He's asking two questions at once when he turns to rasp out an incredulous, "How?"

How do you stop a fucking alien invasion, and how do you dictate your own nightmare? He's never had great control over his dreams, whether or not he's aware of them doesn't really change that. Might change his decision-making, but it doesn't influence the environment. There's a duality there in his lucidity — half recognizing that this is a dream, half convinced it's all real despite that. The consequences, the fear, the pain, it all seems so close to the surface.

His feet grind to a sudden stop at the mouth of an alley. What stands at the end might at first register as a monster, until its humanoid proportions and unnatural stillness make it distinct. It isn't that first-thought look for an alien, no little green man, no almost comedic disproportions. It's organic, it's real, it's horrifying.

The voice that comes out is most assuredly not human. It warps around English syllables with an accent that doesn't align with any earthly speech, a rough and dual-chambered set of syllables that you can almost feel more than hear.

"Submit and be judged."