Man sleeps for the first time in a month.
Armour: None
Weapon: None
Acc(0/12)
Health: (499/500)
"Whoa, the guy's still asleep?"
The Cyborg banged his armoured hip against the doorframe as he bumbled his way into her office and towards the large viewing panel. The Zoologist grimaced when she heard a pile of research reports scatter to the floor, but did her darned best to not lose her cool. She'd been doing nothing but flying off the handle since Specimen N-83 arrived at the laboratory - and though she knew HR couldn't do jack shit to her, she figured she needed to manage stress better lest she come away from this with an ulcer. With visible effort, The Zoologist swallowed a knee-jerk freakout session and kept her eyes fixed forward.
The Cyborg's heavy footsteps approached from behind. His voice was always annoyingly jolly.
"Hey, did your paramedic guys tell you how many times they had to dose this bitch up on the ambulance ride over? He kept waking up, so they tranq'd him three or four times. They almost ran out of the stuff! You think he's just got a really bad case of insomnia?"
The Cyborg laughed, then cut himself off when she didn't. He cleared his throat and strode up to stand beside her; he glanced at her, then at the form sleeping peacefully in the viewing window. When he spoke again, he did so seriously.
"So, what did you find out?"
"...Nothing." She gave him a stern look. "Every test we run comes back entirely nonsensical. His DNA is spaghetti. His blood samples are like nothing I've ever seen before... But I didn't call you here to discuss test results. Your kind isn't useful in intellectual pursuits."
She gave him a snooty look. The Cyborg rolled his eyes and planted his hands on his hips, striking a pose far too girlish for his frame.
"Geez, Zoologist. You had me run all the way over here on my day off just so you could insult me? If I weren't so offended, I'd be impressed. You really do hate everyone."
"Stop that and listen, Captain."
He huffed and observed his not-painted nails, before once more becoming serious and indicating she should continue.
"Since we couldn't identify him through scientific means and CC Central isn't done torturing that Traitor Agent, we figured the best thing to do was to just ask The Subject what he was. This morning, we sent in one of our best animal behaviorists to have a chat, and after about two minutes of one sided conversation-"
The Zoologist gestures to the remnants of a black stain on the far wall.
"Subject threw a grenade at him."
"..."
A brief silence. The Cyborg frowned and narrowed his eyes in confusion.
"A Grenade? Where the hell did he get a grenade? Y'all strip searched me when I was interred as a fodder for the Gen 4 CC Program. Did someone fail to shine a flashlight up his ass or something?"
The Zoologist shook her head. With a hand gesture, the image of The Sleeping man vanished and was replaced with a high definition recording of the incident. The video had been sped up and the behaviorist's speech was compressed into that quick, high-pitched tone character of fast-forwarded film. After a couple of seconds, the video reverted to normal speed. The soon-to-be-exploded Behaviorist was standing some distance from the cot, furiously taking notes as he questioned the subject.
*You seem to understand language well enough. Are you unable to speak, or do you simply refuse to?*
*...*
*Ah, don't go back to sleep! You've slept more than enough since being interred. Come on buddy, I swe- Hey! What the fu-*
*BOOM*
The image froze, zoomed in, then played back for a few seconds before proceeding in slow motion. The Zoologist watched as The Cyborg carefully observed the recording. To her, like almost everything about N-83, it was nonsensical. The Subject had been peaceful since arrival, seemingly unbothered with the IV taped to the back of his hand and the constant stream of sedatives flowing through it. Once, it had even fallen out - the subject woke up - found the needle and slipped it back into his vein before tucking himself back into bed and going to sleep. Frankly, the Zoologist hadn't recalled asking anyone to provide The Subject with a sheet and pillow - but given the number of samples they were taking from him, she figured she'd allow it. Yesterday, using far more force than one might think necessary, they'd pulled three teeth from his mouth - and the subject slept right through it.
And so, it was like that for a week. The subject didn't eat. He didn't drink. He didn't excrete waste in any form. He just slept, and slept and slept - hopped up on a continual stream of enough anesthetics to kill an elephant. When they took blood samples, the pinpricks vanished almost instantly when the needles were withdrawn. His teeth regrew where they were removed. When they cut off a finger - it crawled around the test-dish like a strange triple jointed worm. It didn't regrow, so they stuck it back onto The Subject's hand - and it rooted without much issue.
And so, nearly all The Zoologist's staff were surprised when their peaceful N-83 suddenly decided to pull a grenade from thin air and kill The Behaviorist. The Zoologist was sure he didn't have any grenades on him. They'd x-rayed the subject more times than they could count. They'd thoroughly searched each and every one of his cavities. There was nothing, and certainly not weaponry. According to the film, when he killed The Behaviorist, a grenade materialized in his grasp mid throw. And when it exploded, its residue remained against the walls. Was he some kind of alchemist? But no alchemist was could transmute air into something as complicated as a grenade! Simply changing one pure element to another was a daunting task all on its own - and, to be frank, N-83 didn't look like a genius Alchemist to her. He didn't look like a genius anything.
"Well, I don't know how he did that, but that's a grenade from the Thieves' Guild."
The Zoologist blinked out of her introspection. She turned to The Cyborg.
"What? That gang of pirates? You think he's one of them?"
"Doubtful." The Cyborg shrugged. "Besides, that's a hell of a thing to be hiding. It's all spiky and everything. So I take it you want me to go in there and pick up where your behaviorist left off? Ask him if he's an alien or something?"
The Zoologist shrugged sheepishly.
"Well... we did equip you with anti-blast armour."
"Yeah, yeah. Alright."
He'd never felt quite so numb before.
He knew this wasn't natural. He couldn't think. He couldn't feel. Every breath was a sigh, and as the hours flew - he felt himself sinking into his sheets like he'd soon become a part of them. He felt like he was back in those mushroom fields, inexplicably happy amongst those glowing blue sprouts. Fulfilled. Content, entirely separated from the heartache that'd plagued him so readily when his mind was right. The fluid dripping into his veins lured him off to sleep, slowly causing him to sink into that deep, comforting blackness he'd only experienced in the moments after death.
"Hey, rise and shine! If you sleep for four days straight, I guarantee you'll feel like shit when you finally get up. Come on. Something to drink?"
A rattling. A squeak of canvas over aluminum. The slightly uncomfortable drip of cold fluid trickled to a halt - and, much to his chagrin, The Terrarian found his consciousness rapidly returning to him. Annoyed, he opened his bleary eyes, and was met with a bright blue light upon a soldier's helmet. Beneath the light, a beaming smile. He faintly recalled that face, and recognized him as the person who'd offered him a great deal of unnecessary comfort while his limbs were being reattached. In any case, although The Terrarian judged he should treat this person with some general benevolence, right now, he simply didn't want to deal with him. He rolled over, turning his back upon the unwelcome visitor and jiggled the needle embedded in the back of his hand. When it failed to steal away his consciousness, he plucked it out and plunged it into his bicep.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! That's not how it works! Hey - relax, don't go stabbing yourself for nothing!"
The Cyborg tugged at the cord and the needle was whipped out of his arm. With more than a little annoyance, The Terrarian lunged upright in an attempt to catch it - but he was so drugged up, and his hand-eye coordination was so bad, he not only failed to snatch the needle from the air, but also managed to land in a way that toppled his cot. The whole experience left him nauseous and disoriented, with his sheet tangled around on ankle and the cot upended on his torso. He coughed. The Cyborg looked sheepish.
"Aw, sorry man. Are you alright? I didn't mean it. Here."
A few more maneuvers, and The Terrarian found himself sitting upright on his cot again, the sheet thrown over his shoulders, and the lights in the room far too bright for his liking. The canvas of his cot dipped heavily as The Cyborg sat beside him. The Terrarian glared at him and bared his teeth, then sneezed. The Cyborg chuckled.
"Hey, I did say you'd feel like shit if you kept sleeping. I bet you feel like shit now, but imagine how much worse it'd be if you were down for another week?"
The Terrarian heard all the words coming out of The Cyborg's mouth, but didn't register any of them. He grumbled something under his breath, then pointed at the needle hanging from the tourniquet in The Cyborg's hand. When his spoke, his voice was annoyed, hoarse and breathy.
"Put me back under."
"I'd be happy to, but they want you to answer some questions first."
"Tell them, no."
"Well, then they won't give you any more sleepy juice."
The Cyborg flapped the bag at him, the smile never leaving his face. The Terrarian groaned and pressed both palms into his eye sockets. He hadn't ever recalled feeling so downright sick before... maybe The Cyborg was right about sleeping too long, yet at the same time, The Terrarian knew he wanted nothing more than to put his head down on that pillow and escape this world. If he had to answer a few questions to achieve that... well, he supposed it was a price he was willing to pay.
He sighed heavily. His voice itched in his throat.
"Then ask."
"Okay!"
The Cyborg grinned ever brighter and planted his chin in his palm. He posed his question slowly, perhaps understanding his subject wasn't quite all there.
"First, what should I call you? They've been calling you N-83. But that's too sterile for me."
"...Mons-"
The Terrarian paused. He frowned and raised his eyes tiredly to meet the glowing light on The Soldier's forehead. His mind briefly flickered through all the names and titles he'd been assigned over the course of his short life, and found each of them hurt him in one way or another. After a long moment, The Terrarian sighed and shook his head.
"Those that named me are long dead. I have no name to give you."
The Cyborg nodded apologetically, but was by no means deterred. He continued like that - all smiles and encouragements, pushing and prodding. He didn't seem malicious, but The Terrarian was well aware he had terrible senses concerning who was malicious or otherwise.
"I don't want to know what others call you... what do you call yourself? Just tell me this, and I'll get another IV bag for you and put you down. Sound like a deal?"
"..."
"..."
"Fine."
He sighed deeply, then cast his memory back to that name now so foreign on his tongue.
For indeed, he hadn't spoken it since the day he was born.
"Terrarian... is the title I was born with."
"..."
The Cyborg's good natured smile had fallen into a startled sort of gape. The Terrarian pointed once more at the tourniquet in his hand.
"Now, put me under."
MK: *scratches neck* Got any more of that sleepy juice?
Cyborg: Zoologist, you've got him addicted to elephant tranquilizer.
d