tables. "Think we should do one at a time?" He asked Isaac.

"That would be for the best."

George raised a palm. "I have a question… When we turn into an animal, do we still… well, if we have a dog brain, for example, do we still think like ourselves?"

Isaac replied, "I won't go into the details, because I treasure my time, but the answer is yes. Though, you will have to compete with some instincts of the creature you've morphed, and some instincts are stronger than others. Your first task after this meeting will be to test your morphs for the purpose of handling stronger instincts. Your squirrel morph is likely to be the most impulsive."

"Got it…" George said, though he clearly hadn't. Nor had I, but like him, I was happy to go with the flow.

"Care to be the first volunteer then?" Bert asked with a grin.

George looked to the rest of us nervously. "Uh… sure."

Bert pulled out a doggy treat from his jacket and wiggled it in the air. "In that case, I'd like you to morph a dog."

"… Right here? Now?"

"Sure. I'm not holding this treat for nothing!" Bert chuckled.

"Okay," George sighed. "Here I go then."

He closed his eyes. I was close to laughing. It all seemed so ridiculous, so absurd. This was still some trick, some magicians ploy to take the piss. There was a game to it all, and we were the fools who had fallen for it.

But those thoughts were finally destroyed, once and for all. He started to shrink, inch by slow inch at first, but then faster. I watched his jeans creasing, and his hands start to disappear up into his sleeves.

And then he started to waver on the spot. He groaned lightly, and then his sleeves started to flail. He fell forward, and though I tried I couldn't catch him in time he crashed down hard on the concrete floor with a wince-inducing thud!

"George!" I cried out, rushing down to help him.

"Ahhh… Ahh!" His sleeves continued to sway around like it was five sizes too large. He couldn't push himself up. Blood was dripping crimson to the ground. "My face!" He shouted, but his words were distorted.

With Oliver helping me get him up, I shuddered when I saw his face. There was a deep bloodied cut in his chin, and his powerful jawline was misshapen. He'd broken his jaw.

"Oh for crying out loud." Bert huffed. He helped Oliver and me to right him, settling to have him sit on the floor.

"He's broken his jaw!" I yelped at Bert, who was pulling a tissue from his pocket to temporarily curtail the blood coming from his chin.

"I can see that," Bert confirmed. "George, just continue the morph sitting down, okay? We'll keep you steady."

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" George managed to mumble. His eyes were furious with rage. If he had capable limbs, he wouldn't be sitting.

"Once you morph, your wounds will be healed," Bert explained. "Trust me."

I didn't think George would obey, but he fell silent despite his pain. Despite the blood tricking over and from his lower lip. I held my hand to his back to keep him sitting upright, and then I started to feel the fabric shifting around my splayed fingers. The skin beneath was moving, and so unnaturally.

There was a crack, and then a squelch. This sickening noises alerted me to the changes occurring to his face. The shadow of Kiani leaning over to watch did nothing to shield my eyes from the horror of what I was witnessing.

His nose was turning black and bulging outwards. His eyes were clamped shut at the time, but then he opened them. The changes stopped, and he started to whine. It didn't sound Human.

Kiani's shadow disappeared. I heard the distinct sound of vomiting off to the side.

He was hideous, a bizarre chimera of Staffy terrier and Human. Patches of discoloured hair had sprouted on a bulging Human snout. His ears had grown point, like elf ears. His eyes were wide with panic, and his expanded dog pupils made it an unnerving sight.

"Just keep going." Bert insisted.

He scrunched his eyes shut further, and the changes continued. All over his face, fur flooded in, mostly white bit with black and brown patches. His ears moved up the sides of his head (with grotesque sound-effects) until they matched the flattening top of his skull. The tips of his ears had been extending and eventually flopped over themselves. His snout had bulged further, and at the end his nose had donned the almost tarmac-like appearance of a dog nose. His lower jaw had followed it outwards, and as I inspected I could no longer see the clear area of breakage. The wound on his chin had all but gone.

His clothes sagged uselessly around him. Now more dog than man, he wouldn't need them, so I started to pull them away. A sturdy wagging tail popped out when I removed the jeans.

"Jesus bloody Christ…" Oliver gasped.

"Arf!"

Bert smiled and stood back up straight. "See? That wasn't so bad!"

Oliver lurched over, just managing to turn away quick enough not to coat George in stomach content. I wasn't feeling too great, myself.

"George! George, is that you?!" Kiani cried with panic in her voice.

"George?" I stroked at the terriers head, with so many horrible thoughts going through my own.

Bert wasn't so concerned. "George, you can speak to us. Just think of the person you want to speak to. You can do it privately or openly. Think what you want to say."

((Hello? Hello?!))

George's voice invaded our heads. My hand went over my mouth. I could hear him, like some distant echo from within my own mind… "Can you hear us?"

The Staffy looked directly at me, opened its mouth in a stupid grin and let its tongue flap out.

((Scratch me! Scratch me, Amy!))