Chapter Text
When you wake up, it's to an all-encompassing soreness that penetrates into your very bones, and absolutely fuck-all of a sense for how long you were asleep.
You rub the crust out of your eyes with your knuckles and sit up slowly, painfully aware of every shift in your aching muscles. You turn to sit against the wall, blinking blearily in the pseudo-darkness.
There's a change of clothes left near your mat, folded into a neat pile. One of your protein rectangles is sitting on top. This disturbs you for a number of reasons.
For one, it means the humans actually managed to come into the room and leave these things without waking you up. That alone is enough to make you shudder. You are usually an incredibly light sleeper. The slightest disturbance should have woken you up. You only take solace in the fact that they didn't take the opportunity to do anything to you, and that it's unlikely you'll let it happen again.
For two, you're already sick of protein rectangles. If they're giving you your own food, they must not have access to food you can eat. Or they just don't give enough of a shit to find something you can.
For three, you're really fucking hungry. All you ate yesterday were two of these things, and one more really isn't going to do much for you. Given how dead-set they are on understanding your biology, they have to be aware of that. Which, in your opinion, means one of two things.
Either they know it's not enough and are deliberately rationing you to keep you just alive enough to wring whatever use they can from you, or they're trying to make your food last while they figure out what you can and can't eat.
You hate yourself for suspecting, more than merely hoping for, the latter.
Either way, you scarf the thing down. It's gone too quickly, and leaves you unsatisfied. You stand up slowly and take about three steps to cross the room and get yourself a drink of water. There are a few new surprises by the ablution stand as well, which mostly serve to put you further on edge given that you somehow didn't wake the fuck up while they were dicking around in your general vicinity. They left you a bar of soap and a small towel. Thoughtful.
You drink your water. Then grab the clothes from the ground and examine them. A long sleeve black t-shirt and some gray sweats. Clean underwear.
Part of you desperately hates the idea of wearing the clothes they give you, making you even more "theirs" than you already are, but whatever. Your clothes are ruined. At least these are clean.
You do your best to clean up at the ablution stand, watching the dirty water run down the drain absently. You didn't really realize how absolutely filthy you were with dust and grime until your skin is clean.
You take the new clothes behind the curtain to change. It clearly wasn't meant for this seeing as there really isn't any extra space between the load gaper and the curtain itself, but like hell are you going to voluntarily put your body on display for those sick fucks when this works perfectly fine. You almost drop your shirt in the gaper twice, but don't.
It's fine. You're fine.
The clothes fit you fine. A little long, maybe, but they're surprisingly soft. And at least not half shredded.
You fold your old clothes and leave them in a corner of the room with the wrapper from your protein rectangle. You don't like just leaving garbage around on the floor, but there's no place for you to put it. You turn the lights up about halfway. The highest setting is way too bright.
You go over to the mat and sit with your back against the wall.
Then you wait.
Time passes, and you've never been very good at being patient. You pick at your clawbeds, a loose thread on your shirtsleeve, thump your head softly against the wall.
It's not long before you resort to messing with the bandages they wrapped around your middle, even if it means half-exposing your torso. Fucking humans with their weird-ass over-the-top mediculling procedures. You prod not-too-gently at the wound and yep. Feels about fine. Just like you thought it would. You wonder if they'll stop you if you try to take them off. You resist the urge to try for about ten minutes.
…
Fuck it.
You lift your shirt again and search for the end of the bandage. Of course they put it on your back the absolute sociopaths. You feel around until your fingers brush a smooth little tab of tape. You're able to cut it with your claw and immediately feel the tension release. Ha. You start unraveling their hard work, spitefully.
Nobody barges in and stops you. Which is both a relief and honestly a little disappointing because you're going to fucking lose it if you have to spend the rest of your measly little life alone in a tiny room with no means of keeping yourself occupied. But it also means you're not being grabbed and positioned and prodded, so there's that.
You finish unraveling the bandages, snarling in disgust at the pale pink stains on the otherwise pure white cloth. You weren't actively bleeding when John wrapped you, so it must just be remnants from the cleaning, but it repulses you nonetheless.
You roll the soiled bandages up into a ball and resolve to add it to the trash pile accumulating in the corner. First, though, you poke at your wound.
It's… okay fine it's not entirely sealed over. You guess is was slightly deeper than you thought. But it will still be perfectly fine without the bandage. There are about four little white stickers spaced out along the cut. They tug uncomfortably at your skin and you want them off.
You pick at one of the strips carefully. You manage to get the tip of your claw under the edge and pull gently. You wince as it yanks on your skin and the cut. It doesn't want to come up. You pull a little harder, just wanting to remove this thing from your body.
You pull too hard and accidentally scrape the wound with your claw.
You hiss and cover the spot with your hands. Shit. Good going dunderfuck you reopened your perfectly adequately healing wound with your ever insufferable inability to leave shit well enough alone.
You pull back your hands to glance at the wound and… god fucking damnit. Yep. There's fresh blood beading along the line. It's not a lot, but fuck if you're not sick to death of bleeding. It seems like that's all you do these days.
There's a click in the general direction of the door and you look up in a panic. Right. They can see what you're doing at any time. Fuck.
The door swings open and Dave steps inside, quickly followed by Jade. It shuts behind them.
You hiss, scrambling to back up.
Dave raises his hands, palms forward, and hunches over, taking a slow step forward.
"Hey, it's okay dude," he says. His voice is low and steady. At least he doesn't use the infantilizing tone John seemed to affect every time he was struck by the whim to talk at you. "Just wanna make sure you're okay and shit. No reason to go all feral rabies racoon man."
Jade stays by the door watching carefully. You really don't want to prompt another ambush. You avoid making any sudden movements as Dave gets closer.
He kneels down next to you. He reaches slowly towards your side, still caged by your fingers. He hesitates for a moment, then touches the back of your hand gently.
The moment his skin makes contact with yours it burns. You're caught completely off guard and lash out before you can help it, swiping reflexively at his face.
He catches your wrist easily and doesn't look to phased by it.
"Yo Harley," Jade is immediately by your side. You're now caged in entirely by the two humans. Wonderful. "Hold this for me."
He passes her your wrist casually and immediately goes for your wound again. You keep your other hand fisted in the loose fabric of your sweats to keep it from getting restrained as well.
He pulls up your shirt and examines the cut carefully. How he can see it (or anything at all) through those douchey shades is a mystery to you, but he doesn't move to take them off. He snorts quietly.
"Kinda overkill there Dirk," he mutters. "Dude walked like three miles with this thing, don't think it needs holding together."
He pinches the half removed sticker thing that's still hanging off of your skin and tugs. You hiss when it pulls on your wound. He stops immediately.
"Think you could run back and grab some stuff for me?" He glances back at Jade. "Alcohol, cotton swabs, and a… uh, gauze pad?"
She frowns, glancing between the two of you.
"I don't think I should leave you alone in here," she says, pointedly waving your hand in the air. You glare at her, not helping your case. "Maybe we should just wait until Dirk gets back."
Dave shakes his head.
"Nah, I don't want to leave him like this. If he keeps fucking with the butterfly bandages he could open more of it back up. Then it’s painful for him and a headache for the rest of us. Rather just take care of it now.”
She chews this over for a moment, looking concerned. Then she sighs.
“I guess so,” she says. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”
Dave nods. Jade places your hand on your opposite shoulder and gives you a pointed look. You bare your teeth at her but dig your claws into your shoulder anyway.
She takes a slow step back, watching you carefully, then quickly heads for the door. You watch as she presses her hand flat against the panel. There’s a click and the door pops open. She slips out and shuts it behind her.
The second she’s gone Dave starts rambling.
“Hey, uh, please don’t flip your shit dude,” he says, his tone as low and unaffected as ever. “Throwing down in the desert was one thing, when both were like armed and shit. But I seriously don’t want to fight you while you’re all wounded and helpless in your own goddamn prison cell. Though honestly I’m not sure I could take you hand to hand. Pretty sure you’re strong as fuck and you’ve got those like sharp-ass nail claw things. Uh. Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this. I mean, not like you understand me or anything but fuck it. Still feels weird to admit that you could probably beat my ass to your face. Weird to say that to your face, I mean. Not put my ass in your… oh hey Jade what’s up. We’re just chilling.”
You don’t even have time to take advantage of the fact that you had him in here alone before Jade’s back, too surprised by the unrelentingly stream of bullshit that just poured unceremoniously out of his windhole. She crosses the cell swiftly and sets the supplies down next to Dave.
“You know the audio in here is projected into the lab,” she says, fixing him with an amused smile.
You don’t think you imagine the grimace that briefly passes over his face.
“Yeah course,” he bluffs. “I was just, you know. Oh hey the stuff. Cool.”
Jade rolls her eyes as Dave “seamlessly” transitions into fixing you up. She sits cross-legged on the ground and watches as Dave cleans up the blood you stupidly drew, then gets to work removing the small bandages. He douses cottonspheresticks with clear liquid and nudges it under the edge of the bandages. It stings when it makes contact with your wound but you hold back your reactions, hyperaware of his proximity to a point of vulnerability.
There’s certainly nothing pleasant to the experience, but at very least something is happening. You don’t really want them in here, but you’re loathe to return to your isolation and boredom.
When Dave finishes up, he takes one last look at the spot you fucked up and seems satisfied. He puts your shirt down.
“You’re not going to wrap it back up?” Jade asks, curiously.
“Nah,” Dave says. “If he’s just gonna fuck with it it’s probably better to leave it. Besides, if he doesn’t think he needs it he probably doesn’t. We’re trying to treat troll wounds like human wounds and they clearly don’t work the same. I’m sure he knows what’s up with his own body better than we do at this point.”
Jade crosses her arms.
“Or he doesn’t know what’s good for him,” she says, giving Dave an odd look. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen it!”
Dave snorts quietly and Jade grins.
“Well if it turns out he’s wrong I’ll take the blame for enabling him. Don’t see the harm in leaving it for now. Dude heals super fast anyway according to Egbert.”
Dave gathers up the supplies and pushes himself to his feet. Jade follows, collecting the trash you piled in the corner as they go to leave.
“Uh, later man,” Dave throws over his shoulder before slipping through the door.
The door clicks shut. You stare at it for a moment, then let out a huff of breath. You lie back on the mat and let your arm drop to your side, realizing you’d actually held it in place at your shoulder the whole time. You can feel where your claws dug into your skin.
You’re hungry.
Time passes slowly. You do your best to track it by how often they feed you. Which is, to be frank, not fucking enough. You're still getting protein rectangles. Three total in what you assume is a day, then a long period of nothing during what you can only guess by human diurnal habits is the night. It's maybe half of what you need, being generous.
You spend your hours doing any number of incredibly stimulating activities, including and pretty much exclusively limited to: pacing, staring at the wall, staring at the ceiling while you lie on your back and contemplate how much you hate yourself, and pretending to be asleep.
On the rare occasion you do sleep, it's light and sporadic. You're often woken by pangs of hunger and fucking humans trying to sneak in to leave you your "meals." You let them think they've succeeded in sneaking past your defenses. You hate looking at them when they hand you your latest ration, hate the warped vestige of pity in their eyes that hides behind a mask of pleasant ignorance. It's usually Jade who hands you food when you're awake. You're pretty sure it's Dave's near-silent footsteps that wake you up when you're trying to sleep away the discomfort.
It's been three days since your first night here (you think… it's very hard to keep track) and you're starting to worry about the longevity of your situation. You're not exactly sure how much you've eaten, but you're certain that you're approaching the end of your pitiful supply of rations.
You're woken, as you so often are after these long periods of endless nothing that you assume makes up the humans' sleeping period, by the sound of quiet footsteps. You open your eyes a fraction, but don't move from where you lay on your side, facing the wall. You listen to the sound of something being placed on the ground, then the soft tapping of retreating footsteps. The click of the door opening and closing is almost deafening in comparison.
You wait for as long as you can force yourself too. Whether it's some sort of rationing instinct that tells you to hold off on food for as long as possible, or just plain pride urging you to not appear any more desperate than you invariably do, you always grit your teeth and wait.
When your stomach insists, you sit up unceremoniously. You may spend a good amount of time pretending to be asleep, but you never engage in the theatrics of pretending to wake up. Let them always be unsure, why not?
You go to grab your first protein rectangle of the day and freeze when you realize that that's not what they've left you. Instead, on a paper plate sits a thick slice of some sort of dark loaf.
You stare at it, your expression slowly turning into a frown. It looks… similar to some variations of grubloaf you've seen? You pull the plate closer to you and poke at the offering. It springs back and doesn't leave your fingers greasy. A closer approximation of the leavened variety then. There are grayish chunks in it. You pick one out. It looks like a segment of some type of earth insect. You put it in your mouth cautiously and chew. It's crunchy and sort of nutty. Tastes and looks remarkably similar to clickbug. You pinch off a corner of the slice and test it as well. It's somewhat bland, but the texture is pleasantly springy. And all-in-all it's a welcome respite from the endless cycle of protein rectangles.
You wait for a few minutes after taking these initial bites, fighting the intense urge to give into your hunger and eat recklessly. But you're wary of Earth food. All of the food you eat back on your base is supplied from Alternian colonies or your home planet itself. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't be eating food grown on Earth until it's been conquered and settled. You honestly don't know if it will make you sick.
When you don't seem to have any averse reaction to it and can't hold off any longer, you decide fuck it and go ahead and finish the slice. It's good, dense. You feel more satisfied than you have in days. Not close to fully, it's just one slice after all, but it's more than a protein rectangle could do for you, and you'll take what you can get at this point.
It gets better after that.
Your meals slowly but surely begin to approximate actual meals as the humans incorporate more variety into your allotments. Most of it is surprisingly good. Thick porridges with small orange larvae on top, stewed leafvegetables and some sort of legumes on baked tubers, and always plenty of whatever that loaf is that they've managed to concoct. Even that seems to become less bland over time.
One meal, some kind of flatloaf with the same seedpaste you've enjoyed on your regular grubloaf, makes you violently ill. You're leaning over the load gaper for hours, shaking and sweating with the effort of forcibly expelling whatever heinous garbage your body wasn’t meant to digest, and you only took a bite of it. You’re always cautious when they give you something new to try, and now you're glad for it. It’s the only time John comes into your cell. (With Jade and Dave standing close by, of course.) He checks your temperature, does some tests, and helps you drink some vaguely sweet liquid. You’re too drained to brush off his hand when he idly drags it over your burning skin, but when you wake up from sleeping it off, you hate yourself just a bit more for letting it happen.
But aside from that.
You find ways to entertain yourself. You practice your forms for hours on end, like you used to in your respiteblock back on Alternia (without, of course, your sickles). At first you get a grim sort of satisfaction from the thought that the humans can see you practicing. You’d like to think it puts them just a bit on edge—a reminder that as sorry an excuse for one as you are, you’re still a member of the most notorious conquering species in the universe, and they've decided to keep you in a cage. You soon realize, though, that you’re also an absolute tool and, if anything, all of your practicing would only serve to thoroughly educate them on your fighting style and let them outline exactly how to take you down should you ever try to attack one of them.
Still, it’s too solid a distraction to give up. You just can’t brush the knowledge of how much of a self-destructive moron you're being every time you do.
You write stories in your head. You used to dabble a bit before… well. Before. It’s frustrating, not being able to write any of it down, but it’s at least something to think about. You wonder if you'll ever get the chance to record them or if they'll inevitably die with you.
You try to recite the scripts of your favorite movies by memory. And by recite, you mean mouth the words in Alternian. You’re a little bit scared that if you start using your voice, you’re not going to be able to stop, and you’ll end up babbling incoherently to yourself for the rest of time. Besides, if the humans pick up Alternian, you’re fucked.
John has you taken out of your cell periodically to run more tests. You both hate it with every fiber of your being and need it more than anyone could possibly understand. Being in a room with other people, listening to their conversations, observing the interactions of actual living, breathing beings, even if they're goddamn insane-ass humans, makes you feel real. You don't understand most of the tests John subjects you to, but it's still a change of fucking pace. And aside from the occasional blood theft, none of it really hurts.
It drives you up the wall that John ceaselessly consoles you throughout the whole process. Even more so, if possible, you hate that you find yourself leaning into his touches against your better judgement, and responding to his soothing tones. It makes you feel absolutely repulsive when you think about it afterwards, skin crawling with the ghost trails of his grubby phalanges, and more confused than you ever possibly be. For the love of fuck you can't figure out why he does it. He… doesn't seem like the kind of guy to have this sort of depraved power fantasy. But then again, it's not like you really know him. And you're starting to realize that you can't really trust your instincts when it comes to him.
Nobody stops him either. They just watch. Or don't. It makes you burn.
All of this isn't to say you don't lose plenty of hours to staring at the ceiling, outlining everything you hate about your situation and everything you hate about yourself that got you into it. Because you do plenty of that as well. Who knew there were so many hours in the night?
It's been about a week since you got here. You think. You started keeping track of the days by making scratch marks in the plaster by your mat with the tip of your claw. You're not sure if you missed a day or not, though, and those first couple days are pretty foggy. It's either six or seven, though. Probably.
You've just finished eating your first meal when the door swings open. You frown. It's a weird time for John to send for you, but whatever. It's not like that guy makes the slightest bit of sense in the first place.
You startle when she steps into your cell.
It's the human female you saw when they first brought you in. You haven't seen her since. She's never in the lab when John runs his tests, and it's always Dave and Jade bringing you food. She's just as unnerving as your first impression.
You watch her through narrow eyes as she closes the door behind her, turning her back to you for a moment. No one comes into your cell alone. Not since Dave checked your wound, and it was pretty clear he wasn't supposed to do that in the first place. Even when Dave sneaks in while he thinks your asleep, you're pretty sure Jade stands by the door just in case.
She takes a few steps into the room, then sits down gracefully on her knees. You're sitting, as you so often do, on your mat against the wall. She sits as close to the mirrored wall as possible, which is still only a few feet away from you. She smooths out her skirt.
"Hello," she says, a small smile forming on her lips.
Your blood runs cold.
She's not talking at you. She's talking to you.
"My name is Rose Lalonde. I am a behavioral psychologist working with Skaianet Labs on the Chihuahuan Project. Our goal is to collect as much data on troll biology and behavior as possible. I would like to assure you that we mean you no harm."
Your nose twitches against your control. Her eyes flick to the reaction, and her smile extends just slightly.
“I apologize for the late introduction,” she continues, watching you carefully as you refuse to react. “This lab was under the impression that you did not understand English, or any other human language.”
You note that "this lab" doesn't seem to include her in that regard. You wonder how long she's suspected.
“But it seems the truth is to the contrary. I believe you can understand me just fine.”
She pauses. Perhaps to give you the generous opportunity to spill your guts. In the silence she leaves, you realize that you've been producing a low rumbling growl. You don't know when it started. You have deniability, you think. You made it pretty clear from the beginning that you don't like her. There's no reason they would connect your reaction to anything in particular she's said.
Right?
You’re going to lose your goddamn mind trying to play these games.
“Nothing you do will confirm or deny this fact,” she says, as if reading your mind. “I can assure you I wouldn’t waste my time with baseless bluffs. No, we have already found plenty of evidence that you can understand us. You’re very…”
She pauses, but something tells you she doesn’t really have to. Theatrics.
“Expressive.”
Your growl spikes in response and you would hate yourself for it except that she doesn’t seem to react at all.
Maybe she’s telling the truth. She has you all figured out, and you’re wasting your energy trying to keep up this charade.
Even so, it doesn’t mean you have to speak.
“I think you’d find your situation would be more manageable if you were able to communicate with us. Perhaps some of the… complications that occurred in first few days here would have been more easily avoided had you been able to assist us in understanding your species' nutritional needs and limitations. Your cooperation would be most helpful in preventing such misunderstandings in the future.”
You know a threat when you hear one. It makes you wonder, again, just how long she’s suspected.
She regards you calmly. You feel the way her eyes take in your expression, your posture, the way your claws bite into the side of your leg.
"You're a very interesting subject,” she says eventually. "And I don't just mean as an example of your species' psychology. There's something fascinating about you as an individual."
She pauses. You're starting to sense a pattern with these pauses. It's irritatingly difficult to tell if she's genuinely thinking about what to say next, or if she just does it for dramatic effect. You lean towards the latter.
"Did you know that you are the first of your kind humanity has managed to take into custody?" She asks. "I don't think it's a coincidence that it's you."
You wince. You had your suspicions, but it still stings to have them confirmed.
"You have a very strong survival instinct that supersedes your sense of pride and your fear of mistreatment," she says. "It might surprise you to know that this isn't so uncommon in humans, but in the experience we've had with trolls it seems you are of a rare disposition."
Low blow, but fine. You're not unaccustomed to taking insults. It's not like she's fucking wrong anyway. You already know you're a cowardly piece of shit.
"And yet," she continues. "You still refuse to cooperate when you know that doing so could very easily improve your quality of life, implying that you don't act entirely in self-interest. There is something you are still trying to protect, and, I suppose, what I am so curious to know is what?"
She gives you space to answer. Which, of course, you do not. This doesn't seem to deter her in the slightest. In fact, she almost seems delighted to have the opportunity to continue.
"The circumstances surrounding your… apprehension tell an interesting story after all" Her smile finally breaks through the borders of calculatedly pleasant and into smug territory. "After several weeks of observing the Chihuahuan troll military camp from a distance and multiple attempts to surreptitiously apprehend a scout, finding each subject more willing to take their own life than submit to custody, our own scouts discover an exerted troll with limited supplies and no means of contact, who not only puts up a fight upon being discovered, but eventually surrenders when he is finally overpowered."
You grit your teeth.
"And, perhaps most interesting, in a species that shows distinct cultural and biological markers of liberal subscription to the practice of eugenics, he belongs to a blood caste previously entirely unidentified and wears an injury on his arm that appears to be a day old."
Her expression has barely changed but she manages to look so damn smug regardless. You breathe heavily through your twitching nub, burning with the frustration and shame of having your shortcomings and mistakes projected right back at you. You hate that she knows. You hate that she can look right at you and see you for the pathetic nookstain you are.
Your desire for attention has always been a fickle thing. It's your most pathetic fantasy, that people will look at you, will look up to you. That some impossible day you'll be worthy of someone's time and affection.
But you never want them to actually see you.
She sees you.
"So, what I have to wonder," she says, her smug look fading into something akin to curiosity, “is what could possibly coerce someone as stubborn as yourself into protecting a society that adamantly refuses to protect you?”
She clasps her hands in her lap. You stare at her neat black fingertips.
“Because I don’t believe it's fear. And I don’t believe it's pride."
She tilts her head, and her small smile suddenly appears genuine.
"I think you’re loyal.”
Something in her eyes turns her smile sad. Then it twitches and fades, and her face becomes a blank mask.
“Loyalty is a powerful thing," she says, "but misguided, it can be incredibly dangerous.”
She stand up. She’s not even going to give you the opportunity to respond. She knows you won’t.
"I hope you understand exactly what it is you’re loyal to," she says. Then she looks away. "Think about it."
You watch her leave.
You swallow thickly, fingers curling into fists, claws digging painfully into your palms.
You raise your fist to the side and slam it into the wall behind you, ignoring the way your eyes water at the bright shock of pain that thrums through your wrist.
You ignore the way your secret silently streams down your face.
She comes to see you again the next day. You're lying on your side, facing the wall, as has become your habit. You didn't bother to get up when Dave and Jade brought you your first meal. It, presumably, sits on the floor where they left it.
You don't need to recognize her footsteps to know that it's her, but you do anyway. Soft. Careful. Deliberate.
You hear her sit down.
She doesn't say anything. She knows. You hate that she knows.
She waits.
You exhale heavily and slowly sit up. You turn to face her, leaning back against the wall. She has a small notepad folded in her hands. You grit your teeth.
"Fuck you." And god, you never thought you'd see the day when your own voice sounded so weird. "What do you want to know?"