[Long description: A sketchy comic of a brick wall of a space soldier holding down the fort behind some rubble. She loads some sorta oversized pistol-bayonet, while a scrappy little research assistant brandishes her tiny revolver behind her.

R.A.: You’re so cool, Chief. It’s like, you never get angry or afraid. How do you do it?

The Chief is impassive.

Chief: I can’t.

The R.A. just kinda looks at her. The Chief continues.

Chief: It was programmed out of me.

The R.A. squints dubiously at her.

R.A.: Like metaphorically??

Chief: Surgically.

The Chief indicates some metal ports in the back of her neck, deadpan. The R.A. starts to lose her composure, equal parts exasperated and mortified.

R.A.: Did it hurt?

Chief: Yes.]