8. Not A Fan of Reaping Consequences (Patreon)

I was expecting my new room to be a lot smaller and less comfortable-looking, but I guess the military likes to ease the superhumans into things. The quarters Christine and I are shown to are pretty sizable for a dorm, with two beds on opposite ends of a room with more than enough space to give us each our own desk and drawers with space to spare. The attached shower and bathroom aren’t bad either (though of course they aren't handicap-friendly). It makes sense; we're a bunch of valuable assets that happen to also be equivalent to a bunch of walking armed warheads. They need to treat us with kid gloves until they're certain we won't explode.

What's interesting to me, though, is how much they keep emphasizing boot camp. At least some of the superhumans the Army picks up aren't going to get near the front lines, having powers that are better for logistics or strategy than anything directly combat-related. Furthermore, some superhumans are obviously officers, not enlisted, but I haven't heard a peep about officer candidate school. If given a choice in the matter, I'd definitely prefer to put my name in the ring for officer training over basic grunt work, but no one even asked. I feel more like a prisoner than a soldier, unexpectedly nice living quarters or not.

It could simply be a matter of streamlining things. I'm sure they're watching and judging us, and it's possible they'll offer alternatives for those who they think have earned them. Hopefully I can use my social skills to seem like I'd make a decent leader, but I doubt it's going to be that easy.

What our power is matters more to them than who we are.

"Well… at least it's not too cramped?" Christine says hesitantly, her head swiveling around like a nervous chicken as she looks at the room.

"Yeah, it's not too bad," I agree, motioning towards the two beds on either side of the room. "Do you have a preference for which end?"

"Oh, um… I'll take that side, I guess," Christine says, pointing to the bed further from the door and closer to the bathroom. I nod, not really caring, and head over to flop down on the other one.

"Hey, Lia?" she asks.

Staring at the ceiling, I sigh a little at the name. I can't help it, which is kind of pathetic. I should have more self-control than this.

"Yeah?" I ask, trying to at least keep the discomfort out of my voice.

"I think they have cameras in here," she says.

I frown, glancing around. I don't see anything, but that didn't sound like a baselessly paranoid 'I think.' It sounded more like a 'this is definitely true but I don't know how to express myself confidently' sort of 'I think.' Hmm. Her power takes things apart and separates them into pieces…

"Can you sense that kind of thing?" I ask her directly, sitting up.

"I don't know," she says, nervously tugging on her frizzy hair. "It's weird."

…That's not a very helpful answer.

"Are there any cameras in the bathroom?" I ask her.

She glances towards it, a thoughtful look on her face even though she's just sort of looking at a closed door and a wall.

"...Yes," she answers, much more conclusively, looking understandably disturbed. Because like, yeah, what the hell? Even setting aside how gross that is, isn't it dangerous? Have they already screened us for memetic powers at the last facility? If so, how? We literally just got our powers yesterday, I could have something that makes it dangerous to record me and not even know about it.

"Are you sure they're cameras?" I ask. "It would be very strange for them to have recording devices in here, for all sorts of reasons."

"Y-you think someone would summon him?" she squeaks, looking nervous.

"What? No, that would be stupid," I frown. "He probably wouldn't even show up, we're in the middle of a military base. But anybody could have a power like that, right? For all we know the guy in the room next door can… I don't know, turn anyone who looks at his reflection into a goose."

"A goose?" Christine asks, wrinkling her nose.

"It's just an example," I dismiss, waving her off. "My point is just… well, what makes you think there's a camera?"

"I'm just not sure what else it would be," she frowns, looking at a blank part of the wall.

"This is power stuff, right?" I press. "Your power lets you separate stuff out into a bunch of floating parts, like an exploded view. Are you also picking up what that stuff is in advance?"

"...I think so," she nods slowly. "I can feel something in the walls, and it's shaped like a camera."

"Where is it?" I ask.

She points at the wall, and I get up to investigate, poking away at where she seems to be pointing.

"I don't see anything that could be a camera," I tell her.

"Well, it's inside the wall," she insists.

"Then how could it see us?" I ask, turning to stare at her.

She blinks. I keep staring.

"...I don't know," she admits. "But it's camera-like and it's pointing at our room. There wasn't anything like that in the last place they kept us, or in the truck."

Huh. Interesting, but I don't think there's much I can do with that knowledge.

"Well, that's good to know, but I'm not sure we have any choice but to ignore it," I tell her, flopping back down on the bed. I wonder if I should undress to sleep. I normally wouldn't, but I'm way more sensitive to touch now and I feel like a full outfit plus sheets would be both too hot and just too much.

"Doesn't it bother you?" Christine asks. "That they're treating us like this? They didn't even record prison cells before powers existed."

"It's not that it doesn't bother me," I tell her. "It's just impractical to worry about it. I don't want to be treated like a subhuman, but it's going to happen either way so I may as well get used to it."

"I don't understand that at all," Christine says quietly, sitting down on her bed and hugging her knees to her chest.

Well, I don't really understand freaking out over shit that's best left to lie, but you don't see me making a big fuss over it. Even if I intended to do something about being surveilled, I wouldn't complain about it while being surveilled. That's just stupid.

But people are irrational, and moreover most people just aren't very experienced at constantly hiding their feelings. (Or everyone who I assume is not hiding their feelings is just better than me at it, but that's a can of worms I don't want to open.) Personally, I find the idea of being open about my inner thoughts kind of terrifying and insane. After all, I'm a bitter, jaded, judgemental cynic, and who would want to be around a person like that? It's supremely better to say whatever is useful for people to hear than it is to say what I want to say.

"I'm not saying you need to like it," I assure Christine, taking off my shirt for bed. It'll probably be more comfortable, and I'll definitely need the sleep. "It's good to know that they're looking at something in our room, but until we know what and why, we probably shouldn't do anything crazy, you know? So let's think about something else. Like… well, since we're going to be roommates now, how about you tell me a bit about yourself?"

"Um," Christine says, staring at me with a rising blush on her face. …Huh. Did I do something weird? I look down at myself, and nope, my bra is still on correctly and my body is still Lia's. Normal and human. What the heck?

"...Is everything alright?" I prod.

"Y-yes!" Christine blabbers, looking away from me. God, this is like when I caught Emily staring at a swimsuit model.

…Wait. Oh, duh, that's exactly what's happening. I forgot I'm hot now. Fuck.

"You're gay," I conclude. "Or at least bi?"

"...Yeah," Christine winces. "Lesbian. Sorry, I hope that's not a problem?"

"Not at all," I shrug, somewhat mortified to find that I am lying. "I have a girlfriend myself, actually."

Damn it, damn it, damn it. Why is this a problem? Why am I so repulsed? It's not the lesbian thing, is it? That wouldn't make any goddamn sense; I've lived with plenty of queer people and never had a problem with any of it. I do not care if someone is attracted to men or women or something else entirely. I never have. So what's… oh.

I care that she's attracted to me.

I do a few quick mental checks, imagining other scenarios (Christine attracted to Emily, Christine attracted to a boy, a boy attracted to me, etc) and I'm pretty confident in my conclusion. It was kind of weird when Emily acted into me, but she wasn't really into me; she might be into Lia, but she knows that's not who I actually am. It's fake, it's a ruse, it's possibly just her power being weird and creepy. Emily has seen the real me, and she knows better. But Christine doesn't. Christine is looking at this body, thinking that this is me, and getting turned on.

And for some reason, that makes me want to scream.

I've never been attractive before. Hell, I've never even had the slightest competition for being the ugliest person in the room, and while I can't say I ever felt good about that, I'd give anything to be back in that position right now. Normally, if I were to take my shirt off, people would stare out of morbid curiosity or avert their eyes in outright disgust. Embarrassment was never a factor, let alone attraction. This kind of attention, this kind of desire being directed at me, is completely anathema to everything I know about myself. I don't know how to handle it. I don't want to handle it. But I can't let Christine know I'm uncomfortable, or else she'll be uncomfortable, and she's already enough of an anxious mess without having her roommate be a source of that stress. If I'm not someone she can relax around, she'll have nobody.

Which means I'll have failed. So I smile, I stay still, and I project a confidence in my body that makes me want to vomit.

"Oh, you do?" Christine asks, her prior discomfort draining a bit. That's good. I'm doing well. "What's her name?"

"Emily," I answer. "She's pretty cool. I think she's getting her new housing up in Columbus, so hopefully I'll be able to go visit her when they get a little less paranoid about us."

She owes me some goddamn answers, after all.

"That's neat," Christine nods. "I've, uh, never actually dated anyone. I mean, not really. I've had very close friends online, but that's about it. I don't even know most of their real names."

"Sounds lonely," I say, and she shrugs.

"I was a shut-in. I never thought I would amount to much. Even with superpowers, I doubt that will change."

"Don't underestimate yourself," I tell her.

She just shrugs a second time. Ugh. Mistake on my part. I suspect she's so low on self-esteem that reassurances of her value just sound hollow. I'm very glad we're not on sexuality anymore, but I'd better change the subject again. …What the heck do I say, though?

"...Did your family make it out okay?" I ask.

Oh yeah. Genius move, Julietta. Ask the anxious girl if she's had any recent traumatic deaths. Fucking dumbass. Christine nods though, so I didn't screw up too badly.

"Yeah, they're alive," she mumbles. "Happy to get rid of me, too."

Okay, maybe I did. I sigh, trying to quickly figure out a new angle for not ending the night on the worst conversation of all time.

"...Well, I'm happy to have you," I say. "While I think you could stand to be less vocal about it, I don't think the skepticism you're aiming at the Army is a bad thing. I've got your back even if they don't, okay?"

That gets her to smile a little, at least.

"Okay," she agrees. "Thanks, Lia."

I hate that name so goddamn much, but I smile back anyway, heading into the bathroom and pretending not to panic as she stares at my stolen body like it's something somehow worth appreciating. I lock myself in and shudder out a shaky breath, wanting to vomit but needing to keep my composure, because what the fuck, me? Why am I even freaking out in the first place?

It's not like Christine is even being rude or creepy about it; she obviously cares about not making me uncomfortable. I just… I've never been looked at that way before. Aren't I supposed to like it? Or at least not react like this? Sure, this isn't actually my body, but if anything that should make me more detached from this, right? It's not like she thinks I'm attractive. She just thinks Lia is attractive, which is true, except for the part where she's actually dead. God, I'm literally breaking out in a cold sweat. This is awful. This is pathetic. Suck it the fuck up, Julietta!

I take a deep breath, sit down on the toilet, and dissociate until my bowels are empty. Then I head to bed, waiting until Christine is in the bathroom to take my pants off. The sensation of fabric shifting against my skin is almost enough to tip me over the edge, but I keep my veneer of calm, crawl into bed, and do my best to be as still as possible so I can actually get to sleep. It takes a while, but I manage it.

I do not dream.

I shudder, waking up with twitching my limbs as blood and acid leak from my head. I never had an opportunity to analyze a fully intact Wasp, so dealing with the wounds in the form I did analyze is a matter of extrapolation. Symmetry helps, letting me mirror healthy structures in place of injured ones, but that strategy alone wasn't enough to reverse the damage in the template completely and my own acid is burning away at me once again.

I hear a loud, shrill noise, followed by babbling sounds and a rush of movement. I largely ignore it; the smells are what matter, and they're devoid of any real meaning. Sharp, pungent, and yet utterly gibberish, the thing in front of me is probably afraid. But as long as it leaves me alone, I see no reason to not do the same.

There's more movement, and it's easy to spot with my eyes gazing in every direction, but I try to focus on my template, on the healing I need to do to ensure this won't happen again. More small bodies enter the room, more meaningless nonsense, but I'm groggy and trying not to bleed out and I don't have the energy to wonder about them. I can't heal the damage to my acid glands via symmetry, so I'll have to stitch them a bit more manually, extrapolating what was present in the injured area by simply continuing the pattern of any structures that tore until they reseal.

The other things in the room start pointing what I recognize to be weapons at me. What do I… wait. Wait, wait, wait wait don't shoot! My body rapidly twists, flesh cycling and reshaping out from the damaged Wasp towards something human. Human? Oh fuck, my brain isn't human!

I shift it back, and then I shift everything back, finally taking in a proper understanding of my surroundings. I'm Lia again, sitting naked on a blood-soaked bed half-destroyed by Wasp acid. Three fully geared soldiers point their guns at me, with Christine standing behind them and looking horrified. I try to take some deep breaths, coughing and choking a little as I shakily raise my hands above my head.

"Sorry," I croak. "Sorry, it's me, I'm not… that wasn't on purpose."

There's a terrifying pause, and then one soldier lowers his gun, motioning to the others to do the same.

"Lia Morgan?" he asks.

"Yeah," I lie. "Sorry. My power gets fucky when I sleep, I guess."

"Well, that's what power training is for," the soldier answers, stepping partly into the bathroom to grab a towel and toss it at me so I can cover up. "Can you tell me why you weren't responding earlier?"

"Um… well, part of it was just me not being entirely awake," I wince. "My power was trying really hard to repair the damaged Wasp body I have access to, and it was just… very focused, I guess."

"Uh-huh," The soldier says. "Tip for you, kid: none of that 'my power did this' crap. I know this stuff can be hard to control when you're starting out, but you do control it. No excuses."

He sounds like he's speaking from experience, so I suspect he has a power of his own. Which makes sense; it'd be stupid to not have powered security on base to deal with power problems.

"I understand," I nod. "Sorry for the inconvenience. I'll try not to worry you in the future."

"You do that," the soldier grunts. "Seeing a fucking alien in the dorm first thing in the morning isn't exactly a fun start to the day. Don't let it happen again."

"...Yes, sir," I settle on, and he nods.

"Alright," he nods back. "It's nearly oh six hundred, so get your asses dressed and get to orientation."

He and the two men flanking him march out of our room, leaving me alone with a panicky-looking Christine.

"I'm sorry," she squeaks. "I'm so sorry. I freaked out, I didn't even think it was you, I'm so stupid."

Ah. She probably called for help, then.

"...It's fine," I mumble. "I probably would have done the same. Mind giving me some space to get dressed?"

"Oh!" she yelps, rushing towards the bathroom. "Right, yeah, sorry, sorry, just let me know when you're done."

She shuts the door and I sigh, hopping off my destroyed mess of a bed as I rummage through the nearby drawers for new clothing, all of which is completely identical. They do, thankfully, have spare underwear for me, though the bra is way too tight. Go figure.

"Alright, I'm decent," I call out to Christine. "Let's get going so we're not late, okay?"

Before getting deposited into our rooms last night, we were given a quick tour and strict instructions on what to do this morning: namely, show the fuck up to an 'orientation' class at six o'clock sharp or reap the consequences. As a general rule, I am not a fan of reaping consequences.

"Sorry!" Christine calls out. "Sorry, I'm almost ready!"

Hnngh. Do I leave her here and go on my own? …No, that shouldn't be needed. I can walk at a reasonable pace or even run now. I should still be able to make it on time. I wait for her, fidgeting anxiously and trying to ignore the countless distracting feelings dancing across my skin.

I school my expression when Christine emerges, but she still reacts with a startled yelp when she looks at me. What did I… oh, goddamnit. A collection of tiny, jagged crystals protrudes from my left arm, like miniature versions of the Behemoth's blades.

"...Sorry," I mutter, sucking them back under my skin and feeling them disappear. "Anyway, let's go."

We barely make it to the meeting place on time, but barely is good enough. It's a classroom, which feels kind of weird but in retrospect it probably shouldn't be weird. We're here to learn things, after all. This whole place is basically a weird military school for superpowered civilians.

Anastasia is already sitting down when Christine and I walk in, so I make my way to her and give her a big smile as I sit down next to her. She smiles back, recognizing me from the brief time she saw me in Lia's body last night. Considering the current dead silence of the room, though, I don't think it's wise to talk. The instructor at the front of the room looks mean.

She's a grumpy-looking military woman with short brown hair that's turning a little gray. Judging by the fully-armed guy next to her she either doesn't have powers or simply doesn't share Commander's confidence in holding her own with them against twenty or so newbies. Prudent, I suppose. She starts barking angry words at everyone who trickles in after Christine and I, but it's obviously performative; I suspect she's too used to this to actually be frustrated, and simply considers it her role to scare people into being more punctual.

Overall, I kind of like her.

"Welcome recruits, and congratulations to those of you with the basic common sense to show up on time," she snaps at us. "The rest of you can look forward to your punishment later. For now, let's begin with the basics."

The next couple of hours are supremely boring. Our instructor outlines what our schedule will be like for the foreseeable future, with educational classes in the morning and more practical power classes in the afternoon. They expect us to be up to standard in six weeks or less, which seems like a really short amount of time to master a gosh dang superpower, but what do I know? Most of the time is spent with her just establishing common-sense guidelines, like 'don't use your powers on people' and 'ideally, don't use your powers outside of structured classes at all.' That one is less of a hard rule, though, most likely because a lot of people have aspects of their power that simply do not turn off.

It certainly makes me curious about what some of the powers of my peers are, but I can only really speculate as I glance around the room in boredom. Like, I assume the seven-foot-tall super jacked dude has a strength power or something, but that's a bit too broad to be a power all by itself. Superpowers tend to not be like the comics where they just give you flight and super strength and lightning blasts and call it done. …Though I guess there are exceptions, like Agnus Dei.

Though the fact that powers tend to be so difficult to classify does mean I perk up a little when the instructor starts talking about how the military classifies them.

"Alright, we're going to be talking terms now," the instructor says, smacking the whiteboard behind her with the butt of her marker. "You need to know all of these and you need to know them well, because as powered troops your primary duty will most likely be coordinating with allied powers to deal with enemy powers. A lot of people like to put powers into categories based on similarities in how they seem to work, but you'll be leaving that sort of thinking to the researchers and focusing only on what powers accomplish, in a military sense. So, here are the main categories for you: Strike, Artillery, Armor, Transit, Recon, Sapper, and Tactical.

"These classifications are more or less exactly what they sound like, but the devil is always in the details. Strike abilities, for example, designate any offensive aspect to a power that applies both within the range of and above the strength of standard firearms. If an Angel comes at you with a power that's basically a gun we might give them a Strike one rating, but if your power isn't as useful as just pulling the trigger, we don't give a fuck about it. Artillery classifications are likewise: it indicates a power that exceeds the range, accuracy, or destructive potential of standard long-range engagement tactics in a noteworthy way. If your power can be replaced with mass-produced hardware, we're going to find another use for you."

Ha. I guess that makes sense. I wonder if my Behemoth blade would count as a strike rating in that case; I wouldn't be surprised if it has more punch than a standard firearm, but the range is a lot worse. My guess is that it might qualify for a weak one. If I can fix the Wasp organs, that'd almost certainly be a decent strike rating, since the acid can chew through metal like cotton candy.

"Armor ratings are all about the quantity and value of forces that need to be committed in order to bring a target down," the instructor continues. "You get an armor rating if you can walk into battle next to a light tank and expect the tank to go down first. Transit powers are anything that lets you redeploy yourself or, ideally, other troops more quickly than normal. Recon powers gather information, either through literal reconnaissance or, more commonly, through esoteric bullshit. A lot of you have powers that feed you information; how useful that information is to anyone other than you determines your Recon score. Sapper powers work like actual sappers do; your powers are geared towards preparing a battlefield, a defensive position, or otherwise supporting troops via preparation. Finally, Tactical powers perform a similar role in the midst of a battle, by supporting, empowering, or otherwise increasing the value of any troops under their aegis, such as through resonance effects. These abilities are often the most dangerous, and any Angel with a Tactical rating is going to be a priority target for those of you that become wing-rippers."

Some guy raises his hand, and the instructor points to him with a terse "What?"

"What are resonance effects?" he asks.

"We'll get to that," she snaps. "These ratings are how we classify powers, but they're mostly shorthands to communicate general information quickly. Ratings that command gives you aren't absolutes and shouldn't be treated as the end-all be-all of an engagement. The details of an ability are more important than the generalities, and you'll often be forced into situations where you don't have those details. You will, if you are chosen for power-to-power work, learn to quickly understand threats from limited clues and general impressions. But the core of power-to-power combat comes from two other ratings: your odd-op and are-dee scores."

She, thankfully, writes both of those up on the whiteboard, revealing their spelling as "ODoP" and "RD."

"RD is the big one," she continues. "It stands for Range-Density, and while it often functions as a general numerical measure of your power, it's technically a measurement of how many standard troops you can safely protect inside your domain against a specific opposing level of power. Which, of course, leads us to domains: the only universal attribute of all supernormal abilities."

Ah, here we go! I've heard Commander mention domains before and I've gotten a general impression of what they are, but I only have a vague sense of the details.

"All of you have a domain," the instructor tells us. "Some of you can already feel it, and some of you have no idea what I'm talking about. Your domain, in essence, is the space in which you can use your power. You each have differently-sized domains by default, but before you leave here we'll teach you how to control its size however you like. The longer your domain's range, the greater distance at which you can use your power. However, domains don't tend to play nice with each other."

She draws two overlapping circles on the whiteboard, like a venn diagram, with a small stick figure standing in the middle.

"You can stretch your domain out to get more range, but when you do, its strength—or 'density,' as we usually call it—decreases. When two domains overlap, the denser one generally takes precedence."

She erases the edge of one of the circles where it overlaps with the other, making the diagram look more like a solar eclipse, the stick figure now only encompassed by one of the circles.

"A lot of powers, if not most powers, have the ability to do catastrophic things to the human body even without overwhelming domain precedence, but if another domain fully suffuses you and has even the slightest degree of offensive ability, you can consider yourself already dead. As such, maximizing your RD score is essential to protecting yourself and others out in the field. When an Angel flies overhead, your domain is going to be the only thing that stands between your squad getting bombarded with assault fire—which can be defended against, neutralized, and counterattacked—or watching everyone you're responsible for pop like an overripe grape from behind full cover."

She erases the stick figure with her thumb, smearing the ink messily across the board. Needlessly graphic, but I get the point. When I was touching Lia and Andre, my domain covered them and was denser than the Queen's, who had weakened itself by extending its domain across the entire goddamn city and beyond. It just cared more about killing as many humans as physically possible than it cared about concentrating its power, which allowed Emily and me to escape despite being outclassed. While there's an inverse relationship between strength and size, a skilled power user can control the size of their domain, so the Queen could probably just shrink its domain down and achieve an overwhelming density if anyone actually tried to attack it.

Plus, it only needed to wait until the idiots like myself let go of the humans they're protecting in order to instantly rip them to shreds.

"This is an oversimplification, of course," the instructor says, drawing the stick figure and re-completing the second circle to overlap them again. "Domains aren't absolute, and are fully capable of overlapping and coexisting with each other. By default, this simply happens whenever two domains have a similar enough density that, rather than one completely canceling the other out, they each limit the other's capabilities. Depending on the power, this could be just as debilitating as getting canceled out entirely, or it could have no real effect on performance. This trait is represented in your odd-op score, which stands for Optimal Degree of Penetration."

She writes "ODoP" up on the board, with the numbers zero through three below it.

"To fully penetrate a domain, the opposing domain has to be about three times as dense. Full penetration is also the state your power functions in when there aren't other domains opposing you at all, and some powers require this state to be effective. For example, Commander herself is ODoP three, which makes her much more effective at unpowered or weak-domain targets than dangerous angels. Conversely, powers like Sí Gaoithe's affect the user or environment a lot more than than the target, and don't require significant penetration to be effective; having a strong enough domain to rival Sí Gaoithe will stop them from pulling your heart out through your ass, but it won't stop them from just lifting a rock and launching it at you fast enough to take your head off. Consequently, Sí is one of our best wing rippers, while Commander finds more success in other roles, like dealing with newbies."

She writes "Sí Gaoithe" (which was pronounced something like 'she gee-ha') and "strong against powers" on the board next to the number one under ODoP, while writing "Commander" and "weak against powers" on the board next to the three.

"Obviously, ODoP isn't the end-all, be-all. It affects your effectiveness in offensive situations, but it doesn't affect your capacity to protect against other powers. Some of you with high ODoP but also high RD scores will still find use against enemy Angels with the right support. Other powers might have a high optimal degree of penetration, but can still perform valuable functions at a reduced capacity. Generally speaking, the degree of change you wish to enact on a target affects how thoroughly you need to suffuse that target with your domain. Minor influence and subtle changes might only require an ODoP of one or two, while powers that simply scan or pick up information about a target might function even when slightly weaker than an opposing domain. It all depends on the ability's exact expression."

Ah. Okay. Well, my power only seems to use my domain to scan things, so I guess that means my ODoP score is pretty low. Which is… good, I guess? Well, it's good if I'm trying to maximize my utility to the military in offenses against opposing powers. Which I am not. So I guess it's bad, actually.

Cool.

"In essence, the ideal outcome of power-to-power battles is to completely overwhelm an opponent's domain and destroy them immediately. This is, in most situations, impossible. While your powers tend to make you an overwhelming opponent against targets that are unprotected by powers of their own, that is simply why engagements don't generally happen without substantial power support from both sides. Even if your power itself is useless, a strong enough domain makes you invaluable simply because you enable the ability for standard troops to function inside it."

…Which is why they snatch us all up with a no-tolerance policy. Well, I guess that makes sense, at least. If the army literally can't even try to defend against Angels or Queens without power support, they can't be picky about what the powers are. Every single unpowered person on the front lines needs to have someone like me nearby or they just get popped the same way my family and Lia did. I shudder a little thinking about it, though I naturally spend a moment instinctively trying to suppress that shudder until I've decided whether or not it's an acceptable reflex. It is, this time around; Lia would logically be making these same associations and being just as traumatized by them, if she wasn't a heartless asshole or dead. And I have good reasons to act like neither of those things.

I steal a glance towards Anastasia. She seems… a little confused, which makes sense. She's only a kid, and this is a lot to take in at once. I should probably write some notes, if only to give to her if she needs them.

I get to work on that, finding paper and a pen inside the desk as I scribble away, finding my handwriting to be a weird and disturbing mix between my normal handwriting and what little I've seen of Lia's. That's… just so strange. Is my handwriting always going to change relative to the body I'm currently in? I start thinking so deeply about it that I only realize I've started actively figuring out the answer when I notice my hands turning white, my body shifting and softening into a copy of Emily's. And yes, my handwriting starts to change. Freaky.

"Recruit Morgan!" the instructor snaps, and I flinch. "Control yourself."

"Y-yes ma'am!" I yelp back, shifting into Lia again. "Sorry."

Shit. This is going to be a really common problem for me, isn't it? I'm constantly slipping into accidental uses of my power, but as far as I can tell no one else has the same issue. Or maybe they do and it's just harder for people to tell than it is with mine. Shit, that's probably it, but either way this is going to be a major problem if I want to stand out as reliable. It won't matter how well they think I handle other people if I'm a problem individually. I have to figure this out.

My skin twitches and bubbles, my revulsion at the idea of being more Lia, more often manifesting itself before I can stop it. The instructor definitely notices, though she doesn't bother to yell at me again. That's nice of her, at least.

She talks for hours, giving us a general overview of how powers work in the Army. Predictably, there are a lot of different ways to use and abuse us, and they vary based on what our powers actually do. The generic role for a powered individual is to be part of a squad or platoon, supplying their domain so that more standardized military can invade the area controlled by Queens or defend against attacks from Angels. Because of the potential cost of an Angel catching military hardware unprotected, any front-line positions have to be saturated in superpowered individuals capable of at least giving the army a fighting chance, as Angels often lead troops of unpowered aliens against us for exactly the same reasons.

But the people in charge aren't completely stupid, so they understand that different powers might have better utility in other roles. Cross-Country's teleportation ability, for example, is handy enough to have him always on call for using it, never supplying his domain to the front lines. But powers that are particularly good for offense rather than defense or utility tend to go the other route, forming wing-ripper units to enact execution strikes against Angels deep in enemy territory, or more chillingly, become more 'traditional' superheroes.

Which is to say that they mainly fight and kill humans that have powers, instead of aliens.

The military is strict about holding sole control over superpowers. It's understandable, especially now that it's clear how essential every single powered person is to the defense of humanity, but regardless of the reason the military does need to enforce that control. And that means when someone with powers dodges the draft, it's someone with powers who has to hunt them down and make an example out of them.

Capturing such people alive is preferable, our instructor insists, but the type of person to go through the trouble of becoming a villain in the first place tends to not be the type of person to come quietly when caught. So, they do what they have to.

It's both a job offer and an implicit threat, one that I don't really feel is necessary after everyone already saw what happened to Christine. Whatever, though. I get it. Everybody either gets to ride the totalitarian regime train, or get run over by it. I don't like it, but I want to avoid being splattered.

The idea of fighting humans puts a particularly bad taste in my mouth, though. It seems like a complete waste of time. If I get ordered to do that, I don't know if I would be able to follow through on that order. I wonder what the best way to frame an intent to disobey is? Obviously they'd still have to discipline me, but they wouldn't execute me as long as I don't desert. Bleh. Hopefully it won't come up. Even if it's one of the really evil supervillains, I don't want to do it.

Lunchtime eventually rolls around, and I quickly realize that I'm absolutely famished. Not eating breakfast will do that to me, I guess… as will shapeshifting into a monster and dissolving myself with acid. I turn to Anastasia the moment we're dismissed, the instructor rattling off orders for us to eat in the mess hall and then show up at a field outside.

"You holding up okay, Anastasia?" I ask.

She nods, looking up at me with a subtle discomfort that wasn't present when I looked like I was her age. I actually feel myself shrink an inch as I think that, but I catch it and force myself to stay as Lia.

"I'm alright," she says softly. "My room is nice. It's… quiet."

I'm not sure if she thinks her room being quiet is good or bad, and I'm not sure if she knows either. Did she have a lot of siblings?

"Well, you be sure to tell me if you're having any trouble, okay?" I tell her. "Would you like to come with me to eat?"

"Okay," she agrees quietly, and I hold out my hand. She grabs it gingerly, being careful not to rake me with her claws, and we start heading to the mess hall together.

"Lia!" a voice I don't recognize calls out from behind us. "Hey, Lia! It's me!"

Huh? I turn around and see a pretty normal-looking guy about my age walking towards me, giving me an excited wave. Shit. He knows Lia? Damn it, what are the odds!?

He's got short blonde hair, limply spiked with hair gel that, for obvious reasons, hasn't been reapplied in a day or two. His ears have three small piercings apiece, and between his artificially tanned skin and perfect teeth I suspect he's closer to Lia's wealth bracket than mine. Still, I give him an arrogant half-smile, the sort of expression Lia shares with people she's not being overtly rude to but definitely thinks she's better than.

"Hey," I say with as much confidence as I can muster. "Didn't expect to see you here."

I have no fucking clue who this guy is. I have no fucking clue what his name is. I have no fucking clue what his relationship with Lia is. I let none of this show.

"Yeah, likewise!" he grins. "Shit, I'm glad you're alive. You still dating that orphan chick?"

Am I still… Jesus, this guy is an asshole. No wonder he seems like he's on good terms with Lia.

"I am still dating Emily, yes," I snap at him. "She is alive and well, even though the rest of her family fucking died. Thanks for asking."

He hides it well, but I think I see a flash of disappointment on his face. Christ, dude! Is this guy just pining for Lia, or is he like, an ex-boyfriend or something? Is Lia even bi? Fuck, I don't know that either. Given his attitude I wouldn't be surprised if he's the one that helped her figure out she's a lesbian. If I tried to date this asshole I'd probably swear off men, too.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean it like that," he says, putting up his hands in surrender. "I'm glad she's okay. And I'm glad you're okay, too! What's your power?"

Ugh. No point in lying, especially since I can't fucking control it. Please be too stupid to get suspicious.

"Shapeshifting," I say casually. "What about you?"

"I'm not entirely sure, to be honest?" he laughs. "It's like I've got super-speed, but only sometimes? It's sick as hell when I manage to use it, but it doesn't really seem to work most of the time."

"Huh. Well, I guess that's what this whole weird training school is for, right?"

"Guess so," he shrugs. "I hope I'm not regulated to some stupid personal shield generator, is all. I wanna be out there kicking alien ass."

"Well, life's not really about what we want, is it?"

"It is if you're good enough," he answers casually, giving me a friendly tap on the shoulder, which would probably infuriate me if I wasn't so distracted by the fact that he touched my skin.

The feeling I get from him is one of indomitability. Inevitability. To face him, his domain insists, is to guarantee defeat. To fight against flawlessness is to require flawlessness, and I am nothing close to perfect.

It's only a flash of feeling, though, a fraction of a second, before my own domain bristles and reacts, my instinctive indignance at his arrogance driving me past his defenses and proving them wrong. Knowledge of his body floods into me, and I'm both shocked and enraptured by the many differences, both in places I expected and in places I didn't.

His lungs are nearly a third again as large as the women I've scanned, based on his size, not to mention the generalized difference in fat and muscular structure, but a smaller percentage of white blood cells. The detailed differences in generalized structure of his body, face, throat, skeleton, and so on are about what I expected, but feeling them like this—knowing the sheer degree of minutiae between what the human body manifests in biological males versus females—is staggeringly pedantic. The dimorphism seems almost arbitrary in its countless details, even in something as simple as the face, but as the focus of my attention goes lower on the body the differences become more pronounced for obvious reasons.

I blink, shuddering as I firmly resist the urge to try out this new template, forcing my thoughts back on track before I lose myself to the instincts of my power again. Not today. Not like this. I already didn't want to know any of this, and I definitely don't want to experience it for myself. This is absurd and disgusting and not helpful.

I now have a comprehensive understanding of the structure of this asshole's dick… and, for that matter, his asshole. It would be very nice if someone could instead tell me his goddamn name.

"Woah," the guy says. "That felt weird. You okay?"

"You felt that?" I ask, mostly to avoid answering his question.

"Yeah," he says. "It felt like anything could happen. Or… like everything could happen. That no doors were ever going to be closed again. Is that what your power feels like?"

"...Not really," I mutter back, since my power mostly feels like knowing way too much about the exact dimensions of everyone's urethras. "Does your power feel like overwhelming arrogance?"

"Ha!" he laughs. "No, not really. It just makes me feel awesome."

So yes, basically? Whatever, this isn't important. I need to go wash my brain out with superhuman-grade bleach. Maybe some Wasp acid? …Oof, nope, bad attempt at humor, brain. That one only hurts.

"Seriously, you okay, Lia?" the guy asks. "You're not really acting like yourself."

Oh, fuck. No. No way. This asshole will not be the one to break my cover. Whoever he is!

"...I've just had a rough couple of days," I tell him. "I nearly died. I saw a lot of people who did die."

He laughs. He actually laughs. Asshole.

"Well, the Lia I know would never let that get her down—"

Wait, what!? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

"—so I'm sure you'll be fine soon, yeah? Let's eat!"

He speeds up a bit, heading into the mess hall first and leaving me with a painfully terrified heartbeat and an urgent need to hyperventilate. Shit, I thought I was had for a second there. I'm lucky he's an idiot. …No, who am I kidding? I'm unlucky as hell that he's here at all, same as always.

"Lia?" a quiet voice next to me squeaks, and I realize that Anastasia's hand is squirming in my grasp. "You're squeezing too hard."

I forcibly relax myself, shooting her an apologetic smile.

"Sorry," I say. "That's my fault. Are you alright?"

She nods.

"Great, then let's go eat," I tell her, and we head into the mess hall together.

I'm never going to survive here, am I?