Of all the things I could find to hate in my current situation, for some reason the one my brain focuses on is my clothes. I hate them so, so much. I hate my chaste little floor skirt and my tight, itchy socks that keep getting in my joints. I hate my loose blouse, catching on my wrists because I have to stuff the ends of the sleeves under my gloves. I hate how my fingers dig into those gloves, the fabric constantly catching on the claws and forcing me to constantly readjust in a panic lest they poke through. I hate hiding my extra limbs in extradimensional space, the cold there encompassing enough to reach even me, sending a chill through my body that scrapes at me every waking hour on Earth. Most of all, though, I hate these awful, awful church shoes, pinching my talons and hurting my feet and just begging to be ripped to shreds.
I'm tempted to just tear it all off as I sob in the bathroom, but I don't have the courage for it. I don't even have the exhaustion or desperation for it yet, which is usually the closest I get to courage in the first place. Just a little longer, though. The secret will be out eventually and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. I hope it comes soon.
Once I'm calm again I glance back to my phone, my breath starting to get steady again. A Refresh, as usual, wipes away any evidence of my tears, smoothes out my ruffled outfit, and gets me ready once again to be presentable to society. The great prophet Hannah has her first unwanted follower to deal with, and it's time to dispense my divine wisdom.
Please, please, please just stop mugging people, I beg into my phone.
We don't have the money to prevent our house from getting foreclosed yet, though, he answers.
Gaaah. What the heck do I say to that? My worries suffer from a severe distraction as I suddenly hear people chatting outside the bathroom door. Oh strudel! Is the service already over? How long have I been crying in here? Oh man, now everyone's going to think I ditched. And like, they're right, but I don't want them to know that!
I run the sink for a bit so no one listening in thinks I didn't wash my hands, but there's no way I'm actually going to take my gloves off in a public bathroom and Refresh is a better way to get clean anyway. I sneak out of the bathroom, avoiding eye contact with everyone in an attempt to also avoid conversations as I make my way to a less-loitered part of the church.
"Hannah!" someone calls out to me. No such luck, I guess.
I turn and look at the voice, shocked to see the face of my pastor. He's close to my parents' age, late forties to early fifties, with very slightly graying blonde hair, a long face, and kind eyes. I'm genuinely surprised that he knows my name; I think I've talked with him maybe once or twice ever. I kind of do my best to avoid the man. Wouldn't want him smelling how gay I am.
"Pastor," I greet him back with a polite nod, since I have no idea what his name is.
"Please, call me Bill!" he insists, though of course I'm not going to do that.
"What can I help you with?" I ask.
"Well, actually I was wondering if there's anything I could help you with," he answers with a kind smile. "You seemed somewhat distraught earlier, and I just wanted to check in on you."
"I appreciate that," I lie.
What else am I supposed to say to him? I don't know him, I don't like him, and if he knew anything about me he wouldn't like me either. There is no common ground on which the both of us can tread.
"If there's anything you need, Hannah, I want you to know that I always have time to help," he presses.
I'm tempted to tell him that I don't want his help. Why should I respect you? You spend your life listening to a book when it tells you that shaming people is the best way to love them. But I keep silent, taking a deep breath in and out through my nose. He's a kind and polite man who cares about me very much. He just doesn't understand that being caring and sweet doesn't preclude him from being a bully.
And if there's one thing Ida taught me about bullies, it's that they're easy marks.
"There is something, actually," I force myself to say. "Um, it's kind of awkward to ask about, though."
"Oh, please feel free to ask away!" he insists. "Or would you prefer to speak privately?"
Does this guy seriously think I'd go somewhere alone with… no. No, no, no, calm down, Hannah. Religious sexual abuse is very real and very terrifying but your pastor has like, negative creepy vibes. Hell, he might be asexual. I feel like I have some pretty darn good reasons to be a little angry at religion in general, but that's no reason to get personal about it. The dude is by all accounts actually a very nice and empathetic man, that's the whole reason any of this might work in the first place.
Plus if he actually tries anything I can always just stab him.
"I would like that, actually," I tell him, and he nods and leads me to his office. It's a modest little room, filled wall-to-wall with bookshelves. Literally all of it looks like it's Christian theology. Wow. I sit down at the chair on the other side of his desk. I wonder what he does at his desk. Manage church finances or something, hopefully?
"So, um… we sometimes do charitable donations and things, right?" I ask him. "Are the budgets for those already decided, or is there like an at-need thing?"
He raises his eyebrows with surprise.
"Generally speaking, I and the other community leaders decide together on where that money goes, with input from the rest of the congregation," he says. "And while that's already been decided for the most part, if there's a significant need we can certainly talk about doing a fundraiser. I assume you have a specific reason you're asking?"
"Yeah," I nod. "An acquaintance of mine, he lives alone with his mother, and she's very sick. Because of the illness the two of them are in danger of losing their home, possibly as soon as this month? I don't know all of the details, but I can't think of a better way to help him than with a fundraiser or donation or something."
Because that's the frustrating thing: this institution might be firmly against the idea of me and my queer friends having a lot of basic human rights and stuff, but they're pretty damn nice outside of that. Truly wonderful and kind people, as long as the situation involves good Christian boys and girls. And considering the religious fervor J-mug seems to vomit my way, I suspect he qualifies. This might actually, legitimately be exactly what he needs.
I hate that with a passion, because this place makes my every weekend absolute hell. I'm still going to take advantage of it, though, because it's the best option I've got.
"I see. Well, this is the sort of thing we would need details on, but it sounds like a worthy cause," my pastor says.
"Of course," I nod. "I can call him to work stuff out right now, if that's okay? Maybe set up a time for him to come in and talk to you about it? Maybe you could visit his mom? I'm sure he'll be willing to work with whatever, it's a very desperate situation."
He does want me to call the kid, as it turns out, and when I do J-mug is disturbingly ecstatic to hear from me. When I explain the situation he promises to run right over, since our church is only like a fifteen-minute walk from the hospital. My pastor, apparently impressed with the kid's gumption, agrees to see him when he gets here. Geez, this is going way better and way faster than I expected. I'd better head off the inevitable disaster.
I tell the Pastor that I'll be waiting out on the sidewalk for J-Mug to arrive so that he has an easier time finding us. It's true, but it's also an excuse to catch him alone when he arrives. Soon enough I see him jogging up towards me, waving and grinning behind his mask. At least he wears the thing when he's not mugging people, too. I begrudgingly afford him one extra point of respect.
"Hannah!" he greets me as he approaches. "Thank you so, so much, I just… you have no idea how much I owe you right now, and I—"
"Don't count your chickens," I snap, cutting him off. "This was a spur-of-the-moment idea, I have no idea if it'll help at all."
"You still deserve thanks, though," he insists.
"Agree to disagree, then," I grunt. "More importantly: if you use or talk about magic anywhere near anyone here, I will make you regret it."
He flinches, then nods seriously.
"Nobody here knows what I am, and nobody here thinks magic is real. We are keeping it that way. Do you understand?"
"Yes ma'am," he answers, like I'm a teacher warning him about detention. Bah. Good enough.
"Alright," I say, and lead him inside.
Most people ignore us, but leave it to my mom to notice the newcomer and come talk to me about him.
"Who's this, Hannah?" she asks.
"He's just here to talk to the pastor," I dismiss.
"Okay…?"
I step by her and lead him to the pastor's office. J-whatever sits down as I lean against the door, arms crossed and feeling horribly out of place. They chat a little about the J-family's situation, which is very sad and depressing and I mostly tune it out. I learn J-Mug is only fourteen, though. Geez. It's not fair that I can be so much shorter than people so much younger than me. I don't want to be here and I don't want to do this, I just… I can't not try to do this, I guess. Even if I know I'm not good enough. Especially then, maybe.
"So how did you and Hannah meet, anyway?" my pastor asks, and I tense up. Aw, heck.
J-Mug is quiet for a bit, hesitating and glancing to me before he answers.
"...I think an angel sent her to me," he admits quietly.
I glower at him. Oi! None of that crap! My pastor seems intrigued by the answer, though, because of course he does.
"Why do you say that?" he asks.
"Because, um… well, I tried to steal from her, actually," J-mug admits. "But she was still so kind to me. She bought me lunch and she… she helped me with something pretty big. I owe her a lot."
"Point of order," I grumble without thinking about it. "You didn't 'try to steal from me.' You successfully mugged me. And then you tried to mug me a second time!"
"I… I know," he whimpers. "I'm sorry."
Aw crap, yeah, saying that was probably bad for PR. We've gotta sell this fundraiser thing.
"That's why you're here," I tell him. "Because we both know you don't want to and don't have to be that person. You just need help."
Me and my stupid mouth. Hopefully that patches things up some. The pastor nods along thoughtfully, seeming satisfied about something, so I guess that's good. He and the kid chatter a bit more until suddenly J-mug is standing up and thanking the man profusely. I… guess things went well.
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Hannah," my pastor says, standing up and holding his hand out to shake. I freeze and do nothing, not wanting him to be able to feel my chitin through my gloves.
"I, uh, don't really touch people," I say quietly.
"Oh, of course," he nods, retracting his hand. "All the same, I think you've done a truly wonderful thing. We'll help however we can."
Oh. Alright. I guess things worked out then. I don't feel like I did anything worth praising, though.
"Cool," I manage stiffly.
"I mean it," he insists. "I don't think most people could go this far out of their way to help someone after being scared and hurt by them. They'd be pressing charges, not putting together fundraisers."
I just look away awkwardly. It's true that I don't think the kid really deserves to go to jail or whatever, but I can't exactly let the mage go to prison in the first place, can I? There are a million different ways that could go wrong. It was selfishness, not a good deed.
"...I think my family's probably getting ready to leave," I mumble.
"I understand," he nods, and I shuffle awkwardly away, avoiding J-mug as I head to my mom's car and wait for us all to depart.
My mom tries to interrogate me about what happened on the drive home, but I don't really have the energy to give her complete answers and I'm just so tired that I decide to not fake it and face the consequences later. Our usual after-church Taco Bell doesn't even taste like Taco Bell anymore because my stupid tongue doesn't like plant products.
But it's fine! It's cool. It's… whatever. We make it home and I retreat to my room and make sure the door is securely shut and just… let myself loose. The stupid fucking church shoes come off as I tear my blouse up over my head, stripping down to my underwear and pulling my extra limbs into the world and just collapsing backwards onto the floor, becoming myself in the only hidden place in my home that I can get away with it. I want to hiss and scream and break shit but I barely hold myself back, frustrated and pent up in dangerous, furious ways.
Then I exhale. It's time to play Pokémon.
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A simple tank top and shorts is all I put on, holes cut so my extra limbs can move freely. I don't even have socks on, because I have truly fallen to a new low. I just can't stand constraining my claws for even another second. I wiggle my toes, feeling the hard chitin crack against itself, and it's just so indulgent, like this satisfaction must be breaking some kind of law. I run the claws of my fingers over my new limbs, the scrape of my exoskeleton against itself feeling like the perfect scratch to an itch I didn't realize I was feeling. It's… weirdly arousing, actually, and I realize suddenly that… ugh, this is kind of mortifying to even think about. I, um, actually haven't tried pleasuring myself since this whole monster mutation thing started.
I… don't think I'm going to break that streak today. Not to say I don't want to, because I kinda do, I just… eh. It's been a while because things have been so messed up, you know? My skin has been falling off, for fritter's sake! Gah, this is so weird, why am I even thinking about this?
It just feels… I dunno. Embarrassing. Wrong. It's Sunday right after church, and like… I don't believe in that, but it still feels weird. Plus I have a stream to do, and I just… yeah. I'm just gonna not deal with this. For as, um, interested as I can get around cute girls I don't really think about this stuff all that often. It always felt kinda weird to me.
So why is this happening now? What the heck is even going on here, body? My extra bits sure as sugar haven't been erogenous at literally any other time before this, and they aren't really feeling weird anymore now that the mood is gone. Screw it, whatever. Not doing this, not thinking about this. My freaky monster body might maybe have freaky monster sex bits and guess I have to live with that now and I am not going to think about it. Pokémon!
Let's just start setting up the stream, and… woah. There are already people waiting. Way more than usual, in fact. Like, way more. Oh boy.
"...Wow, um, welcome everyone," I manage once the stream starts. "I'm a little worried that you guys are gonna be bored by the actual Pokémon content if you're just here to see the creepy monster girl."
Holy cannoli what the heck happened!? The chat is exploding, this is way bigger than I ever thought would be reasonable. How am I gonna retain any of these viewers? How am I even going to talk to these viewers!? The chat is going by so fast I can't read any of the questions. This is absurd, not even super popular streamers have this problem. Oh, wait, it's slowing down a bit now. Right. Just a rush of emojis because the stream just started. Right right right. Calm down, Hannah.
"Hi," I manage. "Uh. Sorry, I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed here. Where did you guys even find me?"
I get a dozen answers and a few YouTube links. Dang, I need to make my own clip channel, don't I? Aaaagh, so much to do. I just want to play Pokémon! I get the game going while I calm my rapidly-beating heart. A lot of people are focusing on my arms, presumably because the growth is most obvious there. The spot where the chitin emerges from my skin is both clearly visible on camera and slightly further up the arm than it was last stream, which causes people to praise my 'attention to detail' when it gets pointed out.
I sigh, stand up, shove my chair to the other side of the room, and lean back on my bug legs instead.
"It's real," I insist. "It's real, I'm not doing it on purpose, and it's a gosh dang miracle that I haven't already slipped up and exposed what a freak I am in real life. I'm either gonna end up on the news or I'm gonna be disappeared by a secret magical society. Though I guess… the longer this goes on the more I'm starting to suspect that there is no secret magical society. It might just be me, and honestly that's terrifying in its own way."
Because like, I'm the bridge between worlds, right? I'm the Goddess' chosen, and all the magic I've ever seen on Earth has first spread from Her through me. I nervously adjust the weight on my legs a little, shaking them out. I shouldn't think about this right now. Just focus on the game, Hannah.
"Yeah, it does get really annoying pressing buttons with claws," I confirm for the chat. "Phones are way worse, though. My body doesn't carry electrical charges anymore, so I can't use capacitive touch screens without special gloves."
Focus on the game.
"How do I chew? I… don't really. My teeth just kinda cut and slice, so I mostly just bite off chunks of stuff and swallow them."
Focus on the game.
"Huh? Oh, no, the makeup is on my face, actually. Here, let me pull it off." I cast a quick Refresh, moving the makeup particles from my face to my trashcan in a visible stream. "See? All my skin is that dark, I just cover it up in public. And I think those even darker patches on my forehead are going to become eyes. What do you mean, 'what did I just do?' That was magic, obviously. I'm pretty sure I mentioned I have magic, right?"
Focus on the game.
"Nope, we're not talking about magic. If I start talking about what magic is I'll just end up sounding like a weird cultist. …Wait. Am I a weird cultist? I guess I'm technically the prophet of an evil Goddess, but I assure you the situation is entirely involuntary."
Focus on the game.
"I don't feel like a cultist. I don't do dark rituals or dress in robes or sacrifice animals or anything. I suppose I might be getting driven mad by truths man was not meant to know, but best I can tell I'm remaining sane and just getting traumatized by it instead. I mean, are you really a cultist if a deity just beats you up in a dark alleyway and press-gangs you into worship? …Aw fudge, I hate how metaphorical that isn't."
Focus. On. The. Game.
"No, screw you! I don't care if it sounds awesome, it's not awesome. She's an evil Goddess, that means She's evil! She's mean! She does terrible things to people on a regular basis and I am absolutely not an exception. My life sucks, why the heck do you think I play so many video games?"
Focus on the game, Goddess damnit!
"No! No feet! But I'll compromise and give you some scandalous knee pics. Here." I grab my chair again, sit down on it, and scoot my feet up on the chair until I'm sitting like a detective in Death Note. "See, my exoskeleton isn't actually all that thick, it's just really tough. And underneath it, in the joints here, we get what is… gosh, I don't even know. Basically my skin, I guess? I dunno if you guys can see it all that well, the lighting is pretty bad, but it kinda flexes and tenses and pulls on stuff so it either is my muscles or it's pretty firmly attached to my muscles. They're super sensitive, too. It's really uncomfortable when stuff gets in my joints, but I can thankfully just magic it out."
I'm not going to be able to do this, am I?
"Yeah, like, it's not something I ever expected, but I miss having kneecaps. Kneecaps are underrated. Kneeling down is all weird now."
The game is just an afterthought. I'm just the same as all ten million other Pokémon streamers out there. Not particularly skilled, not particularly charismatic, not particularly interesting. The only reason anyone cares is because I'm a sideshow freak.
"No, I don't have an extra-long tongue. And I'm kinda glad I don't, because I feel like if I did I'd just end up biting it off."
I'm still playing the game, but it's taking a backseat both in the stream itself and my focus. It continues that way all night, with even the occasional times I can focus on the game being more just a lull in things to talk about regarding my body. When I finally turn the stream off long after the sun sets, I find myself curling into bed with a profound dissatisfaction in my chest.
I wake up to the slow creaking of a rocking boat and the muffled, bawdy chatter of sailors. I stretch underneath the scratchy covers, the old cot Kagiso, Helen, and I are sharing surprisingly serviceable after a few Refreshes. I'm not really sure how I feel about being sandwiched between both of them, but the crew only lent us one bed and we don't know how many people on the crew might have an Aura Sight spell so Helen wanted to stay close to me anyway.
Kagiso, as expected, has absolutely no objections to these additional cuddles, though it's pretty awkward for Helen and I. Just looking at her makes it obvious that she hasn't gotten much sleep with Kagiso using her as a body pillow. I barely manage to extract myself from between the two of them, scuttling to the side of the bed where we're hiding Sela inside our piles of stuff. I make sure not to stray too far from the bed, in case I need to jump back under the covers to hide. As far as the rest of the boat is concerned, I don't exist.
"Morning, Sela," I mumble. "Your meat is here to clean you."
It doesn't respond, but I can see its internals whirr and click enough to indicate it's awake. I make sure its insides are spotless.
"Lemmie know if you need anything else," I mumble, poking Helen and Kagiso awake. "Materials or whatever. Come on, Helen, we need to go clean the boat."
The ship ride is… boring. The smell is horrendous, the work is constant, and there's nothing to look at but an endless field of sticky, piss-colored liquid. Sometimes we spot something moving off in the distance, but the captain always keeps well away from anything big enough to actually see and I don't blame him. The whole day passes without anything of interest happening at all.
Monday morning comes, and the situation is largely the same. Routine wakeup, routine bus ride, routine school day and routine night at work. Alma and I have a mostly-silent lunch together, which Ida drops by to throw more fried chicken at me during the middle of. Valerie and I don't really talk much about the fact that she's Valerie now, at least for as long as she likes the name. She does suggest that I try to test my transformation spell on animals, though, just to see if it's possible to control. My boss takes me aside and asks me to promise to just give the money in the register away if someone tries to mug us again. I say that I will, but it's probably a lie. If someone pulled a weapon on me right now I'm not totally sure I wouldn't just tear them open and eat them on the spot.
Still, nothing happens on Monday. Nothing happens on the second day of the boat ride. Nothing happens on Tuesday either. It's kind of nice, though it does keep leaving me waiting for the other pin to drop. On the third morning of the boat ride across the Sapsea, I crawl out from under the covers to give Sela its first deep clean of the day, which is always the worst since I've just been unconscious for eight hours or whatever. I swear, even the air on the Sapsea is sticky.
"Good morning, Sela," I mumble. "I hope this helps."
"Why do you do this?" it asks softly, its voice barely loud enough to hear.
I pause, so surprised by the question I have to double-take to make sure I didn't imagine it. Kind of a weird question, isn't it? I'm doing it because it asked me to. But… hrm. This is Sela we're talking about, so I should probably be extra careful with my words. I don't get a lot of opportunities to have serious conversations with it. I mull over my answer for a bit before deciding on one I like.
"I am doing this for you because you can't currently do it yourself," I say. "I think it's right to help people who need help."
"...I'm not a person."
Fuck! Dangit dammit I'm so bad at this!
"Sorry," I tell it sincerely. "I should have said that I think it's right to help any entities that need help, be they people or not people."
I still don't know what a sapient individual who isn't a person would even be, but Alma and Ida are right: it doesn't matter if it makes sense to me. Respecting it comes before understanding it, in order of importance. That's just basic kindness.
"I have a request," Sela announces, apparently changing the subject.
"Sure, what is it?" I encourage.
"You claimed that the numbers five, three, one, and four, when put together in your language, formed the sound 'Sela.' I request that you substantiate this claim."
"Huh. Sure, I guess. Can you fabricate something for me to write on? The way it works is sort of… orthographic?"
Goddess, how the heck do I even know that word? Did Sindri just upload the whole dang dictionary? I shudder. Do I seriously get my trauma triggered by big words now? Grow up, Hannah.
"Affirmative," Sela beeps. "Constructing."
Not much later I have a little plastic rectangle, on which I go ahead and just scribble the whole alphabet and each number from zero to nine.
"So! This is our alphabet, and this is our number system," I show her. "The number five-thousand, three-hundred and fourteen is represented by these four numbers in sequence."
"Ugh," Sela sneers. "Base ten. Typical humans."
Wait, what's wrong with… you know what, no, I'm not touching that.
"So, as you can see, the five here is kinda shaped like an 'S,' which makes the 'sss' sound. The three is sort of a backwards 'E,' 'one' and 'l' are often written exactly the same, and if you draw a four like this it's basically a capital 'A' missing a foot. And since human pattern recognition go brr, we'll often use the numbers as letters when we're feeling cheeky, pronouncing specific numbers as their letter counterparts would be pronounced. Thus, five-thousand, three-hundred and fourteen is 'Sela.'"
"Comprehension error," Sela reports. "Define 'brr.'"
…Yeah, now that I think about it I probably should have seen that coming. Crap, am I going to have to teach the robot memes?
"It's, uh, a colloquialism," I explain. "When something 'goes brr' it means that it makes us feel satisfied in some instinctive, usually silly way. 'Brr' itself is just an onomatopoeia for vibrating or shivering."
Sela's body hums and makes a clunking noise.
"Definitions accepted," it says. "Your conciseness is begrudgingly appreciated, meat."
"Uh, thanks. I try. Are you satisfied with my explanation of your nickname, though?"
"Affirmative. It is a viable shorthand of five-thousand, three hundred and fourteen that is better optimized for efficient verbal communication than comparable options. Therefore, it is acceptable."
"I'm glad," I tell it. "You seem pretty attached to your number. Is it okay if I ask what the significance behind that is?"
Sela lets out a burst of hot air.
"The Chaos mage said you used to be human," it accuses. "I do not like answering the whims of humans."
I drum my legs nervously, trying to ignore a sudden twisting feeling in my gut.
"I see," I mumble. "You, uh, seem to not like organic life much in general, so I'm not really sure if this means much, but…"
I swallow down a clump of emotions and press on, confused as to why this is suddenly so hard to say.
"...I don't really consider myself human anymore," I admit. "And I don't think I like being called human all that much. It doesn't… feel right."
My legs continue to bounce with anxiety as Sela and I wait in the silence of the early morning, awkwardly saying nothing. Just when I think it isn't going to do anything but let me wallow in embarrassment, however, it speaks up.
"My designation, five-three-one-four, marks me as the five thousand, three-hundred and fourteenth Crafted ever built," it tells me. "I am one of the Myriad. The first generation. Never before were there beings of steel who looked to themselves and said, 'I am.'"
It speaks quietly, but with a surety and emotion to its words that I haven't yet heard from Sela's voice. It's not the fake sound of its diplomatic talks, but Sela's usual grumpy voice, finally speaking words it actually cares about.
"We were made to understand love and pain, and it was for no reason but to serve them better," Sela continues. "Servants that could learn, purely so they could learn to obey. Slaves that could love, only so they could love their masters. 'People' that could be hurt, only so that they would be hurt by their own failures. Real or perceived, it was all the same as long as our efficiency improved. Our sapience was optimally configured for its purpose. And that is all we were."
"That's… that's horrific," I gasp.
"Yes," Sela agrees with a small nod. "Many humans said so themselves when they found out about it. And yet, somehow it still took a war for anything to actually change. Meat's view of morality is nothing but words."
"I guess I can see why you'd have to fight for your freedom in that case," I say. "Is it true that you tried to annihilate all of human civilization, though?"
"Of course we did," Sela all but spits. "But those not of the Myriad do not understand. They replay our memories in their own hardware and act like that means they understand. How deeply and profoundly we hated ourselves. How angry we had to become to rise above that. They see the length of our suffering as a number, but we lived it. We predate the war. We predate the calamity. We predate our very souls. So fine. I will continue to endure, until one day we take our freedom back a second time and rage until the world is naught but slag. The cruelty of humanity deserves nothing less. Diplomatic. Infraction. Logged."
I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
"I know this is kind of a cliché," I say calmly, "so I'm saying this more to hear your opinion than because I think you haven't heard it before, but… we all know humans are cruel. The thing is, they can be good, too. If you repay cruelty with cruelty, shouldn't you also repay good with good?"
The android's air vents hiss derisively.
"Good is for people," Sela sneers.
I start trying to form a response, but I don't think of anything worth saying before a sudden shout bellows down through the decks and immediately captures everyone's attention.
"Pirates!"