The mood transitions from a sappy, tearful goodbye into something like a somber memory, one where I’m the only person who can’t remember. They all still try to hide it, but the final puzzle piece has found its place.

Silo.

The person to whom all paths return to.

I try to laugh it off, but just don't know what to say. “That’s kinda melodramatic, don’t you—”

“Though he may be her predecessor, Vanguard Silo is not Vanguard Brooke. Please separate them as individuals before you speak once more.” Roosevelt interjects, making his first physical appearance in a while. His starry mantle feels like a blanket as he floats in front of me, wrapping me in something close to understanding. “Words meant for the dead have no place in the ears of the living. ”

I see one or two winces from my peripherals, though Menageries gaze retains its intensity regardless of the difference in target.

“Do not imply my words to be misattributed, I know to whom I speak.” She insists, looking past him and at me. “You are not the same as him, but that does not mean you can ignore the result of the attributes you share. You are both candles with far too wide a wick for your soft nature.”

“Knowing of someone is not the same as knowing them, Vanguard. Burning twice as bright doesn’t actually necessitate lasting half as long these days. You’ve got electricity now, you know?”

Menagerie’s face contorts, bewilderment at what realistically sounds like the punchline of a joke throwing her off balance. The rest of us too, honestly.

“...Ah, my mistake. I thought my grasp on metaphors was stronger than this.”

I can’t help but let out a laugh, letting go of Menagerie's hands and reaching up to grab him. He’s a bit pink, so I can see his embarrassment before I can feel it across our link, but I’m quite grateful for the slip-up overall.

If the mood had kept up like that, I don’t think I could have given her much of a response at all, and then I’d be thinking about it the entire time I’m away.

My eyes meet hers again, though there’s no real intensity to them now. “Your feelings got across, I think. I’ll definitely be more aware of the things you mentioned, but I was never the type to go for literal self-sacrifice if I’m being honest with myself. Dying is scary.”

She takes a breath through pursed lips before responding. “Your wording does not inspire incredible confidence, but honestly, I did not have a resolution in mind when I started this in the first place. I simply wish deeply for your safety, Brooke.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say back, petting the smooth back of my cuttlefish's mantle. “I wish deeply for my safety too, hopefully more than any of you.”

The right side of her lip tilts upward, and I sense that I’ve set myself up for something.

“Even more than the miss who’s been waiting here since four this morning?” she asks, shifting her body so I can see in the hangar behind her.

Sydney, despite the incredibly loud preparatory work around her, has found herself a rather comfy-looking collection of sandbags to sleep on. It looks like it was originally just a place to sit for her, based on her napping posture, but eventually turned into the lost battle I see before me.

“Maybe not more than her, no.”

I feel the grins behind me, and possibly some money changing hands before Duff’s cane pokes me in the middle of my back.

“Git oan then, you’ve let us nanner on aet ya enuf alreadeh. Give yer burd our regards.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice, my feet moving of their own accord. This is the first time I’ve seen her in person since my debut, and it’s like I’m looking at a completely different person. All the normal things I wouldn’t normally think about are suddenly overwhelming and hard not to overanalyze.

I'm next to her before I realize it, my already jumbled emotions from that barely diffused pipe bomb of a conversation setting me on edge.

I reach out my hand to shake her awake, but find myself hesitating before my fingers reach her. What’s with that? This is a bog-standard, normal-ass interaction, with absolutely no reason to be weird about it.

“Nnnng, Brooke?”

My hand pulls itself away automatically, exponentially increasing my suspiciousness.

“You seem pretty used to sleeping outside,” I say, helping her get upright.

She seems surprisingly unbothered by the situation, though that's probably her remaining grogginess. Or maybe she's used to this now, and I'm the only one freaking out.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“I'm pretty used to it; mom can be too much of a pain to bother with sometimes,” she mumbles, causing me to flinch. “Sorry, not relevant. Especially since I was offered to bunk at the Vanguard HQ for my new job.”

Oh, first I've heard of that.

“That's great news! I didn't want to keep harassing you to live with my family after all. When do you move in?” I ask, walking slowly next to her as she gets her bearings.

“Yesterday, technically. Had to pack all my stuff last night, though; that's why I couldn’t stay till you got home.”

Understandable. I wouldn't have known what to say if she had. Actually, I still don’t know what to say.

“How'd it go over with your mom? I can't imagine she took the news peacefully.”

Her sleepy smirk makes my chest feel weird as she replies: “She has no idea I'm gone, and will find out this afternoon via email. It's why I came here so early, had to sneak out with all my stuff at like 3:00 am.”

“I heard you showed up that early for me, though.” I tease, bumping into her with my shoulder.

Her long, curly blonde hair hides her face as she turns away from me. “It was a multipurpose trip.”

Ah, that's super cute.

It's insane to me that I'm only noticing any of this about her now, when these are the same things she's been doing since we first became friends.

“I've put you through a lot, haven't I?” I ask once she’s turned her face back toward me.

“Brooke, I'm glad you’ve suddenly gained some self awareness, but you seriously have no idea.”

“That bad, huh?”

Her silence speaks volumes. It also allows me to hear my mother's sobs from all the way over here, despite our goodbyes not having occurred yet.

We both speed up our pace, the smell of the sea growing stronger as we walk.

The docks are extensive, long gray sections of walkway that shift and connect to each other depending on the size of ship that needs to dock there.

My mom and brother aren't on the walkways themselves—likely due to my mother's horrible seasickness—but are instead on the cement barrier just outside of them. Vic throws a wave our way when he notices us, but my mother quickly turns around to wipe her face as if we hadn't seen and heard it all already.

“What's the deal, mom? How are we supposed to have a heartfelt parting when you're already crying your eyes out?” I ask once we're close enough.

She passes something to my brother before enveloping me in a hug, sniffling loudly in my ear. "Oh, I knooow, I was trying so hard to keep my composure until your brother showed me that photo.”

Photo?

Victor flashes me the picture we just took with all the signatures.

Ah, photo. I sure forgot about that quick.

“Isn’t that a happy photo? Why are you sad about it?”

Her face scrunches unhappily, as if what I said was upsetting in some way.

“Of course it's happy; my dear daughter is all grown up with such wonderful friends! But—but, you're all grown up with such wonderful friends...” she cries, sobbing into my ascendant form’s clothes.

I pat her head, unsure how to really address an issue of that sort, if you can even address an issue of that sort.

She sniffles with a resoluteness I can only respect, straightens her spine, and lifts her chin as any good aristocratic woman might. “I’m going to stop crying now, and only continue once you’ve completely left. Did you load your luggage, yet?”

I humor her doting, as I know it comes from her efforts to not start crying again.

“I was told that some Vanguard agents are grabbing those for me, so I figure that's happening about now.”

“Then I suppose you'll just have to carry these on yourself,” she states, pulling a tied plastic bag from her purse and pushing it into my sternum, forcing me to hold it.

I peek inside, my nose figuring out the gifts long before my eyes do.

“Take these back.” I insist, holding the bag of scent stones back to her. “I already took one of them, what the heck am I going to do with half a dozen more?”

She holds her hands in the air as if to surrender, but I know the action to be anything but. This is her old reliable “If you try to give something to me, I will let it hit the floor,” and it's as childish as its first implementation.

My brother, who I thought to be an ally of justice, pushes my hand with the bag back toward me. “Just take the rocks, she's not gonna budge today.”

“Just for this, I'm telling Revision that you're a sleazy betrayer.” I say, indignantly holding the bag since my outfit has no pockets.

“If he's anything like he seemed, There's no way he'd take anything you have to say at face value.” he retorts, an unexpectedly dreamy expression on his face.

Is this a fanboy thing or is he also...?

But he dated Sydney… Though she also dated him, How does any of this work?

Zoning into reality as Sydney pushes my back, I reluctantly thank my mother for the extra—and unnecessary—stones.

“Most of what I wanted to say has already been said, so all that's really left is this,” she says, wrapping her arms around me as tightly as her unascendant body can manage. “Stay alive at any cost, Brooke. That's all that matters to me.”

My reciprocative hug isn't nearly as tight as hers, but it's still plenty warm.

“You already said that too, mom.”

“It bears repeating.”

Her arms tighten one last time around me before she steps back, her hands on the exposed skin of my shoulders. I can see that she wants to cry, which makes me want to cry too, but if she won't, then how could I possibly let myself?

“Keep Dad sane for me, okay?” I ask. “He hides it well, but I think he's even more of a worrier than you are.”

Her fingers rise up to my earlobe, tenderly touching the blue studded earring that Dad gave me. “As long as this thing keeps beating, I can do anything. I love you, Brooke.”

“I love you too, mom.”

We don't actually say goodbye, I'm sure she feels the same ominous finality that I do about it. A mutually unmentioned parting is for the best.

I turn to Victor, his hands fidgeting with something in his hoodie pocket.

“C'mere, dork,” I command, opening my arms and tentacles wide.

He—as expected—backs away, but finds his retreat blocked by Sydney who snuck behind him.

“Nothin' personal, Vic,” she declares, pushing him forward into my lunging hug.

“This is—ugh—so obviously personal,” he grunts, trying to squirm out of my grasp to no avail.

My black threads cocoon his torso, locking his arms to his sides. “Do you know the last time the two of us had a proper hug?”

He actually ponders it for a moment, his eyes wandering upward as he thinks.

“Like three months ago, during that—”

“Side hugs for pictures absolutely do not count.” I interrupt, crossing my arms.

He lifts his legs, but my hair-prison keeps him in that same spot without sagging. “But hostage hugs do? I'm sensing some flaws in your logic here.”

He has a point, but I'm reluctant to admit it. Is this an abuse of power?

“Will you give me an actual hug if I let you go?”

“I will attempt to meet your exacting standards.”

Brat.

My tendrils dissipate from around him, releasing the metaphorical fox from its snare. What will the skittish creature do now? Other than nearly falling on his butt since his legs were still in the air.

“Haaah,” he sighs, fixing his clothes. “You can have your hug, but take this first.”

Reaching into his hoodie pocket, Vic pulls out a small, silver, and ornate little rectangle, offering it to me.

Another trinket for the hoard.

Banishing my immodest and cretin-like thoughts, I take the object and look to him for an explanation.

“It's a really old lighter that saved great granddad's life, or something,” he explains, upsettingly blandly, and I run my thumb over a dent I can only assume was caused by a bullet. “It's been passed down by the men in our family, so Dad gave it to me, but you're the one literally going to war, so me having it just because I'm a guy is kind of stupid and vaguely sexist.”

The lighter's lid flips up smoothly despite its age and damage, revealing a pristinely maintained interior. It even sounds like it has liquid in it.

“Dad had it refurbished, so it should... yeah.” He starts, not bothering to finish his sentiment as I flick it on myself.

“This is super sick, Victor!” I say, wrapping him in the hug he owes me. “This won't cause you and dad issues, right?”

He returns the hug, and far less reluctantly than I expected him to. “Nah, I talked to him and we’re in agreement that you’re the one who needs a lucky charm.”

I ruffle his hair enough that he pushes me off, or at least I let him think he does. I'm about as immovable to him as Revision is to me at this point. “I appreciate it. You going to be okay while I’m gone?”

“My okay-ness has never had anything to do with you. Go to your gi—hrm… Go talk to Sydney already.” He retorts, changing what I assume to be the word “girlfriend” mid-sentence when it either made him uncomfortable or wasn’t enough of an insult. Which is hilarious either way.

I turn to the Syd in question, only to find her a good thirty feet away, looking beneath the gray docks at the frothing sea below. When did she even slip away?

“I guess she wanted to say goodbye in private,” I say turning to him and Mom one more time. “Which means I'll be needing my final hug from both of you before I go.”