Standing in front of the door to my house, I hesitate to knock on it. Which is stupid.
It’s not like I don’t feel welcome or anything like that, I’m not scared their opinions of me changed over three days either. I… I don't know; I guess I just kind of feel like a stranger. So much has happened over the last few days that I’m not even sure I’m the same person as the Brooke who convinced her mom to get ice cream on the way home. I ball up a fist, my nervousness making it shake slightly.
“Eagle Down, this is Poppa Bird, Baby Bird has made a landing, I repeat, Baby Bird has made a landing,” I hear from the bushes next to our garage, my father's eyes peeking out from behind them.
I drop my things at the door, sprinting for his position. I realize I’m going a little too fast for the Brooke he’s expecting, so I slow myself down. His eyes widen, clearly surprised, before he catches me in a hug. Damn it… I’ve blown it, and it hasn’t even been a minute.
“How did you find a walkie-talkie? Aren’t those like nonexistent? And who’s Eagle Down?” I ask, both as a diversion and because I’m curious.
He looks up and to the right, dramatically, and says, “I had to fight off a horrid Fathom with terrible breath to rescue it.”
“What ridiculous bull is this a metaphor for?” I respond flatly, knowing exactly how he works.
“That hag Agatha tried to steal it from me at a garage sale; she’s at the very least half eldritch.”
I don’t mean to snort, but I do, his nonsense funny to me even when I know it's coming. I hug him as tight as is reasonable before asking about the part he skipped over.
“And what about Eagle Down, is that Victor?” I ask, and his smirk tells me all I need to know. “As it happens, there was only one talkie at the sale, so I had to work my imagination a bit there.”
I pause, leaning back from him in disbelief. “You fought an old woman to buy a pairless walkie-talkie from a garage sale... and you’re just carrying it around?”
“Yes, and judging by your snort, it was worth it. It’s good to have you home, kid.”
I roll my eyes and push myself out of the hug, heading back to the front door with him in tow. “It’s good to be back, dad.”
I lift my crate of stuff before balancing it on my hip, my other hand opening the door I was so worried about previously. Our house isn’t too big; it's got two floors and no basement—on account of us living on the coast and not wanting to flood it—and is maybe 1500 square feet total. We were lucky in that our house only needed minor repairs when the Old Tide came through; most folks were forced to move into Vanguard-assembled condominiums since they had nowhere else to live.
My feet scrape against the doormat, then kick against the bottom of the doorframe to remove any remaining dirt. The motion is a habit, my mother's nagging plenty of motivation to develop one. On the topic of habits, I notice the entire foyer is spotlessly mopped and cleaned. She’s a huge stress cleaner, so this must have been really rough on her. The treated wood flooring reflects the lights from the kitchen, though I don’t see anyone inside.
“Moooom? Viiictooor?” I call into the quiet house. “Are they even home, dad?”
“Mrrrrow.” is my only reply, and I turn to see our American Shorthair staring at me from the cat tree, his soft gray fur recently cleaned.
“General Tso! Did you miss me, little buddy? Oooh, yes, head scritches for the bestest boy. Has dad been giving you too many treats in my absence? You’re looking a little chonky.”
His only response is a purr as he rubs his face into my hand, his little mouth hanging open as he does. I’m definitely a cat person, though it's not by a huge margin; I just like animals in general, really. “Especially this General!” I say out loud, even though without the rest of my thoughts as context, it would make zero sense to anyone else. He seems pleased, though, if his increased purring indicates anything.
I leave him to his obviously complex ponderings, setting my belongings down on the kitchen table. Wondering why he hasn’t responded to my question, I turn back to my dad, who’s looking above me. Now even more confused and suspicious, I follow his gaze to see my mom and brother pouring out a hamper full of balloons from the top of our staircase onto me.
“Bweh!” is all my two brain cells can come up with as I’m covered in purple and blue balloons, their nefarious purpose clearly to hide the confetti I got a healthy mouthful of. Their footsteps let me know that they’re both running down the stairs, and as happy as I am to see them, removing the little paper pieces takes priority.
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“Oh, Brooke! Honey, I’m so sorry! You weren't supposed to look up!” My mom says, brushing what she can out of my hair.
“Ith otay, ith good to thee you guyth,” I respond, raking my tongue with my fingers to remove the stragglers. Her eye twitches at my saliva fingers, but wraps me up in a hug anyways. “Pleh, I’m surprised you decided my coming home was worth desecrating the house with confetti.” I add, my mouth mostly cleansed.
She gives me an appraising look, “You coming home safe to me is worth more than everything we own; I’m so glad you’re okay, dear. When Victor's friends couldn’t find you at the bunker, I thought the worst had happened.” Tears are already forming in her eyes, so I stop her before the waterworks start.
“I was perfectly fine, mom. I barely got hurt, and a Vanguard rescued me super fast.” Which is technically true if you stretch “true” as far as it can go. Her eyes narrow as she activates the bullshit-radar I’m pretty sure all moms have, though I guess I pass muster as she doesn’t push me on it. “I even made some new friends there, we should be hanging out sometime this week.”
The room goes a bit silent at that, and I’m not sure if it’s surprise or disbelief, but their raised eyebrows are incredibly insulting regardless. “You guys are terrible,” I pout, crossing my arms at them. “Is it really so weird for me to say I made new friends?”
“I didn’t think anyone would take you other than Sydney, to be honest.” Victor stabs, and my parents nod sagely as if he said something profound.
“I kind of assumed the shirts were to keep people away, was it not intentional?” My dad asks, pointedly looking at my “My rat and I talk trash about you.” shirt with the rat poking out of a trash can.
I punch Victor in the arm, making sure it's hard enough to sting, but light enough to not actually hurt him. “Whenever you guys are done hazing me for going to the hospital, can we have some of those pancakes I smell?” I say, letting my growling stomach punctuate my thoughts for me.
I’m forced to stand there for another minute or so, mom refusing to let the confetti on me spread to the rest of the house. I personally feel like that’s a little unfair to me, since I didn’t want to be showered in confetti after all, but any complaint I had disappeared as I got to taste the pancakes. Every bite is perfectly fluffy and covered with the syrup she keeps in that unmarked mason jar she hides. I don’t know where she gets it, but the stuff is liquid heaven.
We spend the meal chatting; they clearly want to know everything that went on, but don’t want to interrogate me about it. I give them little tidbits, keeping the secret stuff—most of it—to myself. I don’t think I want to mess with the really pleasant dynamic we have as a family, so I plan on keeping my Vanguard status to myself for now. I’m sure they’d still support me, but I’ve seen what power imbalances can do to relationships, and I don’t want that for us.
I’m a little glad when we finish talking after lunch—not that I didn’t have a good time, but my social battery can only take so much, even from my family. Before I retire upstairs, mom gives me a gift basket-looking container with my favorite brands of pickles and peanut butter tied together in little packages. I’m far too full for it now, but I couldn’t have hidden the maniacal grin that lit up my features when I saw it if I tried.
Now resting in my bed like a content dragon with an increased hoard, I play with my powers a bit. A tendril of hair snakes through the folds in my blanket, wrapping around my phone and picking it up gently. I try to hold it in such a way that it grips it from the sides without covering the middle of my screen with a tentacle. It works great for at least seven seconds, after which it slips and drops my phone onto the bridge of my nose.
One disgruntled yelp and a few select curses at the Old Ones later, I find myself looking into my bathroom mirror. It doesn’t hurt that much, but I can already see the beginnings of a black eye, and I wonder how effective a Vanguard's healing is against stupidity-inflicted wounds. I press two fingers against the area just below my eye, morbid curiosity outweighing the light pain it inflicts. I should send Sydney a picture; I bet she’d find this hilarious.
I snap a quick selfie, typing out “Phone did more damage to my face than the Fathom” before sending it to her. It’s probably a little tasteless to joke about that, but being able to say stuff like that to each other is a big part of what makes us friends.
Walking back into my bedroom, I notice I knocked over my purse when I got up, a few of the contents spilled out. Feeling lazy, I’m about to flop back on the bed and leave that for future Brooke when a feeling of dread jolts through my body. Stopping with one knee on my bed, I stand back up and look down at my bag. There's something about the bag that my brain is really caught up on, and I don’t understand why it’s only happening now.
I bend over, my hands shaking a little as I pick up my purse; a piece of paper I recognize but don’t remember falling out at the motion. The paper is yellow and folded carelessly, though something about it feels uncanny to my brain. I unfold it carefully, the rustling it makes setting me on edge. Written on its lines is a note, though not in a handwriting I know, and several words are scratched out and replaced with others.
“Vanguard Hello, Brooke. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye to you, and that I haven’t talked to you since that first day. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but there’s something in me that can’t forgive doesn’t know how to cope with you taking Silo’s place.
I probably wouldn’t have written this if I wasn’t so worried, but my second Insight granted me very minor foresight abilities. It’s almost all feelings emotions and brief images, but as I saw you leaving this morning, it reacted worse than it ever has before. My first attempt to tell you gave off the feeling of making the situation worse, so I’ve written this note instead. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but it’s related to your connection to Silo, and it’s dangerous. Please be careful, Brooke.”