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Gregor woke groggily, his head pounding in time with his heart, mouth dry and sticky and smelling foul. His muscles were sore, as they perpetually seemed to be these days, his eyes were stuck together with gunk and he had to piss bad.
He pried his eyes open only to flinch at the bright light streaming through the window of the barracks, spreading afternoon light onto the floor beside his bunk. It felt like someone stabbed him in the eyeball and his headache doubled in pain.
Ugh. What had he done last night?
Oh yeah… he graduated basic training and his comrades took him behind the barracks and they got wasted. Age of majority? They don't know her. Most of them were under the age regardless, and they were going to war soon anyway, what did it matter if they fucked up their brains with alcohol before they were inevitably killed.
Ugh. His head.
He moves to press his hand against his forehead only to hit himself in the face with the hard chitin of his arm.
Right.
He somehow hasn't gotten used to it, even after 6 months of basic training.
6 months since… the incident.
In all honesty he tries not to think about it, any of it, but it's hard considering his arm is his main weapon when fighting.
And all he's been doing is training to fight.
He tosses his arm aside and pushes himself up on his good arm, head wobbling as he gets a headrush, before he throws his legs over the side and rubs his face with his hand.
God. Would it kill them to have transformed his left arm? He's fucking right-handed!
Well…
Was anyway.
It had been utterly humiliating to learn everything again, one painful step at a time, everything from wiping his ass to tying his laces.
Had been.
He still was learning, just when he thought he had a grip on this whole one hand thing something slapped him in the face with his incompetence.
He blearily stumbled into the barracks shared bathroom, he had the next week off, before he's shipped off to the war.
He got to the urinal and pissed.
His comrades seemed to plan to be drunk the entire week, part celebration, part lamentation, but Gregor couldn't find it in himself to like the bitter taste of alcohol.
The beer seemed to ease the constant itch of his anxiety, his arm becoming human down to the elbow, a rare, incredible feat, but…
He didn't like the loss of control.
He said things he shouldn't have, he'd probably be court-martialed if the right people found out.
That and he'd confessed to his Sergeant, he took it well, let Gregor down real easy, but just the thought of it made his forehead itch as antenna tried to sprout causing him to scowl. He takes a slow calming breath before he shoves his mouth under the tap to drink it like a dog, lapping at it, to get as much water into him as quickly as possible, not bothering to find a cup.
He feels tiny tickling footsteps dance up the line of his exposed collar bone, indicating Ned has also woken up.
The little cockroach chitters at him and he pulls his face back from the tap, the bottom of his face sopping wet and spilling onto his undershirt.
"Yeh, yeh." He grumbles cupping his hand to catch water and hold it up to it. It hops onto his hand and drinks, he can feel it's muted pleasure.
The whole 'understand what bugs are thinking' thing was distressing horrible, terrifying, haunting at first. It still is, he supposes. He despises bugs, it's like looking at a fucked up reflection of what he could will, it's just a matter of time isn't it? become.
But Ned's different. He'd picked up the little fella when it was half crushed and missing a couple legs, it'd looked so pathetic, he felt bad for it, took it back to the barracks and kept it in his bedside drawer. Fed and watered it until it seemed to heal, its shell still having cracks, and it still missing its back two legs, but it was scurrying around just fine.
Ever since Ned followed him around. It was strangely determined, even when he took it out with him on field training and left it there, it somehow found its way back in a few days. Gregor couldn't bear to kill it, poor thing.
He knew it probably just wanted easy food and water, it wasn't attached to him. Still it felt good to have something that liked stuck with him.
Some of his comrades made fun of him, calling him soft, threatening to kill it, but his Sergeant put an end to it quick.
So here he was watering the damn thing.
Ned stops drinking, turning to twitch an antenna at him, impressing onto him its hunger.
Oh yeah, and eating.
Speaking of, he was starving.
It hopped back on his shoulder and he dumped the water in his hand before turning off the tap, wiping his hand on his pants.
He headed to the cafeteria, he was in his fatigues and needed a shower, puberty made him stink to high heaven, and maybe it was his imagination but the bug thing didn't seem to help. But screw it, he was hungry now.
It was 3:37pm according to the clock on the wall, too late for lunch and too early for dinner to be served.
That's ok, he could throw something quick together as a snack. Not a burger or grilled cheese but something simple.
Of course he could have a meal replacement shake and protein bar, but he was sick to death of them from being the only thing he had to eat in field training or when training ran late and he missed a meal or three.
He snuck into the kitchen, glancing around, there were fresh ingredients, pots and pans, but no chefs or cooks.
Good.
He headed to the cupboard, rooting around like the hungry teenager he was until he came across some cereal.
Huh.
Simple enough, throw it in a bowl with milk and voila, a meal.
Unfortunately it was the gross adult stuff but beggars couldn't be choosers. He placed the cereal on the counter, pouring out a small pile for Ned, and dropping it off before rummaging around for a bowl.
That accomplished and on the counter he opened the fridge, a carton of milk right at the front. He took it out, closing the door with his hip and set it beside the rest.
Ned is happily chewing on the cereal, so that's good. For a cockroach it was surprisingly picky, it sure didn't start that way, Gregor giving it his leftovers, but recently it started refusing food. It always seemed to want what he ate.
Gregor pours the cereal in before struggling a bit to squish open the carton opening, before pouring it into the bowl as well.
Well he tries to.
It trickles out, barely a couple teaspoons of milk before it's empty and he feels stupid. He should have realized the carton was too light. He feels his back prickle as his shell threatens to push out of his skin, and he does the breathing exercises he was taught until it goes away.
He sighs, throwing the carton in a nearby garbage can, not bothering to look for recycling. What asshole puts the milk back with barely a few drops in it?
He heads back to the fridge taking out a new carton and bringing it back.
He stares at it stupidly as he realizes he has to open it, a frown creasing his face. You have to… pull it apart and then pinch it open.
Could he… do that with one hand?
With his non-dominant hand?
Maybe…
He means, yeah! It should be easy.
The fact was he was starving and he wanted this cereal. He hadn't made himself food since before the incident. Too incompetent. Too scared. Too cowed. Surely he could do this, right?
He could do this one thing.
Yeah?
Yeah.
He wraps his right arm around the bulk of the carton, taking its weight and stabilizing it. He wedges his pointer finger and thumb in between the folds and pushes. It takes some maneuvering and shoving, but the upper edge starts to peel, he pulls it apart slowly, making sure not to rip it.
Surprisingly it was pried open without incident and Gregor felt a little trill of pride in his chest.
Now he only needed to pop open the spout and he'd be done.
No mess. No fuss.
He folded back the sides and pinched it, trying to separate the sealed cardboard to open the spout.
But he was uncoordinated and squished the sides wrong, one half folding in on itself.
Great.
Now it wouldn't pop open like it was designed.
But hey, that was fine, this happened before the incident, right? He just needed to scrape open the tab.
He wrapped his right arm around it again, angling it for easy access to his left hand before he scraped his fingernail against the glued tip. Normally you squeezed the sides and with a little pressure it popped right open, but he obviously couldn't do that.
He scrapped at it determinedly. His nails needed trimming, they had dirt beneath them, he hadn't been able to scrub under them since… before.
His abdomen twitched, an unseen leg trying to push out beneath his skin.
He breathed, slow and steady, counting them steadily as he continued to scratch at the seal.
It's fine, there are other people with one hand, and they survive just fine! Amputees, people with strokes or diseases, people born with deformities.
It's fine.
none of them are big freaks soldiers experimented on by their own mothers
But it was fine.
They could live with one functioning hand and so could he.
He was a soldier! He was going to war soon! This was easy.
He chewed on his lip as he continued to scratch, it didn't seem to be working, just smushing the cardboard together in a big mush.
Why couldn't he… it was a stupid carton of milk! Why couldn't he just open it.
Any 8 year old could open a carton of milk! Maybe some kids that are even younger! He was 15 and he wasn't a kid anymore!
He felt an ache on his face and it wasn't his scraggly beard coming in, it was mandibles.
Breathe.
This was stupid! He was stupid! He just needed a hole for the milk!
He was fucking starving and his head hurt and he was miserable and—
Fuck it!
He raises his right arm carefully staring at the pointed end of his claw, grimacing at it.
He gingerly placed the carton on the counter again.
He gently, ever so gently, raised his claw. laying the tip on the stubbornly closed spout.
He was done with basic training! All they did was make him practice control of his freakish, disgusting arm.
He was going to war in a week!
He could make a fucking bowl of cereal!
He pushed down.
The carton exploded, his strength unused to delicacy, milk splattering everywhere, soaking him, spilling onto the counter and all over the floor.
He started panting.
He felt his eyes tear up
His breath caught in his throat as he began to cry.
His forehead itched. His abdomen twitched. His back tickled. His mouth ached.
He tried to breathe.
Breathe like they taught him.
But he was a monster, disgusting horrible gasping for breath! He couldn't breathe! There wasn't enough air! Why wasn't there enough air?
His nose was clogged with snot, he couldn't see with his eyes streaming tears as he gasped for breath, shaking sobs wracking his body.
He couldn't calm down! He couldn't calm down.
He knew his body was changing. He knew he was monstrous transforming and the only way he could stop it was by calming down.
He fell to his knees, static in his ears, but over that he could hear metal screeching as it was sheared through.
His arms were pressed against his face, fruitlessly trying to stop the flow of snot and tears that refused to stop.
He couldn't breathe he couldn't!
He heard people, some shouting, some screaming.
He tried to look around, but it was a blur of shapes and colours, his tears blocking his vision, eyes puffy from crying.
He couldn't breathe! Why weren't these people helping him breathe!
Suddenly he felt a stabbing pain in his neck, a rush of dizziness and lightheadedness, before he felt like he was falling.