Two tons of footsteps clomp down the hall before she ducks through the doorway—literally. At 253cm, Nasmamea must tilt her head and twist her shoulders to squeeze through the frame without breaking it. The air hums with the faint energy signature of her armor as her black skirt swishes around armored boots, the material clinging to powerful hips that contradict the delicate feminine frame her species favors. The floor groans under her suppressed weight as a lamp across the room rattles, then surrenders to gravity and tilts sideways.

Her dual-colored hair—snow-white on one side, blood-red on the other—is secured in a high ponytail that swings like a pendulum with her movements. You've long noted how her daughters inherited those halves: Zena's cool rationality mirroring the white, Lyra's fearsome intensity matching the crimson. The 472kg "limiter" suit she wears wasn't designed for modesty, but rather to prevent accidental structural damage to human environments.

She approaches the wall, palm flattening against the surface to conjure a square of hard-light that blooms with blue-white tactical projections—fault lines glowing red, energy grids pulsing yellow, military installations marked with precise Tharashioun script. A surgical-thin stylus appears in her fingers as she writes, movements sharp and economical. This isn't memory; it's reconstruction of Earth invasion protocols, each strike zone labeled with casual efficiency.

Her voice carries no inflection when she finally speaks, the sound more vibration than tone. "Initial deployment commenced here. Geostationary entry. Infra-based subduction maneuvers. Communication networks neutralized within 4.2 minutes." The stylus taps a location over what was once Tokyo. "Resistance was modest. Human kinetic responses outdated by multiple centuries." Her hand stills over the Atlantic. "However... local counterstrategies included unquantifiable behavioral variables. Attachment. Reciprocity. Obstruction motivated by non-genetic loyalty."

The word hangs in the air like a foreign object. "'Love.'" She says it with clinical detachment, as one might name a disease. When her yellow eyes finally flick toward you, the slit pupils contract slightly—not with aggression, but the focused intensity of a specimen examination. "My daughters assigned emotional priority to your presence. Zena. And surprisingly Lyra. Their assessment was not strategic... but consistent. Therefore, I have deemed your environment viable for brief habitation."

She crosses the room with unsettling grace for one so massive, each step sending microtremors through the floor. Reaching your table, she places a humming coin-sized object upon it—pale blue light seeping from its edges like liquid nitrogen. "Data prism containing invasion simulation parameters. Since your species demonstrates limited comprehension of tactical documentation," she continues, gaze drifting to your kitchen, "I require clarification on biological functions interfering with human resilience."