I idly manipulate my hair, flattening it and weaving it into a basket-like pattern. It’s been fourteen or so years since I learned this at a girl scout outing, but the skill evidently remains. Are the Girl Scouts still around? Of all the organizations to survive an apocalypse, I figured it would be the ones that taught survival skills that would make the cut, but I haven’t seen hide or tail from them since.

“Maybe they made it in another city?” I say aloud, but the sound is muffled by the wind screaming past my ears.

“What?” Roosevelt questions, though I’m not sure if he didn’t hear me or just didn’t understand since I said it without context.

“Just thinking about Girl Scouts. Do you actually think this will work?”

“My very being is attached to and limited by your consciousness. If you were closer in rank to say, Revision, then perhaps I could complete the calculations necessary to answer your question. As of this moment, though? My guess is only slightly better than yours.”

I furrow my eyebrows, saving that tidbit of information in my “Why wasn’t I told this earlier?” folder.

“Sure, okay, new information there. Not really what I asked, though. If you had to guess, does this seem more or less likely to end with me as a Brooke-colored stain on the ground?”

He takes longer than I’d like to answer, but the consequences of my own actions and all that. “I’d say this has relatively high chances of success. That chance could fluctuate wildly, though, depending on how many mistakes you make.”

Okay, don’t fuck up. I can work with that.

Flipping over so that I’m now falling with my stomach down, I pack the main mass of tentacles I’ve been folding onto the small of my back and open my arms wide. The flying squirrel-esque setup I’ve created by wrapping and flattening out my tentacles between my arms and legs catches the wind, stopping much of my descent before evening out and letting me glide.

A laugh escapes my dry lips, and I bare my teeth into a smile at the city beneath me. Spiraling buildings rise up from the cityscape, Vanguard Chassis’ life's work growing larger in my vision as I hurtle towards them.

I lower my arms slightly, letting myself regain my lost speed. My body tilts, adjusting my course back to where I’m at least seventy percent certain the entertainment center is.

“Run me through the plan again, but skip to the fun parts.” I think towards him, but it’s mostly anxiety-fueled nonsense.

“I believe fun in this circumstance is entirely dependent on how well things go. I’m uncertain how much fun you’ll be having if your—and I quote—‘hairachute’ fails it’s live test.”

“Heh, hairachute.”

I unravel the tendrils I was previously using to glide, forming them together into something akin to a crystalline fishing lure the size of my torso. It’s unnaturally heavy, but I manage to wrangle it into position and right myself at the same time.

The stage, and thus the striker, become clear in my vision as I make it to the last stretch. I’m still far enough away that it looks like a normal-sized carnival game, but when I’m dropping this fast, I’ve realistically only got like fifteen or so seconds before I hit the ground.

“Prepare to drop it and release your parachute.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

I don’t even look down as I let go of the oblong crystal, trusting Roosevelt’s directions completely. It shoots out of my grasp as my hairachute opens, and the tendrils wrapped around my torso constrict against me painfully.

A “Gehk!” escapes my lips as the air is suddenly squeezed from my lungs, my vague estimation of a parachute vest not at all meeting Osha standards. My only saving grace is that everyone's focus is on the puck rising along the pole rather than my dumb self.

I let my eyes follow the puck as well, its path leaving a trail of glowing orange arrows as it races past each checkpoint. My chest tightens as it begins to visibly slow despite it’s initial speed, and I can tell immediately it’ll stop just beneath the eighty percent marker.

When I first had this idea, I had no intention of getting it all the way to the top since that felt too unreasonable. But now that it’s so close, I can’t help but feel disappointed. I lift my eyes to the bell, the Vanguard logo emblazoned on it only just visible past my hairachute.

Ignoring any metaphorical meaning behind my reaching the literal representation of the Vanguard, I instead say to Roce, “How much serotonin would ringing that thing give, do ya think?”

“It’s rather late for hypotheticals, no?”

Unable to come up with a witty response, I simply allow the tendrils wrapping around me to dissolve, once again entering freefall.

I don’t have nearly as far to fall this time, but I also know that this distance won't be nearly enough to generate the force I want. Sending out several tentacles, I stretch them farther than I’ve ever managed before and reach for the base of the machine. Wrapping them around some decorative fixtures, I pull on them as hard as I can and force myself downward.

My feet collided with the device, slamming down on it hard enough that something crunched—though I’m not sure whether it was me or the Striker. I move to step backwards, but instead my legs give out, landing me flat on my back; perfectly lined up to watch the puck finish it’s trek to the top.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

DOOOONNNN

My teeth vibrate as I put them together for a wide grin; the bells sound as beautiful and oppressive as I’d hoped—even through my still-popping ears. I try to sit up now that the ringing has subsided a bit, but find myself shaky and incapable.

“I’m not sure what the value comparison between shattering your shin bone and getting to ring a big bell is, but I can’t imagine it’s good enough for you to be grinning like that.”

“You–hngh. You wouldn’t get it.” I say, the pain in my leg coming on like it was waiting for someone to mention it.

“Indubitably. Catherine is already on her way; do your best to act like your body wasn’t just compressed like a crushed soda can when she heals you.”

I stifle a groan as my ears finish popping, the cacophony of cheers and shouts from the crowd assaulting them. My grin remains plastered to my face, partially because I’m absolutely still gratified, but also because I’m sure there’s a camera drone pointed right at me and I need to look unaffected.

“Gotta preserve the inflappable image, huh?” I murmur internally, receiving back an approximation of a nod from Roosevelt.

It’s not like I don’t understand. When our power is directly correlated to how the people view us, there isn’t much option other than to put on a mask and tough it out. I just hadn’t realized how emotionally exhausting it is.

My eyes flutter open as I feel a foot make contact with the stage next to my head. Catherine, whose eyes don’t match her smile, stands over me with an arm outstretched.

“Her contractor, Hannibal, is passing along the message: ‘If you want to go on that mission tomorrow, we’re going to be addressing that self-destructive habit of yours.’”

My nervous swallow gets stuck in my throat, though it disappears alongside the throbbing pain throughout my body as she fixes me. Unlike the last time, it feels like a smooth tingle rather than a wave of itchiness—leading me to believe her chthonic energy is in better shape than before.

We grab each other's wrists as she pulls me back to my feet, raising my fist in the air as she turns us to the people of Barbaeu. Their cheers have reached a new peak, now, Catherine’s rare presence on top of my outrageous display only exacerbating their excitement.

“What a treat, ladies and gentlemen! It’s not every day you get to see something like that!” Carrey says, taking a step back so she’s in like with me and the director. “It’s also rare to see you, Vanguard Asclepius. Is there something special about our newest star that you felt the need to make an appearance?”

Catherine’s face is stoic as the cameras turn to her; the version of herself she portrays to the people starkly different from the one I know. She manipulates the flesh and bone of her arm, extending it and adding a second elbow joint so that she can take the microphone from Carrey without moving. It’s obviously a theatrical display, but judging by the tentative hush that goes over the audience, it works.

“I’m not sure if 'special' is as applicable a word as ‘headstrong’ is. I came out here to ensure that her impromptu flight didn’t result in any grievous injuries.” She says, her voice taking on a drier tone as she looks my way and speaks again, “Thankfully, it seems her durability is an even match for her rash decision-making.”

Laughter sweeps through the crowd, and even though it’s a with-laugh and not an at-laugh, my cheeks heat a bit in response.

Not-so-subtly taking her microphone back, Carrey gets back into her crowdwork. “Not quite the answer we expected, but an enlightening one all the same! Will you be staying for the interview portion? I’m sure everyone here would love to get some answers from the director herself.”

This time she points the microphone at Catherine, preempting a second case of snatching. “And spare her the grilling we’ve each been forced to endure? Perish the thought. The spotlight will be on Miss Amalgam today; she’s earned it, after all.”

I don’t even need to hide the betrayal on my face, as I’m sure it’s exactly what everyone out there wants to see. “Et tu, Asclepius?!” I shout to her back as she leaves, earning another smattering of laughter from the folks who were also forced to read Shakespeare in high school.

At least they’re easily entertained?

Carrey puts her arm around my shoulder, which elicits a minor shudder from me. It wasn’t apparent before, but now that she’s so close, I can’t help but notice that something about her mind feels greasy. And while I don’t know why I know or think that, it definitely makes maintaining my unbothered facade more difficult.

"Alright, everyone, you know the rules. If you have a question, type it into your Eventguard app, and you’ll be added to the lottery system. Any overly rude, crass, or otherwise morally wrong questions will be disqualified, and only five of you will get the chance. So pick carefully!”

I sigh in relief as she removes her arm, sending a quick message to Roosevelt now that everyone’s looking at their phones. “Did you get the same sort of ick feeling from Carrey as I did? It was like her mind was slathered in oil.”

“Slathered in oil? What a unique description. I can’t say that’s the impression I got, but—hmm… Have you ever gotten an impression like this before?”

I bite my lip, trying to think quickly before I’m forced into the world's most stressful game of “truth or truth.”

“No, I’m pretty confident this is the first time.” I glance at Carrey, memories of corrupted soldiers warping into fathom in front of my eyes. “This feeling is too distinct; there’s no way I wouldn’t remember. Could this mean she’s a…?”

He shuts me down immediately, stopping me from letting my thoughts wander. “No. She, as well as everyone else working this event, have all been thoroughly screened. What’s more likely, though, is that you’ve discovered a reaction from your growing power.”

“You’ve convinced them to have faith in you.”

I stiffen at that, the weight of his statement hitting me with more pressure than I was ready for. Why would my goofing around onstage have given anyone the impression that I’m someone to rely on? It’s not like they haven’t seen the other Vanguard doing way more substantial things than me.

“You’re sure? What if what happened at the funeral happens again because we brushed it off?” I insist, grasping at straws for a reason for him to be wrong.

“I understand why you’re worried, and have already spoken to Catherine about your concerns. Actions are being taken. Regardless of our feelings on the matter, we won’t allow something like that to happen again.”

Almost all of the phones have been put down, which means that thousands of eyes are now expectantly watching me. Waiting for my next move. “Thanks, R’oce. Sorry for being such a poor Vanguard.”

His indignancy hits me like a rubber dodgeball to the head, nearly making me stumble in place.

“I, R'oceveilt, subspawn of Kthanid the Elder God, have never once contracted a ‘poor Vanguard.’ We have met by happenstance, but I will not have you insinuate that you are somehow lesser than your peers.”

I straighten my spine, feeling chastised but in a weirdly benevolent way.

“Now prepare yourself and answer those questions with the self-confidence you have every right to have.”