Standing almost a foot and a half taller than me, the woman who announced my name gives me a sly wink before addressing the crowd once again. “What! An! Entrance! Can we get another round of applause for our lovely Vanguard, Amalgam?”

The crowd feels a little less like one giant creature now that I’m able to pick out some of the faces as I scan through it. My brother and his friends are all near the front, pushing against the metal railings with an almost disconcerning fervor. He knows it’s me, right?

The clapping settles down right as the woman brings the microphone to her lips, leaving me unsure whether she influenced the crowd or just knew the perfect time to speak again.

“While I’m sure you’re all frantically waiting for the question portion, we at the Barbaeu Entertainment Commission have cooked up some absolutely sublime toys this time around and can’t wait to show them off!”

One of the huge, floating screens catches my eye; the birds-eye view of the stage it provides being somewhat pointless. It takes me a second, but I get the hang of moving my tentacles into shapes just by watching how they move on the screen. I’m actually surprisingly close to making a two-dimensional cube when I feel a hand touch my shoulder.

“As endearing as this is to watch, those aren’t quite the toys I was talking about.” She says, amusement wrinkling the corners of her eyes as she announces to everyone I’ve ever known that I zoned out on stage.

I pale and flush in equal measure, the blood in my face unsure whether it wants to stay or go now that I’ve ruined any potential image I could have made for myself. The full depth of my mortification hasn’t even hit me yet, and I deliberately suppress the rest of it so I can continue the event.

“This is!” She nearly shouts, startling me as she gestures to the now receding wall of fog.

A comically sized High-Striker—one of those strength-based carnival games—rises into the air, distracting the audience as the speaker clicks off her mic and addresses me again while we walk towards it.

“You totally sold the cute and clumsy bit there. I don’t think Barbeau has anyone else like that, so you’ve got total free reign in that niche. “

“Soldthedowhatnow?” I blurt, the entire sentence coming out all at once.

The even expression she’s been carefully maintaining this whole time breaks for a moment, shocked by what I can only assume is my unstoppable competence.

“Right, well, I suppose the genuine article sells the same merch a fake one will. Good luck up there.”

She pushes my back, turning herself towards the crowd and leaving me at the base of the absurd carnival machine. The platform at the bottom is easily the size of my room, and that’s ignoring the massive eyeball-themed puck that could probably kill someone if it landed on them.

“This time around, we’ve gone with a somewhat familiar theme for our strength test. At nearly two hundred feet, this custom-built High Striker takes five thousand newtons of force to hit the bell. That’s the average equivalent of two car crashes worth of force put together!”

I wish I had time to be amazed by the things gargantuanness like the crowd seems to be, but this entire event is unscripted, so figuring this thing out is all on me. I open my mouth to ask her a question, but find the microphone in my face before I can get a word out.

“Are there—ah! That was way too fast. Why are you so fast?” She doesn’t answer, so I ask my original question. “I was going to ask if there are any rules, or can I just go ham on this thing?”

“A fantastic question! There are some rules, but I can’t say they’re particularly hard or fast this time around. Essentially, as long as you activate the striker with your physical capabilities, there won’t be any problems. No flying up with the puck, no hacking the device, and no intentionally breaking the game's parts.”

I ponder that for a bit, searching for a loophole. She didn’t say outside objects were banned, though I don’t really own anything large or heavy enough to have an effect. “And those are the only rules?” I ask, the corners of my mouth rising mischievously.

“...For the time being.”

I run backstage, her surprised squawk bringing me a pinch of vindictive satisfaction. I jump over or around a few backstage crew members as I rush to find another Vanguard. Duff and Catherine are still together, sitting in a pair of chairs as they watch, perplexed, a screen that just showed me sprinting offstage.

“Where’s revision or someone who could throw me equally as hard?” I say, my words blurring together as I rush to get it out.

Duff cackles, but she just pinches her nose and points to a closed door across the way. A helmet-shaped symbol decorates it around head height. “Please hurry; the venue is only slotted for a certain amount of time.”

Not stopping to even thank her, I rush to the door, knocking on it frantically with both my knuckles and tendrils. It opens nearly instantly, and a charred-looking hand with unsettlingly long fingers slinks back into one of Menagerie’s portals afterwards.

An unimpressed Menagerie and a Revision with a greasy drumstick in each hand look at me as I enter, but only Revision looks confused.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Could I ask one of you to–” I begin to ask, but Menagerie cuts me off.

“I would rather die than perform tricks like some circus clown.” She states coldly, and my shoulders begin to droop until she turns to her fiancé. “But Revvy’s dignity is in tatters as it is; you may take him.”

An expression of bewilderment crosses his face, but as he grasps the situation, it settles into indignancy. “That’s rude, for one. I also haven’t finished my drumsticks yet, and they’ll be cold by the time I get back. You should be the one to go.”

As if expecting that excuse, two zipper-like portals open up near Revision, and a pair of angular serpent heads pop out, reaching for his food. In his defense, he reacts almost immediately by pulling away, but I don’t think anything he could have done would have let him outrun the two creatures as they grab and swallow his drumsticks.

Looking like a betrayed puppy, he complains to Menagerie, “Those were real meat! You know how expensive those are!”

Her face remains neutral, unbothered by his distress. “Astarius and Remoir are grateful for the treat. Now go help our junior.”

I can tell he wants revenge for his lost snack, but isn’t willing to make a big deal out of the situation. I feel for him, and make an offer to appease his hunger-based woes.

“I’ll buy you two more in exchange for your help, if you still want some.”

He turns to me, his expression like that of a man saved from the depths of despair. “I’d do anything for someone so kind. My hands are pretty gross at the moment, though.”

I look at his slimy-looking palms and then back to the TV mounted to the wall, the woman I left out there now looking anxious as she jokes with the crowd. “I’ll get over it. Lets go.”

I wave quickly at the Director and Sergeant, dashing past them and through the hallway that leads to the stage. The crew are well out of the way this time, presumably not wanting to be leapt over again. I burst through the black curtains, my hand pulling along Revisions wrist as I run back onstage with him.

The woman looks somewhat irate as our eyes meet again, but she keeps the act up as she turns back to the crowd. “Thank goodness she’s back; I was a bit worried I’d have to change my name there!”

I shoot Revision a confused glance, to which he whispers, “She said something like, ‘She’ll be back, or my name isn’t Carry Star!’ while you were backstage with us. I think it was supposed to be a joke.”

I snort with laughter, both at his roast and at the fact that it’s how I finally learned her name. Zoning back into her speech now that she’s finished her crowd work, I hear: “Now, I’m not sure what you had in mind bringing Vanguard Revision out here, but I will say that having him swing you into the lever will break rule number one: using your own power.”

I grimace at her idea, and lean towards the microphone. “As fun as letting Revision shatter all my bones on a carnival game sounds, my idea was leaning more towards the ‘being thrown’ variety.”

She freezes in thought, internally debating whether that’s against the rules or not. A strand of her bluish-green hair falls from her otherwise perfectly maintained appearance, and she quickly mutters something into an earpiece.

The audience's laughter at my dry joke starts to fade, and a veil of quiet awkwardness takes over as everyone waits for her response. I actually start to nervously sweat by the time she reanimates into her stage self.

“It seems we are a go for project: Launch Amalgam!” She says, before adding another lame joke that the crowd loves, “The folks up top think it’s either fair or entertaining enough, and I doubt any of you care that there’s a difference!”

A thousand sounds of excited agreement sound through the air, everyone I’ve ever met cheering about me getting sent into the stratosphere. It’s a little surreal, and I speak to the cuttlefish who lives in my brain to help ground me somewhat.

“Hey Roce, holding up alright?”

His amusement is like that of someone hearing a funny joke after running a marathon, but at least he seems less stressed. “All is well, Vanguard. Bracing myself for when you fall unconscious mid-flight in a moment here.”

“...That’s a thing?”

“Well, the sudden change in pressure has it’s own effects, but a base human would have trouble breathing due to histoxic anoxia in the brain. You’ll likely be fine with your enhanced body, but I shall brace myself regardless.”

Before the panic can suffuse me, I notice Carrey and Revision staring at me expectantly, with Revision kneeled down and his hands open, ready to boost me into the sky.

“Is it too late to back out?” I ask in my head.

“Probably.”

I force my body to move, ignoring my brain's distressed complaints as I back up and dash towards Revision, bending my knees as I step on his hands. The world blurs as he lifts, and I straighten my legs into a jump right at the end of his throw, sending me even farther into the air.

My body feels like a collection of ribbons chasing the baseball that is my head as I rocket upwards, unable to close my eyes against the air pressure holding them open. My consciousness fights a losing battle against itself, a deep fog pervading my thoughts.

The world is a saturated canvas of blue and white.

I almost get used to the constant momentum; it feels like a new baseline.

The tips of my fingers and toes hurt as the blood rushes to them.

Pins and needles assault my upper torso as it goes numb.

I finally fade back in, my fight for consciousness winning after hanging on by a thread as I start losing momentum. I regain access to my limbs, my strength able to fight against the wind now that I’m slowing down some.

I blink, hydrating my dry eyes so I can get a better look at my surroundings, and I gasp at what I see. Pearlescent and shimmering in a way I’ve never seen before, I slow to a stop right beneath the barrier's edge. I’ve of course seen it before, as I’ve gone through it recently and lived inside it all my life, but there’s something special about seeing it like this.

I reach out, the barest tip of my finger passing through it before gravity grips me once again, pulling me back toward the earth. I keep my arm outstretched, reaching above me as I fall, some part of me yearning to stay up there. But even if I could, I wouldn’t.

Some thing’s are meant to be fleeting.

I close my eyes as I fall, imprinting the memory in my brain as I speak to Roosevelt.

“Now that I’m plummeting back to earth, I feel it’s important to mention that I only planned up to this point.”

“I’d assumed.”