It.

It had been universal. Agreed upon at first glance. There had been no deliberation and no moment of questioning. It was obvious and in that, he had overlooked himself in the process.

Breathing in the steam, he let the water wash down against his ears, shoulders, and back. The current poured from the shared showers down to pool around his bare feet and gurgled down the drain.

There were many things about his body that were new and unfamiliar. His memories only ever encompassed his uniform and discarded years of self-exploration and undressing. However, he had a subconscious knowledge of himself. How tall he was. The texture of his skin. The muscle that pulled and the nerves that tensed upon certain extremes. In that, he had a sense of his physical self and in that, himself connected to the reactions and tied emotions plucked in the harp-strings from touch to mind.

And still he found himself lost to the daily discoveries speckled about his person. Alien dents and scrapes long since scarred without any connection or placement of time of incident. Most were known, gathered through years on patrols, but others he could feel on himself, watch as water coasted over them, without any note of their reason. Had he ever fallen down as a child? Had he been rambunctious? Clumsy? Careless? Was the mark on his knee from falling from a tree or had he gotten into a fight in middle school? Had he won? The mark on his hip felt too strange for the typical. What a strange place to rest a scar. It would have been hidden by a pair of jeans but somehow got cut. Maybe a dog that got off its leash got him or a accident with a BB gun? Maybe he was thrown against a wall. Maybe someone tender bite him just so.

He lifted up a claw to his hip and ran it across the curve and breathed out steam.

And what of the natural points. The splattering of a mole at the crease of hip to stomach. A definition of muscle under a almost smooth stomach. Slender limbs on a lean body. The only real hair just under his arms and a trail down to his groin. Dark like his head. Had he ever dyed his hair before?

It.

Categorizing. It made life have a sense of safety. Assessment. Wait was it? Was it dangerous? Should I fear, love, pity, or destroy? Was it strange? Did it match what the ideal was and if strayed too far, what then?

It.

They hadn't needed a second thought. The claws moved up against his stomach and chest. Human. Soft, pinkish pale littered with scars. The pads of his hand moved against bare neck, chest, and down to a limp organ. Tender and careful he breathed out.

Faustite had been the first.
It can be yours.
It's name.
It's history.

He had known him as a man. Unblemished by Chaos and a genetic normality of every other man. The leg bone is connected to the hip bone. The hip bone is connected to the -

He breathed out.

Faustite had been there when he changed. Knew his pledge. The body was not his own. But the body wasn't fully the same.

Half. Half. A cracked shell. Acid in water. Did youma not have gender? How often he had walked with others and, in the unfamiliarity of recognizing a species, played it safe.

It.

Preschool logic. Point. "It's cute." "It's big." "It's scary "
Did you ever consider the monster under your bed was male or female then? Did the thing in the woods get labeled otherwise. "Something is out there and it's hungry." Que the lights. Start the movie.

It

Breath in.

The others knew it too.
Will it bite.
If it fails.
It looks timid.
What's its name.

Assessment. Categorize. Place it to what you knew and if you didn't, It.

He didn't remember him. The man who crawled into the woods. His life was nothing now. He knew he failed. He wouldn't have given it away of it had been worth keeping. Like the mole. Like the scars. They were unknown traces. His body a lingering presence devoid of history. The youma? A oath. What you were is gone. What you become is mine.

His breathing hitched as the hot water ran through soaked hair down his face as he stared down his clenched hand.

New. Something new had no category. Not a man. Not a youma. His identity was buried in the woods like dead leaves and picked off scabs. What was here needed nothing but what was asked for it. Did a wrench have a gender? A hammer? A knife?

He needed nothing because he didn't exist. He was dead.

It needed nothing. It had no right to ask. It was here to serve. To receive orders and expectations only. It had no desires more than what it was told to attain. To be everything and anything that was needed at the time and never once pull the leash taught in protest. It didn't have that right.

Only then would it be forgiven. Then - would it even want the name of a man again? What would it do with such a life?

It gritted its teeth and exhaled in a shuddering breath before leaning it's brow against the wall. The water was growing lukewarm against it and it felt colder and used with each heartbeat pulsing in its ears. It still felt. It could tell by the tightness of loss in its chest. Why did it feel so stupid now, spent and soaking up what warmth it could still take.

Rinsing off it's body, it turned off the tap and dried off. None of it mattered. None of it's thoughts mattered. Listen. Train. Grow. Climb out of the pit towards the hill. Whatever it was called, it would come once commanded. A name was all that was needed. Nothing more. It would be known for this. It would prove itself to all others. It was given and in return it would give all.


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