They had an argument again.

This seems to be happening a lot as of recently. It's honestly getting rather tiring. It doesn't help things that it's the same stupid argument. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over. . .

Oh. Where is he?

He's found himself in an alleyway, it seems like. There are dark brick walls with bright lines of neon colors scrawled onto them. Random papers have been pinned and tapped to the wall, overlapping one another. At the end of it, on the street, he can see the flickering lightbulb of a street lamp.

Okay.

That's fine.

Everything's fine.

(It's really not.)

Gil inhales shakily, wiping his face with his sleeve. He instinctively reaches in the pocket of his hoodie for his phone, only to grasp nothing but air.

What the—

. . . .

Oh, that's right. He'd left it at the dorm, after his call with his parents. He sighs tiredly.

Great. Now he doesn't have anything to distract himself from—well, everything, to be honest.

His watch buzzes on his wrist.

A bit puzzled, Gil lifts his wrist and pulls up his sleeve to see the screen.

this boi is on fyaaaah: ayo u good bro?

i just saw u kinda storm out

Gil winces. He himself hadn't spotted Heath, but, in his defense, he'd been blinded by rage.

gillington: Im fine.

this boi is on fyaaaah is typing…

this boi is on fyaaaah: thats a lie and u know it

gillington is typing…

gillington: It's nothing, really. Just another argument with my parents

Incoming call from this boi is on fyaaaah

Connecting. . .

"Hello?" Gil says, his voice just above a whisper.

"Hey man." Heath's voice is quieter; somber, even. It's a weird tone for him. "I know we're not close or anything but I really hope you're doing okay. I know your parents can be kind of. . ."

"Strict?" Gil suggests. "Arrogant?"

". . . Sure." Gil can tell that Heath can not find the words to describe his parents. He doesn't blame him.

Someone says something in the background from Heath's end of the call, and the fire monster responds with, "Gil."

It's a moment before Heath says, "That was Deuce. He wanted to know who I was talking to."

"He's in your dorm?"

"Yeah. He heard you and your parents yelling at each other so he crashed here."

"Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize. It's fine. I don't mind."

Gil bites his tongue to prevent himself from apologizing again.

They fall silent. Deuce says something again.

"Deuce wants to know where you are," Heath says.

"Uh—" Gil glances around his surroundings— "I think some alley near the school?"

"Can you send him your location? He wants to meet you there."

Sure. Gil can do that. So he says okay, and scrolls down to Find People and shares his location with Deuce.

"Aight, he's on his way. I, uh—" There's sounds of shuffling from Heath's end— "I should probably go now. I have, um, an essay for Mr. Rotter I still need to finish."

"Okay. Bye."

"Bye."

His watch beeps, signaling the end of the call. Gil leans against the wall, staring at the end of the alley and wondering when Deuce would come. In a minute? Five? He doesn't know.

He blinks, suddenly, as he hears soft footsteps from the entrance of the alleyway.

(Gil must have zoned out at some point. Ah, what can you do.)

He straightens up, peering into the dark. "Deuce?" he calls.

No answer.

Carefully, Gil creeps forward, something like fear beginning to brew in his gut. "Deuce? Is that you? You can come out now. It's not funny."

And then a figure steps out of the shadows—

Gil tenses.

It's a normie from the looks of it, with a pair of shades covering their eyes and a mask hiding the rest of their face. A hood is pulled over their head, hiding their face in shadows. A pair of blue latex gloves covers their hands, and in one of them, they hold a syringe.

In the other is Deuce's icoffin.

"Who are you?" Gil shifts his body into more of a fighting stance. "What have you done to my friend?"

The stranger only seems to become amused. "It doesn't matter."

(They're using a voice changer. It's obvious with the scratchy sound and the way their voice just doesn't sound right.)

(Find People is still open. If it came down to it he could share his location with someone—)

—lunges at him. Gil yelps and dives to the side, narrowly avoiding being stabbed by the syringe.

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck—

(He, in a very panicked state, sends his location to Heath, the first person in his contacts. Please come please come please come please come—)

Oh god, is this what happened to Deuce? Attacked by some unknown human?

He yells out something, hoping and hoping and hoping and hoping that someone is there, that someone will hear him and help him.

This only seems to make the normie angrier, and they launch themselves at him with much more ferocity and swiftness. Gil's caught off guard, his heart stopping and he begins to backpedal—

He's slammed against the hard concrete ground, the wind getting knocked out of him. The normie towers over him, the syringe gripped tightly in their hand. They stab the needle into his neck, injecting a mysterious liquid into him.

He tries to throw them off, but his limbs just won't work. They're heavy and beginning to numb and they just won't move.

So Gil's left lying there, unable to move anything except for his eyes.

(He can still feel adrenaline flowing through his veins, fighting to keep him conscious, but it's beginning to fade away.)

"I've got one. The fish. Put up quite a fight. Had to use more of the sedative than I wanted to." A pause. "No, I don't think anyone's coming. If they are, I'll be long gone by then."

And that's the last thing Gil hears before he slips away, shadows enveloping his vision in waves.

0-0-0-0-0-0

He wakes up, his brain feeling thick and muddled and jumbled.

His limbs are all heavy, and he feels as though he's waking up from a very long sleep.

. . . .

(Where is he? What is he?)

(Who is he?)

He cracks his eyes open, despite his eyelids feeling as though they are too heavy to do so, and is greeted by a white ceiling.

And two yellow eyes staring at him.

"Hello," says the person leaning over him. His skin is blue and scaley, and, instead of hair, a fin lays lopsided on his head. He's clad in a white shirt and white pants. It looks as though he came from a hospital.

(Hospital? He doesn't think he's ever been inside one. So how does he know what their uniforms look like?)

He opens his mouth—his lips are chapped and dry—and croaks out, "Hi."

"He's awake?" Someone else appears in his vision.

The new guy has scales creeping along his face. He has no hair—does anyone have hair here?—but instead has a head full of scales with live snakes that wriggle and glance around, seemingly confused. A blindfold covers his eyes, and he wears the same white uniform as the first guy.

The first one hums in response. And then to him, "Can you sit up?"

It takes a while, and more effort than he'd like to admit, but, eventually, he's in a sitting position. The first stranger crosses his legs and places his hands in his lap, and the other pulls a leg to his chest and leaves the other laying on the ground.

"What's your name?" asks the first one.

"Oh, uh, I don't know."

(He doesn't know a lot of things, actually. He doesn't say that though.)

The first person seems disappointed, almost, though from what is unknown. "Oh. That's alright. I'm 6."

"6?"

"Mhmm. It's short for 617."

"Oh."

"282," days the blindfolded one. "Just call me 2."

"Okay," he says. He glances down at his hands, which are translucent and glowing and green. "Um, do you know what my number is?"

6 shrugs. "Sometimes they'll call us out for a checkup or something. We'll probably find out then."

"What do they do? Y'know, when they take you out of the room?"

And it's at this question that his new acquaintances look uncomfortable.

"We're not—" begins 2, "we're not really supposed to talk about it."

"Oh."

They fall silent. He picks at his clothes absently and asks, "How long have you two been here?"

"Hmm? Oh," says 6, tilting his head in a kind of thinking gesture, "a couple of weeks I think."

He opens his mouth to say something, only to be interrupted by a woman with short blonde hair and deep sapphire blue eyes.

"159, come with me." She peers into the room with a bit of an impatient look on her face.

"That's you," 2 whispers to him, nudging him slightly.

He stands up, slowly, and walks—hovers more like—towards the woman. He can feel the eyes of his peers burning holes into his back as they leave the room.