Chapter Text
It started like any other day in the compound, 0087, written on the back of his hospital gown, was lead from his cell, large shackles on his gigantic hands, as if it would make his huge lion claws any less deadly, his heavy gut bouncing slightly with every step of his huge, dark brown fur covered boar like legs, the fur of his thick, equally brown, mane bouncing up to brush his cheeks, long silver billy goat goatee tickling against the brown fur. His angry, almost yellow, light brown goats eye narrowing as his black eyebrow furrowed in frustration, white, round medical eye patch over his left eye, leaving him half blinded, he huffs low and loud through his thick lips, air rushing past his small, dulled tusks. His large, slightly paler brown, lion's tail flicking with boredom and annoyance as the endless, bland, hall goes on and on, until finally they reach those familiar double doors.
His large hands are unshackled, and he flexes his fingers to get blood back into them, turning them over, so the brownish, redish, tanish pads of on his finger tips and palms are facing up as they inspect his hands for contraband. Once satisfied he’s not carrying anything deadly (minus what his physical form itself holds) they push the doors open, and motion him inside. As far as 0087 is concerned, this room was a sorry excuse for a canteen, extremely small with the bare minimum amount of seating, and the food tasted like shit, half the time he wasn’t even sure any of it was proper food. But, at least here he had the respect of his fellow “mutants”, as they were referred to. Humans and animals all at the same time, in here this group knew him as he was. A lion looking over his pride, a king who demands the sea of bodies be parted for his passage, who none would dare defy. He walks through the crowned, people scrambling to remove themselves from his path, after retrieving his breakfast of the day, he sits himself down at the table furthest from the door, and eats.
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0023 was referred to as, often times, a failure. From the much earlier days of the experiment, there were many issues in creating there so much wanted hybrids. 0027 was a mess of a man, a DIY scrap art piece of genetics. His rat arm, from about a few inches below the elbow and on, was currently and orange colored chameleon claw, he right leg a black bird foot with three two, two in the front, though one was missing, and the third in the back, he had long, twitchy ears, untrusting, darting amber snake eyes, sharp rat like teeth poking from under his upper lip, and the hair on his head was flat down, stiff, as the follicles of hair were more like porcupine quills. He had shackles on his skinny wrists as he was practically dragged down the hall, his nose twitching as he smelt the familiar scent of the canteen growing closer. At the door, he happily opened his palm, hopped around a bit so they could inspect his gigantic bird foot, and happily hopped into the lunch hall.
Many times has 0023 been moved and rescheduled, mostly for his safety, as his most prominent features were mostly prey, and the more feral of his peers often took this to his advantage and attacked him, and though he may have some abilities of a chameleon, it’s rather hard to hide with the polka dotted hospital gown with his very number written on it. But, he managed to fend for himself this long, so he must be doing something write. He makes a few happy mumbles to himself as he hobbles inside, more than eager to retrieve his meal. He scans the area for a while, deciding where to sit, before eventually deciding that rather big, hairy bloke looks like he could use some company.
He smiles and sits himself down, smiling up at the big guy, who’s stopped eating to stare at him, that bright gotas eyes watching him closely. Maybe if 0023 was more observant he’d note the tusked man was rather unpleased with his presence, but alas he is not always the most aware of people. He happily offers his normal hand, smiling wide enough to show his disgusting rat teeth, and gladly leaps into a greeting “ ‘Ello there! S’ nice to meet you big guy, numbers 0023-”
“The fock do you think yer doing?” he snarls out, pulling his lips back to show he had a good pair of sharp chompers to go along with those tusks. The smaller of the two chuckles nervously, “Whot do ye mean? I’m bein’ friendly, mate!” he can already feel the quills on his head rising with anxiety. The larger man’s hand shoots out and, as if he were nothing, lifts him by the back of his gown, like a lioness would lift her cub by the scruff, and holds him a good distance from his face, rumbling out deep and low. “You listen here runt, ain’t nobody sit with me unless I tell them too, ain’t nobody talk to me, unless I tell them too, got it?”
0023 nods frantically, wide eyed and quills quickly raising higher, and the instant that large hand goes to drop him he knows he’s fucked, because his chameleon claw shoots up and grips on for dear life at one of those massively, terrifyingly clawed fingers, hoisting himself up to latch his bird foot into that arm, realizing too soon this talons have dug in.
It’s simple to say what follows is by far the most dangerous fight 0023 has ever found himself in, dashing under tables, through legs, and screeching bloody murder as he’s chased round and round the canteen, objects of all sorts and sizes being thrown at him, his quills standing up tall as he climbs over his obstacles. When he is caught, and with his bad limp due to his missing toes (seeing as he’s missing some on his other foot as well) it was inevitable, his capture soon regretted it as his hand went down to grab him by the hair only to get a hand full of quills.
Both ended up in the compounds medical bay, 0023 covered in bruises and sporting a fairly well sized gash from one of those massive claws, and 0087 having quills painstakingly plucked from his gigantic palm, glaring at the runt with his one, cold eyes the entire time.