My back crashes into the barrier, though the only real effect it has on my body is a series of muscle spasms that I can’t even feel. The fog demands more from me, pulling at the threads of my consciousness that allow me to spectate, but I can tell that that’s a bad idea. A line that I mustn’t cross.

I close myself off, restricting its vague intelligence from drawing from me further, but don’t try to reclaim any of the control I’ve lost. I don’t want it back at this point, or... something doesn’t want it back, and maybe that’s me? It really doesn’t matter right now.

My body launches itself off the ground with its tentacles, burning through my chthonic energy as it floods the arena with new limbs. The writhing ropes of inky black darkness squirm like dozens of eels, nipping and biting at Revision's blind spots—sometimes with actual mouths.

His armor—reacting to the assault—grows thicker, barbed plates sliding into place as he hunkers down and tries to wait out my stores of energy. Right as I think his strategy might work, all of my tentacles dissipate. I can tell I’m not out of chthonic energy yet, so I can only watch curiously as the fog decides to stop using it.

Then it strikes.

Whipping around ferociously, I slam my… Tail? Yes, it appears I have a tail, into his jaw faster than his restricted body can block me. Chunks of bio-armor fly off onto the stage, skidding along noisily before dissipating rather like my own constructs would.

I don’t get a good look at him as my body tries to follow up with an additional attack, but within the rapidly repairing chunk of helmet, I still see his lips pressed into a thin line.

A gauntleted hand grasps the wrist of my grotesquely sharpened hand as I stab it towards the gap in his armor, lifting me off my feet and swinging me over his shoulder and toward the ground.

A vague approximation of relief settles over me, thinking that I might get forcibly ejected from this fugue state I’m in, when I hear a crackle like charcoal that’s been stepped on. The clawed hand I had only just grown accustomed to is broken off at the joint, now currently writhing in Revision's grasp.

A stream of my chthonic energy drains away, coursing through my body as it surges towards my broken-stick-of-chalk-looking stump. A deep black liquid bubbles on its surface, growing a new claw, the same pitch-black color as my tentacles. It clenches and unclenches, far harder and sharper than I’d expect, considering its previously liquid form.

Does this mean I could do this? I doubt I’d want to; I’m still aware enough to know the normal me would be positively freaked right now, but what if I could? Would it have given me the strength to actually do something during Silo’s funeral?

Before my self-loathing gets any traction, a piercing pain stabs into the back of my skull, the agony enough to cause my current driver to stagger as well.

My nonexistent eyes blink, and I find my thoughts rapidly gaining clarity, banishing the clinging fog that had until moments ago held me prisoner. Though, judging by the familiar darkened aquarium walls around me, I’ve yet to “wake up” yet.

The Stinging Nettle’s display is in front of me again, but the floaty residents are missing this time. Instead, I see what I assume my physical body sees, a first-person perspective of my teeth latched to Revision's forearm. Not all, but most of the apathy that had me in its grasp is gone, and I nearly vomit on the spot. I don’t know if I can even vomit in here, but I force the acid in my throat back, unwilling to leave puke in my consciousness.

I turn around carefully, my eyes searching the now-empty aquarium for the visitor I ran into the last time I was here, but I genuinely think I’m alone. The unnerving air and uncanny aura that thing has are missing, but I remain wary regardless, gingerly stepping across the floor and examining the barren tanks.

“Helloooooo…?” I finally ask, feeling like a horror movie protagonist who just entered her home after seeing the door slightly ajar. “If you’re waiting around to make your entrance more dramatic, don’t bother. It takes more than that to impress me.”

Nothing answers my call, and I’m not sure whether I should be relieved or not. I settle on tentative relief with a touch of alarm, enough that I could probably freeze in terror rather than scream if something happens.

I tap one of the displays; its maze-like coral system clearly artificial, but pretty nonetheless. No residents come out at my tapping, though, so I move on. I approach the hallway that would lead to the next area, but a visible thickness in the air stops me from continuing down it. I reach my arm out, intending to touch the disturbance, when that same spike of pain from before stabs into my skull.

I clutch my head, staggering backward into one of the tanks as the pain ramps up, becoming worse by the second. My vision swims, and I grab one of the handrails, unconsciously keeping myself standing just because it was the last thing I wanted to do before the pain hit me.

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Then the pain stops.

I blink the tears out of my eyes, looking up and staring at the wall that would have been the shark display. Inside of it is a creature of translucent black skin, a long, slick body, and a face half covered in tentacles where a beard might be.

“I apologize for the pain, Vanguard. It will hurt, but I must request that you let me further within your mind.” It says, but I knew it was him even before he spoke.

“Roosevelt…? What’s going on? Why do you look like that?”

His response is strained, but he doesn’t look like he’s having trouble at all. “I cannot sustain myself much longer. If I am not allowed in, I will cease to exist.”

My eyes widen as confusion and fear take hold of me. He doesn’t sound at all afraid, despite making such a drastic claim. I can feel our connection, so I shouldn’t doubt it’s him, but what if I’m being tricked? I don’t know enough about any of this to say what’s possible and what isn’t, but I can’t just risk letting him die either!

His large, leathery hand presses up against the glass as he closes his eyes. Memories flow into my mind, all of them from a bizarre and alien perspective, and all of them of Silo.

I remember a memory that isn’t mine—a glimpse into the history the two of them had. Silo’s hand was pressing on me and ruffling my mantle, sending my wavy fins into disarray. Another one, where his normally sly expression is wracked with sadness, lighting fire to the remains of another Vanguard. I close the connection, tears sliding down my cheeks as the emotions that came with those memories mingle with mine.

“Yes! Come in!” I shout, guilty for making him stay out there at all.

The glass cracks beneath his hand, spiderwebbing outward before the entire thing shatters, piercing my mind with pain and flooding the floor with a pearlescent liquid. Roosevelt's far larger and much more unsettling form also tumbles out, crunching glass beneath his body as he falls prone. Still wincing from the pain, I hobble closer to him, stepping up onto a bench to avoid the pooling liquid as it hisses and pops.

I scrunch my nose, The horrid smell of B.O. hitting me now that I’m standing above it. “You okay, bud?”

His whole body shifts, lazily adjusting himself as he rolls off his side, crunching glass the whole way. Tiny puncture wounds line the taught skin along his back as he finishes sitting up, trickling gray blood leaking from them. “I am well, Vanguard. Weary, but well.”

I stare at him expectantly, but get distracted by his four arms, each shoulder joint somehow supporting its two limbs.

“There are explanations that must be made, but your current predicament takes priority. Are you aware of your circumstances?” He asks, his same 'w'-shaped eyes staring into mine, just exponentially larger.

I glance back at the jellyfish display, my body's sight still playing through its glass. “Sort of? I know I’m not at the wheel, but I was in a bizarre fugue state until right before you showed up. How fucked am I?”

A clear eyelid blinks over his eye, rising from the bottom of his eye like a crocodile. “Things are not ideal. For now, Revision is doing his utmost to play off what is happening, but that won’t last forever. We need to figure out what’s taken over your psyche and reinstate your control.”

I swallow, the awful B.O. smell from the liquid reaching even my tastebuds. “Does that mean you guys don’t know what's happening either?”

Air expels from little holes in the side of his head, sounding like an exaggerated sigh. “We have some decent theories, but your ascension has proven unique and confounding in nearly every way. Anything we try will be untested.”

A memory of my brother telling me that I’m the sort who always has to be different flashes through my mind, and I squash it with impunity. “What’s the leading theory?”

Roosevelt takes his two right arms, weaving his fingers together and spinning strings of starlight together to form an outrageously detailed version of me. It actively moves and breathes, and I’m forced into a situation where I have to compare myself to a starlight version of myself, which does wonders for my self-consciousness.

“This is you.”

“No.”

“What?”

“Sorry—yes, keep going.”

His tentacles furl and unfurl, looking agitated, before he speaks again. “This is a… representation of you. Do you recall when you first channeled chthonic energy? Not the feeling, but the discussion we had about it.”

I sit down on the bench sideways, hugging my knees to my chest to avoid the slowly-evaporating liquid. The memory is vague—which is jarring, considering it wasn’t even a month ago—but it’s there.

“I think so. The part about me feeling chthonic energy everywhere—not just my bones, right?”

“Precisely. Until now, we were uncertain why such a large amount of unrestrained chthonic energy had little to no impact on your psyche, but it might be that it did impact you, just… not in the way we expected.”

I feel my heart slinking down into my gut, nervousness unsettling my stomach. “That’s a terrifying way to word that. Is it as bad as you’re making it sound?”

He reaches his hand out in an attempt to comfort me, but pulls it back when I unconsciously twitch away. I’m not going to force him to explain anything now, but I’ve grown a great deal of comfort from his small, familiar form, so seeing him like this is more than unnerving.

“Perhaps worse. We believe the fathom Sap119 split your consciousness in two, and that your separated ego has been taking the brunt of the mental anguish in your stead.”

Separated ego? Like, another me? One that I’ve been forcing through torture while it watches me live happily from inside here? Old ones—that's... that's awful!

My whole body shudders, and I look to Roosevelt, hoping he’ll retract his statement or say something about it being an unlikely theory, but he remains unmoving, staring back at me.

“...What can we do to help her?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

The starry Brooke shifts, growing claws and a tail; its face elongating into a viscous maw. Its multi-pupil eyes lock with mine, and I see an inhuman hunger, a frenzied emotion that warps my still familiar face into something unrecognizable.

“If our theory is correct... very little. It may have been the cost incurred by having an Old One intervene in your ascension. Allowing you to think it was benevolent while corrupting a part of you that is necessary for your survival sounds very much like their kind.”

A choked sob escapes my throat, though no tears escape my incorporeal body. “Her. Please don’t call them an it. I refuse to accept that there’s absolutely nothing that can be done.” I say, but it’s hardly for anyone's sake but mine. If he’s right, it’s entirely my fault that she’s stuck like this.

“Your concern is admirable, but right now, you’re the one in need of help.”