Are You Even Human

I feel like it should go without saying that the military isn't on my side, and I shouldn't be giving them an inch.

'But Julietta,' an idiot would say, 'isn't the military the one bastion of defense humanity has against the alien threat? Aren't they the greatest hope we have for a future? Shouldn't we be doing all we can to help them however we can?' And I assure you, hypothetical idiot, you don't need to worry about that. I will, indeed, be helping the military save the world, because I won't have a goddamn choice in the matter.

I'm being drafted. That is, by definition, not something I get a say in. These people don't know me, they don't care to know me, and the only thing they see when they look my way is a fancy set of superpowers for them to use and abuse like any other weapon in their arsenal. If I want even a single ounce of basic respect and dignity, I have to fight for it. It's exactly the same way my life has always been: I need to stand up for myself just enough to claw some decency out of life, but not so much that I overstep my usefulness. It's a delicate balance to walk, especially since I'm planning to directly mislead somebody with a lie detector power and I doubt that'll go a hundred percent smoothly.

Fortunately, speaking technical truths is the easiest thing in the world to me. It's pretty much just how I talk normally. If this interrogator wants to spend their time looking for contradictions, that's fine by me. And if the power is a bit more nuanced than that, well… I'll do my best to figure it out on the fly. Here's hoping, though.

"It's a genuine struggle for me to keep looking like this," I admit truthfully. "Just the act of being me at all feels close to impossible."

Getting them to believe I'm Lia, I think, is the biggest hurdle. I can just give perfectly straight answers to most of the questions I'll be likely to deal with today, but Lia is a technical lie that I need to sell as true enough to pass muster. For Emily's sake, I'll pull it off.

And then that girl is gonna tell me everything.

"That's a concerning thing to hear," the interrogator says. "Generally speaking, people tend to report power usage as an explicit act of will, something they need to activate and use on purpose. Learning to use it normally isn't difficult, but learning to control it usually isn't necessary."

Is that supposed to intimidate me into breaking? You literally said 'usually.' 'Generally.' 'Normally.' The out here is obvious.

"Well, it's not like that for me," I say simply. Because it isn't. "I find sticking as one particular thing for too long really difficult. Whenever I touch someone for the first time it's nearly impossible for me to not transform into them on the spot. My power constantly wants to be used. Constantly."

"Powers don't have a will of their own," the interrogator insists, and that catches me off guard a little. That's… an odd thing to be so confident about, considering that as far as I know we have no idea what powers even are.

"I guess you'd probably know more than me," I tell her, "but it doesn't feel that way with mine."

"Is that why you said you don't know who you are anymore?" the interrogator asks.

Hmm. How much should I mention about my brain? Probably not any more than I don't have to. It's the kind of thing that could make people suspicious about me.

"I feel like I don't have a body that's mine anymore," I say, carefully not outright agreeing in case the lie detector would ping if I say 'yes, that is why' on something that isn't the core of the issue for me. Though it certainly is an issue. "Trying to look like myself is uncomfortable, but trying to stay in any body for more than like, a few hours tends to make me kinda restless."

"And this makes you… unsure if you are Lia Morgan," the interrogator prompts.

"Well, you know. Normal forms of identification just don't work for me anymore. I assume that's why you have the super looming behind you while you ask me all this stuff. But it's not like I've picked up any new memories from picking up new bodies, so presumably I'm the person I remember being, right?"

"And that person is Lia Morgan," the interrogator insists.

"That is the name I've been given," I confirm. "Over the course of my life, I have reluctantly accepted it."

The past four days, after all, are part of my life.

The interrogator taps a pen against her clipboard for a few moments.

"...I get the impression that you consider yourself to be clever," she says flatly.

"I tend to prefer it to thinking myself a fool," I agree.

"Well you should reconsider," she says. "This is a serious matter, Ms. Morgan, and treating it flippantly will do you no favors. My colleague is not a polygraph test you can cheat by playing it cool. The truth will be uncovered here, one way or another."

And yet you called me Ms. Morgan.

"Ma'am, I assure you that I am being particular about my answers explicitly because I do not wish to inadvertently mislead you," I promise. "I have had a very difficult week. My whole life has been completely destroyed. I don't want your 'colleague' to mark me as a liar and an infiltrator because I happen to be suffering a personal identity crisis. That's exactly the sort of bullshit I expect to fall into my lap at this point, and I'm going to act accordingly."

She stares at me. I glower right back. I can do this all day, bitch. The woman shifts slightly in her seat, thinking for a moment. She's preparing a change of tactics. Fine by me.

"Is there a reason you haven't asked about your family, Ms. Morgan?" the interrogator asks. Ah, a classic. Wouldn't the real Lia be worried about all the people important to her? Fortunately, my disguise does me well here.

"Because they're assholes," I answer immediately, since from my understanding that could not be more true. I'm pretty sure the real Lia hated their asses, and she was a huge jerk herself. "Besides, as far as I know they weren't in the incursion zone anyway. I was only there for Emily's sister's stupid, awful birthday party."

It really was a horrible, horrible birthday party. I'll miss that pimp cane though.

"Emily being the same Emily that survived the incursion zone with you?"

"Yep," I nod.

"The three people that survived with you. What are their names?"

I frown a little. Okay, we're moving on to establishing basic facts?

"Christine, Emily, and Anastasia," I answer.

"Last names?"

"Uh… Emily's last name is Hewitt. I dunno about the other two."

"Were you previously acquainted with these three?"

"Only Emily," I say. "We met the other two in the incursion zone."

"What is your relationship with Emily?" the interrogator asks.

Oh-ho. Alright. Get into character, Julietta.

"She's my…" I start, and then trail off with a scowl. "...I dunno anymore. She told Christine that we're in an open relationship? And like, I sure as fuck don't remember agreeing on anything like that but there wasn't really time to get into it with the whole 'being in an incursion zone' thing so I just let it slide to not break team dynamic. But honestly I don't really know what we are right now."

"Would you describe yourself as a lesbian?"

"You can't ask that," I snap, crossing my arms. "That's none of your goddamn business."

"It's just a clarification. You implied that you and Emily were in a relationship," the interrogator says calmly.

"And you can infer whatever the fuck you want from what I imply," I tell her. "Is this really relevant? Can we just skip to the part where you ask if I'm secretly going to undermine the United States Military from the inside or spy for another country or turn out to have been from outer fucking space? Because the answer to all of those questions is no. I killed an Angel like, less than an hour ago! I don't know what else you want me to do to prove I'm on your side."

That finally earns me a rather conspicuous glance at the lie detector super, and he gives the interrogator a subtle nod. Okay. Cool. We're getting somewhere.

"You killed an Angel," she says. "Let's talk about that."

And so we do. I have nothing to hide when it comes to that, beyond not mentioning what happens to my brain. We walk through the entire fight, I talk about how my power was so unusually effective against the power the Angel had, and I tell her what I remember from the start of our run until the kill. She presses a lot about what happened afterwards, where I wouldn't respond to anyone, and I just tell her that I think I was in shock. Because, again, that is entirely true. I was definitely, positively, absolutely in shock. And if there was more than that going on, well, I have no way to know, do I?

So it's probably best not to think about it.

"Well, Lia, I have to say it's a miracle you're still with us."

"I'm aware of that, ma'am."

"It seems like it's even more of a miracle for the rest of them," she continues. "Anastasia is a child, Christine cannot use her abilities by your account, and Emily… doesn't have powers?"

"That's what she said," I confirm.

"Do you know what happens to people without powers in an incursion zone?" the interrogator asks, as if I didn't have to watch multiple people get pulped into goddamn meat cubes. I can't keep a bit of vitriol out of my voice when I respond.

"I witnessed it firsthand," I growl. "One of Emily's foster brothers died when the Queen dropped. Emily thought that keeping in contact with me is what saved her. Neither of us were inclined to check, but once Christine and Anastasia were with us the Queen's influence just seemed… less? And Emily could move around a little."

"Do you know why that is?" she asks.

"No, not really," I answer. "I have a guess, though. Powers seem to resist powers, and since their powers work at range they could grant that resistance over that range, or something?"

"You're close," the interrogator admits, though she doesn't actually explain anything. "The others reported that Emily was oddly insistent on repeating that she didn't have powers, and that she seemed to have unnaturally good decision-making ability."

"I dunno about 'unnaturally' good," I shrug. "She's good at telling people what to do, but honestly we just needed somebody to take charge and act like they knew what was going on. A bad but decisive plan is better than no plan, and all that. She was as terrified as the rest of us, if not more so, but she did what the situation required of her with what she had. That's just who she is."

"You seem to think highly of her," the interrogator says.

"Yeah, I do," I confirm. "She can be a bit of an irritating bitch sometimes, and I don't know where we stand right now, but I still care about her a lot."

"Would you say you know her well?"

Maybe not as well as I thought, but yeah. I nod.

"You have to understand, we are… suspicious about her claims of powerlessness," the interrogator says plainly. "The probability of a powerless civilian surviving inside a Queen's domain isn't just next to nothing; until your friend Emily, it was nothing. And hiding a power is a serious offense with major consequences."

"Okay," I say.

"Okay?"

"Yeah, I don't know what you want from me here. There's a first time for everything," I shrug. "Don't you guys have some fancy way to determine if someone has powers or not?"

"Yes, but there are ways around it," the interrogator insists. "And if someone knew those ways, it would almost certainly mean they've had their power for quite a long time, or they've had contact with someone who taught them the method."

"And you find that a lot more believable than the one-in-a-million shot," I finish for her.

"There is a significant history of unregistered, powered individuals making it out of incursion zones and claiming every kind of miracle except the one that actually saved them, yes. If there's anything you know, or anything that even stood out as a little odd, it could be very helpful."

I cross my arms and frown, tapping my bicep with one finger as I think about the best way to respond to that.

"...Y'know, for pretty much my whole life, I expected that I would never see boot camp until the day I died," I say. "My parents made sure of that."

Technically not a lie, but how could she interpret that as referring to anything other than Lia's combat exemption?

"Your family has made more than their fair share of contributions to the cause," the interrogator concedes incorrectly.

"But now that I have powers, that's out the window," I continue. "I'm yours until the day I die, right? That's just how it is. All those 'contributions' are completely going to waste. I don't like that. That doesn't seem fair."

"Unfortunately, we don't have much control over who does and does not gain the power to fight our enemy," the interrogator says. "We have to simply accept that power when it comes to us. You are infinitely more valuable than any monetary contribution a person could make."

"Well if that's the case," I say, "I want those contributions to protect Emily instead. I don't want her to ever have to go back to a place like that."

"That's not up to us," the interrogator says. "Mr. and Mrs. Morgan will determine what happens now that the benefit of their contributions has been voided."

Damn. Alright. I'll have to figure out how to convince them, then.

"Okay," I say. "Well, I think that's all I have to say about Emily."

"I see," the interrogator says, lifting up her clipboard. "I suppose that's just about all the questions I have for you, then."

"So are we done here?" I ask.

"No," she answers, "We are not. Specialist Bauer?"

She turns to the super behind her, and he nods.

"The entity sitting across from me has recently killed one of the entities we classify as 'Angels,'" the interrogator states.

"True," the super answers.

"The entity sitting across from me acquired their ability to alter their personal biology less than five days ago."

"True," the super answers.

"The entity sitting across from me began existence in the same hospital in which the piece of paper I am holding was written," the interrogator says, lifting what appears to be Lia's birth certificate.

"False," the super answers.

"Oh, bull shit," I protest. "That is—"

She doesn't care. She shuts me up with a sharp look and keeps talking.

"The entity sitting across from me began existence on Earth."

"True."

"The entity sitting across from me did not begin existence inside the domain of an entity we classify as a 'Queen.'"

The super pauses.

"...False," he says.

Wait. What? I run the double negative through my head again, just to confirm what he just said. Both the interrogator and the super seem as surprised as I am, clearly having expected a different answer. A tiny bit of fear creeps onto their features.

"H-hey," I start, trying to regain even a sliver of control over this conversation. "Hold on for a—"

I choke, an overwhelming pressure from the super across from me invading my body, crushing my power down beneath my skin. My thoughts stutter as the constant awareness of myself forever streaming in the back of my mind shrinks away. What… I…!

"Be silent," the interrogator orders, sweat starting to form on her brow, but I can't help but push back against the force crushing me, shoving it away and reasserting control over my body. My flesh writhes, a ripple of crystalline scales dancing across my skin like wheat in the wind, and the interrogator's eyes go wide as she pulls out a gun and shoots me three times in the chest.

I stagger back. It hurts, but not in a way that matters. The real damage comes from the bullets passing clean through my body and breaking the back of the chair behind me, causing me to collapse backwards onto the floor. My brain instinctively shifts to that of a Raptor's, dousing my panic in cold calculation, and I make my decision immediately. I repair my wounds, return to a fully human form, put my hands above my head, and start rapidly apologizing.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" I beg. "Don't shoot, please, don't shoot. I'm not… I was just startled. I'm not fighting."

The room goes silent, nobody moving for a solid five seconds before the interrogator speaks again.

"You will stay right where you are," she orders, her voice shaking slightly. She's… afraid. She's afraid of me. "You will not speak or move until I say so. Is that clear?"

"I understand," I confirm. "I'm sorry."

"The entity sitting in front of me," the interrogator says, "began existence more than seventeen years ago."

"False."

What? But… I'm eighteen. I just had my birthday. Was I a year younger than I thought?

"The entity sitting in front of me began existence more than ten years ago."

"False."

Okay, uh. Okay. I mean. I doubt I was eight years younger than I thought. The interrogator's nervousness grows, and mine does too, albeit for an entirely different reason.

"The entity sitting in front of me began existence more than one year ago."

"False."

No. No, no, no, no.

"The entity sitting in front of me began existence more than three days ago."

Please don't say—

"True."

Okay. Alright. What the fuck. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. This is insane, what does this mean? Do I not count as me anymore? I don't count as having existed before my power? This is crazy, right? It's according to… to what, this random superpower? We don't even know how powers work! What is this crap?

"The entity sitting in front of me began existence at the same time it gained the ability to alter its biological makeup."

"True."

"Alright. Okay," the interrogator says, taking a couple deep breaths. "Shit."

She motions to the super and they both leave the room, locking me in here alone. Fuck, fuck, fuck, what's going to happen? Are they going to kill me? No, that'd be crazy, right? I made it clear that I intend to help them. I mean, I guess I was a little confrontational, but only to a degree that would be perfectly normal for Lia! And like, it's not as though this is evidence that I'm secretly an Angel or some shit. They have way too much testimony and evidence that I'm not on the side of the aliens. It just means that they don't have any way to verify my identity. Which I told them I was afraid of from the start!

It'll be fine. It's going to be fine. I literally killed an Angel for them. If nothing else, I'm too valuable to just throw away. I have to be. I can't have gotten through all that just to die because some stupid lie detector power thinks I'm four days old, right? Except apparently it's not a lie detector power, is it? It's something way more crazy, what the fuck was it even doing? Detecting objective truth? No. That's absurd, right? If it was that insanely powerful they wouldn't be sending that guy to interrogate teenagers, they'd be discovering all the secrets of the fucking universe like the fact that I'm apparently goddamn four days old! Oh shit. Am I panicking? I think I'm panicking. Stupid goddamn human brain, why did I start using this again? I let the Raptor brain take over, the fear washing itself away into a far more rational and manageable instinct.

I only have to care about my task. And again, my only task now is to wait.

And wait.

And… wait.

A presence touches my own, snapping me back to myself. It strokes me softly, a gentle and safe power that promises nothing but joy if I would only let it inside. Of course, that just raises my hackles further, and I focus myself on keeping it out. It surrounds me anyway, enclosing me in a manner that surely isn't a threat, how could it ever be a threat, no matter how clearly ready it is to burrow its way inside me at any moment. A knock on the door sounds out, and before I can answer the door opens. A hawkish human in an officer's uniform enters without a word, a smile slightly parting its cherry-red lips. The lipstick is extra noticeable on its face because its skin is so pale, and combined with its sharp features I half expect to see vampire fangs the moment it opens its mouth.

"So you're the little wing ripper, then?" the human asks rhetorically, and nope. No fangs. That's probably good. I definitely could have been convinced vampires were real, today. "You've been causing quite the fuss."

"...I promise it's not on purpose," I say, doing my absolute damnedest not to shapeshift any accidental alien parts. Wait, my brain isn't human. Guh, I'm probably better off that way, at least for now.

"That would be 'I promise it's not on purpose, ma'am," the human corrects. The woman, I mean. She's a woman. I knew that because it is obvious. "I'm told the intelligence folks couldn't find a way to verify your identity. They said you could be anyone. You could even be one of the enemy."

I just hang my head miserably, continuing to sit on the floor. Oh, huh. There are some bloody holes in the front of my hospital gown. When did… oh right. I got shot earlier.

I've been shot a lot today, actually. Like, a lot a lot.

"Nothing to say to that?" the officer presses.

"Huh?" I blink. Shit, focus. "Oh, uh. I… don't really know how I would prove anything, ma'am. You could let me talk to my parents, see if they recognize me?"

I might be able to fool them, honestly. I certainly plan to try, since Emily's plan revolves around it.

"The ones you said were 'assholes?'" the officer deadpans.

"Those are the ones, ma'am."

"Mmm. Well, perhaps we'll do that. I'm sure they'll be notified of the situation, anyway. But ultimately, that wouldn't be proof. Not when the best method of fact-finding we have insists that you are four days old."

I nod glumly.

"I… I really don't know why that happened, ma'am," I tell her. "I mean, I guess it's tied to my power somehow, but I don't know how or why."

Seriously, it makes no sense. I got my power when this whole incursion thing started, and that was about four days ago. So that's the time period in which I apparently 'started existing,' but it's obvious from everyone's responses that this is not how powers are supposed to work. So it has to be specific to my power somehow, and my power is shapeshifting, but if shapeshifting is what causes that then I should be like… a few hours old, at most. Right? I'm shapeshifting all the damn time!

"Well, recruit," the officer says, "the good news is that we don't have a minimum drafting age for powered individuals, and therefore I do not care. I'm not happy with what happened here, but don't worry. We can figure you out."

She snaps her fingers, and a young man opens the door from the outside, handing me shorts, socks, underthings, and a cotton shirt. I wordlessly take them, and he departs as the officer keeps talking.

"I am First Lieutenant Marianne Locke," she says, "also known as Commander. My power is very simple: I can make you obey. But you're going to be a very good recruit and never make me use it, aren't you?"

"Yes ma'am," I nod.

"Good. That's the answer I want to hear," she says. "You and the other two newly powered kids with you will be joining my training group, where you will be learning to control your abilities alongside the other people who gained powers due to the Chicago incursion. They will, in many ways, have a four-day head start on you. You will, in many ways, have a four-day head start on them. You will not allow either of these facts to hold you back or cause any problems."

"I understand, ma'am," I nod.

"Do you?" she asks. "You seem to be a lot more compliant than you were reported to be just a little while ago."

I stare at her.

"Getting shot tends to help clear my head, ma'am."

Commander exhales through her nose, something that might almost be a smile twitching on her lips.

"I suppose it did work twice today, but try not to make us waste any more bullets, recruit."

"...Yes ma'am."

She nods and heads for the door.

"I will admit," she says, standing in the doorway, "you're making this easier than I expected. I figured you'd want to complain. Perhaps press charges."

"Would there be any point, ma'am?" I ask.

"Ah, good. You are a smart girl. Get dressed and then come outside," she orders, and then she exits the room. I do as I'm told, getting some real clothes on… minus shoes, which seems like a bit of an oversight since my shoe size is entirely arbitrary. They could have just given me whatever.

Hesitantly, I give reverting my brain to human standard a try while I get dressed. Okay. Alright. This isn't too bad. This is a normal and manageable amount of anxiety, given the circumstances. Honestly, I'm used to being stressed as hell, I should really be better at handling everything without the crutch of completely deleting some of my emotions. Kind of pathetic of me, to be honest.

Exiting the room, I find Commander flanked by two more soldiers, waiting for me. She wordlessly turns and departs, so I follow, her entourage making up the rear to ensure I always have a few guns at my back (y'know, in case I need to clear my head).

"Um, permission to ask a question, ma'am?" I prompt hesitantly.

"Hmm. Granted."

"Am I correct in getting the impression that being taken to train with the other new supers is a good sign, re: suspicions about my loyalties?"

"Eh," Commander says, wiggling her hand in a so-so gesture without ever looking my way. "I wouldn't go around expecting to get access to military secrets. Otherwise, though? What matters to me is how good you are at killing aliens, and you are about to literally be the top of your class, wing ripper. Stay in your lane and you'll do just fine."

Wing ripper. It's a title given to Angel killers, though it's also used to describe a superhero whose primary purpose in the field is direct Angel combat and assassination. It's very prestigious, and almost certainly the last job I would ever want in the military. Maybe I shouldn't look too good.

"The interrogator seemed to think I was an alien, ma'am," I point out.

"Did she? Well, you've actually fought aliens, recruit," Commander says. "About how likely would you say they are to calmly walk down the hall and hold a conversation?"

Well, shit. What do I say? What answer is she looking for, here? Because the way the question is worded implies that Commander thinks the answer is 'not very likely,' but honestly… I could see it. Maybe. Kind of. The Angel I fought wasn't exactly a conversationalist, but it definitely had emotion. As robotic as most of its responses were, I remember it… cursing me. Not like, magically, but just in the sense that it was angry and it expressed that pretty complexly. I don't know how I know any of this. I don't know why I understand anything that it 'said.' Having a Raptor brain might hook me into some sort of crazy hive mind, or something? Except not perfectly, I guess? I couldn't understand the Angel all that well, and it seemed like it didn't really understand me most of the time either. Was our communication mental? Or was it… something else? I don't have any idea.

Doesn't matter. The point here is that the alien can, at minimum, hate in creative ways, and I feel like that's a pretty intrinsic aspect of personhood.

But the question is: does Commander know that? Her question feels like it's being asked with the implicit assumption that of course aliens don't communicate. And without literally possessing an alien brain that automatically downloads Angel thoughts into it whenever they're nearby, that would definitely be my assumption, too. They don't do a lot of things I'd normally associate with personhood.

But still, I don't want to just up and say that aliens have no capacity to do this, because while I'd certainly be surprised to hear about one walking down the hall and holding a conversation, I don't think it's completely impossible. If she knows that, I risk being suspected of trying to cover my tracks if I make that claim. But I don't want to say aliens do have the capacity to do this either, because if she doesn't think aliens can talk she's liable to be pretty uncomfortably interested in why I do.

So I say nothing. The question feels rhetorical enough that I can probably get away with it. And sure enough, she doesn't press me for an answer. Safe for now.

I get led down a concrete hall and up a concrete staircase, eventually emerging on the ground floor of a dark gray building that looks almost like an office complex. Soon we make our way outside to the parking lot, and a bit of tension uncoils in my chest as I see Christine and Anastasia standing by an Army personnel transport truck. It's the kind with the closed top and the internal seating on each wall, facing towards the center of the vehicle so everyone can enter and exit from the back. But who cares! They're okay! They're okay!

"Lia!" Anastasia calls out, a smile lighting up her face as she immediately runs towards me. My whole body goes tense, a constellation of eyes blooming around my head so I can watch every soldier at once, terrified that Anastasia's sudden movement might provoke them to stop her. But while a few immediately react to my change, the ones by Anastasia seem entirely content to let her run at me.

Good. Okay. That's very good. I kneel down and scoop Anastasia up into a hug when she reaches me, lifting her up off the ground and giving her a squeeze.

"Ana!" I grin at her. "You're alright!"

"I'm so sorry I fell asleep, Lia! I-I didn't mean to!"

"What?" I gape at her. "Ana, no, you did great! You saved our lives so many times! You did nothing wrong, not a single thing."

"But—"

"Ana," I cut her off. "Seriously, it's okay. Look around. We did it. We made it. We won!"

She blinks at that, and then the smile returns to her face in full.

"We made it!" she whoops in agreement, raising her little arms to the sky and causing a cascade of her knee-length hair to flop all over my head.

"We need to get your braids redone, huh?" I joke, removing a few errant strands that got into my mouth. "Now that we hopefully have a bit more time, I'll teach you how to do them yourself, okay?"

"Yeah, okay!"

I smile wider, shifting her weight so I'm just carrying her with one arm. What an incredibly wonderful kid. She deserves so much better.

"You just gonna stand there, Christine?" I call out to her. "Come on, get in on this hug, too."

She blinks in surprise.

"Uh…"

Hmm. What would the real Lia say in a situation like this? Ah, I know.

"Bitch, I killed an Angel for you!" I grin. "Get over here and accept my affection!"

She blushes and walks on over, and I give her a one-armed hug. I still wouldn't say I really like Christine, but am I glad she's safe? Yes, absolutely. Still, she's obviously not the most comfortable with the gesture, so I quickly release her.

Y'know, I never really noticed it before, what with the constant mortal peril and perpetual sensory overload, but now that I'm a little more used to it, having a sense of touch makes hugs kind of… nice? Huh. I always assumed people just did it as a social signaling thing. Like wedding rings or kissing, but like… platonic. Something to appreciate because it's a physical form of proof that you have a positive relationship with someone, which is always nice to be aware of.

Weird. The more you know, I guess.

"So, do either of you know where Emily is?" I ask.

"She requested emancipation," Commander answers before either of them can. "Given her age and the death of her current foster parents, it's likely to be granted if she can secure employment and housing for herself."

Hmm. That shouldn't be too hard for her; houses are cheap. More importantly, this seems to imply that they don't have conclusive evidence of her having powers… though I wouldn't be surprised if they're planning to keep her under surveillance, just in case.

"I'd like to see her, if she's still around," I tell Commander.

"I'm sure you would," she answers. "Now load up."

She indicates the back of the transport truck and I suppress an urge to scowl. Are we being forcibly separated and treated like shit because she's suspicious, because it's policy, or because she's just an asshole? Pressing the matter further feels like it would be a bad idea. I'll have to try and figure her out, and fast.

Still, I help Anastasia get into the truck, holding her hair in my free hand so we don't trip on it climbing up. We sit down next to each other, Commander sitting next to Christine and two armed soldiers taking the seats closest to the doors. The truck begins to move, and we start heading out to wherever the hell they take drafted superpowered kids.

"Where are we?" Anastasia asks as I tease my way through her hair, combing it with my fingers and making sure she's not sitting on it. "And where are we going?"

"We'll be taking you to Fort Moore for your training," Commander answers.

Isn't that in Georgia? Wow, I guess that teleporter guy isn't called Cross Country for nothing.

"That's it?" Christine asks softly.

"Hmm?" Commander prompts.

"I mean… just like that?" Christine says. "We… we made it out of the incursion zone today. I haven't taken my pills in days, we haven't had any time to grieve, and everyone we know is…"

She looks at Anastasia trailing off before saying 'dead.' But I can feel in the tension of her neck that Anastasia very much knows what Christine was about to say anyway.

"We tracked down your medical information." Commander answers. "You'll find your prescriptions in your room when we get you on-site."

"That's… not really my point," Christine mutters. "And I never gave you permission to do that."

"Well you should probably get used to that, Recruit Baker, because we no longer need your permission," Commander says frankly. "You are a walking, talking weapon of mass destruction. Rare is the superhuman that can't figure out some way or another to kill people with nothing but a flick of will. So yes, we take your medical history, your psych evals, your social media pages, and every other possible scrap of information we can find about you and we put it in a big file and anyone with enough stars or stripes on their shoulder can pull it out and read it any time they goddamn want."

Christine goes white as a sheet.

"But that's… that's horrific! That's a monstrous breach of privacy, I… I can't… how could they…?"

"Get used to it, Baker," Commander says. "You won't have time to worry about it while you're fighting monsters."

"B-but I can't—"

"You can," Commander snaps. "I promise you, we will make damn sure of that, one way or another."

"No. No, no, no, no," Christine says, curling up into a ball. "That's so fucked up. How could you do this?"

"Me?" Commander says, raising an eyebrow. "Recruit, I can make anyone here do any damn thing in the world, and they'd thank me for it. You think I'm an exception to any of this? I'm telling you: you get used to it. You'll have more important things to care about soon enough."

"I think the point Christine was trying to make, ma'am, is that this is all a little sudden," I jump in, my voice even. "We're a group of children that literally just got out of a severe, life-threatening situation. Do we not get even one day of rest?"

"Feel free to sleep on the ride there," Commander says mercilessly. "It'll be a few hours."

"I see," I frown. "It's probably best if I don't do that, actually."

"Oh?" Commander asks.

"Well, I shapeshift in my sleep sometimes," I admit. No sense trying to keep that a secret, after all.

Commander blinks, seeming genuinely surprised. Is… is that really so weird?

"...I'll make note of that," she says simply, and we settle in for the drive.

I spend most of the time teaching Anastasia how to braid her hair, but internally I keep going back and ruminating over that whole conversation. Christine is right: this is weird. Not the invasion of privacy stuff; sure, it's absolutely fucked up, but not in any way I didn't expect. The immediate shift to training, though? Not letting me see 'my' parents? Not letting the others so much as visit the graves of their families? That's extreme in a way I didn't see coming.

Because ultimately, it's not just cruel. It's impractical. Dangerously so. Commander was right, we are walking WMDs, but worse than that, we're also people. Fickle, emotional, needy, irrational people. If we're not already considered psychologically unstable, continuing to push us right after we get out of the worst crisis in our entire lives is a damn efficient way to get us there. And most confusingly of all, the military knows this.

Yes, without a doubt, they do not care about us or our personal well-being. Sure. But they do care about winning wars, and wars have been won or lost by the morale of their soldiers since the dawn of fucking time. This is straight-up pre-Sun-Tzu shit, here. The military might not always be great at keeping morale high and ensuring unit cohesion and doing the bonds of brotherhood bullshit but they damn well know to try. They're callous, not stupid. They know there's no point in using us as living weapons if they're just going to immediately break us.

And the only exception I can think of to any of this is if they think we're going to end up broken anyway. If they think we're such a short-term commodity that they need us on the battlefield in shit condition now rather than fully prepared to win a year from now. If they're, for example, a lot more desperate than the propaganda lets on. And the propaganda can't even hide the fact that we're losing.

I don't let any of these thoughts show on my face, just carefully guiding Anastasia's little hands through the motions at the back of her head. But internally, my mind keeps churning away, burning through every option I can think of on how to survive the end of the world.

I guess, perhaps, it might have been good we learned how to live in an incursion zone when we did.