Rather than returning to Training Facility B, this time we had to walk down the stairs—which I’m kind of pissed to find out about—to Training Facility A, all the way beneath ground level. I do understand why, however, as it is gargantuan. The radius is easily triple the size of the other one, and the roof is as tall as two floors of this building put together.

It’s a little overwhelming, actually, and if it weren’t for the dozens of people fighting each other in pairs, I might have been uncomfortable. The floor is made up of a similar bouncy material as the other training room, though a little less bouncy and divided into a bunch of arenas. The portion farthest from the entrance is designed to look like a series of abandoned buildings, and I see Vanguard soldiers crawling around it, peppering each other with paintballs.

“Jeremiah! We got fresh blood!” Catherine yells into the gymnasium, her voice echoing back to her.

Upwards of forty people just stop what they were doing at her shout, disentangling themselves from each other to salute Catherine. Feeling a bit put on the spot, I shrink a bit and back up a little, only to be stopped by her hand on my back.

“This is a good chance with little risk; try entering your ascendant form,” she says in a way that only I can hear her.

Huh? Here? in front of all of these people I’ve never met before? My mind races, looking for an excuse to do anything but that. Roosevelt must have felt my nervousness because he speaks into my mind, “This is my error; I should have explained to you earlier the means by which Vanguard grow in power. Our contract can only grant you as much power as I myself have, so to advance further, you must accrue a sort of ‘faith’ or ‘worship’ from other humans. I understand it may be unpleasant, but your future as a vanguard depends on it.

Oh gods, do I need a cult? This explains the absurd amount of promotion the Vanguard are always doing. I thought it was to make people feel like we had active protectors so they wouldn’t freak at most of the world being overrun, but it’s actually how we improve? I sigh, adding “Confront your fear of public speaking” to my to-do list as I step forward, Chthonic energy wrapping around me.

Wirey darkness unfolds from my collar, its strands expanding over my chest and arms, wrapping around countless times and interweaving on themselves. I raise my arms, unconsciously posing as they casually form into my dress. My legs are nearly covered; an inky darkness having started at my soles and enveloped them first. Spikes form on the armored leg as I stomp my foot on the ground, followed by my dress blooming like an upside-down flower, the crinoline holding it up like a dozen jellyfish bells. I wave my hand over my face, my mask revealing itself in the motion, and my jellyfish beret wobbles itself into existence.

Letting go of the breath I had forgotten to release, I finish with a bow, the motion feeling right for some reason.

Then the clapping begins, and my face turns a bright crimson. As freeing as that was, I now want to mentally crawl into a dumpster and never come out. Rising from my bow, I look at the crowd of people, seeing true excitement and joy in their expressions. To them, they’ve just seen the start of a brand new superhero, a new defender from everything outside the bubble. I can’t say I feel like much of anything but a tomato at the moment, but their pride in me strikes a chord.

“Nice flourish; you’re taking to the showmanship faster than I expected,” Catherine says before taking the first step down the stairs toward the arenas. Revision follows close behind, giving me two big thumbs up and a cheesy smile as he follows her down. I grip my little jelly-beret with one hand; something about its alien texture helping me wrap my head around what I am now.

A man in a different colored uniform with mutton chops shouts at the others, and I get to watch them file back to their individual tasks, a bit more cheer in their interactions. I decide to stay up here for a few moments longer—a bit of emotion building up in my chest, perhaps confidence?

“Did you feel that?” I hear Roosevelt mentally; his tone that of an overexcited teacher. “That was your first chthonic tithe, Brooke. You impressed those men and women enough to inspire some faith in you. Of course, a lot of it stems simply from the reputation Vanguard built in the first place, but that strength is yours, now.”

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I rub at my chest a little, now feeling some form of chthonic indigestion. “Is this ‘cult power’ infinitely scaling? I feel like we could just make Vanguards into streamers or something to expedite the process. I’m also a bit—urp—worried about the emotional aspects of it. I felt some sort of emotion when the tithe-thing hit; does it manipulate my emotions?”

“As it happens, we do have several Vanguard who participate in streaming as a means to gather followers. The issue remains, however, that the human mind cannot withstand the forces that chthonic energy generates without ascending to a higher plane of understanding. So unless those Vanguard attain an insight into the world of that magnitude, more faith means nothing. This is also how we determine Vanguard rank, with yours being the bottom, at fifteen, and Vanguard Asclepius being near the top, at three.

“In regards to the emotional aspect of the tithe, I wouldn’t call it manipulation of emotions, but more your absorption of them? Worship is a rather heavy meal, and a bit of it bleeds over into you. We also tend to avoid the use of the term ‘cult’ if possible. It’s not great for branding.”

I pinch my brow, a little irritated at getting all of this information piecemeal, right as I need it instead of ahead of time. “Ignoring the absolute cynicism involved in using the word ‘branding’ there, is there any way to guarantee these insights? And I’m definitely calling it a cult.”

He makes a strangled noise despite his lack of organs for it before answering. “No, we have not figured out a method to guarantee further Ascension. And not for a lack of trying, either.”

My pondering on this new information is interrupted by a heavily accented voice calling from below. “Have ye fallen asleep, lass?”

I jolt, standing up from the railing I was leaning on in a hurry. Below me, an older man with incredibly well-maintained mutton chops stands between Catherine and Revision. His scowl, the type I’d expect from an English bulldog, spurs me down the stairs to stand next to them.

“Found yerself another dreamer, have ya?” He asks Catherine, but the word "dreamer" wraps around my heart like a snake, causing my blood to run cold. Catherine notices my shudder and places her hand on my shoulder.

“I’m good,” I assure her, not entirely telling the truth, but also feeling the cold fading from my limbs.

I appreciate her turning to mutton-chops instead of pressing; I’d like to keep the image the soldiers have of me. “Try to avoid that term; she’s had a run-in with an elevated foreign entity. We aren’t sure of the side effects.” She says, and his eyes take on a glint of interest.

“A special case, then? Awrite, what’s yer name, lass?” He asks, before getting a shake of the head from Catherine. “Oh, truly? Seems we’ve got ourselves a wee monster, then! This sort a’ treatment without beein named s’not common.”

Understanding about an eighth of what he said, I’m left frazzled as he circles me, his scarred eye squinting as he investigates. I just sort of freeze up—once again left instructionless—until he claps his hands and walks away toward an arena, his guffaw at my surprised squeak leaving me fuming.

“Come, then. Let’s get us a demonstration.” he says, knocking a cane he definitely didn’t have a second ago against the ground. Behind him, a hexagon of rods rise up from the floor, walls of force buzzing between them.

“You’re too old to be this dramatic, Duff.” Catherine calls his way, and his intense expression contorts into something like a pout. “Not an ounce of respect in ye, Cat. I’ve been fightin’ these damn formless bastards since before you’s got yer spooky powers. Just get the squid girl in tha ring already.”

She turns to me, evidently having a better time than I am based on her expression. “He’s a pain, but undeniably one of the best. If he gets under your skin too much, remind him that you technically outrank him.” I, now mirroring her grin, walk up to the ring with Revision, revenge on my mind.

One of the force walls fizzles out, and I walk in, headed to the far side of the arena, but turn around once I notice the pounding footsteps behind me aren't Revisions. Instead, the old bastard has been stomping his feet, and Revision stands outside the ring, giving me another double thumbs up.

“What, didja think you’d be fighting tha’ big oaf already? Blokes got at least seven tiers on ya, you’d be nothin but a smear, lass. Nay, these old bones are plenty enough for ye.” He taunts, stretching.

I imagine his floppy face as a bulldog’s, and it does quite a bit to tame my anger. It’s pretty clear they’re trying to pull a fast one on me, getting me confident, and then having some old man knock my teeth in when I get ticked off. If I want to keep my dignity intact, I’ve got to not get pissed and just run in.

“You’ve got that coward Silo’s eyes, lass.”

I immediately get pissed and just run in.