Chapter Text
Wilbur has been sitting in this cage for a long time. Rang his finger across the bars so many times there might be an indent, a mark on the metal, or maybe he’s imagining it.
Because he has been sitting here for a long time. He’s moved every inch, contorted his body every single way in order to try and get comfortable. Like sitting the back of a car on a long road trip, being soothed to sleep by the rolling wheels and clink clink clink of stones being kicked up by the wheels, but he can’t rest his head without bursting awake and with an annoying crick in his neck, an ache, a prick, pins and needles on his feet from curling them underneath to separate him from the cold.
He isn’t in the back seat of a car. He sits in a metre long cage, with a metre high lid that has a latch secured with a scanner that either is voice, touch, or card activated- he doesn’t know because he has neither of those things.
Unlike his stomach, which had stopped growling a while ago- a while? his head pounds and continues to pound as the days- hours-? He doesn’t know how long it’s been.
That's the worst part. Once he tried find a way to measure it.
Counting soon became obsolete, he knew the space between numbers were uneven, he would lose track, or he would blink and suddenly the numbers would have stopped flowing- one time he forgot the word for five hundred and fourty, which, terrifying on it’s own, was testament to the time as well.
Then he measured the length of time it took for his skin to soften again after he lightly bit his own palm. The first time he did it it took one hundred and three seconds, the second time it took two hundred and ten, the third time he fell asleep and when he woke up he could still feel the sting.
Before he was here, in this cage, he had been in a clear cage. A tube, a high ceiling container that was blurry and smooth to the touch. He woke up and fell asleep there without thought, drifting as easy as he could breath. It was as if he blinked and he was on the ground and the only reason moments like that were significant is because he would realise something was missing.
His hair was cut, one side sticks out in greasy spikes and the other has it’s length, smoothed down behind his ear to keep him from remembering how disgusting he is, how long he has gone without a shower, best not to think about it but every time he glances at the skin under his nails, or feels the sweat on his hairline he feels like crying.
The lobe of his left ear was shorter, he was sure of it. He can tug them both and one has less stretch, the edge of it is rough against his finger. Wilbur can never pierce his ears like he wanted to when he finally turned twenty, that far away teenage dream.
He checks all over when he wakes up, after they took both his pinky fingers he started to ritually examine himself and he doesn't stop checking even when he wakes up out of the clear cage and into the one with bars, thick metal ones- he can’t slide a hand between them, only a finger.
When he first woke up in the barred cage it was like a breath of fresh air, there were holes that he could stick his nose through and inhale from fresh air, not the stuffy recycled breaths that he took in the clear tube.
When he woke up there were people- human people, beside him in their own cages, curled up and waiting. They didn’t speak the same language, he didn’t know why. The ones that could understand him-
He had once woken up and asked, “Can anyone tell me what's going on?”
Beside him, a person waved their hand to get his attention and shook their head frantically, “What?- what?” he had said, first loud, then whispered when the person had continued to shush him.
He had stared when the person had opened their mouth, all teeth and no tongue.
Wilbur stopped talking after that.
There was a man, much older than himself, who spoke quiet French in his gravelly tones, rolled his R’s and growled deep in his throat. Sometimes he told jokes that only he understood, and laughed at them loud enough for the ones who couldn't.
He still woke up and fell asleep without meaning to, the only difference now was that he could tell when his head would get light. It meant he had to find a comfortable position, lest he wake up with a sore spot or a scrape on his temple.
When he woke up the French speaking man was gone and his spot now empty allowed Wilbur to see the line of cages in full, three people to his right, one to his left.
six people in total, and the more he fell asleep the less and less there were.
He tried to stop it, keep himself awake. His eyes would close and something in him would scream danger, danger, danger - things were disappearing when his eyes were shut.
But no matter how many times Wilbur bit, scratched, tore his hair, he fell asleep.
He never drank or ate anything throughout his time in the cages either but whenever he woke up his tongue would be numb, his throat scratchy and the back of his mouth would have a foul taste, he wasn’t sure if the three things were connected.
He ran his finger over the bars again, feeling the texture, trying to commit it to memory and then guess, then start over again, never getting it quite right.
There is a bruise on his thigh, small and green and he can press his finger on it and barely feel a sting, he taps it, then taps the leading bruises that land on his arms and stomach and chest. Tap, tap, tap, and count, one, two, three, four.. ten, eleven, twelve… and twenty, and-
He lost count, his head resting on the bottom of the cage, shivering. He sucked in a breath, licking his dry lips. He felt sick, like the muscles in his body were deteriorating, he could barely keep his head up, barely keep his jaw locked.
It got harder and harder each day and the only reason he kept waking up was because-
Because, well, he can’t oversleep, his body has to wake up sometime. If he could sleep forever, hibernating like a bear in winter, then maybe it would be easier.
The only way he can tell that he’s been here for a while is that there is one other cage now, far against the opposing wall of this silent room and the person inside hasn’t moved, how long is a while? How long before he is the last one? They might be dead, he feels dead too.
He flicks the ground of the cage, letting out a metallic twang echo across the room. The person across the room hunches their shoulders. Not dead.
His mouth stretches in a yawn, cracking his tense jaw. If he closed his eyes he could imagine being a lazy cat, a cat stuck in the kennel, the pound, waiting to be picked up. His breath was fairly warm, if he pressed his cheek against the ground and braced his arms around his head he could warm himself with his own breath but the awkward position would make his shoulders hurt for days after- days?
A metallic twang echoed across the room and he stiffened, untucking his face and looking up, the person across the room, with a hand still resting on the metal bars, met Wilbur’s eyes and slowly blinked, blue eyes.
Wilbur blinked back.
A wonderful conversation.
He opened his mouth to whisper something but no sound came out, only a rasping breath. The person across the room, his roommate, smiled, smiled like they were in pain and rested their forehead against the bars.
Their knees were tucked in and feet were resting against the bars, blue toes spreading as far as they could past the cage. Wilbur could just see their blurred bare feet from the distance, he missed his glasses.
But he could see that they were wearing a blue shirt with some words on it in the Arabic alphabet, maybe a sports team or a school name or a fundraiser.
His roommate closed their eyes. Wilbur wondered if they felt the same fear whenever they closed their eyes that he did, if they were missing pieces. Is it really even worth asking someone if they are missing something? If it was that important couldn’t you just see that it was gone?
His head dipped a little and he only had a moment to wonder what would be taken from him this time, what would he lose again, and to plead that the man across the room didn’t disappear- that he wasn’t the last one left. The only thing worse than being lonely is being alone.
Then he closed his eyes and blinked.
When he opened them, there were many people in the room but not in cages.
He hadn’t dreamt much since he got here but in that moment he was sure he was dreaming, sure that he would wake up and the room would be empty and his throat would be gummy and his tongue would be gone and-
But he didn’t and they were still there. About five or nine or- a lot of figures dressed head to toe in black body armour, no defining features between any of them. They wore featureless masks and gloves.
Wilbur was wide awake for the first time in a while, sitting up as much as he could in his cage, opening his mouth to speak but stopping himself before even a whimper could pass by his lips. He pressed a finger into his mouth just to remind himself that his tongue was still attached, that he could still speak.
He took a shaky breath and one of the figures turned to face him, tilting their head a little to look under the solid frame of the cage. Wilbur’s eyes tracked them uncertainty.
Their clothes shifted loudly against their limbs as they walked, deafeningly to Wilbur’s ears.
The fabric must be kevlar, something strong and threaded together, shining a little under the dull lights. Their gloved hand traced a bar of the cage and Wilbur scooted back and contorted his neck to fit against the corner, moving away a mere inch. He pressed his hand to his mouth, strangling a whimper.
Their blank-masked face looked ominously at Wilbur through the bars, not saying a word. They pointed something at him, a laser pointer, futuristic and bright screen and blinding. They dragged the light all over his body and then pulled back to look at the result.
When they turned to repeat the results to their buddies Wilbur’s heart dropped, a sinking feeling growing in his stomach.
They didn’t speak english, nor did they speak any human language, fuck it didn’t even sound like they had human throats. The sounds were all ruptured and clicking, bouncing off the walls strangely.
Wilbur put his other hand against his face, feeling his breath against his eyes. A shiver wracked his spin, jarring him and making his bare feet hit the bars of the cage. If he could just be quiet, quiet, silent they would leave him or maybe if he slept, yes.
He should be asleep, nothing happened when he was asleep that he could feel, if he could sleep then he would wake up and it would be silent and cold and everything he hated but at least it would be normal.
His eyes clenched shut, heart beating against his ribs, so so loud.
The top of the cage opened, the metal violently scraping against itself- it’s a wonder anyone could sleep through that raw noise. The cage, opening for the first time, at least from Wilbur’s perspective. The cage was always closed, his neck was always bent, that was something permanent so matter how many things changed around him.
But it opens and one of the figures reaches to grab Wilbur’s arm. Their hand was so warm it burned and Wilbur yanked his arm back, breathless.
Another figure joined, palms open, and grabbed Wilbur’s other arm. He tried to throw a punch against their grip but with the two figures holding each limb he could only kick and scream as he was lifted.
His legs buckled under his own weight, stretching out for the first time was agony.
He couldn’t form words, voice unused, but he could gasp and shriek with all his might, twisting in the figure's grip and lifting his numb feet to scrape against the floor, bitingly cold.
They lifted him above the walls of the cage and out, pulling his dead weight to the door of the room that was always closed and the rest of the figures parted as they approached.
He was leaving, they were taking him, he turned his head to look back at his empty cage.
When people disappeared they took the cage with them, this wasn’t normal. Wilbur pushed against their grip, making the figures stumbled a little. He turned his head as far as he could to catch a glimpse of the cage at the far wall.
It was also opened but the person inside laid painfully still, so so still. Maybe this is what happened every time, they lay sleeping while one person was snatched right under their noses.
“No-” Wilbur rasped, barely a word. “No, please-”
His roommate lay still as Wilbur was set against the floor keeping the weight off his feet and instead kneeling, forearms still held tight.
He kneeled, rested in perfect folded posture to look up at one of the figures standing in front of the others.
Wilbur shuddered, a leader who looked the same as everyone else, or a volunteer?
The figure stepped forward and went to one knee in front of him. They reached out a hand, Wilbur flinched back doing his best to lean away from the figure.
They, in response, had stilled and for a moment Wilbur was sure they would reach forward to slap him, to force his head and chest still and rip something away.
Maybe every time he slept he actually was awake, but when he was returned to the cage he didn’t remember it. What if this happened all the time but he just forgot, repeating it all over and over and over again.
What if-
The figure carefully touched their fingers to Wilbur’s cheek, tracing upwards with feather-like pressure. Wilbur braced himself, shutting one of his eyes and leaning further away. The figure’s hand just chased him, going up and up into Wilbur’s hair where it was still long, greasy strands dishevelled from his struggle.
Wilbur’s breath was coming faster and faster, chest heaving with effort. The figure parted his hair and traced the shell of his ear leading down to the missing earlobe.
Wilbur screamed when they touched it, shutting both his eyes, wordlessness forming words for the first time in weeks, disuse cracked at scraped against his throat and to him it didn’t even resemble english, “Don’t touch me!”
“Let me go!” He wailed, eyes dry, “Let me go please, please, please, I don’t want it- I-” Saliva bubbled up in his throat and dribbled down his chin, he felt like he was about to throw up.
The figure rose to their full height, making Wilbur strain his neck to follow. The cage forced his head down to look at their feet but they were tall, taller than Wilbur is, though he wouldn’t be surprised if he also lost a few inches of growth along the way.
They jutted their masked chin upwards and the two figures holding Wilbur still lifted him up again.
“I don’t want to go, take me back I didn’t do anything wrong I-” He is being too loud, they will take his voice, make him silent the easy way, “Put me back please! I can’t- I’ll be quiet please.”
He desperately hushes his pleads into whispers.
He can’t breathe through his nose. He coughed, spitting the horrible taste of his saliva onto the ground.
The group led him through the door. They walked around confusing bends and past indescribable machines, bubbling and brewing, a million closed doors, it all blurred together.
Along the way they met up with a few more figures who clattered and clicked as they spoke, rattling their throats unnaturally. They carried bags and when they opened them it was a half face mask, transparent.
They tried to attach it to Wilbur’s face, looping it around his ears but he struggled, thrashing and pulling his face away.
Eventually he lost and with the mask on he was back to breathing stuffy air. After a few moments of wearing it Wilbur felt his head clear a little, losing its fog and letting his steps actually land on the ground.
His fingers gripped the tight sleeves of his captors as they walked, unable to do much else.
They travelled in silence, walking far until they reached one of the biggest room’s Wilbur has ever seen. Totally enclosed, totally blank, a few pillars to hold up the diagonal edges of the ceiling and some layered walls.
It was as big as a football field but without the open air it was much, much, scarier.
The lights were sickly yellow and didn’t illuminate the back of the room, letting it fade into darkness and casting strange shadows onto the ground.
It made his feet look pale, fragile, he didn’t even want to know what his face looked like.
The group didn’t slow when they entered the room, they knew exactly where to go with their hurried steps and no breaks even when Wilbur would fall forward they merely picked him back up and continued.
Which is why Wilbur was instantly on edge when the group came to a still, standing in the middle of the open room.
His eyes flickered around, shoulders high and fingers trembling, he wondered if his captors felt his blood flowing through his skin, could feel the fear he had, could feel what he felt. If they could feel his beating heart he hoped they weren’t impassive about it- anything except for nothing, he will take anything.
But this, this was just plain terrifying.
As they stood there, a rocket, a ship, and a massive shuttle slowly formed. Hypnotizing reflections appeared, branches of parallel lines that slowly expanded, cut off, grew out from a central point cut down whatever emptiness there was in the room and revealed the behemoth of a creation.
All silver metal and windows, smooth and sleek, with an open drawbridge in front.
When the branches completed their dance and all that was left was this, might he dare call it a shuttlecraft, like from a ridiculous sci-fi movie.
Wilbur inhaled it all, eyes wide, then caught himself when the group started moving again. This time, with a clear goal, the drawbridge and entrance to this ship.
Wilbur pulled back as far as he could. He was not going in there, no thank you. “No, no, no, no let me- let me go-” He panted, whimpering a little as he fell to the floor.
The two figures holding him stuttered to a stop, a split second Wilbur almost thought they heard him, were listening but then they put a hand against his back, under his knees, his weak legs and completely lifted him off the group.
Wilbur shrieked, his sore limbs fought through air like it was molasses and the figure holding him clutched him tighter, the second figure took both of Wilbur’s wrists in one hand and walked next to them, making sure he couldn’t fight.
Finally, for the first time in a while, days- hours- he doesn’t know how long, his eyes stung and tears followed suit, wetting his eyes and falling down his face.
Inside the ship Wilbur clenched his eyes shut. It was blinding. Compared to the cage and the dark room with its own lights this was like stepping in front of a car’s high beams.
Wilbur couldn’t help the strangled sound that left his mouth, he couldn't even cover his lips or eyes with his hands, held tight by his captor.
He wished he were asleep, he wished he were in his cage, he wished he were dead. Just a little, just a little like hibernation, please let him curl up somewhere small and let him be, he never asked for this- he was quiet, oh be quiet and then. He doesn’t know what then.
Squinting in the light, trying to gather information about his surroundings but failing, it was just too bright.
They were moving already, way too fast. Wilbur’s head lolled a little.
They stopped, then started, then stopped and started again. Wilbur losing strength more and more.
They stopped, and a door opened, sliding open with the mechanical sound like a grocery store entrance and walked into somewhere darker than before. Wilbur sighed a little, thankful for that relief, and he let his eyes open just a little.
The room inside is light grey and empty, there is a ledge with some padding on it and maybe some drawers on the other side of the room but he isn’t sure.
It’s getting harder and harder to see.
He feels himself be laid down onto something warm. Wilbur automatically bents his limbs to accommodate his posture, making sure he doesn’t lean too heavily against the bars of his cage.
Wilbur thinks it’s going to be a good night tonight. His breath is warmer than usual, it’s able to reach his chest and hands, it almost resembles a blanket or a warm tub of water.
He drifts, headache gone, eyes sore, and no pins and needles in his thighs.