14. Am I Traumatized Or Something? (Patreon)

A/N: Apologies for missing the chapter last week! Nothing really... happened, per se? I just had a huge depressive episode for no reason because my brain is broken and was unable to do much of anything. Yay mental health issues! But I'm better now so enjoy the chapter!

Okay. Alright. This isn't as bad as it could be. 

Everyone's freaking out, but it's not like I've gone full Angel. It's fine. It'll be fine. I unform the tentacles I've grown, reshape my face into human eyes, get rid of all the scales on my body, and generally make a show of being human and in control of myself. Unfortunately, as fast as I take care of things, I still feel a presence. 

It's a feeling of unparalleled supremacy, a confidence in one's superiority founded on the basis that it could not be physically possible for anything greater to exist. How can it be arrogance, when it really is always right? How can it be hubris, when even gods cannot punish it? A strange, bubbling feeling inside me roils at its touch, denying it, filling me with indignant strength. But just as quickly as the presence hits me, it is washed away by another. 

Commander's power smashes into me, bludgeoning the foreign presence away and replacing it before burrowing inside me in moments. My body stiffens, tenses, shudders from head to toe with an intense, complex feeling unlike anything I'm used to. It feels good, shockingly pleasant in a way I've never felt from my body before.  I barely notice dropping my food tray on the floor until it hits the ground with a loud clatter, startling me and everyone nearby… except for Peter. Peter doesn't even seem to notice, also enraptured by Commander's power, perhaps even more intensely than I am. His entire body just twitches for a moment before it completely stops, a vacant smile blooming on his face. 

"Both of you, come here," Commander orders, and I want to obey her, I ache for it the way my stomach aches when I'm starving. Peter moves immediately, standing up and approaching Commander with that same blissful grin. And… y'know, I see no reason not to also comply here, so I do. 

Aaaah holy fuck. 

A full-body bloom of… of I don't even know overwhelms my senses for a moment, intense and wonderful and completely out of nowhere. What the fuck just happened to me? What's my body… my body just produced a bunch of some kinda chemical from three different glands and released it into my bloodstream all at once.  What the fucking fuck, fuck you, no one enacts freakish unconscious changes to my body except me!

"Sit down," Commander orders, and Peter immediately complies, sitting on the floor while his smile grows ever wider. I also comply, because I explicitly don't want to cause a scene here, but when my brain tries to order my body to release more of whatever chemical that is I override it, refusing the feeling and the joy associated with it. 

This may not be my body in the sense that it's the one I was born in, but it's damn well my body in the sense that I fucking own it. I'm in control. No one else.

Anastasia is staring at us, crouched low and looking like she's ready to attack. Which… would be really bad, so I risk glancing her way and giving her a subtle shake of my head. She sees it, thankfully, and calms down. I'm not confident Commander didn't see it, though. She seems like the kind of woman who cultivates a good poker face. 

"Okay," Commander says evenly, though her voice is more than loud enough to project through the entire room. Damn, that woman has some pipes. "Is everyone finished? Yes? Good. Now then, allow me to introduce you all to Christine Baker, Anastasia Patrova, and of course, Lia Morgan. They will be joining all of you in your training. Lia, as you have seen, is a shapeshifter. Like all of you, she is struggling to fully master her abilities, so I expect you all to not attack her if she happens to startle you. Likewise, I will be sure to impress upon her the severity of threatening someone with a power. Consequently, this will not repeat itself. Am I clear?"

No one answers her.

"Good," she says, and then with a beckoning flick of her finger, I feel the yearning to follow her. I do so, though again I'm a bit slower than Peter. Which is… hmm. Peter doesn't seem in control of himself at all. I guess most people don't have a weird enough relationship with the concept of feeling things to bypass the power-induced pleasure obsession? Lucky me, I guess. Commander leads both of us into a side room and glowers at us, the feeling of her power retreating away from us. Peter gasps, shuddering a little as he blinks himself back to something resembling control. I… probably should have also tried to react somehow, but it's too late now, I suppose. 

"Alright," Commander scowls. "I take it the two of you know each other?" 

"...He's my girlfriend's brother," I scowl. Not my brother. But I guess I never saw him that way. "He fucking ditched us while we were trying to escape the incursion zone together." 

"Hey man, you crashed the car," Peter says, rubbing his face like he's trying to wake himself up. "Don't blame me for what happened."

Ah, but Lia would absolutely blame you for what happened, because you're anyone other than her. 

"I only crashed because your fucking epileptic sister had to go and have an episode while I was trying to drive!"

"Again: not my fault," Peter shrugs. 

"Andre's dead," I snap. "Julietta's dead. Max is dead, but you already fucking knew that, you—"

"You sure are pissed about the deaths of a bunch of people you never fucking liked," Peter cuts me off. "Look, asshole, if you wanna hear me apologize for not getting stuck in an incursion zone, it's not happening. But hey, glad you survived! Super nice to see you again, you bitch!" 

"Well the feeling isn't mutual," I snap. Hopefully if I'm just enough of a raging bitch to him, he'll avoid me for a while. 

"Wow! Emily must have found a strap-on if you're this butthurt," Peter says, grinning at me in a manner that indicates he hasn't been put off in the slightest. Right. I forgot. It's Peter. 

"Quiet," Commander snaps. "I didn't bring you here to listen to you bicker. I brought you here to tell you that you are going to get over yourselves. You are fellow recruits now. Whatever happened is past. It is irrelevant. What matters is focusing on your abilities and the ways we teach you to use them. Is that clear?"

"Sure," Peter shrugs. 

"Yes ma'am," I say firmly. 

Commander whacks Peter across the head with the back of her hand. He doesn't even seem surprised.

"What was that!?" she snaps. 

"Oh yeah, uh, yes ma'am," he says like he forgot, though his smile tells me he didn't. 

"Good. Dismissed, both of you."

Peter waves goodbye for no other reason than to annoy Commander further and walks out of the room. I wait a little bit before following him, trying to put some distance between us, but he just waits for me in return. 

"Man, I am going to have so many nice dreams about that," he sighs happily. "God, that power is so fucked up. I love it." 

"You're a freak," I say flatly. 

"Oh come on, she basically shoots you with dope while puppetting you around on strings," Peter sighs dramatically. "I think I'm starting to get addicted, you know? Have some sympathy for me." 

"Well at least you've been having a good time while Emily and I were fighting for our lives," I growl. 

"Oh, don't be a fuckin' baby about it," Peter says, rolling his eyes. "You know me, you know I look out for number one. Hell, I'm surprised you didn't follow. Emily's really got you stuffed deep up her pussy, huh?"

Jesus Christmas Christ thank you for that horrible mental image, Peter. Oh my god he was never this awful with me before. Did he always treat Lia like this? 

"...Oh, uh, fuck. She's not dead, is she?" Peter asks. "You didn't mention her, so I thought she was okay, but you didn't laugh or punch me or both, so…"

"Oh, fuck off," I grumble. "Emily is fine. Or at least as fine as anyone can be after all that. I'm just not in a joking mood, Peter, okay? So just stay the fuck away from me."

"Wellll, I guess I could," he says, grasping his chin between his thumb and forefinger as he stares at me like he's judging whether a cow should be milked or slaughtered. "...But no promises." 

God, this piece of shit. He's… hmm. He's definitely pissing me off on purpose, because Peter always does stuff like this on purpose. And he's being so much more of an asshole than he ever was when I was in my real body, I feel like something is definitely up. The difference is way too stark for it to not be personal. He's got some kind of beef with Lia, specifically. 

Unfortunately, that's not very helpful information. I mean, this is Lia we're talking about. He could be pissed at her for basically anything and it would probably be justified. Still, I don't want to deal with it. 

"Hey, Peter?" I prompt him. 

"Yeah, sugartits?" 

"I have had a long fucking week," I tell him. "I dragged three people—including your sister and a fucking child—out of the incursion zone on my literal goddamn back, and I am exhausted. So yeah, I'm a little pissed at you. You left us behind. But more than that, you didn't have to go through what we went through, and it fucked us up. I do not have the energy or the mental bandwidth to deal with your bullshit anymore, so I'm not going to be dealing with it. One way or another, I will not be listening to this for the next however long we're stuck here. You got that, sugartits?" 

He gives me that considering stare again, but I just glower back at him until eventually he shrugs, loose and nonchalant. 

"Yeah, alright," he says. "At least for now. Truce?"

He holds out his hand for me to shake. I sigh and take it. 

"Fine, whatever," I agree, giving him one firm shake before letting go. "I'm going to eat dinner now."

"Have fun!" he beams, waving goodbye with a few drums of his fingers against the air. "I was pretty much done, so I'll head back to my room."

"Good for you," I grumble, and make my way back to the cafeteria. I spot the door to the room we were just in open when I make my way to the edge of the hall, Commander likely exiting to follow me from a distance. Joy. 

The accidental shapeshifting and blowing my top at Peter definitely lost me points with her, which is… potentially quite bad. A heavily structured organization like the military inevitably runs off of nepotism; being liked and trusted by your superiors can quite literally be the difference between life and death. This goes double since we're losing the war: who are you going to send on a likely suicide mission, the jerk you hate or your best friend? This isn't some propaganda-filled movie full of burly men bursting with honor and brotherhood. The decisions in this war are made by real people, and real people are selfish, biased, and weak. 

I'm not above sucking up to my superiors. Far from it, in fact. It has basically been the core strategy for my entire life; parents are just another kind of shitty boss, after all. 

I reenter the cafeteria, a lot of people looking my way but most people just minding their own business, chatting and eating. So that's good. Everybody here either just recently got superpowers or is specifically trained to handle people that did; my freaky shapeshifting probably isn't enough to shock people for too long. 

Christine catches my eye and lifts her hand in a half-wave, beckoning me over to the otherwise-empty table she and Anastasia are sitting at. I nod and head their way, finding Anastasia chowing down on her meal with gusto while Christine mostly just spoons up broth from the soup without touching any of the solid food inside it. Hmm. 

"You're really eating a lot there, Anastasia! Good job!" I tell her. She would often struggle to eat enough food in the incursion zone, so I want to make sure to praise her whenever she eats well. 

"Christine said I had to," Anastasia grumbles. "Even though she's not eating anything yucky." 

"Adult prerogative," Christine says, pointing her spoon at the girl. "You're not allowed to have an eating disorder until you're older." 

I give Christine a sidelong glance at that comment, but she just shrugs and keeps spooning broth into her mouth. And… y'know what, okay, it was kind of morbidly funny (the best kind, in my opinion) so I let myself give her an amused smile.

"Thanks, Christine," I tell her honestly. Other people helping Anastasia eat is also always worthy of praise, I think, and Christine seems like she's probably lacking a lot of it in her life. She gives me an awkward nod and gestures to the second tray of food beside her. 

"I, uh, also got you more to eat, since you dropped yours," she admits awkwardly. 

"Awesome," I smile, picking it up. "Actually, if you two are okay with it, I was hoping we could sit over there?" 

I gesture at the table with the guy in the wheelchair. Christine frowns for a bit, but shrugs, standing up with her tray. Anastasia just follows me without a word, and we make our way over. 

"Hey, is it alright if we sit here?" I ask the old guy. 

"Sure, sure!" he agrees, grinning brightly like I figured he would. Most old people are pretty lonely, in my experience. I sit down next to him and Anastasia sits on the other side of me, with Christine positioning herself with as much room around her as possible. 

The old guy looks remarkably happy for somebody sitting alone at the human weapon school lunch table, the deepest creases on his golden brown face all centered around the way a smile scrunches up your cheeks and eyes. His short hair is surprisingly resilient to balding, but it has that chaotic, black-white mix of strands that reminds me of the image you get from turning on antique TVs. 

His wheelchair, notably, also looks old and well-used. So it's probably not related to his power, or some accident he got in while escaping the incursion zone. He's been disabled since before then. 

"Thank you," I say with a smile. "I'm Lia. This is Anastasia, and that's Christine." 

"Hello, sir!" Anastasia chirps. Christine merely nods. 

"Ah, hello there!" he nods at each of us in turn. "Anastasia, Lia, and Christine. Do you prefer Kris?" 

"Absolutely not," Christine says firmly. 

"Haha! Noted! Well, my name is Ed. It's wonderful to meet you all."

"It's great to meet you too, Ed," I say, returning the pleasantries. 

"I go by Ana!" Anastasia speaks up. 

"Ana it is, then," Ed agrees. "So what brings you all over to sit with an old man like me?"

"Old men are cool," I answer with a shrug. "Teenagers are dumbasses." 

"Oh? And how old are you?" 

Uh. Wait, shit, how old is Lia? I think she's the same age as me, right? Like a couple months older, maybe? I meant to memorize the birthdate on her driver's license but I never managed to get around to it in the incursion zone. And… now I think Emily probably has it? 

"...Eighteen," I decide to go with. It's my best guess. 

"So… still a teenager yourself?" he prods. 

"I'm obviously an exception," I answer easily, spooning some of the soup into my mouth and woah hmm okay I can see why Christine is only eating the broth, this is a lot at once. I swap to the mashed potatoes for now, which are a lot easier on my palette. 

"Of course, obviously!" Ed laughs. "The only sane girl in a crazy world, eh?"

"Something like that," I smile. "Though I personally think 'sanity' is too nonspecific of a term." 

"I see, I see! You're quite the confident one."

"She killed an Angel this morning," Christine grunts. "She's definitely earned the confidence." 

That actually drops Ed's smile, his face quickly morphing into shock. 

"What?" he breathes. 

"Why do you think we were late showing up here?" Christine grumbles. "We were stuck in the fucking incursion zone this whole time. We barely made it out alive, and Lia dueled an Angel to do it." 

"Lia's the strongest!" Anastasia agrees. 

"Uh," I manage. I was… sort of keeping that on the down low, but I guess it was only a matter of time before it became public knowledge. I know killing an Angel is a big fucking deal. "...We never would have made it out without you, Ana. You're super strong too, I just lucked out. The Angel's power was really bad against mine. It even helped, in some ways." 

"Well that sounds like quite the story," Ed blinks. 

"Uh. Yeah," I agree. Change the subject change the subject change the subject! "I'd rather not talk about it right now, though."

I stare down at my soup, frowning to myself. Man, that was a bit more of an intense reaction than I expected. Am I traumatized or something? I don't feel traumatized. A lot of traumatized people probably don't feel traumatized, though, so maybe I can't accurately judge that. 

And like, I guess it makes sense? I was trapped in a dangerous place for days and in order to escape I had to kill someone. Someone who wanted to kill me, a freakish monster whose maddened words slowly started to make sense over the course of our fight to the death. I wonder which part of that is more likely to be fucking me up: the murder or the talking. I guess the talking is what makes the murder so bad; I wouldn't be reacting this way to killing something that isn't even a person, right? …Hmm. I guess I don't know. It's not like I've ever killed an animal before either, barring the occasional bug. 

When did I even start thinking about the Angel that way? As a person. It just started feeling obvious to me the moment I first considered it. It shouldn't really be that surprising; we've never been able to communicate with the aliens before, but while some experts believe they're just a non-sapient, ant-like swarm intelligence, a lot of human experts also believe that they possess the complex thought we associate with personhood. Hell, it was the theory I subscribed to. It just makes more sense; the main justification for the common non-sapient theory is just the idea that a sapient would have at least tried to talk to us in some way, and I don't really think that holds up to scrutiny. People just believe it because it's way more comfortable thinking of our enemies as ravenous ants than as intelligent people who can be reasoned with and simply decided to unilaterally genocide us anyway. 

Except that I could have reasoned with them, maybe. I just didn't try. Like, obviously it wouldn't have worked, but… I dunno. I still feel bad about it, in retrospect? I guess that's kind of stupid because of like, the genocide they do, but still. 

I was a little busy focusing on staying alive to really investigate my apparent understanding of the alien's… I don't know. Language equivalent? I wonder if I could learn more human languages if I copy brains from people who know them. Wait, that's existentially terrifying actually. More importantly it's off topic so let's not think about it. The point is, this ability to communicate could be really important, but I missed my chance to cultivate it. Which was very stupid of me, because I trust my ability to talk myself out of situations a lot more than I trust my ability to fight my way out of them, and I am definitely going to find myself in many more 'situations' very soon. 

"Lia?"

I was a fool. Imagine if I could have talked with that thing. If I could have asked it what it wanted Christine for, if I could have worked something out. I know it's a longshot. A huge longshot. But there's little downside in asking, and it could potentially change everything, right? I guess it's dangerous even if it succeeds, though. I have no idea how people would react if they learned I could do this, and frankly I doubt it would be good. Everyone already suspects I'm an alien, after all, and given all these foreign thoughts and the thing that truth-telling power said about me I'm starting to wonder if maybe—

"Hey, Lia?" 

I flinch, my tentacles snaking out towards whatever touched my shoulder, but when I face that way all I see is a concerned-looking Anastasia, seeming a lot more bothered by my expression than the crystal-scaled weapons I just coiled around her. 

"Are you okay?" she asks. "You weren't responding." 

I swallow, my mind chugging with disorientation for a moment before I realize I should definitely not be threatening anybody with tentacles. I absorb them back into my body, reverting to human standard yet again. 

"S-sorry," I stammer. "Sorry, I was just… a bit lost in thought." 

"You sound like you've had a long and exhausting week," someone says, and who the fuck—oh, it's Ed, I just met him. Like just now. Right. "I imagine you could use some rest." 

"Yeah," I agree. "Yeah, that would probably be good. Sorry for being kinda freaky. My power is kind of… unconscious. A lot of the time." 

"Instinctive, perhaps," Ed smiles. "I imagine you had to get used to it very quickly. I don't think there's any shame in that. What we can do is part of who we are; what matters is not what skills you have, but how you use them." 

I blink. Okay. Thanks for the cereal box wisdom, old man. I nod like I'm actually thinking about it seriously, though. There's no sense being rude. 

"You sound like Uncle Iroh!" Anastasia chirps. Woah! Is that a member of her family? I've never heard her talk about her family all that much, though, and definitely not with that much enthusiasm. Ed brightens immediately when he hears the name, though. 

"Oh-ho! We have someone cultured at the table! It's an honor to be thought to have aged half as well as Iroh."

"Who?" I ask. 

"A character from an old television show I watched when I was a teenager," Ed muses happily. "I think it turned fifty last year? I didn't think anyone was still watching it!" 

"My grandma and I watch it together!" Anastasia says, bouncing slightly. "I think she wants to kiss Zuko." 

"Ah, don't we all," Ed sighs. "Your grandmother sounds like a wonderful woman with excellent taste."

"Yeah, she…" Anastasia starts before the realization visibly hits her face. "She was." 

Ugh, smooth. Though honestly we're probably in a relatively safe place for Anastasia to start processing grief so I don't see any need to interfere yet. I sip down some more broth, and Ed gives Anastasia an understanding smile.

"...Who is your favorite character?" he asks, and after a moment, Anastasia tells him. They chatter away, dropping names and concepts I have no base of reference for, but it seems to slowly make her feel better as I munch on dinner. Neat. I'm glad my impression was spot on the money; Ed is a cool guy. With her real family dead, I've got to do my best to surround Anastasia with new people who will love her from every angle in a desperate attempt to counteract the inevitable child soldier war orphan trauma as much as possible. I could keep an eye on her all by myself, but the more people she has in her corner, the better. 

Anastasia doesn't deserve this. In a just world, none of us would be here, but in an even remotely sane world, Anastasia especially wouldn't be here. The girl has already participated in far more violence than is healthy for basically anyone, let alone a nine-year-old, and yet she's still being forced to sacrifice any peace in her life for a chance to allow humanity to continue. 

Personally, I can't help but wonder if humanity deserves to continue if it's willing to do things like this to survive. But thoughts like that are what make supervillains, and I don't really find that future any more appealing than being a soldier. 

"...Okay," Christine suddenly says. "I think I got it." 

Without a sound, her soup lifts up into the air and separates into its constituent parts. The broth jiggles slightly, floating above the bowl while still in the same shape it would be were it resting properly in that container. Every still-solid ingredient in that broth floats even further above it, still in basically the same configuration it was in while inside the soup, but now completely dry (if mushy) and, of course, levitating independently in a cloud about the size of Christine's head. 

"Woah," I say, blink. "Good job Chr… uh." 

I start to praise her for successfully using her power on purpose, but I trail off when she starts using her spoon to individually flick every pea out of her power's range and onto her plate. Is… is the thing that finally got her to use her power the fact that she's a picky eater!? 

I glance down at my own soup, feeling vaguely weak and ashamed for avoiding the meat and vegetables thus far. It's such a stupid thing to have a hangup about. I need to get over myself. I force myself to take a bite of the soup without straining out all the stuff I don't want to eat, and do my best to suppress a shudder as the overwhelming mix of textures and flavors nearly makes me gag. I force it down anyway, and move on to the next bite. Ugh, being able to feel and taste is so weird. Mouths should just be for chewing and swallowing. 

Christine eventually finishes plucking her least favorite vegetables out of the air before re-forming the rest of the soup back into her bowl. My complicated feelings on eating aside, it's definitely impressive, at least. 

"I'll take those veggies if you don't want them," Ed stage-whispers from across the table. Christine shrugs and passes him her tray, which he gladly takes and starts scooping the contents into his bowl. "Thanks! Peas make me gassy, but I still love 'em." 

"Ew!" Anastasia giggles. 

"It's a natural function of the human body!" Ed protests. "Nothing 'ew' about it! When you get to my age you just have to get used to these things." 

"But they're stinky!"

"If you think they smell bad, then how do you think I feel? The closest nose to my farts is always mine! Or… well, at least I hope so…" 

Anastasia erupts into laughter as I do my best not to cringe at the potty humor. Damn if it gets the job done, though. Kids really eat that stuff up. I wonder if I was ever like that. I don't really remember… joking with anybody as a kid? But that might not mean anything, I don't remember my childhood all that well in general. 

I mostly let Ed entertain Anastasia as I force down the rest of my food, eventually finishing my dinner well after everyone else cleaned their plates and just continued hanging around and chatting to be polite. Ugh, I'll have to speed up when I eat tomorrow. I'm sure I'll get used to all these sensations eventually. It's just frustrating that I don't like most of them. People keep saying this or that feels good, but nearly all of it is just different kinds of too much for me. 

It's as alien to me as having tentacles. Maybe even moreso. 

"Sorry for taking so long," I apologize as I finish the last of my food and move to gather everyone else's trays. It's the least I can do for delaying them. 

"Huh?" Christine says, politely feigning ignorance. "Oh, thank you." 

"Of course," I say, cleaning up after everyone and taking the mostly empty trays to the drop point for them. Anastasia and Ed are still chatting when I return, so I just silently ruffle Anastasia's hair and smile back at her when she gives me a big grin. 

"I should probably head back to my room and get some sleep," I say when there's an appropriate break in the conversation. 

"Ah, yes, of course! No doubt you're exhausted," Ed nods. "I suppose I should rest for the night as well. They really work these old bones."

"You want me to wheel you anywhere, or are you good?" I ask him. I know better than to ever touch his wheelchair without permission, but I want to at least offer and figure out his preferences on that kind of thing.

"Oh, they have somebody assigned to me," he says, waving me off. "I'll flag him down and make him chauffeur me. Have a good night, Lia. It was wonderful to meet you."

"Of course, and likewise," I nod at him. "You ready to head back to our rooms, Anastasia?" 

She squirms a little bit. 

"I don't… really want to be alone," she says quietly. 

"I'm happy to keep an eye on her if you need to rest," Ed offers. Which… ha. Hahaha. Hahahahahahahahaha. Ed seems like a really nice guy and he hasn't given me any red flags so far, but there is no way in hell I am leaving Anastasia alone with a man I barely know, ever. I give him a polite smile that hopefully isn't a little too wide for a human. 

"I'm sure we can convince someone to let you hang out in our room, at least until it's time for you to go to bed," I assure Anastasia. "Come on." 

She nods in agreement, clinging tightly onto my arm as she gets up and for the whole walk back to our dorm. Christine follows behind us with her usual awkward expression, not seeming to know what to do other than follow me. Which I guess is fair; as far as I know, the secret military compound doesn't really have much in the way of entertainment. 

As we leave, a few of the soldiers that were also hanging out in the dining room surreptitiously get up and just happen to start walking in the same direction as us. I guess not having Commander stalking us personally doesn't mean we don't have people watching us. Are the cameras not enough for these guys? Sheesh. 

"So, you really like that show you and Mr. Ed were talking about, huh?" I ask Anastasia. 

"Yeah!" she agrees. "But Ed's not a mister because he's not a horse." 

I blink.

"What?" I ask. 

"Mister Ed is a horse!" Anastasia says. "But Ed's not a horse so he's not a mister!" 

"Okay?" I manage. "Is that another cartoon?"

"No, my grandma says it's a show her grandma watched. It's even older than cartoons!" 

Is that how that works? Eh, who cares, it's all ancient history. The important thing here is learning more about Anastasia. 

"You've mentioned cartoons a few times. Did you and your grandma watch them a lot?" 

She shrinks a little at that, like I expected she would. I am fully cognizant that this conversation is liable to make her cry, but… well, I think she probably needs a good cry after watching her family get murdered and having to fight aliens for four days. It's healthy, or so I hear. I only recently obtained working tear ducts so I can't really comment. 

"Yeah," Anastasia nods. "Two or three times a week. It was fun. We liked watching them together. My mom and my grandpa would make dinner and my grandma and my sister and my brother and I would all play board games or the game where you have to kill the person pretending to be Hitler and grandma won that a lot because nobody could ever tell if she was lying. But after dinner we'd always watch cartoons. She liked lots of them and she promised she'd only show me the best ones and she did! They were really good." 

A pause. 

"Dinner was good too. My dad didn't help with dinner or watch cartoons but he helped clean things and repair things for grandma and grandpa. And he was really funny." 

"Mmm," I hum, encouraging her to say more. 

"My big sister was mean sometimes. She didn't want me around her friends and she didn't like playing board games very much. But she's really smart and even though mom made her help me with my homework she was still really good at it. And when mom and dad weren't home she would let me stay up late with her and watch scary movies and I got to sit on her lap on the couch and eat popcorn while my brother sat in the other chair." 

It's all such simple little things, isn't it? Anastasia’s family all sounds so nice, so… idyllic. Almost unbelievably so. I'm sure there were problems and arguments and issues all over the place. People are just like that. But that's not what you remember as a kid, is it? Especially not once your family is gone. 

I'm glad Anastasia at least got to make all these memories with them before they left her. Even as they bring her tears, I think it's a good thing. I don't really have memories like that, so I'm a little jealous. 

No one overtly stops us when I lead Anastasia into the room I share with Christine, and I continue to listen as Anastasia talks about her large, lively family. I sit down on my bed and pull her onto my lap, which she allows without any resistance. Then, as she speaks, I pull apart the simple bun I put her hair up in and start giving her a nicer braid for sleeping in. She leans into the touch, tears streaming down her face even as she continues to talk. I lose myself in her words and the task. 

It feels nice to have a task. 

"...Elmira?" 

I blink, realizing with a start that Anastasia has twisted around a bit to look at me and is staring with a shell-shocked expression. Like she's… looking at a ghost. What? I…

My hands are pale. Oh. I shapeshifted unconsciously again. I've been idly taking on some of Anastasia's features as I listen to her, ending up as a sort of hybrid Anastasia-Lia that more or less looks like what Anastasia will probably look like in six or seven years. 

So. Y'know. I probably look like her dead sister. 

"O-oh gosh!" I stammer, quickly shifting back to normal. "I'm sorry, Ana, I didn't mean to—"

"No!" she shouts, cutting me off. "Go back." 

I freeze. 

"...What?"

"Go back," Anastasia begs. "Look like her again. Please." 

I glance over to Christine, who is over on her bed and firmly, awkwardly ignoring both of us with all of her strength. I glance back to Anastasia. 

"You want me to…?" 

"Please," she begs again. 

I… I don't know how to feel about this. This doesn't strike me as the healthiest response, but I can't think of a good reason to tell her no. So I do as she asks, shifting back into the form I was in before. Anastasia immediately wraps her arms around me and squeezes me tight, sobbing into my chest. I stay stiff, not knowing what to do. She must end up crying for ten minutes before she finally calms down, after I work up the courage to loosen up and start softly patting her head. Once she's composed herself a little, she says something so softly that I don't understand a word of it at first. 

"What was that, Ana?" I ask her. 

"A family shares blood," she repeats. "That's true, isn't it?"

"I…"

"And you copied mine. So you're family." 

I stare at her a bit, then gently push her head back so I can look at her face. She seems to struggle to look at mine, despite asking to see it. I've never really felt at home in any of my foster families, but still… in honor of what they tried to create, and what they really did create for some of my foster siblings, I have to disagree. 

"I think family is a lot more than just that," I tell her. "It's broader, and much more complicated. All sorts of people can be your family, if you want them to be." 

"Then you're definitely family," she whispers. "You and Christine and Emily. You're my big sisters. You're not allowed to say no."

"...Alright then," I smile at her. "We're family."

What's yet another, after all?

"Okay," she says quietly, squeezing me tight enough to hurt. "I'll protect you this time. I'll keep you safe. You're not going to fall apart." 

I wrap my arms around her and hug her back. 

"If I do," I say, "I'll just put myself back together again."

"No," she insists. "Never." 

I take a deep breath and extract myself from the hug just enough to stare at her again. 

"Yes, Anastasia," I say. "Almost certainly. You are so strong, and you are incredible, and I trust you more than anyone to watch my back. But you are nine years old. It is my job to protect you. Always. No matter what. It's my responsibility. If I have to fall apart to save you from even a single scratch, I'll do it a thousand times."

"No!" Anastasia snaps. "That's not fair!"

"Adult prerogative," Christine calls out from her bed. "You're not allowed to have a martyr complex until you're older." 

"Wh… but…!" Anastasia stammers. "That's not fair!!!"

"Sorry, not allowed to be a hypocrite until you're older either," Christine shrugs. 

"Being an adult is stupid!!!" Anastasia protests. 

"Yeah kid, it really is," Christine agrees. "But that one's not just for adults, at least. You can be stupid, too!" 

Thanks Christine very cool. 

"NO!" Anastasia snaps predictably. "You're stupid! Why is that a reason!? What does being nine have to do with anything!? You're allowed to save me but I'm not allowed to save you? I did save you! I saved you all a whole bunch! I'm strong! I fought and I got hurt and I had to do it because you couldn't do it by yourselves! I'm not going to stop! I won't! You can't make me!"

"You're right," I tell her, putting a firm hand on her head to try and signal her to be a little quieter. "You're strong. I can't make you stop. But look at me, Anastasia." 

Hesitantly, she does. She meets my eyes. 

"Being a child doesn't make you weak," I tell her. "It makes you important. So important that I could never think of not saving you, even for a moment. It's just what any self-respecting adult has to do. As long as I can see the danger, as long as I can move, I will always step in front of you to take it. I'm not going to stop either, Anastasia. You can't make me."

Her face quivers, her tiny hands curled into fists to try and stay strong. 

"But… but I don't want you to get hurt for me," she says softly. "You already get hurt for me a lot. It's not fair." 

I hug her, holding her head tight into my shoulder.

"Sorry, Ana," I tell her. "Christine already told you. Being a hypocrite is an adult prerogative, too." 

"That's not fair," she says again. "I don't even know what a per-ogger-tim is." 

"But you know 'hypocrite,' huh?" I say with a smile. "What are cartoons teaching kids these days?"

"Honor and wisdom!" she answers firmly, and I laugh, squeezing her tight. 

"Well, my honorable little sister, I'm afraid I need to go to bed. This day has been far too long already. Are you going to be alright heading back to your room?"

She visibly hesitates for a moment, but then nods. 

"I'll be strong," she promises. 

"Okay," I nod. "Let us know if you need anything though, alright?"

"I will," she promises, and then she heads out, leaving me with a heavy batch of emotional exhaustion to match the physical. 

"...She latched on fast, huh?" Christine comments. 

"Hmm?" I ask. 

"Well, it's just. Y'know, it's been four days. And she already insists we're sisters?" 

I sigh, pulling my top off so I can fish the bra out of the shirt and go to bed without it. Christine flinches, though she doesn't look away this time. 

"She watched her family get murdered in front of her," I say. "She's desperate and in need. If she told me that we were her mothers I would have agreed to it." 

"I guess that's fair," Christine concedes, a blush on her cheeks. "Still, I don't really feel like we're qualified to raise a child." 

"Well, we still have to try," I say, scooting in under the covers. "Because everybody else here wants to raise a child soldier instead." 

She doesn't seem to have a response to that, and though the lights in the room are still on I have no trouble immediately falling asleep.