People always seem to give Ford a polydactyl cat because "oh, its just like me!"
But WHERE are the people who would give Stan a polydactyl cat while Ford is lost on the other side of an interdimensional portal because it reminds him of Ford?
Hi, I am the people, meet my new best girl Sixer--the polydactyl cat.
I have spent the past 3 ish days obsessing over her and now yall will too. Created by me and my good pal @bbuzz28 (Beth) over the course of a couple of hours the other day.
I wanted to write an âintroâ to this au, but I knew I wouldnât be able to do it justice, so I asked Beth to write something, and, as per usual, she COOKED.
So hereâs Sixerâs introduction (Written by Beth @bbuzz28)
Our AU opens up one lonely night a month or so post portal incident. At this point, Stan Pines knows the best nights to dumpster dive out back of Greasyâs, and the people of this town seem to be silly enough to believe in expiration dates.
Heâs half-singing, half-humming one of his made-up little songs.
âDay old bread, gets me fedâdoodly doo. As long as it ainât green, the meat can be frozeeenâdoodly doooo.â
A rustling catches his attention as he pops the first lid off a can. Stanâs proud enough to say that while it wouldnât be the first time heâd fight with some animal over food, heâs never lost one of those fights. âŠexcept for that one time with the rat in Tuscaloosa, but câmonâthat sucker was BIG.
Stan kicked at some of the other cans while he tries to figure out where the noise is coming from, finally determining the sounds are coming from the big dumpster. Curiosity killed the cat was a phrase his mother would throw around while they were growing up, and while she had been proven right a hundred times over at this point, Stan still found himself flipping the lid to the dumpster. Whatâs the worst that could happen?
The skittering at the bottom of the dumpster kicked up a notch as Stan caught sight of a dingy flash of white, brown and orange flinging itself along the bottom of the rusty box. Some tiny thing had what appeared to be a styrofoam takeout container closed around its head. Stan sighed as he looked at the layer of grime along the sides of the dumpster, not relishing the thought of what it would feel like on his hands. It was only styrofoam, it would eventually tire itself out or break free of its self-imposed prison. If he left the lid open that should be enough to give it a getaway. He didnât have to help.
As Stan used one of the garbage cans next to the dumpster to hop onto the side of it, the vibrations he made seemingly scared the tiny creature further.
âHey, relax, would ya? Iâm coming in here tâ help, scouts honor.â
They had never been scouts, his father said it was a waste of money, but Stan had seen someone say that on TV once as he slowly lowered himself into the dumpster.
After a comedic back and forth of the slippery little thing dodging his every effort to catch it even without being able to see him, Stan finally got a hand on it. He scruffed and then quickly pressed the little creature to his chest as it struggled against his grip. Stan felt its heart beating a mile a minute, clearly terrified.
âCâmon, I promise I ainât the bad guy in all of this ya little gremlin. Just hold still a second.â
Stan used his free hand to slide to the hole the critter had created for itself, gripping it with his forefinger and gently pulling until a tiny white, brown and orange head popped out.
Still holding the animal to his chest, he gently started to pet its headâa head he would quickly discover was covered in syrup. Undeterred, Stan continued until he felt its heartbeat slow down. Its tense body relaxed; its breathing slowedâa strange rumbling he clocked as purring sealed the deal for him that it wasnât scared anymore. Finally, sure that it wouldnât scratch his eyes out with the motion, Stan brought the tiny thing out from his chest and took a good look at it in the half-light of the moon.
It was a kitten; a dirty, skinny thing with an irritated looking scratch along its almost white cheek. It blinked at him with a dazzling set of mismatched eyes, one yellow and the other blue. Blue like the color of the sky on a clear day at the beach, with the shining sun right next to it.
Sure, it was a little crusty looking at the moment given it was the middle of the night and caked in dirt and who knows what else, but Stan could see potential. It was a pretty little thing that didnât need to be out here scrounging for scraps.
âHeh. Hey there ya lil freak, if ya like pancakes so much I bet Susan would take ya home. Heard sheâs got a thing for cats, nâ Iâd bet sheâd bring you home leftovers.â
The kitten sniffed in response, wiggling ever so slightly in his hand at being held out. Stan sighed and unzipped his sweatshirt, placing the kitten back against his chest and zipping her inside.
âLook, Iâll get ya cleaned up and bring ya back in the morninâ. That broad has got plenty of room for a tiny thing like you.â
He felt the tiny cat wriggle until its head had poked back out of his sweatshirt, its purring returning. Stan felt a pang of some emotion he hadnât felt in a while but did his best to shake it off. Tiny thing like that belonged somewhere that had a steady diet of food not found in a dumpster.
He didnât need another thing to worry about, considering what he had done and what he had left still to do.
Except that doesnât happen. Once Stan gets back to his brotherâs house the lonely cabin in the woods and starts wiping away some of the dirt and grime from the tiny cat, he makes a discovery.
She has too many fingers.
Cats donât have fingers, Stanley a familiar voice says somewhere in the back of his head as he counts the tiny, multicolored beans.
One, two, three, four, fiveâŠsix.
Six little toes on all four legs.
The washcloth feels heavy in his hand as the tiny cat starts to redo his hard work in his lap, cleaning herself all over again. Warmth envelops him as he connects some dots, but he tries his best to push them down. Stan doesnât deserve to feel how he already suspects he does over the little life in his lap.
He will definitely take her to Susan in the morningâŠunless it rains. He vaguely remembers the radio saying something about April showers yadda yadda. Cats donât like being wet, he canât exactly subject the little thing to that. But the day after tomorrow, definitely.
And so, as the story goes, he comes up with a different excuse every day, further ingratiating the tiny creature into his strange life. She sleeps on his chest and steals his socks, joins him on tours and wraps herself around his shoulders as he pours over his brotherâs journal at night. He steals procures all the essentials to keep her happy, even if she seems more than content to just be with him.
He keeps up the charade of giving her away, until the day he doesnâtâbut thatâs a different story.
THANK YOU ONCE AGAIN BETH I COULDNT WRITE SOMETHING OF THIS QUALITY IF I TRIED. Everyone go give Beth some appreciation and love, she deserves so much.
Thereâs of course, a lot more to little Sixer than we explained here, but thatâs for another time :)
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