And another shout, from his left. Isaac much disliked sharp sounds, loud sounds. Unnecessary sounds. Noise pollution, was what it was. But when he turned towards its source, his annoyance softened a bit. Another child, about the same age as the first, but a girl, dressed in one of those shirts depicting the current shallow pop-culture reference of the time. Her eyes were wild, and she glanced at Isaac with obvious fear. He couldn't fault her on that, for sure.
But for whatever reason, Isaac wasn't afraid. If he had the time to think it through, he probably would have concluded that his bemusement was so thorough as to drive out emotions such as fright. But then, if he'd had the time to think it through, he probably would have made room for 'fright' next to the large bubble of 'confusion', so it was likely for the best.
So the current cloud of emotions integrated confusion with a pinch of irritation and, unexpectedly, the wish to calm down these children. Certainly a large part of /that/ owed to the fact that calm children were more likely to be quiet children, and quiet children were always, always better than rambunctious crying brats. Not that he knew first-hand, but... Much of his work as a street performer (though it wasn't his /work/, it wasn't what paid the bills, he considered the oh-so-menial, degrading jobs that /were/ what paid them hardly worth mentioning) involved putting on a show for the kidlings, making them laugh - because smiling kids turned better profits from the parents. But there was likely more than a little of that ingrained reaction-cajoling at play here, along with the aforementioned less-noise benefit.
Besides, he appeared to be the oldest. Maybe there was a little bit of wanting to play the father role at work here?
... Aaand some more yelling from somewhere else in the room, and okay yeah /that/ wasn't it.
The girl swung her legs off the side of her bed, her muscles tensed, ready to run. Isaac wasn't about to stop her - he held no authority on her, after all; didn't even know her, or any of these children now beginning to arise from their slumbers. (... Except... how familiar they all looked; it was the strongest sense of déjà vu he had ever experienced. Maybe they were regulars in the park? Maybe he had seen them in audition lobbies? ... But even so... How peculiar.)
But then the girl paused. She reached under her bed's simple wooden frame and pulled out some sort of... satchel? Curiouser and curiouser. He swung his own legs over and bent down to rummage beneath the bed when the first boy he had spoken to abruptly responded to him, slightly timidly. Isaac nodded slightly as the boy explained himself, mildly frowned when he pushed aside the fringe on one side of his forehead to touch a familiar-looking mark and ask about it, and unconsciously frowned more severely when the boy practically apologized - no, not 'practically', he /did/ apologize - for his appearance. First of all, there was no need for him to explain himself to Isaac. People looked as they pleased, Isaac did not judge.
(Honestly, Isaac's never had a good, hard self-reflection on how he /thinks/ he thinks and how he really thinks. He judges people, for sure: early, quickly, and quite often incorrectly. But for Isaac, introspection has not been tried and found wanting; it has been found difficult, and left untried.)
And secondly, if he believes his own appearance is enough to cause a poor impression to others, then he darn well ought to adjust his appearance! It's one thing if he was unabashedly proud of such symbols of himself, items he's chosen to represent his personality to the world - and stark red colored contacts, red-dyed hair, and faux-precious-metal adornments certainly did exude /some/ sort of idea of the mind behind such... stylistic choices - and quite another to feel apologetic over it. Goodness.
... And then, some small, sensible part of his brain calmly reminded him that perhaps it was not the best idea to soliloquize on the fashion statements of teenagers when there was, in fact, a miniature crisis currently occurring, viz. the onset of acute mass hysteria as more and more began awakening in their beds in varying ratios of the same befuddlement, fear, and irritation.
He gave the room a quick lookaround once more, then stretched his arms above his head, inhaling through the nose, exhaling slowly through the mouth... covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he released a healthy yawn. Ah, the miracles a clean, deep breath could do for the nerves. "Oh, I was awake beforehand," he said, attempting to sound reassuring, "no need to worry about that. Just not completely up at the time."
These next questions posed a bit more challenge. Isaac picked the sleep out of his eyes with a recently-filed fingertip (when you want to look your best, the devil is all in the details) and pondered. This boy was caught unawares as well? How... The phrase 'space aliens' popped up and was shot down faster than he could blink. Yes, yes, "when you have eliminated the impossible" et cetera, but they hadn't even started on the likely, much, much less the impossible. For instance: kidnapping victims.
That was simply the next thought that popped into his head, but after some more consideration, he realized it made some sense. Someone had stolen one of the master keys to the apartments - that explained the vague sense of familiarity, perhaps he'd run into them in the halls - and spirited away the helpless children, looking for ransom. Quite the large-scale operation, it seemed. They would also be behind the odd tattoos, and the... well, and the everything. Clearly.
(His mind glossed over such questions such as why they would abduct a mediocre, nearly middle-aged nearly out of his prime street performer/commercial actor whose rent and taxes comprised about 75% of his gross income. Also how they could mark him days before without his knowledge. Also how and why they were now all here, in this room, without restraints. Details, details.)
(The devil is all in the details.)
"I believe..." he started, and faltered. What would be the point in sharing his conjectures with this boy, already half out of his mind in worry? No, best to play it safe for now. "I think... I think we're all all right, at least," he said, his wish-washy words betraying his confident tone of voice. Funny, the situation was usually described the opposite way. But it was true: from his vantage point in the middle of the room, next to the door, all occupied beds were rustling with either the heavy chestfalls of deep sleep or the slight activity of the still merely half-awake. So no casualties, from a rough onceover. That was good, a relief. He had no idea what he would have done if a corpse was found, moreso a child's. Isaac couldn't hold back a shudder at the thought.
Back to the question of where they were, though. "In all honesty, I'm not certain, Mr Nikin." (Isaac called all men 'sir' except his superiors.) "I would venture, however, that we're likely not far from home!" he said cheerfully, addressing now both the first boy and a slightly younger boy in the bed next to him, who had asked the same question. Presuming everyone present did live in Syracuse Apartments, the kidnappers probably couldn't have crossed state lines without a checkpoint for whatever shipping or moving truck they used for transport, so it was likely they were still in New York. He couldn't see more than blue sky out the small windows on the facing wall; he'd have to get up and look out in a bit.
And finally... "Well, that's the sixty-four thousand dollar question, now, isn't it," he mumbled to himself. He stretched the collar of his top down a tad, revealing to the others the curved figure marked below the fine, pale hairs on his chest, currently faintly luminescent for some certainly-not-supernatural reason he was unaware of. Two teardrop shapes, conjoined at their tips, about three inches wide and an inch, inch and a half tall at their widest points. Honestly, he had thought it was an infinity sign until now. It could certainly seem that way from a certain angle. But glancing again at the children's marks...
The first boy, a 91 was inscribed upon his forehead. Or perhaps, as seen from above, it was a 16. The chosen font made it difficult to discern. The second boy... it was either a 91 as well, or a 16 upon his wrist. This was even more uncertain, as the number could easily be flipped to change, depending on whether you were considering from the perspective of the boy or of onlookers. And the girl, the girl from before, now shuffling through her new-found bag... Isaac craned his neck, but could only tell something-8 or something-3; the first and a bit of the next digit were obscured by her clothes.
Therefore, if the pattern held, his mark was not an infinity sign, but an eight. Not that that cleared up any questions at all.
Isaac nodded once firmly in response. "I think it's safe to say that we all do," he said. "But don't ask me what it signifies, or how we came to obtain them. I'm afraid I'm as much in the dark as the rest of you." He pursed his lips, then continued patting down the floor beneath the bed until his fingers came across a strap. He pulled it up and examined the bag.
Vegetable-tanned; it was once hard but worn soft through wear, not through chemical processes like most of today's leatherworks. (Spending one's childhood summers at one's cattle-ranching grandfather's estate could leave one with some rather peculiar observational skills. He also knew the proper procedure for birthing a calf, should such information ever be of benefit to him in suburban New York.) He was about to rummage through it himself, when his mind finally caught up with his actions and he realized just what he had forgotten.
"Oh, how awful of me to forget myself," Isaac said lamentably to the two boys. "Please excuse me. My n..." He paused. "Actually, this will go faster if I address everyone at once." He rose from the side of the bed (missing his lovely bedslippers that would have given him another layer of protection from the gunk and grime), and instantly drew the eyes of the others merely by being the new tallest thing in the room, and by making the most movement out of everyone.
"Good morning, everyone," he began, fully aware that he was not sure at all of the time of day, but was with complete certainty that whenever it was, it could not be accurately described as 'good'. And considering maybe half of the occupied beds were still sleeping, he couldn't even say he'd got the 'everyone' part down correctly. Well, there was nothing what could be done. He continued on.
"Good m--" No, scratch that, he'd just said that. He half-smiled sheepishly, self-consciously patting down his bedhead as he spoke. "Ah. My name is Isaac. Isaac Walters." He was /so very suave/ right now, but the message was the important thing.
And the message was... What was the message.
Oh, right. "Please, if everyone could just remain calm," he continued, clearing his throat with the abhorrently overused cliché used in thousands of B-list movies and dramas before all hell breaks loose. Thankfully the conversation hadn't yet been overrun with everyone trying to speak at once, so following that logic, they still had a little time left. "I know you all are likely scared and confused" - no use beating around the bush - "but worrying won't get us anywhere, right? So let's just take deep breaths and--"
He paused. There were footfalls behind the door. Possibly the kidnappers, checking up on them? He shushed everyone and faced the door, awaiting who was behind with part bravado, part cold fear.
