I finally acknowledge my throat’s complaints, sitting back in my chair and quietly sipping at my water. What I’d planned on being a simple explanation of my situation lasted all of four minutes before devolving into a rant ten times longer instead.

Perhaps the bottle-up strategy is reaching its limit.

My teeth crunch a tiny remnant of ice as it slips through my lips, mercifully sparing it from melting like its comrades did during my tirade.

“There’s definitely a lot there we covered, but... not nearly in so much detail,” Mom says, her voice soft as she brushes the back of her fingers against my cheek. Wrinkles full of worry have formed around her eyes, and I suddenly wish I’d been more prudent with how I worded things.

I pull her hand from my face, squeezing it with my own as I speak. “Sorry, it probably seems a lot worse than it is when I do nothing but complain about the bad things that happened. Despite how... weird things have been, I feel like I’ve gained just as much as I’ve lost, if not more.”

My words don’t seem to assure them much, if their expressions are anything to go off of. I guess that makes sense, though; you can’t really say “It’s no big deal” after giving a description that graphic.

“I get it.” Victor states, breaking the silence I wasn’t sure how to approach. “You’ve been gone a lot since all of this started, but seeing you less has made it even easier to see how different you are every time you do show up.”

“...Different? How do you mean?” I ask, meeting the eyes that have avoided mine all night.

“Other than the extra weirdness that came with you trying to hide something this major, you’ve been... I dunno, vibrant?” He murmurs, sounding less confident the more words come out of his mouth.

My cheeks warm slightly at his not-quite-a-compliment, the praise direct enough that I find myself wondering if he’s the one with an alien in his brain instead of me.

“For my brother of all people to refer to me as “vibrant” rather than “loser” or just “you” is a change far greater than even my own.” I retort, sticking the tip of my tongue out at him childishly.

His face scrunches, angry embarrassment bringing back the snide, normal Victor I’d been waiting for. “You’re right, ‘loser’ is way closer to the word I was looking for; thanks for suggesting it.”

“Anytime.” I flatly reply, hiding my relief at being treated normally again with a half-lidded expression.

Things are… different than before, but that was probably unavoidable from the start. With all the changes I’ve undergone this past month, it would be beyond unreasonable to expect my surroundings to remain static.

I quietly summon tactigon under the table, clenching my fist around it’s palm-sized form like it’s some sort of pointy, unyielding stress ball.

My brother's voice breaks me out of my thoughts as he pipes up, “It’s kinda hard to follow up when you suddenly make an expression like that; what’s the deal?”

“Ah? Oh, sorry. Got lost in thought for a moment.” I state, controlling my expression. “I’m not necessarily worried about tomorrow, but I am still a bit anxious, if that makes sense.”

Much of my effort to ease their concern seems to unravel at my comment, if their expressions are anything to go off of, though they do hide it pretty quickly.

“...Do you really have to go, Brooke?” I hear from my right, my mother’s quivering voice exposing her true feelings through the confident mask she’s trying desperately to hold onto.

“Dear.” Dad gently chides, his one word carrying the weight of a full discussion I wasn’t privy to.

“I know, I’m sorry.” She says, fanning herself and blinking, as if that would stop the tears already rolling down her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said that; I promised I wouldn’t. I’m so sorry.”

A wistful smile forms on my lips as I work out the situation, context delivering itself to me piecemeal as I sit here.

“Yeah, I gotta go, Mom,” I say, her tears starting to become contagious. “But it's not

because anyone told me to, I, myself, want to do it this time.”

Her face scrunches up, some new emotion welling up and helping her suppress her tears. “And how could I deny my unwillful daughter my support? This must be the first thing you've actively said you wanted other than Benny's in the last three years.”

A laugh escapes my lips, but at the same time, it releases the stranglehold I'd had on my own tear ducts this whole time, leaving my face as wet a mess as hers.

“That's only because I’ve never needed anything,” I say, sniffling. “You guys made sure I had more than enough to be happy.”

“Except ice cream, apparently,” my father adds, having left his seat and walked over to us.

I give the freezer a meaningful look before looking back at him. “Benny's is the exception that proves the rule, obviously.”

“I see. I'll keep that in mind for our next child,” he retorts, causing my brother and I to look at each other in visceral horror.

“I think the world’s better off without another one of us, really. Also, you're both in your late fifties; I'll leave it at that.” I say, crossing my arms.

He and my mother share a knowing look, triggering my gag reflex. This is not what I expected this talk to regress into.

Like, I’m glad I have two parents who love each other so much, but some things are better left unsaid. Or ungestured, I guess.

“We won't try to stop you, but you have to promise us two things,” Mom says, her expression becoming hard despite her puffy eyes and stained cheeks.

She grasps my hand between both of hers, pressing something into my palm and squeezing it there.

“One, keep the earring your father gave you on at all times; it's our only lifeline to know that you're safe.”

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

I nod, having had that intention from the start.

“And two… remember that you don't have to be the hero.”

I open my mouth to protest, but shut it once she squeezes my hand again.

“I’m your mother; I know you best in the world. I know how brave and tough you are, but I also know how foolhardy you can be when you think you have to be the one to take responsibility. You're surrounded by competent people; let them take some of the load,” she says, whispering her next words.

“Just come home to me, Brooke.”

I choke back a sob, pushing past the emotions welling up in my chest to respond.

“I promise. I'll come home, no matter what.”

“Good. Now get to bed; you have to be up earlier than all of us tomorrow.”

She lets go of my hand, and an almost overpowering smell of lavender hits me immediately, wafting up from my open palm. A light purple scent stone sits there, one of my mother's favorites

“You need these for your insomnia, Mom. I’m not taking them from you.”

“Hah!” she scoffs, closing my hand around it. “If you were worried about me losing sleep, you wouldn't be gallivanting into a nest of horrors tomorrow. I'll be fine; just take it.”

I acquiesce, but not without some grumbling. You can't really argue with a comment like that and feel good about it.

A few more hugs and another deviled egg later, I march up the stairs to my room, followed loosely by Victor. The silence feels a little more awkward than usual, like he has something to say, so I wait a moment before twisting the handle.

“Text Syd, would you? She won't stop messaging me, and it's really weird having my ex ask about the person I know she's into, who also happens to be my sister.”

His comment catches me off guard, so instead of turning around to respond to him like I intended, I trip one bare foot over the other and slam my forehead into my doorframe.

“Hnnnnnng,” I groan, clutching my pulsating skull and sinking to the floor.

His judgmental gaze can be felt without looking, but honestly, I couldn’t give a damn. My respectable older sister levels had been at an all-time low anyway.

“I’d been struggling with the question, ‘Does being a Vanguard make Brooke cooler, or does she make being a Vanguard lamer,’ but I think I’ve found my answer.” He states blandly, and I physically feel my worth as a person plummet.

“Right. Sorry. Your worthless sister will get out of your way. Have a good night.” I somberly respond, dragging my limp body into my room with my tendrils.

It’s mostly dramatics, but still, who taught this kid to be so brutal?

Certainly not me.

I finish hoisting myself into my bed with nothing but my hair—a surprisingly fun task now that it doesn’t hurt when my hair gets pulled—and fish my phone out of my pocket.

There are a few unread message notifications, though they're the same ones I've been ignoring every time I do check my messages. Like Dylan's. I know Brooke = Amalgam, but I've been getting major ick vibes ever since he asked if I was single as a Vanguard.

I scroll past my more recent messages, stopping at Syd's profile, grinning at "Sqydney," the nickname I recently set for her in our DM’s.

…Is this another one of those compulsive Vanguard things, like collecting? Am I gonna start making ocean puns unconsciously?

“Not as such. Any punning will be the result of your own psyche.”

“Roosevelt! Are you doing okay? You've been dead quiet since that talk with Catherine earlier, so I’ve been getting a little worried.” I say, all in one breath.

A very faint soothing feeling spreads from the tip of my head to my shoulders, like if someone perfectly poured cool honey on a light sunburn.

“No need to concern yourself with me, Vanguard,” he says, and I can tell how much better his voice sounds than before. “I was relieved of the responsibility of repelling the psionic assault all today, and have thus spent the last half a day recuperating in silence.”

That doesn't feel like a very long time to recover, though the same can be said of myself. Then again, I wasn't the one whose metaphysical form was literally crumbling into pieces.

“Six hours of quiet time does not a healthy cuttlefish make,” I state. “Tell me how you're really feeling; I don't want stuff to be hidden between us when tonight is probably our last night in Barbeau for a while.”

I feel him swishing around in there anxiously, choosing his words carefully.

“I am feeling better, but I can acquiesce that not all of me is as it ought to be. More time is necessary to relieve the deeper set exhaustion and injury, but there will be plenty of that during our expedition.”

I knock twice on my wooden bedframe, warding off any bad luck his phrasing might have brought upon us, much to his confusion. “You can't be saying things like that right before we go somewhere scary, Roce. Thanks for telling me, though.”

“I refuse to engage in whatever nonsense this is, and instead encourage you to message Miss Sydney before your younger sibling has a mental breakdown.”

“...You were listening?”

“You were loud.”

That’s valid, but embarrassing. I reopen Sydney’s profile and begin typing before my hesitation or regret can catch up to me.

Brookeworm: “Hey! Sorry I missed you when you came by earlier; some stuff happened after my debut.”

Her typing bubble takes a while to appear, but when it finally does, it disappears again for nearly a minute.

Sqydney: “...Some stuff, huh?”

She sounds upset. Did someone already tell her what happened?

Brookeworm: ”Some… mildly horrific stuff. I'm not hiding anything, I promise. It's just kind of a lot to think about and try to communicate.”

Sqydney: “I'd like to say we could talk about it in person when you're ready, but we don't really have the time for that at this point. Would you be okay with me asking the Director about it?”

Sqydney: “I don’t want to be in the dark about your struggles any more than I already am.”

I flop backward, releasing the breath I hadn’t realized I'd been holding as a sigh. Her words mean a lot, and I really appreciate that she's in my corner, but thinking about all this stuff—including the new state of our relationship—is kinda heavy.

Like, I hate to be a “what are we?” girlie when all this awful stuff is going on, but... what are we?

I click my phone back on, hoping I didn't leave such an important question on read for too long.

Brookeworm: “I don't mind; she’d probably explain it better than I would anyway. Thanks for caring, Syd.”

Sqydney: “This is a one-time thing. Don’t think you can shunt off the process of talking through your trauma to other people next time. It won't work unless you’re involved, and I care about you too much to let you keep pushing it back.”

I run my tongue across the back of my teeth, a bit of frustration bubbling up and making me feel antsy. Getting irritated when people are trying to help you is unhelpful at best, and rude at worst, but I can’t exactly stop myself from feeling a certain way.

It’s not like I’m alone in acting like this either, Sydney and Catherine do the same thing to themselves—and so does Roosevelt! He’s not even human! Why am I the only one that everyone insists must “properly” deal with their emotions? I can’t parse through all the Hathur-damned shit I’ve been through in the past month AND do my job as a Vanguard. Give it a break!

“She is not intentionally overbearing, Vanguard. You are both tense due to the upcoming mission.” Roosevelt says, his words like a bucket of cold water. “She wishes to feel like she is helping you in some way, and you wish to focus on the task at hand. Neither of you are wrong, but it is hard to reconcile that from a personal perspective.”

“You didn't read my mind, did you?”

“There was hardly a need. beyond the crashing waves of agitation coming through our link, the intensity of your emotions has begun to manifest in a physical manner.”

What?

I zone back into reality, looking around and watching as tendrils I hadn't summoned course and writhe around me, wrapping around the frame of my bed and the nearby table. Small crystalline thorns grow from their lengths, grinding grooves into my furniture.

They dissipate now that I've noticed them, but their short duration does nothing to ease the horror they’ve evoked in me already.

“Is that normal?” I ask, a hint of terror in my voice.

“For some. Those with more Chthonic energy tend to suffer more side effects, though a greater control over your powers will remedy the majority of said issues.”

That’s only somewhat mollifying, as gaining “greater control” sounds like a long and vague process that doesn’t at all remove the possibility of turning into a rosebush on the regular.

I trace my finger along one of the lighter-colored grooves I cut into my bedside table, a little impressed by the casual destruction.

“And until then? Do I just kinda deal?”

“Thankfully, that won't be necessary. I deemed the situation safe enough to let you experience chthonic seepage without my intervention, but in the future, I will take responsibility to keep it in check.”

So what's being said is that I didn't have to experience that at all. “If you can just stop it every time before it starts, why was it necessary for me to do it?”

His emotions course through our link, but they're too complicated a mixture for me to grasp.

“Should another day come when I am incapacitated, I want you to have experienced this sort of thing in a safe environment first,” he says, calmly. “Would you want your child's first interactions with narcotics to be in a dangerous place or in your own home?”

Reeling from the whiplash of that example, I take a moment to gather my thoughts properly.

“Putting aside your admittedly fitting metaphor, why is my theoretical child's first foray into drugs literal opioids?”

“It's not. This is the culminating point of a youth doused with neglect and overreliance on depressants.”

My jaw hangs loosely, shock at his insanely out-of-pocket comment rendering me fully speechless.

“Apologies, I took the bit too far. Silo's—and by proxy, my own—humor wound up darkening as we traveled together. Forgive me for causing you discomfort.”

I lift my hand, intending to pat him comfortingly, but remember he's still in my mind right now, leaving me with patting my own head as my only option.

“It's cool; I'm more surprised than uncomfortable. You don't have to act a certain way around me, you know?” I console, rubbing my own head.

It seems to get through to him well enough as I feel him relax, though he shows no sign of responding to my sentiment.

Brrt Brrt

My eyes slide back to my phone, Sydney's message lighting up the screen.

Sqydney: “Are you mad?”

Both a laugh and a sigh escape my lips at the same time, a result of my simmering yet tumultuous emotions.

Brookeworm: “I was a little frustrated for a minute there, but it wasnt really at you in particular.”

Her text bubble appears and disappears six more times before she finally replies, but only leaves me with barely eleven words for my patience.

Sqydney: “But it was still at me somewhat. Was I too pushy?”

Ugh, how do you even answer that? Saying yes would hurt her feelings at least a little bit, but I also know how important honesty is to her.

Brookeworm: “A bit. But only because everyone’s being like that right now. I will properly parse all this once things calm down, I just can't right now. Is that okay?”

My chest hurts as I send it, even though I worded it as carefully as I could.

Sqydney: “I have doubts that things will ever really calm down, but you saying you’ll get help down the line is more than enough for me right now.”

I let the phone drop, rolling onto my side. For whatever reason, tonight has been as mentally draining as the last three days combined.

Brookeworm: "So, uh… what are we?”

Aaaand now I’m ruined. I thought I had more restraint and respect for myself than that.

Sqydney: “If I could wait eight years for that answer, you can wait eight hours. Goodnight, Brooke.”

Brookeworm: “...Goodnight, Syd.”