Welcome to Gaia! ::

Ugh. Blame the heat. Blame his fouler mood than was his normal, but everything seemed to be pissing him off. At least most things were anyway. The metal collar around his neck seemed to have drawn his ire for the time being. Wylde huffed heavily through his nose, scowling darkly down at nothing in particular. He shifted himself slightly and could feel the rigid metal press against his skin. If he waited too much longer, he worried that he'd get too big for it to come off easily. That the damned thing would slowly suffocate him.

He hated it. It reminded him of what he and his siblings had gone through in the Facility. Granted, he got off lighter than they. He still had his full sight, had all of his limbs. That place brought out either the best or the worst in him. He had fought all the time. Either he became super aggressive when held in that wretched place, or his survival instincts were in overdrive in his primal attempt gain freedom. The tom had fought with other cats, against the people who tested him, experimented on him, fought against the very cage they kept him in. He supposed he could consider himself lucky that they hadn't declawed him while he was in there. There was a female in a cage next to him that they had done that to. Amputated the tips of her fingers! She had her forearms wrapped up from paws to elbows. Oh, how she cried and cried.

A bitter taste rose in Wylde throat at the memory. He rose from his seat and paced, tail lashing and ears drawn back against his skull. She had disappeared from her cage not long after. He had been lucky. Very. Injections were often administered through the bars of his cage, at least to sedate him enough to handle. Some of his scars were from other cats, others from those bastards that ran the place. The ones on his nose as well as the large 'X' scar that crisscrossed his chest over his heart. He wasn't awake for whatever they did. He recalls waking up short of breath, in pain, and had stitches, before he popped several, then he had staples. Wylde couldn't escape the feeling that he might have died, at least for a short time, on that cold metal table. Whether or not it was true, he wasn't one hundred percent certain.

His fur bristled and he shook himself thoroughly. They had played with his heart or maybe his bones. What ever they did, he hated them for it. Passionately. He turned and the collar again pressed against him, an icy touch left over from his time in hell. He growled and snarled, latching hold of it. He was sick of it! Maybe if it went away, the lingering recollections and feelings would too! He hoped so, but didn't think it too likely. The tom thrashed, tearing at the collar and at his skin. With effort, the collar was ripped away. He grunted and he sank to the ground, throwing the last remnant of the place as far as he could. Wylde rolled onto his back, breathing heavily and staring up at the ceiling. A hand moved to rest on his heaving chest, feeling the line of part of the scar that lay under his clothes. He belonged to himself now. His heart was his to give away and keep as he pleased. Sighing heavily, the closed his eyes and lay still for a time, counting down from one hundred. He felt better, so much better. He didn't feel so angry anymore.