Michael shook his head. He didn't want to put his family through hospital visits. Didn't want them to go out of their way when they were content with believing he was dead. There was comfort in familiarity, whether that was something the person liked or not. When that familiarity was ripped away, it was a strange new world and so unpredictable. A person was conditioned to find flaws with the new, the strange, the unusual. It was how they survived. Or how they avoided danger. "I don't mind. They're only human." He pulled the clay into a different position, then molded it over one of the pins.

Seven years. He nodded at that. "I was stolen when I was fourteen. They never used their real names. They said I was too young, it'd all pop out of place if they did it now. So they waited, and they... tested my pain tolerance for three years, until they saw I was finished growing. They measured me every day by the micro-inch, using a laser. They kept me in... in some kind of half-sleep. I was awake, but everything seemed like a dream. I couldn't feel anything until a few days later, when I came to. And..." He breathed in shakily, focusing hard on the work in front of him rather than what played out in his mind. Memories. "Everything hurt. It was so... bad... I was sick for weeks. Until I started to get used to it. But they made me move around, and since I couldn't walk upright, I had to drag myself from room to room in the basement. It was all like a big... lab." Michael swallowed hard, wincing, and pushed the pin and half-finished leg into the body.