Chapter Text
There was something…off about this entire situation.
Beyond the fact that he was 'trapped' in a box, observed by Things and tended by them in an admittedly, and disconcertingly, gentle manner. There was something wrong. With him. It's not something he noticed immediately, amongst the litany of other problems he had going on — the bruises, the gashes, the battered bits and aspects of his body. The soreness, the tightness. His own thoughts tripping him up here and there.
It went beyond the fact that His Teeth Were Wrong, and he hasn't wasn't really even ready to think about that too much.
He had thirst, that's for sure, he needed water. That was good.
He also did have a hunger. Not quite the usual hunger pangs, but it'd do.
His digestion was fucked though, he thinks.
Alright, so maybe he had noticed immediately upon waking, he'd simply ignored it and now it was — according to the voice that kept him updated every so often — three human days later and he had nothing but himself and an unwillingness to do anything other than eat and stare and try and not to fall asleep. He's mildly glad for the time they haven't chosen to breach and talk to him directly. Or that he hadn't been forced outside? Or—
Well.
Yesterday, if the People weren't lying to him, a fact that was entirely possible alongside the idea that this wasn't real or that this was some form of afterlife that would just drag him deeper into the depths of something—
Yesterday, he managed to go through the drawers without fearing that they'd blow up on him.
Bandages, clean and neatly ordered, a soft ball of fabric that he'd taken to holding in his palm or keeping in a pocket to distract himself from picking away and undoing his own healing, a loose collection of buttons that he had no idea what to do with. Rounded pebbles. A junk drawer, basically, and it had him re-thinking whether this box was actually something they had preplanned to be a prison or if it had been some sort of strange utility closet.
They didn't starve him — the Things — didn't press their eyes uncomfortably close to the window which had remained in it's previous state, untouched further than another inch of soft, barely-there light, the overhead lighting still giving him a visceral reaction at the mere thought of turning it on. Food wise it was…fine? It was strange, nothing like back—
Meat, of a sort, he thinks, doesn't know whether he wants to know the answer of its source, what that meant for the world beyond, just eats, keeps his mouth shut and listens and tries to—
"Human."
A grunt from him, a what he could now tell was definitely a 'happy' chirp following the acknowledgement. He doesn't speak to them, doesn't want to test the waters, but the idea of them getting upset or too curious and opening the door before— Well, it's easy enough to at least make a noise so they don't think he's dead. "No need to be scared," He wasn't scared. They just made him nervous. Rightfully so, and he doesn't want to unpack the idea that he was comfortable in this cell. There's a lot actually that he's avoiding. "New skin—" A look of alarm upwards, not that they could see him or he could see them.
"Clothes." Another one intercepts, he'd counted at this point four voices total over the span of his capture, rotating in and out as to who observes him, all exactly similar in nature, replicating his own in a way but they had this before he ever said anything to them and that— "We send clothes through, you can use. You can keep. Good to become familiar before—"
"No need to wear." The first voice reassures him, or informs? Did these things actually know how to reassure or was it just? And what did they mean by familiar? "Send food, right after. Door sliding will be a little longer today, no concerns." Ever since they started talking to him it'd been like this. Talking to him slowly. Telegraphing actions like they were speaking to a child who didn't have any clue—
And he might be clueless and a little disoriented but he was a fucking grown man.
"If Human feel up to it," He did not. "Tomorrow, can have company."
He really did not, blood running cold, or slow or whatever it was as his heart stutters for a few more moments. What did that even mean? To have company? One of them? In here? Him? Out there? W—
"Human very brave." A scoff. "Take it slow."
Right.
Funnily enough, despite the warning, he immediately forgets about the update two moments later, knee deep in thoughts about what company might imply and how that would present and the fact he only had a day to mentally and physically prepare himself, not much chance of creating a weapon out of anything in the room except maybe for throwing stones at whatever it was that came in and hoping for the best?
Or biting it.
He had sharp teeth for a reason now, tongue checking the edges of them to confirm they were still there. Biting might work. He could try and choke it, push it against a flat surface or move the bed and hide under it until—
The latch clicks, his meal sliding in through first and for a second longer, it seems like the usual pattern, gingerly picking up the patty from the plate, chewing through the first bite and promptly squashing the meat with his hand as something else slides through.
Right, fucking—
Fuck.
A breath, mourning the mess he'd made and placing it back down and shoving the plate away so he wouldn't ruin his meal further, licking the remnants of his fingers and staring at the offending pieces of fabric.
Socks.
Even in the dim light he can tell they're brightly coloured.
Not red, thankfully.
None of the clothes were red and that's enough of an incentive to pull them closer to himself.
Blue? Or— Blue-ish, definitely, blue-ish socks, about the size of his. No bottom layer and he's not entirely sure whether he's thankful or not, unwilling to strip to that extent in his watched cell but also his hand taps the surface of his pant leg, the stiffness of the material from dried bl—
A shirt — bigger than him, by a fraction in length but wide enough to fit. If it had been a perfect fit he'd probably have freaked out more. Black. Not just because of the way the room hadn't been properly lit up but lifting it towards the light there was—
"Fuck you mean?"
I had potential.
In neat script, clear if slightly faded lettering staring back at him like the fucking slight it was.
What the fuck were these fuckers on?