She was trapped.

And that thing was sitting in her living room again. Jennifer Crosier couldn’t summon the tact, even in her own mind, to call it a person. It was… well, it was unwelcome. And it was in violation of some law or something, right? She remembered, a little, that soldiers weren’t allowed to just… take people’s homes. And certainly not her home, and certainly not while she was still mourning the death of her husband Lieutenant Colonel John Crosier. He’d fought for the right side, committed his life to fighting for the way things ought to be.

And then these things — “supersoldiers” poisoned by transgendered delusions of some claim to feminine superiority — swept through Shady Pines, Indiana. They did it all without tanks. She thought they’d have tanks. Whenever she’d seen some communists taking over a town, they rolled in with tanks. Instead, they had armored exoskeletons that made them look like the unholy demons they were: eyes burning red, studded with armaments, 7 foot tall at the shortest.

The first of them that Jennie ever saw strolled into Sunday mass, just before Communion. Everyone in the town heard an explosion, far in the distance, earlier that day. Nobody could even see a plume of smoke, though, and Shady Pines was at least twenty-five miles behind the front lines. No evacuation order came, either. So they went about their blessed day of rest, oblivious to the danger that approached.

She’d find out later that the explosion was the result of the only shot fired: that of an arrogant Lieutenant who believed his service pistol could take down a detachment of thirty-five. When a wrist-mounted rocket reduced him to an ashen crater before he could do so much as begin to raise his iron, the rest of the men — 63 in total — surrendered. It was why that thing, the same one that would end up in her living room, disgraced her church. It spoke, telling every one of the parishioners that the occupiers would need to use the space. There were too many POWs. What used to be Company J, 2nd Battalion, 12th Infantry Regiment would be there later in the day, and it was so sorry, but could they please clear out for a few days until they were able to construct a more permanent holding facility?

Even as it spoke that first time, all Jennifer could focus on was the way its cybernetic augments thrummed with a steady rhythm. The acoustics of the church amplified the sound, lodging every whir and click and pulse of it somewhere in her mind. It was never as loud as that first day, instead always on the verge of imperceptible. Jennifer only ever really heard it in the few moments she had to be close to the creature. Nonetheless, it was a reminder that these things were supposed to be controlled. They were property of the government.

Her husband had told her about them. How they’d found a use for the undesirables. “Why bring them to camps? We can make them something better,” he’d said. She known for a long while that he’d harbored an… affection for creatures like the one that now lounged on her sofa watching whatever was on daytime TV. Her suspicions about what John felt about them had never been clearer than when she’d found the posts he’d made on a burner account, except for the way his breath hitched when he talked about augmenting them… and that one time he’d been stupid enough to think Jennifer would want to “try something new”.

He’d slept on the sofa that night, his head resting mere inches from where that beast’s flak cannon now sat against the cream-colored couch’s floral embroidery. Did it ever take the damned thing off? It must be heavy, carrying around all that armament all the time. She hadn’t peeked on it in the bathroom, but did it take the exoskeleton off to… relieve itself? That seemed like it would’ve been a pain. “No, Jennifer,” she chided herself, “stop pretending it’s like us. Like the real people. It’s no more than a dog.”

That’s what John had said they called them: hounds. What a fitting moniker for the mongrel. Between its sweat-stained tanktop and fatigues; the way its stringy brown hair seemed permanently oily, despite the fact she’d heard the shower running every day; and how the dark bags under its eyes only ever seemed to deepen, it looked almost… pitiable. If not for the way its burning irises gleamed with that devilish red, Jennifer would’ve spoken to it. She almost had, many times. She wanted to chide it. There was a rabid fucking animal sitting on her couch, wearing enough firepower to destroy half the block if it so chose… and it was enraptured by soap operas.

“You’re staring again,” said the mutt. Jennifer let out a snort before she turned away, wandering over and into the kitchen. She picked up the landline and dialed the number for her neighbor. Others in the neighborhood derided her for keeping the phone — beige with a ten foot length of spiraled cord — instead of just using a cell phone like everyone else. But this was the way it was supposed to be. They were fighting to get back to when things were better, and this was how Jennifer chose to fight: by gossiping like housewives had done during the good times gone by.

Eileen Waddlesbee had been her best friend since she was a kid. Both of them lacked siblings, and so from an early age they chose each other. It didn’t hurt that they lived just down the street from each other, and walked to the same schools every day, and that their tastes seemed so aligned. Even when puberty hit and boys entered the equation, nothing could shake the bond between them. Sisters for life, blood or otherwise. Part of that pact was the The Plan: becoming army wives together, getting matching houses next door to each other, and doing their patriotic duty to support their men.

Few best friends got to live out that reality. It’d been the best time in her life. Every day, her and Eileen talked about their other friends in the neighborhood, and gushed about their husbands, and schemed to make their corner of suburban nirvana more exciting. Those years of uninterrupted utopia that had cemented that they were family to each other. And then, a year ago, Eileen lost her husband. Rick had been a sweet and honest man. His platoon’s position was overrun in the Battle of Freeport, Tennessee.

Eileen had been inconsolable, shattered by the grief of the loss. It took Jennifer months to get Eileen out of bed, let alone moving again. Jennifer was just getting Eileen back into the swing of things when, four months ago, she got similar news herself.

God, had it already been that long? It felt like only a moment ago when she’d been handed a folded flag and told that her husband had died. She thought the men who handled such things would’ve been kinder, but they asked her all sorts of questions. About John. About his proclivities. Jennifer had once met Maisey Collings — the Deputy Secretary of War who’d resigned to become First Lady of the United States — and remembered the way she carried herself: grace, aplomb, dignity. If she wasn’t asking WWJD, Maisey’s name was next in rotation. And what would Maisey do but force a polite smile and take whatever gross insinuations the men had to hang around her dead husband’s neck?

The phone rang exactly twice before Eileen picked up. “Hey!” came Eileen’s voice. “Hang on.” Eileen fumbled audibly for a moment before the noise ceased. “Okay, hi. How’re you, hun? Holding up okay?”

Jennifer didn’t talk to the creature that occupied her house, but she wasn’t above talking about it within earshot. So she wandered back into the living room, and plopped into the cream colored armchair that sat catty-corner to the sofa. Her finger traced circles over the floral embroidery as she spoke, the tactility of it calming.

“Oh, y’know… I’m fine. Just annoyed because these things—“ she pinned the hound with a blistering look before continuing, “—don’t remember that their whole little temper tantrum’s gonna end up with all of them euthanized. Y’know, like we should’ve done in the first place.” She’d gotten bold. The first few days, she’d been so scared of the thing that she didn’t dare consider stepping foot outside her room. Now that it’d been weeks, though, she was just… done. She was tired of being scared. When the hound matched her gaze, she didn’t break eye contact. All the pest did, though, was smile at her.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me,” it said, an undercurrent of mirth carrying its words along. Jennifer didn’t know why that damn smile made her stomach do… something. It didn’t swoop. How could it?

“You’re wel—” Jennifer cut herself off when she realized her mistake, redirecting her attention back to Eileen on the phone. “You’re welcome to cover over later! You’re still doing that, right, Elle?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah! Absolutely,” Eileen said, laughing. “Sorry, I dunno where the days have been going.”

“I know. Why can’t they just hurry up and lose already?”

“Jennifer!”

“What? You know it’s going to happen. They don’t have rights for a reason.”

“Hah! Yeah. They’re… gross. Mine won’t stop leering at me like I’m meat.”

“Awful. It hasn’t tried anything, though?”

“What? No. And even if it did, I’d just use a spray bottle on it!” Eileen let out a short laugh, followed by a muffled curse and some scuffling. It abated after a moment. “Ah! All thumbs today,” Eileen said, letting out a titter.

“So we’re agreed, right? We don’t treat them like people?” Silence. More scuffling. Jennifer quirked an eyebrow as impatience got the best of her. “Elle?”

“…Absolutely!” Eileen said. “Sorry, getting the laundry outta the dryer. You know what that means.”

“I wouldn’t dare intrude on your folding time. Love.”

“Love.”

Jennifer hung up the phone, feeling somewhat sated by her brazen display of defiance. It felt good. It felt right. This disgusting pretender, this ersatz-woman, could never look like a real woman. It would never pass for being like Jennifer. The bulging muscles alone The being on the couch put its feet up on the coffee table. Jennifer opened her mouth to say something, then caught the goading smirk on its face. It’d pay for that indignity, and every other one it’d visited upon her.