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Something happened when you were very young, too young to remember exactly what it was. You can see it like a black hole at the center of your life, the light of what you know shining around the edge of what you don't. You've asked, but no one wants to tell you. Least of all Stanford, though he references it sometimes. He talks about how things were "before," how physics and time used to be consistent and how the sky used to be blue. When you ask what happened between then and now he grits his teeth and answers, "Bill." Or, if he's in a low mood, he'll sigh and say, "It's my fault."
He gets a pained look in his eyes when you press, so you don't anymore. Then again, lots of things give him that look. It crosses his face when he looks out the big plate window at the west end of the lab. He tells you the sun used to rise in the east and set in the west. There used to be one sunrise and one sunset per day, and the sun didn't wear sunglasses or spend all its time shotgunning beers with the moon. You don't get why the party bothers him so much. Bill, on the occasions that you see him, says that Ford is just a killjoy.
You have learned more about "before" from the textbooks and novels you find outside than you have from Ford. He isn't allowed to leave the lab, but you are, when Bill comes to take you out. Sometimes, he shows up as just a shadow on the wall while Ford is still asleep, whispering, "Come on kid, we're going out on the town!" Even if you want to stay in bed you go, because you aren't going to waste a chance to go outside, and because the last time you said no, Bill took you anyways. So you shift out of the bed as a snake or a silent pile of goop so as not to disturb Ford, and with just a touch of Bill's hand you're outside.
Your first choice is always to visit the places that have books inside them, which often means having to stab your way through the slimy maw of a library, or climbing up the long, docile limbs of a bookstore. Bill doesn't help. You know he could, but it's more fun if he doesn't. He sits back and watches you fight or sneak your way to the books, shouting out suggestions for what you could shift into and sometimes waving a red flag to make the library angrier. Ford is pretty strict about your training, but that's all practice. Going out with Bill is when you really get to apply yourself up against all the beasts and party guests. You've tried to tell Ford this, but he still doesn't want you going out there without him. He insists that someday, your training will pay off and you'll defeat (which is another word for kill) Bill and escape together, and you'll never have to be stuck indoors again. You can't imagine it, especially not in those moments of exhilaration, slipping out through the massive teeth of a library with your saliva covered books to find Bill waiting for you outside, cheering. He'll look at you laughing and say, "Nice job, squirt!" And you can't imagine wanting him gone, can't imagine life being anything other than this.
When you were younger you didn't understand why Ford would be so scared when you came home from these trips. You always come home perfectly fine and usually with a fresh stack of books for the two of you to read through. You figure he is simply afraid of the outside after spending so much time inside. That is until you come home from a trip that lasts longer than usual, and there are tears in Ford's eyes when you get back.
"Shifty," he barks, voice rough, almost angry, the moment you and Bill reappear in the lab. He marches up to you, and you're briefly afraid you're in huge trouble, but instead he grabs onto you with both arms. You're shifted into a kangaroo, using the pouch to hold the books, but you manage to hug him back with awkward kangaroo arms. He hasn't shaved in a while, and his rough stubble rubs sandpapery against your snout. He smells like he hasn't showered either. He's still wearing the clothes you last saw him in.
Over your shoulder, Bill says, "So dramatic! Me and the bug were just hanging out, doing perfectly safe and age appropriate activities, right kiddo?"
Ford answers before you can. "There's blood on them."
"It's not mine," you assure him. He moves to let you go, and you shift smaller and let your books pile onto the floor. You take the form of a plaidypus, the way you used to when you wanted Ford to hold you, before he said you were getting too old to want to be held all the time. He doesn't seem to care right now, picks you up and holds you close to his chest. You can feel his hands shaking.
"Right," Bill says. "I always bring it back safe and sound, don't I? And don't you appreciate that?"
Ford is quiet. You can hear his heart beating beneath his skin, alongside the distant, constant thump of bass through the walls. "Leave us alone," he hisses.
"Rude!" Bill crows, "No 'thank you' for taking such good care of your kid? I'll remember that next time you want to mouth off! That you don't care whether it comes home in one piece—"
"Thank you, Bill," Ford interrupts with force. He hangs onto you a little tighter. "Is that all?"
"Hmm," Bill hums, "For a limited time only I'm accepting apologies and groveling from bitchy scientists! I think you might want to jump on that offer!"
Bill takes Ford away often, more often than he takes you. Ford can't go outside, you would smell it on him if he did. Bill only ever takes him around the inside of the Fearamid, down to the main party room or one of the thousand other smaller side rooms that wink in and out of existence. Ford never wants to go. He always comes back exhausted. Something must have happened last time he left. Just another secret that no one will let you in on.
"Sorry," Ford grits out. The air of the lab pulls tight. You can tell Bill is expecting more out of him, but Ford is digging in his heels. You glance up and see him glaring, glance over and see Bill's eyelid twitch. You make yourself a little smaller, wishing you weren't the only thing in between them.
Bill laughs once, "Welp! I've got places to be anyway! Me and the boys are gonna pour cement into Keyhole's keyhole and see what happens. Don't wait up!" With a pop, he disappears, and the lab settles into a slightly less-tense silence.
Ford sets you down on a worktable as soon as he's gone. You almost wish that Bill would have stayed so you could have been held a little longer, but things might have gotten loud if he didn't leave when he did.
"You're alright?" Ford asks, adjusting your squat little plaidypus body this way and that to search for injuries.
"Mhm," you answer, then shift into a more human form; A child sitting on the edge of the worktable, swinging your legs over the side. Taking the shape of a human child tends to ease Ford's nerves. Normally you borrow the faces of children you see on the covers of novels. Right now you decide to try out the shape of a boy from a photograph you found tucked away in Ford's jacket.
Ford hardly reacts to the change, continuing to lift your limbs and look them over until he spots the amount of fingers on your left hand and drops it abruptly. His eyes fly to your face and he backs away, looking even more terrified than before.
You tilt your head, "What's wrong?"
His mouth opens and closes dryly. "Nothing, I…nothing." He turns away to gather up the books you found, as though he can't get away from you fast enough. He avoids looking at you all the while.
Something Bill said is nudging at you. He called you Ford's kid. You have learned from books that the families of before usually consisted of a mom, a dad, and at least one child they would call their kid. Sometimes there was a sister or a brother too. You don't have any sisters or brothers, but everyone is someone's child. You aren't sure whose you are, and you've been wondering for a while. If Bill considers you Ford's kid, maybe Ford does too. Maybe that's how they talk about you behind closed doors, they just haven't told you yet. There are lots of things they don't tell you, so it's possible.
"Are you my dad?" you blurt out. It's scary to ask, the same kind of scary as Bill carrying you by the scruff of the neck hundreds of feet off the ground to show you what flying is like.
Ford's answer feels like falling, "What? No." He looks over his shoulder at you briefly before wincing and refocusing on the bookshelf.
"Are you my…mom?" you guess.
"You hatched from an egg, I've told you that before. I am not your parent."
"But what about after that?" you press. "What about—Why do you get so upset when I'm gone if…" you aren't sure what words line up with what you mean. You've read the dictionary twice, but nothing comes to you when you need it.
"I was upset because you were gone for days, Shifty." Ford shoves a book hard into place on the shelf for emphasis. Time doesn't move in days anymore, but he has managed to get a working clock and paper calendars from Bill as part of some deal you aren't privy to. He likes to keep time. You're iffy on how useful it really is. "When you're gone I have no way of knowing where you are. And when you're with him I have no way of knowing if you're still alive."
You scoff a little. Ford is being unnecessarily paranoid about Bill, like always. "It's just Bill," you tell him, "He won't let anything happen to me." He's pulled you out of danger before, lots of close calls that leave you both laughing hysterically. He's fixed you up, too, before returning you, muttering about how Ford will have a fit if he sees you so much as scraped your knee.
Ford turns around to face you with a hard to read expression. It's haunted almost. Bewildered. Still the tiniest bit scared at the fringes. The face he makes when he's recalling something he won't tell you about. "Take that face off," he mutters, "Please."
"Okay," you say, "Why?" You shift into a more reliable form, the boy on the cover of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, with a few modifications of your own. Ford doesn't answer, clearly doesn't want to and isn't going to. Instead he comes over with a cloth and silently wipes the dried blood off your four fingered hands.