The drive was long—or perhaps it only felt long because Sticks stayed awake for the entirety of the trip, unlike his dad who passed out after delivering an hour-long thesis on why he was no smarter than a half-squashed ant by the windowsill. In the silence that ensued after his verbal beatdown, Sticks found his wet gaze wandering towards the ever changing scenery from the little barred window at the back of the van. It was a simple taste of luxury Sticks seldom got. Usually when he traveled with his father, he would be blindfolded and stuffed in the back of whatever crazy contraption his dad built for the day. Seeing green was a blessing.
The air that drifted inside was warm and humid, as was expected for the summer month. The trees whistled and, when they did, Sticks could catch a whiff of coconut and grass tickling his nose. The wide expanse of the road was barren, save for the tall billboard towers featuring Cricko-Burger advertisements amongst others. Tiny pockets of dilapidated homes made out of corrugated steel sheets, broken bark and logs peppered the rustic lands, and seemed jarringly misplaced next to the metropolitan, corporate billboards.
He sniffed, taking refuge from his misery in the sights set before him. He hated to admit it, but there was a tiny part of him that was somewhat happy to be captured (don't tell his father though). He never would have been able to take in this scenery otherwise. This was the first time he ever left Seaweed City, not that he got to see very much of it while he was there. And the first time of anything was always exciting. Also, from what he remembered from the maps he studied, the grand metropolis of Atlanticana was only an hour or two away from the Central Prison by car. He couldn't even imagine it! To be this close to the 'Greatest City in the World'—how exciting was that?!
Maybe if I did better...we wouldn't be caught. And maybe I could've visited the city for real... Wouldn't that have been amazing? To be able to stroll down Nejiji Street, renowned for their delectable street food that could satisfy the most insatiable of appetites, or visit the glass entertainment center that was Wakubi Springs...It all seemed like a dream to him.
The thought of what could've been, coupled with his indisputable failure made his heart pang against his ribcage.
He blew it.
Like he really blew it this time.
If there was ever a screw up that made Sticks feel smaller than dirt, it would be this one. Because this time, he and his father were actually going to prison. And it was all his fault. Of course it was – his father was never wrong. If he had just followed his instincts and warned him about the missing sidekick, things would have turned out so, so differently. The guilt and despair of this realization made him physically cringe. He felt sick. The shame squished his shoulders and made him curl underneath the barred window. He didn't deserve to enjoy the sights. If only he was better. He felt so useless—so much so that being alive next to his father felt like sin.
Despite all of his father's antics and shenanigans and schemes, they had never actually been arrested or caught before. They've come close, but his father always had some sort of trick or ace up his sleeve. The fact that he hadn't made a move yet after his lecture, meant that there was no secret, tricky escape coming. And that scared him.
But what scared him even more than that, was the certainty that he could be spending the rest of his life in prison. Well...maybe 'scared' wasn't exactly the right word per se. He was...confused? Anxious? To be frank, he had no idea what to expect. His father had taught him that there was no worse place a person could be, but at the same time Sticks had read in books and online that prison was a place for rehabilitation—a special place where people can get better and learn the errors of their ways...and that didn't sound so bad. So, which was it?
As curious as he was, Sticks didn't dare ask his father, because asking stupid questions was strictly forbidden, and he didn't want to go from being as dumb as a half-squashed ant to a fully squished one. He hoped prison was the latter and not the horrible hell his father described it as...
Hours passed and the air cooled. A fresh, forest minty-ness scraped past his throat with every breath he took. Sticks knew that they must be scaling into the twin pair of mountains that sandwiched the Central Prison, making it famously near impenetrable and unscalable. But Sticks was totally unaware of the sheer size of the place until he was thrown out of the van.
He landed on tarmac and was freed from the ropes that bound him and his father together. The night sky was a deep, purple velvety silk blanket that squashed the stars into tiny grains of crystal light. Sticks shivered, then gasped at the highest set of shiny, shimmering metal walls he had ever seen. The gate was solid metal, and looked like it had to pry itself open because of the sheer weight and thickness of it. After a grating minute, the gate was fully open, but before Sticks could take a single step, a thin strip of scratchy fabric suddenly went over his eyes.
"Oh—" He opened his mouth in surprise, but then another cloth went between his teeth before another peep escaped him.
He felt two pairs of strong hands twist his arms around his back and forced him onwards. He walked in scared silence, listening to the sound of rubber shoes on pavement, the chitter chatter of guards and officials, and the crank and creak of metal shifting and shuffling as doors opened and closed around him. A few minutes of walking and he began noticing a series of shouting in the background. A crude word thrown about here and there. The sound of someone shooting out a booger from their nose. Someone laughing in response. The smell of chemicals, like bleach and dish soap.
Okay...So far so good!
Then, without warning, he was forced to a stop. The pair of hands let go, but Sticks knew better than to try to run away or to fight. So, he stood still. Even through his blindfold, he could make out the shadow of something approaching him.
Suddenly, a cold ring of metal clasped against his neck. Whatever the metal ring was, it felt like it was made with a thousand tiny little teeth that poked and pressed against the meat of his neck. Sticks winced. Needless to say, it wasn't very comfy. Then the sharp sensation was gone, and the ring around his neck felt as smooth as a soda can. He felt an itch underneath the collar and slowly raised his hand to try to scratch his skin, but found that the metal was impossibly snug on his neck—skintight, but not uncomfortable, like a pair of socks on your feet.
A hand grabbed his wrist. Something hard slammed the back of his head.
"Stand still."
The force of the smack made Sticks gasp, "S-Sorry—!"
BAM . A second blow.
"Shut up."
Now, Sticks was no genius, but he was more than capable of picking up on subtlety. So, he sucked in his lips and kept silent.
He was still a little dizzy from the two strikes against his skull, so when he was shoved forward, he fell flat on his face like a plank of wood. He heard a snicker ("Look at this idiot"), before a strong pair of hands lifted him back up and forced him to walk. He walked and walked, wondering if it was the cold air or the fall that was starting to hurt his nose.
Then, just as suddenly as the blow to the back of his head, his blindfold and gag was ripped from him and he was thrown forwards. He landed on his stomach and face, gasping as he collided against the floor. He looked behind him and saw the guards standing behind a set of shiny, silver grille bars, the door sliding shut with a final clank.
He blinked.
Wait a second.
Where the heck did his father go?!
Sticks scrambled towards the retreating guards with newfound horror.
"D-Dad...?!"
The guards ignored him, because of course they did—why would they respond to him calling them his father? The horror of solitude kicked Sticks in the throat.
"Wait! Please wait!!" Sticks shook the bars, causing metal to rattle like a cymbal. "M-M-My dad? Is he okay—?!"
A book slammed from behind him, causing Sticks to flinch and snap around. That was when he realized that there were two beds in the cell. Actually, it was the first time he actually took a good look at his new room, if one could call it that. Despite the roof over their heads, Sticks was certain from the cold air that they were outdoors. The floor was stone, and right next to him was a set of prison clothes. Grey and thin. In front of him was a shaggy red carpet, a wooden bookshelf that stood in front of the bed that was currently occupied, and a curious glazed pot in the corner.
The person lying on the bed had short, messy black hair and had brownish-red eyes that almost seemed to glow under the shade of the cell. He looked like he was about the same age as Squid—a teenager. Though he was larger than Squid, almost twice his size even.
"Hey. Idiot." His voice had the rasp of a wolf that had been hungry for far too long. "Shut up. Before you get yourself in trouble."
Sticks could see that the person's eyes had narrowed into small, dangerous slits. Sharp. Like the tips of a twin pair of knives. Sticks gulped. This was the first person he had ever spoken to that wasn't his father, or Manta, or his dreaded sidekick. Yup, Sticks needed to get out more. Not that he could before. Or now.
"W-Who are you?"
Sticks had the strange, gnawing sensation that he must've said something incredibly stupid, as his new roommate gave him the look that suggested as such. It was the kind of look you'd give someone if they tried to buy clothes at a soup store or something. Without answering, his new companion flipped open his book again. Sticks had no idea how he was reading without any light. Maybe he had a night-vision xenos or something.
Swallowing saliva that felt like a bag of rocks, Sticks tapped his fingers together and lowered his head. He didn't know what to do, so he did what he always did when his father was angry at him and called him an idiot. He sat still.
That is until something clanged behind him, causing Sticks to whirl around again and look outside his jail cell. Sticking as much of his face through the iron bars as he could, he saw a pair of guards shove a small looking man into the cell directly across from him.
"D-Da—! Father!" He screamed, shaking the bars again, rattling them as though they were wind chimes.
The guards shifted, and then Sticks saw that the new prisoner wasn't his father at all. The man had a head the shape of a bell pepper, and Sticks was immediately embarrassed with himself that he confused someone so un-dad looking to be his father.
In the cell next to Bell-Pepper, a pair of mean looking eyes flashed at him. The eyes came from a shaggy looking teenager with knives for teeth.
"Tell him to SHUT UP, Tendril!" The teen snapped, baring all of his teeth to see.
A book slammed again, but this time Sticks felt the hard cover of it smack against the back of his head. He felt the collar of his shirt eat into the front of his neck as he was yanked away and thrown to the floor. He yelped, as Tendril loomed over him.
"Do you want to die? Or are you just that dense?"
"B-Bu-But—! M-my—?!" Sticks sputtered. That's when he heard it. The cell next to them started to shout. Soon it felt like the whole world was shouting at him.
"Put 'im out of his misery—!"
"Of course we get the crybaby—!"
"Little boy wants his daddy —!"
Tendril moved so suddenly, so blindingly fast, that Sticks flinched the moment their faces were mere inches away from each other. They were eye to eye, and Sticks was struck by the sheer luridness of his violent irises.
"Hear that?" He said, unmoving and unblinking. "You disturbed the sleep of some very nasty people. Not a good first impression if you want to live with them. Wanna die? Keep screaming."
Sticks certainly did not want to die. And...listening to the shrill voices that still haunted the air, Sticks could tell that this Tendril was not kidding. Even just from their voices, Sticks could tell that the other boys were of a different breed. They were dangerous, and would gladly rip his arm off if they had a chance.
And so Sticks nodded his head. He got the point. No more yelling. No more being a stupidhead (even if that's all he'd ever been). He remained perfectly still—waiting and wishing for this Tendril person to leave him be.
But Tendril did not leave. Not immediately. In contrast to his alarming speed from before, after a little while, Tendril stretched his legs and lifted himself off from his crouching position with a slow, deliberate motion. His eyes were still boring into Sticks's as he stood.
He blinked. Then turned away, finished with his assessment of his prey. He backed away deeper into the cell to be shrouded in the darkness, with only the shining puce of his eyes to indicate his presence. Like a panther, stalking under the cover of midnight.
Throughout the ordeal, Sticks did not move an inch. He did not move even until after Tendril went back to his bed. He was frozen in time and space until he was sure that Tendril's eyes were away from him and focusing on something else. Only then, did Sticks let himself breathe.
The pink boy curled up against the bars of his new cell, unaware that he was still being watched, even if Tendril had his eyes closed under the ruse of sleep. Sticks hugged his legs together and imagined that his arms belonged to his imaginary mother.
But that was stupid. Why wish for something that could never be? He would never know what it's like to be hugged by a mom. So he imagined his arms belonged to his father instead. And then realized with sudden clarity that he didn't know what that felt like either.