Chương 19: I Have To Admit When I'm Beat

After everyone finishes poking at Peter and the other guy's domains to get a feel for what resonance effects are like, Commander has us all line up and sends us down to check everyone's domains, one at a time. The people around me give me odd looks for still being itty bitty, but I'm doing this for Anastasia, not them. Everyone's domains are pretty unique and weird, but I don't feel any resonance or dissonance all the way until I push my domain against Ed's, of all people.

Have I really never touched Ed's domain with mine so far? It's… oddly sad-feeling, and yet… yearning? Anticipating? Like something watching and waiting with bated breath for something bad to happen, because it knows without a doubt that it will. It's strangely creepy for such a nice guy, and that gets me wondering what all these domain qualia actually signify. Does it say something about who the person is? Should I be using it as a hint regarding their inner feelings and personality? …

No, I probably shouldn't, huh? Anastasia said my domain felt like hope, and that definitely has nothing to do with the thoughts I'm usually thinking. So what is it, then? Is it a hint as to how the power in question works? Some powers really seem to follow that logic—Commander's domain in particular—but others don't. Again, how is shapeshifting anything like hope? Would other people who feel domains the way Anastasia and I seem to experience my domain as hopeful, or is that just an Anastasia thing?

I don't know, but I decide not to change my opinion on Ed just because his domain is creepy. He has consistently been kind-hearted, empathetic, and tactful. The fact that his power and mine make each other stronger is a good thing. Soon enough, of course, we're done messing with resonance effects (and for some people, the occasional dissonance effect, though I never felt one) and we return to our usual power training.

This is usually the part where I step away from everyone else in order to practice expanding my domain (I copy people's bodies by accident pretty much all the time, but it would be rude to not at least try to avoid doing so without permission) but of course today I meet back up with Anastasia instead, if only to touch base with her before deciding exactly how I want to train today.

The diligent girl is already practicing a bit with her blood when I reach her, but when we mix our domains together again I feel an odd tug from inside my body. I flinch, and Anastasia quickly turns to look right at me. Huh.

"Was that…?" I start.

"I… maybe?" Anastasia says, scrunching her eyebrows, and then my power informs me that my blood is moving in ways blood is not supposed to move, which is in fact extremely bad for basically every location in the entire body. Barely thinking about it, I dig one of my claws into my wrist the same way I've seen Anastasia do, and the blood leaking from it flies into the air instead of dripping down onto my palm.

"L-Lia!" Anastasia yelps, trying to keep the rest of my blood inside my body after pulling a little towards herself on instinct.

"Now you know how I feel when you stab yourself," I smirk at her.

"I thought you couldn't control any blood other than your own."

"I can't," she confirms with a frown.

"I can't control any blood that's still inside my body, either."

"Well I guess I'm currently using your blood, but it's inside my body?" I say.

"I mean, it's easy to change. One sec." I shift the composition of my blood from Anastasia's slightly inhuman version into Lia's, and sure enough it all starts flowing totally normally again.

"... That's so weird, though," Anastasia frowns.

"I don't want to be able to use your blood."

"It's fine," I tell her honestly.

"I'm mostly just surprised we didn't figure this out earlier today."

"... I wasn't trying to control all the blood in my range at once earlier today," Anastasia says.

"Bleh. This makes things less fun." Well, we can't have that, can we?

"What's wrong with it?" I ask.

"I don't mind, Ana. Heck, if anything this is great. Our powers have amazing synergy: your biggest weakness is running out of blood, but I'll never run out of blood until I run out of biomass. And at this point I have… well, I don't really know how much, but a lot of biomass." And I can still store more. So much more.

"But I don't want to use your blood!" Anastasia protests.

"Why not?" I ask.

"Because that's evil!" Huh?

"... No it isn't?" I frown.

"Why would you think it's evil, Ana?"

"B-because I could like… reach into someone's body and puppet them around!" I blink. Uh.

"Ana, is that from one of your cartoons?" I ask.

"I'm pretty sure that yanking someone's blood around while it's still inside their body wouldn't do anything other than kill them in a surprisingly large number of different ways, more or less simultaneously."

"W-well that's not better!" Anastasia insists.

"Again, why not?" I ask.

"Ana, you can turn your blood into swords and blend someone to death."

"I'd never kill a person!" Anastasia insists. I open my mouth to say 'you killed a ton of people, though,' but close it without making a sound. Ignoring the fact that it would be a stupid thing to say for like a dozen reasons, Raptors and Wasps and Behemoths and so forth probably aren't people, right? They don't fear death or mourn their comrades. They remind me more of ants, extensions of a general hive intelligence that doesn't seem to have any real individuality.

Like yeah, I'm still a person when I use a Raptor brain, but I'm me. I have weird superpowers. It's different. Hopefully.

"... I'm not saying you would or should kill anyone," I say instead.

"I'm just saying you already have the means, and I don't think which means you use particularly matters. If you could kill an alien by just looking at them and pulling all the blood out of their body, wouldn't that be easier? And wouldn't the fact that it's easier be a good thing? You wouldn't have to hurt yourself in order to fight." Anastasia squirms a little.

"... I think fighting should hurt me," she says softly.

"Wh—Anastasia, no."

"It should!" she insists.

"Fighting is wrong! I know we have to do it anyway, I know that, but it's wrong. It should hurt somehow, and if I don't regret it, then… then this way works!"

"No!" I insist again.

"Ana, no. You should never have to be hurt. Not for any reason!" She doesn't respond, and I suddenly find myself hoping that other people are getting more out of the military therapists than I am. Fuck, I know I could use help from them too. Unfortunately, I can't be honest with the military at all, ever! Ugh, I still need to call Lia's parents and convince them to buy Emily's way out of the draft. That's definitely going to suck.

"... You can use my blood for practice if you want, Anastasia," I tell her after a while.

"I really, genuinely don't mind. It only works when I decide to let it work, so it's not really a big deal."

"No," Anastasia says.

"I'm not going to." I sigh.

"Well, I certainly can't make you," I say.

"But please think about it, okay?" The rest of power training is somewhat awkward, but we get through it and then I have to break off from Anastasia in order to go to my still-mandated therapy. Dr. Morrison acts very happy to see me, only briefly surprised by my body when I walk in and shift from full Anastasia copy to Lia-Anastasia mix, just to make sure he knows it's really me. As fun as it would be to make him think I really was Anastasia, if he says I ditched a session I'll definitely be reprimanded.

"Well hello there, Ms. Morgan," he says.

"Trying something new for the day?"

"Cheering Anastasia up, mostly," I answer.

"She was feeling down because she didn't have anyone her size to play with."

"Oh, that's kind of you," he smiles.

"I hope she's had a good day."

"Eh, she was until she wasn't," I frown.

"Things got a little depressing in power training class, but I'll do my best to end the day strong."

"I'm glad to hear that," he says.

"She certainly deserves a chance to be a kid from time to time." I give him a firm nod.

"She does." He nods back, checking over some information on his clipboard for a bit before speaking.

"So," he says, "this would normally be the point where I would summarize what we talked about last session and ask if you wanted to keep on the same topic or if there's something else you wanted to discuss today, but if it's alright with you I'd actually like to start today by asking you a question."

"You're the boss," I shrug.

"I must emphatically protest that I am not, though I suppose I know better than to try and convince you of that."

"You're learning," I smirk, crossing my arms.

"I'm learning some things, yes," he agrees.

"Things about you, about how you see the world, about how you believe you should treat others. But what I have yet to learn anything about is your past. I've never heard you speak about your family, or any friends you have outside of this building. You've mentioned in passing that you have a girlfriend, but I don't know anything about her. And, well, we've been having these sessions for weeks now, and it strikes me as odd. Not so much as a single anecdote about your past. Is there a reason for that?" I sigh.

Well, it was going to happen eventually. I'm just glad he confronted me directly about it. Makes it easier to handle.

"That," I say.

"That's exactly it, right there."

"What's what, exactly?" he asks.

"Why I don't trust you," I answer.

"Would a normal therapist press me about that? It wouldn't be that strange for most people. To not talk about their past, I mean. Certainly noteworthy, but not concerning enough for you to bring it up on your own. So why did you?"

"Well, I—""Rhetorical," I snap, cutting him off. It honestly sounds kind of funny, since I'm still using Anastasia's voice, but I kind of like it.

"You did it because I'm a shapeshifter, and because that stupid'truth power' or whatever thinks I'm four weeks old. You don't care about what's best for me, Dr. Morrison. This is, and has always been, an interrogation." He stares at me a while, like he's upset and trying not to show it. Trying to get a handle on himself before speaking. But is he upset because my accusation is wrong, or because it's right? I don't know, and I can't trust myself to be sure either way. It's not a safe risk to take.

"... I am truly, deeply sorry you feel that way," he says.

"I hope that's true," I answer with a shrug.

"It is. But… I can see I've still been going about this the wrong way," he says.

"For that, you have my deepest apologies. You are somewhat of a blunt person, aren't you? I should address things directly."

"It's not like I can't be tactful, but yeah," I agree.

"If you have something to say, say it." Never mind how I never take that advice myself. If I spoke my mind, it would be disastrous. Most people don't really have that problem.

"You have some of it right, Ms. Morgan," my therapist admits.

"I was informed of the results of your interview after you were found in the incursion zone, and those results are a large part of why I have scheduled you to see me so often. Both what we learned about you from that interview, and the horrific, inhuman way we treated you during that interview, which was frankly inexcusable."

"No, it isn't," I say.

"It's very excusable."

"Is that why your response to being shot multiple times was to apologize?" he asks.

"Yes," I say flatly.

"I failed to control myself. There are consequences for that. I was the one to make a mistake."

"That's it?"

"Yeah, that's it," I scowl.

"What, would you rather I be mad about it? What would be the point? I don't get anything out of being mad other than my own anger, and anger is pretty fucking unpleasant. It's not a big enough deal to warrant that."

"I think anyone would be justified in being upset about being shot by the people they had gone to in order to seek protection and safety."

"Oh my god, you do want me to be mad. Can we not talk about this?" I scowl.

"Of course," he nods.

"What would you like to talk about?"

"Nothing, but since I know that won't satisfy you, let's rip the bandaid off and talk about the damn truth power."

"Only if you're comfortable with that," he says.

"Fuck off, you don't care," I snap, and then flinch. Damn it, why did I let that slip?

"Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Anyway, the truth power thing is really straightforward: I have no idea why it says that, and it freaks me the fuck out. That's why I don't talk about it. Okay?"

"It could be mistaken," Dr. Morrison says.

"And here I thought you said you were going to address things directly," I sneer.

"I'm not stupid. There's absolutely no reason for the government to set up that whole situation as a ruse, and there's no reason people would be reacting the way they did if it wasn't reliable."

"Reacting by panicking and shooting you with a gun," he says.

"Three times, yes. It's a bit extreme. But I have no idea why. Do people just think I'm an Angel?"

"No," Dr. Morrison answers.

"You wish for me to be blunt, so I will be blunt. It is possible that you are an Angel, yes. But it is much more likely, Ms. Morgan, that you are an Angel's power." That brings my thoughts up short. What? No, no, no, no. That doesn't make sense. Does that make sense? That might make sense.

"The day you were supposedly created is the day you got your powers. However, that isn't the only thing that happened that day, is it? You also—""Shut up," I snap.

"Shut up. Let me think." He obligingly closes his mouth, and I start chewing on my thumb claw as I run that over in my head a few times. What happened back then? The Army interviewed the others before they got to me, so they likely have full testimonies of the events of that day. Emily's would of course have lied about a few things from before we met Christine, but they would just be the same lies I gave, ultimately around swapping Lia's and my roles in the story.

It's true some weird things happened, and I definitely blacked out that one time and don't know how Emily got me to safety alone, but that's probably not relevant here unless like… I dunno, Emily's an Angel, and that would just be stupid. So what else happened? We stole a bunch of stuff, we found Christine, we fought that Angel with weird powers none of us really understood… Oh. Shit.

"The first Angel we encountered," I say.

"Not the one I killed, but the other one. The one that slithered out of the air in pieces, that we encountered before we found Anastasia. You think that could have been when I was created."

"I do not think that. The Army intelligence division—""Spare me. That's just a fancy yes. Damn it, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's fine. Really." Liar. Whatever, not important right now.

"That's been the assumption this whole time, huh? I feel like such an idiot."

"You are anything but that," he says.

"Your instructors have nothing but praise for you."

"Oh my god would you cut that out? I don't need you to water my ego like a houseplant. I'm trying to focus."

"Of course, my apologies. I think the first question in this situation is how likely you feel this theory is." Right. Yeah. That is a good question. Am I just someone else's power? The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"... I don't think it's likely," I decide.

"Why is that?" he asks.

"Too many things don't feel consistent with that theory," I say.

"Like, there's the obvious bits—I might not want to tell you about my past, but I definitely have one, and the people whom I know from before I got my powers still recognize me as me. So if I was just created, it would have had to be as a copy of someone, full history and all, with all their memories and so forth. But the powers I have don't give me access to the memories of the bodies I use, at least not to the best of my knowledge. It definitely changes how I act and gives me new habits, but I never get memories.

So if I'm a copy, it's not because of my power; but if I'm the result of an Angel's power, wouldn't that Angel need to have me in their domain in order to control me?"

"Not… necessarily," the therapist says.

"There are certain powers which can conditionally manifest their domain somewhat arbitrarily. The domain isn't necessarily attached to you now, but there's nothing that prevents a power's domain from suddenly becoming present around you, if the right conditions are met."

"Oh," I hum.

"Like the forbidden name? I assume that power manifests the domain of the wielder wherever the name is spoken, then allowing them to do… whatever it is that they do." He blinks with surprise, but then nods.

"That's… correct. Do you know the forbidden name? It wasn't in your files."

"No," I shake my head.

"I know of it, but that's all."

"See, that's interesting," he says, "because I lied to you. Lia Morgan's files do list that she has heard and can speak the forbidden name, due to a close relationship with someone whose name had to be changed." Fuck. Whatever, roll with it.

"Oh, damn," I say, smiling at him.

"Yeah, that's right. I just didn't want to correct you; I kind of have enough scrutiny as-is."

"I see," he says.

"And if I told you I just lied again?" Nope, not getting me again. Commit. Even if it's not in her files I can claim to have learned it a different way.

"I'd say you're talking out of your ass," I smile at him.

"And proving I was right not to trust you, of course."

"And you are proving to me that even in the best-case scenario, you are a liar with something to hide," he says.

"In the worst-case scenario, you are a power-generated time bomb sent by humanity's greatest enemy to destroy us from the inside. If whatever you're hiding is less severe than that, I highly recommend that you come clean about it so we can actually get started with proper therapy, which you clearly need." Not yet. I haven't played all my cards yet.

"Is the fact that I killed a fucking Angel not enough to prove that I'm on your side?" I ask.

"Agnus fucking Dei was there. She confirmed it."

"That, Ms. Morgan, is the reason you're here in this room getting scrutinized by an unpowered therapist rather than back in that interrogation room," he says.

"But there is a point at which I need more to work with, and it is now." I click my tongue in annoyance, bouncing my feet a little since they don't touch the ground when I sit in this body. Scales ripple up and down my skin, interspersing themselves with splashes of Lia's brown and Anastasia's ghost-white. I guess I have to admit when I'm beat. I let my guard down and got cornered.

It's frankly kind of embarrassing how many mistakes I've made; it's always easier to recognize them in retrospect, and I swear to god Lia's brain is making me worse at not speaking my mind. Or is it Anastasia's brain? Whose brain am I even using right now? Why is it so difficult to just act like a normal, well-adjusted person!? Whatever. It's probably not the end of the line. He needs more to work with. That doesn't mean I have to give him everything.

"... I don't lie to hurt people," I say.

"I'm not a time bomb trying to disguise the sound of the tick. It's just very personal stuff. Stuff that I don't really think other people would be inclined to respect."

"I've told you my privacy policy before, Lia. Even if you admit to something illegal, I will not report you unless it presents a clear threat to you, to others, or to military interests."

"And I've told you that I don't believe you," I snap.

"Why would anyone believe you?"

"Because it's my job to help you, and I can't effectively do that job if I am unable to keep secrets and earn trust."

"But that's not your fucking job, Dr. Morrison," I snap.

"You're not just a therapist. You're the military's therapist. Your job is to make sure that the soldiers on the battlefield don't stop fighting for any reason other than death. Your job is to make sure we're stable enough to kill monsters, specifically. It has nothing to do with my individual well-being as a person."

"Yes it does, Lia," he insists, and I want to scream at him to not fucking call me that.

"I do care. I do. You're obviously suffering, and—""I. Am not. Suffering!" I snap.

"I am fine. Fucking hell, I get that all the yelling and swearing isn't terribly convincing but I am just so tired of hearing this crap! I'm not an idiot. I know we have to fight aliens and save humanity. I'm pretty damn annoyed that I have to be here even though I assumed my whole life that I wouldn't be joining the military at all, but shit happens, I got powers, and I'm needed. I get it.

I'm not going to try to escape, I'm not going to put less than everything I have into training, and I'm going to be ready because I've fucking been out there, Henry. I lived four days in what the average person can't survive for one second. And I'm ready to go back the moment I'm needed. What else do you want from me!?"

My body is a chaotic, twisting mess of parts by the time my tirade is over, so I let out a huff of air and push everything back into place, taking a full copy of Anastasia's body rather than mixing it with Lia's. I can't handle it right now.

"What I want," Dr. Morrison insists, "is for you to let me help you."

"No, you don't," I say, because I guess my filter is well and truly fucked.

"Why can't you believe that?" he asks.

"Because no one wants to help me, Henry," I sigh.

"And you are certainly no exception."

"Why not?" I give him an annoyed look. I'm so fucking done with this. I haven't felt this emotional in years. What the hell happened? Why can't I handle this? I've always been able to navigate social situations fine before. I just. I need a break. Maybe that's why he hasn't given me one. Why I need to be here every day. Maybe I need to give myself that break. I take a deep breath and do something that I haven't done in weeks.

Growing my body enough to fit it without damaging Anastasia's clothes, I change my brain into a Raptor brain. The flood of emotions inside me quickly washes away into blissful clarity as I add and alter sensory organs to more clearly feel the world around me. I'm alone, with no pack to coordinate with, and while that's deeply quiet and lonely I find the emotion easy to push aside. After all, I have my task. I need to get through this conversation without any more damage.

I want to just ask him what the minimum amount of information he needs from me today in order to not escalate is, but that's not how humans think. He himself doesn't know what sort of conversation will satisfy his need; he just knows he hasn't been getting what he wanted. He mentioned how I never speak about my past. Obviously, it's because I don't actually know much about 'my' past, and even if I did it would be exhausting trying to fake whatever Lia's emotions on the situation would logically be. So I won't.

I'll weave a narrative that allows me to talk about my past as if it was Lia's, focusing on possible points of overlap and relying on the fact that this man would only know the mask Lia's parents wear in public if he even knew them at all.

"... I don't like talking about my past because I have absolutely nothing good to say about it," I tell him frankly.

"It's unpleasant, and it's kind of pointless. But if you absolutely need me to convince you I have one, sure. Let's talk." He motions for me to go ahead, and I pause for an appropriate amount of time to appear like I'm gathering my thoughts.

"I guess we'll start with the easy part," I say.

"My parents don't love me, and I don't love them." It's pretty obvious that this is as true for Lia's situation as it is for mine, and filling in the blanks of her past with my own isn't that hard.

"Adults who aren't in combat are supposed to have kids," I say.

"The government has all the right propaganda in place to encourage that, and my parents care a lot more about appearances than they do about me. I was not raised because they wanted me, I was raised because I was an obligation. They're selfish, greedy, gaslighting bastards and my interactions with them more or less revolved around needing to keep them happy at all times."

I wouldn't have words quite that harsh for my most recent foster parents—the ones that died in the incursion, I mean—but I've lived with much, much worse. I've only seen Lia's parents a couple times, but I could tell they were that sort of person at a glance, and the way Lia herself treats people is a clear consequence of being raised by people that awful. Considering how I've been bitching and snapping almost as much as she did, I bet Dr. Morrison feels the same way about me.

"I pretty much existed entirely as a trophy to show off, to show how magnanimous they were for raising me. In return, I was to do everything they wanted me to do without question or complaint, though this often boiled down to just staying out of the way and letting them pretend I didn't exist when I wasn't convenient. And since that was most of the time, I at least got a lot of time to myself."

"And what did you do when you were alone?" Dr. Morrison asks.

"Whatever kept me out of the way. I was never really that deep into any of my hobbies, they were just something to relax and pass the time with. I would lie on my bed and listen to music, podcasts, audiobooks. When I had the chance, I'd leave the house and stay far away from my parents as much as possible."

"When you did interact with your parents, what was it like?" I shrug.

"Like a play," I answer.

"I didn't know the script I was supposed to follow, but I knew my part and improvised the character as best I could. If I did well enough, the play eventually progressed to completion."

"So it felt like acting to you," he says.

"Like most of your life, you were wearing a mask. Is that right?"

"Sure, you could put it that way," I agree.

"You know, that's interesting," he says.

"If you don't mind me speaking for a bit?"

"Anything so I don't have to," I respond, and he chuckles obligingly.

"Due to the nature of my position, I've specialized somewhat in superhuman patients over the years. And… well, everyone has their own little pet theories of how people get powers, why they get what powers they get, and so on. Would you like to hear mine?"

"Of course," I answer. Explanation about how our abilities are linked with our cognition, desires, and/or personality in three, two, one…

"It seems as though a person's superpowers are responding to them somehow, answering our wants and needs through one roundabout method or another." Oh wow, who would have guessed? A professional thinks that his profession has relevant insights into a mystery. Can you imagine relating a thing you have to think about all day due to your career to other aspects of life?

"That's interesting," I lie.

"You feel as though you must constantly present masks to people, and your powers have given you the ability to literally change yourself to match that mask." Oh wow that's so true wow golly. You could sell me a horoscope with that level of insight into who I am. Next you'll theorize that some people who want to fight aliens gain powers that let them shoot aliens! They're superpowers, genius. Of course they match some aspect of our personality, you can stretch the metaphor for any power to match any person.

You could just as easily have said I can shapeshift because I wanted to hide myself, or because I wanted freedom, or because I was jealous, or because I really wanted to fucking walk. No one knows why the gods choose who they choose; what matters is how we give them joy through our embodiment of them. … Wait, hold on, roll back that thought a second.

"It makes me wonder if your struggle to control—""Quiet," I snap, cutting him off.

"Give me a moment. I need to think." Again, he obligingly shuts up so I can investigate whatever that just was. Gods? What gods? What does this brain know about gods? I don't get an answer, of course; that thought didn't pop out of the woodwork because I have access to this brain's knowledge base, it popped out because thinking that way is habitual for it.

My own annoyance at the topic mixed with something this particular Raptor brain thought frequently enough to be instinctual, the same way any movement or pattern of speech is instinctual. But what does it mean? That Angel talked about gods, too, before I killed it. Oh, shoot. If Raptors worship a god, doesn't that mean they're people, too? Pretty sure you can't contemplate the nature of the universe and your place in it without at least a little bit of sapience. Whatever, I can figure that out later.

This god thing feels important. Or I guess 'gods?' Gods, gods, gods. Something talks to me in my dreams, so maybe it's a god. What else does this brain think about gods? Come on. Empty my mind. Let the thoughts come naturally. What would I do if a god spoke to me? I would need to report to one of that god's Queens, even if it meant leaving my own. I would feel them. I would move to them without even trying. Like I was falling slowly through the void.

Any time of day, any time of night, I can point to the direction of the moon. It doesn't matter if it's overhead or on the other side of the Earth, I can always feel it like the slightest tug, a little shift in gravity. But while the Grand Queen was lost before I was born, there are other, lesser Queens (though to call them 'lesser' feels absurd) and I should feel them too. Even lighter, even slighter, but they should tug on me all the same.

I've known this since I was born, since any may be chosen and we must know what to do. I gasp, sucking in an intake of breath as a panic I didn't think I could feel shudders sharply but briefly through me. What was that? What was that!? Did I… no. No, that wasn't a memory. It felt like… a dream. An abstract dream lacking a location, a situation, or any other context. Just a series of thoughts running through a mind without filter or association. I was just…

letting my brain think what it would think if I wasn't using it. Does that even make any sense? No, that's not important right now. I should be able to feel her. My Queen. Where is she? I should feel her, but there are too many pulls. Ignore the sensation of the moon. Ignore the lies of the God of Nothing. Where is my Queen? I can't feel her, but she is here, she must be. My god is here and my Queen would follow. So if I can't feel her, I must allow myself to feel more finely.

I remove the hairs on my body, adapting them into vast numbers of tiny, sensitive antennae. There should be a pull. The slightest vector added to my flesh by my newborn soul. Feel it. Seek it. Where is it? … Northeast?

"Lia?" I flinch.

"What?" I breathe, remembering where I am and what I was doing.

"I was saying that our time today is up," Dr. Morrison tells me.

"Are you doing alright?" I blink, realizing I've been staring at the northeast corner of the room like I needed to burn a hole through it with my eyeballs.

"... Uh, I… sorry," I manage.

"I just… I don't really like talking about… what I talked about earlier."

"That's understandable," he says.

"It sounds like your home life was far from enviable."

"Yeah," I agree.

"Well, kinda. It wasn't fun, but I mean, it's not like they beat me, right? Couldn't let something like that happen, it would damage their reputation. I would actually get in big trouble if I ended up bruised by something. And I kinda… did that a lot as a kid." What the hell, why did I say that? Does that even make sense in regards to Lia's life? I guess it's vague enough to be believable, people with actual pain responses can still get a bunch of bruises. Our time is up, though. I can just leave.

Ugh, my body's really screwed up right now. I smooth myself back down to normal human skin and hair, though I keep the Raptor brain for now. This… I need to think about what just happened.

"... Can I actually stay here for like, two or three more minutes?" I ask.

"Is that alright?" Dr. Morrison blinks in surprise, but he nods.

"If you feel like you need to, yes." I nod and go back to thinking. What the fuck was that, Raptor brain? Where's all this yearning coming from? I know I literally asked for this, but I kind of went wacko for a moment there. I'm not actually some alien sleeper agent, am I!? Actually, fuck it, let's make determining that my current task. It's easier to think about this way, my budding hysteria dropping as I prioritize some questions to actually try and figure that out.

First of all, what was with that compulsion to go northeast, and do I actually feel the need to do that? Hmm. No. Well, kind of. I'm definitely curious, and I have a weird feeling that it's what I'm 'supposed' to do in some nebulous way, but it's not some desperate urge that I need to take care of right now. It's just… a thought. Yeah, I'm probably supposed to do that for some reason. It's probably not a big deal if I don't. Probably. Second of all: am I feeling any other compulsions while using this brain?

I'll double-check myself with other brains later, but I think the answer is no. I still feel like me, and I still feel in control of myself. Do I want to hurt humans? No, not really. Do I want to seek out my Queen for orders? Heck no, I've never even met her. I kind of want to talk to her, but if she tells me to do something stupid I don't see why I couldn't tell her to fuck off. I'm in command of this vessel and I like it that way, thank you very much. Third of all: why northeast? What's up with that?

The incursion was in the Chicago area, and I'm currently in Georgia. Therefore, the incursion I got my powers in—and therefore encountered Angels in—is decidedly north west of here. In fact, there aren't any alien incursions northeast of here until you get to the coast and the ocean, which humans pretty much don't even try to contest anymore.

Humans do contest rivers and other freshwater out of both tactical reasons and necessity, so even if the Chicago incursion means the aliens take the Great Lakes, it wouldn't mean they would have any way to connect with any Queens in the ocean. Therefore, whatever Queen my Raptor brain wants me to go say hi to is probably unrelated to the Chicago incursion. But… why would that be the case? The specific Raptor brain I'm using is from the Chicago incursion, so they can't be completely unrelated.

I haven't heard of the aliens coordinating between hives much, though. If they had that level of organization in addition to everything else we'd be long dead. They mostly just drop onto a plot of land and sit there, never expanding except via an additional incursion.

"Lia?" Dr. Morrison says, breaking me from my thoughts again.

"Ah! Right, sorry," I mutter.

"I'll head out. Ugh, you've got me worrying about whether I'm a sleeper agent or not. I still think I'm not, but it's definitely going to keep me up at night." Figuratively speaking, of course. I figured out how to manually induce sleep a few days ago. I shift myself back into a full Anastasia copy-body, running through my mental checklist again to see if there's anything weird, but nope. Still no desire to serve my feudal alien overlords. So that's good.

"Apologies, but I felt like you needed to understand the situation," he says.

"I did," I admit.

"I appreciate the openness." He nods, seeming a little sad, but I don't waste any more time exiting his office and heading down to the mess hall. There isn't really a lot I can do to investigate this further; if I am some kind of power-created faux-person, I'm well made enough that I can't even tell, so there's no real point in overthinking it. I'm doing what I can, and that isn't much, but that's fine. I'll figure out what's up with my apparent age when I have more of an opportunity to.

"What's up, Jules?" I flinch, then turn my head up to glower at Peter, who has apparently been waiting for me behind a corner. What the fuck is he thinking, calling me that?

"Chill out, don't look at me that way," he smirks.

"No one's around. Here, follow me." He walks off, hands in his pockets, without even waiting for me to agree. I follow, my tiny legs having to occasionally do a short jog to keep up with his just-slightly-too-fast walking speed. He takes a few turns and then opens a door I don't recognize.

"In here," he says, leading me into what looks like a lounge and then immediately dragging me into an attached single-person bathroom, which he locks the door to behind us.

"There we go," he grins.

"Officer pisspot. If there's one place they won't have recording equipment, it's in here."

"Are you sure you should be having private, clandestine meetings with a little girl?" I say flatly.

"Nope, so it's a good thing you aren't one," he grins.

"How you been, Jules? You really had me fooled."

"Don't fucking call me that," I snap.

"You know I hate it when you call me that."

"Sorry, sorry," he lies unrepentantly.

"What the hell do you want, Peter?" I demand.

"I'm here, you figured me out. Let's get this blackmail over with." He blinks.

"Uh, what? Blackmail? Who says I'm going to blackmail you?"

"I do, because I'm not an idiot," I answer. He shrugs.

"Well sure, if you insist. I guess I'll think of something to blackmail you for if it'll make you feel better. But seriously, Jules. How have you been?"

"I don't know, not great?" I answer.

"I got trapped in an incursion zone and drafted, Peter, why the fuck are you asking?"

"I… because I thought you were dead!" he answers.

"Look, Jules. Julietta. I'm not…" He sighs, kneels down, and then without asking he wraps his arms around me and gives me an awkward hug. I freeze up, not really knowing what else to do, while my domain roils with power as it fights against his.

"I'm not going to apologize for saving myself," Peter says.

"But I'm glad you're alive. I'm seriously, actually just glad you're alive. Sorry for being such a dick to you, I straight-up thought you were Lia." I don't have any idea how to respond to that. How should I respond to it? I'm still angry at Peter for ditching us, especially since he apparently got powers, but I never expected to get an olive branch from him, even if it isn't actually an apology. The awkward hug eventually ends, Peter standing back up and smirking like the touching moment didn't even happen.

My foster families never actually felt like family to me. Peter is no exception. But he is, at least nominally, my brother. I'm probably supposed to forgive him, right?

"So anyway, about that blackmail," Peter grins.

"How do you feel about helping me become a supervillain?"