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There were things Alex would never tell the others. He would never tell them that he sucks his thumb when he sleeps, or that sometimes he caught flashes of memories he couldn’t quite place (fields of golden wheat, arms around him, the shake of a rattle-), or what a fresh kill tastes like.
There were things Alex would like to keep to himself. That’s all.
He couldn’t bring himself to divulge to Marty or Melman or Gloria how he’d felt when the hunger had been at its peak, carving out his insides until there was nothing left but a cavernous emptiness inside of him, driving him to hunt to kill to fill up the void with blood and bone and meat. He can’t describe to them the dizzying bloodlust, how his head when blank and fuzzy and warped except when he was steadied on the hunt. He can’t articulate how it felt to crouch on all fours, chase with teeth and claws, laser-focused on the smell of prey and the promise of food- adrenaline in his veins, clarity, strength, desperate and pleading focus.
The penguins feed him fish and rice wrapped in seaweed paper and he smiles and grins and reassures them all- their shoulders still slightly tense, their eyes just too wide, prey animals suddenly aware of the wolf in sheep's clothing among them- thats its delicious and its satisfying and it's the best thing he’s ever tasted.
And it is the best thing he’s ever tasted.
Other than fresh kill.
At the zoo his steaks had come on a silver platter, served up to him like he was a king, raw and slick- room temperature, sometimes slightly chilled, before he’d become so iconic- before he’d really become the King of New York, before he’d been considered a king at all- they’d brought his meat wrapped up in clear plastic, peeling off the layers and tossing it into his pen still cold from the fridge they’d taken it from. He’d never had it warm, he’d never had it fresh- he’d never felt blood spring between his canines as he gnashed his teeth, grinding down onto the soft and pliant skin where the adam's apple juts out, arteries popping and tearing beneath the clench of his jaw. He’d never watched steam rise from where he’d cut clean through skin and muscles and straight into important and vital organs, curling and twisting in the air like a gruesome phantom. He’d never eaten with his teeth buried past shredded skin and fur, mouth splattered red with blood and claws drenched in the color.
Until Madagascar
There were things Alex would never tell the others.
They wouldn’t understand it, not really. They wouldn’t get what drove him to kill, the feral and unhinged hunger that had overtaken him on that long and lonely walk to his self imposed cage. They couldn’t understand it. They couldn’t get what drove him to lash out when that fossa had come a bit too close, wandering just within lunging distance.
Marty never mentions the carnage, he gives no signs that he ever saw it.
So Alex keeps his mouth shut, and he smiles, and he eats sushi and he lies and says it the best thing he’s ever eaten.
He just likes his privacy. Its personal. He doesn’t have to tell them.
That’s all.