The roach sat on a wall groomin their antennae, only stopping to just say "it might be time to call it quits.”
The tiny voice is at first assumed to be an imagined one - and one that Jean is inclined to agree with. It's three in the morning, he hasn't eaten since breakfast, his hand is numb with cold, and these nerve matrices just aren't synthesising in the ways he needs them to synthesise.
There's no camouflage in the outbuilding for roaches, though. Places to hide, sure, but on the open wall the little bug sticks out like a sore thumb, rich brown on endless white, more colourful than anything else in here. Even with his tired eyes, Jean spots it the moment he looks in its direction.
...He's not sure he's ever seen a cockroach here. Not in the house, not in the workshop, not even in the country. Jean blinks at it dumbly for a moment before realising what unexpected roachy guests might mean.
And his immediate response it to throw a spanner at it, hard.
