Disclaimer: Don't own Trollhunters or any of its characters.

Hey! I'm back with a new part of my AU. It's a past fic. There will be three POVs: Atlas/Jim, Strickler, and Nomura. There will be four chapters total. Thank you for all the reviews on my other fics! I hope you enjoy this one!

People called him many things.

"Specimen J" was a favorite of the Men in White Coats.

It didn't take long for him to find out why.

The people of this place called him "Boy" or "Child", though there were exceptions.

The first was the one that examined him upon his arrival, a tall willowy woman wearing a black mask with no features. She referred to him as "half-breed" throughout their interaction, however what the other half was exactly, he had no clue. She did not reveal who the people who picked him off that road or how they even knew about the facility, despite the countless questions he threw at her. It was as if he had been talking to a wall. In the end, she was only marginally better than the Men in White Coats. He felt relieved when she left, however her replacement, he learned, was far worse.

Which brought him to the other exception: his jailor, a large portly man, who used to call him "Runt", until the boy tore off his stupid mask and bit off one of his fingers, earning him the name "Son of a Bitch".

None of them had any meaning to him.

The names were simply placeholders, hollow words with no substance.

He felt no attachment to them; he felt no attachment to anything.

Just emptiness.

Suffocating lonely emptiness.

His long ears twitched as the sound of footsteps approached his cell.

A rush of emotions ran through his mind: first, excitement, then, unease and fear. Was it his jailor? No, the footwork was different, lighter somehow. Then who?

Quickly, he crouched down on all-fours, backing into the corner to protect his back. Flexing his claws, he waited, watching, holding himself as still as he could in hopes that his next visitor was not like the last.

The door opened; a tall man entered.

He looked different than his jailor, tall and thin. Unlike the others he wore no mask, his angular features emphasized by the dimness of his cell while his sharp hooked nose stood out against the long oval nature of his face. He held himself differently as well, exuding a calm pleasant demeanor. Looks can be deceiving however. His jailor had appeared jolly at first glance, until he showed his true colors when the boy refused to comply.

The child would not be tricked a second time.

He shifted his focus to the man's hands, at the thin rectangular box grasped between.

A delicious smell emanated from it.

"Hello, young one. Would you like something to eat?" The man gestured for him to come closer opening and presenting the box to the child like a gift. "I've got pizza."

The boy approached, his curiosity outweighing his fear of the strange man.

Starving—ravenously so— the boy tore into the meal, devouring as much as he was able.

The child could recall what pizza was, like how to make it and how it tasted, however who and where he learned about it were still murky. To his relief the flavor matched his recollection.

He purred in delight.

"Hungry little thing, aren't you," the man remarked. "I told those fools that regular old Troll food wouldn't work, but did they listen to me? No, of course not. As always, it's not until someone loses a body part that they come crying for me to fix it."

He looked up at the larger male. Wiping his mouth with his hand, the boy said, "You talk a lot."

The man blinked. "Pardon?"

"My other jailor didn't talk with me very much. Just gave orders and said mean stuff." He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then another bite of pizza.

"I'm not . . .He wasn't . . . is that how you saw him? As your jailor?"

"You speak funny too," he added.

"I . . . see."

The boy looked up at the man. "What's Troll food?"

Crossing his legs, the man leaned closer, hhis expression warm and inviting, at least to the boy. He started, "It's food that Trolls eat, though I dare say the word 'food' is rather poor choice of term. I still cannot believe they tried to feed you bloody socks. What are we, heathens? Honestly. As much as I detest humans, they have far surpassed our race in that aspect."

He cocked his head to the side, then asked, "What's a Troll?"

"A species born underneath the earth, though my kind and I are different than the yellow-bellied denizens that exist there now. But that will change once Gunmar returns."

"Gunmar? Who's that?"

"The true leader of us Trolls. He will talk back the surface from the humans." He raised his chin up, chest out and his shoulders back, "I am his Second-in-Command."

"You're a Troll?" He asked, brows furrowed. "You look human."

"Changeling, to be precise. But yes, I am a breed of Troll one could say. Vavatonem Troglodytam in Latin. We can change our appearance at will, like so." He flashed between forms so quick the boy barely caught it.

He's jaw dropped, amazement in his eyes. "Can all Trolls do that?"

"No, only us Changelings can."

"Who's us?"

He waved a hand around in the air, "Everyone in this facility. You too, are one of us, if only half."

"Are there others who are half like me?"

The man shook his head, eyes cast downward. "No, you are the first of your kind that we've encountered."

The man stood; the boy flinched, moving back.

Carefully, the taller male put his hands up in front of him, bending down so that he was to the child's level. "It's alright, I'm not going to hurt you. Johnson has been punished severely and is being transferred, effective immediately, I should add."

"H-he's gone?"

Relief flooded the boy. His jailor had not been kind like this man was. He tried to force feed the boy.

He smirked at the memory of his jailor's hallowing when he bit off the digit and spat it back in his face.

Of course, it resulted in an ugly bruise on his left cheek, but the consequences were well worth it.

"Yes," the man stated as he gestured to the table. "Now, come. Sit down with me and finish your food. We shan't let it go to waste."

He approached cautiously, eyeing the larger all the while. Falling back into the chair, he returned to eating.

Fingers smoothed down his unruly hair. It was a strange sensation, though not an unwelcome one. The boy's shoulders loosened, his head subconsciously leaning against the man's warm hand.

The Changeling sniffed then frowned, though he did not stop his grooming of the boy. "Have you had a bath?"

"No. They only let me out to use the toilet."

The man's other hand came over his mouth. "I see."

Finishing off the last of his meal, the younger male licked his greasy fingers in satisfaction, examining the elder with interest. "Who are you?"

"Someone who is very concerned about his people's welfare. My human alias is Walter Strickler, but you make call me Stricklander. I am the head around here. And what might I call you, little one?"

He paused, thinking hard. "I don't remember . . . before . . . The Men in White Coats named me 'Specimen J'. I don't like that name though. Your people call me 'boy', mostly."

"Well, I'm certain we can a name for you soon, little one," Stricklander sighed. "My child, I am terribly sorry for all this. I was under the impression that our people were treating you hospitably, however, apparently my information was incorrect. Allow me to rectify the problem immediately."

It didn't take long.

Within the span of an hour his jail was replaced with far better accommodations, consisting of a small cozy room with an adjoining bathroom.

It wasn't luxurious by any stretch of the imagination, however to boy, it was home, at least for the time being.

Anything was better than the cell.

Stricklander made sure he was too take a bath first and, loath as he was to admit it, he enjoyed getting all the grime and sweat off of his skin.

The other Changeling had disappeared soon after, though not without leaving a clean pair of clothes for him to wear. They were more fitted than the last and considerably softer, which he appreciated.

Straight out of his bath he began to explore every crook and crevice of his new abode in wonder. He looked through the bookcase, however found most of the books too advanced for his understanding or in a language he could not comprehend.

It was odd he could even read at all. His name and his past were gone, wiped from his memory. Still, he recognized things for what they were, though he could not recall from where or when. He understood the words in some of the books, but he didn't remember who taught them to him. It irked the boy, this uneasiness. Everything was familiar, and yet, not.

He didn't like to think about it too much.

To keep busy, he threw a ball against the wall, catching it with one hand then repeating the process over and over. It wasn't very entertaining, but it distracted him. There were other toys, games and the like, however it was hard to play by himself, and many of them were made for someone far younger than he.

At least the mirror had provided some entertainment, but, that too, soon bored him as well.

Though he knows he probably should, he didn't recognize the boy in his reflection. Two horns on either side of head curved over his skull, arching upward at the ends like that antelope in the zoology book he found. Unlike the antelope though, his were thick and dark brown, only a few shades lighter than his hair.

He lacked the large off-colored nose that Stricklander's Troll form possessed, his own simply being wide and hooked. His lower jaw held two tusks that peaked out over his lips, but other than two sharp canines on his upper mouth, the rest of his teeth were flat and human-like.

He had only seen a few Trolls so far, and he held no resemblance to any of them. Were there also Trolls out there who looked like him? He'd tried to look more like how he imagined a Troll should look, hissing at himself in the mirror. He practiced multiple expressions before he found the perfect one or, at least, perfect for him.

Two light knocks alerted the boy, snapping him out of his musings. His nostrils picked up the other's familiar scent. He opened the door slowly, peeking up at his visitor.

"Care for some dinner?" Stricklander asked. "I don't normally eat pizza, but you appeared to have enjoyed the last one."

Walking past the smaller boy, he placed the food on one of the tables in the corner. The child helped himself to another slice, then, after a moments pause, picked up a piece and placed it in front of the man.

Stricklander gave him a bemused smile, accepting the gift. "Thank you, young man. How are you enjoying your new accommodations?"

Yawning, the boy nodded in affirmation. "S'okay."

"Just okay?" He nudged the boy in the arm jokingly.

The child laughed a bit, "Okay, I lied. It's better. Much better."

"I'm glad to hear it." Stricklander paused, then said, "I was told you haven't slept in a few days."

"Yeah," he mumbled under his breath. He crossed his arms.

"Care to tell me why?" Stricklander asked, carefully separating a portion of the pizza and placing it in his mouth.

He looked away, stuffing his face with more food. After a few chews, he responded, "Why does it matter?"

"Because the wellbeing of my people is important to me, especially our young ones. Our kind…do not have it easy in this world. I hope to change that." Fingers brought together in a steeple, Stricklander leaned closer to the child. "Now, tell me what's wrong."

He shrugged, "Can't sleep."

"Why not?"

"Nightmares," he grumbled.

"What kind of nightmares?"

The boy grimaced. "Bad ones. The Men in White Coats…"

Stricklander interrupted him, "The Men in White—the scientists, you mean."

"Yeah," He pulled his legs up close to his chest. "They hurt people. Lots of them. Made them cry until they didn't cry anymore. I saw bad things. Terrible things. Blood and bodies and stuff. They tried to do the same to me, but I got lucky and escaped."

The Changeling's eyes glowed yellow, irises red. "They're dead now. You'll never have to see them again. I made sure of that."

"Thank you." He gave the other a half-smile.

The knowledge that they were gone relieved him, yet it didn't change the fact that whenever he tried to close his eyes, he would see the images again.

"I'm sorry they hurt you, little one." Stricklander said remorsefully, "however, you must get some sleep. How about. . ."

Stricklander rose, heading for the bookcase. Pursuing through the collection, he selected a colorful one; a beautiful woman riding a chariot of white horses adorned the cover. "Ah, now here's a good one: D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths. My students seemed to enjoy it and I suspect you will too. Do you remember anything about Greek mythology, little one?"

"No," he said, eyeing the object with poorly contained curiosity, "what's it about?"

"Not it. They." Stricklander corrected, "They are collection of myths, stories of people long dead and gone. Extraordinary people. Gods, Titans, and all sorts of heroes and villians."

The boy shrugged, as if disinterested, though his gaze continued to flicker back on the book. "Sounds okay, I guess."

"Would you like me to read it to you?"

He narrowed his eyes. "You're just trying to get me to sleep. It won't work."

"So, you don't want me to read it to you?"

Tilting his head at Stricklander, the child remarked, "I didn't say that. All I'm saying is it won't work. I don't want to sleep. I can't."

"Then, you do want me to read it to you?" He asked, amusement in his gentle smile. "Is that it?"

The child sighed, exasperated with the man's stupidity. "Fine."

Stricklander guided the boy to the bed. He was didn't protest the move; despite the boy's earlier words, he was too exhausted to argue anymore. Laying flat a top the mattress, he pulled the covers over himself then turned over to Stricklander's side, looking up at him expectantly.

"Well," he said, "go on then."

Slowly, the man began to read.

The soft tone of his voice comforted the boy. Like a warm blanket, it wrapped around him, quieting the cacophony of emotions and thoughts inside him mind.

The child moved closer, his head directly under the man's arm. It was warm and firm. Little claws inched out of the covering and somehow found their way holding onto sleeve of the man's sweater.

His eyes drooped, his grip on the waking world disappearing.

And, for the first time since he awoke unto this strange new world, he went out into blissful, dark silence.