Come to think of it, I wonder if this qualifies as the weirdest thing I've ever done.

  It's certainly up there, but I suppose whether or not it takes home the gold depends on where I set the bounds of what 'this' is. Drinking tea with a supervillain? Yeah, pretty weird. Drinking tea with a supervillain in the middle of a warzone? Okay, hold on, that's nuts. Drinking tea with a supervillain in the middle of a warzone next to the corpse of the Angel I just killed with the tentacles I can grow out of my body? Alright, now we've hit the top.

  It occurs to me, now that the adrenaline is dying down, that I should probably not be doing this at all.

  "This has been surprisingly nice," I admit, setting my cup back down on the little china plate sized for it. "But I should be getting back."

  "Anastasia and the others are fine," In-Joke tells me, cutting to the core of my worries immediately. "Are fine and will be fine. You have plenty of time to take a load off. You have my word on that, for what little it's worth. I'm not here to distract you from anything you'd actually care about today."

  "Which is to say you are distracting me from something, currently?" I frown.

  "Well maybe, but like I said, you won't actually care," In-Joke shrugs.

  "It also implies you may be intending to distract me in the future," I point out.

  "I can't honestly discount the possibility, yes. You know my type. Such capricious little tricksters, we are. And I will usually have an agenda of some sort, if I come knocking."

  They say it all so blandly, an undertone of self-depreciation oozing through their words.

  "I find it hard to believe you don't have an agenda today," I respond frankly.

  "I know you do, honey," In-Joke sighs.

  I frown. That sounded rather condescending, but it would be stupid to believe anything else, wouldn't it? This is quite a dramatic production. They wouldn't have set up the meeting this way, in such a complicated and dangerous show of confidence, without a good reason.

  "Oh, don't look at me like that," they scowl. "I'm sure we'll have plenty of antagonistic battles of wits in the future if you're so eager for them. But not today, alright? At least not right now. I'm tired and unusually sane. Right now I just want to take the rare opportunity to relax and enjoy a little tea with company."

  I don't answer, conveying my concession with silence and a sip of more tasty spicy water. At the very least, if they do have an agenda, they aren't planning to tell me about it. But for someone so knowledgeable, who does ultimately seem to be willing to talk, this is a tempting opportunity.

  "Do you mind if I ask a few questions?" I prod.

  "...Fine. But I'll only answer if they're good questions."

  What even defines that? I suppose whatever the criteria, it probably doesn't include asking about said criteria. Oh well, just roll with it.

  "Do you have a name other than 'In-Joke' you'd like me to refer to you by?" I ask. "It seems only fair to ask, since you're calling me Julietta."

  In-Joke says nothing, just frowning and looking away as they drink more tea. Alright, not a good question, I guess. Maybe I'll try lightening the mood.

  "Was this furniture all here before you showed up, or did you have to carefully drag it out to my predicted path so you could sit in it dramatically?" I ask.

  They snort, rolling their eyes.

  "You actually kind of care about the answer to that one, don't you?" they ask. "If you don't ask me here you usually end up asking sometime later."

  "It's kind of funny to think about," I admit. "It's quite the fancy setup you prepared for me. Actually, follow-up, how did you heat the tea? I assume the power's down. Did you bring a generator? Start a fire?"

  "You realize that I am almost certainly the most knowledgeable human being on the planet, right?" In-Joke sighs. "That's the purpose of the setup, if you must know. To prove I'm not just hot air and threats. And I know what you're doing here, too. These questions are very cute, very disarming, but we only have so much time to work with here. Skip the social manipulation for once and go for a big one."

  Uh. Huh. Okay. What question is likely to be helpful to know and difficult to figure out elsewhere?

  "What exactly are domains?" I ask. "How do they work?"

  "Hmm," In-Joke hums, sitting up a bit. "Okay, that's a good question. Counter-question: how exactly did you beat that Angel rotting in the street over there?"

  "Uh, mostly by getting him angry enough to engage me in melee combat," I answer. "Why?"

  "How did you get him angry?"

  I frown.

  "I took my best guess at insults that poked at his zealotry. Implied his actions were working in the favor of gods other than Blasphemy."

  "Okay!" In-Joke nods. "So you know about the gods already. That's good. So… those exist. Gods are just straight-up entirely real, in case that was in question. But notably, I don't think they were real. I'm pretty sure they hopped to Earth alongside the first aliens."

  "Makes sense," I nod. "If they're where superpowers come from, and those didn't exist until the moon exploded, it stands to reason the two were connected. I'm assuming the tentacle monster wasn't secretly inside the moon the whole time?"

  "Obviously not," In-Joke waves off. "We landed on the moon nearly a century ago. All our sensors and samples agree: that thing was a solid lump of rock. Personally, my guess is that the first attempted incursion into our universe just got botched and the Grand Queen telefragged herself, but I can't really be sure. This is, admittedly, one of the few areas where even I still need to speculate."

  "Right. Okay. So… the alien gods are real," I prompt, steering the conversation back on track.

  "Ah! Yes. The gods are real. And domains… well, honestly, our name for them is remarkably accurate and, I hear, very similar to the alien word for the same. A domain is something both owned and lived in. They are literal fragments of godhood, in which a piece of the god who gifted them to us resides, and with which we assert sovereign control over some fundamental aspect of reality. In a very real way, we own the part of the world our domain resides in. Everything the metaphorical light touches is our kingdom."

  "So when two domains overlap, the gods have a territory dispute?"

  "More or less, yes," In-Joke nods. "You know how you were paired with Ed in your squad because the two of you have a resonance effect with each other?"

  "Oh, is that why?"

  "Wh—yes, that's why. Of course that's why. It makes both of you more powerful to stand next to each other, the military loves that kind of thing. But ironically, it only occurs because your gods hate each other. When your domains overlap without synchronicity, your gods assume you're trying to fight and each tries to one-up the other. And then bam! More power for their favorite little blorbos."

  Oh. Oh, that's interesting. The Angel said Ed's god was Failure, so I suppose Possibility and Failure don't get along? Let's see… I also had resonance with the Queen and Angels of Blasphemy, which… well, that makes sense, I doubt any of the other gods like Blasphemy.

  "What are 'blorbos?'" I ask.

  "You, you dingus. I'm saying our god likes you. That's why it gave you superpowers. You embody Possibility's values to some degree, or maybe it just thought you looked funny."

  On instinct, I do my best not to outwardly show offense.

  "According to a certain scientist I met, looking funny seemingly is one of the values that decides whether or not someone is… chosen, I guess," I comment.

  "I think it's protagonist syndrome," In-Joke nods. "It's much easier to get the attention of the divine when you're the only person in the classroom with purple hair and a unique model."

  "...What?"

  "Never mind," In-Joke dismisses. "The point is, that's what domains are. Fragments of gods broken off and gifted to us by those gods. They are ours to do with as we please. The more you work with yours, the more you make it yours, the more powerful it becomes."

  "Huh," I frown. "What does that entail, exactly?"

  They just quirk an eyebrow at me. Okay, not a good enough question, I guess. Or maybe they just don't want to help make me more powerful when I'm obviously not on their side. Although, speaking of…

  "Okay. Let's pivot, then. What about you? The first time we met you said the Defenders of Nothing exist more or less to dodge the draft, but considering you know about the end of the world I'm suspecting there's more to it. Am I on the right track?"

  "Perhaps," they answer, which is an answer. "I went to the trouble of founding it, after all."

  "Someone who knows as much as you do could probably get a lot of people working towards a goal of your choosing, if you put your mind to it."

  "But why would I put my awful, awful mind to something?" they ask. "Nothing deserves that."

  "Interesting phrasing," I note. "What do you use the Defenders of Nothing for?"

  "You'll understand that when you get the joke," they smirk.

  "Does it have to do with the God of Nothing?" I ask. "Is there a reason it needs defending?"

  "Ha!" In-Joke laughs. "Well, that's a matter of perspective, I suppose. One could argue that you're defending Nothing right now, and have been for some time. Whether or not that's a good thing is up to you."

  "If I join you, will I find out?" I ask.

  They freeze, teacup halfway to their lips, the occasional flare of nostrils and twitch of a neck muscle the only indication that they're still alive for a solid ten seconds. Something about the situation compels me to stay silent and motionless as well, as if I just started bleeding in front of a very hungry predator.

  "...It doesn't matter," they say. "It's not a decision that you make in these circumstances."

  "You seem to have a lot of confidence regarding what I will and won't do," I frown. "Perhaps I'll surprise you."

  "I know everything about you," they hiss, the clatter of china hitting china ringing out as they place their cup altogether too firmly on its plate. "I know more about you than you do, Julietta! Your present, your future, your past. Everything!"

  The outburst makes me freeze up again, trying to figure out how to navigate that obvious contradiction more delicately.

  "...If that were true," I begin carefully, "if you really can predict exactly what I will and won't do in any situation, then why'd you try to get me to join the first time? Back at the Waffle House. You made your pitch, and you seemed surprised when I said no."

  They don't answer for a long time, staying motionless for a moment before picking their cup back up and taking a drawn-out drink to finish it off. Letting out a long sigh, they look up with an unusually serious stare.

  "Landlocked Queens can't move," they say, ignoring my question.

  "What?" I blink.

  "They can't move," In-Joke repeats. "It's too heavy here on Earth. Each one that comes here is making a one-way trip. Even if the humans and the aliens are willing to negotiate, the Queen can't return whatever land it's lying on back to humanity."

  "...Why are you telling me this?" I ask.

  "I'm saving you the trouble of trying to play negotiator," they answer. "It won't work. It never works. Even if you return to the army and inform them that you have a good chance of negotiating an armistice with the local Queen of Blasphemy—which is absolutely true, I suspect she is quite enamored with you—nothing will come of it."

  "...Okay," I allow for the sake of argument. "Walk me through that. What happens?"

  "You'll be ignored," they answer. "Unless you aren't ignored, in which case you will be suspected, and if you aren't suspected you will be useless. The Queen can't move, but her removal is a non-negotiable issue to the United States military. They will not accept any outcome that involves the local aliens doing anything other than packing up and leaving sovereign American soil. The battle will continue until the Army or the Queen ultimately falls. This is true for every landlocked Queen. Every single one. Even the ones that would happily coexist with humanity if the situation were explained to them."

  "What?" I ask. "Why? I mean, at minimum we could just share the land, couldn't we? The aliens don't even seem to use most of it."

  "And I'm sure you'd be perfectly comfortable living with Behemoth neighbors and a Queen looming out over the horizon, but try to imagine selling the idea for even one second to the propaganda-guzzling American public. Try to explain, to the government of the United States, that your solution involves having people just living unprotected in the middle of a Queen's domain where they can and already have killed countless people just by willing it."

  Oh, god. They're right, aren't they? The only viable solution would be to relocate the Queens to the ocean, but how could we ever possibly do that? They're as large as mountains, and we'd need to move them all at once. It's completely impossible.

  "You cannot stop this war, Julietta," In-Joke decrees solemnly. "But you can decide who wins it."

  What? Oh. That's a concerning prophecy to get dropped in my lap.

  "I find it hard to believe the decision is really in my hands," I tell them frankly. "But at least for this battle, it seems fairly straightforward. The Angels here are sadistic, contrarian maniacs. There's no way I'm choosing them over the good of humanity."

  "Indeed," In-Joke agrees. "But what about when you find a colony that isn't obviously evil? What do you do when humanity insists on forcibly retaking land from people who aren't invaders, but refugees?"

  "Refugees?" I ask. "Like, they're running from a war in their home dimension?"

  "Not quite, but essentially. None of the aliens on Earth could return home if they tried. And some of them probably ought to be exterminated for the greater good, certainly, but some of them are quite pleasant. Much like humans, really."

  "That's not at all a concerning thing to say," I mutter.

  "No? I intend for it to be. You are the singular link between our species. Even if we assembled the world's finest biologists and linguists and chemists all in one place and tried to decode the alien pheromone network, the apocalypse would arrive before we establish a successful method of communication that doesn't rely entirely on you. You are, and have always been, the most important person in the world."

  That's… insane. That's completely insane. Even if they're right and there's no other way to translate between species, how important can I really be if negotiation is as hopeless as they've made it out to be? Do they expect me to fall for… for an absurd ego-filling ploy!?

  "It's true," In-Joke insists. "You're that essential. I think that's probably why I hate you."

  Uh?

  "Pardon?" I ask, a little whiplashed by that sudden turn. In-Joke laughs.

  "Right!" they say, a sudden realization dawning on their face. "That's right! I hate you! I fucking hate you!"

  They continue to giggle, an increasingly unhinged smile splitting their mouth open wide.

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  "Oh, you know, you really should join the Defenders of Nothing! You would be so miserable with us! I'm glad you know how every death in the war now hinges on you. On your damn unearned power. Do you have any idea how infuriating you are? Prancing around, always trying to help people, always just thinking of yourself. So much of this could have been avoided if I had just told you sooner, but I couldn't stand to look at your fucking face! And now you don't even have your face anymore and it's even more excruciating to be around. I could probably get Emily to kill you, that could be fun. Given enough fire, I doubt you'd make it even in your prime. It would be so easy! Just promise myself to murder her if she ever stopped pouring gasoline!"

  "Excuse me!?" I snap, standing up and preparing for a fight.

  "I told you, didn't I? All it takes is conviction, and that girl pulls all of her own strings for you. She'd do it, too. She'd slaughter every last one of you if it was the only way to stay alive. She'd even kill Anastasia. I could make her do that, too."

  I step forward, shifting my arm into a blade and holding it at their throat.

  "Are you trying to get me to gut you!?" I demand.

  "Ha! I don't know! Maybe?" they laugh. "But I probably shouldn't, so your precious little sister can stay safe for now. You should be getting back to her, though. This is a warzone, after all. What the hell have you been doing, sitting here and drinking tea while people die around you? You're an awful person, Julietta Monroe."

  I snarl at them, but they're fucking right, aren't they? What the hell am I doing here? I don't know why I let this nutjob take up so much of my time with their nonsense. I leap up into the sky, once again shifting into a bird to fly off towards the front lines. We still have a battle to finish. The only question is how.

  Hmm. Questions. I've gotten far asking questions today. Why not push my luck?

  "The Thief of Torn Wings requests an introduction," I send, scent glands forming comfortably between my feathers.

  "Request accepted. This unit's designation: Swallower of Virtue."

  "Request accepted. This unit's designation: That Which Rends Joy."

  "REQUEST ACCEPTED. THIS UNIT'S DESIGNATION: CORRUPTER OF ALL CREATION."

  "Request Accepted. This unit's designation: A Cold Flame Tempts Endings."

  One after another, the Angels (and, rather more loudly, the Queen) announce their names and locations to me. I grow larger, giving my body more space for my most recently acquired brain, and information about the state of battle flows into me from all directions. Locating the closest Angel currently in combat, I accelerate towards them.

  Hmm. How do I tell the local forces to fuck off or die?

  "This unit (Thief of Torn Wings) approaches combat area thirteen. Bifurcated order to all area thirteen units: full retreat from combat/remain and be devoured for fuel by this unit. Utilize personal tactical discretion to determine optimal goal pathing."

  There we go, that feels right.

  "This unit (Swallower of Virtue) to Thief of Torn Wings: your authority is not recognized in area thirteen. All area thirteen units: disregard unrecognized orders."

  "This unit to all area thirteen units: my orders remain valid even when disregarded."

  "Confusion!? The recently made statement is false!?"

  "Incorrect," I insist. "Intentionality of obedience is irrelevant to orders given. The future has been narrowed to two possibilities. Utilize personal tactical discretion to determine optimal goal pathing."

  "...Understanding," Swallower of Virtue allows.

  "Delighted amusement!" A Cold Flame Tempts Endings chimes in.

  "CLARIFICATION REQUEST: THIEF OF TORN WINGS INTENDS TO PERSONALLY RESTRICT ALTERNATIVES?"

  "Affirmative," I answer the Queen. I have given my ultimatum. Let's see if it works.

  "DELIGHTED AND ENTERTAINED. FEAST FREELY ON MY CHILDREN. SLAY SWALLOWER OF VIRTUE IF IT PLEASES YOU."

  What!? Jesus, does she just not care?

  "Interjection: repeated intentional sacrifice of forces inevitably pleases Failure," Swallower of Virtue whines.

  "DISREGARDED. FAILURE IS DENIED IF OBJECTIVES CHANGE. BLASPHEMY SUPERSEDES DEATH."

  "Blasphemy supersedes death," That Which Rends Joy agrees.

  "Blasphemy supersedes death."

  "Blasphemy supersedes death!"

  "Bravery is not a value blessed by lesser gods, so there is no Blasphemy in cowardice. Let our guest profane herself upon your corpse if necessary."

  The Angels all roar in approval. They are, apparently, incredibly down to just flat-out let their own people die for the sake of their unique brand of madness. I suppose I'm not complaining.

  "Challenge: retain your cheer during the imminence of Possibility's chosen interfering with your duties," Swallower of Virtue grumbles. Translation: 'bitch I'd like to see you be that excited when it's your life being threatened!'

  "Demonstrate a superior adherence to the tenets if you wish for favor," another Angel counters.

  "The tenets?" I ask.

  As one, a half-dozen Angels answer.

  "Thou shalt not respond in kind."

  "Nor seek purity in body or mind."

  "Thou shalt face thine challenges alone."

  "Thou shalt never need to atone."

  "Thou shalt join more than thou breaks."

  "Thou shalt always leave less in thine wake."

  "Thou shalt acknowledge only what thou can explain."

  "And thou shalt treat falsehood with disdain."

  "AND THOU SHALT EVER TEMPER JOY WITH PAIN!" the Queen finishes.

  "In all things, profane these nine! In all people, evoke only disgust! To Blaspheme is to love what others hate! To embrace what others fear! Never waver from the heart of Blasphemy!"

  Oh cool, they have a whole-ass manifesto. These guys just keep getting more and more cracked in the skull.

  "Such an inconsolable tragedy that the Thief of Torn Wings has received Possibility's blessing," an Angel laments. "To embody our tenets so successfully without any knowledge of them… no doubt Blasphemy would have adored to claim you, if only allowed the chance."

  "A gloriously hideous and wretched thing, to so effortlessly swim in all we hold dear," another agrees.

  "A member of our family in spirit and deed," a third praises me.

  I stay silent, disturbed and offended by their saccharine praise. I can't ask them to stop, as much as I'd like to. Somehow, I think telling them my opinion would only make them happier with me.

  "Advisory: this unit (Thief of Torn Wings) is approaching area thirteen imminently. Utilize personal tactical discretion to determine optimal goal pathing."

  "Suggestion: adjust pathing to area twelve. Engage A Cold Flame Tempts Endings instead of Swallower of Virtue. Justification: A Cold Flame Tempts Endings is a malodorous simpleton, deserving of the scorn of the worthy."

  "Rebuttal: Swallower of Virtue's accusations ring true only on themselves."

  Translation: 'no you.'

  "This unit's intentions have been established," I tell them. "Suggestions will be disregarded."

  Swallower of Virtue's response can only really be described as an irritated harrumph. Sorry, buddy. If you don't want me to eat you you can always just leave.

  My stolen brain feels the change in the air that marks my entry to area thirteen, and so I move to make good on my promise. A decent number of Raptors and Wasps are retreating, and therefore they are to be ignored, but many others remain in the fight. Close to me, I feel a squadron of ambushing Raptors hiding in a home below me, so I swoop down, break through a window, and fall on them with a predator's precision. I don't have any real need to worry about defense; any wounds that they could inflict are more than made up for by devouring their corpses. Those that attack find their blades easily sinking into my skin only to learn that this just makes it easier for me to eat them. Bubbles of flesh grow around my victims in moments, spikes impaling them from several directions before I swallow their bodies whole.

  It's quick, efficient, and delightfully satisfying to my ravenous appetite. I move on to the next group, and the next, all the while confirming my suspicion that the Angel here has decided not to retreat. Which is honestly very annoying. I don't really want to have to kill a second Angel today.

  Ignoring the other Raptors for now, I fly towards Swallower of Virtue, only to find them engaged in combat with Sí Gaoithe and his team. They engage each other in the skies, a whirlwind of rubble surrounding Sí Gaoithe and occasionally launching itself towards the Angel, who responds by opening black voids in the air that harmlessly devour the incoming projectiles.

  Swallower of Virtue themselves is little more than a winged gaping maw, a wide jaw hanging open towards the ground, small insectoid legs emerging from the lips and kicking intermittently between the teeth. Three pairs of translucent wings hold the grotesque beast aloft, one supporting the hinge in the middle and the other two at the edges. Unlike Thief of Divine Love, Swallower of Virtue's power does not seem to assist them at all in the art of flight, leaving them plodding and clumsy in the air, barely capable of staying aloft let alone maneuvering enough to be useful in a fight. Fortunately, what their power does supply is an unyielding defense, effortlessly intercepting every attack from one of the Army's most-renowned wingrippers.

  This seems like it would be an enormous pain in the ass to fight. I'd rather not, if I can avoid it. Shifting into my flight-modified Seraphim form (mostly for Sí Gaoithe's sake, since I don't want to get shot by him), I take a deep breath and shout in two languages at once.

  "Swallower of Virtue, this is your final opportunity not to venerate Failure."

  "Swallower of Virtue, I thought I told you to FUCK OFF!"

  There is a brief pause in the battle as I become the center of attention. Sí Gaoithe stares at me in calculating confusion, as if trying to figure out whether or not I'm a target. Swallower of Virtue hesitates visibly. In reality, I have absolutely no idea if I could beat them in a fight. I can't do much if I don't get close, and not letting anything get close seems to be their power's whole thing. But there is something to be said about simply projecting confidence, and while I'm pretty good at that in human contexts, in the Angel language I am running on easy mode. Simply conveying my intent to kill as a fact is enough to make the Angel decide they don't want to test me.

  "…I will withdraw," Swallower of Virtue concedes. "All area thirteen units, fall back to area six."

  "Booooooo!"

  "Immeasurable disappointment!"

  "Vote to consider this denial of bloodshed unjust in the eyes of Blasphemy? Assertion: yes."

  "Suggestion: rename unit to Swallower of Pride."

  The jeers of the Angel's own allies permeate the air, but Swallower of Virtue still retreats with all due haste, living to blaspheme another day. I watch them go, passing by as Sí Gaoithe fires a few parting shots, stopping only when I approach close enough to have a conversation.

  "Seraphim!? What the hell was that!?" he demands. "Why haven't you been answering your radio?"

  "Acid," I answer succinctly. "All my stuff is trash. You should see the other guy, though."

  "You get him?" Sí Gaoithe asks.

  "Yeah, they're dead," I confirm. "How have things been going here?"

  "Better than usual, honestly," he says. "Did you just make that Angel retreat by yelling at it?"

  "Yeah."

  "Fucking hell," he shakes his head, pulling out his radio. "Control, this is Sí Gaoithe. I have Seraphim here, confirmed alive. Claiming a successful wing rip, chased off my current target as well, over."

  "Copy that. Send her back to base for debrief and resupply. Over."

  "Wilco, Sí Gaoithe out."

  "The other aliens in the area are also retreating," I supply helpfully.

  "'Course they are," Sí Gaoithe sighs. "What, do you speak alien now?"

  "Yep."

  He stares at me. I'm not really sure what he was expecting me to say.

  "Okay, whatever. You heard Control. Get your ass back to the brass."

  "Can do," I nod. "Is the rest of my squad okay?"

  "A couple casualties, but the kid's fine," Sí Gaoithe shrugs.

  Well, that's good. If Anastasia's alive, I did my job. Rising higher up into the air, I shrink back into a bird and fly east, heading for my designated landing zone back at the staging area. What an insane day. It's a bit selfish, but there's a part of me that hopes I don't get sent back out there after the debrief. Objectively, it's probably a bad thing if it happens because there aren't a lot of nice reasons they'd withhold a two-time wingripper from the front lines. I'm just so tired, though. I'd almost prefer suspicion and scrutiny if it meant I didn't have to do any more murder.

  I shift back to Seraphim form when I get close, making the landing approach nice and slow so that nobody feels the need to shoot me. Come to think of it, a surprisingly large number of my decisions are motivated by a desire to not get shot by my own allies. You'd think that wouldn't be a super necessary consideration most of the time, but I guess it's hard to shake first impressions.

  The flat bit of terrain marked off as the powered landing zone has exactly one person waiting for me there. A young woman that, at first glance, appears to be an ordinary soldier, but inconsistencies in that facade quickly start to pile up. She's wearing the full dress uniform, but with the addition of a hip holster and pistol that slightly ruins the entire ensemble. Her long blonde hair flows freely to her shoulders in violation of dress code, and neither her thin body nor her blemishless skin imply the regular exertion part and parcel to a soldier in wartime.

  I touch ground, approaching her given that she's the only other person here and she's staring right at me. The irises of her eyes are ever-so-slightly larger than it seems like they should be, and once I notice I can't unsee it, every glance at her face becoming a deep blue dive into uncanny valley. I reach out my domain, insatiably curious about whatever might be going on under her skin, but of course I run into a domain.

  It is an all-consuming certainty, a declaration of uncontestable truth. It is, I suddenly recognize, a domain of Perfection, a power that claims to know the ultimate state of the universe and intends to create it. To my stolen brain it is particularly repulsive, and my domain agrees, bubbling with resonant power.

  "Come with me," the young woman orders, neither her voice nor expression betraying a hint of emotion. "I will escort you, Seraphim."

  "Understood…" my eyes rove over her uniform for some indication of rank, and I realize that's yet another thing missing. "…Ma'am?"

  She declines to clarify, simply turning and walking away from the landing zone. With her eyes no longer staring at me, her domain watches me instead, spreading out to wrap around me as if to contain me within. It's not a weak domain, but it's far from the most powerful I've encountered. It's more average than anything, but I have no way to know exactly how much that matters, and the implicit threat is as clear as if she had drawn her gun.

  She leads me to one of the many tents set up around the area, ducking inside. An older colonel and a younger chief warrant officer are chatting inside in low tones. Their conversation halts immediately when we enter, both of the men gliding their eyes up and down my technically-naked body before actually noticing the person escorting me. Both of them react with visible surprise and fear.

  "Presenting Warrant Officer Lia Morgan, codename Seraphim," the woman announces me. I quickly stand in parade rest, a bit confused as to why I'm not announcing myself. Some kind of protocol is going wonky here, and it's all because of this lady.

  "…Danielle?" the CWO asks. "I wasn't aware you were deployed here."

  "I have been instructed to maintain an escort for Seraphim."

  "By who?"

  "I have been instructed to maintain an escort for Seraphim."

  I take it that this is a bad sign. It would appear that someone has sent their personal boogeyman to ensure I don't eat the base, and everyone is even more scared of her than they are of me. That's arguably a good thing, as it means most of the brass hasn't completely lost all faith in my sanity, but somebody has clearly lost a lot of it. The two officers exchange concerned looks.

  "I'll find out who gave the order," the colonel states. "In the meantime, let's proceed with the debriefing. Seraphim, did you not consider showing up in uniform?"

  "Destroyed in combat against the Angel, sir," I tell him. "I could grow more feathers if this is too immodest."

  "…It's fine," he allows, clearly preferring to continue ogling me. I don't really mind; if people are going to think I'm an Angel anyway I'll benefit as much as I can from the halo effect. "You got the thing, at least?"

  "Yes sir. The Thief of Divine Love has been eliminated."

  The colonel looks slightly baffled, but the CWO leans in, laser-focused on me.

  "The 'Thief of Divine Love?'" he asks. "Why did you call it that?"

  "That's their name," I shrug. "Or I suppose it was their name."

  "Are you implying that you spoke to the Angel?" he presses.

  "I spoke with a lot of aliens," I admit. "I'm getting increasingly fluent at it."

  "You spoke to multiple Angels?"

  "Yes sir, and Raptors, and Wasps, and the Queen. She's quite talkative, actually. Also batshit insane. Sir."

  For the first time, the colonel glances towards the girl who escorted me and actually relaxes a little.

  "What reason do we have to believe any of this is true?" he asks.

  "Well, I told the Angel Sí Gaoithe was fighting to leave, and they listened," I answer. Honestly, I'm not really sure why I'm divulging everything like this. Part of it's probably because I want to prove In-Joke wrong, to assert that it is possible to be taken seriously as a communicator and negotiator. Part of it is probably because I'm eighty percent Angel brain and I just have an instant question-answering instinct that for some reason I haven't suppressed. Part of it is because trying to hide it any longer would probably just get increasingly silly. I killed an Angel and made friends with their Queen. The entire battlefield moves around me when I want it to. Better to control the narrative surrounding what I am and what I can do than to let people catastrophize in ignorance.

  "Could you do it again?" the colonel asks.

  "Maybe?" I hedge. "I am not asserting direct control over anything. I just have the ability to talk to them. This particular colony of aliens happens to be a bunch of mad zealots, and frankly they are… really easy to manipulate? Their obsession with their own insane philosophy is more important to them than actually winning any battles, so I did my best to take advantage of that."

  "It sounds… unreliable," the colonel frowns.

  "It sounds like it could change everything," the CWO grins.

  "Personally sir, I expect it is probably both," I report. "I believe alliance negotiations with alien factions to be genuinely possible. Potentially even this faction, though I'm not sure whether or not that would actually be desirable."

  "And how, exactly, did you figure out an entire alien language that our best linguists have been unable to even confirm the existence of?" the colonel interrogates. And this, I have to admit, I don't have a very good answer to.

  "It… just sort of comes to me while I'm incorporating part of an alien's form?" I hedge. It's not even a lie, as much as it probably sounds like one. I didn't learn the language, I didn't 'figure it out,' I just… know it.

  "You take the form of aliens?"

  "I… yes sir, I have been for some time? My powers allow me to hybridize from a variety of sources, as… well, as evidenced."

  I flex my wings, focusing the many eyes on them to stare in his direction all at once.

  "That's part of how the PR team chose my name," I continue. "I use Angel parts a lot. They're often well-optimized."

  Despite my entirely reasonable explanations, the colonel seems more and more perturbed as I continue to speak, so I forcibly cut myself off there. Was this guy not briefed on me? There's no way, right? Perhaps the same information just feels a lot different when it's coming directly from the mouth of the half-alien hybrid standing in his makeshift office.

  It's quite common, after all, for people who have heard of my powers to still seem shocked and disturbed after seeing them in action. Jazz is a particularly noteworthy example, and while she got over it pretty fast I'm sure there are plenty of people who never did. The more I develop my powers, the more fluid and dangerous my shapeshifting becomes, the more I start to understand why the military might have an irrational fear of me. I just have to prove those people wrong through my actions, because what else can I do?

  "Warrant Officer Morgan here has ripped her second pair of wings today," the CWO chimes in, clearly also picking up on the uncomfortable atmosphere. "I think that's more cause for celebration than anything, don't you?"

  I'd want to thank him if not for the hungry look in his eye, the way he judges me more like a prize than a person. Chief Warrant Officers of his rank are usually specialists and consultants in some field or another, experts of some esoteric knowledge or skill that a commanding officer might need to efficiently perform their duties. I don't know what this man's specialty is, but it clearly has his mind churning with the exciting possibilities that I enable. I'm sure my god must be proud of me.

  "…Yes, I suppose you're right," the colonel agrees unconvincingly. "I think we will place Seraphim on standby for now. Do take advantage of the opportunity to rest while we… confirm a few lingering questions."

  I want to grab him by the throat, shake him, and yell 'I'm not an alien spy!' in his face, but that seems unlikely to be productive so I take his dismissal for what it is and excuse myself with a brief "sir." My Perfection-aligned handler follows me.

  "Your name is Danielle, if I heard correctly?" I ask her.

  "I am Danielle," she confirms.

  "Do you have a last name? A rank? Superhero name?"

  "…I am Danielle," she denies.

  Cool. Cool cool cool. Super glad the fucked-up black ops agent is involved. I think I'm going to go ahead and assume talking about this girl with my squad will get me severely disciplined in a manner that somehow never makes it onto the books. Maybe that's too paranoid, but I've yet to actually encounter a situation where I've been too paranoid so far.

  "What are your powers?" I ask casually. Like this is just a normal conversation and not with someone super creepy and suspicious.

  The girl tilts her head just enough to glance at me out of the corner of her eye, the oversized crystal blue threatening to swallow me whole.

  "I am Danielle."

  Part of me wants to assume the repetition is just automatic, but she's said other things. She has responded coherently to questions. I don't think that was a failure to communicate.

  I think that was her honest answer.