It can't be said with certainty that the reptilian known as Winona disliked Earth. There were moments she even found it tolerable. Among Earth's terrains, there was one particular area she almost found agreeable: the Danakil Desert in Ethiopia. It was the closest the planet had to a true reptilian retreat. Its simmering heat, sulfuric pools, and bare landscape could, with a bit of imagination, evoke distant, beloved Betelgeuse cliffs or the hauntingly toxic fields of the Andromeda nebula. Yet, her visit to Danakil was a rare privilege, made possible only because, on this one occasion, she could revert to her natural three-meter reptilian form, fangs and all.For the rest of her time here, Winona was bound to her "human suit." It was a restrictive, thoroughly uncomfortable shell – but absolutely necessary. Earth's unaccommodating atmosphere meant that to survive, she and her kind needed to assume these cloaked bodies, carefully modified with injections mimicking human insulin. These injections weren't medical in the conventional sense; they were regular, highly technical interventions for maintenance. Thus, a legend was established that this President, often described as "strong, but mysteriously frail," had diabetes. As the public came to know, she relied on frequent "insulin" shots. It seemed fitting to the average citizen – in the complex human logic – that their leader's unique constitution should require something as unique as consistent insulin therapy.Today, Winona received a coded message, buzzing straight through the inconspicuous antenna embedded above her left ear. It came from Those Who Give Orders. Two directives: first, that D-day would fall on August 8. Second, the annihilation of a rogue known as Taras Ramses, a Space Frontiersman who had evidently wandered out of bounds. Winona found herself momentarily insulted by this second task. Such a minor undertaking! She was, after all, the commander-in-chief of the mightiest army on Earth – chasing down one frontier traveler seemed below her. Nevertheless, the orders were orders. It didn't help that her complex biological makeup – she could embody male, female, or several other genders unknown to Earthlings – inclined her toward unpredictable moods. But unpredictability, she'd found, lent itself to Earth's electoral process, and her ambiguous charm helped sway voters who saw her unpredictability as charisma.Following protocol, she signed a classified order for the Minister of Defense: lure Taras Ramses to Danakil Desert and dispose of him. The operation details, down to Taras' DNA code, were included for good measure.*******************Elsewhere, in the dim glow of a remote, secluded cabin, Paradise held Taras's arm with practiced ease, administering an injection with such precision that he hardly noticed. "Too many 'diabetics' are watching on this planet," she murmured with a sly smile, letting her words linger in the air. The Navigator, busy stacking provisions into the rounded hold of their egg-like vessel, glanced over and nodded subtly, understanding her meaning without a word."Where are we headed, anyway?" Taras asked, his eyes darting between the two of them."Our path leads to Cambodia," replied the Navigator, a glimmer of mystery flickering in his gaze."Cambodia?" Taras echoed, puzzled. "But how in the world are we supposed to get there in this...shell? And we're underwater in some underground lake to top it off.""My son," the Navigator replied with a wise, almost amused smile, "Those Who Can Do Everything have thought of everything. Beneath the Earth's surface lies a vast network of tunnels, stretching farther than even I can fathom. We'll travel to Cambodia through one of these subterranean water tunnels. It may seem improbable, but I assure you, all is prepared.""Why Cambodia, though?" Taras pressed, his curiosity piqued."All in good time," the Navigator answered smoothly. "For now, you only need to know that D-Day is scheduled for August 8.""D-Day?" Taras's eyebrows shot up. "But isn't D-Day supposed to be the day the aliens land on Earth?""Not exactly," the Navigator replied with a slow shake of his head. "They've been here for quite some time, my boy. They're among us already."Taras fell silent, the gravity of the Navigator's words settling over him like a weight. Satisfied with the awe sparked in Taras's eyes, the Navigator continued, "But enough about what is to come. Tell us, my friend, about your own space odyssey. We are curious to hear of deep space.""Yes, do tell," Paradise chimed in, her voice soft but brimming with eagerness.********** Meanwhile, on the outskirts of Munich, an ancient Bavarian hotel concealed a well-hidden floor within its walls. To an unknowing guest, the two upper floors appeared sealed off for maintenance, with nondescript labels like "Laundry," "Steward," and "Dishwashing." But behind the "Dishwashing" door was a grand table surrounded by twelve seats – the meeting place for Those Who Keep an Eye on Everything.Three figures, the Castellan, the Tender, and the Maid, occupied these seats. The Castellan, an imposing figure with an air of solemn authority, spoke first, his voice layered with both care and severity. "Do we know what we need to know?"The Tender and the Maid nodded. "Yes," they replied in unison."And what shall we do?""Anna will handle it," said the Tender confidently. "She has the necessary experience.""She's no ordinary human and, if I remember correctly, works for Uncle F.," the Maid interjected, her voice skeptical."Yes, but so did you once," countered the Tender smoothly. "And it remains one of the finest operations ever orchestrated by our collective." The Maid reluctantly conceded, though muttering about Anna's ambiguous humanity – the Maid had yet to decide if Anna was entirely human or something far more complex, something beyond human comprehension."We take Anna at her word," insisted the Tender firmly. The Castellan, sensing this debate had gone its course, raised a hand, authorizing the plan, designated Novus Ordo Seclorum.**********Uncle F., a mastermind wrapped in treachery, sat by the edge of a pool, seemingly unaware of the scene around him. Young, lithe figures swam lazily in the water, but his attention was focused elsewhere. At his side stood his assistant, aptly named Scoundrel. Ruthless and cunning, Scoundrel held no interest in wealth. His loyalty came from the dark pleasures Uncle F. allowed him to indulge in, pleasures most mortals would find beyond comprehension.With a casual, almost bored expression, Uncle F. asked, "What news of our Paradise?""Yes, Your Excellency," Scoundrel answered with a simpering tone. "She's on course, always reliable." He allowed himself a wink – something he'd once been punished for but today seemed permissible. Uncle F. arched a withering eyebrow, allowing the indiscretion this once."And where is her gang headed?"They are heading to Cambodia, came the reply.