#alsooo i just posted slme sketches of him :3

[selfspinninglies]

He needs to be socialized so ueah. Idk how helpful he would be at dissecting things bc he is good at it but he gets really sad about it after

Just gonna post what i have of that wip now uh keep in mind this is probably really rough its almost 12:30am when i post this

cws/tws: blood, dissection (not detailed at all), messing with dead bodies, mild body horror, a really breif mention of vomiting, implied kidnapping/murder[?], not technically cannibalism but a part of a person is eaten on accident

Sawyer had always been a meticulous person.

They had always picked up small details. Some insignificant (at least in those moments, they argued that anything could become relevant later), and some more integral parts of people that were hidden deep inside that could be easily prodded out with a bit of observation. People were like a collection of items, splayed across a table and hidden in boxes, locked with the key thrown somewhere in the scatter.

They had always enjoyed picking apart those items. Analyzing the catalogue and dissasembing the bits and pieces, bloody hands tearing away at all of the layers that humanity had to offer with clumsy hands. Digits that did not belong there.

Occasionally, things would break, pried apart too harshly and snapped into small bits that offered more insight. A puzzle piece framed in viscera, prying eyes privy to the secret of something ugly under sheets, akin to a disfigured body in a casket. The illusion of something unproven.

They often envisioned themself as that body, that puzzle piece, the barely concealing sheet over something unseen, something that should never be seen. A sheet that was stitched on, a casket locked tight with the key thrown away. Because there was something underneath that was far too much.

If they were ever scrutinized and dissected in the way that they did to others, if their items were to be ripped apart and studied, nothing would be found, because the items are all artificial, planted there to decieve and mislead. There were no puzzle pieces because the puzzle had been completed with neat, steady, clean hands and smile, presented politely.

An uncanny babble of the correct words would pass their lips, and that would be the end of Sawyer's case file.

If the layers were to be peeled back, locks forcibly removed, threads undone, there would still be nothing. Because underneath that were more layers, locks, and stitches, shoddily thrown together defenses to hide things that they had long forgotten.

Wounds had always bled, had always left trails, and eventually someone would smell the metallic tinge in the air.

When they were younger they had quickly realized that something was wrong with them. Or perhaps it wasn't wrong, just strange and unheard of. But in human society that was essentially the same thing.

Their body had properties that others did not. It melted and cracked like it was poorly constructed, extra eyes sat underneath their larger ones (though always closed and brushed off as a strange birthmark), and in the middle of their neck, an extra mouth streched itself out, containing inanely sharp teeth (that were always covered with something resembling a bandage).

They had also discovered that they could survive far more than regular humans should be able to. Though, they should probably rephrase, as there was no explanation for them being human and having these properties.

Many terrible accidents had peppered their childhood which they realistically would have died from. They didn't remember the details, the only remnants of it were distant feelings of tears and the sound of something desperately human wrenching out of them.

They had been more careful, and after then the shell started growing, clamped around them, a poorly fitted mold to be contorted in the shape of. An odd facsimilie, crafted with nothing but apathy and necessity.

Despite all of their efforts, they had been found out, assumedly.

That was the first conclusion that they reached when they woke up in an abandoned warehouse of some sort.

There was no evidence of anything. The items had been taken, there was no casket to speculate, their eyes had been covered (non literally). Whose hands were over their face this time?

They stood up rather quickly, head aching at the action. Sedative affects? Or just regular head pain?

The first and second realizations came fast and hard, a cruel derail of their current train of thought:

One, the place smelled of blood, to the point where they could taste it if they breathed. It was all over them, too, but it wasn't clear if it was theirs or what the source of it was.

Two, the one that really punched them in the face: they did not remember coming here. Or where here was. Everything before here was muddled, like their head had been drowned in molasses. Everything felt heavy. The world was shown through blurry, tinted glass that they could not yet decipher the colors of.

Both were terrifying revelations, yet they felt slightly calm. There were items to pick at. A puzzle to be solved.

.

.

.

Those items had turned out to be the source of the smell.

There were people, ones who's faces envoked some sort of vague memory in Sawyer, though they didn't remember anything outside of that. They were likely strangers that they'd passed by, nameless, meaningless faces. At least, that's what they hoped for, to justify the inevitable.

At first, they searched their clothes, the three of them all had nothing of value.

They exhaled.

Whoever put them here had seemed to know them all too well, because on an adjacent table, there was a strangely clean knife. They gripped it tightly, ridgid stance and uncomfortable hands

They did what they did best and dissected.

.

.

After the work, they had found two keys and a tag with an address on it embedded. As expected, whoever dumped them here had wanted this.

They sat down, accidently leaning against one of the vessels. They didn't pay it much mind to it, they were already disgusting and the thing was dead anyway, so it didn't matter. A distant thought came. It probably didn't want them to do this.

Slowly, they picked themself up and hugged the thing. Arms loosely draped around the vessel, head resting on its shoulder. A small, uncharacteristically honest whisper worked its way out of their mouth, oddly gentle despite what they had just done.

"Sorry. I had to."

They flinched at their own words. They did not deserve the grace of giving apologies. Their hands had moved with practice, devoid of remorse. It was clear from that action that regret of this strain was not in their nature. They had been given claws to tear and teeth to bite for a reason.

So they did the next logical thing and continued to hurt.

They bit down hard on the shoulder they rested on. It tasted like metal, and felt absolutely horrid going down. They had accidentally taken a chunk off.

Immediatley an intense wave of guilt crashed over them. They didn't know why, it was just deduced that they were not meant for this. Something had nested inside of them that was painfully human and foreign: grief.

Grief for someone they did not know and would never know. Grief for what had been done to its- their body.

Their eyes burned, water pricking at the edges and blurring their vision. Why? The question was repeated in their head so many times, yet there was no answer.

They shuffled closer to the corpse, now leaning directly against the exposed organs, and lay there, sobbing and whispering in the dingy space. Blood and tears mixed into something ugly that stained them on the surface and the inside. Remnants of this incident would ve there in memory.

They peeked over the shoulder after a bit, the same shoulder that they had torn into, with a gaze akin to that of an anxious child peeking over their parent's shoulder, unsure and afraid. So very afraid. Fear had also invaded them, trickling into their veins in an unpleasant manner.

They felt awfully ugly in that moment. Viscerally aware of how their body felt. Cracking and melting. Defective in some odd way. Vomit rose and fell, never actually escaping.

It had taken an uncomfortable amount of time for them to get up and collect themself.

They took the unlabeled key and unlocked the door, stepping out into uncaring winds that made them aware of how blood-sticky they were.

Despite all of their usual planning, after locking the door, they walked, unthinking. Aimless. A part of their mind nagged at them to find out where they were, get new clothes, and go to that address, but most of it was focused on what had transpired in the warehouse.

This would be another layer, a separate casket where three bodies lay, dissected like a high school biology project, another door behind lock and key. This was standard. It was fine.

The only thing that was truly in Sawyer's nature was lying.

They never dared to look those people in the eye.