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Accidents Happen

Part One

Written by Amethyst Mare (Arian Mabe)

Commissioned by an anonymous commissioner

Pain seared through Michael's veins. Unlike anything he had ever imagined, it was white hot, burning away every iota of who he once was like a potent drug, an illegal high fallen into innocent paws. He remembered nothing, could think of nothing besides excruciating agony. Lying or standing or sitting: the dog did not know, the Akita unable to discern anything in the moment. What had happened? That answer was beyond his means. Though he knew, through the pain, that something must have gone terribly, terribly wrong. Either that or it was a nightmare, locked around him like a steel cage. A nightmare, yes, a nightmare. It could not be real. It must be a dream. Welding fumes stung his nose. Wherever he was reeked of the stench, suddenly vile. He would have called the fumes comforting before, reminiscent of his job, but not any longer. Now burned metal made him convulse, falling into the darkness, an old friend welcoming him back.

He wished he could just die and be done with it. Surely death could not be worse? Anything would be better, anything, anything at all.

He wanted to be home with his cheetos and the ever present aroma of cigarette smoke. It was reassuring. Even the flickering TV set was all he wanted, that static buzz. He didn't need much. He was a simple dog. He wanted to be home with the little things in life. Was that too much to ask?

The next thing he knew there was a bright light above his head, shining fiercely through his closed eyelids. He tried to groan and turn his head away but found the movement too difficult. Was he paralyzed? The thought sickened him. A vegetable. Was that what he would become? Nausea rolled in his stomach and he fought the urge to vomit. He was not even sure he could vomit anymore. His body did not obey his commands and he could not open his eyes no matter how hard he tried.

Make it stop...

"He's lucky," a distant voice murmured.

"Lucky? How can you say he's lucky?"

"If his injuries were any greater he'd..."

Darkness swallowed Michael and he never heard the rest of that utterance. He drowned, flailing to grasp the waking world flitting just beyond his fingertips. The voices faded into the distance as if they had never even existed, nothing beside a faint memory of what could have been.

*

It was still dark when Michael finally woke. Stifled, he shook his head, trying to cough but finding that he could not - his chest simply would not move to complete the reflexive action. His mouth was as dry as a desert and he licked his lips, whimpering into the muggy warmth. No moisture was forthcoming, however, and he groaned, quietening immediately when something moved beneath him, his whole body rocking as if on an unstable surface. He cleared his throat, one action that had not been denied to him.

"Hello?" He tried. "Where the fuck am I? Hello?

He felt stupid saying the words, voicing the obvious questions that no one else would ask for him. Cloth of some kind covered his muzzle and he nosed at it curiously, trying to push it aside. Above him, another fur gasped and two heavy thumps sounded on either side of his muzzle, making the soft surface he rested upon tremble.

"Easy now," a female voice said, tone low and soothing. "Lift the cover back slowly so he doesn't get frightened."

Michael tensed, flattening his pointed ears to his skull. At least he could be thankful that he was not in pain any longer. Only the dull memory of it throbbed through his skull, an abject reminder that he was in a better place, that it was over. Something rustled, cloth shifting on top of his head. Someone pulled the material back to leave him startled in the sudden light, pupils shrinking to cope with the clinical brightness.

Clearly in a hospital room, simply furnished, the Akita looked from left to right, blinking to clear the spots from his vision. In front of his muzzle was a pair of black legs with white fur on the inside. He cocked his head. Why was his head resting on...another fur's crotch? The realisation made him wrinkle his dark brown muzzle. Why was he lying on top of another fur? A fair-furred Golden Retriever anthro stood at the foot of the bed he was on, a clipboard in one paw and a pair of small-framed glasses balanced upon her muzzle. She wore a white doctor's coat over a bland blouse and black pencil skirt - he could not see much colour, suffering from canine colour blindness - and her muzzle was permanently fixed in a smile, artificial warmth did not reach her blue eyes.

"Welcome back, Michael," she said. "You've had quite the journey."

"I haven't been anywhere," he replied, stupidly. "What's going on? What's happened? Why am I here?"

"You've had an accident." She was eager to cut to the chase, tail wagging. "In short...well...please do not be upset with us, but it was all we could do save your life. You were found by a friend. Apparently you had been welding a pet project of yours - some old vehicle?"

She laughed, the sound hollow.

"Long story short, your body was too damaged for us to save. But, please - do not worry! This is an experimental hospital and we have access to the very best technology available nowadays. That is why you are still alive and with us, Michael."

The Akita took a moment to digest this information, the enormity making him duck his head as if he was a little pup again. He looked between the black and white fur's legs, eyes travelling down a fluffy tail.

"So...where am I? Did you give me a new body?"

He blinked: the thought was too extreme to comprehend.

"I am not your new body!"

The voice came from above and, even as the Golden Retriever reached out to stop him, Michael turned his head to find another fur behind and underneath him, brown eyes sharp and distrustful. He clenched his teeth together, unwilling to believe the evidence before his eyes. His body was nowhere to be seen and there was only an entirely different fur - or creature would perhaps be more accurate - in its place. Skin and fur tightened around his neck as he turned: he was attached to the other fur's crotch. Only his head was attached.

"What the fuck?" Michael yelped, twisting the best he could to get a good look at this fur. "I... What have you done to me? Where's the rest of me? Put me back!"

The black and white sheepdog scowled, discomfort overruling the concern painted across his muzzle. Michael reeled in shock, vision sliding into grey for a split second. No, he could not faint. He was having a bad dream. He would wake up in his house with the leaking roof. He had to wake up. He had to.

Looking up at the doctor, the sheepdog's brow furrowed.

"Are you sure this procedure is safe?"

"It would be a little too late if it was not," the doctor muttered under his breath.

Michael twitched, fixing his gaze upon her. She did not know what she was doing. She should not be taking care of him. Was she even looking after him? It was a funny way to go about it, if so. Whipping around, he lashed out at the sheepdog, eyes wild and rabid.

"Who the hell are you?" Michael snarled, upper lip curling back from his teeth. "And_what_ have you done to me?"

"Gert," the sheepdog answered, looking down his body with wide eyes at the talking. "Is this weird? Is it weird to talk to you? Are you real?"

"Oh, it's not at all weird to speak to each other," the doctor assured him, plastic smile fixed in place. "I would expect you to enjoy each other's company while you can. While Michael's body is being recovered and a permanent solution fixed for him, it would be excellent for you two to get to know one another. Though I would not share last names."

She laughed lightly.

"You shall be separated soon enough. We would not want you getting too attached."

The doctor brushed back her blonde hair and made one more note on the clipboard.

"You should be good to go now that the physical has now been concluded," she chirped. "You are as right as rain. Or as right as rain can be. Can rain be right?"

She giggled, girlish in her amusement. Michael's eyes widened and he felt the strange sheepdog stiffen on the bed, toes curling.

"Wait!" Gert shook his head. "What about me...you know... We can't leave it at that. There's other things to talk about, surely? Aren't there?"

The Golden Retriever tilted her head to the side in a very canine fashion.

"I'm sorry?"

The sheepdog gestured at his crotch, ears slanted backwards. Something was missing. Something that every male should have, if they were wholly male. If he'd known up front that he'd lose and have that replaced...he'd have never even considered the experiment. Who cared if it helped some random fur or not? He did not know...who was it? Michael? He would not have tried for it if he'd understood the full extent. Not even for such a wad of money, no way in hell.

"Where 'Michael' is attached to me," Gert gulped, looking down. "Will that be...replaced?"

"Oh," she laughed, covering her muzzle with one paw. "Yes, that will be sorted in due course, don't worry. The cost of that treatment is covered within your pay for this experiment. Remember, you're saving a life here. We'll make sure you are well compensated for it. Now - off with you! Both of you!"

Michael had no choice in whether he left or not, though he opened his mouth as if to ask more questions. The 'doctor' was gone before he could articulate a single sentence, heels clipping briskly across the laminated floor: she had more important places to be. Growling, he looked up at the black and white canine, wondering just how satisfying it would feel to sink his teeth into the sheepdog's leg. He would give the damn mutt a piece of his mind. What would everyone think of him, stuck to the fucking crotch of a vile foreigner? His accent was clearly from somewhere else, Europe or something. The sheepdog probably stole jobs from Americans.

To his disgust, the sheepdog stuffed him into a loose pair of boxer shorts without a word, the fabric waistband snapping down above his head. Yelping, Michael shook his head, trying to dislodge the material, but was swiftly silenced by heavier fabric being yanked up over his head. Jeans? He had to pin his muzzle down to the other fur's legs, between his thighs, in order to breathe. The position was viciously uncomfortable.

His world fell dark and smelly. Michael was used to unwholesome smells and did not usually mind, but another male's musk and sweat was utterly vile. His own? Not so bad, he was sure. He didn't bathe much himself but that wasn't always necessary. Screwing up his muzzle, the Akita whined plaintively. He wanted to be let out. He wanted to go home.

Gert trotted through hospital corridors with legs spread unnaturally wide and lifted high with every step. He was sure he looked quite the fool but the white hallways stank of disinfectant and sickness, the two interwoven in a distressing cocktail. He needed to get out of there. The sheepdog's eyes dropped to his head, pinned in discomfort. A nurse looked at him twice, eyes lowering to the bulge in his jeans. To a casual observer, he looked particularly well endowed, Michael's head shoved down far enough to hinder movement yet reside discreetly. Gert flushed crimson and quickened his pace, despite not minding being thought 'larger' than he had been. He would have a new cock to show off to his boyfriend soon enough for his troubles. Wouldn't Jay be surprised?

He escaped into the outside world with a sigh of relief, darting across the car park to his little, blue car, cheap but in pristine condition. He couldn't afford to allow it to become damaged or diminish in value; Gert counted on getting a good price for it once he moved closer to Jason. The sheepdog smiled at the thought of his boyfriend. They might move in together once he was done with community college. Moving to America, near Washington, had not been a total loss after all, regardless of the initial failure.

He slipped into his car with some difficulty, tossing an overnight bag on to the back seat. The head fixed to his crotch grunted when he sat down, abruptly shoved into a different position, chin laying flat on the seat between Gert's legs. Taking a deep breath, the sheepdog reached for the door and patted the top of Michael's head, intending to comfort.

The car door slammed shut. In the darkness, Michael's eyes shot wide open and he bared his teeth.

"Let me the fuck out of here."

Michael's voice erupted in a threatening, rolling snarl. The sheepdog trembled, knees knocking together. He should have stayed in the hospital! Insisted on observance! What did it matter that they had wanted him out of there as quickly as possible? He could have put his paw down on the matter! Though Gert had been assured that the 'head' would not be capable of causing him any harm, he began to doubt what he had been told. Not much had held up to the initial facts so far. His jeans bulged and twitched, the canine head within pushing up as if he would thrust through the fabric if ignored for much longer.

Gert swallowed his nerves.

"All right, all right..."

The sheepdog fumbled, unzipped his jeans and tugged them down far enough for Michael's head to protrude, waistband of his boxers pressing beneath the canine's jaw. The Akita half-gagged in instinct before realising that the elastic did not cut off his breathing. He shuddered, only his head moving. He no longer needed to breathe.

Gert looked down at him, eyes shining with good-natured concern.

"Is that better?"

"I should have died," Michael muttered.

It was unlike him to be so melancholy but the canine sniffled, eyes stinging with moisture he would later deny. The sheepdog's leg twitched in an involuntary muscle spasm.

"What? No," Gert dismissed the words with a flick of his paw. "That's what the experiment was for, to save you. You were not supposed to die, of course not."

He shook his head as if he had answered any and all questions Michael may have had, starting the car and pulling out of the hospital parking lot with only the purr of the engine to break the quiet within. The sheepdog paused at the main road, one paw on his cheek as if he was asked to carefully consider his options.

"Now, I can't go back to my place, there's other furs there, but the doctor said you lived alone. Maybe you live somewhere quieter than me? Discreet?"

Michael said nothing. Gert resisted the urge to growl and tried a second time.

"So where is yours at?" He pressed. "Can we drive there?"

Michael stared resolutely at the dashboard above his head, panting out of reflex rather than any due need. It was claustrophobic with the wheel above his head. He would rather be driving.

"Leesburg."

"What?" Gert yelped, paws jerking on the steering wheel, proving lucky that he was stationary. "That's ages away! Do you know how much petrol that will cost me?"

"It's gas," the canine grumbled darkly. "Speak right."

"Does it matter whether I call it gas or petrol?" Gert furrowed his brow. "You better pay me back for that."

"You can take it out of that big, fat cheque you're getting from that hospital." The dog scoffed. "Like you need more cash. Must be loaded to get over here."

"Not exactly."

Silence fell between the occupants of the car. Leesburg was a good ninety minute drive away at the very least and Gert troubled himself thinking over the costs. He had taken on the hospital 'work' in order to make money, not lose it. They hadn't paid him much anyway, all cash in paw. Groaning, he closed his eyes briefly, returning his focus to the road. Leesburg it was then.

"Are you going to tell me what that means then or what?" Michael demanded.

"I don't think we're supposed to talk," Gert mumbled. "She said we shouldn't. We'll be separate soon and all shall be well again. As it should be. I'll be fine."

Michael snorted.

"You think that matters?" He said scornfully. "How will anyone know, hey? Fucking goody-two-shoes. Want to stay on the right side of them, hey? Not willing to take a chance on something like this? What am I, just a quick buck for you?"

"Be quiet and enjoy the drive."

The sheepdog's eyes narrowed. Did that damn dog not understand what a sacrifice he was making? Idiot.

"I'm_helping_ you. You'd be dead without me."

Michael had no viable reply to that and thus the remainder of the drive was conducted in silence, Leesburg crawling ever closer. Only Michael was comforted by the thought that he would soon be home. And he would have his cheetos.

*

Gert paced through the broken down little house with a slack jaw and wide eyes. The house, if it could even be called that in such a state, consisted of the ground floor and the first floor. Standing in the living room, one could see through a hole in the ceiling right up to the roof; Michael had clearly never bothered to repair it after the initial damage and it had become progressively worse. He never cleaned and cigarette butts littered the house, accompanied by cheeto dust where stray snacks had been crushed underfoot. A lone television set resided in the living room, or what served as the living room, in front of a muddy brown-grey armchair, which was stained and ripped. The dishes piled high in the kitchen had not seen a lick of water or soap for weeks. Gert wrinkled his nose, fighting back the urge to sneeze.

Outside was a decrepit truck that had seen better days, some unidentifiable vehicle in pieces and welding gear - presumably where Michael had been when he had had his accident. The ground around the disassembled scraps of metal was charred and there was the distinct acrid aroma of burned flesh and fur. Tyre marks in the ground showed where the emergency vehicles may have pulled up, but Gert could not be sure - he could only imagine. The Akita in turn wished he could remember what had happened but decided that the lack of clear memory was due to being transplanted on to another fur's body, needing no further explanation. Did he really want to remember? It probably was not worth it.

Gert heaved a sigh, giving Michael a most disapproving look. Student dorms had fared better than this dump. He could not have been any more the picture of a shocked canine and Michael scowled at him, defensive over his home.

"This is where you live?" Gert looked up at the ceiling. "Is the roof leaking?"

"It's got a tarp on it." Michael mentally affected a shrug, the motion physically beyond him. "What's the problem?"

"It's a tip."

"Fuck you." Michael bristled. "It's my home. And where you're going to be living if you don't want to explain to your roommate that I'm stuck to you."

Gert grumbled but said nothing, knowing Michael's words to be true. The Akita's home was so isolated that Gert had not bothered pulling up his jeans when he had left the car, leaving Michael able to breathe freely. There was no sound except some bird or another cawing in a solitary tree, though the sheepdog suspected Michael shared his abode with many a rodent and bug. The canine shook himself, jostling Michael.

"What's that smell?"

"I don't know," Michael grumbled. "Not me."

Gert sniffed.

"I don't mean to be rude, but are you sure about that? When did you last brush your teeth?"

"I'm..." Michael had no answer. "Since before the accident? I haven't been able to, y'know. Kind of hard. Without paws and all."

He laughed, the sound mirthless.

"Not been able to do it. Missing something. You're missing something too."

Gert's lips twisted, stifling a snappy retort. He had to be nice.

"I can help with that."

Gert snatched up the opportunity to get the dog on his side, mentally as well as physically. This was what he had expected upon signing up for the experiment - to be caring for Michael, in effect. Taking the stairs two at a time, the sheepdog watched his step attentively, hopping up in search of the bathroom and a toothbrush. Finding a door half-open with a glimmer of what could have once been white within, he pushed it open, tail swaying expectantly.

He did not know why, in hindsight, he had expected the bathroom to be any different to the rest of the house. Grime encrusted every surface in a gritty coating. A window, once transparent, was slick with green-brown mould, allowing no one to see in or out. The shower over the bath was coated with brown grit and the shower curtain, crumpled at one end of the bath, glared orange from multiple soakings and discolouration. Gert did not even want to look into the toilet, lest he leave the house entirely and take his chances with his roommate. One lonely toothbrush rested on the shelf above the sink, bristles facing up, beside a sad tube of toothpaste, twisted so as to squeeze the last dregs from the tube.

"You..." Gert wrestled with his natural disgust. "Why? Just why? I can't use this bathroom!"

Michael rolled his eyes, craning what was left of his neck to look up at the sheepdog.

"You plan to shit outside?"

"No!" Gert defended himself. "Just...how can you live like this?"

"Very easily." If he had been able, Michael would have shrugged. "I don't need much to get by. Spent the days working anyhow."

"Is the toothbrush okay to use?" Gert's paw shrank back as if he'd rather do anything but touch the brush itself.

"Should be."

Taking the toothbrush, the sheepdog forced a globule of toothpaste on to it, turning the tap on with an utterly disgusted look. Tilting up the Akita's muzzle with one, careful paw, Gert pushed the brush into the canine's mouth, scrubbing clinically along his teeth as if he was taking care of a feral, four-legged dog. Michael resisted the urge to pull his head away, submitting to the treatment with a barely concealed whine. It was awkward to the extreme and the sheepdog could not see exactly where he was jabbing and brushing, catching the soft interior of the dog's muzzle - he earned himself a strangled yelp every time he slipped and apologised profusely.

Maybe Michael was not so bad, after all, Gert thought as he finished up cleaning the dog's muzzle the best that he could. He was just like any other fur, just in a very shitty situation. Finishing the task at hand, Gert's finger slipped into the canine's mouth, reappearing soaked with slick salvia. Gert screwed up his muzzle in disgust and shook his paw, wiping the excess off on his jeans. He would have to find a change of clothes soon.

He ran the toothbrush under the tap to rinse it off and rose up on the tips of his toes to allow Michael to spit into the sink. Sighing, Gert brushed the fur on the top of his head back, feeling very weary with the day already. It was a lot of effort to support Michael with his body and mind, something that he had only partly anticipated.

"That was fucking vile."

"Not exactly pleasant for me either," Michael spat, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. "Mm. Minty."

The sheepdog brought a paw to his head, covering his eyes. If he waited long enough like that, in half-darkness, he would wake up, he was sure. It could only be a nightmare.

"Can't wait until this is all over," Gert muttered.

Michael sighed, though there was no exhalation of breath, simply the motion in his head and muzzle.

"You and me both. How long is it now?"

Gert twisted his lips, thinking.

"Next appointment in two weeks time." Gert's expression soured. "Should be the end of it." Two weeks? That was forever... Michael's head drooped. How was he ever going to survive for so long? It was an inane question. In his state, he did not need to do anything, really, just exist. He could sleep to rest his brain, but all oxygen and other sustenance was conveyed to him by Gert's bloodstream, veins locked together in the transplantation process. That was why he had had to be placed on to Gert's crotch, the sheepdog had imparted in the car: the blood required for his brain would be best acquired from that location. Michael supposed there was something to the 'blood loss' argument when a guy got a boner after all then. It was a good spot for blood to flood to, better than one's head. Who needed that anyway? Oh, wait... The canine clenched his teeth. Nope, the thought was too depressing. He would not go there. Looking up, he caught Gert's attention.

"Well...come on," Michael twitched his left ear. "Let's go downstairs and watch some TV. Not much else to do while we wait. Unless you want to give the store a shot? Could get some food in."

Gert shook his head vehemently. It had been bad enough hiding Michael just going through the hospital, walking like a bodybuilder after leg day. Going to a shopping centre seemed impossible in such a condition, he'd be caught instantly. Not that he was doing anything wrong but explaining to security could be highly uncomfortable. Gert tucked his tail between his legs, mind darting from scenario to scenario. No, he would be found out. He only prayed he could survive on whatever sustenance Michael's house held. It was almost an organic being in itself, after all.

"No, no chance." Gert said, continuing on as if he needed to clarify. "We stay put, right here."

Michael rolled his eyes. The grocers shop wasn't that far, just a short drive. The sheepdog was wimping out, not wanting to get food. Maybe he had cheetos left? The dog's ears pricked and he panted happily in anticipation. Yes, cheetos would do for now.

"You got any good channels?" Gert prompted, ignoring the canine's happy display.

Michael paused for thought, one eyebrow raised. That was a question indeed. Nobody else had seemed impressed by his television set-up but, honestly, what was there not to like? A little stand, box set, channels - done and dusted. Well, only a few channels. One or two. Sometimes. When it worked. The weather was okay for signal, wasn't it?

"Sure..." He answered, sliding his eyes away evasively. "Sure I do. I got channels. You know Spanish, right?"

*

"Ah, Gert! What a pleasure to see you again!"

The Golden Retriever bounced into the examination room, muzzle plastered with her terrifying, perpetual smile. Turning away, Gert refused to match her smile with one of his own. He had no wag left in his tail and, as the doctor examined him - though strangely not paying any attention to Michael, who remained tucked within his clothing - he thought of his boyfriend. All he wanted was to get back to Jay and have the time together that they needed. Jason wanted to see him and he wanted to be in the husky's arms again. Was that too much to ask?

His mouth set in a firm line. No, it was not too much to ask. He would have Michael removed from him and the whole sorry experience would come to an end.

At bloody last...

The doctor pursed her lips, silent in her scrutiny. Gert's eyelid twitched - an anxious tick. The sheepdog drew himself up tall, his shorter stature putting him at eye level with the high-heeled canine.

"Can we get this done quickly?"

His voice had an impatient bark to it. She looked up, surprised, and then back down at her clipboard as if it would contain the instantaneous answer to his question. When nothing jumped out at her, she smiled sweetly and tilted her head in unspoken question. Gert's frustrated boiled and he tried to explain, curbing fury. He thought his intentions were quite clear already: he had done his part and more for Michael!

"It's been two weeks," he said. "Surely you have worked on Michael's body enough so that we may go our separate ways. You have technology here that will keep him alive. He's not happy. And, quite frankly, I've had enough of this. Can you put me under now and conduct the separation?"

The doctor looked down at her clipboard, fiddling with the pen between her brightly painted fingernails, which were a shocking pink.

"I'm afraid it's more complicated than that," she finally answered, refusing to meet his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

The dog cleared her throat, bringing her paw daintily to her muzzle.

"The procedure with Michael's body...has not quite gone to plan," she elaborated after taking due time for consideration.

In the sheepdog's jeans, Michael growled, rumbling vibrations travelling through Gert's crotch in a not entirely unpleasant way. He tried to ignore the feeling, feed off Michael's anger instead, and fixed his gaze upon the doctor. She took a tiny step backwards, teetering in her heels. This time, the heels were stripper scarlet.

"It has not gone to plan," he repeated, rolling each word around the interior of his muzzle. "Please explain. How long will we be like this? Trapped with each other?"

The doctor swallowed, her eyes fixed on a point above Gert's head.

"I'm afraid the change is permanent," she mumbled; shame coloured her cheeks. "Michael's body was too damaged to save. We are looking into other transplantation treatment but it is requiring fresh experiments and donors, alongside hefty donations that we simply do not possess."

She paused, meeting Gert's eyes for the first time.

"I'm sorry, but it is the way it is and there's nothing I or anyone else at the hospital can do about it."

The sheepdog stilled. He could not comprehend what the doctor had said and it took him several long seconds to think through, the gravity of the situation slapping him upside the head. There was no end to it then. He had been royally screwed over. The sheepdog's mind raced. How would the rest of his life play out with another fur attached to him? He was well and truly a fucking freak now. Would Jay leave him? He dreaded the thought, skin crawling with cold.

Words would not come to his lips and the sheepdog looked down behind his hind paws, red hot fury rising in stark contrast to the ice of his body. His silence was more terrifying than words and the doctor frowned, looking out the open door as if to call for assistance. Gert's paws curled into fists, his short, claw-like fingernails digging into his paws so viciously that he feared blood would be drawn.

There was one part of the sheepdog that was not quiet, however. One part was very vocal indeed.

Wordlessly, Gert unzipped his jeans and tugged down his boxers, allowing Michael to squirm his head into view. The Akita panted as if he had run a race, eyes wild and crazed. For a moment, Gert feared Michael would launch himself forward, dragging the sheepdog's body along with him as he tore the Golden Retriever to shreds, strips of steaming flesh disappearing into his gullet. The Akita was near feral, regressing in the extreme of his situation. Gert shuddered, imagining if the second head could control him - he had a brain, of course. It was not too far-fetched to consider. Yet still impossible...right? The sheepdog closed his eyes. Gert did not know what was possible or not anymore. And that terrified him.

Michael snarled, showing his teeth.

"What the fuck do you mean we're fucking stuck?"