𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

Plotholes

I wake up to a cacophony of horns blaring and tires screeching. Before I can even process the noise, my eyes snap open—just in time to see a massive truck barreling straight toward me.

"Bee Wee-Wee! What the hell is this? Are you trying to kill me before I even begin my mission?" I scream internally, my voice frantic inside my own head. My instincts kick in, and I lurch forward, aiming to sprint to safety. But instead of getting to my feet, I… jump? No, not jump—roll. Downhill. Straight toward the truck.

Huh?!

I glance down, confused, and freeze. Instead of legs, I see a tiny ball of fur. A cold dread washes over me as I lift my "hand" to my face. Only, it's not a hand—it’s a paw.

A freaking paw.

Great. Guess I’m dying today.

The truck barrels closer, the ground trembling beneath its weight, and I brace myself for impact. But then, something bizarre happens—it passes right over me. No crunching bones. No obliterated furball. Just… air.

Before I can fully process the miracle, a car zips by, so close I can feel the heat of its engine. Another one follows, and it, too, soars right over me.

I blink, realization dawning. I’m so small, I don’t even reach the height of a car’s underbelly.

Well, there’s one perk to being this tiny. Not that it makes me feel any better.

“I’ll deal with you later, Bee Wee-Wee,” I mutter internally, seething. But first, survival. Because one thing’s for sure: dying hurts. And trust me, I would know—I’ve died twice already. Technically.

I refocus, my heart pounding as vehicles whiz past in a chaotic blur. My furred limbs—ugh, paws—stumble awkwardly across the rough asphalt. Every step feels foreign, my movements wobbly and uncoordinated, like a toddler’s first attempt at walking.

The roar of traffic surrounds me, deafening and relentless, but I keep moving. Somehow, by sheer luck or divine intervention, I zigzag my way through the chaos. Finally, I reach the edge of the road and collapse onto the gravel, panting.

The world feels wrong. Bigger. Alien. My view is completely warped—buildings loom like mountains, and the highway stretches endlessly, a river of roaring metal beasts.

I glance back at the road, shuddering.

What is this madness? And why the hell am I a ball of fur?!

After what feels like an eternity of walking—scratch that, limping awkwardly on four uncooperative paws—I finally spot a small bench by the side of the road. The sky above has turned a deep gray, a telltale sign that hours have passed.

The bench looks like salvation itself. A safe haven in this strange, oversized world. I eye it with determination and make an attempt to jump onto it.

I leap.

I fall.

I try again.

Nope.

On the third attempt, I don’t even make it halfway up. Am I this useless?

Defeated, I plop onto the dirty ground, the weight of my new reality settling over me like a heavy blanket. My furred tail curls involuntarily around me as I glare at nothing in particular, frustration bubbling over.

"Bee Wee-Wee," I call out in my head, my voice sharp with annoyance, "start answering some questions before I buy you that human body pack and beat the hell out of you. Why am I in an animal? Is that even allowed?!"

The response I get is infuriating. The system—a buzzing voice in my head that has been giggling nonstop since my transformation—only laughs harder. It’s the kind of laugh that makes your blood pressure spike.

"Are you kidding me right now?!" I growl—or at least, I try to growl. It comes out as an unimpressive hiss.

The system continues its giggle fit, clearly enjoying my misery. I glance down at my furry paws, my earlier fury deflating as a wave of exhaustion washes over me. What’s the point of getting angry when I’m stuck like this? With a resigned sigh, I give the system a moment to compose itself.

Finally, between stifled chuckles, it speaks:

"Host! This is your punishment for going out of character," Bee Wee-Wee announces cheerfully, as though delivering good news. "The higher-ups decided that if you can’t speak much, you won’t have the chance to break character again. So, they put you inside a kitten. Honestly, I think this is for the best."

A kitten.

I stare blankly at the ground, processing its words. A. Kitten.

"Are you seriously telling me I’m stuck like this because I went a little OOC?!"

Bee Wee-Wee hums smugly. "It wasn’t just ‘a little,’ Host. And besides, you’re adorable now!"

Adorable. Adorable?! My claws—tiny, pitiful excuses for claws—scrape against the gravel as I fight the urge to maul something. Preferably the system.

"How am I supposed to complete the mission like this? And you haven’t even told me what the mission is yet," I grumble inwardly, the frustration seeping into my mental voice.

"Host, that’s up to you to figure out," the system replies, its tone laced with infuriating smugness.

I imagine what we’d look like if Bee Wee-Wee took physical form right now—a kitten chasing a bee around in circles, all claws and buzzing chaos. The thought does nothing to improve my mood.

Before I can dwell on my irritation, my stomach growls loudly, reminding me of yet another problem. Great. Where am I supposed to find food now? Dumpster diving? Catching mice? The idea alone makes me shudder.

My mind drifts back to my previous mission, stirring up a slew of unpleasant memories. Like pesky pop-up ads on a sketchy website, they threaten to overwhelm me, but I push them away and refocus. There’s a question I’ve been avoiding for too long—a question that demands answers.

"That night," I start hesitantly, "when you said you got hacked… what did you mean? How did you even come back? Where did you go?"

The system, usually quick with a snarky reply or an obnoxious laugh, falls eerily silent. The sudden change makes my fur prickle uneasily.

"Uh, it’s nothing major, I guess," Bee Wee-Wee finally responds, its tone unconvincingly casual.

"What do you mean, ‘nothing major’?" I ask, arching one of my tiny kitten eyebrows—a feat that, frankly, I’m quite proud of.

"The higher-ups… decided I can’t accompany you on your missions anymore. I’m only allowed to deliver the mission directives and leave."

There’s something off about the explanation. It’s too vague, too rehearsed. It reeks of a big, fat lie.

"You do realize I can tell when you’re lying, right?" I say, narrowing my eyes. "Why would you scream like a banshee about being hacked if it was just a new system policy? Be for real."

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind, but the suffocating, ominous kind that makes the back of your neck tingle.

Finally, Bee Wee-Wee speaks, its voice lower than usual. "You can believe whatever you want, Host. The end result is the same: I won’t be here with you for your missions anymore."

I could swear I hear a faint tremble in its tone, as though it’s… scared. The realization makes my fur bristle. Bee Wee-Wee, scared? The thought feels wrong, unnatural.

Whatever happened that night, whatever caused that scream and this strange shift in its behavior, it’s clear that the system isn’t telling me the full story.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

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A/N: I found this filter on snapchat that is like a bee. And obviously I thought of Bee Wee-Wee. I'll put it up if any one cares to see. Thank you for reading!