Work Text:
Names were things one used in the world outside, and none of them were ready. Least of all the one with the awkwardly-sized head that took three restriction helmet fittings to get one that worked. He was usually called “weirdo”, “wuss”, or “the quiet one”, because while the other grubs overcame their discomfort to play-fight (and sometimes real-fight) he found a quiet corner and occupied himself. Sometimes rocking back and forth on the wheel affixed to his tail to allow him to crawl despite his painful helmet’s weight, sometimes curling up and manipulating the wheel with his hand. As they grew older, the Glukkons who came to take some of the others away sometimes asked why he was still there, and the answer was always the same - he’d always been like that. He wasn’t “overly-friendly”, so they didn’t think his quietness would be a problem, even if he didn’t necessarily show any aggression, either. At the very least, he would be a “satisfactory” Slig, and may be suited for entertainment - which he learned was represented by the Glukkons in flashier or gaudier attire, or those accompanied by outlandishly-dressed Sligs or green things he wouldn’t learn were called Mudokons for another couple months.
But none of those ever chose him, either, because entertainment had no use for the quiet ones. The ones not individually picked out were going to be split evenly between two companies that had made contracts with their queen as budget security, and he didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but he knew it meant he wouldn’t be stuck here with the pain and teasing forever, even if he was never chosen.
He didn’t understand the teasing, or why the grubs who were genuinely nice to each other were beaten by their adult supervisors, sometimes even taken away and never brought back. He just knew he had to watch it happen, and then find someplace he wouldn’t be noticed when the distress finally hit, even if it hadn’t happened to him. He was glad that there seemed to be a delay there, that he would feel safely numb for a while, long enough to hide it when he cried. “Whiners get walloped,” was a common phrase among the children, spread by the adults.
Sometimes, he felt that desire to go talk to another one, and he would wind up listening to them brag about how they’d beaten the snot out of “that whiny shrimp” or how they’d gotten so many treats for “proper aggression”, which none of them could say correctly at this age, slurring it into “propa’gressi’n”.
He spent long enough just watching, though, that he noticed something strange one day. Two of his brothers were calling each other the meanest names they knew - and they were laughing.
It was a bad idea. But they always said the helmet was to curb “undesirable impulse control”, at least in part. Looking back as an equally-miserable adult, he supposed it did work a bit as intended. Because he crawled right up to them and asked them why they were laughing at being made fun of.
They’d laughed a much uglier laugh, then. “Would you look at this!” the older one jeered. “Look at this idiot.”
“Doesn’t need that helmet because you don’t need to put a helmet on actual crap!” said the other. “I’ll bet that’ll be your name when you get one: Poo Brain.”
“Yeah,” said the other with a cackle. “You know what, that’s just what he is! I can smell it!”
The insults hurt, and he knew he had to run away before that hurt became tears. Unable to respond with words, he turned to try to crawl away, but the older one, larger, with longer arms, caught up before he could get anywhere, and knocked him over.
Nobody would intervene as the two ganged up to quite literally punch down. Fights were good. Fights were healthy. The brood self-policing its behavior saved the supervisors from extra work.
And the Slig who would one day call himself Dee learned to just watch, and only speak when spoken to, and understand social interactions that weren’t straightforward by watching the other party. And maybe that was why he never learned that ability every other Slig seemed to have, to just shut off the part of their brains that recognized another person as having feelings and pain. He was too busy learning how to pretend at the things others seemed to pick up naturally, too distant for his caring to be noticed.
It only occurred to him, well after he was away from it all, that if anyone else was hiding the way he was, they were invisible to each other. And that’s how they did it, made sure all the Sligs behaved the way they wanted, and nobody who saw better could do anything about it.
What could he do other than flee, traveling at the side of the Mudokon whose life he wasn’t supposed to have wanted to save?