His legs are already bending backwards by the time he's managed to roll out of the bed, knees clicking strangely as the skin on his legs hardens, thickens, changes colour. It's clearly painful, his palms pressed against the cold floor of the bunk room, fingers twitching as he tries to get to his feet and call out. But his throat tightens, unable to choke out any noise but a sob as they continue to twist and crack, feet morphing into a completely new shape as he moves them, kicking as if he were trying to get away from the inevitable. All that happens is that he kicks out of his shoes, looking down at his newly taloned, 4-toed feet scraping across the floor and blubbing again in abject terror. As if the shape wasn't bad enough, the yellowish hue they're turning makes them start to look even more birdlike, making him feel even more sick with dread. They continue to bend slightly as he writhes, mumbling random words into the floor in a daze - that's when the burning sensation begins. Whimpering as best he can as his throat continues to feel like it's contracting, he yanks at the sleeves on his pyjamas, trying to pull them up so that he can see what's happening. Immediately he wishes he hadn't, quills beginning to puncture his skin, and he lets out a hoarse wail - there's an odd fluttering noise as more of them burst out, feathers sprouting with them. Eventually they hang down like wings from his arms, after he pushes himself across the room, now leaving a trail of blood behind him. They'd be brown and white, but they're stained crimson from the violent way that they escaped from under his skin, and now they're starting to rend holes in his face, too. He lifts a hand up to the door weakly, trying his hardest to reach the open button, when he notice the scratching sound that his fingers are making against the panel. The claws tip him over the edge, and as he lowers his head, sobbing into the floor, the noises he makes when he tries to cry out for help turn into the screeches of a bird.