Chapter Text
Tim woke up startled, his heart pounding against his ribs. He was awakened by a sudden bang echoing through the cage room. Someone was struggling and yelping following the noise, accompanied by the Handler's loud cursing and a rough slap ringing through the quiet. Several steel-toed boots stomped in with a rush. The unfamiliar voice sounded young and unusually harsh, different from what Tim was used to hearing. Usually all he heard were the whimpers and strangled screams of children and teenagers echoing around the almost empty room.
Sleep drained from his eyes, and he instantly became alert. He couldn't see what was happening, his back was turned from the main cage room door. He reflexively tried to turn on the hard slab he had called his “bed” for several years now, but he hissed in pain when the wound in his thigh reopened, stopping him in his tracks.
He took a deep breath and stilled his movement. Right. It was better this way. There was no need to draw attention to himself while every single cell in his body screamed at the slightest movement. He almost dozed away again when a cage door beeped and rattled open behind him. Oh no, he trembled, not again. He closed his eyes and counted to ten, anticipating rough hands to grab and drag him for a third time today.
The slap hadn't stopped the curses coming from whoever they were dragging in this time. Tim assumed the voice belonged to a boy, a pre-teen, if the high-pitched growl was any indication. By the sound of it, the boy seemed to struggle even harder. He sounded furious, firing increasingly creative, foul insults at the Handler. Tim would have chuckled if not for his sore ribs and the trouble it would bring. So, he stayed still in his bed, keeping his body quiet and holding his breath. It's kind of funny to hear such a little voice swear like a foul-mouthed Victorian royalty, Tim mused.
The cage door slammed shut with another loud bang and a beep. That provoked another curse from the boy. “Release me this instant, you worm! You cannot put me in this filthy place! Do you not know who I am? I shall tell my father about this.”
What? Tim thought. Who the hell is this boy? Draco Malfoy?
“That brat fucking bit me! Are you sure we can't rough him around a little?” a nasal voice shouted.
“Yeah, he called me a rotund, bald rodent! Do i fucking look like a rat?” another voice grumbled.
“Shut your fucking mouths, you two. The boss wants him without a scratch, so move along. We have things to do,” the Handler’s voice boomed, followed by angry, heavy stomps exiting the cage room.
Tim let out a shaky breath and slowly opened his eyes, the frantic adrenaline seeping out of his system. The first thing he saw was the dark shape of the iron bars that had been keeping him from the outside world for a few years. The light was dim as always, and Tim squinted. Even opening his eyes took a massive effort these days.
The boy was still cursing behind him, and Tim's train of thought stopped completely. Surely, they hadn’t put someone in his cage? Tim had been here a long time and had seen countless children and teenagers appear and disappear over the night. Surely, they put the stranger in an empty cage beside him? Not in his cage? He slowly turned his body toward the other side of the bed, mindful of his wounds. The motion made his mind go entirely white with pain. He released a small, broken grunt for his effort. The cold concrete floor greeted him like an old friend, but his eyes strayed to a small figure pacing around in the adjacent cage.
Oh, hey, Tim thought in relief. They didn’t put me in the same cage with someone that could eviscerate me with his word. That’s great. Tim tried to focus his vision on the small figure. It was a bit hard to focus while he was still lying flat and the boy was in constant motion.
He squinted, the boy finally came to focus. Dark skin, styled hair, tailored clothes, pudgy baby-face that was red from rage, and a set of green eyes that were ablaze with fury. Clearly, he had a wealthy upbringing. Maybe that's why he spoke like he was from two hundred years ago, Tim mused. He was familiar with the ways of rich people. There were some who tried to be eccentric and taught their offspring various odd skills.
Tim startled when their eyes met through the bars, the boy’s eyes almost glowed in the dark. He blinked repeatedly, trying to figure out whether it was his concussion or the boy’s eyes were really glowing.
“What are you looking at, boy?” hissed the child.
Did he just–
Did he just call me a boy when he was clearly the younger one?
“I– uh–”, Tim croaked, voice scratchy from his constant screaming this morning.
“Well? Are you an imbecile? Can you speak?”
Holy shit, his friends at school must have hated him, Tim thought.
“I can speak, and I'm not an imbecile, thank you,” Tim’s voice cracked at the end.
“Great, I would offer an alliance to escape from this filthy place, but clearly, you are not in the shape to do so. You're useless to me”
Tim snorted. Maybe he was going crazy, finding amusement in the boy’s impertinent insults, but this interaction was the funniest thing that ever happened to him.
“You are very rude. You know that, right?”
“Tt– do not talk to me with your horrible voice. I’m busy trying to escape right now,” the boy grumbled, already back to fiddling with the automatic door lock on his cage.
“It can only open with a red-striped security card, you know. Even guards with the blue cards can’t open the door. Believe me, I’ve been observing them for years. And before you ask, it can’t be lockpicked either– I tried,” Tim murmured, his body already tired from their brief interaction.
“Maybe, but you are not me,” he replied pompously.
“Good luck with that then,” Tim’s voice faded out as he closed his eyes, his tired body begging him to sleep.
He tried to get comfortable by stretching his back slowly, attempting to turn over the concrete slab. Every breath he took felt like dragging a sharp-edged metal into his lungs. The hard bed gave no comfort to his battered body; it was completely littered with deep wounds, the blood from his cuts was already crusting, sticking his clothes and skin to the hard surface.
He let out a pained, strangled whine as his mind whited out. As his body shifted, his clothes tore violently away from the bed, ripping open the raw lacerations on his back, sending fresh blood bubbling to the surface. The agony was too much for his system. Darkness rapidly crept along the edges of his vision, and his body went entirely limp as he lost consciousness, passing out cold to the world.
—
His physical pain faded as he fell deep into the heavy weight of unconsciousness, his mind swirling with scrambled memories and stray, frantic thoughts. Suddenly, the cold concrete slab vanished under him.
Now, Timothy was seated nervously in a sterile, white examination room. He was eight again, sitting on a freezing metal bench. A phantom antiseptic smell aggressively assaulted his nose and his small lungs heaved as his breath grew short.
Through the thick fog of the fevered dream, the afternoon his world was shattered came vividly to mind. He remembered hearing a loud, terrifying crash, from the entrance hallway, and the frantic way his mother slammed the front door of their house, tightly nursing a jagged, bleeding gash on her arm from a shattered artifact. His icy, untouchable mother was crying, her face twisted with rare, naked vulnerability.
He recalled how his small body had taken uncertain little steps towards her, completely unsure if he was welcome in her space or not. His tiny, trembling hand had shakily reached out to pat her uninjured hand, desperately offering whatever comfort he could.
Then, something unusual happened.
A hot, white, vacuum-like sucking sensation violently traveled from his palm straight to his entire body, stopping right along his other arm. Timothy gasped, looking down at his right limb. It felt as if a phantom shard were slowly, invisibly carving an identical wound to his own skin, warm crimson blood traveled down his hand. He cried out in pain, but he couldn’t help but stare at the unexplained wound in horror.
He snapped back to reality when his mother roughly yanked her hands away from his grip. Startled by the sudden motion, Timothy's eyes traveled up to her face. Her eyes widened like dinner plates, the icy blue of her irises shrinking into terrified pinpricks as whites of her eyes completely took over.
The deep, bleeding laceration she had been nursing just seconds ago had completely vanished, leaving nothing but smooth, supple skin behind. Timothy moved closer in wonder, reaching out to touch the healed flesh, only for his mother to flinch violently away from his reach.
Timothy looked up at her, shocked to see a sickening mixture of mortification and pure disgust painted over his mother’s face. Confused and terrified by what had just occurred, Timothy took another step in her direction, seeking comfort, only for his mother to scramble back in horror.
“Stay back! What… What are you?” her voice trembled, her heels clicking against the hardwood as she backed away further. “You are... You are a monster.” she whispered, before turning and fleeing the living room to find his father.
She left Timothy entirely alone in the center of the room, terrified and bleeding onto the floor.
There had been no dinner that day. Only poorly hidden, hissed conversation echoing through their bedroom walls. Freak. Shame to the family name. Profit.
The dream shifted rapidly, dragging him back to the lab. He was sitting stiffly on a hard bench outside of a frosted glass office. A distant conversation whispered through his ear— a toxic mix of his parents’ and a cold, adult male voice.
The office door clicked open. His father strolled out, his voice flat. “Timothy. In here, now.”
He dimly heard his mother speak from the shadow behind him “This is Timothy.”
The doctor stood up from his desk and loomed over him, offering a gloved hand to shake. “Nice to meet you Timothy. Your parents have agreed to leave you into my care. We are going to have such a wonderful business relationship together.”
Timothy’s small hand froze in the doctor’s grip. What? Behind him, he heard the quiet rustle of his parents shuffling around, exiting the room in a desperate shameful hurry. Their pockets were heavy with a secret syndicate wire transfer. They had completely wiped their hands clean of a defective son, in exchange for quite a fortune.
The loud heavy bang of the heavy office door closing echoed back through the room like a final gavel, sealing his fate in the dark.
—
Tim woke up gasping as a fist slammed against the iron bars of his cage.
“Here’s food for the Doctor’s favorite pet. Can't have you dying on us, can we?” one of the Handler’s henchmen sneered, sliding a heavy plastic tray into a metal hatch—a secure slot built into the bottom of each cell door for food delivery.
The tray held bits of meat, rice, vegetables, and a glass of water. It wasn't out of the ordinary for him to receive a meal like this. Over the years, he had found that he possessed special privileges when it came to his food. It was different and way better than what the rest of the children received. The Doctor always said it was necessary for him to recover as quickly as possible. Tim just glanced at the tray and said nothing. The henchman huffed, irritated as he didn’t get the reaction he wanted, turned to the adjacent cage.
“As for you, little twerp, you don't get to eat today cause you called me a rat! How do you like that, brat?”
“Perhaps I was mistaken about that,” the boy’s voice rang cool and sharp. “You resembled a naked blind mole more closely, and it also fits your pathetic personality perfectly.”
“You fucking fuck, if there weren't bars between us I’m gonna beat you to a pulp!”
“Then let me out,” the boy challenged “I accept your wager.”
“Shut up, I know what this is. You’re trying to trick me into opening the door and getting me into trouble. Ain’t no way i would do that, you little fucker.” The mole-faced guy stomped out angrily out of the room.
After the heavy door slammed shut, Tim couldn’t hold back a quiet snicker, making the boy turn sharply toward him.
“What is so amusing?” he huffed impatiently.
“You shouldn’t provoke him like that, you know.” Tim murmured, leaning his head back. “I’ll admit it is funny, but now he has a personal vendetta against you. It’ll make your life harder here.”
“They have no right to keep me here. Furthermore, I only speak the truth about his appearance,” the boy frowned, or rather, pouted indignantly.
“Think about it like this: you being calm makes you unremarkable.” Tim took a deep breath before pushing his upper body slowly into a sitting position. His ribs were screaming as he breathed a little too deeply. “Best-case scenario, they forget about you. Worst-case scenario, they hurt you less. Either way, I think it's a win-win scenario.”
Tim moved both of his feet to the cold concrete floor, wincing as pain shot through his entire body. Green eyes followed his every movement, watching him with calculation, like a big cat assessing injured prey.
Tim huffed a breathless laugh. Damn, way to leave a first impression. He's going to think I'm a cripple now. I wonder what his next insult will be.
“I will not live the life of a coward,” the boy said, his chin tilted up with sheer arrogance.
“Yeah, but now you don't get any food because you mouthed off.” Tim tried to stand up, his legs shaking like a baby deer's. He braced himself against his bed. Yay, legs still worked, so that's a plus.
“I won't perish without food for a day.”
“Yeah, but what about tomorrow? And the next day?” Tim wondered.
“I won't be here for long. I will escape, or my family will storm this building to find me.”
Tim had heard that exact sentence so many times before. It had come from various children and teenagers who had been placed in the cage beside him over the years. Even he, himself, had possessed the exact same thought during the first few months of his “stay” here. He used to be kept in a much larger room, where rows of cages filled with children lined the walls. Tim and his former cage mates had planned multiple, elaborate ways to escape. The plans always failed, and the children disappeared one by one. After too many failed escape attempts, the Doctor had instructed the Handler to move him to this smaller room with only two cages, huffing about how much of a hassle Tim was. After that, Tim hadn't had a cage mate again for God knows how long.
Until now.
How stupid of me to still be here, bruised and battered, he smiled sadly to himself. He thought about the blank, broken stares that had replaced the initial enthusiasm of his old cage mates before they vanished, never to be seen again. He didn't even know if they were still alive.
Tim wondered why the Doctor had decided to give him a cage mate now. This boy still had fire in him. Tim wondered how quickly it would dim this time. He quietly hoped it would take a long time. The boy was highly entertaining, and frankly, Tim was lonely. He would happily take any normal human interaction the kid could offer him, even if it only came in the form of insults.
He groaned as he steadied himself on his two feet. Something in his pelvis shifted uncomfortably. Great, now something was wrong with his hips, too. The tray sat inconspicuously on the floor as he started walking towards it.
“What’s your name, kid?” Tim hobbled closer to the freshly delivered tray on the ground, he slowly bent down to manoeuvre it out of the metal hatch.
“Kid? Is that meant to be an insult? I'll have you know, I am eight years, three months, and thirty-five days old! I am practically a grown adult!” The boy's voice pitched even higher at the end of his sentence.
“Okay, I'm sorry for my misguided attempt to guess your age,” Tim retorted. “But I need to call you something other than 'an eight-year-old adult with a potty mouth and creative insults.' That's a bit too much of a mouthful.”
“You haven't earned the privilege of knowing my name.”
“Okay, then I will call you Gremlin.”
“You dare insult me!”
“You don't like it? Or do you prefer Gnome?”
“Cease your foolishness this instant!”
Tim giggled, wincing slightly as he reached his skinny arms through the side bars of his cage, gripping the tray he had just slid back outside. He laboriously pushed it along the concrete toward the boy's side of the cell block until the tray aligned perfectly with the little boy’s food hatch. “Will do, Little Prince. Now, enjoy your meal.”
“Hmph. I am not little. And as I said, I do not require sustenance,” the boy harrumphed, folding his arms tightly across his chest.
“Oh, so you're fine with being called a prince?”
“I do not care what you call me!” The boy stomped his foot, thoroughly irritated, but Tim could see his ears turning an interesting shade of red.
“Fine then, Little Prince. Please eat the food. I promise it's not poisoned,” Tim rasped. “You heard Mole Face earlier, right? I'm the Doctor’s favorite. There's no way they would poison my food.”
“How do I know you are not lying through your teeth right now? Perhaps this is some kind of ploy to drug me.” The Little Prince squinted his eyes in deep disbelief.
Tim sighed. Of course his new cage mate was a paranoid eight-year-old. Don't get him wrong, it was a great survival skill to have in a place like this, but it made things incredibly complicated right now.
“Here, I will taste-test it for you, and then you can decide if you want it or not.” Tim reached back out through the bars, slid it in the tray to his own cage and took a tiny bite of each dish, drinking a sip of water for good measure.
“What about you?” the boy asked, eyeing him up and down. “I refuse to believe you would share your meal out of pure kindness– especially in a place like this.”
“Believe what you want, Little Prince. I'm just not in the mood for food right now,” Tim rasped. He slowly pushed the tray back to the boy’s side of the cage, through the bars, and then carefully hobbled his way back toward his bed.
Tim wasn't lying when he said that. His body ached along with the heavy pulse of his heart. Though the cold surface he was lying on did help cool down the inflamed little cuts scattered all over his skin, he knew that anything he forced down his throat would only resurface in minutes.
As he slowly settled back onto his hard slab, a quiet clatter echoed from the adjacent cage. The Little Prince was pulling the tray inside his cell, sniffing the food with great suspicion, before decidedly devouring every single bite until the tray was clean.
Good. Tim quietly hoped the meal would fuel the Little Prince’s fire for just a little longer.
Tim's eyes drooped, lulled by the Little Prince's soft breathing and the distant clatter of the tray as the boy slid it back out of his hatch and pushed it towards Tim’s side of the cell. Call it selfish, but it was comforting to know he was no longer alone in this room. The quiet of the cells usually reminded him too much of the big, empty mausoleum he had called his home once upon a time.
He was so tired these days. Lab visits were becoming more frequent. His body was practically demanding a reprieve from all the injuries he sustained. The Little Prince's presence was like a balm he didn’t even know he needed.
“So,” The Little Prince broke the comfortable silence. “You seem to know these miscreants and this damned place pretty well. How long have you resided here? You do not seem much older than I am.”
Honestly, it was pretty hard to keep track of time in this dimly lit place that always looked exactly the same. There were no windows, leaving him no way to keep time. Since he had been isolated, the meals he received were never regular. He constantly lost track of the days every time he was thrown back here from the lab sessions, whether because he was unconscious or because the raw pain messed with his perception of time. Plus, he couldn't exactly count how long he was kept in the lab, because more often than not, pain overwhelmed his senses.
But he distinctly remembered a report he had caught a glimpse of this morning. It detailed his vital, personal data, and recovery progress, complete with a stamped date and year. He calculated it quickly in his head.
“It’s rude to ignore people. Have you suddenly gone deaf in the span of one hour?” the Little Prince grumbled.
“Patience, Little Prince. I was just counting it in my head,” Tim murmured. “It has been… about four years for me here. I was your exact age when I first started living here.” Living? Tim thought bitterly. More like surviving.
“Tt— you have been here for that long and have not found a way to escape? So incompetent.”
“Hey, it's not like I didn't try. The Doctor stopped me every time. What about you? Have you found a way to unlock your cage yet?”
The Little Prince's face instantly reddened, “I'm still strategizing! The lockpad is higher than I anticipated!”
Tim laughed, a genuine sound. “It's good that you ate earlier. It'll help you to grow.”
“Cease you nonsense sputtering! You're not that much taller than me!”
“At least I can reach the lockpad!” Tim crowed, smiling widely at the small win.
“I do not need to reach the lockpad, my family will find me!”
Tim’s smile dimmed, a sudden, heavy memory of his own parents flashing across his mind. “Yeah? They're probably looking for you, aren't they?”
“My father and brothers won't spare a single moment to find me! I wager they're on their way right now! They will be here any second! the boy said passionately, his cheek puffed out and reddened.
Cute, Tim thought, I can’t believe I found this rude gremlin cute. Tim was not exactly surprised by his sentiment. For as long as he could remember, he had always wanted a little sibling. Someone to teach, to love, to play games with, and to accompany him in life. He had even begged his mother to give him a little sibling once. His mother had simply sighed and told him he was already a handful, and that she couldn’t bear the thought of another child like him.
Furthermore, he’s always been the youngest one in the Doctor’s menagerie of captured children. Back then, the older kids never gave him any attention, far too preoccupied by their own misery and dark fates. He had only been useful to them when executing an escape plan– entirely because of his slender and small stature.
The Little Prince’s family was looking for him, so he had probably been forcibly snatched by the Doctor. Tim wondered if there was something special about the boy, or if he had just been unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Looking at the little boy's attire and manner–a prim high-society child–Tim had a strong hunch that the kidnapping was entirely intentional. Maybe he had been captured as leverage against some powerful family. It was not the first time the Doctor had done something like that. Tim quietly hoped that it meant the boy would be spared from the Doctor’s experimentation.
The light patter of feet snapped him out of his musing. He glanced at the boy, who was pacing around his own cage. He was mumbling softly to himself about fleeing, security measures, and dodging surveillance. The Little Prince didn’t seem like any other child, Tim mused. A normal boy his age would have had a complete mental breakdown by now, but the Little Prince was relatively composed and cool-headed in this terrible situation.
Tim remembered the first time he had been put in a cage as if it had happened yesterday. He hadn't been able to stop trembling, hyper-aware of the other children's screams and their sorry state. Tim liked to think that he had held up okay back then, but compared to this boy, he had been a total mess. Once again, Tim wondered about the boy’s upbringing. What kind of family taught their eight-year-old son about security measures?
But then again, rich people were weird.
“If you are wondering about surveillance, you don't have to worry about the CCTV,” Tim said, tilting his head to look at the pacing boy. He pointed vaguely at a blinking lens dome nestled in the upper corner of the room. “They barely look at it anyway.”
“Tt—I noticed that, you doofus. What is so special about you? How are you so sure they are not surveilling us right now as we speak?” the boy scowled, stopping his pacing.
Tim paused, trying to phrase his answer carefully so it would not completely traumatize the kid. “I am his favorite test subject. If I died, he would lose years of experiment results. He would also lose a lot of other children quicker without me. He explicitly told the Handler not to ‘damage the goods’, because he wants to observe how I recover from wounds he personally inflicts. But the guards still beat me when they feel like it, usually when they escort me back to my cell. They always made sure their abuse blends in with my other injuries, so the Doctor won't notice.” Tim huffed, remembering a recent slap to the head from a meaty hand as he had been shoved back into the cage this morning.
“‘The Handler'?” The boy cuts in, his brow furrowing slightly. “You mean the man that leads this group of miscreants?”
“Yeah, that's him.” Tim hummed in confirmation. “The Doctor never calls him by his name, and his lackeys always call him boss, so I dubbed him ‘The Handler’ in my head.”
The younger boy gave a slow, calculated nod, signaling for him to continue.
“Anyway, whoever monitors the cameras doesn't care enough to report anything to the Doctor, or they just don't bother to spend their time watching a half-dead twelve-year-old. I guess they figured I wouldn't try to escape.”
“Why would they assume that of you? Are your spirits already broken, as they believe?” the boy asked, voice sharpening in deep disapproval.
“Maybe. But I think the more likely reason is that I often come back from the lab so injured that I can't even move.” Tim scratched his head, recalling more of his observations to relay to the boy. “Anyway, as for the surveillance, the Doctor doesn't really care about what we say. He only cares about our vitals, crunching the data through his computers to monitor us and compile statistics on our progress.”
Tim tilted his bruised chin toward the upper corner of the cell. Green eyes followed the movement and spotted a small metal device nestled against the molding, little green light blinking repeatedly. “It tracks our passive metrics–like heat, weight, and heart rate. If any of those spikes into the danger zone, it triggers an external alert. So unless that alarm pings, nobody cares enough to look at us."
“The Doctor only checks the archived logs if there's a visible problem. Other than that, he gave full authorization to the Handler’s team. I once overheard the Doctor say he was too busy to waste time on such a menial task.”
Tim tapped his chin, summarizing his thoughts. “The Handler’s men are fully reliant on those automatic locks and vital alarms. As long as the alarm doesn't go off, they don't bother to check the surveillance logs. If they did, the Handler and his cronies would have been caught and shot in the back of the head by the Doctor a long time ago.”
“That is so strange. He doesn’t want you to die, yet he keeps torturing you.” The boy murmured. “Such contradictory behavior. What is this ‘Doctor’ like? Is he mad?”
“No, he’s not. He’s cold, calculating, and cruel. It’s all about profit with him,” Tim recalled his last lab appointment and shuddered. “There is something in my body that he wants to understand and replicate in others.”
“Interesting. You mentioned you have tried to escape before. What went wrong?”
“He employed a pack of highly trained operatives to secure the building, the Handler team,” Tim explained, a loud, phantom siren ringing in his ears as he recalled his last attempt. “Outside of this room, this facility is brimming with surveillance cameras. From here to the outside, there are multiple checkpoints that require a certain access card.”
Tim looked down, his voice dropping “I used to be kept in a much larger cage room. My former cage mates and I planned multiple escape plans, but we were just children. Each of us was captured and thrown right back into our cages. Then, they started disappearing one by one, until I was finally transferred here.” Tim closed his eyes in grief. “I think they’re already dead. After I was isolated, the Doctor brought me to the lab much more often. Several times a day. By that time I was simply too exhausted to run,” Tim finished, his eyes downcast, thoroughly embarrassed by his own weakness.
“This ‘Doctor’ sounds utterly despicable. Do not worry, I will take you with me as I escape.” The Little Prince said, green eyes glinting deviously. “You do not need to endure such torture. I will end his life when I cross paths with him.”
Instantly, Tim’s blood ran cold. “No! Promise me you will never, ever seek him out! He’s bad news. Just lay low and wait for your family to save you, okay?” There’s no way the Doctor would dare to experiment on a high-value leverage asset, right? He wouldn’t dare to inflict permanent damage on such a precious captive. “Just please, think about your family, okay? Wait for them to get you.”
“Hmph, you really don’t have confidence in me.” the boy harrumphed, crossing his arms. “I will not back down from such evil. Just watch, I will be out of here in no time,”
A loud hiss followed with a violent bang echoed through the small room. Both of the occupants startled out of their relaxed disposition and became instantly alert. Loud thuds of heavy boots thundered in with brashness. The Handler with his henchmen strolled in–huge, intimidating men in military haircuts and biceps as big as Tim's entire torso. Tim, who was intimately familiar with that routine, braced himself for another rough handling. To his horror, the heavy footsteps didn’t stop in front of his cage.
“Little twerp, the Doctor wanted to see you,” the Handler grunted as he swiped his card against the lockpad. His lackeys stood right behind him, both grinning with malice. Another loud bang echoed through the room as they slammed the cage door open.
“He said he likes your eyes, brat. If I'm a mole, you're just a helpless kitten.” Mole Face chuckled. “You've got those freaky reflective eyes or something.”
The boy glared at them with venomous hatred. His mouth pursed into a thin line, but Tim could see how his clenched fist trembled.
No, no, no, no, no. This is not happening. Tim's brain screamed in pure panic. What do I do, what do I do, what do I–
“Tt—Fine, take me to your master. It is about time I discuss things with someone who actually possesses a brain,” the Little Prince said haughtily.
Oh, no.
Tim forced a maniacal giggle out of his throat with all his remaining might.
“HAHAHAHAHA! I've never been able to come up with a good nickname for you three stooges, but the kid did it in MINUTES!” A tear slipped from his eye. Ouch, my ribs hurt like hell.
“BRAINLESS STOOGES!” Tim howled with laughter, his body shaking with the force of it. Little cuts that littered his skin reopened with the sudden motion. “It is absolutely perfect for you three! ‘Doctor this, Doctor that, Doctor, Doctor, Doctor.’ What, is he your mother?”
The Handler and his henchmen stopped completely in their tracks to stare at Tim. Their mouths hung open as if they couldn't believe what they were hearing. Tim didn't blame them, honestly; he never once antagonised them over all these years.
“And he said you look like a MOLE! The more I look at you, the more I see it.” He pointed mockingly at Stooge Number Three. “In fact, you all could be the Mole Brothers– like Alvin and the Chipmunks but a mutant mole version,” he snorted in amusement, laughing louder, making his tone high pitched and deliberately annoying. He was starting to genuinely enjoy insulting the three guards. Wow, maybe this is why the Little Prince always does it.
Their faces twisted with rage. A thick vein popped out against the Handler’s temple, his skin flushing bright red. Mole Face's mouth hung open, his rodent-like teeth peeking out of his upper lip. The image only made Tim giggle more. The other henchman was frowning so hard his face wrinkled like a-
“Oh, wait. You look more like a blobfish with that frown,” Tim shouted with glee, motioning toward the second henchman. “And you look more like a rabid gorilla,” he added, pointing directly at the Handler. “You behave like one, too!” He cackled loudly. It felt incredibly freeing to insult the people who had harmed him for so long.
The Handler slammed the Little Prince's cage shut with terrifying force and stomped towards Tim’s cell, swiping his security card roughly. His two buddies followed him. Good, come get me you stupid stooges, Tim thought, keeping a mirthful giggle fixed on his face.
“You all always pose like you're the biggest men in the room, but as soon as the Doctor says ‘Heel, boys’ you'll stop like good little dogs. What's the point of being the biggest man in the room when you're surrounded by childr—”
Tim couldn’t finish his sentence. A powerful hand gripped his collar, lifting him clear off the bed. Blob Face was staring at him with fire in his eyes,
“Well, the good thing is, I can discipline rude boys like you,” he hissed, violently throwing Tim onto the floor.
Tim's vision went black for a second. White-hot pain flared along his spine and ribcage, completely knocking the breath out of his lungs. Well, at least my ribs aren't broken... yet, Tim brooded silently, trying to find a silver lining.
The Handler's heavy boots entered his blurred vision. The man bent down, a cruel sneer twisting his features. “One day with a friend, and you're already acting up. Maybe you need a little reminder of exactly who you're dealing with here,” the vein in his head looked like it was about to burst.
Tim grinned like a feral cat, “Oh no, I think I touched a nerve here. It's okay, fellas the Doctor will—”
A heavy punch directly to the gut cut Tim’s rambling short. He could feel his stomach screaming in sharp, white-hot agony. He instantly doubled over, protecting his stomach with his arms around his midsection. Drool and spit spilled from his mouth onto the cold concrete. He knew he was incredibly lucky his stomach was entirely empty, or else he would be covered in his own vomit right now. Note to self: don't insult the gorilla.
“The Doctor will set you straight.” The Handler violently yanked Tim’s arm up, forcing him into a standing position. Blob Face grabbed his other arm, preparing to drag him out of the cage. Tim has no intention of making it easy for them, so he completely relaxed his legs, letting his dead weight drag against their hold.
“Hey, but the Doctor said that we have to fetch the rude brat,” Mole Face said indignantly, glancing back at the adjacent cell.
See, Little Prince? He has a grudge against you now. Tim thought absentmindedly.
“Leave him be for now,” the Handler barked, dragging Tim’s limp body toward the exit. “He'll have his turn sooner or later. Besides, the Doctor is always happy to see his favorite subject anyway.”
“Ooohh, the Doctor again, anything to please your master, yeah? I didn't get to finish my sentence earlier,” Tim mocked through his teeth, spitting a bit of saliva onto the floor.” I meant to say… the Doctor will kiss it better.”
Tim threw a quick, discreet wink in the Little Prince's direction. The young boy's stunned face suddenly sobered up, a sharp flash of realization cutting through his expression. The Handler shoved his access card into the lockpad and roughly manhandled Tim through the threshold.
“Hey, no! I demand you to take me to your master right this instant! Release him and take me!” The boy shouted angrily, violently shaking the iron bars with his small hands.
“You heard the boss, twerp. You'll get your turn sooner or later,” Mole Face grumbled irritably before the heavy security doors slammed shut with a definitive click.
The lock engaged, leaving the screaming boy entirely alone in the silence.