Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The researchers had found the Disc floating in the outer reaches of the End, farther out than anyone had ever traveled before. 

The crew of the I.C. Ship had been notified of some sort of outside presence — a tiny blip on their navigational hub. It caused everyone working to pause; what was something doing so far out in the Void Desert? To their knowledge, they were the first to have ever been sent out this far and it was only because the Universal Council had grown desperate. Their search for water had become something so frantic that the Council was willing to send a crew into what was essentially a wasteland. 

Which raised the question, how was something outside their ship and what was it? 

The Captain ordered the metal shutters that protected the windows to be raised, and many of the personnel gathered around to bear witness to what was waiting for them outside. 

It wasn't all that impressive really. Just a dinky little spacecraft. 

It floated in the endless desert, looking as innocent as a Piglin shoat, bulky but ultimately harmless. 

The crew was quick to double-check their comms. No signals had been sent out in months, and surely they would have been alerted if someone had dropped by recently? 

They almost left it behind. It was probably just debris from some long-forgotten war that had been drifting for a millennial. The Captain was keen to get back to the mission at hand, and she didn't want to bother her crew with a clean-up. 

However, when they were about to fly away, there was a small glint that caught one of the Piglin crew’s eyes. The glint of gold.

It wasn't long before the research team was hauling the contraption onto their ship. 

It was an odd little thing, this craft. It wasn't made of the Enderlings’ rounded metal, or branded with infamous greens — a mark of Dreamons. Instead, it was completely barren of any identifying symbols, no tells within it's white cone or on the metal legs that held it upright.

The biggest clue to identifying the Species that left behind the craft was the golden circle displayed on the center of the grey metal. 

It gleamed mischievously under the ship’s fluorescent lights, gold reflection casting itself onto the floor. It was decorated with engravings that looked vaguely familiar to some of the crew, but was ultimately still a mystery. Many reached out with curious hands and claws and talons, tracing the lines that had been etched into the metal.

It was rather easy to remove, considering how secure it had been. 

One of the technicians, holding the golden circle close to their chest, brought it over to the Captain, lowering it gently into her awaiting hooves. With practiced ease, she gave the object an appraising    look, eyes flitting over each symbol hoping to recognize the pattern laid out before her.

She didn't, but that was okay. 

Then, for the first time, the Captain flipped over the circle and couldn't help the way her eyes widened. 

It looked like a Disc. 

Discs were popular on every planet. Despite the advancements in technology across the Universe, there wasn't a species out there that didn't like listening to Chirp the old-fashioned way. Each disc all looked the same. Identical grey coverings with different colored centers, used to identify the song being listened to. The only known exception was the Netherian Pig Step , which was different shades of crimson instead of grey. 

This Disc seemed to be an exception, too. 

While it followed the similar trend of metal covering and colored center, this had words on it, or at least the Captain thought they were words. She had borne witness to plenty of different written languages, but the one that had been carefully carved into this metal was unidentifiable even to her. 

The Captain couldn’t believe it. Had her crew, while searching for water of all things, uncovered evidence of a race so old they were completely forgotten in the Universe’s history? 

They needed to notify the Council immediately. 

Captain Puffy and her crew were welcomed back to the Interplanetary Council with open arms. Although they did not complete their initial mission of finding a new water source out in the End, they’ve cemented their spots in the history tablets with this discovery. 

The Council’s best scientists reach out with sharpened claws, each hoping to sink into the flesh of something so new and exciting. There’s nothing more promising being the first to glean information away from the Disc, and each person is jumping for the chance to leave their name forever embedded into the Universe’s history, just as Captain Puffy has done. 

And the determination that fills the Council is a good thing, in a way. It drives each of the scientists forward with a thirst that can only be quenched by figuring out the Disc. 

Whatever Species had left it behind knew what they had to do. Despite their backwards technology, they did recognize the fact that whoever found the Disc would not be able to recognize the words carved in the back. So they wrote in universal symbols.

It doesn't take long before an apprentice technician by the name of Fundy puts all the pieces together. 

As soon as Fundy had figured it out, the Vulpian was brought to the board of Council Trustees and made to show his findings. Through complicated jargon that was difficult for even the most experienced council member to understand, Fundy explains how he figured out the Disc.

Then, he plays it for them.

“May all be well,” was the first thing that the Universe heard the Humans say. 

Of course, the Council didn't know that a human had been the one to speak, or that the soft rumbling noises were meant as a greeting, but it didn't stop them from each erupting into cheers. Some of the members laugh, others cry — they've uncovered a whole new layer of history!

Fundy’s name will be written down, forever remembered, right alongside Captain Puffy’s.

For a while, there was a lull in the Disc’s research. Many assumed that everything about the Disc had been uncovered already, so there was no point in furthering the analysis. Soon enough, scientists went back to searching for water, the Drought once again their primary focus. 

The news of the Disc soon reached the Public, who gobbled up the information into their greedy maws. Audio transcriptions of the Disc were distributed to just about everyone, and theories surrounding its existence began to fly across the solar systems. 

The one that most of the Public agreed on was that they were an ancient civilization, who had sent out the disc as a final goodbye before they crumbled into dust. It was heavily supported — the ancient-looking technology, the lack of any records pointing towards the Disc’s inventors, a general mysterious surrounding the previously floating craft. 

The biggest piece of evidence was within the Disc itself. 

It had been a pretty early find and hard to miss. The sound of heavy drops, falling from what many imagine as some sort of atmosphere. 

Rain.  

This civilization had recorded the sound of rain, something many of the Universe’s youngest generation had heard only a handful of times. 

Surely, something like this was from a time the Universe had long forgotten? 

There were a few other theories, though none as endorsed — some thought that the Disc was a ploy from the Dreamons, to distract the Council so they could instigate another war. Others thought that maybe instead of them being ancient civilizations, they were something much younger. There was even a conspiracy theory that it was an all elaborate ruse and that the Disc didn't even exist and all the audio had been made by some Avian chicks playing a prank.

None of it mattered too much. Not until much later. 

The projections completely changed how the Universe saw the Disc.

The Council Head had allowed Sam, a quickly rising scientist, to perform a few experiments on the Golden Disc. Nothing that would risk it's harm, of course, it was still a historical artifact after all, but the Interplanetary Council was wanting to provide the Public something other than news of their failed attempts at finding water. 

So, they allowed Sam to do whatever he liked as long as it did more risk the destruction of the Disc. 

He started with simple. Retaking measurements, reversing the audio on the Disc, and other rather childish things.

One of the first things Sam learns is that the Disc is not pure gold, but rather only gold-plated. After a few attempts at figuring out what was inside of the Disc without cutting it up, he realized that the center of the Golden Disc was copper. 

It was a small find, all things considered, but in the grand schemes of an ancient civilization? It meant all the world.

It was after this little experiment that he began to notice that there was something more to the Disc. Something that he and every other scientist that had ever touched the Disc had missed. Sam wasn't sure what it was, or how to figure it out, but he would. He had to. 

So, time inches past as Sam slowly works out the Disc. There isn't a moment that he isn't focused on the metallic circle, constantly shifting it in his paws, tilting it in the light. 

He's not sure how, but after days without sleep and running only on a snack every few hours, Sam finally figures it out. 

Like Fundy, he's ushered into the Council’s room, made to stand in front of them and present what he's found. 

He's a bit more crazed looking than when he last saw the Council Lead, and he rambles much more, lower cat-half constantly shifting as he gestures to his schematics, but it's all worth it in the end when he's able to show them the projections.

It’s a little blurry since Sam had to use his drink-stained blanket as a screen, but there's no denying that what he's showing them is a circle. 

Except the circle is not from a holograph or drawn, it's being projected from a Disc. 

The Council is stunned stupid. 

Then, Sam makes it to where the projections change. 

There are math equations, black and white, and colored photos of an atmosphere unlike any had ever seen, bipedal creatures so similar to some of the Species that surround them — the same characters that are etched into the metal are shown printed onto a piece of paper.

It paints a lovely photo of colors and creatures and cultures, yes, but most importantly though, there is water. 

There are at least three separate projections of vast bodies of water surrounding sediment. One of them has the bipedal creatures that are featured multiple projections on a little craft, holding some kind of net. 

There is water. 

It changes everything.

Some of the earlier projections were of planets, and the Council realizes quickly that it's possible to piece together a map, to find the origins of the Golden Disc. 

They could find this planet that seemed to have so many bodies of water. 

The projections are not met with ecstatic cheering and overwhelming yelps of joy — no, it is greeted with the quiet hum of determination. It's welcomed by the sight of the Universe sitting and asking themselves: Is it worth it? Is it worth sending out a crew to try and find a place that may not exist anymore? 

The answer is a resounding yes. 

They need to find out how to find this lost civilization. It doesn't matter whether it is dead and gone or if it has only just begun to reach its hands to the stars — the Council needed to know more. 

And that was their first mistake.

Chapter Text

Unknowingly, the Council had doomed the planet’s people.

They could never have known that there was a traitor amongst them, watching with eyes too eager as projections from a little disc flitted across a stained blanket. With each passing image, their eagerness turned into something hungrier, and they subtly began to create copies of the images.  

Some of it was useless to them. Who cared about some primitive species that looked like they had only just crawled out of a puddle? So what if there were small creatures with Avian qualities or strange buildings? None of it matters. They and every other Council Member knows what is worth looking at. 

Of course, no one else would ever do anything about it. They would never outright take their resources.

The Universe is in need of someone, someone with enough drive to take, to do something about their water problem. 

It isn't going to be Piglins that do anything. Not the Ovians or the Enderlings or the Vulpians. 

None of them would do anything, they’re too spineless.

However, the traitor knew one Race that wasn’t. 

The world, as Tommy knew it, ended at a beach. 

Ocean waves crash against rocks, seafoam forming where water meets sediment. In the distance, seagulls crowed out their delight as they swept through the air, chasing each other. There was a starfish in the sand. 

Sun-screen covered Tommy’s face, heavy dollops of the stuff coating his nose and ears and cheeks, but even though he hated the stuff, it was okay because he had laughed as his friend slathered it all over his face, playfully rubbing it into his skin. The taste of it was gross on his tongue and mingled with the scent of salty sea air.

There was nowhere Tommy would have rather been. 

Without warning, an explosion of noise thundered throughout the beach. Loud roaring filled the air and Tommy furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. The beach darkened, and when Tommy looked up, he gasped. 

Hundreds of ships littered the sky. 

Tommy felt the gentle sea breeze turn into something fiercer; tousling his hair as he stood, stunned. 

He wasn't alone, either. 

All-around the globe, people stared up in shock. 

For the briefest of moments, Earth stood at a standstill, dumbfounded by the ships that dotted the atmosphere. Instead of teetering between the precipice of shock and terror, there was instead a split second of nothingness. No reaction as Humanity starred up at the unbelievable. 

Of course, it lasted only for a second. 

Chaos erupted, fear took the reins as every horrible scenario was conjured in the minds of Earth’s people. What else were they to do but panic? It had always been them, never anyone else — never the impossible — what were they to do?

And then the ships began to fire and every nightmare became a terrible reality.  

Tommy was shocked out of his stupor long enough to run. He's not normally the type for flight, but somewhere in the back of his mind knew it was too dangerous.

Mind whirring like an overworked computer, Tommy flew through dunes of sand and rocks. Although the city probably wasn't the safest place to go, he needed to get away from the water. 

Thank fuck I didn't go swimming, he thinks as shoes pound against pavement. 

He dashes through the streets, scrambling to turn corners, and dodging hoards of people running from all directions. Honestly, he doesn’t know where he was trying to go; instincts screamed at him to move. To escape. To go somewhere. 

Tommy made it an hour before he was cornered in an alleyway by one of the aliens.

He stood, back to a wall and panting with exhaustion. Sunscreen was sticky against his face and his lungs felt like they were going to burst.

There was nowhere to go now, but he could still try his best tactic: His mouth.

“Come on, big man,” Tommy said with a nervous chuckle, “Don't you have something better to do? I've got places to be, women to meet — do you have women where you're from?”

Annnd nothing. All it did was tilt its head, face blank. Literally. Because there was nothing there.

Tommy blinked, sighing. “Really? We’re going to do this?”

Still nothing. Apparently, his annoy-until-they-leave strategy doesn't work on extraterrestrials. 

With a glance, he assessed the alien. It was a tall bastard, but not hulking, thankfully. Its face was covered by a white, circular mask that seemed to wrap around it's whole head. Tommy couldn't stop an unbidden thought: How could it see him? 

Tommy wasn't given a lot of time to ponder about it, though, because the next thing he knew, the alien was throwing itself at him. 

That's when Tommy began to fight.

The thing is, when Tommy fought, he fought dirty. He would kick, punch, scream; the whole nine yards if it meant getting his opponent to let off him. 

Obviously, the thing didn’t know this, and it became apparent when it didn’t expect the handful of gravel Tommy slung its way. 

It jerked back, steps faltering as little rocks battered against its face. 

Then, to Tommy’s horror, it snapped its head back toward him and he watched as it’s face changed? Shifted? Carved into itself? 

The mask began to hollow itself out; two holes forming on the thing. They were a perfect distance apart from each other, and they bore into Tommy with a hundred different emotions although they were just little pinpricks of darkness on an expanse of white. 

The creepy fucker wasn't done though because there was another dot forming. Instead of it staying small and circular, however, it began to stretch outwards, towards the edge of the mask. It was as if someone had taken two claws and with surgical precision were slicing into the mask.

“Oh shit,” Tommy whispered as the line sloped, invisible sandbags tugging it downwards. 

That was when it hit him. 

A frowny face. 

The fucking alien was frowning at him. 

Tommy was so disturbed that he’d froze, his mouth gaping in open disgust. What the hell kind of thing was this? What does nature feed these things? How do you feed it?

His hesitation was enough for the alien because, suddenly, it launched at him and Tommy yelped instinctually, falling backwards. It was on him in seconds, clawed hands digging into his shoulders as he’d thrashed against its hold. 

“Let go of me, you bastard!” He screamed, spit hitting the alien’s sad face as he bucked wildly, “Get off of me!” 

Then, like a lightbulb screwing into his head, Tommy felt the flash of an idea light up inside of him. 

Baring his teeth, Tommy surged forward and bit down as hard as he possibly could on the alien’s shoulder. It shrieked and tried to wrench away but it only encouraged Tommy to sink further into the muscle. Sickly sweet blood coated his tongue and prayed that it wasn't toxic.

Without warning, the alien raised up the arm that wasn't grasped within Tommy’s mouth, and bashed him over the head with a closed fist.

Tommy crumpled to the ground. Gravel scrapped against his cheek his vision swimming as the alien hovered over him. 

Then everything went dark. 

It could have been days or months that he spent on the ship. 

Time had become weird for Tommy. It was as if his brain was a murky forest, fog drifting and curling its tendrils around his thoughts. He could still move, but everything around him blurred. It felt like he was out of his body, most of the time, watching from a third-person point-of-view as he laid in the tiny, cold cage or was poked and prodded by some creature he could no longer remember. 

That was another thing, his memory. 

Huge gaps had begun to form, cracks splitting in the ground, and when Tommy tried pulling certain memories all he would be met with was darkness. Even if he knew something had happened, his brain wouldn't let him see it. Sometimes, if Tommy waited and tried hard, he could get flashes of green-blood-smile before it tapered off into the void.

Otherwise, it was carefully empty.

He’s been experimented on. Tommy knows because there are times where he can feel the prick of needles, dulled by whatever the fuck his body was doing to shield him from the experience. He knows because each day there are scientists, gazing at him with something he can’t place. Even if he can't remember, he knows because scars are marring every bit of exposed skin.

His mind drifts. 

One day, when there is nothing to do but stare at the paneled, grey floor, Tommy muses. Life is literally flashing before my eyes.

The fog that usually dulls his thoughts lifted slightly, giving him a brief reprieve; and he can't help but ask why him? 

Tommy was about to answer himself when a low clink-ca-clink filled the air, and the fog was quick to thicken, wrapping around Tommy like a overprotective blanket. There was a flash of claws against metal bar in the corner of his eyes, and Tommy turned away. 

He'll think about it later, he has plenty of time.

In the end, they drop him off at some weird zoo.

Tommy’s not sure when he notices that something’s off. One moment, he is drifting along with his mind, floating along to the sound of the ship’s gentle hum, and then the fog is lifting. 

Something is prickling against his skin. 

It doesn't hurt, but it is irritating. Tommy blinks, adjusting to his sudden awareness, wondering what could have possibly drawn him out of his daze. He turns his head, expecting to see the familiar metal walls, but instead his gaze is met with something much stranger. 

“Oh,” he utters, staring at greenery. 

Grass.

Not real grass — not the kind from Earth — but it looks almost the same. The only thing that hints towards it being anything else but a field out in England is the slight bluish tinge at the base of the grassy blades. 

He’s laying down, Tommy realizes, and he has to tilt his head to the side as he reaches forwards to run fingers over each tuft. 

He is not in a cell.

Huh.

The grass brushes against his body as he shifts, and then he’s looking up at swirling blue hues. It’s supposed to be a sky, he thinks, and it would have fooled Tommy if it didn’t it spiral inwards at different parts, mimicking Van Gosh’s Starry Night. 

Vaguely, through the sky, he sees metal bolts, evidence of a ceiling.

“What a strange dream,” he mutters to himself before closing his eyes to rest. 

They try to tame him, at first.

Tommy quickly realized that, although the Zoo was not as bad as the Ship, it is still not good. Just like the aliens that experimented on him, they simply see him as a means to an end, and Tommy is the unfortunate bearer of it all. 

Instead of guards, there are Handlers, who supervise Tommy with hardened eyes. Instead of a cell he is an enclosure. Instead of experiments, there are tours, and other aliens come to stare. 

He obeys at first, but over time, he starts to come back to himself. 

It takes longer than Tommy ever thought it would, but the ship-aliens did a number on him, as much as he hates to admit it. 

He starts to snap at the Handlers, throwing sharp words and even sharper glares. Once, when one of the creatures had gotten too close, he’d thrown a punch so hard that it cracked its head to the side, and Tommy had felt the bone break under his fist. 

Tommy wasn't given food for two days after that incident, but to him it was a quiet victory. 

The slow return of his personality isn't celebrated by anyone other than himself, but it doesn't matter. 

Tommy is the only person he needs, after all.

Today was Tour day, and Tommy hated it.

It always starts the same: wake up, get fed, and then the Tour would start. 

And, of course, because Tommy had fucked with karma one too many times, he’s one of the last exhibits so it takes forever for them to get there. 

Tommy lays in his makeshift bedroom. It’s not much, just a dingy mattress and a sheet that barely passes as a blanket, but it's better than nothing. He shifts on top of the bed, burying his face into the material, willing everything to go away. 

He isn’t able to stay like that for long, though. The sound of creaking metal fills the air and Tommy internally groans. The first meal of the day. Yay.  

Tommy wrestles with a decision: Get food or stay in his sad, little bedroom?

The decision is easy, and he kicks off the blanket. 

Rising from the bed, Tommy grunts as his head begins to throb, pulsing like a heartbeat. Vertigo slowly curls around his stomach, nausea following, and he sways for a second before firmly planting his feet on the ground. Must’ve gotten up too quickly.

Tommy takes a few steadying breathes before glancing outside the house.

The Handlers stand outside the exhibit, watching. Always watching and never doing shit to help. 

Rolling his eyes, Tommy flashed them with the good ol’ middle finger. “Take a picture, it'll last longer.”

Of course, there's no response— There never is, Tommy thinks, dully— and he continues to make his way through the house. 

Ironically enough, the aliens have made it to where food slides out from a slot in the kitchen. Or, at least Tommy thinks it is supposed to be a kitchen. There are counters with tops made of some weird stone he doesn't recognize, and a small one-person table that sits in a corner. that's enough for Tommy to deem it kitchen-worthy. 

When Tommy approaches the little flap, there's the low click of metal before it’s pulled open. The tray is shoved through the gap, clattering against the counter before settling down. Then, almost like an afterthought, a makeshift spoon follows. 

Tommy takes it, knowing what it means, but still growling when he sees his suspicions confirmed. 

“It's Bean Day?” he demands, whirling to shout at the Handlers. 

They're not actually beans, not like the kind a person would normally eat. It's some kind of alien food, but they're vaguely bean-shaped so that's what Tommy’s started calling them. 

He pouts, poking one with the round-bit of the spoon. “I thought it was Fruit Day. I wouldn't have gotten up for this shit.” 

Not even a blink from the fuckers. 

Despite his resistance, Tommy isn't one to deny food, so he grabs the tray and sets it down on the table. He sits in the wooden chair, which rattles apprehensively. With a sigh, he scoops up a spoonful of beans and begins to eat. 

“I will have you know,” Tommy says between bites, “That no respectable person would eat these willingly.”

Another bite, “I am simply a Big Man who requires nutrients, so I suffer.” Swallow. “You lot should get better food, the Queen would want that for me.”

Tommy continues to ramble to himself, as he does every day. It's the only way he’s figured out to fend off the boredom and dissociation that is constantly creeping around, ready to strike him when he least expects it. 

For him, he has two options while under the Handler’s eyes: It's either talk into thin air or pace until his legs give out. And Tommy is not in the mood for failing limbs, so he opts to rant away.

By the time Tommy’s finished, the aliens are gone and he’s left with the company of his own thoughts. Humming, he takes his tray to the counter, placing it on the cold stone. 

“You know, I hate these floorboards, they're slick as shit,” he grumbles, letting his mind flow freely.

It was as if the aliens had taken a day trip to his old school and stolen a desk and had seen the wood texturing and exclaimed, “Ah, yes, a wood! Very tree-like,” before stealing more desks from the school and ripping the tops off of them, laying them at his feet. 

“Stupid aliens. You can’t even get wood right.”

Tommy leaves the house, and it's easy since there's, you know, a whole wall missing.

He bets the enclosure looks wonderful to an outsider. After all, he's got the necessities: food, water, and a place to rest his head. Tommy’s even got grass and a sky to look at; to remind him of home. And honestly? There's a chance that maybe Tommy would have been fine with the place; if it weren’t for the fact the house was split in half, like some angry god had taken a knife to it. 

It's on purpose, he knows.

It's similar to a dollhouse, and that creeps Tommy the fuck out. Tommy can recall watching his foster siblings play with the miniature homes, and it could open easily, like a doorway into the dolls’ lives.

Now, Tommy can see that he’s the living, breathing version of a doll and its dollhouse.

Tommy shudders, shaking his head rapidly. Nope, no, he is very much a sentient being and he will not go down that pathway. Damn the aliens and their dehumanization tactics.

Taking a few deep breaths, Tommy lowers himself to the grass and allows it to brush against him, giving greetings like an old friend. He runs his hands through the individual blades, sometimes pulling one to twirl around his finger. 

Leaning back, the grass part ways to hug him. Maybe he can catch a quick nap? Surely there's enough time. He yawns, already conjuring up a lovely daydream. 

Then, a muttering begins to fill the air. 

“Damn it,” he hisses, eyes flickering open, not even bothering to move. “There goes the nap.”

Tommy knows that the crowds will be making their way towards him. It won't be long before a whole hoard of aliens shows up on his doorstep — window sill? — and expect him to do some mystifying tricks or whatever. 

Bad news for them. Tommy isn’t a circus lion. 

The Zoo wants Tommy to become something he's not. Some pleasant little creature to entertain the masses, entice them with his mysteriousness or whatever is going through their sick heads. 

Tommy entertains them, sometimes. When the threat of pain is heavy over his head, a sword dangling by a thread, he allows himself to become a mockery. 

Other times, he can’t bear to face the glass paneling. Can't handle facing the crowds as they gather to peer at him. Those days are never good, it never ends well, but sometimes he just can't deal with it. 

Tommy’s not sure what kind of a day it's going to be.

As he thinks, the mumbling outside begins to swell into a crescendo; a cacophony of chirps, growls, and squeaks. Despite the sheets of metal and glass separating him from the outside hall, Tommy can hear the clacking of paws-talons-feet against heavy stone. 

Tommy, still laying in the field of bluish-green grass, screws his shuts his eyes. 

There's a moment where all his senses begin to dull, where for a moment Tommy is sure he’s about to start drifting. Despite all his progress, Tommy almost welcomes it, almost allows it to wrap him up and comfort him like a mother. 

But then a sharp whistle fills the air, and Tommy is shooting up before he can stop himself. 

Attention-attention-attention, Tommy’s mind screams at him. It runs through his head like a coursing river, driving away the approaching fog and replacing it with waves of fear and listen-to-them. Tommy wars with his traitorous heart, trying to wrangle it into some semblance of a normal heart-rate.

Outside, the Tour Guide smiles, pleased with itself. 

Tommy despises this one. 

There were typically two different Tour Guides. One was some odd, dark-haired creature with bright orange almost flame-y markings dotting its skin. It was kind of nice to Tommy. It always spoke loudly, its voice carrying so well that if Tommy wasn't separated by a language barrier, he’d understand it perfectly. 

Then there was this one. 

Bat Bastard, as Tommy had so lovingly dubbed it, was a weird bat-snake thing and was sadistic as fuck. While Flame Fuck would allow Tommy to do whatever he wanted during a Tour, this asshole liked him to be interactive with the audience. 

Tommy, knowing that he has a reputation to maintain, allows the panic he feels to translate into something more crazed. Narrowing his eyes, Tommy throws a sneer towards the exhibit window. 

“It’s rude to stare,” he says, not even bothering to move from his spot in the grass. Tommy can feel the eyes on him, watching him and waiting for him to do something. It's suffocating, twisting around his throat and gripping. It’s painful.

Today, he’s going to be obstinate. It's been decided. 

Still sitting in the grass, Tommy turns his back on the audience and looks into the house-that-isn’t-actually-a-house.

The walls are painted a dark, coffee-like color and marked with creamy accents that run along the bottom where wall-meets-floor. It's the only thing the aliens got right, somehow. Yeah, they didn't have towels in the bathroom or a sink in the kitchen, but they got accents right. 

It's unbelievable, but yet it seems universal. 

Every foster home Tommy had ever lived in had accents just like this. The same white lines decorating rooms and adding just the right amount of brightness to them. Mourning twists within Tommy’s chest, and he can't help but long for something other than the here and now he’s faced with.

There is another whistle and Tommy leaves his thoughts reluctantly. 

“What do you want?” Tommy asks and turns to glare at the Tour Guide. 

Of course, there’s nothing, but he’s gotten used to asking questions and not being met with an answer. Tommy continues to ask anyway. 

The Bat Bastard continues with whichever bit of the script it's on, now that Tommy is facing the glass. Although they weren’t as loud as the other Guide, they talked with the same level of confidence and animated gestures that screamed false interest. 

Out of the audience’s eyes, the Guide makes a subtle gesture with its taloned hand, a mixture of a come-hither motion and silent snap. It's a signal and a warning all wrapped up in one, Get up, or you'll be hurt.

Tommy does not move.

Silence. The Tour Guide has fallen quiet and the crowd has dimmed to a rumble. For just the briefest of moments, Tommy thinks he’s won, and disbelief fills him. Is the Bat Bastard going to let him sit here?

The answer comes in the form of a shock. 

It's a burning, roiling answer. The electricity dances along his body, surprising Tommy enough to gasp out, and reach instinctually to his neck where the collar lays. He grabs at it, tugging even though his fingertips burn. 

Then, as if it was never there, the pain is gone and Tommy is left gulping in lungfuls of air.

He’d forgotten it was there. No one other than this Guide and the Head Handler used it.

The crowd swells with noise, and Tommy doesn't have enough brainpower to try and comprehend the audience’s reaction. The taste of stinging electricity is stuck in his mouth and Tommy spits onto the ground, trying to get it out. 

Tommy looks up through watery eyes at the Bat Bastard. It tilts its head with faux concern.

“Sadistic fuck,” Tommy forces out, coughing when it scratches against his throat. 

All it does in response is point a talon upwards.

Tommy resists the urge to growl like the animal they’re displaying him as. Anger bubbles underneath his skin and he has to clench his hands into fists to stop himself from screaming out. 

Slowly, like a tiger shifting from a crouch to a stand, Tommy straightens to his full height. It's not as tall as he could be, a lack of nutrients does that to you, but it’s still impressive to someone who has not seen any other human.

Bat Bastard turns, its chattering starting up again. 

Tommy knows what it wants him to do, so he slinks forward, light-footed. The thing drawls on as he moves, pointing with leathery-scaled arms towards different parts of his body and enclosure. 

He looks at the crowd as sees nothing but featureless bodies, all molding together to form a mob of viewers. Why were they still even here? Tommy can't imagine ever just sitting back and watching an actual living, breathing person gets shocked with a fucking collar. 

But that's the thing, isn't it? Aliens don't see him as another creature. They see him as a monster. Something dangerous to put into a little zoo to be ogled over. 

Might as well play the part, huh? 

There's a moment where Bat Bastard stops to breathe, exhausted from whatever shit it was spouting, and Tommy surges forward with a snap of his teeth. 

There are mixed reactions from the crowd. Some shift on their feet nervously, others lean forward to get a better look at his canines. The aliens that had been looking very closely step backward with a flinch from the sudden movement. 

Tommy grins, knowing how it glints under the exhibit’s false light. 

Then, the Guide is starting again and Tommy goes back to his creeping pace. 

The next thing he’s supposed to do is find a target. That's how it worked last time with the Bat Bastard, through trial and error Tommy figured out that it preferred for him to pick out a random crowd member to torment. 

He’d done it a few times by now, and the only one he’d liked was some asshole that Tommy was convinced had flipped him off in alien language. 

“Let’s see,” Tommy hums, looking through the crowd. As established, they really weren't all that interesting, and since no asshole was biting its thumb at him, Tommy knew he was going to have to choose at random. 

Ugh. He never liked having to do this. God, what couldn’t he have it easier.

Then, like an answer to a prayer he hadn't uttered, there's a tap-tap-tap on the glass.

There. Tommy snaps his head toward the noise, target chosen. 

Tommy opens his mouth, ready to growl out, and he — he hesitates.

It's a tiny alien. 

It’s covered head-to-toe in black, wavy fur that stretches and points in all different directions, like someone had run their fingers through the downy and ruffled it up. It has eight eyes. Two of the largest rest on its face like a pair of human eyes; they’re so impossibly large and star-stricken. 

It probably has eight limbs because there are four pairs of hands on the glass and a set of hovering claws protruding from its back. 

Spider, Tommy thinks distantly, It’s a spider.

Despite this realization, Tommy cannot look away from the collar around its neck. The nausea from this morning returns ten-fold, stomach flipping in protest at the sight in front of him. 

“Oh God,” he says, mouth open in shock. “You’re like me.”

They're dressed in the same clothes, identical white shirts and pants. They’re both staring at each other, although the emotions are completely different, and they're both wearing fucking collars. 

It tilts its head in curiosity, blinking. 

Tap-tap-tap, taunts the window, and Tommy has to force himself to look away from the too-tiny alien and up whoever is at the glass.

The Head Handler meets his eyes. 

The air from Tommy’s lungs escapes him in a whoosh, and he has to resist the urge to step back. It never came to these things— Tommy hardly ever saw it at all— it usually only came to his exhibit if it was dishing out punishment or changing something about his enclosure or, rarely, running some sort of test on Tommy. 

Why was it here?

Then, it smirks at Tommy, the scar that stretches across his face rises with it, twitching upwards to show the golden fangs waiting inside its mouth. The wings on its back twitch as it stares Tommy dead in the eyes. 

Its hand is firmly on the Spider’s shoulder, clutching it with a tight grip, but the Spider doesn't seem all that surprised; just marveling at Tommy. 

Then, it looks away from him and turns to look down at the alien in its grasp. 

“Don’t,” Tommy tries to snarl, not sure what the winged beast was doing, but it doesn't matter. The Handler simply chirps something to it— then to the Guide, of all people — before stalking away, parting through the crowd easily. 

It's just Tommy, a Spider, a crowd, and the Guide. 

The Spider gapes up at Tommy, and it's at that moment that he realizes it's a child. There’s no other option.

It — no, they — they are so impossibly small, their head just raised over the window sill, and Tommy wouldn't be surprised if they were standing on tip-toes to get the chance to look at him.

That's another thing, the way they’re gazing at him. 

It isn't with hunger, or fear, or disgust, or any other emotion Tommy has gotten used to seeing since being abducted from Earth. It's pure, unwavering wonder. As if Tommy is a mythical unicorn instead of the dangerous monster the Zoo has been trying to mold him into. 

Their mouth turns into a little ‘o’ when they realize Tommy’s attention is solely focused on them. With a little bit of hesitancy, they raise a hand from the glass, waving it. 

With shaking legs, he moves. 

Tommy watches all eight eyes widen as he drifts forward, the only thing separating them was the glass window. He tilts his head, mimicking what they had done earlier.

They press further up to the glass, fogging it up as they look up at Tommy with bright red eyes filled with delight.

“Hello,” Tommy starts, quiet as a whisper.

Seemingly pleased with the attention, the Spider leans away from the glass, bouncing on the balls of their feet. 

Tommy wonders why they're so excited to see him before figuring it's the same reason the crowd of aliens are there. He's new, and they're curious about him. 

Tommy glances at the collar, wondering what it meant for them. 

“Hey, little guy,” Tommy says. “You're stuck here too, aren't you?” 

Their eyes twinkle as soft-spoken words leave Tommy’s mouth. Their hands start to flap; the movement filled with joy, and Tommy has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the smile from his face. 

It's not enough to stop the frown that follows.

Without any kind of warning, they stop the flapping, hands dropping to their side and eyes wide but not from the amazement from before. The eyes are scared. 

For a split second, Tommy’s worried he’s done something to make them afraid, eyes flickering over their form.

The realization hits him like a freight train. 

Ever so slowly, Tommy raises his own hands.

“Hope I’m right,” he murmurs before shaking the hands like the Spider had done. 

Joints creaking and popping, Tommy winces as his wrists roll. Although it's an unfamiliar feeling, there's something nice about the repetitive action. Experimentally, he shakes his hands out, fingers fluttering. 

The child gawks at him, disbelief obvious on their face.

“It’s okay,” Tommy tells them, doing the movement again. “You can do this, I don't mind, I promise.” 

Hesitantly, they raise their hands and give a little flap, before looking up at Tommy. He nods his head in approval, “Good. You don't have to hide that around me, it's alright.”

The Spider can't understand English, obviously, but he continues to speak because it seems to help them. 

“I'm sick of being in this zoo, but I bet you are too, huh?” Tommy ignores the Guide and the crowd watching. They're continuing with the tour, it seems, despite the new member that has joined them.

Bat Bastard trudges onward with the speech as Tommy moves to sit in the grass, crossing his legs one over the other. 

He can't help it. Tommy has to voice his thoughts aloud. 

Glancing at the kid, who he’s on level with now, he asks, “Do you have a family somewhere, little guy? Were you taken too?” 

The idea of someone taking this kid in the same way they took him sends a burst of anger through his body. It's not right.

Tommy has to pause, deep breathes entering and leaving his body. He doesn't want to freak them out, so he gives the kid a moment to leave if they want. 

They don't, however, and so Tommy says the only thing he can think of: “Want to hear about the time I fought a raccoon?” 

Although there’s no way they could understand him, the Spider nodded. 

So, Tommy launches himself into a tale. 

Time passes as Tommy tells story after story, keeping the little Spider occupied from whatever was happening outside the exhibit. The Guide moved on at some point, leading the crowd to whatever creature was after him. 

Tommy was sure they’d follow after Bat Bastard, but they hadn't. Instead, they opted to stay and listen to Tommy although the words were incomprehensible. 

The whole time, they never speak. Tommy isn't sure that they can, but that's alright, he’s got plenty of words for the two of them. 

“—and so I tried to tell the guy that there was no way he could stick the bead in his nose and get it out, but that was the wrong thing to say because he just. Stuck it right up his nostril,” Tommy huffs, “Had to go to the A&E, he did. Best day of my life.” 

Tommy takes a deep breath before opening his mouth to start another story. 

There's not a chance to, though, as the Head Handler appears behind the Spider, gripping their shoulder like earlier. Tommy can't stop the warning snarl that escapes his mouth. 

The Handler raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. 

It's an oddly human gesture but Tommy doesn't stop to analyze it because the alien starts to say something to the kid. 

Their head swivels as they look between Tommy and the other alien. Not for the first time, Tommy wishes he could understand any language, so he wouldn't be left in the dark like this. 

The Handler starts to turn the Spider away from the exhibit window, but Tommy can tell they don't want to go. Their arms are crossed and cheeks puffed out. It reminds Tommy of one of his old foster sisters, she was a massive brat, and her pout face was extremely persuasive.  

Then, to Tommy’s surprise, he hears them mutter something quietly.

The other alien pauses, seemingly shocked as well.

It looks down at the Spider, and it seems to ask them something because the Spider shakes their head in response. With suspicion in its eyes, it lets go of them, and the kid turns back to Tommy. 

They raise one of their hands to the glass, and Tommy's not sure what he was expecting — a tap maybe? — but that isn't what he gets. 

Instead, they press their fur-covered, claw-tipped hand flat against the glass panel. 

Tommy’s heart soars into his throat, firmly lodging itself there. Shakily, his arm lifts, and Tommy places the trembling hand above theirs. 

He has to lean to the side to look at their hands together. 

It's three times larger than theirs. His pale skin is stark against their night-colored fur, and Tommy can’t help the simmering rage he feels as he realizes they both have scars decorating their hands.

They look at him with closed eyes and a head that's tilted towards the sky, like a pleased cat in the sun. 

Tommy allows himself to smile, a barely noticeable thing. 

Then they're gone, whisked away by the Head Handler.