An uncomfortable silence sets upon the room, and regret at my carelessness leaves me with a squeezing feeling in my chest. I have a hard time matching my eyes to hers, but I force myself as I speak.

“Silo passed.”

She doesn’t respond, but I can tell she wants me to continue. A slight tremble enters her shoulders, and I’m left wondering if I can handle another long emotional talk within the two days I’ve been here.

“For context, what do you know about the bubble going down during the Fathom attack?” I ask her, the room feeling smaller and less welcoming than before.

“They told us the bare minimum, to be honest. An intelligent Fathom figured out a workaround for the bubble protocol and shut it down for a duration. Theres a conclave in, like, two days, where I figure they’ll tell us more.” She responds, her voice monotone.

I scratch the back of my skull, unsure if I’m even allowed to talk about this stuff. I glance at Roosevelt, his tentacles managing a shoulderless shrug.

“That’s not too far from the truth, but they definitely left out some of the more relevant bits. I'm not sure if I'm allowed to say this... but Silo and I were present where the shield pylon was. He was unable to interact with the pylon as he was, and the only way I could was to be contracted as a Vanguard.”

I watch her face, but the easily read Naomi is gone. In her place is someone who’s been hurt a great many times and learned to close herself off because of it. I hear her breath shudder as she takes a deep breath to compose herself.

“Why’d he do that?” She speaks, her voice cracking. My vision starts to blur a little, and it's not from tears.

“It… It’s not your fault. He made that choice. It’s not your fault, so why can’t I--” Her sentence is interrupted with a sob, the question unfinished as she ceases to exist.

I can remember her this time, so instead of feeling lost and alone, incredible guilt and discomfort roil through me. I purse my lips and murmur a quiet “It was nice meeting you.” as I exit out the quickly sealing wall-door.

“I certainly fumbled that up,” I say to no one in particular, but find myself replied to regardless.

“In fairness, I’m not certain that could have been navigated any better without knowledge you couldn’t have had access to.”

“I’m also likely more to blame than you are. I recall the affection Vanguard Shroud held toward Silo and should have warned you as such.”

“I mean, it might have been helpful, but I don’t expect you to completely understand the gross complexities of human emotion.” I state, unwilling to let him take on my issues. “Sometimes I wonder which of us are truly the unfathomable ones.”

“The only things that can’t ‘fathom’ humans are more of your kind.” He retorts casually, like he didn’t just diss my entire species.

I choose to be the bigger person and not retaliate, deciding to try and wander my way to Catherine’s office instead, my clouding thoughts having nothing to do with it.

My fingers trail the cooling surface of the wall as I walk, the cold a pleasant distraction from the circles my mind keeps going in.

What if, instead of me getting dragged down there, another Vanguard found Silo instead? Could they have activated the bubble faster, killing the Eldritch and saving him? He seemed perfectly sane when we talked to him, Miss Catherine probably could have healed him too if he was still contracted.

Did my fear of death just rob these wonderful people of someone dear to them? Am I the one who killed Silo? Or perhaps my most selfish thought yet, Are they going to hate me for it?

I find myself short of breath; the hand I don't remember dropping from the wall is slick with sweat, and I rub it against my jeans.

“BROOKE.” Roosevelt's booming voice jolts me out of my rumination, his uncharacteristic volume sending me reeling for a moment.

“Whats up? Did something happen?” I ask, confused and a little nauseous.

“I can feel your mental state, Brooke, and even if I couldn’t, you were so absorbed in your thoughts that this is the third time I’ve called out to you."

Our link is radiating concern, and his rubbery body has turned a worried gray.

“Ah, sorry. I’ll try not to make a habit of this. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.”

He bumps his little head against my forehead, his skin a refreshing cold like the walls.

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“Nothing. In fact, I was surprised you were taking things so well. By all accounts, you experienced the equivalent of an average Vanguard's year of trauma in less than a day. You then woke up in an unfamiliar place with powers you can’t comprehend and heavy responsibility on your shoulders. You’ve done phenomenally, Brooke.”

I’m not sure if it’s the confidence he has in his words or if I’m clinging to the first excuse my conscience can find, but a bit of weight rolls off me as he finishes speaking. The guilt is still there, knotting up my stomach like the world's worst pair of earbuds, but I can breathe again.

“Got it,” I say, petting his mantle lightly. “Which way to Miss Catherine's office? I think I’m in good enough shape to get through today.”

“Actually, she’s standing over there by the elevator. I called for her as soon as you showed signs of a panic attack.”

My face reddening, I whip around to see her leaning against the wall next to the hellevator, having easily seen all of that. She does a little wave, the motion all in her hand.

“Why didn’t you tell me she was here during any of that?” I hiss out of the side of my mouth at him.

“I did; you were hyperventilating at the time.”

I grumble as I walk to meet with Catherine, my stride not nearly as swift as hers.

“Doing alright?” She asks, her smile hiding concern.

“I’ll be okay. I think I’m a little overwhelmed still; like Roosevelt said,” I respond, not having the energy or reason to lie to either of them.

“Here, let's go to my office; I had one of those Fathom-Tech drink fabricators installed recently. Chocolate milk is a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine.”

I look at the infernal contraption I’d have to use to change floors and debate whether it's worth riding that again for something called a “drink fabricator.”

“We also don’t have to take the elevator. It can be jarring for those unfamiliar with the Fathom,” she says before holding out her hand, “Here, take my hand.”

I don’t question it; the combination of her firm, yet gentle command and my desire to not touch the elevator again is all the motivation I need to grasp her glove. The fabric is incredibly soft, yet I can tell I’d have difficulty cutting it just by touching it.

I’d have asked her about it if the ground in a circle at our feet hadn’t separated from its brethren and raised us a foot off the ground, magically. I unconsciously spread my feet and grip her hand harder, the unexpected perspective making me lose my balance.

“I’ve gotcha.” She says, pulling me a little closer to the middle. “This is one of the benefits of administration.”

The roof above us morphs out of the way, and I can see the nearly two-foot thickness of the material making up the floor. It’s a thick, viscous sort of metal. My best descriptor would have to be if mercury acted like honey. I reach out to touch it as I pass by, but it hardens where my fingers meet it.

Catherine gives a small grin at my reaction, likely expecting it.

“I don’t know how any of you could get used to things like this; it's so uncomfortably alien. I saw Vanguard Chassis wearing a literal living thing on his face, like it was some ordinary inanimate object. The floor in the room I’m staying in ate glass!” I spout at her, my gaze still on the floor sliding into place perfectly as I ramble.

“It’s a process. Some people adapt to it easier than others, especially those who spend more time interacting with the Fathom on a regular basis. I spent years in the service of the Vanguard Corps before I was an ascended, so I was a bit desensitized by that point.

“As far as our records are concerned, you’ve lived an entirely normal life up until now; your first personal interaction with this sort of thing was being captured and experimented on.”

I think she saw my face twitch at the phrase “normal life,” since she immediately continued: “Sorry, civilian is probably a more apt word than normal is; no one has a completely normal life at this point.”

“Point is- it’s understandable if this is all a little too much for you, no one here is going to blame you for needing time to adapt. You don't even have to do your Ascension until you’re ready.” She finishes speaking as we reach the floor above where I’m staying, the platform we’re riding slotting into place like it belongs there.

She leads the way down the new hallway toward her office, and I’m grateful for the intentional silence she’s giving me to think. I need time to collect my thoughts, and I’ve hardly had a moment to myself without new information bulldozing itself in since I got here.

I’m not doing super great right now. But I also think that’s mostly because I haven’t been compartmentalizing my problems properly and they’ve piled up. Taking a deep breath through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, I begin to reflect as I walk.

Silo… I’m not sure how I feel about him. There’s gratitude, but also heavy guilt and a little bit of fear at being stuck as a replacement of sorts for him. Those are shoes I can’t fill, and even if other people expect it of me, I’ve got to be realistic.

In regards to this whole Vanguard business, I’m only slightly less lost than when I got here. I don’t know how these powers work, and I don’t know what a Vanguard does other than fight the Fathom. All that I’ve learned is that I’m scared. I’m scared of Fathom; I’m scared of failing; I’m scared of elevators; and god damn it, I’m scared of dying.

Thats how I got here, isn’t it? I was scared—absolutely petrified of dying—and Silo gave me the means to fight back. Not to stop being scared, I don’t think, but to even the playing field a bit. In fact, “Hey Roosevelt, was Silo ever scared of fighting Fathom and stuff?” I send.

“Despite my concern at the origin of this question… yes, almost constantly. I’m fairly certain that's why he used the bow.”

I feel a bit of warmth in my chest at that, like I finally have a link of sorts with him other than being rescued. My hand opens from the fist I wasn’t aware I was holding, and I will the gift Silo gave me into my hand with a small burst of green-colored sparks.

Catherine raises her eyebrows, her foot halfway through the doorway to her office as she pauses, looking at me. I grip the Tactigon in my fist; its points jabbing into my palm, but I hardly notice.

“I don’t think I’m ready, not for any of this. But I want to anyway. I’d like to go through with my Ascension.”