@evilstalks web has been woven from here.
ALBERT'S BROWS RAISE IN CONFUSION. "MM-31? That is just a few letters and numbers, not a name!" he says, nose crinkling, "what is your name? Do they just call you that?" He is woefully unaware of his own designation as No. 13 somewhere in the Spencer Foundation's secret files. How in lieu of his birth name - or the name he had at birth, before it was changed - he is just a number in a catalogue of other Project W test subjects.
The child settles slightly and makes sure to cover MM-31 with the baby blue blanket further, tucking him in a little, and he rests also on the bed. From a bag attached to his side, he pulls out a book, and lays it upon his lap. The cover is glossy, new.
He'd earned the book through various achievements. One of the very achievements he'd used to get in there. Lockpicking was a skill that no four year old should know, and yet, little Alby, with his sharp wits and nimble fingers, had taken to learning the skill like a hot knife seared through butter.
The Fellowship of the Ring's pages have the new book smell to them, that crisp scent that makes Alby almost feel like he could feel the warmth of the printing press tenderly stabbing ink into the blank pages to form words that spark the imagination. Like lockpicking, the child should not be reading The Fellowship of the Ring, and he also should not be breaking into random cells.
But Alby decides what he wants to do, even if the people at his orphanage are strict with him. And Alby has decided that he wants to befriend this strange fellow in the white room.
"Do you want to be my friend? You look like you need one, MM."