I shift positions; the cloud-bed great for sleeping, but a little less optimal when trying to receive guests.

“Gave me a right thrashin, she did. If it weren't for me watchin her improve with me own eyes, I’d have said ya sicced a rank twelve bastage on me as revenge.” Sergeant Duff says to Catherine, spittle flying from his lips.

“Revenge? Revenge for what, exactly?” Catherine answers, just daring him to step into the bear trap of words she laid.

We’re back in my “hospital room” or whatever this insane Vanguard equivalent is. Catherine got a little worried when my headache stuck around for longer than it should, so she had Revision carry me back up to the room. I’m sure that would have been far more embarrassing if my brain didn’t feel like it was melting, or if Catherine and Duff hadn’t continued their bickering all the way up to my floor.

A part of me wished he had stayed a bit longer despite my weird feelings about him, but apparently Menagerie doesn’t like him staying out too long. My gut says that that’s weird, and probably not super healthy, but I’ll reserve judgment until I’ve finished grinding up my attraction to him. I zone back into their conversation, unsure why they’re still here.

“You’ve got a gods damn magical whiskey machine in yer closet, and you use it as nae but a glorified cow tit!” He cries, genuine sorrow in his tone.

“I’m not letting a soggy old alcoholic tell me what to drink. If you’re that upset about it, maybe you should buy one yourself.” She replies smugly.

Not willing to wait for them to start full-on yelling to say something, I interrupt, “Is the intent to worsen my headache?” It’s a little rude, but I’m starting to feel a mite irritated.

Duff has the decency to appear chastised, at least, though I think he’s still feeling pretty bad about the fight. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who got a little too into the fight; normally he’d just slam the new Vanguard into the mat a few times, break a bone or two at most.

“Forgive me lass, didn’t intend to—“

I raise my hand, stopping him. “Again, you didn’t do anything Catherine couldn’t fix. The only pain I’m in now is my own fault. More than anything, I’m still pissed off about you calling Silo a coward.” The way his grin makes his mutton chops rise up makes me even more annoyed.

“I dunnae about that, missie. Any mucker who knew tha bloke well enough to get rightly pissed on ‘is behalf knows he was scared shiteless more hours than he was awake fer. And judgin by yer own peepers, you’re the same breed as him.”

Feeling a bit called out, and not wanting to let go of my frustrations, I mumble back at him, “That doesn’t make it right. Just because someone’s scared doesn’t mean they aren’t brave, too.” I thumb at my keychains, rubbing off a bit of my frustrations on them.

“Aye, that’s fair. I certainly won’t be saying it at his wake, at’s fer sure.” He pauses for a moment, stroking his facial hair, “I think I’ve got one o them trinket’s you’s been messin with back in me bunk; woudja accept it as an apology?”

I struggle to keep my face straight, not wanting to give off the impression that my forgiveness can be bought. “It’s more that you apologize in general, that—not that I don’t want it—I mean, as long as you—ugh,” I press my face into my palms, not even sure what I’m trying to get across anymore.

“Yes, I’d like it very much, please.” I say through my hands.

“Hah! guess I’d better be off tae find it then,” he laughs, clapping his hands once as he rises from his seat. I look up a bit as he goes, my hands dragging down on my face as I slide it up them. He gives Catherine a pat on the shoulder as he passes her, their eyes communicating something I can’t read.

Flopping down from my leaning position, I let out a long sigh of comfort. I hear the wall seal closed behind Duff. I’m not sure how I feel about him, to be honest. There’s an irritating coarseness to him, and it feels like it's intentional. I can only imagine it's a self-defense mechanism of some sort, like he’s trying to keep other people from getting too close. Though… I probably would too if I were in the military. As I’m working through my feelings about the Scotsman, Catherine speaks up.

“Hey, Brooke?”

“Mhmm?” I hum back.

“I wanted to avoid mentioning it for a little while longer since it's such a fresh wound, but that old toad already ruined that plan. Duff’s mention of a wake—that wasn’t a hypothetical. We confirmed Silo’s remains, and his funeral is on the eighth.”

“Ah, that's a... what, three days from now? I bet the whole city is going to be mourning.” A bit of cold seeps into my bones; hearing about his funeral adding a bit more realism to the situation. I already knew he was dead—I saw it myself, after all. Just... ugh, I didn’t even know him like these people did—why am I so worked up?

“...About that, his funeral is going to be a private function. You’re invited, of course, but it would be greatly appreciated if you didn’t tell others about it.”

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I blink away the tears forming in my eyes, hot anger burning past my melancholy at her words. “What do you mean, ‘private function'? Are you telling me that we’re preventing him from getting the recognition he deserves because of, what, some concern about the public getting scared?”

“Please, Brooke. You know I’m frustrated about it too, but we can’t make our judgments based on emotion, here. The cities left in the world number less than a hundred; we can’t risk more of them falling due to panic.” Her voice fluctuates as she speaks; I can tell she’s trying to bottle up her sadness.

I don’t answer, but perhaps that’s enough for her, since she continues. “Without some semblance of faith in the Vanguard, we collapse. Sometimes, especially after an event like the one we just had, it’s harder to force people to believe in us than it is to fight off the fathom themselves. We call ourselves the Vanguard to make people believe our fight is a proactive one, but realistically we should be called the ‘Last Line of Defense’ instead, because we’re on the defensive, and have been for a long time.”

After a few moments of nothing but her heavy breaths, I ask, “Were you supposed to tell me that?”

“No, definitely not.”

My anger has dissipated in the face of her rant, leaving only concern at the situation the world is in and for Catherine's mental health. “Would you like a hug?” I ask.

She lets out a deep sigh, standing up and rubbing her face. “No, but thank you. My therapist said I’m already treating you as a surrogate for the role Silo held in my life, and I need to resolve that myself.”

I’m taken aback by the casual statement; not aware I had this much of an impact on her. I suppose it explains why she treats me so differently than anyone else, but I also don’t want to give up this bond I’ve just created. “I don’t know if I want that if you’re going to start treating me differently.”

She smiles a little bit at that, ruffling my hair. “Got used to the perks of hanging out with me, eh?” She says, continuing before I can refute her, “I’m kidding, and don’t worry about it. I’m not going to start giving you the cold shoulder all of a sudden, but I have been prioritizing you a bit more than I should. You’ll likely see less of me the next few days, as I need to catch up on work and prepare for the funeral.”

She leans over and takes a folder out of her bag; its form sharp and metallic. “This contains a recovery plan based on your symptoms and possible side effects an Ascension can cause. I’d like you to remain here for one more night so we can monitor for any further changes, but tomorrow you’re free to go home and see your family again; I’m sure you need it.”

Taking the folder, I find that it’s just as heavy as it looks, and that it has a lock based on my fingerprint. “Yeah, I could definitely use some time with my family. I’m sure they’re just as stressed as I am. Well, other than the top-secret stuff that I totally didn’t hear. When will I need to come back for Vanguard stuff?”

She leans against the bed, blowing some of her hair away from her face. “Well, the funeral is being held here, and I figure you want to come for that.” She looks at me as she asks, and I nod. “Otherwise, if we need you for some ‘on the job training’ as it were, we’ll contact you. You'll have plenty of warning unless it's an emergency, and odds are we won’t be contacting you for an emergency anyways; we’d call for support from New R’lyeh.” She does the little bunny ear quotations with her fingers as she says ‘on the job training’, which is adorable.

Based on her tone, though, I figure our time together is just about up and she has to get to work. I sit up in the bed, my headache not stopping me as I learn forward, stealing a hug regardless of her stupid therapist's recommendation. “You’ve been a huge factor in me figuring out this Vanguard nonsense. If you hadn’t been here for me from the beginning, I don’t think I would have taken it nearly as well. Thanks, Catherine.” She looks a little shaken up at the sudden hug and being called by her first name, but it’s what I’ve been calling her in my head all this time, so she’ll just have to deal.

“You’re welcome, punk. I’ll see you soon, make sure you get some rest.” She returns my hug before flicking my forehead; the motion too fast for me to dodge. “—Ack!” I cry, and by the time I recover and move to swat at her, the wall is closing behind her.

“The two of you are reminiscent of siblings; it is quaint.” Roosevelt chuckles in my head, his laugh a hollow chime.

“More like she’s my aunt” I say, rubbing where she flicked me. “Violent aunt.” He materializes, as he tends to when we’re alone. His tentacles and frilled fins are tinted orange, whatever that means as he flutters down near my chest. “So what’s up, buddy? Got somethin to say about all that?”

“No, I believe you two discussed things as needed. My input would only be modifications that do little in hindsight. I did want to suggest something, however.”

“That kind of thing is fine too; we mortals have a hard time learning from mistakes if we don’t know we made them. But what's the suggestion? Nothing that hurts my head, please.”

He scrunches a little at that, clearly not anticipating the restriction. “Perhaps... another time, then. I was going to suggest a ritual that would assist in reflecting on the day, though if you are still suffering from energy drought, it could be ill advised.”

I place my hands around him, lightly holding him to my stomach, and he doesn’t struggle this time, hopefully getting used to it. “What, to help me elevate my mind to the next tier or something? That definitely sounds like more thinking than I’m comfy with. I’m pretty physically exhausted though, got a ritual for napping?” I ask, mostly in jest.

“.....”

“You DO!” I jeer, lifting him up to my face level.

“Sigh, it is not a ritual. It is a perverse degeneration of the beginning stages of a ritual that involves manipulating your dreams. Silo frequently used it for... napping, however.”

“Spill, cuddle-fish.”

“It is ‘cuttle’ and you damn well know it. Fine, I warn you, this will be sudden.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

“...Repeat after me. Y' fhtagn ahmggoka”

“Y' fhtagn ahmggoka” I say, and just before unconsciousness takes me I notice how uncomfortable of a position this will be to sleep in.

Damn it.