Are You Even Human

76. Refusal to Acknowledge

the Angel asks Peter disapprovingly. Peter, of course, can't understand a word of it, which is a big part of the answer to that question.

I say.

The Angel turns to us, radiating irritation.

it says.

Blossom asks.

I repeat.

the Angel says.

Wow. This is even more annoying and awful than I expected.

Blossom says. "Peter! The Angel want you to explain why we here."

"Didn't you tell him?" Peter says back.

"Yes but he stupid and only want to hear from you."

"Oh, well that doesn't sound stupid at all," Peter smirks. "Tell him I'm here to join my council or whatever, and you idiots are my servants."

"Fine," Blossom groans.

"Really?" I ask.

"Can't lie, remember?" Blossom says. "It fine. It probably make things easier. Let me handle translate."

"If you're sure," I say, frowning as Blossom faithfully informs the Angel that Peter is here to join his council 'or whatever' and that we're his dumb servants. Irritatingly, this seems to placate the Angel considerably.

"Sup. I'm Peter," Peter says after Blossom's translation.

"We can't translate 'Peter,' it's just a sound," I remind him.

"Sounds like a you problem," he shrugs.

Blossom opts to say.

"He commands you to follow," Blossom translates faithfully.

"Let him know I don't follow commands, I only consider suggestions," Peter grins. "God damn, getting to shittalk Angels is awesome. Er, don't translate that part."

Blossom says.

Simplicity Made Manifest asks her.

Blossom responds smugly.

the Angel complains, but the procession does move to allow us all past as the Angel turns and starts walking toward a highway ramp into the city proper. I tell Emily and the others to remain in the van for now as we follow.

I… do my best to keep my focus on the Angel and not any of the dilapidated buildings surrounding me. Hostile Angels I can handle, but the fear of looking down a street and seeing something I recognize is something I'm a little more unprepared for. When we pass into the Queen's domain, the obvious hostility pressing down all around me is almost relaxing.

the Queen says, because with an olfactory presence like that how could she be anything but?

Maria grumbles into the network.

Simplicity Made Manifest declares.

Blossom says.

Simplicity Made Manifest declares.

Blossom says.

Okay, that's not going to be productive. I don't want to get too involved negotiating with this colony in particular, but I'm not going to sit around and let people make a shitshow of it, either.

I butt in.

Maria allows.

Blossom agrees.

I say.

At least half of that is bullshit, but if I'm reading the room right, it should do the trick. Bullshit so often does when used on people already full of it. The network is uncharacteristically quiet, with all but the most essential communications held back in the tense standoff, but ultimately, aliens can't avoid sharing their thoughts for long.

a new Angel's voice chimes in from somewhere.

says another new Angel.

the Queen declares.

Oh goodie. Now we get to receive constructive criticism on something we already know works from the people that murdered my parents. Whatever. I'll get through it. The important thing is that we're in the door.

the Queen orders.

I insist.

Blossom chimes in.

Jesus fucking christ, Blossom, did you really have to… hmm. Wait. They're not getting angry. They smell… fearful? Why would… oh. Right.

Aliens can't lie.

Blossom's claim is extreme not because she is hyperbolizing for the sake of emphasizing a point. She genuinely believes that the two of us and the girls in the van could slaughter an entire colony by ourselves with the power we have on hand.

Blossom asks.

Though the air rumbles with discontent, Blossom's words don't seem to be as wildly idiotic as I was afraid they'd be. If anything, it seems to calm the Perfection colony down.

the Angel that indicated itself as Pristine Truths Heal Imperfection asks. And… ah. With that being the first response, I think I get it now.

Every colony hates Perfection. Along with Blasphemy, they are the two colonies universally reviled. But whereas Blasphemy colonies indulge in that revulsion like it's a delicious buffet, literally considering themselves closer to their god the more they defile the values of others, Perfection doesn't really have anything to blunt that hatred.

If anything, it's the opposite: can something really be perfect if most people hate it? Just looking at the names of the Angels here, I can tell many of them are grappling with that very question. 'Envy Proves Excellence.' 'An Unreachable Brilliance Begets Lamentation.' Half the colony has opted to resolve the cognitive dissonance by attributing that hatred to jealousy or otherwise as some natural consequence of their personal greatness. They are perfect, but they are perfect, and everyone else must be flawed for failing to recognize that. It's not an uncommon attitude among a certain kind of human, so I think I have an even better angle to work with now.

I answer.

the Angel points out.

I say.

the Queen asks.

I explain.

the Queen scoffs.

I disagree.

Simplicity Made Manifest says.

Seriously? We're gonna have to have this conversation? This is going to be annoying. Do I take this down the philosophical route, or do I just placate them until they do what I want?

Blossom asks smugly.

Or we can do this. Sure. Whatever. I don't even care anymore. I make the mistake of looking up, my eyes glancing down a street just nostalgic enough to hurt. I tear my gaze away, limiting my vision as much as is reasonable. It's been a while since I only had two eyes. That, too, is nostalgic enough to hurt in a place like this.

Simplicity Made Manifest protests.

I groan.

Envy Proves Excellence says derisively.

Ah, they're just the local Chaos. I understand.

Blossom says, breaking out into uproarious laughter.

Envy continues.

the Queen chides.

Maria chimes in.

Maria explains.

the Queen rumbles.

Blossom laments.

I don't know if I'd really agree we value 'inclusiveness and understanding,' on a whole. But whatever. We're making progress here. I do my best to keep my thoughts to myself until they're actually useful to anyone.

the Queen realizes.

Blossom says.

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

Pristine Truths Heal Imperfection comments.

Blossom corrects.

A moment of shock and consideration passes over the colony as the full extent of Blossom's words is considered.

Envy Proves Excellence acknowledges.

An Unreachable Brilliance Begets Lamentation admits.

Pristine Truths Heal Imperfection insists.

Blossom says.

The answer is an emphatic, colony-consuming no, and with that I think we have them. Blossom's abrasiveness ended up doing the job as well as I ever could have, so I send her my thanks as our group approaches the Queen. There are a lot of details to take care of, but it seems like, in its broadest form, the alliance is secure. Unfortunately, this gives me more space for my mind to wander.

None of my memories of this place are clear, and the fact that it's all more or less destroyed doesn't help. But every so often, something just… me. Grabs me. Shoves an unwanted feeling in my mind and vanishes before I can do a damn thing about it. The remains of a restaurant bring back the thought of a flavor from before I forgot what taste even was. The skeleton of a children's playground rots between crumbling buildings, tugging at my heart to take the slide one more time. It reminds me of a forgotten world from before I lost my family, my friends, and my face. A world of what-ifs and happy children. A world where war hadn't so much as brushed my mind, not with a mother and father ready to shield me from the pain of the inevitable future.

And then I see it. A building more familiar than any other, far from unscathed but miraculously still standing. It's an old apartment complex. I recognize it more clearly than anything else in this crumbling city. Is that really…?

Simplicity Made Manifest comments. Agh, I've missed so much conversation.

Maria says.

Simplicity insists.

Pristine Truths Heal Imperfection sighs.

Well, with such riveting conversation taking over the network, it's not too difficult to surreptitiously slip away from the others hanging back behind the group for a while before turning and flowing toward the familiar building. I just need to know. For some reason, I need to know for sure.

Even as little more than a formless snake of flesh, it's easy to make my way back to the building. I teleport inside as soon as I can see it, and from there I'm guided by old, deep-rooted instincts and memories I didn't know I had. Didn't know I still have. The lobby of the apartment complex is dusty and smells faintly of rot. Inactive electronics sit haphazardly on broken furniture, having survived the destruction of the city only to fall victim to time itself. If I grabbed some of the things here and plugged them in somewhere with power, would they still work?

The elevator doesn't work, of course, but I step inside anyway, finding my eyes lingering instinctively on the button to the fourth floor. That's where I'm going, I guess. I'm used to dealing with fragments of instincts and memories, acting on them in spite of incomplete information, but I'm not used to those instincts and memories actually being mine. It's… unmooring.

The stairs are solid concrete, and they survived well enough to let me up to my destination. Four floors up, I make my way back to the elevator then turn around to face the wall like I just walked out. Left. It's left from here. I turn and walk.

My heart pounds in my chest. My skin twists and reshapes itself over my face a dozen times over. My fists clench, unclench, form, and unform. I get too close to one of the walls, and a tentacle on my head reaches out and attaches itself, trying to stop me from getting closer to the source of my ever-mounting panic. I tug on it, and it holds fast, so I ultimately leave it behind like a lizard that just had a bird grab its tail.

The neural tissue in the tentacle itself means I leave behind a little bit of my fear with it, but not for very long. Before I know it, I'm turning to face a door. Room four hundred and thirteen. The hallway is dark without any power, but I can still read the number. My whole form ripples, toes and then talons curling into the cheap, fraying carpet beneath my feet. Placing my hand on the door handle, I turn it. Locked. Of course. Not that such things mean anything to me anymore.

I abandon my current flesh and reform a new body on the other side of the door, finding myself in a far better-lit apartment than I expected, courtesy of the nearby windows. The interior isn't in much better shape than the rest of the building, though it's in better shape than I ever would have expected. The door was still locked, after all, meaning it's fairly unlikely the aliens ever actually entered this place after taking over the area. Why would they? They have no need to loot the bones of the civilizations they crush. None of this to them. None of it is even something the majority of them can understand.

Technology? Infrastructure? Industry? Even just They don't care about any of it. The only things here the aliens might have actually wanted is all the food, and though I can already feel there food in here, the Raptors assigned to forage for it had no way to know they would find it by opening fridge doors or peeling open metal cans. The inside of the fridge is little more than a mess of rot, of course, but I devour it all the same, adding it to my biomass alongside the interior of whatever other surviving food containers happen to be in the nearby cupboard. I don't want this place to be a fetid mess, after all, and… well. It's mine anyway, isn't it?

This is… where I used to live.

It has to be. It feels too familiar for it to be anything else. I know more or less what I'm about to see before I turn every corner. That was our dinner table. I remember screaming and refusing to eat… I don't know, probably spinach or something. My mom put her foot down and sat at the table with me for staying with me and not letting me leave until I finally ate something that was good for me instead of endless chicken nuggets. She was always willing to go as far as it took to make sure I was safe and healthy.

On the other side of the hall is the living room. Our TV is still there, though it has fallen out of one of the wall mounts, and a corner of the screen has cracked into the shelf beneath it. Our couch is there too, old but unused and largely preserved. I used to sit there, babbling to myself as my father sat on the floor next to me, a dozen papers spread out across the ground as he slowly worked through them one by one. Even focused on everything he had to do, he made me feel listened to. He was always there to make sure I knew I was loved.

When death came for us, neither of them hesitated for even an instant. It's the only reason I'm still here.

"Julietta?"

I turn my head toward the familiar voice. Maria stands there hesitantly, one hand awkwardly gripping her other arm. She's nervous. She's worried if she's intruding. She's not.

"Hey," I greet her.

"Hey," she says. "Um, sorry, the door was locked, but I sort of broke it on accident. I'm still a little stronger than I expect most of the time."

"Everything here is broken," I point out. "It's fine. How did you find me?"

"Hmm? Oh, I just… always kinda know where you are these days. Probably a network thing," she answers. "I know you were trying to sneak off, but… are you alright?"

I alright? Instinctively, I want to just say yes, but I feel like that's one of the habits she'd like me to break. I don't want to lie to her, though… is it really lying? 'Alright' is an entirely arbitrary condition. It's relative. I'm For most of my life, that has been alright enough.

"I used to live here," I say instead. "With my birth parents."

"Oh," Maria says. "Oh, gosh. Can I hug you?"

"Sure?" I blink, and she steps forward to do just that, wrapping her arms around me and intertwining her hair tentacles with mine. Ha. That is going to make it tricky to end this particular hug, but… I guess I don't have any real need to.

For some reason, getting a hug in a place like this feels right.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Maria asks softly.

"About what?" I ask.

"Anything," she says. "Your parents, maybe? What were they like?"

"I don't really remember," I admit. "They were strong."

Strong enough to gift me everything I have today with their own lives. Strong enough to leave me with the tools I needed to survive everything that came after. Strong enough that I'm proud to be their daughter, even though I've avoided thinking about them for so long.

Damn it. I've avoided thinking about them for I… I don't want to…

"You'd let yourself cry," Maria warns, which… come on, really? I don't want, to, I… I don't…

Fuck.

I have a dozen different ways to stop the tears. Even before I had powers, I knew plenty of ways to hold back unwanted bouts of crying, but my girlfriend's demands leave no room for such outs. I do my best to keep the sobs quiet as I soak her shoulder with my tears, my body shaking as much as it is shifting. It's embarrassing, frightening. I don't like making myself vulnerable like this. I open my mouth to try to speak some words in my defense, but I find myself unable to speak.

Maria reminds me.

Ah. Right. Damn it. can hear me. I'm leaving myself open to the network again, in the middle of enemy territory, and just… no, no, no, no…

Maria insists.

I don't want to I don't want to I don't How am I even supposed to feel? They sacrificed their lives for me, and they never even got a funeral. I didn't have any next of kin to pay for one. How was I supposed to mourn between all the adults talking over me, all the social workers and prospective foster families and doctors and nurses telling me never giving me any real choice because the only choice I wanted to make was to be with them, and they were

I'm past all that now. I'm past this, I'm past this, I'm than this. I shouldn't be sobbing my eyes out over something that's been over for more than a decade. I barely even remember any of this. It shouldn't matter to me this much. No, even if it matter to me this much, I should be able to control myself.

"Julietta…"

No. Stop. Just… just let me be in control. Please. I need to calm down. I can't take this anymore. I don't want to be like this!

I feel Maria hold me tighter, unsure how to respond, but I can feel her love, and it helps pull me back from the love I've lost. Deep breaths, one at a time, still my shaking body. Control. It's always better to have self-control, because there's nothing else in this world that you control, not truly. I can only influence reality through my actions, and I can only act how I wish if I'm in control.

I mean seriously, this is pathetic. I haven't even looked at my old bedroom yet.

Maria insists.

Well sure, in the general case I'd agree with that. Still, it's time to get a move on with this. We have a job to do here, after all. I carefully pull back from my girlfriend's embrace, extracting my tendrils from her tangles and giving myself a good opportunity to stare appreciatively at her face. A much better use of my mental energy, by my measure.

"…You're trying to distract me," she complains, blushing.

"It's a happy side-effect at most," I assure her, managing a genuine smile. "Come on. Let's finish this tour down memory lane."

"Do you want me with you?" she asks.

"Why not?" I shrug, turning to continue down the hall. One of these rooms is mine. The other belongs to my parents. I don't remember which is which, but I feel like… yeah. I open one on instinct, and well… it certainly isn't an adult's room.

"Uh, wow," Maria says. "I didn't take you for a pink sort of girl."

"I guess I was when I was seven," I say, equally impressed by the overwhelming pastel vibe of the room before me. Though it's a light enough shade to be almost white, even the of the room are pink, and the collection of dusty, musty stuffed animals on the bed share a similar focus on that particular hue. A few of them spark more memories in me, flashes of birthdays or shopping trips where 'I've been really good' all tugging at my heart.

It's a slightly cramped room, even the small twin-sized bed barely managing to share a wall with a child's dresser drawer. Other furniture in the room is rather haphazardly decorated by LEGO sets, or more accurately a child's custom LEGO creations, all mixed and combined into some rich fantasy idea that I can only barely recall the edges of. These might actually be the most valuable thing in the entire apartment, come to think of it. They don't make LEGO anymore; the company has been gone since before I was born.

Right, I remember. They're hand-me-downs. My dad used to play with them when he was a kid, too. Fuck, I think I might cry again. No, no, no, Don't. I can get through this.

I can already feel Maria's disapproval at my further refusal to burst into tears, but thankfully she doesn't press the matter beyond reminding me that if the roles were reversed, I'd probably want her to let herself cry. Which… isn't but our circumstances are very different, and if she gives me a moment I'm sure I can think up a very convincing reason why.

Maria gives me the network equivalent of a very unimpressed glare, but I do my best to ignore it and move on to the final room. My parents' room.

"Do you want to take anything with you?" Maria asks before I close the door on my old living space.

"Not really," I answer. "Not sure how I'd do that anyway. I don't have anywhere to put it. It's not like there's much room in the van."

"I'm sure we can figure something out," she presses. "Maybe like a stuffed animal that's important to you?"

"None of that stuff is important to me," I insist. "I barely even remember it."

Opening the door to my parents' room, I look inside from the hall at something… honestly just as plain as I remember it, which surprises me a little. It's not like I actually remembered any of the physical contents of this room, I just vaguely remember thinking the room looked boring… and I was a seven-year-old whose room looked like a unicorn threw up on the walls. I somewhat expected to have simply not understood my parents' tastes, but overall the room is very understated and practical. The decorations are small, inexpensive, and unobtrusive. The furniture is dark lacquered wood, covered in scratches and other signs of wear, while the queen-sized bed is just… gray. Nothing about the room really catches my eye until I see the nightstand.

I enter the room immediately, making my way directly there. It's a picture frame. How cliche, right? But there we are. It's us. My mom, my dad, and… me. It's actually a real picture of me, from when I still had my own face. All three of us are smiling. It looks like a sunny day up in the Rocky Mountains or something. God, does it even matter where we are?

"Okay," I say softly. "Maybe I'll take this."

"Of course," Maria agrees. "We'll take good care of it."

I nod, awkwardly clutching it with both hands like it will vanish into dust the moment I relax my grip. Irrational. Embarrassing. But whatever. I've… never had a memento of my parents before. It's not like anyone could have walked back to Denver and grabbed one for me. Not until now.

And of course, I had to be the one to do it, in the end.

"Let's go," I say. "I need to help Blossom explain things to the Queen."

"You could just do that from here, if you want," Maria says.

I take one more look around, the weight of memory nearly causing my shoulders to ache.

"No," I tell her, "I really don't think I could."

She doesn't respond with words, but she gives me an understanding nod and a rush of supportive feelings that help me take the necessary steps to finally exit the apartment. I grow some bone structures inside the broken lock to latch it in place as I leave, as just a little bit of insurance that, perhaps, the aliens here will continue to leave everything undisturbed.

Pristine Truths Heal Imperfection promises me.

Ah. Right. The people who killed everyone in the first place were listening in on my entire sob session. I that, I just… was sort of hoping they'd have the tact to not speak of it too much. Which is stupid, in retrospect. Aliens don't really have that sort of idea in their culture.

I say regardless.

Envy Proves Excellence says,

I say, in lieu of 'teaching you human social conventions is the absolute last thing I want to do right now.'

Envy concedes,

Blossom comments.

Ah, right. I get to be the guinea pig, since any fuckups on bodily reshaping aren't permanent if they happen to me.

"I've got it," Maria says, holding out her hands. "I'll keep it safe. Promise."

Huh? Oh, right. I look down at the picture in my grip one more time, trying to commit all three familiar faces to memory. I wish my power could build templates from images, but if I want to look anything like I'll need to spend some time experimenting in front of a mirror. But here it is. Here it is. Something that shows me what I'm actually supposed to look like.

"Thank you," I tell Maria, handing it over to her. "I'll see you in a bit."

"Good luck," she says, as if I were about to do some kind of sporting event rather than coach a skyscraper-sized monster on how to properly reassemble my cellular structure. I nod, return her smile, and teleport out of the building, making my new body into a bird so I can take the most direct path to my destination.

Walking into a giant monster womb isn't any less weird after a month of practice with it, but if nothing else, the Queen of Perfection lives up to her title and refuses to accept anything less than when it comes to learning the correct way to give humans reverent forms. I'm pretty sure I end up stuck inside of her for getting practiced on over and over as I repeatedly take Peter's form before allowing it to be ripped apart and remade. At least time seems to pass quicker while my brain is disassembled. Usually, anyway.

Sometimes, I dream of meat. Yet even in the dream, I can feel what the Queen does to me. I'm in the dream, but I'm also not. Half-awake and half-asleep, I come the closest I ever have to using two brains at the same time. Assuming, of course, anything in the world of meat is real.

When it's finally over, I'm utterly exhausted. Even my powers don't completely remove my need for sleep, and I've certainly done my best to change that. Still, when the Queen is done with me, I pretty much immediately just curl up in the van and pass out. Peter goes in after me. When I wake up, he won't be human anymore. I have a long and fitful rest, eventually waking up in a small, fuzzy, snake-like body coiled up in Maria's lap.

I purr.

"You're awake!" Maria smiles. "Just in time, too. He should be about done in there."

Who? Right. Peter. Yeah. I shake my head to try and get some of the drowsiness out, arcing my spine as I let out a yawn. Peter is gonna be an Angel, huh? I know it's been the plan this whole time, but the thought of it is still wild. I wonder what they'll name him?

"You didn't hear?" Maria asks. "He'd already decided on a name for himself before all this started. When Blossom told him that his colony would vote on a name, he seemed quite offended."

I ask.

The Queen declares.

a new voice hums into the network,

Wow. Baby's first words, and he's got his entire colony screaming about heresy. That's Peter for you.

Why did I think this was going to be a good idea?