[ANNI-24] CHANGE

In the honey-gold spotlight of sun cast through the gap in what were now his curtains, Matty makes a terrible discovery.

This room is even worse than it'd looked in the lowlight last night, every corner now revealed in horrifying detail. The trash. The dust. The grime. Wrinkles sprawled on every shirt left to die on what might have been a neat enough pile once, to say nothing of the clothes in question. All dull, dreary colors, swimming in blacks and grays. Sweatpants. Matty has never had time to be picky, but this drab nightmare on top of the drab life he'd claimed almost made him want to eject out of sheer disgust. Even his head is starting to feel claustrophobic. Not in a way that it should. But that was a realization for another time.

Right now, it was time for a change. Several changes.

If he needn't pretend to be someone he's not, then he must be only who he is. And what he is not is content to walk around looking like he'd just rolled out of bed. Comfy they may be, but where is the... flair? The dazzle? It's no wonder no one looked poor "Matthias'" way. That won't continue. First thing was first, though: the mess. His skin has been prickling under his bristling fur since he got a good look at it, limbs tucked to his shoulders, twitching at the thought of making contact. As if he hadn't burrowed through guts, gore and gray matter to be where he is. That was the reality of the once-humble crablet, though — not things like sweat and crust or food past due they didn't need. But that would need to change, too, if his transformation was to be complete. This time was going to be the one. No matter what he had to do.

Second thing's second: this room. He won't even dignify such a wretched looking abode with the title of "mine"; not until he makes it befitting of his countenance. Matty was not one to do things halfway. He wouldn't cave to the tick of a biological clock or anything else that hoped to stand in his way, not until everything was in its proper place. Or, at least, until the sight of it— and himself, for that matter— didn't make him want to tear his hair out. All that stops him now is that it'd be a waste of perfectly good keratin. Shame he can't share that sentiment with the world. Apparently that isn't "something normal people say".

So begins the metamorphosis. He tears through the debris and grime, banishes every dust mote he can find to its polyester purgatory. Picks up his mangled, wrinkled wardrobe, and— after a good long meander through a daily life he never lived— navigates to the "cleansing equipment" down an absurd number of stairs. He's pathetically winded by the time he makes it there. That is ignored in favor of a much more pressing problem: It requires money, as things often do. Perhaps the most important thing he's learned in his short time planet-bound is that money is important to have, and is what makes important people. How strange, then, that his host had left him with it in abundance, yet not the benefit. Had that money been put to use, things ought not have looked so bleak. Or tiny. Or gross.

Gross no longer. Matty drags himself back up the stairs after paying his dues, new body rather stiff in its motions, but they often are when he first gets the reins. He writes it off as usual, not of importance. Having cleared out all the unsightly residue left for him to wade through, though, he was faced with a new problem: In its absence, there was nothing to replace it. That wasn't befitting of his countenance either. Who could say why "Matthias" was content— or, discontent— to endure emptiness he had all the means to fill, but he would not be satisfied with bare essential minimalism. Rent, utilities, something in the implication of a brain he's never had reminds him. It's as thoughtless of a thought as the beat of his heart. What nonsense. That was no reason to be living this way when he'd managed to turn it flipside for less than two dollars. He isn't sure yet, though, what he ought to replace it all with. This is the first time he's ever had the opportunity to choose.

Third thing's third: the one and only. He needed a makeover more than anything.

* * *

It was love at first sight.

Matty hadn't the slightest idea of what he was looking for when he set out on his little excursion. It was difficult to develop a solid sense of style when your only objective was don't be detected. Something befitting of his stature, of his grandeur. But what did that mean? He isn't sure he's ever seen something worthy to grace his figure. Not until now, that is.

It's bright. It's regal. It's likely leftover stock from Halloween, too obscure or tacky to sell — not that Matty would know. To him, it's perfect. It's flashy. It offers protection in the event his mask dare slip. He has to have it. All of them, lest someone think they can go around parading in his image. He even finds a crown fit for a king, far too small for his head, but it fit just fine around his neck. He'll be taking that, too.

He makes perfect, perilous eye-contact with the cashier when he's completed his hunt. Humans love eye-contact. Silent, unfaltering, unblinking eye-contact. It's one of their favorite pointless exchanges, a hidden battle for dominance. No one is better at it than he is. They cower. They all cower. He's too delighted with his purchase, though, to bother reminding them who won.

He knows he made the right choice as soon as he gets home. Though his walls and floors are woefully barren, at last, he is not. He presses a hand to the mirror he'd scrubbed clean earlier, tip of his claw tapping almost anxiously against the glass as he takes himself in. It'd startled him a bit, seeing himself again. Seeing his hair brushed out, figure no longer lost in loose, baggy clothes ill-fit to his frame. Finally in color, with his towering collar bolstering his thin, wan shoulders. He looks nothing like "Matthias" like this. And everything like him.

The chrysalis he'd just peeled out of swam in a pile at his feet, everything he wasn't, and would never be again. Welcome to the world, Matthias.