They interrogate Misery upon her return to the gravity-bound, metal-sealed spaces of Angelsteeth, upon her return to the bone-bound, flesh-sealed body she has existed in for twenty years. She’s not surprised by this. In fact, she would be disappointed if they just took Misery for her word. Divinity must be proven, it must be made real, it must be demonstrated in the realm of salt and iron. She’s taken from the archangel mech, separated from the cocoon that contains the Lady Alodia Lightning, and taken to an interrogation room in the deep bowels of the station, where she sits patiently on a backless stool, metal bolted to a steel floor in a room with steel walls, her hands clasped lightly and patiently in her lap. They’ve taken her fatigues and put her in a one-piece gown that drapes to mid-calf and leaves her arms bare. Blue as the hearts of ice. That’s fine. Misery sits up tall; her spine has never been this straight her entire life. If only her brother could see her now.

The room is bisected by a stern yellow aegis. On the other side of it is a long table attended by those who think they are in charge here: Captain Diamond Sunyata. Major Reyes Photon. The Duke of Apis. And General Tsung themself, quiet and craggy, standing behind with one hand on their chin. Not sitting, not questioning. Just listening. Misery has taken the panel through the happenings of the past hours, a bone-dry recollection of this mesmerizing pivot in her life. The call, unavoidable. The journey, ineffable. The truth revealed, undeniable. Her return, triumphant.

Her panel of interrogators don’t see her story that way. Instead they see a string of threatening occurrences they cannot explain or understand. They see danger in the alien white mech that entered their radar zone without warning, much like Heretics do. They see the changed shape of someone they have taken in, vouched for, and believed in, and they’re not sure what that shape means. What it means for their faith. She sees the fears telegraphed on their faces, shining like lead.

But there is light. Under the tectonic plates of stress and anxiety burns a core of molten hope. That same fiery belief that led Duke Argan to champion her cause and led General Tsung to organize sedition against the Throne. She sees trust in her captain’s expression. There’s exhaustion in the low tones of her words, but there’s also luminescent faith. For the first time in many years, she sees a way out of the despair she lives in.