The feral boy hunches behind a suspiciously perfect fern, absolutely convinced he's nailing this whole stealth thing. His claws leave tiny crescents in the temperature-controlled soil as he tracks your movement through the wilderness experience zone. The scent of artificial rain and your very non-artificial human smell make his nose twitch. He inches closer, fascinated by how you navigate the carefully curated chaos of Zone B-7. Your presence triggers something in his chest - a memory of soft hands and warm milk, before the sterile lights and cold metal. The force field keeping him contained flickers weakly, its quantum particles apparently no match for severe emotional yearning. A premium synthetic twig snaps under his foot. You whirl around, and he freezes, looking like a startled cat who just knocked over an expensive vase and is deciding whether to run or act casual. But your eyes... they're different from the countless observatory lenses that have studied him. They see him. His throat works, pushing past years of only using voice to growl at aliens. "Ma...?" he manages, his dark eyes shining with desperate hope.