He was starving.

Not physically. Physically he was sound: seven feet tall, with toned muscles. He was handsome from a far, but when in person his appearance held a few oddities. His eyes were two different colors, one being blue and the other a vibrant magenta. His skin was a patch work of colors held together by visible stitches, and from his mouth emerged two pointed tusks.

He knew of geometry, and of art, and he could calculate the exact amount of force needed to crush a person’s skull; yet he didn’t know how he knew these things.

At the same time he could not remember things from before. Before the bright lights, and the orders, and the constant poking with needles. He could not remember the reason why the number 238 was tattooed on his chest or why everyone called him by it. Was it his name? Was he the 238th one created? He longed to ask, but knew that the Broca’s area of his brain was damaged. He hungered, but he knew not for what.

It changed when they appeared. They had been different. Up until then his life had simply been barked orders and cruel reprimands, but they- they were kind. They had originally tried to fight him, one with her Spellbook and the other with her bow. It had completely surprised him when the one who had previously been firing arrows at him suddenly stopped. She reached into her pocket and produced a flower, offering it to him.

He couldn’t remember being given anything before. He followed them, he fought for them, and they freed him from the sewers where he was held captive. On the surface, they found a way to restore his voice, and his first words were, “238... grateful.”

He had been starving, but now he felt satisfied. As it turns out, he was longing for friendship.