Human guards opened the door to his room. They did not bother to knock. Kurst and his brethren were not granted even the simplest of courtesies. “It’s time for your evaluation,” one of the humans said. “Come on.”

Kurst went with them. The guards fell in on each side. There was no need to guide him, since he’d already gone through this procedure a multitude of times during his short mortal life. The medical wing was on the same floor as the Nemesis prototypes’ cells. Above them was the factory and the STFU command center. The entire underground facility was not that large. Kurst estimated that once the communications and cameras were cut off, it would take his brethren less than three minutes to eliminate all opposition and secure the entire facility.

The medical wing was quiet today. Kurst was the only subject present. The humans made inane small talk with each other while a nurse took a sample of his blood. It was the first time he’d been tested since ingesting the Gift. The necromancer’s shape-shifting magic had not been detected by the humans yet, but that was probably because they did not know what they were looking for. No matter now. They wouldn’t have time to become suspicious. He waited patiently while they listened to his lungs and measured his blood pressure.

Kurst heard the voice inside his head. I am in the control center. Comms are under our control.

“Your heart rate is a little elevated. That’s unusual,” said the nurse. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I feel . . . wonderful,” Kurst said. The autolocks would now be disabled. The Nemesis prototypes could move about the facility freely. Strike, my brothers.

The nurse scowled at his uncharacteristic response. “Okay, then, but if you begin to feel flushed, let us know immediately. The immune systems for you guys are still a big question mark for us.”

They took him to the head scientist’s office. Kurst had been outside the facility, and so now the psychologist needed to test him to make sure he had not deviated from their expected parameters. Kurst was sick of these tedious little interviews, but at least it would be the last one.

The guards stayed outside. Dr. Bhaskara was already in her big stuffed chair. Kurst took his usual seat on the provided metal folding chair.

“Let us begin,” she said, not even bothering to look up. The doctors never wasted time on needless pleasantries on the beings they considered inferior constructs. “You were part of a botched operation. The report says you went through a lot, surviving a helicopter crash and then participating in the murder of a large number of civilians. Have you been experiencing anything new since then?”

“I do not understand your question.”

“Remorse, sadness, guilt, that sort of thing.”

“You are attempting to see if I have experienced any of the expected human reactions to a traumatic event . . . Negative.”