I'm running out of pre-written chapters oof. Anyway, Merry Christmas everyone! Or, if you celebrate another holiday or none at all, Happy Holidays! I hope the days leading up to, and after, the new year are filled with love and cheer.
As always, be sure to stay safe this holiday season. Remember, if you ever need to talk, you have me and an entire community of supportive Wattpadders.
Happy reading!
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The first thing Lance saw when he awoke was darkness. Not single etch of light from the confined space he was in; nor any sign that he was anywhere at all. For a moment, he felt like he was stuck in a void stretching on infinitely. Had the machine worked?
He had no idea what object he was manifesting, but it was rather easy to lift his four legs, at least that's what he assumed they were, and attempt to move. The barrier his body was stuck in was in a square shape, and he could hear the scrape of his plush foreleg against a cardboard-like surface. From everything he could tell, he was in a box, and it would probably smell all dusty if he could actually smell anything.
He sat there for a little while, pondering exactly where he was and trying to piece together why he was there in the first place. His mind wandered to his voice, and he was going to attempt to say something in his reduced form when an abrupt slam caught him off guard. He jumped slightly, his mind racing with thoughts of panic, but then he heard the squeak of shoes on wood and a voice familiar to a certain red paladin's, but only high-pitched and overcome with a sense of joy he never hears Keith harness before.
"Dad!" The voice called, followed by a squeal of optimism and a groan of surprise.
"Woah there, tiger..." A gruff, manly voice joked, adding a chuckle. The first thing Lance noticed about the man was his largely deep Southern accent. "Happy birthday, son! What are you now...twelve?"
Keith's voice giggled—something that was music to Lance's fairly small and oval ears—and squeaked his shoes as he probably turned to look elsewhere. "I'm fourteen, Dad..." he muttered.
"Don't worry, Keith. You'll always be my little boy."
"Stop!" Keith shouted, dragging out the end of the word for a bit. "You're embarrassing me."
He received a hearty laugh from the man, whom Lance presumed was Keith's father. "Who is there to embarrass? It's just us here." When Keith fell silent, Lance could hear the pounding footsteps grow closer to him. They rang in his ear for a bit and only got worse when he was jostled about. The man had probably grabbed the box from whatever surface it was standing on and was carrying it somewhere.
"This is for you, son."
Lance could hear Keith hum a bit, before the squeak of his weight shifting to another leg on the floorboard. Lance felt himself shrink smaller and smaller, confused and slightly afraid of what was happening. With the resounding shred of laminated paper and the tear of cardboard, light flooded into Lance's eyes like a tsunami would a shore. Light flooded through the now open box, and Lance decided now was as good of a time as any to fall limp. The last thing he needed was Keith and his father panicking.
Lance thought he was ready for this, but after seeing the face of a fourteen-year-old Keith, he instantly knew he was anything but prepared. Keith was but a child—as innocent and upbeat as they come. The highlights in his violet eyes seemed to glimmer as he looked down on Lance's plush form. He didn't understand why Lance was here or even how Lance got here, and he honestly didn't know how to explain it. Right, like saying "You are really sick, and our consciousnesses aligned with your dreams to bring you back," is going to help for anything.
