Billy grunted as he woke. His shoulder ached like hell, and his elbow wasn't much better. He remembered injuring the latter - even Titan's bones and joints weren't strong enough to survive elbowing a vault door completely unscathed - but he had no clue about the shoulder. Given the odd way his elbow was angled, it might even have been self-inflicted; some awkward pose he'd lain in that had aggravated the muscles.

Wearing nothing but a pair of boxers with slightly strained elastic - his shirt and pants had been, as usual, too badly torn during the transformation to be salvaged - he padded barefoot against an apartment floor that were he more awake would have been disgustingly sticky. Fortunately, his subconscious was in control, and his powers managed to modify the soles of his feet enough to spare him the discomfort. He scratched idly at his chest as he wandered into the kitchenette, hauled open a cupboard, retrieved a box of cereal that the artwork suggested was supposed to be for children - his transformations burned a lot of calories, and that was the excuse he was sticking to - and dumped it into a bowl. The fridge creaked open, and his eyes settled on an almost total lack of milk. His mouth smacked a couple of times and his eyes blinked with tired slowness, as if somehow he could will milk into existence.

Idly, he contemplated the orange juice as an alternative. It might not be so bad; and even if it was, he could always reprogram his taste buds to make it tolerable. His gaze lingered longer.

With a half-hearted sigh he swung the door closed, holding the bowl in one hand while the other shovelled dry cereal into his mouth half a fistful at a time. He turned, setting a course for the sofa.

He stopped.

Frowned.

"You're a girl," he observed aloud, around a mouthful of Marvel-o's.