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Your name is Ford Cruller.
At least.
You think it must be.
You have his hands, twitchy and wrinkly as they've become, when you look down at them through Fords eyes. Slowly, one by one, you curl them, and watch the fingers on Fords hand tense in perfect synchronization with your thoughts.
What even were muscles and tendons but yet another way for thought to be made reality? You feel as though someone had told Ford Cruller that, once upon a time, and now the memory rattled around in your skull.
You must be Ford Cruller, that settles it. Unless, of course, the real Ford shows up and gets all pissy about some squatter in his body while he was out taking a mid-evening stroll. Well, he should'a locked the door, then!
Anyways, that means that the man was talking to you, it turned out. He was a curious sort, with a swirly dollop like hairdo that extended upwards from his hair. Otto had once mentioned to Ford Cruller, which was you by the way, that something about his brand of psychic brain waves interfered with the strands of his hair, creating a mental 'upwards draft' of sorts.
Privately, you'd (Cruller) always thought that was a load of hooey.
What even was a 'cruller', anyhow? Now a ford, pretty sure that was some kinda process where an inlet of sea water cut its way right through high, sheer cliffs. Possibly caused by a glacier. Simple stuff, really.
Well, regardless of what it meant or why it was given to you, you have a job to do and a name to answer to.
If only this Otto person could slow down when explaining it to you.
"Ford, you remember when we met, don't you? My research paper on psitanium and its effect on the psychic mind?" Otto looked so out of place in this recreation of their old haunting grounds, one of the only flesh-and-blood things in a forest of wood carvings. "Well- I couldn't blame you if you couldn't remember the words, exactly- but surely you must remember how it pushed you to seek me out?"
Otto was doing that thing he did, where his brow furrowed and he looked slightly lost, like he was trying to remember something he'd forgotten. It was a sure sign he was failing to get somewhere with his psychic powers, that and the hand that had pressed up to the side of his head this whole conversation.
You, the man known as Ford, shook your wooden carving of a rake at him. "Now, how'd you even get in here? This is private property I'll have you know!"
"I-" Otto paused for a moment, his hand half lowering from his head. "You invited me inside, Ford you- I think you need help, old friend, more than I can give you..."
A huff, and you were back to raking up the wooden leaves off the side of the dock you were on, letting them clunk messily against the dark, wooden lake carving below.
"Fine, fine." you say. You've been at this for hours, but no matter how much you try and organize this place, the mess just seems to carve itself deeper yet. "If it'll get you to settle down. Always in a hurry, always another project to work on."
"You're not a project, Ford!"
Your name is Ford Cruller.
And you were very busy at the moment! Tending to your barbecue, poking at it with the spatula in your hand. The grill in front of you housed a flame with no fuel to burn, yet gave off heat all the same.
No smoke, either, when you handled it in such a manner. Convenient, if not for the lack of food sitting on top.
Still, didn't stop the child behind you from buying something off you. Not a burger, but something off the shelves that caught the little campers eye.
No.
Not a camper.
Sasha.
He was sitting on a stool in front of the counter, as though this were some campground-themed bar. Which is wasn't. This was a steakhouse themed-campground, hence the cows grassing in the middle of the cafeteria, the marquee signs, and lights that hung so low you'd bust your head on one standing up if you were (at least) fifteen or older.
"Some of these wares look too valuable to sell." Sasha said, as though they hadn't been sitting in silence for the last fifteen or so minutes. "Wouldn't you think so, Chef Ford?"
You, (which was the Chef, (which was Ford)) huffed and cast a glance back at the menu. You hardly saw an issue and told Sasha as such.
"Oh I would never argue with the lead chef in his own kitchen," Sasha began, in a tone suggesting he was about to do just that, "But I just wonder about the ecological impact of selling your knowledge of short-range teleportation to a group of preteens in the middle of the woods."
"What, you want me to sell them the long range teleportation instead?" you ask, with a disbelieving shake of your (Ford's (which is the Chef's)) head. "What is this, some kinda wild psychic boot-camp?"
"Of course not." said Sasha, without missing a beat. "This is a controlled psychic boot-camp. Well- this is a restaurant of some kind, I believe, and at large-" Sasha twisted around on the spot, hand raised to his temple, and blasted the Censor charging at him across the room with its stamp raised high. It was back to primal energy before it hit the ground. "This is a mental check up. Which is going rather well, I would say."
"Yeah, yeah." you say, flipping a burger that isn't on your grill. "What else is new?"
"There's that new brand on music on the radio the kids are calling 'all the rage' these days. I wonder what kind of music is only partly rage full…" Sasha trailed off as he mused to himself, taking a drag of a cigarette he had not had a moment prior.
"Oh Please." You say, stopping your foot for emphasis. "That's absurd!"
"Now Darling," Milla says, floating as gracefully as a clam. "It's only for one afternoon. Half of one even. Surely even you can make an exception for that?"
"Absolutely not!" the small raft underneath you, the Admiral (who may or may not be named Ford Cruller but who is certainly a seaman through and through) was perched on the surface of the air, the water extending up above and around you, the floor of the lake far above. A fish darted past your head and into the seaweed swaying upside down only an arms length away. "Imagine what could happen if they capsize the thing, or row it straight into the rocks!"
"Besides-" and you spread your arms around you, swishing the water around. "That wouldn't be fair to the cadets who did spend those weeks in the simulations!"
Milla was unbothered by the yelling, near-perfectly still where she hovered in the water, if not for the way her hair was flowing gently behind her. It looked like a starfish or two had made themselves at home in the strands.
"Well, if you won't budge on the boats, why not simply allow us to have the party on the beach proper? Or perhaps inside the beach house?" Milla tilted her head slightly, voice carefully measured out to be soft and pleasing, as if she were expecting the Admiral to fight her on every little point.
"Humbug! Just imagine the disaster that would unfold if someone tried to assault us by sea!" You cross your arms and lift your chin to make a point, which is something you imagine Cruller might do, which is you, decorated Admiral that you are.
"It's a lake, darling."
You sputter only slightly. "Well- My point still stands. So there!"
Milla smiled softly, and shook her head. "The camp is protected by magical barriers, and even if we were attacked, it's not a good idea or necessary to take all that responsibility onto yourself. You have plenty of people around willing to help, surely you're not going to try and take on any upcoming threat by yourself?"
Well you are! Your name is Ford Cruller, and you've got a job to do.
"Hey I've been thinking about that. Why'd that guy hate psychics so much?"
Razputin looked up at him with his grandmothers eyes, a fact about himself he was very likely unaware of. Without those googles of his, the resemblance was striking.
Ford Cruller paused for only a moment, wondering how he knew that fact so clearly, and then asked the question a part of him already knew the answer to.
"What'd we ever do to him?"