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After the previous evening's encounter, Thom had spent the evening pondering over what little he could remember since the crash, more specifically since his arrival on the island and meetings with the two women. They could possibly be serious, right? It had to be a joke... In some horrible, sadistic way, it had to be a joke. But the memory of those far-too-realistic tails and the strange changes to that squirrel woman's legs still lingered, holding the obvious explanation just over his head. He refused to accept it.

After wasting most of the day unhappily in his duplex, he had braved the outdoors and another possible meeting for the short walk to the cafeteria. Upon reaching it, he headed directly for the buffet, sparing the stranger a glance only when he heard the tapping of drumsticks--and, pausing, he raised a brow, watching curiously for a moment. Nevermind that the man was built a tad strangely, it was the mohawk that caught his eye. These centers certainly attracted some strange people.

The teen's shout served to snap Thom back to his senses and, surprisingly, he complied, continuing on to the buffet and fixing himself a plate, piling a second with roast beef for the stranger and retreating back to the table. Taking a seat across from Alec, he passed over the plate and dug into his own, helping himself to a few bites before near-shouting over the teen's music--which, judging by how loudly he could hear it, must be deafening to Alec. "What group's that?"

In closer proximity, the changes were much more obvious--and, with the lack of fur, more realistic. Fun was easily. There were tons of movies out there with furry people. And maybe he would let the greyish, patchy arms slide, but the flattened nose and glimpse of pointed teeth caught his attention. He shrugged them away, focusing instead on his meal. The so-called 'changes' would only be more apparent if he looked for them. If he ignored them, someone would eventually give in and admit to the prank.

"Floggin' Molly," he repeated aloud, more at a normal volume now that the music had died down. "Can't say I've 'eard of them. Pity about your CD," he added, not very convincingly. The Ramones he had heard of, though he wasn't much of a fan. The bluntness of the question didn't phase him in the least; after the teen's outburst about the roastbeef, he had expected as much. "Been 'ere a few days now. Why?"

The meal, on the other hand, had the opposite effect on Thom. He found he didn't care too terribly about his own eating habits after watching the stranger eat. Poor kid seemed to be having a trouble of things. ....Served him right for filing his teeth. Grinning faintly, Thom speared a piece of roast off his own plate, taking a large bite and swallowing before acknowledging the teen's response.

"Why, b'cause 'M 'still human'?" he drawled, rolling his eyes. He wouldn't be at all surprised if that was the reason. Try to unnerve him--hah. He was on to their game! "Could be worse, I s'pose. T'least it's quiet around 'ere. Though, I ran into some b'zarre...albino woman last night who was tryin' t' convince me that everyone's turnin' into animals." Laughing, he finished off his piece of roast.

His grin faded to nothing as the teen broke into loud laughter, and he actually paled slightly as the pointed teeth added to the crazed effect. This guy, he didn't quite seem...all there in the head. A better way to put it would be a punk-loving teen who'd blasted his own brains out by playing his music too loud--and innocent. This wasn't a lie. This wasn't an act.

Slamming his fork down on the table, he rose from his chair, nearly knocking it over in the process. "Bloody 'ell, man--what's going on 'ere? People can't just turn into animals! I 'ave a game on Friday," he finished, a pleading note rising in his voice.

He relaxed somewhat now that someone was actually explaining, and, after a pause, went so far as to right his chair and sink back down in his seat. Sighing, he shook his head, glancing around the room as if expecting someone to jump out singing the Candid Camera theme. When no TV host appeared, he returned his eyes to the teen, gaze almost immediately locking on the sharpened teeth. "So... everyone 'ere, this isn't an act--they're really changin'? What're you...turnin' into?"

Without waiting for a response, he continued, "But it's not permanent, right? Or we--we can leave? Th' team knows I'm 'ere, there was a wreck, I 'ad... 'ad a concussion. But th' game's Friday. I'll be able to attend, right?"

"A shark," he repeated dolefully, eyeing the teen as if he'd just announced that Europe had been leveled in an earth quake. Sighing, he leaned back in his chair, balancing on the two back legs and lifting one hand o rub his temple near the still-present bandage. "Mary Mother o' God..."

"Thom," he finally offered, not bothering to look up. "Nice, eh? I'll take y' word for it." A pause. "I need a drink. Don't s'pose there's a bar around 'ere, hm?"