Together We Can, Alone We Will [Origins SMP/Modded SMP]

This is Cruelty to Chicken Children, God!

Tommy rubbed the snot from his sore red nose.
Rain pattered uselessly outside.

He was bored, scared, sick, alone, and very, very tired.

Tommy held the book tighter to his chest. He hadn't opened it in a while. He should probably write something...

This was a crucial part of his mission after all.
His mission?
No.
Their mission.

If only he had them to share it with at the moment.

The disgusting bile took up space in his throat, his nose clogged, and he just wanted to cry. It's not like anyone was watching...
But big men don't cry!
And Tommy was the biggest man!

He coughed away the stuff in his throat and climbed up, retreating further in the neverending cave.

A bat flew over his head and he instinctively ducked, clutching the thing just a bit tighter.

If he didn't focus on his current state, current surroundings, he could almost picture himself back home.
Sitting in his red and white-sheeted bed, cloud and star stickers littering his walls and ceiling, bottles of addictive sugary drinks littering his bed and desk, a trashcan full of essays he never finished, and notes to piano songs he never played. He could almost feel the soft blanket below him and hear his mom's voice laugh at the state he had gotten himself into.

Sick, again. It wasn't uncommon, what with his constant need to be outside and running about with only his patagium as protection.
On those days he found that mushroom and beetroot stew were tiring after the 4th serving on only them. He found that tomato soup was only good when paired with grilled cheese. He found that he hated potato soup, and especially potato and cheese soup and that he would rather go hungry than eat his dad's toast. He also found that there was, in fact, a way to burn toast and cereal.

Why they had decided putting cereal in the furnace was a good idea he still doesn't know.

If he focuses hard enough he can almost hear the soft humming of a piano that his dad was playing. He could still feel that want to get up and rush to the piano, to actually teach his dad to play because this was getting ridiculous.

On sick days he found out that he preferred home far better than school. He found that kids didn't mock you or hit you or scold you for the color of your patagium. He found that it didn't matter what he was supposed to be doing that day, he found that sleeping was always 10× better.

The first time he took a sick day in middle school he found out just how much, or how little, he mattered to people around him.
He found out how he mattered in the form of soft snickers, people mocking him, no one actually talking to him, and a teacher even slapping his wrist down from the air when he tried to actually ask a question.

He found that he hated that school.

He also found that talking to his parents about it was a mistake.

He found he hated the next school even more.
He found it easier to just 'be sick'. He found it easier to force himself to throw up and then go complaining or crying to his parents.
He found that sometimes bananas were *ssholes. He found that they made him eat more of them than he wanted.

He found that they actually helped his stomach on the days he was actually sick.
He hated bananas.

He also hated toast for the same reason.
They helped. That was the problem.

The one thing he found himself not forcibly hating because it helped him feel better was broth.
They came in little cubes that you put into hot or boiling water.
They were labeled as meats. Chicken, beef, pork.