Sydney's forehead rests on the table, the cold surface apparently pleasant as she tries to wrap her head around what I’ve told her.

“Let me know if I’m getting this all right. You got kidnapped and transformed by a Fathom, sold your soul or something in a contract you still haven’t read, got your ass kicked by Silo—THE Silo—who is now apparently dead, and then saved pretty much everyone in the city by getting the bubble back up? She says, rolling her head to the side so she can look at me without sitting up.

I take a spoonful of my parfait, trying to preserve the raccoon for as long as possible by eating around him. “I mean, close enough, I guess? I feel like you’re overstating the saving the city bit; I just got it up a little faster than it would have otherwise.” I take a bite, the cookie crumbs and creamy flavor taste like heaven on my tongue.

She rolls her eyes, continuing, “And what then, oh humble hero? I’m still waiting on the part where you’re in possible danger now.”

I quirk my lips, a little irritated at being rushed, but glad she’s treating me the same as always. “Well, from there, I was mostly stuck at the Vanguard headquarters for a few days, though it wasn’t by any means boring. I met some other Vanguards, and I think I made friends with a few of them, but they’re all kind of weird, so it's hard to tell.”

“You must have fit right in.” She jabs, but looks a little jealous at my comment about making new friends.

“Don’t worry, Syd, you’re my bestie forever,” I say, ruffling her hair until she slaps me away. “After that, though, I did my whole Ascension thing again, but properly this time, or as properly as anything can go for me, anyway. Hurt like you wouldn’t believe, and required some divine intervention to work properly, but at least I got a sick outfit out of it.”

I shudder as I mention the intervention; just the thought of that entity sending chills through my body. She clearly notices, too, sitting up and giving me a questioning look. I just shake my head and close my eyes, knowing she won't push if I don’t want her to.

“Can you show me the transformation? I want to see what absolutely outrageous outfit your subconscious picked for you.” She asks, and I’m thankful she moves the conversation along so swiftly.

My little raccoon friend finally gives up the ghost, falling dramatically into the rest of my desert. I poke at him, his features fading away, and I’m almost glad; it was a little stressful waiting for him to fall. “Well, not now, obviously, and not later if you’re going to keep laughing at me—stop smirking!” It’s almost worse that I can see how hard she’s trying not to laugh; whatever image she’s worked up in her head of me must be hilarious.

“Sorry, sorry, it's just—pfft—knowing you, it’s some weird marsupial-themed costume like an opossum, and the idea of you running around fighting Fathom in that is killing me.” She says, managing to get her sentiment across between bursts of giggles.

I cross my arms, trying to express how unimpressed I am. “It’s not marsupial-themed at all. I guess this just goes to show how little you know me.”

“So it's still animal-themed, then?” She questions, and I suddenly feel like I’ve been boxed in.

I achieve victory by not responding; my silence impossible to use against me in a court of law.

“I’ll take that as a yes; have we gotten to the danger bit yet?” She says, lazily stirring her spoon around her glass. I’m a bit affronted that she took my silence as an answer, since it's not, but I take the note out of my purse regardless.

She squints a little as she reads it, a mixture between the rough handwriting and her slightly bad eyesight making it tough to read. I’ve told her she should go get her eyes fixed, but she’s probably even more scared of Fathom-Tech than I am.

“I have no idea what to make of this, Brooke; did you give me every bit of context except what I’d need to understand this?” She says, setting the note back on the table. A bit of parfait she spilled earlier connects to the edge, and I try not to focus on the wetness spreading through the paper.

“Uhh, what? Oh, sorry—yeah, there’s a little bit I haven't mentioned yet. So Shroud, one of the Vanguard I met, has an issue of sorts with how Silo basically sacrificed himself so I could live. Turns out, she has some prophecy powers she hadn’t mentioned before, and gave me this really vague and stressful note as I was leaving.”

She massages her temples, like what I’m saying doesn’t make sense. “I feel like I got a lot of that from the message already; maybe you’re just kind of bad at explaining things.” She says, reading through the note again. Her lips turn whiter where she’s biting them as she thinks, the pressure blanching them. “I think I’m starting to get the picture here, though.”

“I’m perfectly fine at explaining things, this is just particularly convoluted.” I complain, contemplating drinking the dregs of my desert by tipping it down my throat like a feral animal.

“Sure you are, and stop—I know that look. Let me try to map this out before you do anything weird.”

She moves the doom-letter to the side like it isn’t important, taking out a notebook with stickers all over the front and setting it in the middle of the table. Opening the first page, she takes a pen attached to the book and writes ‘Keep Brooke from Dying” at the top of it, before adjusting some buttons and sliders on the pen itself that change the font and color to bolded blue.

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

“I thought you hated Fathom-Tech, what's this then?”

“Convenience. Now work with me. What part of this has you the most worried?” She asks, writing a (1.) on the page

“Um, I guess not knowing what this bad thing is that's going to happen, followed by not knowing how bad of a thing it is scale-wise,” I say, counting off on two fingers as I speak. I watch her copy what I’m saying, though it's difficult since it's upside down.

She clicks her pen, and the words slide into perfect formatting. “And you mentioned that she has mixed feelings about you; do you think it could be an elaborate prank?”

I ponder that for a second, really considering our interactions up to this point. “...No, I don’t think that’s the case. I was worried about it before, but she really didn’t seem the type.”

“That's the impression I got from the letter too; the apology part didn’t feel planned, more like a jumble of thoughts on paper all at once.” She crosses something out on the page, and it vanishes, erased. “Do you have any idea what the ‘related to your connection to silo’ section could be talking about?”

My first thought is the tactigon that he gave me, and though I don’t really know all that much about it, it doesn’t strike me as something I’d get an ominous prophecy about.

“Hey Roosevelt, got any ideas on links I have with Silo?” I think towards him, figuring he’s listening.

“Other than myself, you mean?” he retorts, a little sullenly.

“Oh, shoot, I didn’t even think about it like that, do you think it might be related?” I say, aloud this time.

“Possibly, it shouldn’t be disregarded, at least.”

Sydney leans back a bit, looking a bit freaked out. “Are you talking to me? That didn’t make any sense.”

I blank out for a bit, just staring at her and not connecting the dots. I know I mentioned Roosevelt at some point during that story, right? My brain tries to run through the entire conversation, searching for when I referenced him. Oh, oh shit, I may have mentioned “Silo’s companion” once or twice, but I don’t think I ever said his name or introduced him.

“Uh, right, so this is Roosevelt; if he seems annoyed, it's probably because I forgot to introduce him to you.” I say, holding my hand up like I’m a waiter displaying a plate of food. Roosevelt shimmers into existence above my hand, his little tentacles curled into a facsimile of a mustache.

“Greetings, Sydney. I have heard much about you, and am glad to have finally gotten an introduction.” His flesh flashes a quick, irritated red at “finally”, but returns to its normal starry black after a moment.

The gears within Sydney's head visibly turn for a few moments before she decides to just take the situation in stride. “Likewise, Roosevelt...? It’s good to have someone else who understands the struggle of dealing with Brooke.”

“R'oceveilt is the name I was given upon creation, though I go by Roosevelt for the convenience of your species. I understand you have an aversion to most things eldritch, and am willing to speak through Brooke for our future interactions.”

I see her hand starting to shake, and I take it within mine, giving it a squeeze. Her look toward me is grateful before she takes a deep breath and continues speaking. “No, that’s okay.” She shakes her head, “Any issues I have with you are bled over from the Fathom, and you and those like you are the only reason we’re able to live in relative peace like this. Besides, you live in my best friend's head; I can only avoid you so much at this point.”

My eyes start to mist up; I know more than anyone how terrified Sydney is of the Fathom, so her doing this for me is a huge step out of her comfort zone. Roosevelt must be feeling some bleed-over from my emotions, because he tips his little body to the side to look at me better. I give him a nod, letting him know I’m all good and to continue.

“I am grateful, both for giving me this chance and for being such a good friend to Brooke.” He gives a deep bow to her, his tentacles lowering to the table's surface for a moment. “I will advise a return to the previous conversation before our time here runs out, though, as we have no idea when this prophecy will occur.”

A bit of my nervousness that had been banished by the mood returns; its squeeze on my chest unpleasant. “Right, I was asking Roosevelt if he knew any connections I have with Silo, and he reminded me that he was one of them himself.”

“Not only that, but anyone who both Silo made an impact on and you’ve interacted with could apply. The list is already a half dozen, and grows with you by the day.”

Sydney makes a sour face at that, writing several new lines in her notebook. “If we go with something as vague as that, even I could be within that number. How are we supposed to narrow this down at all?”

“The issue of us being unable to guess the prophecy’s scale remains as well. Without more information from Vanguard Shroud, we have no idea how dangerous this is.”

I trace my tongue around the outside of my teeth, my canines prickling the bottom of it. “If we need more information, why don’t we just go ask her? If she can secret- secrete? secr—if she can hide a note in my bag, why can’t I leave one for her too? Or does this prophecy stuff have more hard-set rules than I thought?”

Neither of them are impressed by my answer or my brute-force method of figuring out a word I can’t remember, but neither of them have a rebuttal to my solution yet either. Sydney looks actively pained at the idea of letting me have this, and she somehow shares an identical look with Roosevelt despite his lack of human eyes.

“Secret would have worked fine there, you can secret something into someone's bag.” She starts, “And I don’t think Vanguard Shroud will be able to give us more information, since even the way she got this to you in the first place was cryptic and out of the way. If she could just tell you everything via note, I think she would have from the start.”

“But we can’t really move forward without more information, right? At worst, we can’t find her, and we talk to Vanguard Asclepius about it instead.” I slap back, my response already prepared.

“I agree that something about it feels wrong, Sydney, though I believe Brooke might be right that it’s the most efficient option. We could spend hours speculating, but our best guesses will still remain guesses. I just hope our timeline is longer than it feels like it is.”