Chương 33: Thief of Torn Wings

"How are you doing there, Lia? Do let me know if you need a break."

"I'm fine," I grunt, doing my best to ignore the human's hands rummaging around my stomach. I can turn my nerves off, but I can't stop my power from constantly updating me on what's going on.

"It would really be okay to take five! You're rather unique in that way. Seal yourself up, walk around, have a couple snacks, then peel yourself back open and we pick up right where we left off."

"I'd really rather just get this over with," I manage.

"Well, suit yourself! Can I keep some of these parts, by the way?"

"Knock yourself out."

Yep, there he goes stealing my organs. God, this is probably the weirdest thing I've ever done, and I have a pretty high bar for that nowadays. This whole vivisection thing is weirdly… I don't know. It's kind of like going to the dentist. Some guy is spending the better part of an hour uncomfortably deep in awkward parts of my body and absolutely, completely refusing to just shut the fuck up.

"They maintain cohesion when separated from your domain, then? Fascinating. While the insights into extraterrestrial biology are exceptionally useful, I admit I find research into powers more stimulating these days. They seem inexorably tied together, don't you think?"

"Their bodies seem intelligently designed," I agree.

"A power could be the reason why."

"Oh, I'm so glad you understand. Yes, that's one theory I've considered, though there are a few holes in it. If I disconnect your heart, do you think you could regrow it fast enough?"

"Go for it. I can oxygenate my brain manually if I need to."

"Oh that is fascinating," he says, cutting open my major arteries and letting the fluid spill out all over my other organs. Yuck.

"Anyway, powers don't tend to repeat themselves. There are certainly many similar powers, as well as powers that achieve the same basic ends through different means, but there has yet to be a recorded instance of two powers being exactly the same, among both Angels and humans. So if it is a power that creates alien biological structures, it would most likely need to be a single Angel or Queen designing them. But that doesn't make sense. Each Queen seems to have their own unique variations on the basic designs."

Removed entirely from the rest of my body, I can still feel my heart trying weakly to beat as the pressure rapidly drains out of it. The circulatory fluid that carries oxygen throughout the body is distinct and separate from the hydraulic fluid that powers my body's movements, and feeling them drip out and mix together reminds me somewhat of peeing in the toilet and having the water splash back up on my ass.

"It could be a singular Queen or Angel that resides in their home dimension," I point out.

"After the designs are made, the Queen need only produce them. No power required."

"I thought of that. Two reasons I find it uncompelling: one, alien hives, by and large, do not cooperate with each other."

Wait, what?

"They don't?" I ask.

"Most of them don't! Some of them do, but aliens that wander into the range of a different hive's Queen tend to get shredded. We've been able to witness countless fights between Angels as well, though only from a distance. They tend to prefer to fight us if it's an option, but most hives nowadays are surrounded by other hives."

That's… disappointing. I guess speaking their language probably isn't going to be enough to get a ceasefire. Not that I thought it would, but a girl can dream if she's feeling foolish enough.

"What's the other reason?" I ask.

"Simple. All Angels are unique, and there have been multiple Angels created and birthed on Earth."

Huh. I didn't know that. I guess the military doesn't really spread that info around. It wouldn't do anything but scare people. It makes sense, though.

"So the Queens themselves must have the ability to create the unique bodies of Angels," I conclude.

"Either innately or via similar power expressions."

"That's my belief," Dr. Bovary nods, shoving one of my kidneys to the side to get a better view of my intestines.

"The question is when do they do this, and why."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Think about it," he says.

"Only Angels have powers. Every Angel is custom-made. So are Queens capable of manufacturing more Angels—and therefore more powers—at will? You'd think there would be more of them if so, but each Queen generally has only half a dozen to a dozen of them. It's possible that they take an enormous amount of resources to create, but the theory doesn't sit right with me. Again, what determines who gets powers? As far as we know it is a matter of individuality—of breaking the established norms of your culture.

And aliens are all clones of the same few templates… except for Angels."

"You think they're made to look the way they are in order to make them more likely to gain powers," I conclude.

"That the Angel's body is made first, and then they are granted powers afterwards."

"Right. And perhaps through instinct, perhaps through reason, the aliens may have determined that having more than one Angel 'in the queue,' so to speak, makes both of them less likely to be empowered. Because they're less unique."

"Huh," I manage.

"Doesn't sound like a very testable theory."

"To my great chagrin it is not, at least with our current capabilities and resources. Could you remove this bit, please?"

I obediently disappear an essential part of my anatomy and politely ask my body to keep working anyway. It obliges.

"So this part of the skeleton here protects the brain. Are you absolutely certain I can't convince you to—"

"No," I cut him off immediately.

"No vivisecting my brain."

"Surely just a bit of exposure to open air wouldn't harm it," Dr. Bovary insists.

"Maybe, but it's comments like that that have me suspecting my safety isn't your first priority in this situation," I deadpan.

"I just think you're being needlessly overcautious about this," Dr Bovary sulks.

"If you can manually oxygenate your brain after getting your heart removed, then you can surely withstand a few pokes and prods."

Honestly, I probably could, and I'm even a bit curious to find out. Unfortunately, I have absolutely no desire to show the mad doctor the alien-human hybrid brain I've whipped up to control a Behemoth's body with a human respiratory system so I can speak. I barely even know how it works, and I'm the one using it to think. Maybe.

"Do not expose my brain to open air," I insist simply.

"This is non-negotiable. Quit whining about it."

"Pfft! I don't whine!"

Dr. Bovary whines, shifting his focus over to my humanoid lungs.

"Fine. Onto the other fun part, then."

"You do realize how deeply concerning it is to hear you talking about the 'fun part' while inside my chest, right?"

"Come now, Lia! I thought you said you weren't squeamish! Now, let's see here… oh, this is interesting."

He starts poking and prodding at the area of my flesh where human biology merges with the alien. I am somewhat proud of it, I suppose. The two are very different on a cellular level, and while I have never had much difficulty merging them, the fact that it is a fully unique design means that there is constant room for iteration and improvement. The overlapping lattice structure I initially used has been refined into a much more complex weave of interconnected flesh.

I've also had to modify my entire human circulatory system to accept alien blood, which in turn necessitates a modification of effectively every cell in my entire body. The end result is dramatically more durable than it used to be, and devoid of many of the conflicts inherently present between the two types of life.

Arguably, my human cells are now just alien cells modified to look and feel human, but in other bodies the reverse is often true. When I put alien sensory organs on my human body, for example, I need them to work with human blood if I don't want to add an entire second circulatory system to compensate for their needs. Which I can do, and used to do, but it was grossly inefficient for numerous obvious reasons.

"It took a lot to get it working as well as it does," I admit honestly.

"My power guides me through a lot of the shapeshifting process, but as time goes on more and more of it has become purposeful. It's a fun thing to optimize."

"Yes, I imagine so!" Dr. Bovary agrees.

"That's usually the case with you superpowered types. I'm not sure I've ever met one of you who didn't enjoy their powers. I'm sure it need not be said, but this is somewhat statistically suspicious."

I mean, I feel like I know people who hate their powers. Maria certainly wasn't happy with hers… though I guess that was just Blue Maria? The others all seemed to like it, but maybe they were just created by the power? But also maybe not? They all seemed to be part of the 'real Maria,' so I guess maybe I shouldn't count that. But Emily! Emily hates her powers, they cause her nothing but grief. At least, that's my interpretation, but it's not like she ever tries to stop using them.

She totally could if she wanted to, and I guess not wanting to stop using them arguably counts as liking them, and I've never heard her complain about her powers outside of the bad things that happened to her because of them. … Alright, that's a maybe. But Christine! Christine hates having powers! …

Pretty much entirely because she gets exploited for having them, and not because of any part of the power itself, which she does seem to occasionally have fun with. Hmm.

"I guess that is weird," I admit.

"I suppose that's another point towards my supernatural intelligent power-granting entity theory, though."

"Yes, yes, and a half-dozen other theories," Dr. Bovary dismisses.

"I'm even somewhat inclined to agree with your theory, though I take issue with the label of 'supernatural.'"

"Because powers are real, observable, and studiable, and therefore they are just regular natural?" I ask.

"Precisely!" he beams.

"The only difference between something magical and something scientific is whether or not you can do science on it. And I, my dear, am doing all of the science on it."

I chuckle at that, which turns out to be a big mistake while there is a man currently poking at my lungs, but oh well. This is easily the least unpleasant vivisection without anesthetic I've ever had. And the most, technically, but for some reason I'm more inclined to think optimistically when most of my guts are sitting on a table. I guess I'm just a chest-cavity-half-full kind of girl.

Honestly? As weird as it is, this is almost fun. Yeah, it's a little dehumanizing, and yeah, it's not very comfortable, and yeah, the company could be better, but I get to use my powers like a complete fucking freak and nobody's upset about it. On the contrary, Dr. Bovary is downright ecstatic.

"Okay, hold right there until I say you can go. We're gonna capture one of these shifts under the electron microscope."

I keep the strip of human flesh I extruded for this purpose still as he sets everything up.

"Ready? Three, two, one, go!"

I slowly shift the flesh from human cells to alien cells, making a note of trying to keep a careful eye on the process from my end as well. It's a lot more involved than any other kind of shapeshifting: a lot of the time, I don't even need to mess too much with the mass in my storage because I can just repurpose whatever mass is already part of my current body.

But the alien and human cells feel like they have dramatically different chemical compositions, so I am not moving my current body around so much as removing the current body entirely and adding in new material at the same rate. From the outside, it looks like my flesh is shifting, but in reality, it's being replaced.

That's kind of cool, but also really really concerning. I can't even hide behind the Ship of Theseus like a normal transhumanist. I have to come to terms with this shit all at once. I am, somehow, Julietta, despite the fact that no part of my body ever existed as part of my original body. Am I going to have to start believing in souls? I know I literally talk to a god sometimes, but I'll be really annoyed if I have to start believing in souls.

Dr. Bovary runs me through new tests for hours, but boot camp has gotten me plenty used to having to spend all day doing stupid and often painful things. The next couple of days go about the same, and while I often find myself staring at the trapped aliens, Dr. Bovary doesn't offer to let me speak with one again and I don't ask. The conditions here are inhumane, but it's not like anything I do or say could improve that. The aliens are violent, genocidal monsters.

The fact that they are also people doesn't change that. So why should I care? I don't want to care.

Thankfully, the mad doctor has apparently only requisitioned my services for three days, and when that time is up I get escorted back to the waiting room where Cross Country presumably will pick me up when his schedule permits. Rather than leave after dropping me off, though, Dr. Bovary steps into the room with me.

"I just want to say, Lia, that it has been delightful having you these past few days," he says.

"Our brain disagreements notwithstanding, you have been more helpful and cooperative than I had ever dared hope for, and even a lovely conversation partner to boot."

I squint at him. Is he coming on to me? You know what, I'm just going to pretend I don't notice. I don't need this right now.

"Just doing my job, Nick," I answer neutrally.

"We're all on the same team, right?"

"Quite right, quite right indeed," he nods happily.

"Though to that end, as a show of my appreciation, I'd love to know if there's anything I can do to help you."

What's his angle here?

"I appreciate that," I nod.

"It's really not necessary, though."

"I insist!"

Dude, why do you have to be so annoying about this? Just take the hint. I hate asking people for favors. A lot. Even if this is a genuine offer, I really don't want to take it.

"I can't think of anything I would ask for," I tell him.

Dr. Bovary sighs, giving me a slightly condescending smirk.

"Well, I know that's a lie," he says.

"You're more than smart enough to think of something. You're quite the interesting young woman. I don't think I've ever met someone so… obediently recalcitrant. And the cynicism! Why, were I a more empathetic man it would pain me to see it in someone so young."

"…Where are you going with this?" I ask, not particularly enjoying the deconstruction of my character.

"I get the feeling that you don't like owing people things," Dr. Bovary says.

"I'm exactly the same way. And that is why I urge you to reconsider declining my offer. You know I pulled a few strings to get you here. I can certainly pull some more on your way out, if you feel so inclined. It's an honest offer, Lia. We're all on the same team, right?"

I carefully study his expression, making a conscious effort to reevaluate my opinion of him. I guess I have been prone to cynicism for my entire life, but lately it seems to have gotten extra bad. How could it not? But I need to remember that, despite how it feels, not everyone is out to get me. Most people are, at worst, indifferent to the ways their actions might hurt me. Outright malice is uncommon, and while genuine altruism is too it's probably more common. I don't even have to imagine Dr.

Bovary as perfectly altruistic to believe his offer is genuine. It could be tit for tat, like he said, or he could be hoping to work with me again in the future. Maybe even butter me up enough to open my skull. I'm only shooting myself in the foot by not taking his offer. I take a deep breath and start to think.

"…I guess we'll start with pipe dreams and work down," I hum.

"I'd like to become Anastasia Patrova's legal guardian."

It would, among other things, give me a significant degree of control over which deployments they force her into. She's nine years old, so legally she can't really consent to stuff—her guardian has to do that for her. Unfortunately, her guardian is currently the government, and the government is currently the military. They basically don't have any checks or balances on how they decide to use underage orphans.

This tale has been pilfered from. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"You mean Private Anastasia Patrova, don't you?" Dr. Bovary frowns.

"Autohemokinesis, altered biology. RD… twelve, if I recall correctly, with a relatively low penetration requirement. No, I don't think I could get you to be her legal guardian. A lot of problems with that. The main one is that you can't adopt if you aren't in a position to raise a child—the fact that you won't be able to raise her anyway because the military will be using her is irrelevant. You need a house, a non-combat job, and enough income to support a child.

I could certainly grease the wheels at Social Services, but not that much."

Okay. Unfortunate, but I kind of expected that.

"Second choice then," I say.

"There's an unpowered girl I know, Emily Hewitt. I escaped the incursion zone with her. I've been trying to get my parents to get her a combat exemption, but I have no idea how that's going to work out so I would prefer a backup plan. And she does have a place to live, and presumably a job."

Dr. Bovary whistles.

"You certainly don't ask for cheap favors, do you?" he says.

"I can't do the combat exemption, but I can help your girl get adopted if Ms. Hewitt manages to get one. And while I'm at it, I'll make sure you and the kid end up in the same platoon out on the field. So you can keep an eye on her."

Oh shit, really? God, I've been trying not to think about what I would do if they tried to keep the two of us apart. I should have asked for this myself! Stupid, stupid, stupid. But whatever, we got it.

"That would be a huge relief," I tell him honestly.

"Thank you."

"Of course, Lia," he smiles.

"I'd best go make those preparations, then. Have fun storming the castle!"

Oh hey, I've actually seen that movie. Max loved the hell out of it. …And now he's alien food.

"I'll do my best," I nod.

"Thanks again."

He waves and departs, leaving me pleasantly relieved and surprised. I'm just going to decide to assume he's not into me because I don't want to ruin this for myself. I mean, he clearly wants to get inside me, but probably not in that way.

Oh my god Peter can never know about any of this. He and Dr. Bovary must never meet.

A blink later, Cross County appears. He doesn't even say anything, he just holds out his hand and I grasp it. One disorienting transition later, and I am somewhere else. No idea where. The moment I let go of Cross Country's hand he just disappears again, so I guess I have to find someone else to ask.

Man, I think the most impressive thing about that guy is that I've never seen him like, look at a list or something. He just goes. Does he have his entire itinerary memorized for the day? Or does he just occasionally teleport somewhere private to pull out his phone and open up the notes app? They must have some way to contact him in an emergency, or even for urgent non-emergencies.

I remember Agnus Dei calling someone up to get him to move me on short notice, but she's Agnus fucking Dei so I don't know how standard that sort of thing is.

Well, I guess I should figure out where I am. Once again, Cross Country has dropped me off in a nondescript meeting room—honestly, he seems like the type of guy who gets birthed out of the aether in the middle of a meeting room already prepared to discuss quarterly reports—and I haven't been told not to leave the room so maybe I can just do that. I start to head for the door, but then I hear a quick knock and it opens before I can answer.

A mousy-looking girl with brown hair pops her head in, brightening up when she sees me. She glances down at the clipboard she's holding in one arm and then addresses me.

"You're here! Miss Lia Morgan, right? Gosh, it's so weird that your actual title of address is 'Miss.' Warrant officers are weird."

Thanks, you too.

"Um, that's me," I say out loud.

"Great! Ready to get all dolled up, superhero?"

"…Ready for what?"

I ask.

"Have you not been informed? You're being presented to the public soon. Getting your official titles, doing a quick paparazzi run to keep morale up. Surely you've seen them streamed before?"

Oh. Oh! Right, I guess they would do that with us now that we are officially members of the military instead of involuntary wards of the state or whatever the hell they classify us as before we get our ranks.

"Honestly, I completely hadn't thought about it," I admit.

"Do we get any input on what our names end up being?"

She's going to say no.

"Nope!"

Called it.

"It's decided by the PR teams well in advance," she explains.

"I'm here to take you to a meeting with the image department for you and the other supers in your platoon."

"Oh," I say.

"Okay. Lead the way, then."

She does so, and as we head down the hall I can't help but notice how weirdly nice being in a building with windows again is. Looking outside, I can recognize a few buildings and conclude that I'm back in Fort Jackson. As opposed to… wherever the hell that underground blacksite was.

"So, warrant officer already, huh?" the girl asks me. She's not wearing a military uniform so I assume she's some kind of contractor handling the superhero PR stuff.

"Where have you been for the last three days?"

"Classified, sorry," I answer, which sounds really weird and pretentious to say, but… I mean, it is classified.

"Bah, that's what they all say," she pouts.

"Yeah, it's almost like the military wants to keep secrets from people or something," I say before thinking better of it. Thankfully, the girl just snorts and laughs.

"You know, I think you might be onto something there," she says.

"In here."

She opens a door for me, leading us into a similar meeting room to the one I showed up in, but this one is of course already set up for a presentation and occupied. There's a professional-looking man standing primly at the front of the room next to a projector screen and a row of seven chairs facing him. Eight, if you count the wheelchair Ed is sitting in. Because somehow, by some obvious lack of coincidence, the occupants include Ed, Anastasia, Christine, Maria, and Peter.

The only people that aren't part of our usual group are the goop guy I knocked out of the tournament in round one and the illusory copies guy Anastasia beat.

How? Literally how? There is no way in hell that Dr. Bovary set this up after he offered to. He either already knew that this would be our platoon assignment, or he arranged it well in advance and just made the offer because he's a cheeky little bastard. Gah. I can't even be mad about it. This is better than I ever could have hoped for.

"Oh my gosh!" Anastasia squeals with delight, rushing up and wrapping me into a powerful hug.

"You're here too!? This is gonna be the best platoon ever!"

"Lia!" Maria smiles at me. I think it's the first time we've spoken since power training ended. Wow.

"How are you?"

"I'm, uh, fine," I manage.

"Did we seriously get grouped up based on our lunch table? Is this normal?"

"I'm not the person who decides who goes where," the man at the front of the room speaks up, staring at our reunion with a complicated expression.

"But I can tell you that you have all been reportedly chosen based on your compatibility with the position. Your infantry regiment specializes in insertion into Queen-controlled territory. Each of you will be assigned to an individual fire team, split among two squads, and will be responsible for your squad's defense against hostile power use, which will be a perpetual threat. The eight of you either have above-average RD scores, abilities considered advantageous in a firefight, or both.

Today, we'll be going over the ways you will be expected to use your abilities, as that will directly impact the way the military intends to present you to the public. If that's understood, please take a seat so we can begin."

"Right, sorry," I nod, Anastasia returning to her seat as I grab the last empty chair.

"Let's go ahead and start with a summary of all of you, and your designated STRATAS ranks," the man says.

Right, those things we learned in power training class. I was wondering when those would actually become relevant. What was the acronym? Strike, Transit, Recon, Artillery, Tactical, Armor, and Sapper? It's measured on a heuristic scale where one is 'can do this, but not better than standard military equipment' and anything more than that is where things start getting powerful.

The scale generally goes up to ten, but since it's heuristic there's nothing preventing someone from getting a rating above ten someday, if they turned out to be that much better than other tens.

"Private Felix Koch," the man continues.

"Abilities: fluid creation, capable of variable viscosity, adhesive, and friction properties. Domain-locked. Transit one, Sapper three. Your ability to secure a field with adhesive fluid that prevents enemy traversal while not affecting allied units can allow you to create impromptu kill fields and secure angles of attack against melee units. Your adhesive strength is measurably powerful enough to stop a Behemoth, a fact that we will be leaning on for promotional materials. Your codename is Degreaser."

Felix winces.

"Degreaser? Really?" he asks.

"That's the best you could come up with?"

"I kinda like it," Christine smirks.

"It's funny."

"It's really not," Felix scowls.

"I wouldn't make fun of anyone else's name until you hear yours!" Ed grins.

"The shoe might end up on the other foot, eh?"

"Moving on," the man says loudly.

"Private Oscar Curry. Abilities: creating duplicates that vary in tangibility based on surrounding conditions. Transit two, Recon three, Armor four. You are hard to take down, and your clone selves can be moved into dangerous territory to gather information without risking any actual harm to you. Their range, however, is limited, so your main advantage is that you are a very difficult man to hit with attacks, making assassinating you an unlikely prospect. Your codename is Afterimage."

"Oh, that one's not bad," Christine hums.

Oscar nods stoically, and the PR man moves on.

"Private Peter Edwards. Abilities: invulnerability. Strike four, Armor eight. Your RD score is lower than we'd like, but your complete inability to be taken down by anything short of an Angel is invaluable. Your codename is Nemean."

"Ooh, like the lion that Hercules strangles to death," Peter grins.

"Truly, an auspicious title with no problematic theming. Say, did you know that 'Nemean' means 'from Nemea,' which is a real place I have never once been to?"

"I did know that, but since the whole place is alien territory I doubt there are any actual residents of Nemea left to care," the PR man grunts. Truly, a master of his craft.

"Private Maria Delaney. Abilities: creating independent energy constructs that possess their own domains. Recon three, Tactical two. In practice, your defining feature will be your excellent RD score, but your ability to effectively extend the range of your domain without weakening it to the degree of any other powered individual deserves a Tactical rating. Your codename is Titania."

"Shit, that one's actually good," Christine admits.

"Yeah, I can live with it," Maria allows. Her eyes turn orange.

"The queen of the faeries. It fits."

I guess she's gotten a lot more used to everything going on in her head. That's good. I wish I could say the same. I suppose I've certainly improved at a few things, but I haven't really come to terms with my situation so much as resolved not to think about it.

"Plus it sounds like 'titan,' to mesh with the fact that you are tall as hell," Peter chimes in.

"Except when I'm tiny!" Orange smirks at him.

"Private Eduardo Cortez," PR Guy continues, steadfastly ignoring our commentary.

"Abilities: empowerment of individuals within your domain including strength, speed, durability, and reflexes. Tactical four, Armor two. Though you will require assistance to move around a battlefield, your RD has been progressing at an exceptional rate which will enable a wide range of operations, encompassing multiple fire teams, all of which will perform more effectively. For functionally turning all of your fellow soldiers into Spartans, your code name will be Leonidas."

"Ha!" Ed laughs.

"Oh, that's great. Imagine all the people expecting Leonidas to be some hulking love machine of a man and I turn out to just be some old fart. Oh, I'm going to look forward to seeing those expressions."

"Damn, you know, I was gonna say something snarky, but you're just so incredibly correct," Peter brightens up.

"That'll be hilarious. What if we like, put those plates of ab-molded armor on your wheelchair as hubcaps? Is that anything?"

"Or a chariot!" Ed exclaims.

"I want a chariot. That would be perfect!"

"Private Anastasia Patrova," PR Guy says, and I lean forward in my seat. Here's where I have to start caring.

"Abilities: autohemokinesis, altered biology. Strike four, Transit one, Armor one. Reportedly capable of holding off an entire pack of Raptors single-handedly with no available weaponry. Extremely resilient to blood loss. Unfortunately, your abilities will need to be deemphasized in the public eye due to sensitivity issues. Avoid cutting yourself in front of civilians. If we need to use your powers for a public event, we will prepare in advance.

Your file also notes a powerful synergy with one of the other members here, but we will get to that later. Your codename is Vermillion."

Well, that's about what I expected, I suppose. I want to be mad about the fact that the military clearly knows that what it's doing is horrific and its only response to this is to avoid telling the public about it. Ultimately, though, this is too obvious a truth to warrant any strong emotion from me, so I'm mainly focused on the relief that Ana is explicitly not going to be hurting herself for the sake of public fucking relations.

She doesn't need to stab herself in order to look good on TV in front of all the other children that the Army wants to show how cool and great and fun being a superhero is. Because who knows who's going to get powers, and at what age.

"What's a vermillion?" Anastasia asks.

"It's a pretty shade of red," Christine answers.

"A nod to your powers that doesn't scream 'this is blood!'"

"Yeah, it only loudly speaks it instead," Peter snorts.

"Like a politician trying to remind everyone that he thinks he's the most important person in the room."

"Vermillion…" Anastasia hums.

"It's a pretty word. I like it!"

"Private Christine Baker," PR Guy interrupts.

"Oh god, here we go," Christine grimaces.

"Fingers crossed for the dumbest name imaginable!" Peter says excitedly.

"Abilities: arbitrary deconstruction, sorted and reconstructed at will. Strike eight, Tactical two."

"Strike eight!?"

Christine gapes.

"What the hell do you mean, Strike eight?"

"You've demonstrated biological deconstruction under supervision before," the PR guy says, "and according to your permanent record, threatened it once. Our analysts believe, therefore, that because you have used your ability within the domain of a Queen, you should be hypothetically capable of instantaneously dismantling any target that enters your domain at will, unless it is also backed up by an Angel. This applies to any number of targets simultaneously, and is a near-instant effect.

Furthermore, you have the highest RD score out of everyone in your intake, and therefore the greatest effective range outside of Private Delaney."

"Okay, but that's hypothetical," Christine argues.

"I've never actually done any of that. You can't just assume I'm going to be able to. You're going to get people killed if you rely on me blowing up everything with my mind. I'm not that good with my powers."

"I will return that feedback to the analysts," the PR guy answers evenly.

"In terms of public perception, your power also has the advantage of being extremely flashy and impressive to look at. We intend to use you as the frontrunner for our newest generation of promotional materials. Your codename is Breakdown."

She stares at him, her mouth open in shock.

"Are you… are you fucking serious right now?" she asks helplessly.

Peter busts out into a laughing fit, and I honestly struggle not to join him. It's mean, but… Breakdown? Seriously?

Breakdown?

That's her name!?

"It will be important to break the habit of swearing, if at all possible," PR Guy says.

"Dude, I'm gonna have a fucking breakdown if I pop up in a goddamn propaganda piece. Are you gonna make posters with my face on it!? I'll kill myself. I'll actually kill myself."

I tense up as her breathing quickens, ready to intervene when the panic attack inevitably hits. But I realize, soon enough, that my instincts are a couple months out of date, and after managing to graduate boot camp Christine has gained at least some resistance to emotional trauma. I watch her slowly calm her own breathing, feeling a weird mix of shame and pride. I don't know if I really deserve to feel pride for her accomplishments, but still. It's nice to see. She couldn't have done that, not too long ago.

"Superhero promotional materials involve modifications to the general uniform," the PR guy tells her slowly.

"If you would be more comfortable with a mask or helmet, those are both options. The public doesn't need to know your real name or face."

"Oh, god," Christine swears.

"Shit. Or shoot, or whatever. I don't get a choice with this, do I? Fuck. A mask or helmet might work, I guess. As long as I never actually have to look at myself."

"That can be arranged," he nods.

"Finally, we have Warrant Officer One, Lia Morgan. Abilities: shapeshifting and biological analysis. Strike one, Transit one, Recon three, Armor nine."

"Nine!?" Peter protests incredulously.

"The fuck you mean nine? How does she get a higher Armor rating than me? I'm literally invincible."

"You are invincible against all threats except powerful domains. Miss Morgan defeated an Angel in single combat before receiving training and has only further proven her resiliency since. According to her own report, she has been impaled, melted with acid, shot with several volleys of automatic weapon fire, dismembered, partially disintegrated by powered beam attacks, and we've recently received a report that she can survive without her lungs or heart.

More to the point, her RD score is superior enough to yours that she proved the method of defeating you.

So while she might suffer the same weakness—domain subsumption—she is substantially more resilient to it. A rating of eight is considered to be overwhelming against any and all conventional tactics, requiring direct power intervention to overcome. A rating of nine is considered to be overwhelming even against certain other powers, requiring specific strategy and capabilities to overcome."

"Wait, when did I get hit with powered beam attacks?" I mutter, mostly to myself.

"Oh yeah. I actually kind of forgot that Agnus Dei shot me."

"Jesus Christ, are you serious?" Peter stares at me.

"Fine, I get it, you're Armor nine. Flaunt it, why don't you?"

"That can't possibly be true, right?" Glue Gun Dude asks. Degreaser. What was his name? Felix, right. Felix Koch.

"You're making that one up."

I shrug.

"Whether it's true or not, you probably shouldn't spread the rumor around. I'm probably hard enough to do PR for without people knowing that the country's greatest superhero felt a need to attack me. Right?"

I put the ball back in PR Guy's court so we can move past this. He nods at me, looking almost grateful.

"Your abilities do lend themselves easily to a certain unfortunate image," he confirms.

"Due to its efficacy in combat and your instinctive use of your abilities, we don't believe it's an image we can avoid. Therefore, we lean into it. Embrace it. Spin it as best we can."

"You don't have to keep tiptoeing around it," I sigh.

"Just say it. I look like an Angel."

"If you insist. Lia Morgan, you look like an Angel. But you're America's Angel, and we can use that."

Days later, after a slog of boring instructional work broken up by rehearsals, I find myself behind the stage of an amphitheater. There's a modest crowd of civilians here to see the new superhero lineups, but more than that there are cameras. Countless angles, ready to be captured and edited together into something to show the world over. Up on stage, the announcer is introducing everyone else one by one, having them perform sanitized power demonstrations to get the crowd excited.

I'm just waiting for my cue, my body shifting and writhing as I continue making minute adjustments to my current form. It's one I might have to use a lot, and I want it to be perfect.

"—Breakdown!"

The back wall of the amphitheater explodes outwards and hangs in the air, Christine's power holding it aloft. It's time. Muscles coiling in my legs, I leap up to one of the hanging chunks of stone and start to ascend the floating array of platforms, flitting higher and higher between the levitating obstacles. Members of the crowd start to spot me as I quietly rise to the top, gasps ringing out, fingers pointed in my direction.

"And our final hero today," the announcer projects, "joining our prior two survivors of a Queen's wrath, is a formidable one indeed! Don't let her frightening looks fool you, folks, she's even more dangerous than she appears. She's the monster that monsters fear, the soldier that goes bump in the night!"

With one final jump I make it to the top of Christine's carefully planned formation, wings twitching from where they fold against my back. Then, I start to fall, keeping everything tight to my body so I hurdle head-first at full speed.

"Introducing the thief of torn wings—" At the final moment, my wings whip out, straining against the air to slow me down. I impact the floor hard, but I've already nearly liquified myself, absorbing the impact with a burst of wild transformation. What was once my head sinks into a chaotic mess of flesh, shrouded by large feathered wings that rotate quickly around my body as I reform legs to rise back up on. I loved doing this in practice. I am not a functional organism because for these moments I do not need to be.

I can be transitory, free to become whatever I desire, no matter how impossible. My legs assemble themselves, then my hips, then my chest, then my arms and my head and the mix of feathers and octopus skin I wear as clothes. I spread my wings out wide, and across the length of them I stare at the crowd with alien eyes.

"—Seraphim!"