a shrill cry and he coils around a tiny form- a human child- he doesn't know how he knows- light hair and eyes blue and watering, pointed nails and blunt teeth pressing down on him as he pulls the child closer- a high pitched snarl-like cry and red spilled across the snow.
Pale skin painted and stretched over foreign limbs that he doesn't know how to move correctly, an ill-fitting body and no time to correct his mistakes as screams and shouts from the child's parents outside the door, red hot fire and he's running- scrambling with all four gangly limbs out back into the snow- cold panicked running, sharp teeth cutting the insides of his cheeks and metal tags bouncing against his chest, phantom burns flaring up through his body making him stumble. He needs to get away-
He drags pure oxygen into his foreign lungs and all he can taste is metal, so far out into the cold that he can no longer see the glow of the fire- he's alone, he's not supposed to be alone, why is he alone? Who was supposed to be with him?
The pale skin stretched across his arms is stained in red and he can't remember how he's supposed to look but he knows it's wrong.
I'm a Killer, and a Killer is a bad, bad Thing to be. - Thingverse, Dallas's first memories
