In Osten's opinion, food actually tasted better when eaten with your fingers and he would never be stupid enough to give the shiny, sharp silverware to a side experiment that included at least one convict. So he had to wonder what the scientists behind this were thinking when they knew just about everything about him. He had no intention of trying to kill any of them, but it was generally a better idea that there was nothing resembling a murder weapon in the vicinity if one of them pissed him off to the point of no return. Which wasn't that hard to do. "You eat it," he added to the end of Frenchie's -- at some point, Christian's actual name had been replaced in Osten's head -- explanation in a rather less friendly manner. Just looking at the boy made him want to swipe him out of the way. He didn't understand men -- boys -- who let themselves look, or sound, like some kind of waif. His twin daughters would knock that boy into next week. They were seven.
He really needed to stop staring at the skinny thing that had just entered as though the lad was some completely different kind of science experiment. There was stuff missing for the tea and coffee. Which was right at the top of Osten's priority list.
Audrey, Daphne, Osten, Jerrica, Christian... How many times was this going to go around before they were done? "We should just stick a mugshot with our name to our door, it'd be faster," he declared, coming back from the dumbwaiter with both arms balancing smaller odds and ends. "Cups, milk... Anyone get sugar? I got that too." Frankly, he didn't care. Was there a crime with them hoarding the food upstairs? He didn't think so, and turned so everyone could see under his right elbow. "Cereal for the commoners," his tongue was firmly in his cheek, though his face didn't quite register it, "Don't know what kind; didn't look."
Setting everything down, he finally turned his attention back to the skinny one. "Who're you?" If they'd already gone over that part he clearly wasn't listening.