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It had been six days since anyone had talked to Nat over the intercom.
It had been eight days since anyone had opened their cell.
It had been eleven days since their last experiment.
It had been fifteen days since they'd last eaten.
It had been sixty-five days since they'd last tasted fresh blood.
It had been three-hundred and eighty-nine days since they had last eaten fresh meat.
It had been a very, very long time, and Nat was beginning to feel ravenous.
While not needing to eat as much as a normal human for the sustainment of their body on its bare minimum, fifteen days was a very, very long time to be starved. Had Nat not known better, they'd thought the scientists would be bleeding them dry of their life force before they would run another experiment, but they would have known.
No, they would have been able to tell. There would have been the clicks of a camera, the microphone buzzing with amble conversation, the sliding window on their cell would have been peeked through. In the last eleven days, check-ins had become less and less frequent.
It'd started with the dissipation of physical, human checks. The window stayed firmly shut and locked, no matter how hard they pried at it with their still-sore and split claws. The door hadn't opened in a very long time, except for the brief double-checks after their last experiment, which lasted a span of three days. While slightly comforting, they knew it was a safety measure to ensure they didn't die. Ominous, but friendly enough, which was the only reason he didn't maul one of the scientists every time they peeked their head inside the window.
(God, did he want to. He wanted to scrape their face off and lick the blood from his claws. He wanted to feel the thick crunch of bones beneath his teeth. He wanted, craved, ached for a meal, especially one that was still live and writhing. He wanted to feel the thrumming of a pulse beneath the skin, feel the warmth of blood rushing into his mouth, he wanted to have something to eat. He was starving, and god, it was horrible. His stomach felt like it was going to collapse in on itself if he waited any longer, and he was beginning to salivate at the thought of the next time a scientist passed his cell. He was going to tear them limb from limb and lick their bones clean, shred their flesh like a delicacy, swallow their blood as if the ichor of the Holy. He knew, somewhere deep down, he'd long lost his humanity to his hunger, which seemed to be ever-persistent as the experiments continued. No matter, he still pretended to have morals, refusing to attack people unless they attacked first.
Which was often.)
After the human checks had faded, it'd been the intercom. They'd stopped feeding him by this point, claiming the next experiment needed his organs to be fully clear (he had only been drinking water, no more protein-nutrient gunk). That had lasted two more days than the checks, and it eventually went as well, leaving Nat alone with only his thoughts and his empty, metal, reinforced room.
The walls were once padded, to ensure he didn't bash his head in on the wall and kill himself before they could manage to find his full potential and put him to good use. After Nat had had quite the episode (manic episode maybe? He- it- whatever they'd go by anymore, were never really sure. The experiments had fucked them up a little bit, and they'd been more and more panicked as the days went on. Something was coming, something horrible or something beautiful, and he wasn't sure how they'd feel about that) they were torn down, considering the blankness was an adding factor.
But they weren't padded anymore.
Nat had banged on the walls for a little bit, around two days after they stopped talking to him, to see if maybe they'd just broken something in their raucous attempts to reach him. Maybe they'd forgotten to talk to him, and maybe he could remind them with just a couple of gentle prodding hits against the wall.
They had not returned.
It had been fifteen days since Nat had eaten.
...
(Their cannibalistic urges were not something they were very proud of. They hated the feeling of death beneath their fingertips and weighing on their shoulders, but they couldn't avoid it anymore. They'd kill the first thing that walked into the cell next if they didn't curb their bloodlust, he was sure of it.
He did not want to hurt another scientist. He had been doing so good, hadn't even scraped one with his claws in such a long time. He'd been obedient, he'd been kind, he'd been subservient, they'd been good. They couldn't let all of that go to waste, not now, not when they were so so so so close to finally being able to walk around the facility freely. They were finally getting a little bit of a looser leash, and they were about to lose it to being starved.
Go figure- unstoppable force meets immoveable object.)
He hadn't been smart enough to save his rations. Not that they gave him enough to sustain his body normally anyway, but he was usually so exhausted from a day's worth of poking and prodding he just wanted to eat and go to sleep. The food that they handed him was bland and disgusting, and sleeping was his only solace in what was an otherwise blank, white, empty facility.
In his dreams, he embraced the people he loved, the people he missed. He was free again. He was human, and he could run his hands through his hair without bumping his hands into his horns, and he could walk around without the weight of his tail being lugged around on his spine. He wasn't in pain anymore, he was happy, and he could eat whatever he wanted (or whoever he wanted, he was fucking starving, it was beginning to really hurt) and whenever he wanted.
He was beginning to miss it, but the gnawing pain in his body was preventing him from sleeping.
He pressed a hand against the wall, staring blankly at the metal wall, his eyes narrowed. The scientists must have forgotten about him. Or maybe they wanted him to die, to tear himself to pieces over insanity. Maybe they'd wanted something else, maybe this was a test, maybe they were pumping some sort of chemical into the room and seeing how he would react to it over time. Maybe this was a test.
He slammed his fist against the wall, feeling the skin split and the metal dent under his force.
If it was an experiment, it wasn't a very fun one.
He pulled his hand away from the wall, looking at the little crescents in his palms and the split skin on the side of his hand. Deep red dripped from the wounds, though not much (not enough, not enough to satisfy the ever-starved body he was so, so desperate to feed), considering the wounds were just little splits in the top layer of the skin.
It smelled so good. He'd been mixed with a whole bunch of predator DNA, he was sure, and it had made him want raw meat and blood and live prey more than anything. At this point, he was beginning to get desperate enough that he was honestly considering drinking his own blood.
It had been so, so long, and just one taste wouldn't hurt. Maybe it'd help him keep his composure for just a little longer, while they figured out what to do with him, or remembered he existed. Maybe, maybe, maybe..
Hesitantly, as if experimenting with explosives, he gently licked at the side of his hand where the wound rested, immediately feeling the low sparks of pain that blossomed in the injury from it being jostled. His brain flickered with thoughts of infection, feverish dreams, death and horror, but it didn't last for very long.
He'd felt like, for one brief moment, his eyes had swelled in their sockets. He could feel his pupils dilate, was suddenly aware of all the little sounds around him, could feel everything and nothing at all in just a split second.
The taste of blood on his tongue was bitter, copper-flavored glory, something that lit up his nerve endings like a flame. He'd felt so much better in just that one second with that flavor on his tongue, and it felt like he became hungrier, more starved for some sort of taste, something more than just copper. He yearned, ached for something to chew on, something that would thrash and thrive and hurt.
(The still-present side of his brain screamed that this was a bad idea. There was nobody around but himself, his own blood thrumming heavy beneath his skin, and he wouldn't be able to restrict his urges for long if they were getting this strong from just a little bit of blood. The smell alone had damaged him irreparably, sending chemical reactions through his brain that shouldn't have even been possible for someone so drained of stimuli.
But he didn't care. He was so hungry. And he was made of flesh.)
In a moment of what must have been horrid, muddled clarity, he readjusted his grip on his left arm, baring his teeth. He was disgusting, he knew, but he was not a strong-willed man. He was a monster, in the purest of its forms, and he refused to hurt anyone; his hypocrisy refused to turn on anyone else (the 'anyone else's who weren't around, that was), and so he had to turn on himself.
His teeth buried into his flesh before he could think twice, needle-sharp points burrowing into muscle and tearing a large bite mark into his arm. He snarled lowly in his throat, white-hot pain shooting up his arm, his fingers twitching rapidly and his body shaking with adrenaline. His tail thrashed heavily, hitting against the wall and making a horrible racket, which made him bite harder in turn.
Nat was not thinking very clearly, lost to the feeling of fresh blood in their mouth and the beautiful copper taste after so long of being hungry, so their next move may have not been the smartest.
They dug their teeth in deeper, feeling muscle split in their arm and more pain to wrack their body, causing them to almost seize, in the best sense of the word. Their body convulsed out of pure instinct, as if to shake off the predator that was attacking them, of which was themselves. Unmoved by this action, they snapped their jaw shut as hard as they could, and yanked.
They ripped their head back with such force that it made them dizzy, or maybe it was the way that they could feel their muscle splitting and the inside of their arm being exposed to fresh air. Maybe it was the blood loss, too, as they could feel a significant dampness on the front of their shirt, which was almost certainly blood. It was dripping down their chin, and they could taste the salt of their skin, the texture of fat on their tongue. They weren't sure how they knew what that felt like, but they could tell, the almost bubbly feeling horrid against their tastebuds.
Against all else, there was the agony that spiked from the action. They were certain their vision had blanked for a second, their body responding to all of the horrible and overwhelming stimuli at once, but after that came the horrible feeling that settled in their gut. It was like a sense of dread that lingered, even after they had pulled the flesh from its' own bones, as if their body knew they were not going to stop at just a chunk of flesh from their arm. They were tempted to their entire entire body apart, rip each shred of flesh and muscle that they could reach from their skeletal structure, tear themselves to shreds and leave nothing for the scientists to find.
But they couldn't, they knew, because they would die.
(But would that really be so bad? Would it be so awful to be free, to be full, to finally no longer hunger and thirst for their own freedom? Wouldn't it be so nice to no longer have to worry?
No, says the only logical part of their brain remaining, I would not like to die.
Nat finds that he, frankly, does not care. He is hungry.)
He wasn't really sure what he thought flesh would taste like. Maybe he'd imagined some pretty, beautiful taste, but he found that wasn't the case. It tasted much like pork, he thought, like pig and writhing pink skin. He wouldn't complain- his ravenous behavior didn't have room to, there was nothing else for him to eat to soothe it- but it certainly wasn't his favorite flavor, and not to consider the weird texture.
The muscles felt slippery on his tongue, but the skin felt rough. Epidermis was easy to get through, but not pleasant to chew, even with its properties of being thin. The dermis was similar, maybe a little better, a little meatier. Fat was the worst, bubbly and horrid, the texture on his tongue nearly making him spit it out. He had half a mind to pry his fat from his bones, starve himself until it had all disappeared, and he could just have the muscle.
That was the best, he believed. It was chewy, but in a good way, and it split easily like a well-cooked steak. It tasted beautifully bloody beneath his tongue, and when he swallowed, it didn't get stuck in his throat. The chunk he had taken didn't go all the way through the muscle, he'd just grazed the top, but he found that it was like a delicacy.
(In case they didn't decide to feed him for a very long time, he figured he would save the muscle for last. It tasted a little bit like freedom, like having something the scientists didn't want him to.
Like contraband, inside his own body.)
It took him a good minute or so to chew the flesh enough to swallow. Most got stuck in his throat, but as soon as it settled in his stomach, he felt reverently ill. It felt so much better to finally have something to eat, to finally not be ravenous, but he was so suddenly exhausted. His stomach growled in pure, horrid anger, not happy with being fed itself, but he couldn't care.
The blood had left him on a high, and when he opened his eyes, the sight of the injury on his arm had given him more than enough of an idea of just how bad it'd gotten.
When he saw the injury, he'd initially felt sickened- that was his insides. That was the inside of his arm, and if he squinted, he could spot bone beneath the muscular gaps. When he tried to clench his hand, pain ricocheted up his arm, and he found that only some of his fingers still worked on that hand. He'd figured that would happen, but he hadn't considered the after effects if they did happen to forget about him forever- the scientists, that was.
Maybe he should aim for a leg, next. He could go without the use of his legs for longer than he could his arms.
The blood that coated the floor was.. a lot. It looked like he'd intentionally spilled a can of paint over his front and left arm, but the smell was honestly delectable, so he couldn't give a goddamn fuck what it looked like.
The horrid snarl building in the back of his throat gave him enough energy to bite into his arm again, just next to the last one, tearing deeper. His teeth pierced muscle and scraped against bone, a horrid sccrrrch sound that made his body creak terribly.
He wasn't hungry anymore, as he chewed down on his own flesh. He wasn't sure if it was because he was now nauseous or if he'd had his fill (something told him it was the way he was progressively getting dizzier as time passed), but he didn't mind, as he was happy with either option.
He continued chewing down on the thick, heady flesh, spurts of blood in his mouth giving him the little extra energy he needed to bang his tail against the wall again. The battle-axe imbedded itself in the metal, and the loud clang gave him a little extra delight, especially since he'd begun hearing the doctors roaming his halls again. They'd likely smelled the blood or checked his vitals, and they'd remembered him.
(Had he not been so stupid and hind-brained, he would have realized that he was bleeding out. He'd severed arteries and veins and was spurting blood everywhere, all across the cell, covering himself in the ichor of his own body. The scientists were coming towards him because he was actively dying, killing himself, in the purest sense of the word. They'd likely never considered the fact that he could be hungry enough to eat his own body before he'd begun begging, and something had gone horribly wrong. He would have been able to realize he was dying if his vision wasn't so locked on his injury, because the edges of his vision were going black and his skin was beginning to take a dusky pallor. He would have noticed the blood coating the wall around him and the splatters along his face.
But he was stupid, and he was hungry, and he didn't care that he was dying. He was tired, now, and they had remembered he existed. That, alone, was all that mattered.)
Nat finally swallowed the thick chunk of flesh, shoving down the bubbly-fat of his own body that made his stomach riot. The lingering after-taste of blood in his mouth was delicious, and he licked between his teeth, trying to weasel it out of all the cracks. He was unable to be satiated, but he figured he'd lost enough blood for now, and the scientists would feed him eventually. They were on their way, nonetheless.
Despite the euphoria from finally no longer being hungry, he recognized exhaustion. He was tired, as he hadn't slept in a very long time, and the reason for his acute onset insomnia was finally gone. Sleeping wouldn't be a bad idea, considering the scientists would probably do a bunch of poking and prodding soon, and he didn't feel like being conscious for it.
The door of his enclosure was beeping and making a whole bunch of noise, and he could hear shouting and the intercom buzzing in his ears, but he couldn't make out any words. Maybe some numbers, maybe some sort of shrieking, but he found he didn't care.
As the door to his cell finally slid open and he caught the eyes of a couple horrified scientists, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
(He wasn't sure if he'd wake up.)
He didn't feel the shaking of the head scientist nor the IV they planted into his veins, as his mind drifted away to somewhere else, somewhere dark and quiet.
(The bright lights over his head as they worked desperately to stitch his skin back together reminded him of stargazing with his mother and father, when he was young and little and pure again.)
Beneath the night sky, in his lingering dreams, the stars shined brighter than they ever had before.