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a thin rectangular prism slips through the walls of reality, metal-against-concrete screeching as it slides.
The Chosen One lies tangled up in his own limbs, on the floor and against the wall in a way that makes the most of the hard, steady support. it's eerily similar to how he spent many of his days and nights on the Taskbar... and that's just about enough reminiscing for him today. he's just woke up and already the twin-flares of anxiety and rage have flickered back to life.
chosen glares through the wall toward the source of the prism.
"Food," a new voice barks from the other side.
he's been counting, and chosen's only ever heard the same voice twice before they switch it up.
why do they keep sending him strangers? do they think he's going to sway one of the employees to let him free?
it's all he can come up with - he doesn't know why they do anything - but the idea is laughable.
he can hear them out there. they stand and stare. they take turns watching his Box like an exhibit in a zoo.
they think he can't see them, and then they sniffle or scratch an itch, and his eyes can lock onto theirs...
and every time he knows it's worked, because he can hear their breaths quicken, their footsteps scamper all the way out of the room, each one faster than the last - sometimes he can swears he hears their terrified hearts beating.
(or is that his own?)
no.
they don't think of him as a person.
he's the company pet.
...
chosen stretches out stiff muscles one at a time in a blatant display of capability and power, just in case there's any assholes still watching on security cameras that need to be intimidated.
his right shoulder takes longer to wrestle the aches from; probably time to switch sides on the floor.
and finally, only once he's good and ready does he deign to acknowledge the lump of metal growing colder on the cold floor.
this prism is made from an alloy cho's never seen before.
maybe the one forming all of the nearby cages? he only got a glimpse of them when they tried the memory-prier that first time, but it looks like about the right color.
they keep switching that up too: the size, shape, and type of tray, trying to find one that will survive the journey in and out of the Box.
joke's on them.
bringing him new materials just adds variety to his diet.
it's like trying to threaten a starving human with vitamin supplements.
cho sits back on the floor cross-legged to study the contents of the container.
standard fare.
this time there's an apple instead of a banana, but that's neither here nor there. none of this food goes particularly well together.
if only they would change up the menu like they shift around everything else???
maybe it's another trick: are they trying to drive him mad with meal-based boredom?
he hopes for the hundredth time that they're feeding Orange anything other than this.
whatever.
fuel is fuel until he can get the hell out of here.
time to put up or shut up.
so, prying eyes bored or scared off, chosen allows his jaw to unhinge as he re-locks the lid of the tray.
whatever alloy this is, it wasn't built to stand up to his teeth.
the tray snaps, crunches, and shatters along sharp fault lines like a hard-shell candy, while the soft stuff inside smooshes together, dull flavors fortifying each other into a greater whole:
slightly-less-dull nutrient mush.
the apple is a nice surprise though. it adds another texture variety and tangy sizzle that's been sorely lacking from previous trays. chosen tries to stop any form of enjoyment from showing on his face, and forces himself to keep eating quickly, lest his captors catch on and decide to ban him from apples forever.
soon the slightly-enjoyable food is gone.
cho can't say he misses it - that would give it too much credit - but it is one of the few slightly-enjoyable parts of living here in the Box, between the torture sessions and memory-prying, the impossible tasks and strange questions...
and...
...
...and thinking like that will never get him out.
chosen swallows the scraps of his mostly-unenjoyable meal and tries to put it out of his mind before it comes up his throat.
...just in time for the mid-segment of the wall to slide open.
silhouetted in blank white on both sides and grey office building behind stands the glasses'd stick figure, the mercenary who's a hollowhead but also isn't, with the hostile-Animator-toolbar raised.
chosen doesn't give them the satisfaction of looking impressed with their entrance
(or of looking ill, which takes way more effort, for the record).
they gaze slowly around the room.
when cho regains his wits, he realizes they must be looking for the tray(?) or any other trivial excuse to punish him.
finding no box of mysterious-metallic-makeup, they cross their arms at him, crossly.
"You're costing the boss more in upkeep than you're worth," they hiss.
chosen would like "the boss" to live in squalor for at least as long as he's been kept here, maybe with a few good gut-punches on the way there.
needless to say he doesn't react.
toolbar-stick tilts their head like they're staring down a confused child.
"Could make it easier on all of us if you cooperate."
chosen is just about to throw as much not-caring at that as he did the last genius tidbit of information, but then the tool-stick whips out their arms from where they were crossed behind their back and cho has to focus on not flinching.
they hold one of their arms above chosen's head where he's still sat on the floor, and flourish their wrist to reveal the object held inside.
it's another apple.
it's a red, shiny, just-cleaned apple.
it LOOKS crispy from here.
it smells sweet, instantly overpowering the meager remnants the featureless gruel left behind.
chosen's mind blanks a bit at the sight of it, only frivolous questions left like...
is that for him?
and,
why would they have two kinds of apples here?
inside today's tray was a green apple.
cho knows nothing about this business, or facility, or secret base, but from the food they serve their prisoners, they don't strive for variety.
and it was a green apple he ate, he's sure of it, because the green ones are usually a little too sour for cho's taste but they couldn't possibly have known....
could they ?
numb sickness climbs up through the concrete floor and past chosen's legs like creeping vines and squeezes.
he thinks he knows everything they know about him.
he THINKS he's seen every memory-pry.
he's been asleep for quite long stretches lately, like he did when... like when he slept on the Taskbar, always ASSUMING no one would dare touch him while he's out.
if they know inconsequential shit like what specific type of apple he prefers, information about a fruit that isn't even his favorite, that no one else but dark would (should) ever know or care about,
what else do they know?
...
...theories and strategies hiss and snap at each other in his head: okay, okay! maybe it's a fluke. it would be fine if it's a fluke! maybe, statistically, red apples are preferred by the general populace, and they got a lucky guess? they could've picked anything. oranges, for example, just to be smart and throw the fact that they've still got Orange held captive in his face. but there's no variety to oranges, they only sell a few kinds and they're all oranges it's not special. apple varieties are different, divisive, each one unique in some way to the last, the perfect subtle play, the power move that sneaks past your defenses to strangle at the last moment-
but that's stupid! there's no way it's that simple-
there's no way it's that complicated-
maybe the presence of the possibility of a conspiracy is supposed to distract him from the real threat-
maybe-
or maybe-
tool-stick drops the apple.
despite himself, chosen takes the bait.
it's a sign that this place has pushed his buttons.
it's a new point of failure they can exploit.
he'll be showing them another part of himself he can't take back.
he's desperate, and tool-stick will see it.
the apple falls, and he reaches for it, snatching it before it smashes into the concrete.
it's fresh. it has a sticker on it, proclaiming that it's come straight from the local farm, to the refrigerator trucks, to him.
the apple is cold in his hands.
it looks delicious.
tool-stick has the audacity to smirk at him, as if they don't know that all he has to rely on is tasteless and horrible and never even enough, a sick excuse for rations that toes the line between gross and cruel and unusual torture, worse than the charset in chalky Papyrus font*, honestly worse than the nights the grocery store upped security right when cho and dark ran out of supplies and they had to sleep hungry, sometimes with tap water alone-
at least then he didn't have to sleep on the floor. alone.
chosen can't meet the tool's eyes.
it's just another win for it.
he pops the perfect apple in his mouth, stem and sticker and all, as the tool silently gloats in the doorway it KNOWS chosen can't get past it to escape from.
they don't feed him enough to stay healthy; he's been dipping way below baseline.
they take his strength and flick it up and down to their whims using the console outside.
they know they can hold him as long as they like, if things keep going like this.
and right before his captor steps through the threshold,
chosen sucks in a breath-
-and spits the apple stem into the tool's smug, cocky face, hitting it square on the nose and right between the lenses of its glasses with a sharp, wet, THWICK!
the stem bounces off and rolls away unharmed. the tool-stick startles. it slowly raises a hand to wipe off chosen's drool, and stands there in the doorway, its cool-guy exit in shambles.
chosen crunches loudly at it.
the apple is spectacularly crispy.
the tool retreats drenched in awkwardness, and closes the door behind it, and in that instant chosen slows down on the apple.
it doesn't matter anymore if someone sees him do it.
this will be the only time he will get apples; and if not, it'll be a pleasant surprise for later.
now, it's more than a matter of spite to enjoy the apple meant to taunt him:
the apple is excellent.
The Chosen One means to savor his prize.