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Chapter Text

Admiral Biogenetic Engineering Laboratory [A.B.E.L]

8466 Palmer Road

Admiral, Indiana

He checked the sticky note, then the building, then the sticky note again. It was the right address, sure, but that did nothing to soothe the sense of wrongness deep in Fiddleford’s chest. He hadn’t applied for this job expecting something state-of-the-art, but certainly hadn’t expected this. The laboratory was windowless and small, its crusty brick walls in desperate need of a power wash. The front sidewalk was half-heartedly shoveled, snow flug onto the dead bushes that lined it. A light bulb flickered above the metal door, and the sign above it was faded. The whole thing screamed fishy… but for $18.95 an hour? Hell, he’d take it. 

Fiddleford pulled his jacket tight, locked his car, and hurried inside, 

It wasn’t much better past the welcome mat. Basic beige walls and fluorescent lights promised a boring nine-to-five, but the smell said otherwise. It was sharp and distinct, and he recognized it from his biology classes. Formaldehyde. Behind a wooden counter, a soft voice perked up. 

“Fiddleford McGucket, correct?” The woman smiled softly at him, thumbing through some papers. He brushed snow from his hair and cleared his throat. 

“Sure is. I’m here for the assistant researcher position. Got accepted in the mail a while back.”

The woman's smile grew, and she wrote something down quickly. “I like your accent,” she said, poorly mimicking his southern drawl, “You’re from Alabama, right?”

“Tennessee.”

“Tennessee,” she repeated, jotting down another note. She pressed a few buttons, said something into a radio, and looked back up at him. “So, what brought you to ABEL?” It took Fiddleford a moment to remember the acronym.

“I just got outta school, and I wanted a job away from home. Thought this one might suit me.” That was partially true. There were better options out there, but this one was the furthest from Tennessee. Plus, he could survive alone on the pay. Biology wasn’t his major, but he knew enough to make it through. It’d all work itself out, Fiddleford was sure of it. 

The woman nodded as a nearby door swung open. A man stepped out, dressed like a proper scientist. He stood tall, shoulders squared, his white coat spotless and smooth. He adjusted his glasses and held a firm hand out. His handshake felt calculated, practiced. He introduced himself- Dr. Julien Albright, head scientist at ABEL. 

His tour was quick and simple. There was shockingly little to see- a few specimens here, some petri dishes there. The whole place felt more like a showroom than a lab, with empty desks and tools collecting dust. Finally, Dr. Albright pulled him into the last room, motioning for him to sit at a table. Fiddleford’s eyes came to rest on the out-of-place steel door and keypad on the opposite wall. The doctor pulled a thick folder from a filing cabinet, setting it down in front of him

“Well, Mr. McGucket, I’ll have you rest your feet for a bit and sign some papers for me. The upper floor is for rudimentary tasks. The real tour begins downstairs.” That made significantly more sense. Fiddleford nodded, then flipped open the folder. 

He started at the top. Basic work forms- insurance, exemptions… nothing special. After the first few packets– and a bitter cup of coffee he happily accepted –things got more interesting. Extensive safety and liability forms. Animal research agreements. The final form stood out the most. Deep, thick letters lined the top- NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT. 

Fiddleford wasn’t an idiot. He had a lot left to learn, but he knew enough to know when something was suspicious. All of this was suspicious, from the strange appearance to the harsh scent. He glanced up at Dr Albright, his perfectly clean coat catching his attention once more. It all felt… fake. Plastic. Polished. For a moment, he wondered if he even wanted to see what was downstairs. 

And yet. 

It was this, or go back home. Live on the farm with a family who hated him- parents who wouldn’t use his real name, townsfolk who whispered and stared. Here, in the middle-of-nowhere Indiana, he was whoever he wanted to be. He’d say his name, and people would accept it. They didn’t look at him with the knowledge of who he used to be. 

Fiddleford took a deep breath and signed on the dotted line. 

Dr. Albright offered a tight-lipped smile, tucking the files away. He typed a long passcode into the keypad, and the door let out a soft click. It opened to reveal a long, sterile-white stairway. He motioned Fiddleford down it with a swoop of his hand, starting up in a soft but confident tone.

“You’ll learn rather quickly that ABEL is a unique laboratory.” He said. “All we do shares one goal: to improve humanity. We’ve been blessed with ground-breaking technology in biogenetics. We aim to equip this technology in the hands of the brightest minds- that includes you.” Fiddleford turned back, and Dr. Albright grinned. As they reached the end of the stairway, he took the lead down a series of twisting halls. “At the end of the day, we’re working for quality of life. We have the ability to alter genetics, so why not use that to our benefit?”

Fiddleford tried to remember what he’d learned about Biogenetic Engineering. As strange as this place felt, what the doctor said was fact. The goals were just as the textbooks had stated- alter genetics to prevent diseases and invent cures. Yet, there was something in the way he said it that felt cold.

Eventually, they entered a new room. This time, it was bustling with genuine, real people. They sat at tables in various coats and uniforms. Some were alone, faces buried in books. Others passed papers between each other and mumbled complicated terms. A few looked up and smiled at him.

“Our team is on break currently, but it’s nearly over. I’ll show you to your Project Lead. He’ll take you from here.” Dr. Albright said, waving to some staff. “If you have any issues, speak with Clara at the front desk, and she’ll get a hold of me.” He gave one last handshake as they arrived at a table, a few researchers looking up at them. “We’re happy to have you on the team, Mr. McGucket.

With the doctor walking away, Fiddleford finally felt like he could breathe. Not for long, though.

“Good morning!” Within seconds, another man was standing by him. He was a few inches shorter than Fiddleford, hunched over with age. His short hair fell in greying strands across his face, revealing bright, undoubtedly intelligent eyes. He patted him hard on the shoulder, and Fiddleford held back a wince. “I’m Dr. Harbinger, but most just call me Morris. You are Fiddleford, yes?”

He nodded, then gave his nickname. “Fidds.”

Morris ranted on for a bit about employees and new recruits. Fidds smiled awkwardly through it. Finally, he checked his watch and started walking with him in tow.

“They got you assigned to my Project, which is the best one.” His voice was gravelly, and he walked slowly. “The official name is “Avian Recombinant 606B. That’s too long, though.”

“Most of us just call him ‘Six’.”

Chapter Text

He tried not to think about it. Really, he tried. The post-surgery drugs always made his mind hard to control. All the memories felt so vivid, so terrifying. Again and again, he’d relive them, only to find more regrets. He didn’t want to think about it. God, it hurt to think about it.

But he couldn’t stop himself.

--------------------------------

Ford was twelve, it was early November. He was home sick again. His fever was worthy of a hospital stay, but the Pines Family never had Hospital Stay money. Ma was god-knows-where, and Stan was at school. Pa was kicking open his bedroom door.

“You been in that damn room for three days now,” Pa said, grabbing Ford by the arm and dragging him down the hall. His skin felt too hot and too cold all at once. His body ached. “All’s I’m askin’ is a few minutes. You can sit at a desk for a few minutes.” Pa led him downstairs to the pawnshop, pushing him into the chair behind the counter. Ford tried to mumble a protest, but he was quickly interrupted.

“I don’t wanna hear no bitching and moaning, your Ma does enough of that. I just gotta pick somethin’ up. You know how to work the register.” Pa had taught him ages ago. Someone had to take over when Ma was on a bender and Pa was at the clubs. Stan lost that job as soon as he stole from the cash drawer. So, like most things, that left Ford to do it. He’d always hated it- he wasn’t the customer service type- but now? He could barely hold his head up. The world felt muted and blurry, and his skull was throbbing. He tried to reach for Pa’s arm, but he’d already crossed the room.

“Pa-”

“If I hear a single customer complaint, you’ll go to bed without dinner. You hear me?” He looked back at Ford with his Serious Eyes. God, he hated his Serious eyes.

He nodded silently, and Pa was gone.

Ford wasn’t sure how long passed; his vision was too cloudy to read the clock. He tried to focus on the cool wood on the counter against his forehead. His stomach churned.

He wanted to go back to his room and nap, or draw in his sketchbook.

He wanted Stan to be here to yell at Pa.

He wanted Ma to brush his hair back and make him soup.

Instead, the was a man walking through the door.

He stood tall, a winter coat hugging his broad frame. Ford looked at him for a moment, then rested his head down again. He hoped the man would take the message and leave, but he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

And that’s where the regret started.

He should’ve known the second he saw the man. He should’ve run right then and there. There was something about the stranger that felt off. Even at twelve, Ford knew enough to recognize a threat. And yet, he sat in silence as he walked around the store, waiting until he approached the counter.

“Hey kiddo. You run this place?”

He should’ve told the man Pa was around the corner. He’d thought a thousand times how things could’ve gone differently. That never changed what happened, though.

“Ma and Pa do. They’re not here.” His voice felt raw and weak.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to ask you for help then.” The man said, a smile spreading across his face. Ford felt nothing. No fear, no anticipation… nothing. “I’ve got a table in my truck to sell, but I’m gonna need some help getting it out. You seem like a strong kid, you wanna help me?”

No. “Ok.”

It was an obvious trick. A stupid one, even. But between the fever and the pills, it never truly clicked. His thought process was childish. Simple. He wanted supper, and he needed a happy customer, so he’d help. It would only take a second.

14 years later, and he could still remember the sickly sweet smell of the chloroform. The feeling of sliding around the cold metal trunk. The panic numbed with sickness.

No matter how hard he’d tried to forget it, he never stopped remembering. Regretting.

--------------------------------

There were a few soft beeps, and his door opened. Ford sat still on the edge of the bed, watching as Morris rolled in the medical cart. He wished it were one of the assistants instead. They were always more gentle. Some of them even used his name.

“Good morning, Six.”

“Morris.” Ford's throat still ached from his recent intubation. He pulled down the collar of his shirt to offer up his chest port. Sitting down beside him, Morris wiped down the area, then began the thorough rotation of injections. Ford counted them in his head. There were three extras today.

“How are you feeling post-operation?” The doctor asked.

“Feels like the others. So normal, I guess.” Ford said. Morris made a note on his clipboard, then finished cleaning off the port. He motioned for Ford to turn around, hands pressing in a calculated manner down his shoulder blades. They moved up, then across.

“And your wings? Any pain?”

“Nothing abnormal.”

“Good.” Morris examined the newest scar, disinfecting the stitches and re-applying gauze. Ford tried to ignore the uncomfortable sensation of feathers being pressed down. He finished and took a few more notes, then began walking the perimeter of Ford’s room. He looked curiously at the latest drawings hung on the walls, making small remarks about anatomy and bone structure. He thumbed through the newest books on his shelf. He leaned down at Ford’s desk, opening each drawer and sorting through the various trinkets and supplies inside. Finally, Morris settled in front of the glass wall, watching Ford’s reflection.

For a number of years, his reflection felt alien, like something that wasn’t his own. He grew used to it, eventually. The wider shoulders. The gaps in his ribs. The tawny wings that spanned seven feet on either side of him.

“We have a new hire,” Morris said, back turned as he fidgeted with his watch. “He’s coming in later today.”

“What’s his position?”

“Assistant. Sonya was fired after she gave you that extra morphine dose.” His voice went cold, and he glared over his shoulder. Ford looked at the floor. He’d liked Sonya. She was one of the nice ones.

“If I were you,” Morris continued, “I would clean my room before he arrived. Show him you’re civil.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

“Yes, doctor. I will.”

“I’m happy to hear that.” He moved, grabbing the medical cart and heading towards the door. He gave Ford one final look.

“Oh, and Six?

“Yes, Morris?”

“Don’t embarrass me or yourself.”

With that, the door swung closed. It locked with a sharp click.

Chapter Text

Fiddleford wasn’t stupid.

He knew this place was fucked up. He knew he should turn around and call the police.

But hell if he wasn’t curious.

Every room Morris brought him to only felt more mysterious, and this “Six” he kept bringing up was beyond interesting. “Avian Recominant.” Some sort of bird mix, then. As they walked down a hall of empty cells with glass walls, he couldn't help but wonder what sort of mix it was. It had to be medium-sized, based on the size of the cells. A bird mixed with a large dog, maybe? Or a primate of some sort? Each cell was abandoned, some holding dusty furniture and equipment while others were empty. At the end, a guard paced below a flickering fluorescent light.

“That’s Omar,” Morris said as they slowly approached. “We don’t require a guard daily, but we like to have one present during staff changes.” Omar smiled briefly and continued pacing. Fidds followed until, finally, they reached the final cell.

“…and here’s the passion project.” Morris proudly stated.

Oh.

Oh god.

A man. A human man.

He looked strong, but not healthy, like thick cords of muscle wrapped around skinny bone. He was shirtless, revealing the scars littering his body. His shoulders were tense. His tired eyes stared forward over his glasses.

And then there were the wings. Even tucked at his sides, they were huge. Speckled in browns and whites, feathers rumpled and twisted. One was wrapped tightly in bandages near the end. Fiddleford tried to take it all in, all while the man kept staring. He didn’t move, didn’t falter. He just sat on the edge of his bed, watching Fidds through the glass.

In a desperate attempt to break eye contact, he looked around the cell. The lights were cold and sterile. Posters covered the walls. A desk sat in front of the glass, stacked with books and papers. A reddish-brown carpet covered part of the floor. There was a blanket taped to the wall in the corner, barely hiding a small toilet.

“We’ve allowed him to decorate.” Morris suddenly broke the silence, and Fiddleford jumped. The doctor smiled, hands clasped behind his back. “So long as he cooperates, he deserves to be comfortable.”

Fiddleford couldn’t hold himself back anymore.

“I- Doctor, that’s a human-”

“He’s a recombinant. It’s true he’s partially human, but not fully. It’s important to remember that.” Fidds said nothing, and Morris started up once again. “Six represents the endless possibilities of genetics. He opens doors to the future of humanity.”

Fiddleford swallowed. The pit that had formed in his stomach that morning only grew. A human. A human being locked away in a laboratory. It was cruel to a point that it almost seemed fake, like something he’d read in a comic book. It took everything in him not to turn and run, but there was something in Six’s eyes that forced him to stay. Either way, Fidds couldn’t deny he was curious.

“Does he- uh, does he think like a human?” He prayed the answer was no. This would all be so much easier if he said no. Instead, Morris simply opened a closet on the adjacent wall, pulled out a bag of equipment, and turned.

“Why don’t you come meet him, Mr. McGucket?”

Shit.

Morris placed the bag down on a metal cart. He typed a few numbers into a keypad on the wall, and the door clicked. When he opened it, Fidds was hit with the smell of antiseptic. The room was cold. Soft classical music played from a transistor radio on the desk. The two stepped inside, and Six shifted to face them.

Morris watched as Fiddleford stayed in the doorway. “Don’t worry, he’s rarely violent.” He assured, moving closer to the bed. Fidds let the door fall shut, but kept his distance. Morris had no hesitation as he stood beside Six. He tugged gently at his uninjured wing, and it fell open. His eyes were drawn to it immediately. There was no denying it was beautiful. Six’s gaze shifted, and he stared at the floor.

“His wings come from Lanner Falcon DNA,” Morris said. “We grew the tissue on a scaffold to fit his size. They’ve turned out remarkably, but they’re quite fragile. He broke his left wing last week in a flight test, hence the bandages.” Fidds nodded as Morris began laying out syringes on the cart. He wiped briefly at Six’s chest with an alcohol swab. “He receives medication twice a day through his port. That’ll be your job as an assistant. Here, try it.” Morris held out one of the syringes, and he stepped forward. He took it with shaking hands. He’d taken classes on medication administration. He knew what he was doing. It all felt wrong, though.

“What d’ya give him? What’s all in this?” Fiddleford found himself asking, hands hovering over Six’s chest. Six didn’t move, didn’t even seem to hear him.

“Two immunosuppressants, an antipsychotic, some nutrients, and morphine.” He said matter-of-factly. “If you want the specifics, the list is in the closet. Now, go ahead.” Fidds took a breath, removed the cap from the needle, and pressed it through his skin. He repeated the process down the line of needles, watching closely for a reaction that never came. Maybe they’d wiped Six’s mind, somehow. Maybe he couldn’t think or feel. Why else would he be so silent about all this? No, Fiddleford decided, his brain must’ve been altered. The idea brought him an odd sense of ease.

That was, until he spoke.

“I’ve never met someone from the south before.”

His voice was low and a bit scratchy. It sounded… god, he sounded real. He sounded like a person, a person who could understand. Fidds pulled back right away, watching in silence. Morris smiled.

“You are southern, right? Is that the right accent?” Six asked.

“I-” Fiddleford stumbled over his words. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. Raised in Tennessee.”

“Neat.”

For a moment, Fidds did nothing. He could feel his heartbeat, his pulse rushing through his veins. Morris stood, placing the syringes back in the bag and patting Six on the shoulder. “You two will have plenty of time to talk. We’ll leave him be for the evening. He gets roudy without his beauty sleep.” He said lightly, grinning back at Six as he ushered Fiddleford out of the room. He slid the cart back beside the closet and started back down the hallway. “Come with me, I have a bit more information to give you.”

Just before he left, Fidds looked through the glass. Six still sat on the bed, looking up at him.

Fiddleford wasn’t stupid.

This place was worse than he could’ve ever imagined. But if he left now, he’d be leaving a man to suffer.

He gave Six a brief nod and followed Morris.

Chapter Text

When he was 14, Six asked Door Man for his first book.

Door Man was an asshole—nothing like Omar. Six liked Omar; he was nice. He never even learned Door Man’s name, only knew that he spent 16 hours a day watching him.

He’d gotten out of a surgery, a double rotator cuff repair. His shoulders ached, and his feeding tube itched in his nose. He’d just woken up from a dream about home. Everything felt fuzzy. He wanted his brother so bad, and as much as he tried to repress it, that feeling never dimmed. Instead of focusing on that, though, Six stumbled across the room and pounded on the door. The food hatch flipped open.

“What do you want?”

“A distraction.” Six said. He knew he’d probably get in trouble for this, but he didn’t have in him to care anymore. “Anything. A book, maybe.”

Door Man just laughed.

Six was mad. He was so fucking mad all the time. So, like he very often did these days, he let the Door Man know. He screamed until his throat went raw. He slammed his fists again the door until they bled, and he felt his stitches rip. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care anymore. He’d die here anyway. Eventually, there was another face at the hatch. Morris. Six called him every insult he could remember, and then some. Once the blood loss slowed him down, he fell back against the glass wall. Morris entered his cell holding a medical bag.

Six waited for a shouting match, or maybe just a solid kick in the ribs. It never came. Instead, Morris crouched down beside him. He wiped a cloth down his back and between his wings in silence. He carefully stitched the incisions back together, wrapping them neatly in bandages. Morris stood and cleaned the blood smears from the glass.

“Six,” he said quietly, almost sympathetically.

“Morris.” Six whispered back.

“What led to this?”

“Door man won’t give me a book.” He said it coldly, all emotion torn out of him. He felt like that a lot lately.

Morris clicked his tongue. “Is that so?” He thought for a moment. “I don’t see why you can’t have one, if you learn to control yourself, that is. You’ll get more infections at this rate.”

“I don’t care.”

“Then no book.”

Six spent the next two weeks lying in bed. He faced the wall and never spoke. He lost himself in daydreams and voids. Until one morning, “The Wonderful World of Mathematics” by Lancelot Hogben was slid wordlessly through the hatch.

He’d read daily since then. More often than not, it was the same book over and over. On the rare chance that he got a new one, he’d breeze through it. Even years later, with his desk, art supplies, and radio all available, reading was still his favorite pastime. So, naturally, he was buried in pages when Tennessee Guy walked in.

Six looked up briefly, then shut his book. He pulled his shirt down and sat up straight. He was still getting a feel for Tennessee guy. He didn’t seem bad, but there was no sign he was good yet either. Now that he was here without Morris, the real investigation could begin. Six didn’t say the first word. He never did. He simply sat and waited as he received his injection.

Finally, Tennessee Guy broke the silence.

“So… what’re you readin’?”

Six smiled a bit. Good start. “It’s a long one,” he said, sliding it across the bed towards Tennessee Guy. “Euclid’s Elements of Geometry.”

“Oh! I studied that a bit myself. It’s complicated, but fascinating!” He picked up the book and opened it to the first page. He stopped, looking for a moment at the front cover. He glanced between the book and Six.

“Is this your name?”

Oh. Usually, it took a few weeks to get around to names. Not that there were rules to it, really. Six just hated breaking the routine. It was too late at this point, though, and so far, this guy seemed like one of the Good Ones.

“Uh, yeah. That is my name.”

“… Do you want me to use it?”

No one had ever asked him that before. “Sure.”

“Well then,” Tennessee Man cleared his throat. “How are you feeling today, Stanford?”

He bristled a bit. “Just Ford is fine. I’m doing ok.”

“How is your injury feeling?” He asked it while looking down at a clipboard, clearly reading off a questionnaire. Morris always gave the new assistants one.

“Sore.” Ford wanted to leave it there, but something about Tennessee Guy invited him to open up. “The morphine will kick in soon enough, so I’ll be alright.” He nodded, then made a mark on the paper. Something strained in the back of Ford’s mind, and it took him a moment to realize what his response should’ve been. He mustered up a normal-human-conversation voice.
“Do you have a name?” Ford asked. The wording felt wrong. He felt stupid.

Tennessee Guy smiled, giggling a bit. It sounded like sunlight. “Fiddleford. You can call me Fidds, though.”

Fidds. Intresting name. Maybe it was common in Tennessee these days, Ford had no way of knowing. He shifted and picked at his feathers. God, he dreaded meeting new people. It was always so awkward.

“Shit-” Fidds suddenly said under his breath. “One second, I almost forgot to give you this one.” He turned to the medical cart and picked up a small syringe. It was a brownish-clear color, and Ford immediately recognized it as his antipsychotic. “That could’ve been bad,” Fidd’s laughed, quickly going quiet. He looked to Ford as he realized the implications of what he’d said.

Ford pulled his shirt back down to allow access to his port. “It’s not that major,” he said softly as Fidds went through his process. “Like Morris said, I’m not violent. It’s mostly to keep me sane.”

Fidds let out a relieved sigh. “Good to know. You definitely don’t seem violent. You seem… nice.” He packed up his bag and started towards the door.

Ford was 15. All he saw was red. His hands ached, but he didn’t let go. He squeezed and squeezed until the body below him stilled. He was angry. He was numb. There was blood under his fingernails. None of it mattered. Leaning down, he finally got his first good look at Door Man’s face-

“Thanks,” Ford replied. “You seem nice too.”