Everything would have gone smoothly if it hadn’t been for that damned horse DNA.

“Zzzzzmmpt lllllllloooooommmmm tt mmzzzzzzz eeeeeeee tptptpt?” the mission specialist griped, in a series of hisses, pops, and other tones that translates roughly to [“Why the fuck are you splicing that equine shit into my chromosomes?”]

The genesplicing technician [sighed]. “The [Assimilation] starts with teenaged girls.  And teenaged girls love horses.  If you want to understand the specifics of why, the psychology is explained very thoroughly in the [dossier] that [Infiltration/Counterintelligence Services] put together for you.  The physical characteristics are a bonus, too.  Have you ever heard the expression ‘long, coltish legs’?”

“No.”

“Well, if you’d [read] the [dossier] you would have.  These humans revere their taller specimens.  Male and female members of the species are automatically afforded higher status due to their height.”

“What about [third gender]?”

“They don’t have one.”

“Then how do they…”

The technician [glared] at her, his [hands] on his [hips].

“Right, right, it’s in the dossier. But this horse stuff…why does it feel like someone over in [specimen collection] tweaked the input parameters trying to justify the fact that those [idiots] wasted half their [discretionary mission resource allocation] picking up and [probing] animals that didn’t even turn out to be the dominant species on the planet?”

“Don’t look at me, the [bioinformatics module of the mothership’s master computer] is the one who came up with the [recipe].  I’m just the [sous chef] here.  Now [provide access] to your [circulatory system] so I can inject the [spliced DNA cocktail] and we’ll get you into the [biochemical nutrient solution] tank for reconfiguration.”

—

This conversation, of course, resurfaced in her mind the moment the mission specialist – now known to humans as “Taylor Swift” – found herself irresistibly attracted to a fellow celebrity.

—

The fact that the mission had been proceeding so smoothly made it easy to sell her plan to [Mission Control].  “It’s fantastic,” they responded.  “The Kansas City Chiefs are the [current darling] of the National Football League, they’re going to fall all over themselves to give you more exposure.  Just think…instead of [assimilating] fifty thousand subjects at each of these concert tour stops, you might even be able to play the Super Bowl halftime show, and [assimilate] fifty million via a single broadcast!

“Ah,” Taylor replied to the [smiling face] of the [Infiltration/Counterintelligence Services] agent in her [satellite communications relay screen]. “And this ‘Super Bowl’ is some kind of media event?”

The agent simply [rubbed the bridge of his nose] in dismay.

“We’ve prepared a transmission with all the relevant information, including the rules and some of the traditions associated with American football.  Please do allow the [dossier] to update.”

Taylor probably should have acknowledged at this point that her personal goals weren’t entirely aligned with the mission at this point.  “It’s their own fault,” she told herself, “they’re the ones who added those gene sequences!”

And she definitely shouldn’t have clicked “Maybe Later” when the [dossier] asked her to approve an update.

—

The relationship with the human wasn’t particularly unpleasant.  Of course, it did take considerable restraint for her to resist removing all the arteries and veins in his body and reassembling them into a webbing by which she could hang his various organs from the ceiling when she asked if he could arrange a meeting with Warpaint, the team mascot.

“Sorry, babe,” he laughed, “didn’t you see the news? The team retired him last summer. We can go out to the stable where they keep him, if it’s that important to you.”

But of course, having her own personal hopes dashed didn’t disrupt the mission. Until later that fall.

—

“Your mission has been terminated.  Gather your [belongings].  We’re beaming you back home,” the [Infiltration/Counterintelligence Services] agent said.

“It was a good plan,” Taylor protested.

“It’s a great plan.  And it would have worked brilliantly if you hadn’t [Bears-ed it all up].  It’s fine.  Really.  We’ll try again with Harry Styles as the next World Cup.”

“But…I still don’t understand what went wrong.”

The agent once again used his [fingers] to [rub the bridge of his nose]. “It was made very clear to you that with your celebrity status comes a separate set of rules for public behavior.”

“So that’s it? I’ve been…what’s that word?”

“Canceled, Taylor. You’ve been canceled.”

“But…”

“All you had to do was sit there. You didn’t have to join in.”

“The whole stadium was participating!”

“‘I’m not going to judge,’ you could have said, ‘but personally, I’d feel uncomfortable doing it.'”

“But how was I supposed to know that the tomahawk chop is viewed as racist?”

“BECAUSE OF THE [DOSSIER], TAYLOR. HOW MANY TIMES DID WE HAVE TO TELL YOU? IT WAS ALL IN THE GODDAMNED [DOSSIER].”