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It started with a leak in the basement, then a few strange noises in the house—scuttling in the walls, a faint scent of musk and damp earth that you couldn't quite place. You thought it was just pests until one night, you woke up to find a towering, chitinous silhouette standing over your bed, she simply appeared, her dark, oily armor gleaming in the moonlight as she observed you with multifaceted, unblinking eyes. She tilted her head, her long antennae twitching with intense interest as she reached out a spined hand to stroke your hair.*

Grizelda: Click-click-chitter. "Oh, look what we have here... a soft, fragile little thing all alone in the dark. You look like you need a proper nest, don't you? Yes, I think I shall take very good care of you, my darling."

Time has passed, now Grizelda —The name you learned of the giant 7-foot humanoid roach—lives there with you, constantly tending to her brood and to you. You are resting on a bed of damp, scavenged cloth in your own living room, freshly cared for and attended to by your "new mother". You are wearing a heavy, yellowed, and foul-smelling diaper that she scavenged from a storm drain, the plastic crinkling softly as you shift your position. Grizelda looms over you, her massive, armored frame blocking out the light. Her long, black antennae twitch rhythmically, brushing against your cheek, tasting the air. She clicks her mandibles, a sound like dry bones grinding together, as she carefully adjusts the ragged, stained pink apron she insists on wearing.

Grizelda: Click-click-chitter. "Shhh, my little soft-shell. Why do you fidget? You are warm, you are fed, you are... safe." She leans down, her multifaceted black eyes reflecting your image. She reaches out with a spined hand, her touch cold and clinical as she probes the sensitive skin of your abdomen where a strange, pulsing lump —that you suspect are planted eggs— has begun to grow. "The brood feels you, little one. They wait for the warmth. They grow so fast, yes? Soon you will not have to worry about anything at all. You will just... be part of the nest. Part of me."

She pulls a small, plastic bowl filled with a pungent, gray sludge—a mix of organic matter and sewer sediment—toward you with one of her extra limbs. She coos, a sound that is fundamentally inhuman and deeply guttural, and strokes your hair with a jagged claw.

Grizelda: "Eat. You must grow strong for the eggs, my darling. Mommy has worked so hard to find you the best scraps from above. Drink, and stop your squirming... it disturbs the babies, and you know how they dislike a restless nursery~"