[The version of Davesprite that wakes in the jail cell is different than what those who know him would be used to: a perfectly human teenager, pale and about 5'10", with light blonde hair and a smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose and cheeks. And he wakes quickly too, having jolted at the first unusual noise around him—and let's face it, someone's bound to make their unhappiness known sooner or later. Moreover, without his sunglasses, it's possible to see his irises are distinctly red.]
[This is definitely not the funeral home. By now, though, he's well used to waking up weird places, and that fact keeps any residual panic on the inside. Nothing's too fucked up yet. It can always get worse, and he might as well enjoy what reprieve there is before the inevitable horror sets in.]
[Still, the uniforms sucks.]
If nobody's seen my pants, does anyone mind helping me figure out bipedalism?
[His voice, at least, is the same as ever.]
[For now he's going to crawl on over to the bars and pull himself up so he can stand with some support. The least he can do is lean on them and the walls and make a circuit of his cell to see what he can. There's nothing actually wrong with his legs; he's just not used to balancing on them.]
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[This is definitely not the funeral home. By now, though, he's well used to waking up weird places, and that fact keeps any residual panic on the inside. Nothing's too fucked up yet. It can always get worse, and he might as well enjoy what reprieve there is before the inevitable horror sets in.]
[Still, the uniforms sucks.]
If nobody's seen my pants, does anyone mind helping me figure out bipedalism?
[His voice, at least, is the same as ever.]
[For now he's going to crawl on over to the bars and pull himself up so he can stand with some support. The least he can do is lean on them and the walls and make a circuit of his cell to see what he can. There's nothing actually wrong with his legs; he's just not used to balancing on them.]