Caution.
He doesn't know what he is.
He sleeps, mostly, but it's always there when he wakes up. Not human is a starting point, of course. He can handle that one if he thinks about it clinically, but trying to think the phrase I am not human is jarring.
And then there's the way part of him is simply adjusting, like this is the most natural thing in the world. The way he catalogues and breaks down scents and recognises the smallest ones again, that's a concern. It's somewhat mitigated by the relief triggered when he wakes up and Ryan's moving in a more recognisable slow motion instead of the horrific crawl he originally was. He can't speak as well anymore, like he's out of sync with his facial muscles now, but being able to interact at all, look at him again without a faint twinge of revulsion, is worth it. And he can move his fingers, although he can barely feel his hands and he sends both Ryan and Suzi out of the room when he eats and cleans up as best he can before letting them back.
He doesn't cry. At first he's comfortably numb with relief and shock, and then he's controlled. He almost feels like it, until he remembers how he almost lost his temper after he first woke up. He feels too strongly again; that's very wrong, although he's comforted in a way by the. . . humanity. . . of the weakness.
The first time he gets up, he can't get dressed; cloth is tissue paper. He ends up wearing the sheet like a toga. He goes to find a bathroom, he sees himself in the mirror--
--the first time he loses his temper breaks him straight out of the idea that this new touch with his emotions is human at all. When the red recedes, he's panting, a shard of the ceramic sink punched through the tile, a torn faucet in his hand, the walls shattered around him. He listens to the sound of his breathing as he fights to even it out, until the rasping sound dies away and distant singing begins. Then he dully watches the Oompa Loompas appear and begin repairs. His head's clearer afterwards, his mood better, as though nothing's more fun than an animalistic rage. He's left deeply disturbed, determined to get back his former control--but he has to admit, he never did have perfect control over his violent tendencies.
After that, he just goes still when Ryan or Suzi touches him, trying not to think of what he could do if he were to shove them away before he realized he'd begun the movement. Suzi merely points out he can't hurt her unless he damages a lateral. Ryan might be more cautious, but he's actually harder to read now; he always stops and looks at him the first time he enters the room, startled at the changed scent. Sometimes there's still a minor double take when they make eye contact. Deitmar ignores it as best he can. They'll all just have to learn.
On the fourth morning, when he accidentally takes off the welded armrest: I'll just have to learn.
Later that day, when he wakes up and realizes he was dreaming about the guard killed by the chimeras, and instead of the old dull, lingering horror he just feels utter peace, I'll have to learn.
He wants to talk to humans, more of them, wants to learn how to blend in. Everything positive happened because he let himself get close.
Because whatever he picked up, and while he's fully aware of his fortune in coming back at all, much less fully coherent and with no apparent mental deficit. . . he picked it up from a place that turned people into complete monsters.
Nobody knows what he is.
He sleeps, mostly, but it's always there when he wakes up. Not human is a starting point, of course. He can handle that one if he thinks about it clinically, but trying to think the phrase I am not human is jarring.
And then there's the way part of him is simply adjusting, like this is the most natural thing in the world. The way he catalogues and breaks down scents and recognises the smallest ones again, that's a concern. It's somewhat mitigated by the relief triggered when he wakes up and Ryan's moving in a more recognisable slow motion instead of the horrific crawl he originally was. He can't speak as well anymore, like he's out of sync with his facial muscles now, but being able to interact at all, look at him again without a faint twinge of revulsion, is worth it. And he can move his fingers, although he can barely feel his hands and he sends both Ryan and Suzi out of the room when he eats and cleans up as best he can before letting them back.
He doesn't cry. At first he's comfortably numb with relief and shock, and then he's controlled. He almost feels like it, until he remembers how he almost lost his temper after he first woke up. He feels too strongly again; that's very wrong, although he's comforted in a way by the. . . humanity. . . of the weakness.
The first time he gets up, he can't get dressed; cloth is tissue paper. He ends up wearing the sheet like a toga. He goes to find a bathroom, he sees himself in the mirror--
--the first time he loses his temper breaks him straight out of the idea that this new touch with his emotions is human at all. When the red recedes, he's panting, a shard of the ceramic sink punched through the tile, a torn faucet in his hand, the walls shattered around him. He listens to the sound of his breathing as he fights to even it out, until the rasping sound dies away and distant singing begins. Then he dully watches the Oompa Loompas appear and begin repairs. His head's clearer afterwards, his mood better, as though nothing's more fun than an animalistic rage. He's left deeply disturbed, determined to get back his former control--but he has to admit, he never did have perfect control over his violent tendencies.
After that, he just goes still when Ryan or Suzi touches him, trying not to think of what he could do if he were to shove them away before he realized he'd begun the movement. Suzi merely points out he can't hurt her unless he damages a lateral. Ryan might be more cautious, but he's actually harder to read now; he always stops and looks at him the first time he enters the room, startled at the changed scent. Sometimes there's still a minor double take when they make eye contact. Deitmar ignores it as best he can. They'll all just have to learn.
On the fourth morning, when he accidentally takes off the welded armrest: I'll just have to learn.
Later that day, when he wakes up and realizes he was dreaming about the guard killed by the chimeras, and instead of the old dull, lingering horror he just feels utter peace, I'll have to learn.
He wants to talk to humans, more of them, wants to learn how to blend in. Everything positive happened because he let himself get close.
Because whatever he picked up, and while he's fully aware of his fortune in coming back at all, much less fully coherent and with no apparent mental deficit. . . he picked it up from a place that turned people into complete monsters.
Nobody knows what he is.