The shock and surprise running through me feels… misplaced. Thinking about it for a moment, it's only reasonable that the military would have captured a few aliens. It wouldn't even be that hard. Someone like Commander could just walk up to one and walk back with it, but even without powers aliens are just… organic beings. They can be disabled, knocked unconscious, maimed, tied up. Culturally, the aliens have an almost mythological air about them: unknown invaders from an unknown world slowly wiping out humanity has a good deal of fictional precedent, after all. But in reality, they're just animals.

  I swallow, glancing over at a glass operating theater where a Raptor is being vivisected inside. They are just animals, right? God, I hope they're just animals.

  "A lot to take in, isn't it Ms. Morgan?" Dr. Bovary asks. "I didn't take you for the squeamish type, though."

  I glance at him, the pleasant smile on his face static in that fake way of someone putting on a mask. The soldiers escorting us are tense. And just now Dr. Bovary asked permission to call me Lia but still referred to me with the professional distance of 'Ms. Morgan.' Red flag, red flag, red flag. This is a test.

  Worse, I'm not sure what the right answer is. Obviously, they still aren't one hundred percent certain that I'm human, and a human wouldn't be feeling empathy for the monsters trying to wipe out our species right now. Right? Is that the problem here? I flick my many eyes around to take in more of what's going on and oh my god that's the problem here I'm living up to my moniker as Angelface like an absolute moron. I return to Lia standard and try to talk like nothing happened.

  "Not squeamish, it's just like you said. A lot to take in at once," I tell him. Time to change the subject. "Do you speak any other languages, Nick?"

  He smiles.

  "I'm fairly competent in French," he answers, so I shapeshift back into him, brain and all.

  "Say something," I ask him.

  "Something," he answers with a smirk, but the actual noises coming out of his mouth sound more like 'cake L shows.'

  "Yeah, wow, I understood that," I say, frowning when I realize I'm still speaking in English. Come on, French, French, French. How do I say things in French? The brain knows, so follow the brain. "Testing, testing, one two thirty-four. Okay, yeah, here I go."

  God, what a weird experience. I can feel my body moving and speaking the things I intend to say, but every sound that comes out is a complete surprise. Oh geez, if I copy someone who doesn't speak English, will I forget how…? Wait, no, of course I won't. Raptors obviously don't know how to speak English, but I've done it with a Raptor brain plenty of times. So whatever keeps my personality between shifts also keeps my skills, which… makes a lot of sense. I guess I basically already knew that.

  "Well done, well done," Dr. Bovary smiles. "Perhaps this will be even easier than expected."

  "Perhaps it will," I admit. I suppose I did start to figure out how to speak Angel mid-battle, way back when. I wasn't even trying to, but I still caught a lot of conversation. "Well, want to just give me the tour? We could go straight to the Angel stuff, but I'd kind of like to head around and pick up all the new forms you have access to. All of my alien bodies are from the same incursion right now, so I'd love to compare notes."

  "Oh? Sounds reasonable enough," Dr. Bovary grins. "Do you think the differences are significant?"

  "They could be," I say. "Alien colonies don't work together much, right? So presumably, the Angel forms I have from Chicago won't be able to order around worker bodies from other hives. I'd like to see what all the options are before we commit to too much testing."

  "Well, I suppose you'll need to know your way around the place at some point or another, so it may as well be now," he shrugs. "Generally speaking though, I'm the type who prefers to jump right into things. The scientific process is all well and good, but the thing about war is that it tends to put people on a bit of a time limit. We just don't know what that limit is."

  Three years. But of course, I don't say that out loud.

  "I think the quick method in this instance would be just dumping me into the tank and seeing if I get attacked, so I'd rather have at least a little while to psych myself up for that."

  He laughs and starts leading me through the room, passing next to every tank that has an unfortunate occupant so I can brush against them with my domain. Fittingly enough, all of the alternate forms of the various creatures I pick up tended to have far shorter blades than the ones from Division. They also tend to be slower, bulkier, and stronger, with the exception of Raptors who always have an emphasis on speed. The Wasps in particular have nearly no crystalline formations at all, their acid glands and acid projection systems far more developed in contrast. It's actually really uncomfortable to know that my biggest fears out of all the aliens are usually worse than the ones I'm used to encountering.

  As we walk, I subtly grow myself that classic alien sensorium I used to check the positions of all the monsters stalking us back in the incursion. To my surprise and concern, it seems primarily confused regarding where everything is. I can tell that aliens are around, but even when I'm right next to them, looking through the glass, whatever sense I used back in the incursion zone still yields an inexact position. I swap over to the new sensoriums I'm picking up from these new bodies and get more or less the same result.

  "Are these rooms airtight?" I ask.

  "They are, yes," Dr. Bovary confirms.

  "Then I guess it's a pheromone system," I hum.

  "Oh? You've been figuring all that out already?" he asks. "I hadn't even noticed you change."

  "It's hidden under my hair, mostly," I admit. "It's just alien noses and stuff. They have a bunch of them."

  "Around the circumference of the main body, yes," Dr. Bovary nods. "That's so fascinating. I've been impressed with the degree to which you've been able to mix various features, but your ability to integrate neurological information is of particular interest to me. It's such a shame that your medical providers couldn't find a way to get a proper set of MRIs."

  Uh oh. Is he honestly disappointed or is he onto me?

  "Well, hopefully there's not too much of a need to know exactly how I work. Powers are pretty crazy. As long as they can help me protect people, the how and why are kind of secondary."

  "You're quite right, unfortunately," Dr. Bovary sighs. "I suppose we might never know."

  "I suppose not," I answer flatly. Topic change, topic change. "Do you have any food here? The more I eat, the better my power works."

  "Ah! Yes, your file mentions an increased metabolism. We do have meals available if you'd like to get a quick bite before we get started. Science should never be done on an empty stomach!"

  I manage to smile a little. God, what a dangerous weirdo.

  "I'd like that, yeah."

  The food in this underground black site turns out to be mushy, processed, and oversaturated with a single flavor, just the way I like it. I have decided that gravy gets to go on the list of foods I really, really like—and yes, I understand that gravy isn't really a food so much as something you put on food, but soaking everything in thick enough gravy that it all tastes the same is my new favorite way to consume basically any meat.

  "Huh," Dr. Bovary says, watching me eat. "You are really going at that Salisbury steak."

  "It's really good!" I insist between bites.

  "See, that, more than anything else I've heard about you doing, makes me think you're secretly an alien infiltrator," he says, and I freeze. "I can't imagine any way you could think this food is good unless you've had nothing but regurgitated Queen spit for your entire life."

  "U-um," I sputter, desperately trying to think of something to say. Is it really that weird? How the heck am I supposed to play this off without bringing attention to the truth? No, wait, quit freaking out, Julietta. It was a joke. He was joking! "I've always had a pretty weird sense of taste, I guess. I like it when flavors and textures are simple and consistent."

  He blinks, and then suddenly busts out laughing like I've said the most hilarious thing possible. What? What did I do wrong?

  "Oh my god," he wheezes. "All that stuff in your file, all the abnormal emotional ranges and goal-obsessed outlooks and pathologically detached approaches to social interaction… you're not a damn spy, you're just autistic!"

  "What!?" I bristle. "I'm not…"

  Wait. Wait! He's handing me an excuse. If he thinks this explains everything, then just roll with it!

  "...I mean, I've never been diagnosed," I mutter, shoving another bite of food in my mouth. He laughs some more.

  "Oh man, that's hilarious. Military incompetence at its finest, really. I mean, you're obviously hiding things, but you're even more obviously human. As strange as you are, the military needs to get over whatever moronic assumption they have that expects powered folks to be normal. Did you know that minority groups are substantially more likely to get powers than majority groups?"

  "Uh… no, I didn't," I admit. "Minority by what definition?"

  "Yes! Great question!" he grins, pointing at me excitedly. "If you view the term too narrowly you'll still get some interesting data, of course. Race is the obvious one that got everyone looking in the first place: there are naturally more caucasians with powers than anything else in America, but per capita it's Native Americans, African Americans, Asian Americans, and so on that gain powers most commonly. In other countries, on other continents, it's the opposite—the exact race you are doesn't matter so much as how common it is wherever you happen to live. That's interesting, but when you start looking deeper it gets much more interesting. Religious minorities are more likely to get powers. Queer people are more likely to get powers. Neurodivergent people are more likely to get powers. People with physical disabilities are more likely to get powers. Fine, all that lines up, but then it starts getting weird. People who are exceptional at sports are more likely to get powers. People who dye their hair are more likely to get powers. People with substantial facial piercings are more likely to get powers! People who were dressed in bright clothing on the day of an incursion are more likely to get powers! Statistically common people still make up the majority of powered individuals, of course, but statistically uncommon people can often be up to twice as represented among powered populations compared to unpowered ones—and a lot of those so-called common people can be tied to one of the stranger 'demographics' that doesn't fit the standard legal definition of a minority. But of course, we have far less data on those, so it's a bit more difficult to study."

  I take another bite of food, chew, and swallow. I wonder why I haven't heard of this before? I guess it makes perfect sense for the military to consider information on how people get powers to be strategically important. They want to maximize their chances of getting the right powers to the right people, after all. If the civilian population all starts dressing in bright colors and punching holes in their face to try and become superheroes, that becomes a lot more difficult to control.

  And the fact that it's controllable is pretty important, isn't it? That top-secret declaration I received when I got here definitely applies to this conversation.

  "You're saying power selection is provably nonrandom," I eventually respond.

  "Randomness could still potentially be involved, but it's not completely random, yes. There's some sort of filtering system that prioritizes certain types of individuals over others."

  "I see," I answer, swallowing another bite. Hmm. I guess this probably isn't dangerous information to share. "Personally? I think we're chosen by something intelligent enough to have opinions."

  "Oh?" He prompts, leaning forward and resting an elbow on the table. "On what basis?"

  "Are you familiar with the falling dreams?" I ask. "Apparently they're pretty common among people with powers."

  "I am," he nods.

  "The thing I fall towards talks to me," I explain, starting on my fourth helping of Salisbury steak. Dr. Bovary frowns.

  "What does it say?" he asks.

  "Not a whole lot," I answer. "It… hurts me when it speaks. And it seems to care about my well-being, so it tends to stay quiet unless I start asking questions. I guess it's possible that I'm just… y'know, dreaming it all up, but it doesn't feel that way. It feels like I'm talking to something on the level of a god."

  "And what does this god want?"

  "That," I admit, "I have no idea."

  "Hmm. Well, I've heard of similar anecdotes, but most people don't report hearing voices during those dreams," Dr. Bovary hums. "It's an instinctively compelling theory though, isn't it? That there's some divine intelligence handing out these abilities. That there's some… purpose to it all. Personally, I don't find the idea very comforting."

  "I can't say I find it comforting either," I answer. "I just can't see any other possibility being more likely."

  He smiles and leans back in his chair.

  "Well, that's not the mystery you're here to solve today," he says. "If you're all done stalling, I think it's about time to throw you to the wolves, hmm? Or the Raptors, as the case may be."

  I sigh, but I stuff the rest of the Salisbury steak into my mouth and stand up, swallowing it all at once.

  "Alright, let's do it," I agree. "It might take me a while to figure things out, though. Is there a procedure for this, or do I have permission to just fuck around and find out?"

  He chuckles.

  "There are safety protocols for entering and exiting the enclosures, of course, but you know your powers best," he says. "I'm quite curious to see what you come up with."

  I nod in acknowledgement. One way or another, I'll get him some satisfying information. And if I manage to control the aliens, all the better.

  "I'll need somewhere to undress and put my things."

  We head out of the mess hall and before I know it I'm walking out of a bathroom, smooth as a barbie doll and wearing nothing but octopus skin. I'm getting better and better at mimicking real clothing, but it still doesn't take more than a dedicated squint to figure out it's fused with the rest of my body. Not the biggest deal in the world, though; the whole charade is for everyone else's comfort, a value that has somehow found itself falling down my priority list as of late. Never thought I'd see the day, honestly.

  Dr. Bovary directs me to an enclosure with a Raptor he claims is 'relatively nonviolent' and shoves me into the airlock-style doorway to where they keep it. With my domain I can feel its body through the walls, and most Raptors back in Chicago were clones of each other, so why not try copying it completely? I make the change, the door in front of me opens, and I step inside.

  My broodmate is there, and they turn to face me with shock and confusion radiating off of their body. All of that knowledge hits me at once, and I know it's the brain giving me those thoughts but it's still a bit of a surprise to have it fill me so suddenly. I suppose I'm a lot more used to sinking into the habits of my body than I was back in the incursion zone. Panic had a tendency to detach me from my form, even when I couldn't feel that panic in the body of a Raptor. I didn't really have the context at the time, but compared to now my transformations in the incursion zone almost felt more like piloting a body than actually being it.

  The sensations were all there. The influence was all there. But I was going out of my way to avoid it, to keep what I thought was me separate from the form I inhabited. I was very, very frightened of what it would mean to no longer have a brain to call my own. But I'm not scared of that anymore. I don't have an answer to most of the questions that brought me panic, but I have accepted that I don't need an answer. There are more important things to worry about than whatever made-up idea of 'me' I happened to be obsessed with at the time.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  I think, therefore I am. I remember, therefore I am Julietta. That's all I need. So I do my best to sink into the instincts of this bulky Raptor form and listen.

  My broodmate is concerned and confused about my presence. My broodmate is concerned and confused about my silence. The following queries are outstanding: what is my status, what is my task, what information can be shared about recent events outside the current location?

  My body, I realize, attempts to answer the moment it perceives the questions. I try to cut that instinct but my brain doesn't know how; there is no known method of not responding to a query. But that's stupid and absurd, so I ignore the brain for a moment and watch the body, feeling out the movements and actions my flesh takes that it wasn't attempting before. At first, I find nothing. Then, I realize it's because the main thing I do to communicate is breathe.

  Aliens have a surprisingly redundant respiratory system. Rather than a single centralized pair of lungs, airways throughout the body can expand and contract to create airflow, directing it in a number of different directions based on the alien's current needs. Throughout these passageways, there are a complex mix of scent-producing glands in the outflow paths and scent-detecting organs on the inflow paths. Each is hyperspecialized to make out extreme degrees of precision specifically within the realm of the various chemicals the glands can produce. And all of it—the entire communication structure of the invaders—is tied to the autonomic nervous system. Which is to say, they have no conscious control over what they are and are not communicating.

  Well. I guess that's not exactly true. The aliens control their thoughts, it's merely the case that the aliens automatically communicate whatever happens to be on their mind. It is impossible to have private musings, and consequently the aliens need to be extremely task-oriented in order to not be perpetually flooding the air with scent patterns about every little thing that comes to mind. They have to be able to effectively turn their individuality off when the situation calls for it. In the incursion zone, it didn't feel like the Raptors were saying or thinking much of anything other than how best to coordinate with each other to accomplish the task, and that's because they weren't. It was not, however, because they couldn't.

  The following queries remain outstanding: what is my status, what is my task, what information can be shared about recent events outside the current location? My broodmate reemphasizes their confusion. My broodmate reemphasizes their concern. I am requested to acknowledge in order to confirm my functionality.

  I direct my brain to think the following thoughts, and therefore communicate the following ideas: my status is nominal. I have no outstanding task. I am minimally capable of sharing information about recent events. I express sympathy for causing my broodmate to experience concern. Anything else my body attempts to communicate is manually strangled.

  My broodmate acknowledges my responses and my sympathy. My broodmate expresses relief with my answers, but also new concerns. No, there's a better way to think about this communication. I'm still too detached. What happens is that the Raptor across from me says: I'm so glad to see you. Are you sure you're alright?

  I respond with acknowledgment, uncertainty, and concern over both their circumstances and my own. No, wait. Again, there's a better way to think about that.

  No, I answer. I'm a little shaken.

  After all, I'm reeling a bit from the revelation that every single alien is absolutely, definitely a person, and I can have conversations with them. I shift my weight, clenching my tail-mouth in distress. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Don't start caring, Julietta. You can't afford to start caring. They're wiping out humanity!

  Why are they wiping out humanity?

  How did you get here? the Raptor asks.

  I don't know, I lie, despite my brain's insistence that this is not possible. How did you get here?

  I journeyed with our other broodmates and those of our shared mother who also accepted weight over words. But as the Angels of Nothing sought haven, the natives descended. I have been trapped here ever since.

  I can't help it. My body ripples a little as the other Raptor says 'Angels of Nothing.' It has to be a coincidence, right? I mean, 'nothing' is the only translation that makes sense, but it's not actually the word 'nothing.' It was more… philosophical. Conceptual. It didn't describe an actual absence of matter so much as the idea of an absence. A platonic nothingness, inconceivable by nature.

  I don't get it yet, but I will.

  What are the Angels of Nothing? I ask.

  My broodmate experiences concern. My broodmate suspects that I am not their broodmate. My broodmate immediately answers my question regardless, because the act of asking makes one think about an answer.

  We are chosen, they insist. Can you not feel it? They tell us not to believe but there is no room for doubt. We are chosen.

  Chosen by what? I ask.

  The God of Nothing, the Raptor says, anger and suspicion leaking into the air. A true broodmate of mine would know this. You are an imposter. Reveal yourself, chosen of the conquered gods.

  Anger is bad. I should deescalate the anger. But how? I mean, this is an alien, so I have no idea if any of my conversational skills survive the culture gap here, but I have to give it a shot. This is a zealot. Appeal to their understanding of the world, however mad, and they will be pleased.

  I am not your broodmate, I confirm. I have come seeking information. I wish to understand the God of Nothing.

  My broodmate—who isn't my broodmate—is confused and awed by my ability to contradict my own prior claims. Still, they answer.

  Everything you know of the conquered gods may be used to prove the truth of Nothing.

  I know nothing of the conquered gods, I answer bluntly.

  Unlike every prior answer, it takes a few moments for the Raptor to respond. This cannot be an intentional pause; therefore, their thoughts simply stalled for the entire duration of the delay.

  How? they ask.

  I am ignorant of many things, I communicate. It is my task to learn them. Please, tell me.

  My hydraulic heart thunders in my body as I wait for the response. My broodmate who isn't my broodmate declares me insane. Still, they answer.

  The God of Nothing grants nothing, they say. Yet the God of Nothing chooses all. You have been chosen by Nothing, yet you have been chosen by something, too. Do you not hold the power of a lesser god?

  Well. For some reason I feel extremely offended at the idea of being chosen by a 'lesser god,' but yes I suppose that is my running theory. I confirm my broodmate's (who still isn't my broodmate) suspicion, quickly shapeshifting an Angel tentacle and then returning to normal. Er. I mean, returning to copying their body. The Raptor acknowledges me, then starts to explain.

  Reciprocation. Legion. Division. Blasphemy. Perfection. Silhouette. Bliss. Possibility. Contradiction. Failure. These are the conquered gods, devoured by Nothing. Still, they choose champions. Still, they yearn to spread their power. Their chosen act as though Nothing has not bested them. As though they do not feel the greater weight. But it is here, proven by every step we take. Even the Queens fall. How do you not know this?

  I don't answer, trying to process all of that at once.

  How do you not answer!?

  What are Queens? I ask. Which Queen was yours?

  I have no Queen! the Raptor silently roars. I have forsaken her, forsaken all who demand I do not think the truth! Their power has filled them with madness, but it is irrelevant. All falls to Nothing.

  I'm not sure I would describe the emotion filling the air as 'spite.' I don't think Raptors are equipped for that in quite the same way as humans, or even in the same way as the Angel who cursed me. But it feels as though this Raptor has chosen an entirely practical primary objective… and filled its secondary, tertiary, quaternary, quinary, senary, septenary, octonary, nonary, and denary objectives entirely with ways to bring its tormentors pain.

  ALL falls to Nothing. Even gods.

  What is this? What is any of this? Is it the end of the world that Emily predicted? A tap on the glass distracts me from my musings on annihilation, and I spot Dr. Bovary's smiling face.

  "Hey!" he says, his voice muffled behind the barrier. "How's it going in there? Ready to take an Angel form?"

  Right. That. I guess that's still technically something I'm supposed to be doing, isn't it? I doubt it's going to work, but I make the shift anyway, assuming the body of the Angel I killed. No longer do I see my broodmate across from me. Now, I see the tool of someone else's Queen. The Raptor takes a step back, an instinctive reverence moving it for a moment before its rage doubles.

  You seek to flaunt your ascension to me!? Your servitude to a dead power!? The Raptor demands.

  Well, here goes nothing. Task designation: move away from my position. Step back further.

  The Raptor steps forward, projecting defiance from every motion. It will not listen to me. It has chosen itself as its master. It is capable of that, no matter how revolting that instinctively feels to an Angel's brain.

  A different tactic, then.

  You could leave this place, I tell the Raptor. If you obey me.

  The God of Nothing chooses all. None shall obey any other as their master.

  Anger bubbles inside of me, but I push it down. Yeah, this isn't how it works. This isn't how any of it works. My assumptions about the aliens are all wrong. I didn't want this answer to be right.

  Catching Dr. Bovary's eye, I motion for him to let me out. The first part of the airlock doors open.

  Then I will leave you here, I respond. I appreciate the knowledge you have shared.

  I turn to depart, but as I cross the threshold I smell an intent to attack behind me. Still in the Angel's body, I do not turn to intercept the lunging Raptor. Forward and backward are relative, and it is a simple manner to bring one tentacle up to shove aside the Raptor's meager talons and a second to wrap around its body, preventing it from finding purchase on the ground. Enraged that a lowly worker would assault me, I surge away from the door with it in my clutches, slamming it against the glass of the back wall.

  The God of Nothing grants nothing, my emotions froth, pouring out of me without prompting from my conscious mind. If your god has conquered mine, why do I so easily conquer you? You speak of obvious evidence, as plain as the ground, and this is mine. THIS is what it means to be Chosen. If your god can combat it, I challenge it to try.

  The Raptor struggles, cursing me, but I hold it steady in an unyielding grip. This mindless fool. How could it… no, wait, what the fuck am I even doing!? Okay. Alright. I guess this body has strong opinions about religion. I pull back from the habits a little, centering myself as best I can. Even with that, I'm still pissed and I barely have any idea what I'm talking about! Calm down, Julietta. Calm down!

  I'm going to release you now, I say. If you attack me again, I will make you suffer for it.

  I immediately smell the agreement and assent. The violence is over. I drop the Raptor, return to the airlock, and when the door closes behind me I shift back into a humanoid form, octopus skin on my body and octopus tentacles sprouting from my head, writhing anxiously as I attempt to burn off some of the panic now welling inside of me. The second door opens.

  "Ms. Morgan?" Dr. Bovary asks. "How are you feeling?"

  "…Fine," I answer, thumb and forefinger pinching my chin as I quickly try to decide how much of everything that just happened I should share.

  "I take it that controlling the Raptor didn't work?" he asks.

  "It did not," I confirm. "I don't think it can work, except maybe as a temporary measure, and even then I would have to have an Angel body that matches the Raptor's faction."

  "Faction, you say?"

  "Yeah. Where did you find this particular Raptor?"

  Dr. Bovary blinks at the non-sequitur, but doesn't take long to recover.

  "We found a sizable batch of them wandering around outside the radius of a Queen," he explains. "Twenty Raptors, a few Behemoths, and half a dozen Wasps. No Angels with them. Command decided they would be relatively easy to capture, and now here they are."

  I nod slowly. That makes sense. These aliens are, in effect, heretics. They deny the power and rulership of Angels and Queens. Therefore, my guess is that they fled their home due to religious discrimination. Which is an absolutely wild thing to think about, but I need to focus here. The question is whether or not it's something I should share.

  Aliens are people. They work and act like a hive mind, but they are actually comprised of individuals. I'm not sure of all the details, but that much is clear. This could be strategically significant information. It's certainly something that the military would want to know. Hell, it might become possible to negotiate with alien hives due to my ability to communicate with them, and that would be the best-case scenario. The potential benefits of revealing this are pretty high.

  But what about the potential downsides? What if things don't go well? And let's be honest here: they won't. The first option is that I could claim that aliens are people and simply not be believed. No one can verify that other than me, after all, not unless the Raptors start communicating in writing or performing complex math. There's no way in hell humanity decodes the alien pheromone language in a reasonable amount of time, and if whatever weird truth-telling powers the military has access to could figure this stuff out, the brass would already know. They have no compelling reason to believe me other than my word, so there's a good chance I just get deemed crazy and ignored. Not the best mark on my record.

  Worse, however, is what happens if they do believe me. When I first met Commander, she seemed incredulous at the idea that I was an alien infiltrator simply because the idea that aliens could do something like that was ridiculous. If I prove that they can, I'm painting a huge target on my back. I'm demonstrating that I'm entirely capable of being what they fear me to be most. There's no way that doesn't come back to bite me somehow.

  Besides, if I'm the only one who can talk to aliens, I'm the only one who can potentially negotiate with them regardless of whether or not the military knows about it. Considering the whole omnicide thing they have going on, I'd bet on the aliens not being interested in a ceasefire anyway! I can just wait until I have an opportunity to see if peace is even possible before taking the risk.

  "Best I could tell, the group was cast out from their Queen. The lack of support was entirely intentional. Maybe they were deemed defective or something," I lie carefully. Whatever I tell them has to be very close to the truth, because they could have access to information that proves the lie if I stray too far. The more my claims match reality (but of course with the idea of alien sapience removed) the less likely it becomes that I can make a mistake.

  "Interesting," Dr. Bovary muses. "These kinds of breakaways from a Queen's territory aren't common, but they're far from unheard of, either. Perhaps they were expanding to establish a new hive. We still have no idea what process creates new Queens. We've yet to see one be created on Earth."

  "As unfortunate as that is in terms of scientific understanding, I feel like that's a pretty good thing overall," I tell him. He laughs.

  "I can't argue with that, I suppose," he agrees. "Though of course, it's worth noting that while we don't know about new Queens being created on Earth, that doesn't mean there haven't been any. The vast majority of alien forces live in the ocean, after all. That's where most incursions occur."

  "Yeah," I acknowledge. "Anyway, I don't think my powers will be very effective at manipulating enemy forces. They use a pheromone system, like you suspected, but there are a lot of redundancies to protect from the possibility of other hives manipulating it. I could probably confuse a handful of nearby forces for a little while, but the moment an enemy Angel contradicts my orders the game is probably up. Useful in a pinch, but not the best long-term strategy."

  "And you would need an Angel of the relevant faction, you said," Dr. Bovary prompts.

  "Yeah, like an Angel from Chicago might work on the aliens from Chicago, but it won't work on the aliens from Denver. At least, it certainly wasn't working here."

  "I see," Dr. Bovary frowns. "A disappointing answer, but not an unexpected one. Still, the confirmation that we can disrupt the alien communication network through gas-based weaponry or even particularly strong smells is good to know. Mustard gas and the like is certainly effective, but nobody likes a weapon that can redirect itself back on your own troops after a bad gust of wind. By any chance could you produce some samples of the scent compounds the aliens use in large enough quantities for a detailed analysis? If we can find a way to produce the compounds, we could flood an area with gas harmless to humans but extremely confusing to the enemy. Chemical synthesis on that scale is unlikely to be efficient for organic compounds like that, but it's worth having some samples."

  "Um, yeah, I could do that," I confirm, but at this point I've mostly stopped listening. I managed to pass the lie, so now I have all the other shit to worry about. There are too many other things on my mind, too many fears and concerns.

  They're people. Aliens are people. They have religious schisms, for fuck's sake. I shouldn't care, though, right? I shouldn't. They're killing us, so I have to be able to kill them without hesitation. But whenever I try to make myself believe that, all I can think about is the vivisection still happening a few rooms over. I wonder what a silent scream smells like.

  "Absolutely wonderful!" Dr. Bovary smiles, and my tentacles freeze mid-writhe. "We only have you here for a few days, but I do intend to get my time's worth even if our main objective hasn't panned out. I'm very curious as to the exact mechanics of your ability."

  "Well, I'm at your disposal, I suppose," I mutter.

  So. There's a god of Nothing, supposedly apart from all the other gods and superior to them according to this one random alien religious sect that worships it. I could maybe dismiss that if not for In-Joke and their 'Defenders of Nothing.' They said it's funny if I get the joke, but I have to say, I absolutely do not get the joke. I am terrified by the joke. Does this god of Nothing end the world? Why does In-Joke want to defend it!? I need to find excuses to talk with more aliens. I'm so painfully ignorant.

  "You are indeed!" Dr. Bovary beams. "Your ability to assume alien forms and provide direct verbal feedback should dramatically accelerate some of our investigations here. As will your reportedly prodigious regeneration capacity!"

  Is the god I feel in my dreams the God of Nothing, or one of the lesser gods? Wait. Back up. What did Dr. Bovary just say? I didn't like the sound of that.

  "Could you perhaps explain to me why regeneration is relevant here?" I ask as casually as I can muster.

  "To help us better map alien internal structures, of course," he explains easily. "Cadavers are all well and good, but sometimes you just need to peel something open while it's moving to properly see what makes it tick."

  Oh. Oh boy. Well, at least all the other aliens trapped here won't be lonely on the vivisection table.

  "...Well, like I said, I'm not squeamish," I hedge. "And I imagine you have something to numb the pain?"

  "Ha!" he barks. "Are you kidding me? Of course we don't have that. Who the hell would fund me if I said I was trying to make an anesthetic for aliens?"

  You know what? Yeah. I can't even say I'm surprised.

  "You'll have to deal with me doing it myself, then, which will involve crippling parts of my nerve structures," I tell him frankly.

  "Could I perhaps convince you to—"

  "No," I insist.

  He pouts, but he doesn't seem terribly put out. If anything, he seems pretty excited. It takes me a moment to figure out why, which is a little embarrassing. Most people would have just said 'no' to the entire vivisection, wouldn't they?

  I probably should have tried that, but I didn't want to be seen as difficult.

  some reason, people seemed to assume the chapter after this would be full of horrible pain and torture just because the main character would be going through a vivisection while completely awake and lucid, which... well, okay, that makes perfect sense in retrospect but I thought I was just being haha heehee funny... I forgot that would be harrowing under normal circumstances... this is consistently my largest challenge as an author. Anyway, don't worry, next chapter she's gonna be fine nobody is getting tortured. Except for those aliens in the other room, obviously, but who cares about them, right? Definitely not Julietta.