Page 21 of You Weren't Meant to Be Human
Crane nods into the pillow.
Levi pats the wall twice. “Good,” he says, and walks out.
As soon as the apartment door thuds shut, though, Crane is up. Dragging himself out of bed, reeling against morning sickness even though it isn’t morning,unfair. He hits the bedroom door too hard and stumbles into the hall.
He yanks open the linen closet.
His testosterone. Levi said he’d gotten rid of anything he could make a mess with. Anything he could hurt himself with.
Did his needles—
Levi’s never had an issue with him being on hormones, but Aspen said it’d be a good idea “just in case” so yes, he keeps his injection kit hidden. Split up, too. Three weeks’ worth of supplies in a glass Tupperware behind two plastic organizers in the linen closet, with extra syringes under a set of towels, a box of sharps at the bottom of his go bag, the vials themselves in his sock drawer. Crane shoves aside the mess of cleaning supplies and extra toilet paper and reaches down into the spiderweb-choked nook behind the organizer drawers.
There. There it is. He pulls it out, peels off the lid, and counts every piece, heartbeat slowing from its tachycardia pace: 18-gauge needle; 25-gauge needle; syringe; sterile alcohol swabs; Band-Aids. All still here.
Just to make sure, he pops open the tiny cardboard box holding the vial and holds the medication up to the light.
Testosterone is an unassuming clear liquid in a nondescript medical bottle. If there’s a tint to it, that depends on the bulbs in the light fixtures. There’s only a bit left.
It’s here. It’s okay. And, even after everything, it’s shot day.
He’s not missing a dose—no way in hell.
Except the man with the worms in his head makes that boar-grunt noise.
Crane crams the vial back into the box. The man is standing at the end of the hall, where it spits out into the living room. No hood or neck gaiter anymore. Only his smashed-flat face and veiny arms and ripstop pants, like he just walked off a shift at the garage.
Seeing him in the light is strange. He wasn’t meant to be looked atin full visibility; it betrays the frayed edges where he’s unraveled or wasn’t put together right in the first place. Gaps on the tips of his fingers where nails should be but aren’t, atrophic scars peppering dents in the skin. Hell, with the egregious lack of living movement that isn’t the awful puppet-jerk of, what, a worm manually tugging a tendon, any civilian would have alarm bells ringing at fifty paces.
Keep an eye on you, Levi said.
What is this son of a bitch, then. Besides a stranger who shouldn’t exist. Who speaks like a swarm and holds worms between the layers of his body like a hive.
Ishe a hive? A bizarre middle ground between the worms and their prey?
Hives understand their people.
The man reaches for the Tupperware with his bare calloused hands, the veins in the wrist searching for a more comfortable position, so fuck it. Crane does the stupid thing and holds it out to him.
Look, the motion says. The man tilts his head curiously, as if the supplies inside make more sense at an angle. Look, it’s medication. Most everyone takes medication at some point. (Crane has no idea what effects testosterone will have on a larva, on that embryonic grub inside him. He also has no idea if the thing in front of him knows either.) It’s nothing to worry about. If it’s anything, it’s proof that he isn’t built for this anymore. Build a body of evidence. It’ll be best for everyone if the hive takes it all back, lets him flush the baby out, puts everything back how it was. No hard feelings.
Here, he’ll even show him.
Crane gestures for the man to follow, then eases past—come on, let’s fetch an ice pack from the freezer, and a paper towel for a placemat. Sit on the floor. If he wants to see the boy he’s here to surveil, wants to get to know him, this is the best way to do it.
The kitchen tile is cool and welcoming, and the man watches.
The man needs a name. He doesn’t have dog tags like Levi, and Crane doesn’t recognize him, doesn’t keep tabs on people in the surrounding hives, if that’s what he even was before he was this. And labeling himDavidorSteveor whatever would be borderline comical.Hey, have you seen that giant freak with literal fucking worms inside him? Oh yeah, John’s right over there.
Crane lands onStagger, then. The way he walks, the rigor mortis marionette of it all. The kind of thing a zombie movie would call its zombies when they’re contractually obligated to avoid the z-word. Stagger. It suits him.
So Crane sets out one of each item—except the disinfecting alcohol swabs, two of those—and lets Stagger inspect them up close. Injecting looks scary, but it’s not that bad. He takes extra care cleaning the top of the vial, locks the 18-gauge needle onto the syringe, and draws out less than his official dose.
Stagger eyes it and Crane spreads his fingers to give him a better view.
He doesn’t have a lot of testosterone left. Aspen’s been helping with the procuring side of things, but still; a rash of manufacturer recalls, the hive-provided ID nearly getting caught at a pharmacy, his first endocrinologist dropping every trans client with a simpering email about a new law. Plus, getting a refill is a nightmare if you don’t talk. Aspen has to make the phone calls, and every pharmacist is on the verge of ringing up the prescriber in a fit of disgust—Is this mute mentally competent? Who allowed an overgrown child to destroy her body this way?Crane has a few months’ in reserve, but after that. It’ll be tough.
Crane swaps the imposing 18-gauge needle for a smaller one and lifts it to the kitchen light to check for bubbles and impurities. None. Good.
