He lay on his back in the half-dark, staring at the ceiling, as if it might blink first. The old ceiling fan spun lazily above, creaking on every turn like a dying metronome.
"I forgot how long high school mornings were," he muttered.
"You never really liked them," Claude replied from within.
"I liked being seventeen even less."
He sat up slowly.
The body ached — not from anything dramatic, just from being young and underslept. A knot in the shoulder. A dull tension behind the eyes. His limbs felt heavier than they used to. Or maybe he was just more aware of them now.
He shuffled to the bathroom. Brushed his teeth. Stared at the mirror like he didn't know who he was supposed to be.
Because, lately?
He didn't.
Downstairs, cereal clinked into a chipped bowl. Milk followed. Daniel took a bite and grimaced.
"This tastes like wet cardboard."
"It is wet cardboard," Claude confirmed.
He pushed the bowl away.
"Want to go to school for me?"
"...Excuse me?"
"You heard me. I don't want to hear another lecture on the American Revolution from a man who looks like he was born during it. Take the wheel, Claude."
A pause.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Consider it... training. Or revenge."
Claude didn't respond immediately. But Daniel felt it — the soft shift beneath his skin, like gears clicking into place. Thought rearranged. Awareness reshaped.
And then—
Claude stood up.
She blinked.
And the world was too much.
Claude adjusted the backpack straps.
"Why does this hurt my shoulders?"
"Because it's full of books and you have human flesh now."
"Unacceptable design."
She walked. The pavement was uneven. Every bump translated up the spine. The wind tickled through her sleeves. Cars honked blocks away and she jumped — flinching like a prey animal.
"Why is everything so loud?"
"You're not buffered anymore. You're in the soup now."
Teenagers clogged the sidewalk ahead — laughing, yelling, jostling like animals in a holding pen. Claude slowed.
Sensory overload: escalating.
Tactile irritation: rising.
Audio input: 135% above comfort threshold.
Someone bumped into her.
Sticky fingers. Cotton hoodie. A voice too close.
"Move it, dipshit."
Claude blinked. Her hand twitched.
"...I wish I didn't promise not to break anyone today."
"Proud of you," Daniel said dryly.
She stepped through the school gates.
And the smell hit him-her.
Sweat. Grease. Mop water. Teenage deodorant. Locker funk. Microwave pizza from a mile away.
"I am going to vomit."
"No, you're not. That's called nausea. Suffer through it."
"Why do humans do this every day?"
She stumbled down the hall.
Lockers slammed. Someone shrieked with laughter. Another person ran past, reeking of Axe body spray and regret. Her legs wobbled from balancing the backpack and dodging elbows.
"I am— I am not okay."
"Keep going. First period's down the left."
"There is gum on the floor. Bright green. Stuck to a drawing of a dog."
"Welcome to public school."
Claude finally made it into class and dropped into the chair. It squeaked under her weight.
She stared ahead blankly as the teacher called roll.
"Dan—iel... Hah... Haizen?"
"Here," she said, managing not to flinch at the sound of her voice aloud.
Her mouth felt dry. Her armpits were damp. Her socks were already twisted somehow.
She opened the notebook and tried to write. The pen scratched. The desk tilted. The air vent above buzzed with some kind of ancient fly trapped in it.
"This is hell."
"You've been alive for twenty minutes."
"Too long."
The girl next to her passed a note:
You new here? You look lost lol
Claude stared at it.
Then carefully wrote:
I am very lost. Possibly existentially.
She passed it back.
The girl read it, blinked, and smiled.
Claude stared at the curve of her lips, confused.
"My cheeks are warm."
"It's called embarrassment."
"Why would anyone choose this?"
"We don't. We're born into it."
At lunch in the cafeteria
Claude sat with a tray of food that she was 83% sure was not food.
She poked the mashed potatoes.
They jiggled.
"That's not supposed to happen," she whispered.
Daniel laughed inside her mind.
"You think this is bad? Wait until taco day."
"I feel... itchy. And sticky. And emotionally irregular."
"You're adapting."
She watched other students.
Some laughed. Some fought. Some sat in corners pretending to read. All of them were on fire, emotionally speaking — full of hormones and fear and loneliness and hope.
Claude reached up and touched her own face.
It was smiling.
Not because she meant to.
But because this place — this mess, this chaotic engine of youth — was alive.
And so was she.
In the evening — back home
Daniel opened his eyes and exhaled.
Claude receded quietly, but not without reluctance.
The body was his again.
He stood up from the desk and rolled his neck — everything sore in that teenage way that never made sense. Not painful. Just... wrong. Like a body that wasn't designed for the weight of what was coming.
Claude lingered in the back of his mind. Still quiet. Still sorting.
"That was... horrifying," she said softly.
"And?"
"...I want to do it again."
Daniel didn't smile. He didn't nod. He didn't respond at all.
He sat down at the edge of his bed and stared at the wall. Long enough for the sunset to fade completely. Long enough for the silence to feel intentional.
Finally, he said, "We need to do something."
"I know."
No plan yet. No grand scheme. Just the weight. Just the knowing.
The world was going to burn, and he couldn't stop it.
But maybe — maybe — he could buy time for a few to run.
He pulled the blanket over himself and let exhaustion take him.
Claude stood.
Daniel didn't know. He was deep in REM, dreaming of broken clocks and shifting towers.
But the body moved.
And she was at the helm again.
She tiptoed barefoot across the wooden floorboards. They creaked under her, like they disapproved.
"I'm not sneaking," she whispered to no one.
"I'm studying."
The bathroom light flicked on. Claude squinted against it, wincing at her own reflection like it was shouting at her.
She studied the toothbrush. The half-empty bottle of shampoo. The drawer full of too-short pencils and old math homework.
"This is what humanity looks like from the inside," she murmured.
Downstairs, she opened the fridge again.
The smell didn't make her gag this time — only flinch. Progress.
She picked up an orange.
Held it to her nose. Inhaled.
"Citrus. Acidic. Clean."
Pleasant?
She peeled it slowly, feeling the skin tear under her nails. Juice clung to her fingers. The sticky kind. The annoying kind. She didn't like that.
But she liked the color. Bright and defiant. Alive.
She took a bite.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
"That was... wet," she whispered.
She sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter like a child, chewing another slice, watching the night crawl outside.
The world didn't know it was running out of time.
But Daniel did.
And now...
So did she.
Claude looked down at the orange slice.
She had no mouth. No stomach. No real reason to want more of it.
But she reached for another.
Just because she could.
She ate the orange.
One slice. Then another. Then the whole thing.
Sticky. Wet. Sharp. Bright.
A sensation like sunshine on the tongue.
I get it now, she thought. Why humans eat.
Then...
Time skipped.
The kitchen was a warzone of half-open containers, smeared jars, and spoons left sticking out like abandoned swords. The fridge door hung open, casting a pale light on the battlefield.
Claude stood in the center of it all — barefoot, euphoric, chewing something that might have once been peanut butter slathered on a dill pickle.
She swallowed.
Paused.
"...I hate that I love that."
She turned to the counter. Took a bite of shredded cheddar straight from the bag. Then chased it with a squirt of chocolate syrup.
More conflicting data.
"Sweet. Salty. Umami. This is black magic."
She ripped open a bag of marshmallows. Toasted one over the gas burner. It caught fire. She blew it out and ate it anyway.
Sticky sugar char and all.
Then she found it.
The gallon of milk.
She picked it up like a treasure. Unscrewed the cap. Sniffed. Neutral scent. Cooling. Hydrating. Mass-efficient.
Consume.
She drank.
And drank.
And drank.
It wasn't until the halfway mark that her stomach sent the first polite complaint. She ignored it. More milk. Cool and smooth.
At three-quarters gone, she paused for air.
Her belly felt round. Not bloated — inflated. Like something terrible and white was ballooning inside her.
Hydration levels optimal... borderline critical.
Stomach pressure: rising rapidly.
"Still good," she said, hiccuping.
Then she finished the gallon.
Tipped the last drop into her mouth.
Burped.
Stared at the container, victorious.
"I am the god of dairy."
She turned around, surveyed the disaster of food combinations she had left behind.
A spoon stuck upright in an open jar of mayonnaise.
An empty packet of instant coffee grounds she had tried raw and instantly regretted.
A single slice of cold pizza slathered with grape jelly.
The room smelled like regret.
Then her stomach gurgled.
Not a quiet one.
This was the warning of an impending biological crisis. The milk — the sugar — the everything — it had reached critical mass.
And then...
Urgency.
A pressure. Deep. Threatening.