Flickering my eyelids open against the sunlit window, I see the undulating silhouette of Roosevelt's physical form. When Imagining him previously I didn’t have a specific image in mind, but I had a few traits I assumed would be correct.

I thought he would be large, not car-sized but at least a little bigger than a person. I expected eyes and mouths, I wasn’t sure how many, but for sure more than I was comfortable with. And I knew there would be tentacles, he’s related to Cthulhu, after all. I guess I got one out of three?

Roosevelt floats down into my open palms and I get a proper look at him. His mantle is pitch black, but with a transparency that almost lets me see my hands behind him. White specks cover his entire body, glowing with a dim light as if he were a starry night sky.

His similarly colored tentacles curl up close to his body, giving a nice highlight to his large vibrant green eyes. He’s a cuttlefish or a close approximation of one. Our psionic link lets me in on a little bit of his emotion and I’m a little surprised to see he’s nervous about his reveal.

“You're so cute!” I almost yell, squishing him a little with my fingers. I don't exaggerate my

response, but I do feel a bit smug when his nerves seem to fade somewhat. “I was afraid you’d be kind of huge and horrifying, but you’re adorable! Ahhhh!”

His dark coloring tints a bit red, whatever eldritch nonsense he’s made up of apparently having emotional tells mood-ring style.

I’m about to tease him about it when one of the walls forms three cuts like the lines on a puppet's mouth and sinks into the floor. It's such overkill for a door, but I can't act like it isn’t one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen, despite doing actual magic.

Before I’m able to get up and go drool over the new fixture a woman holding a bright green holographic tablet walks in, not even looking up at us as the wall closes behind her.

Her face is angular, sharp corners adding a serious seeming emotion to an otherwise uninterested face. The longer swept bangs on her otherwise short bob cut hair frame said face quite well and I stifle my jealousy at how much easier her hair looks to handle than mine.

The outfit is what really sells that she’s a Vanguard to me, her high-collared gray dress has lines of green running through it like circuits pulsing with green light beneath her feathered pauldrons. She flicks a few icons on her tablet before it dissolves into motes of green light and she raises her gaze to me.

“It’s a pleasure to meet our newest Vanguard, I am Catherine Valentine, Rank two Vanguard and manager of the local Vanguard installation.

I was not informed of the details of your ascension, but considering your state upon arrival and the sudden restoration of our Pylon I am thankful for both your survival and efforts to keep this city safe.” She says, deeply bowing towards me.

“Uh, I uh, yeah,” I respond, the paragon of speech I am. Roosevelt snorts from his spot in my palms, my stuttering fueling his amusement.

“I denied all queries the resident Vanguards posed, however as Vanguard Silo used to say: “They really don’t choose shitters, do they?”.” Roosevelt quotes in the deceased Vanguard's voice, and I feel the stab of pain it causes him.

“They can be frustratingly competent when you least want them to, though I can assure you that Catherine here is incredibly professional and will keep things between us.”

I visibly see the wound the words “used to say” afflicts Vanguard Catherine, the implications taking but a split second to hit her. She composes herself quickly but the grief that crosses her features is visceral and aches my heart.

“...I had my suspicions, but I suppose that confirms it. Vanguard Silo is confirmed deceased then?” She asks, her lips pursed and the seriousness returned to her features.

“He has passed, though he regained control of his faculties before his passing just long enough to provide his last words, and also fake his time of death just like the dramatic bastard he is. Was.“ Roosevelt responds.

Catherine pauses, her forced stoicism cracking as Roosevelt finishes his sentence. Her lips fight off a grin before she snorts, and covers her mouth as she devolves into laughter. Tears stream down her cheeks, and she sits down in a chair she summons out of green light.

“Old Ones, of course, he’d pull something stupid like that at the end, that's so like him. Sorry about this, miss…?” She asks, her gaze drifting to me.

“Oh, uh Brooke. My name's Brooke.” I supply.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“Right, sorry about this Brooke, I’m not normally such a mess when I welcome new Vanguards. I was somewhat good friends with Silo, and his passing is hitting me harder than I expected, even if I had already assumed him dead.

He was always kind of like a superhero to the Vanguard, everyone here at the branch and back at New R’lyeh had him on this pedestal of sorts like he was different than us.

He wasn’t the strongest Vanguard and definitely wasn’t the smartest, but he had this attitude no one else could replicate; Especially considering the forces rallied against us. He had this really frustrating habit of biting off way more than he could chew, disappearing for a few days, and then showing back up covered in wounds with a dumb grin on his face.

It was like he was invincible, and… I guess I held out hope he’d show back up again this time.”

Catherine’s tears paused as she asked for my name, but returned as she spoke of silo, her sniffling succumbing to sobbing as she continued.

Roosevelt had floated over to her by now and I decided to get out of my bed too, taking a seat where she had expanded her neon green bench to make room for me. Not fully understanding what inspired me to do that, or why my cheeks feel as damp as hers looked, I decide to break the sniffle-silence.

“He died a human, at least. I can definitely promise that. Though it took him beating me half to death first.” I choke out, trying not to wipe my tears on her clothes as she wraps her arm around my shoulders.

I tell her the whole story, the long-necked Fathom grabbing me off the street, my pseudo-Ascendance in the pods, and the fight against Silo, If you could even call it that. I’m surprised I’m able to talk about it this easily, but recalling it for someone else makes it feel fake like I’m telling some fantasy I had no part of.

We kept up the conversation for hours, the end of my tale smoothly transitioning into some of her earlier Vanguard stories. Her Ascension definitely went a lot better than mine, though I suppose that isn’t an incredibly high bar.

She was one of the medical officers of a human anti-Fathom platoon serving under Vanguard command; During which half of the members were compromised by the Fathom. During her desperate struggle to keep those people sane and alive, she was offered a contract by another of Chthulu’s sub-spawn.

She doesn’t reveal exactly what her Ascension granted her, but not only did every soldier in that platoon return home safely, but they also returned with three other detachments previously deemed lost.

She tells me a few stories of Silo’s, like how he talked an intelligent Fathom into a catatonic state, or when he saved her after she had gotten too confident in her powers. She goes on for ages about him, the grief she’s clearly feeling warring with the joy and pride she feels as she tells me all about the man who saved us.

We’re both laughing and sniveling messes by the time the sun sets through the massive window, the day passing in what seemed like moments. Her earpiece, small and shaped like the head of a snake, lights up and her eyes flicker like she’s reading something I can’t see.

Most of the stoicism she entered the room with returns, but she still turns to me with a smile.

“It appears I can procrastinate my duties no longer, a Vanguard's work only ends when we’re dead after all. I’d like to thank you for today, and to apologize for absolutely dumping my emotions on you when I’m supposed to be checking your recovery.

Old ones, I can’t believe myself.” Her face takes on a red tint as she pinches her brow. “I’ll have to set up an appointment with my therapist, we should try to find one for you too, if you’re comfortable with that.

What you went through is undoubtedly traumatic and you don't want to be like me and break down in front of a new Vanguard because you didn’t deal with it.”

I laugh, standing up and hugging her as she dissolves the chair we were sitting in.

“Yeah, therapy sounds like a good plan, but only if we can still do this again,” I say looking up at her.

She scoffs, her face going soft as she hugs me back briefly before pushing me away and taking a step towards the wall.

“Do not make your mental health conditional on whether we can have… whatever this was again. I am incredibly busy and today has set me much too far behind schedule. That said, this was fun and I’m sure I can mangle my plans a bit to make time.” she responds, her reproachful tone falling off halfway through.

Another beep from her device sounds her departure, the awesome door forming once again but from an entirely new spot this time.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Brooke. You’re nearly back in full health, so we can attempt a proper Ascension in a safe area and get your Vanguard status in order. Sleep well.” She says, stepping out of the doorway before it closes cleanly behind her, the wall completely solid once again.

My legs feel wobbly and tingle as I make my way back to the bed, every step sending that almost painful static feeling up from my feet. Miss Valentine must have either gotten used to uncomfortable chairs or is incredibly good at acting like her legs aren't asleep, and I’m not sure which is more impressive.

Reaching the bed, I sit down, the heavenly cushion not blocking my blood flow at all as I try to clench my leg muscles to wake them up. The starry form of an eldritch cuttlefish floats up next to me, his undulating form somehow showing amusement at my plight.

“Thanks, Roosevelt,” I say. “I know you mentioned Silo so we’d both get a chance to talk about what happened, even if it hurt you to listen to. I had no idea how badly I needed to get it all off my chest, like I fully opened up to the equivalent of a stranger and that is very much not a Brooke thing to do. I’m more of a bottle till I pop kind of person, which isn't great, but it’s done the job so far.”

“No idea what you’re talking about, your human trauma responses are bizarre and hardly my responsibility.” He denies, but he can't hide the satisfaction flowing through our link nor the almost preening he seems to be doing.

I laugh and flop back into the unrealistically comfortable hospital bed, my emotional drain and the cloud-like blanket ushering in a warm, fitless sleep.