'Cause... why not? Enter a bbCrazy!Mets 8D
((It takes him a moment to realize that anything is different, but when he does his reaction is immediate and extremely violent. There's a loud crash in the lobby as the small boy panics, feeling lost and terrified and helpless. He darts desperately for some place, any place, small enough to make him feel safe (need to get out of the open, can't stay, no more, please no--) but there's nothing suitable enough, and the only thing he can find is a meager metal chair that he dives under, vainly trying to hide from the prying eyes of the strangers at the desk.
Last thing he knew he was safe in his room, happy to finally have a moment's rest after days and days of experiments and being forced to use his... his... those things, but now he doesn't know where he is and he's no longer safe and he's in danger--!
Clutching at the metal legs of the chair, he gasps futilely for breath, panicking more and more when it feels like he's choking on his own tongue, his body shaking so hard it's almost vibrating (not again not again not again), heart pounding like an out of control drummer. His hands abruptly jerk away from the legs and he sees the metal crushed, pinched in ways that no human (freak freak freak) could ever manage.
His high-pitched scream is cut off when he desperately slaps both hands to cover his mouth. No noises, noises are bad, he's learned that much over the years.
(he's not bad, he's not, please no more, he'll be good, just stop--)
The metal tracking bracelet wrapped tightly (too tight, too tight, always too tight) around his left wrist aches in ways that aren't merely physical, and on his back, in between his shoulder blades, is a sticker that reads "Clipped Wings."
The boy who once identified as Wayne Scott hasn't felt safe in a very long time.))
Last thing he knew he was safe in his room, happy to finally have a moment's rest after days and days of experiments and being forced to use his... his... those things, but now he doesn't know where he is and he's no longer safe and he's in danger--!
Clutching at the metal legs of the chair, he gasps futilely for breath, panicking more and more when it feels like he's choking on his own tongue, his body shaking so hard it's almost vibrating (not again not again not again), heart pounding like an out of control drummer. His hands abruptly jerk away from the legs and he sees the metal crushed, pinched in ways that no human (freak freak freak) could ever manage.
His high-pitched scream is cut off when he desperately slaps both hands to cover his mouth. No noises, noises are bad, he's learned that much over the years.
(he's not bad, he's not, please no more, he'll be good, just stop--)
The metal tracking bracelet wrapped tightly (too tight, too tight, always too tight) around his left wrist aches in ways that aren't merely physical, and on his back, in between his shoulder blades, is a sticker that reads "Clipped Wings."
The boy who once identified as Wayne Scott hasn't felt safe in a very long time.))