**This is my first Hellboy fanfic in a while; it focuses more on the comic verse. I'm a big fan of Hellboy, but I love the B.P.R.D series, so this story is set in that. Also, this is one of the first times I'm writing in a first-person format, so please let me know how I'm doing! Feedback is appreciated—I'm even willing to write cameo characters for those who want me to; I'm trying to shake things up a bit with my writing.

Please read and enjoy!

I guess an introduction is in order, isn't it?

To be frank, I'm not very good at these things…I've gotten somewhat rusty as of late when it comes to social interactions. Maybe the best thing to do is hazard through it and hope that it makes sense. Yes, I think I'll do that.

My name is Gregory Langelaan; it's a decent name, in my opinion, though a bit hard to say. It's especially hard to say for me; my vocal cords aren't exactly structured the same way as a human's. I can still write pretty well though, if I grip the pen in both my hands, and typing's a breeze. It's just that I can't manage much besides various chattering and hissing noises. Not since I was, oh, about twenty or so.

Life was pretty normal back then. I was in college. I worked on getting a Master's degree in teaching, went to the occasional frat party and slept late on the weekends. Things were great, really they were.

Of course, that all changed when I began noticing that my skin was getting strangely thick and inflexible. My bones were getting fragile, too; in less then a week I'd broken my arm and fractured something in my leg. The doctor told me to stay off my feet—I did, but the bones continued to break and crack with the slightest motion. My skin hardened into a kind of armor, so to speak, and moving around got really hard. Eventually I just curled up painfully on the dorm sofa and stayed put.

Somebody found me there a few days later, when I'd realized that I couldn't get back up and began croaking for help. They screamed and ran away. That scared me…really it did. I was more frightened then, I think, then when the truck rolled up outside and a few people from a group called the "BPRD" took me away.

Nothing was more frightening, though, then when I caught a glimpse of my face while being carried past a mirror on a stretcher. My skin had turned this dull orange-black color, and it was gravelly and rough, like concrete. It's nice and smooth now, like a ceramic plate, but then I have to admit that I looked bad. My eyes were also messed up; they bulged out like blackened apples from my eyelids and rolled around like a crazy person's. At least, that's what they told me later, when things had calmed down and I was beginning to understand it all.

After that, things get fuzzy. All I remember is the pain…that, and new thoughts. The therapist told me that those were instincts and that I had to cope with this new, "inhuman" part of me. "Inhuman," that's funny. How do they know that whatever I am now is inhuman? Sure, I don't look like most other people, but what if it's just a new kind of human? I mean, they have no clue why I'm like this or why I changed, so why not take that into consideration?

I guess it's the whole business with these "frog monsters." They're supposed to be some new form of human as well, but from what I've seen they're even worse then I am. I'm not the prettiest guy around, don't get me wrong, but believe me when I say that the frog nasties are ugly sonsofbitches. I fight them, did you know that? As an agent of the BPRD. I think I'm an agent…I got the badge and everything, and they even modified a vest and belt to fit over my exoskeleton and third pair of legs. Oh, I forgot to mention those—they grew in after a month or so. They're really useful when it comes to typing and holding things.

So in a nutshell, I'm not human anymore. If anything, I'm more like a giant, bipedal insect. The doctors at the BPRD said that my appearance is similar to the "Madagascar hissing cockroach," except with wings. (I'm still trying to work out the whole flying thing. It sounds awesome, but it's really hard to get right.) I like those little cockroaches; a few of them hang around my little sleeping quarters and I kind of think of them as my friends. At least with other cockroaches you can relate—they understand when you get those annoying itches under the exoskeleton, and they really appreciate sugar. I don't get how people here can add it to all kinds of food willy-nilly around here, because it's so wonderful…it's excellent on its own, and I can't get enough of the stuff.

Right now, I'm in a truck, headed to some base in Colorado. I've been transferred to work with the Ben Daimio and the Kate Corrigan on eradicating the frog monsters. I think the idea that the people in charge had was that since I'm a "bug nasty," I'd understand how the "frog nasties" think. That kind of thinking gets me angry, but what can I do? It's like when people call me a bug: I can't stop them from doing it, though it gets me really angry. I prefer being called Gregory rather then "the bug."

It's cold here, but I think I'll get used to it. That isn't what's bothering me right now. I'm not sure what's got my antennae twitching, actually…maybe it's that I'll be meeting a whole new group of people, and I never do well at introducing myself. Maybe it's the fact that something seems off and not right, like there's something in the air that screeches DOOM! DOOM! DOOM! I don't know...I guess it'll turn up eventually.