#oops almost forgot

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isolation meant ash rarely saw, felt, or heard anyone. their interactions were short; one day he'd be guided to a test chamber, hooked up to strange machines by stranger wires and tubes, and they would ask him a few questions, and then he would be guided back and locked off.

another day, he would be guided to a different chamber, with cold grey concrete lining every surface-- and he would be asked to hit something, or do something else, over and over until he could barely stand.

or another day, he wouldn't be guided anywhere, he would be given a tray with something they called 'food' on it, and they would ask him more questions, and then that would be it.

through none of these are his pleas for a little bit more time to talk answered.

ash might pipe up with a meek voice and mumble and stutter his way through a few of his own questions, like how do you read the name on your nametag, or what's it like outside, which-- more often than not-- were met with nothing but disdain from the federation scientists.

he practiced that word a lot; 'federation'. it's one of the few he recognized and knew how to wrap his tongue around. they would teach him others, sure, sometimes, but never the things he actually wanted to know.

"how do you spell your name," he'd ask a scientist. they would clench their hand- in turn squeezing ash's, as a sign for him to be quiet. he always got it. he was good at getting their signs.

"how do you spell 'outside'?" he'd ask another. maybe he'd note a scientist opening their jaw behind a mask like they were about to answer, before a glare or a poke or something from another person shuts them down.

ash supposed scientists had to be good at getting signs, too.

one day, when he's sure his curiosity was reaching the end of its lifespan, he worked up the courage to ask one more question to whoever was handing him a meal.

"i wanna know how to spell...uhm..." he mutters, hesitating on the name(or, well, sound) he was trying to recall.

the larger hands of a scientist pause in handing him that tray. that was good, a voice in ash's mind chimes, because you might get an answer.

"...apple," he lands on. "i wanna know how to spell that. can you teach me? it won't be, uh, un...unnecessess..."

"unnecessary," the scientist says, properly handing him the tray. it's unclear if it was a correction or a statement, which makes ash's heart sink in his chest a tiny bit.

"here--" they follow up, hands sneaking back through that tiny slit it's handed through to slide him something else.

it's a small box with a juicy red apple on it. ash blinks at it, once or twice, and how small it looks in the scientist's hand; as if to test the waters, he runs his finger along the image of the apple.

maybe the scientist can sense his hesitation, so they emphasize their hand, properly displaying it as an offer. oh, ash thinks, taking it in his own hands. "what is this?"

"that's apple juice," the scientist explains. "do you see that first word? with that pointed letter."

ash can find it very easily. "it's the a in my name."

"that's how apple is spelt. 'a-p-p-l-e'."

"a-p-p-l-e," he parrots, "can i keep this?"

"can you hand me it back for a second?"

reluctantly, ash fits it through the tiny slit once more, listening to the sounds of something being impaled. it's handed back to him with a tiny cylinder stuck in the top.

"drink it," the scientist says. "it's yours."

the first thing he realizes about apple juice is that it tastes sweet. sweeter than water, nicer than water. is this what apples taste like?

the second thing he wonders, after thanking the scientist for giving him this in the first place, was what he could've done to make him deserve this.

scientists aren't supposed to be this nice. especially not the ones he's familiar with, the ones with the secret signals for him to be quiet, or the pokes and glares for others to not answer him. so why was this one...

"do you like it?" they ask.

thats actually all i wrote sorry. but while we're here,

As you can see im very normal about it