Chapter Text
Rodya does not like the Corporal.
And no, not because of his appearance. She would never judge Greg like that!
…Not anymore, at least. Though yes, the wings and the claws and the little twitching legs that sprouted from…everywhere definitely didn’t help. One time she’d accidentally brushed up against him, and some of the smaller limbs had begun grabbing at her coat, sharp enough to snag. She’d snatched her coat away and snapped the limb right off. When she went to apologize, she witnessed the appendage grow right back. The Corporal didn’t react to her apology with anything but confusion.
No, his appearance was off-putting, but she could deal with it. He couldn’t help it, after all. What she couldn’t deal with was his behaviour.
He wasn’t rude - most of the time he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, talk. When he did, he just barked out curt responses to Dante’s orders. The Corporal acted nothing like her Gregor, but he wasn’t an asshole (unlike the Butcher).
But in battle…
In battle, the Corporal was no longer recognizable as Gregor. He wasn’t even recognizable as a person at that point. He acted like a crazed animal, ripping into enemies without care or hesitation, tearing them apart, all the while thrumming those useless, awful wings, filling the air with a hum Rodya felt in her bones. And his face…
Completely slack. Empty. Worse than blind rage or maniacal laughter - just empty. Almost bored.
She’d seen that face before. In the Backstreets, when one was pushed beyond a breaking point, forced past grief or anger and straight into apathy. There was no coming back from that. It was a point of no return - the Rubicon.
Hey, big deal. It’s not like he was the only Sinner with a crazy identity. Hell, even she wasn’t exempt - her N-Corp self was completely fucking insane.
But even she didn’t eat their victims.
That was what she hated. That was the final straw. The Corporal did not just kill - he devoured. Like locust. After dispatching an enemy he would regularly shove his face deep, deep into their guts, ripping out their intestines and devouring it raw, his jaw cracking open into a mess of clutching mandibles.
Rodya had, to put it coarsely, seen some shit. Not much got to her anymore. But cannibalism - that still made her sick to the stomach. It was, to her, representative of the ultimate goal of the upper classes - to have the poor simply eat each other, killing two birds with one bloodied stone. She had seen what lengths someone must be driven to in order to devour another human being. She still saw it, on bad nights, when her room frosted over and the screams outside the window grew too loud to ignore.
So it was reasonable, she thought, to be disgusted by the Corporal’s…‘habits’. She felt no guilt when, as the Sinners sat down for a breather after the latest battle, she purposefully positioned herself as far from Greg as was socially acceptable. Mostly because she wasn’t the only one - while not as repulsed as her, Sinclair had scooted a notable distance away from his colleague, and sat cleaning his halberd next to Yi Sang, who’d also surreptitiously placed some distance between him and Gregor. At least Meursault hadn’t abandoned him.
They’d all come out of their identities, save for Meursault and Gregor. The Großhammer sat staring into the distance, eyes (or, eye) half-lidded, still lost in the drugged-out daze common to all Nagel IDs. She felt sorry for him - it was an awful feeling. Surely even he disliked it, even if he’d never show that. Beside him, Gregor busied himself with…cleaning. Specifically, cleaning the blood off of his claws.
By…licking it off.
She averted her eyes - both out of disgust at the Corporal, and respect for her friend. He couldn’t help what his alternate identities did, after all. None of them could. If he knew what he was doing right now, he’d surely be even more disgusted than her.
Though part of her wondered…were the Corporal’s cannibalistic urges limited to just that identity? She hated herself for even thinking it, but with both the Butcher and the Corporal having such…tastes, Rodya couldn’t help but speculate on what effects Gregor’s metamorphosis might have had on his impulses. After all, she was sure his taste buds had been altered - that was the only reasonable explanation for how he stomached his own food. And…bugs ate each other, right? If pushed to the edge, would even her Gregor resort to cannibalism? Had he done so already?
Her train of thought was interrupted by a sudden sound - the faint impression of glass shattering that accompanied a Sinner shedding their identity. She looked up, saw Meursault was still wearing that awful uniform, which meant-
Ah.
Bad timing.
Gregor was frozen, his face against his insectoid arm, his mouth coated in blood. He stayed like that for a moment, fully taking in what he was doing. Then, he made an awful noise, one that flipped Rodya’s stomach. Something between a retch and a sob. He covered his mouth with his human hand and, with some difficulty, stood up. Rodya and the other Sinners just watched, silent, as he stumbled round Mephi, to the side they couldn’t see.
Sinclair began to get up. Rodya grabbed his coat hem and shook her head.
“I don’t think he wants company right now, babe.”
From the other side of the bus they heard retching. Sinclair sat back down, pulling his knees up to his chest and covering his ears. She could sympathize - the noise was unpleasant, and tempted her own stomach to revolt.
It took a minute or so, but felt far longer. Rodya felt her heart lurch as Gregor rounded the corner. He looked…well, he looked like shit. A thin stream of blood dripped from his nose to join the rivulets running from his mouth. His eyes were red, like he’d been crying. He wouldn’t look anyone in the eyes.
Another glass shattering sound signalled Meursault exiting his identity. Gregor spoke, his voice hoarse.
“Right - we should go back inside.”
Silently, the other Sinners stood up. Sinclair kept his eyes downcast, avoiding Gregor. If Rodya had to guess, he was probably also a little queasy - the kid had a weak stomach. Yi Sang and Meursault simply ignored Gregor, sparing him the indignity of questions.
Only Gregor and Rodya remained. He looked straight at her, as if challenging her to pry.
“Greg…is there anything I can-”
“No.”
“Right. Well, I’m always here if you need to-”
“I know.”
It hurt a little, him acting so cold all of a sudden, but she understood. She pushed past him and boarded the bus, looking back at him, and wondering for a second why his human hand was as coated in blood as his weapon. It was as if he’d used it to…
Well. That was understandable. She only wondered where he’d learned that from.