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Legion @AzazelAfterDark
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Lying naked and belly down on your bed, shivering, as you open the lid of a plastic carrier case.

Breathing rapidly, half in excitedment and half in panicked fear as the mutant, metal, biomechanical centipede inside crawls out and begins exploring your back.
Teeth clenched fists gripping the sheets tight as the centipede begins feeling out your vertebrae, lining itself up with your spine, it’s antennae tickling the base of your skull.

Repeating the mantra in your head. Do it. Do it. Do it. Whatever anyone else says. Take the jump.
But what if-

Lancing pain in your neck- the centipede bites, injects, the feeling of warm numbness suffixes every motor nerve with pinpoint precision, leaving you limp, unable to do anything but breathe and blink and listen to the calmed beating of your heart.
What time is it? You stare blearily, dumbly at the clock. What. Why are you napping at 6pm?



You start up- Wrong move, pain lances through your back and you collapse back in bed, in tears. When it subsides you slowly, achingly get out of bed. You limp to the bathroom.
You turn on the light, and back to the mirror slowly, slowly turn your head, wincing at the spikes of pain as your neck bends.

Oh god.

It’s done.

You did it.

The entire centipede is imbedded into your back, crusted blood lining it’s edges.
You shower, gently, wincingly washing away the crusted blood.

Timidly exploring with your fingers.

It’s hard and warm. But surprisingly flexible. You don’t feel much /through/ it but you understand that that will come. Eventually.

And there will be other changes.
You’re taken by surprise by how quickly you forget that it’s there. By how subtly the first changes comes. The hunger. Ravenous hunger. For meat.

Red meat.

Your body craves iron and protein and fuel for this second puberty, this metamorphosis.
They dull, ever so slightly metallic texture spreads outward on your back. The skin there is flaky.

Your jaw aches. Your teeth hurt. You stop talking, only moving your mouth to eat.

The pain makes you irritable.

You trudge through the busy sidewalks to get some painkillers.
Someone, taller than you, bigger than you, slams into you bumping your jaw. You hiss in agony.

“Watch where you’re fucking going!” He screams. Fuck this. Fuck him.

You turn to face him and scream, the noise something inhuman. You hear and feel your face ripping.
Your jaw unfolds. You see the tips of pincers, the razor edges of mandibles. You taste blood and feel agony.

He’s on the ground, screaming, backing away, the scent of shit mixing with the smell of your blood.

“Oh fuck! Of fuck! You’re one of them!”
You turn away and continue walking, folding your mouth back together, blood dripping down your front.

One of them.

The corner store attendant doesn’t say anything as you track blood into the store, quietly taking your card and ringing you up.

One of them.
You struggle to down the pills with water. You’ve not quite mastered keeping your mouth tightly shut.

One of them.

You go into the bathroom, peeling off your blood drenched shirt, and stare into the mirror. You unfold your mouth.

One of them.
Your skin flops and dangles from blood slicked grey segments. Fangs and pincers and mandibles drip blood from their tips.

One of them.

You stick out your tongue, watching the pink slab plop into the sink as a sinuous black tendril flows from the vacated spot.

One of them.
You flex your jaw. Manipulate your mandibles. And with careful patience, begin piece by piece to use them to rip away the loose skin, swallowing the coppery chunks.

One of them.

You pick up the muscle in your sink. You eat it. You look into the mirror & slur,

“One of them.”
(Will continue this tomorrow, we think~ this could be a long one!)
You’re fired. Your mouth counts as a ‘body modification’, and ‘innapropriate for a responsible business environment’.

You get a customer support job. It pays shit and customers are stressful but it’s enough and no one cares if your have a nightmare mouth.
Your pants fit wrong. Your tail bone is growing, extending- small, hard nubs at its tip and along its underside and it gradually extends into a tail.

It’s a frustratingly slow process but you entertain yourself by wiggling what you have back and forth, up and down.
The more rapid change is the spread of the grey, metallic, biomechanical flesh across your body. The human skin flakes and peels as it progresses- you pick at it and idly nibble at it in your cubicle between calls.

You’re not one to waste meat. Not any more.
You lose your hair. All of it. Head, eyebrows, eyelashes, body. No one cares. You’re already a freak. You practice manipulating the small legs on the underside of your tail, and the four jointed talons at its tip.

It’s useful. And using it thrills you. You were made for this.
Small cysts appear on your forehead, evenly spaced. You try not to touch them, but they’re right and painful. One sleepless night the burst as you turn your head on your pillow, puss soaking the sweat and dribbling down your face. You strip your bed through the burning pain.
As you shower off you gingerly peel the dead skin away, letting the puss fully drain.

Something fine brushes you hand- you- smell soap? Intensely, as if someone shoved it up your nose. You gag, and get out. In the mirror you see the fine, short antennae emerging from new skin.
You try to go bad to sleep but your bed stinks, even after washing. Oils, sweat, dead skin, the bodies and feces of tiny insects, blood- it assaults you. You suppress a wretch- how the fuck do humans live like this? You strip the bed again and add bleach this time.
You wash yourself again. And clean your apartment. How do humans live so filthily? Do they not smell it? How could they not? You can feel your antennae curl instinctively.

Work is awful. Unwashed and poorly washed humans, smelling like sweat and stress and cigarettes.
The more your antennae grow the worse it gets.

You teach yourself to code. You have no passion for it, but the absolute disgust you feel for the miasma the call center holds your receding nose to the grindstone. Anything to get out. Anything. Even fucking COBOL.
You land an independent job. Then another. It’s enough to quit the call center, and you do. Your antennae couldn’t take much more.

Your face is increasingly grey, hardening mostly but soft in spots near your eyes, which darken every day. You scrape your mandibles excitedly.
The skin at the soft spots bulges. You feel more sensitive towards light & appreciative of warm darkness.

Your tail is heavy now. Thick & muscular, dragging against the ground. You practice locomotive with its legs. It’s not strong enough to hold the rest of your weight. Yet.
Your legs and feet cramp. Your sides ache. You feel nervous excitement, and clean your antennae compulsively. You’re almost complete.

Six black eyes stare back at you in the mirror. You peel useless skin away from the metal chitin of your new claws. Tear away the false you.
You admire the way your pinky as thickened, twisting into to form a second thumb on each hand. Your legs and feet twist to match your arms and hands, forcing you to support your weight on your massive tail.

Good. It feels more natural to move this way. You massage your sides.
When they come they start as numbness. A loss of sensation in your sides, the last stretches of human tissue. But the surrounding chitin feels taught. And tighter every hour. The anticipation drives you to stim, rubbing your mandibles together, generating small sparks.
Then the skin rips. Clear fluid drips down your sides as two new pairs of arms, mirrors to the pairs above & below, flop out.

They are grey, metallic, clawed, & segmented.

They are yours. Your claws, your segments.

You practice moving them by tearing away what’s left of skin.
You dry yourself off and coil in bed, twisting & looping, touching everything with your eight clawed hands, the wonderful hardness of your body, your smooth segments, your rhythmic legs...

You’re a monstrous insect. A freak & a mutant, & nothing in the world makes you happier.
Thank you for reading! If you liked this story and would like to support us in writing more metamorphoses, please consider donating to our Kofi!
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