[ since the moment he’s come to the first time to all the other times, this has been a nightmare. falco has been strangely quiet but grossly attentive to their surroundings, searching for a sign that already seemed familiar somehow. he never screamed for help or cried in panic— he only sat in his cage and strained his ears to listen for something. for their abductor, for a tip off, anything they could use. every time a piece comes together, his eyes pull open wide. he presses his ear to the floor, feels the vibration, hears a distant bell. he murmurs once, softly: ]

I . . . Know where we are. [ louder and more convinced, turning his frame and gripping the chilly bars of his cell as he tries to get someone’s attention: ] I know where we are.

[ other times— he doesn’t keep to himself. he actively reaches out to his fellow captors, trying to get their gaze on him by voice at first. if it’s someone he doesn’t personally know: ]

—Hi.

[ if they’ve talked more than once, whether in their cells or out of them: ]

The food bowls— can anyone break them?

[ every time the sweet scent invades his senses, fear spikes in falco— he tries his best to hold his breath and gives his fellow captors pleading, frightened gazes, swallowing his tears as something deep between his ribs rattles like prey that perceived the coming of a predator they couldn’t do anything about. every time they fell asleep, something happened. someone was taken away, or someone was put back in terrifying, painful shape. he didn’t want it to be anyone, and thought that out loud with a drifting whimper as he spoke out loud and reached between his bars for his neighbors: please don’t go. would any sort of god hear him? he’d fall asleep against to bars in an uncomfortable slant— with a fight. he strives to stay awake until his eyes sting red, until he steals a single gasp when he needs air. his chest burns, his shoulders shudder, and his remaining eye contact with the other captors is what makes him struggle the most to not inhale, but— he doesn’t see what happens after the tickle of a cough itches the back of his throat. it goes black, so does his memory, and this time, he’s the one that goes missing.

when falco’s returned to his prison, it doesn’t and wouldn’t quell anxiety into relief, especially when something was horribly wrong. the child remains knocked out for hours after the syrupy smell has dissipated, and when he stirs, still mildly unconscious and disoriented— he can only sob. all he knew was that something hurt badly, he could taste iron in his mouth, blood and the bitter aftertang of medication. the more he came to, the more he silenced himself, blinked in the dimness of their enclosures, touched his face as he supported his heavy-feeling frame with an arm . . .

that’s when he bolted up, when his breathing had skyrocketed into a rise and fall worthy of contrast to a startled bird who’d just hit a window, and when his hands have pulled away in terror to slowly, slowly reach to his chin, either side of his mandibles where it hurt most— they felt strange. his skin felt stretched, his flesh felt numb, he couldn’t open his mouth because it felt locked and it ached and it wasn’t how it was supposed to be. it wasn’t, because it had been removed. human bone was replaced by metal within, disfiguring the natural shape of a boy’s maxilla into something pointed forward, dreadfully akin to a beak. the stitches were stiff and caked with dry blood, as they were sore and inflamed beneath tainted bandages.

they’ve done something horrible to him, as they’ve done with everyone here. the blond had held off crying for quite some time, one might even say he was startlingly mature for a boy his age. he’d talk respectfully to his elders, at times resembling a young adult who had to grow up too fast and had taken being put in a cage mindfully and aware, but this? the mutilation, coupled with powerlessness, days this way, maybe longer, the pain, no prospect of escape—

he curls up, in shock, holds his breath, and cries like anyone fresh out of a forced mandibulectomy would, though in quiescence, save for the occasional sharp drag inward or hissing between his teeth and nostrils when he breathed too fast. he had grown so used to crying in a way higher officials wouldn’t see, sometimes even ridding himself of needing to in the shivering trenches surrounding fort salva or in the tight barracks of marley that he’s sure no one else would notice, or he’d like to believe that. he wanted gabi. he wanted reiner and pieck. he wanted colt. he wanted his mother, he wanted mister erwin and miss cassandra but all he got was the empty distance between confinement, the biting cold of the pale green floors and the lonely physical comfort it offered when pressed gently against his swollen cheeks, leaving any hospital gauze clinging there soggy and wet from saliva, tears and stained by drainage. ]

[ falco hadn’t realized his cage was unlocked the next time he awakens, and neither does he think to immediately check. everything is always so dizzy when he comes to, with ripping agony where his maxilla should be— he fell asleep on his side and the pressure acting upon his new jaw had been searing. there’s only one other thing that immediately forces him react, and that was blurring movement coming from outside the cage. it’s instinctive and visceral: the disfigured boy quickly backs up into a corner of the cage and presses his back desperately into the bars behind him. he’s beyond afraid and can’t control how his lungs pull and expel, erratic and on the verge of panic, if not already panicking that something was coming for more of him— ]

[ it takes a while for falco to go back to school. in fact, for the remainder of the month, it’s safe to say he doesn’t. he stays home for the first few days back, resting for hours at a time in bed or couches around the house. he’s always seeking company and unwanting to stay alone if he’s awake to see it. until he was more confident to venture out, his home on 323 midwich street is where he can easily be found, and he’ll be rather glad for visits of all kinds.

a little more self assured, falco can be seen constantly loitering in active locations where people are always walking about left and right. he’s wrapped a scarf around the lower half of his face that can be easily overlooked because of the february nip and hides under a wooly beanie, so one might not even recognize him beyond the short locks of sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. the honeybees was a good place to browse. some hardy store clerks try to sell him toy rifles and g.i. joes that he silently averts from (he’s shot too many of those real ones, thanks). he’s more content in checking out the model airplanes and even has his eyes on a wham-o bird. counting the change he has in his pocket and finding the amount it actually costs takes a moment more than a native child— but once he’s sure he doesn’t have enough, he leaves the gargantuan box on the shelf and admires the invention’s vintage casing before ducking his head, almost disappointedly, and trekking slowly down the rest of the aisle. all the toys here are cool, but they’re way past his current budget, and it’s not like he’d throw a tantrum or even mildly ask his “parents” for it. back home, he didn’t even know what a toy was. seeing them around was more than enough satisfaction for him.

a trip to greene’s groceries or the smaller main street stores fits into his funds better, or just something to do and someplace new to go. he’s picked out a simple goodie from one of the vending machines, but wanders just a little farther into some aisles and . . . is that something beeping? the closer you get to the child, the louder the high pitched alarm seems to ring from underneath his clothes, even he’s looking for it now, um—

it’s starting to attract unwanted attention, especially when the clerk frowns at the child’s whereabouts: he’s more than likely wandered too close to the adult magazine sections, or unknowingly has prophylactic packages in his hand because it said rubber like his bouncy ball and the horse drawing on it was cool, cigarettes, suggestive movie posters— the list goes on. alternatively, the beeping goes off in the library just as falco gets his hands on some book he wanted to take. quickly wanting the beeping to cease before anyone dares to look, he hastily tosses either choice on the closest table. most of his face had been covered, but no hats indoors— he’s tomato red from ear to ear, pretending to be interested in a nearby comic book instead, one he’s flipping pages in too quickly to be reading. he wants to die. ]

( hmu at liberos if you’d like to plot something specific! )