“What does ‘I don’t know how to put it into words yet’ even mean here, Brooke? The words are: ‘I’m a Vanguard, mom.’” Sydney says, turning right at the red light. “You spent ages working yourself up to tell her, what was the issue?”

I let the motion of the car tilt me, lightly bonking my head against the glass window as I groan in response. “I don’t knooow, I just kept thinking about her expression when she saw me locked out of the bank and I choked. How am I supposed to tell her that she has to feel that helpless panic constantly now that I’m willingly jumping into danger?”

“I don’t have a good answer, but I know for sure it’ll hurt her—and the rest of your family—a lot more if you do kick it and all they know is that you were acting secretive and distant.” She says.

I slump down in my seat, resting my knees where the airbag would come out. I know my only holdup is my own hesitation and irrational fear of them reacting poorly, but it’s such a hard thing to just come out and say.

“Knees. Down. I refuse to be responsible for your transformation into an accordion when one of these sociopaths t-bones me.” Sydney chides, one of her hands gesturing to the wobbling black van diagonal from us—the kind that still uses gas.

“I would rather die an accordion than live a coward!” I pronounce, though I do sit back up and drop my legs down.

“You’ll be both if I cross that little yellow line into oncoming traffic.” She sends back, prompting me to sputter with laughter. She joins in soon after, unable to resist the contagious nature of a not-actually-funny-but-we’re-in-a-giggly-mood kind of joke.

Sydney wipes her eye, being careful not to fully block her vision of the road. We let out a few laugh-exhales as we wind down from the humor-high, doing our best to muffle them so it doesn’t start up again.

“I’m glad you seem less terrified than when you called me yesterday, but are you doing alright?” She asks, the question feeling like a gut punch after laughing so much.

“Hu-what?” I blurt, whipping around to look at her. “Me? I’m fine. Nothing to—I mean—It’s not a big deal. Sorry If I sounded torn up over the phone, it was just a lot in the moment. You don’t need to worry.”

My thoughts begin to spiral a bit, subconsciously drawn to the funeral and my third near-death experience in a month. The view outside no longer feels charming; my mind decorating the normally beautiful trees with images of emaciated corpses impaled on their branches. I shudder, looking away from the window after my attempt to blink the horrors away fails.

“You’ll have to forgive me for calling bullshit, B. You just went completely pale and started blinking really fast; that’s not the behavior of someone who’s ‘all good.’” Sydney says, the wheel sliding under her palms as the car straightens after a turn.

I swallow the acid building up in my throat. “Things are just happening a little fast, I think. I’m trying to catch up, but by the time I break the surface, someone dumps another bucket on me.” I say, words I hadn’t even thought about spilling out. “But to be honest? I’m kind of glad I can’t keep up. I’m scared of what my brain will do once It’s no longer constantly being forced to adapt.”

My eyes refocus as I look up, and we’re already parked. I didn’t even notice us pulling into the Vanguard building’s garage, which is absurd since it took us underground.

“You don’t owe them anything, Brooke. I know you think you’ve got an obligation to keep risking your life for the people of the city, but you don't, and I’ll absolutely drive us back home right now. Just say the word.” She says, almost pleading, her finger already on the ignition button.

It’s... a warm feeling, hearing how willing she is to toss the rest of our tiny civilization aside for my sake. She takes “Ride or Die” to a whole new level, and I genuinely wish I could put aside these feelings of obligation and leave it all like she wants me to.

But I can’t. And she knows it too.

Her forehead thuds against the steering wheel, an exasperated sigh slipping from her lips. “Alright, fine. But I’m coming up with you this time; there’s no way I’m sitting in the lobby again while they coerce you into another stupid scheme.”

Her face says: “Just try and tell me no.” And honestly, having some support might be nice this time around. “Alright, but only if you promise not to blow up on Catherine. She’s done right by me, and has been the biggest advocate—other than you—for me to stay on the less dangerous side of Vanguardhood.”

She bites her cheek for a moment before nodding at me, and then rapidly slips out of the car before I can wrap her in a hug.

----------------------------------------

“Welcome back, Vanguard and Miss Sydney. If I could have the two of you stand on the plate to your right—one at a time, please.” The same front desk clerk from our last visit says, her expression friendly but exhausted.

I hardly hesitate, but Sydney grabs my arm and I let her stop me. “What is it? We didn’t have to step on any Fathom-Tech last time.” She asks, probably a little too hostile.

The woman takes a small round object from under her desk and presses on it, summoning an all white hologram in front of us. “After some recent security concerns, we have implemented several scanning instruments on the premises. They are almost entirely non-intrustive, and incredibly fast. If you would like further information, this digital pamphlet goes into more detail.”

Sydney looks at the clickable hologram projector with all the love of an opossum looking at a jar of vinegar—which is to say, violent disgust. “Right, well, if it's a requirement to go further, we haven’t got much choice.” She says, pushing me towards the plate.

I struggle a bit, her apprehension rubbing off on me even though I wasn’t worried at all before she spoke up.

Click

My feet depress the center of the disk as I step on it, and my mind instantly jolts to memories of trapped pressure plates from movies made pre-bubble cities. Before thoughts of traps can develop into further anxiety, a pillar of wind whips around me incredibly fast, slinging the pendant of my necklace into my temple.

“Ah!” I blurt, stumbling backwards off the plate, my hair thoroughly wrapped around my face. I take control of them for a moment, untangling it all and pulling it out from where it got stuck on my lips. A holographic green thumb appears pointing its thumb upwards above the disk, and I turn my gaze to Sydney.

“That wasn’t so bad, give it a try!” I say, refusing to fix my clothes that have twisted just enough to be uncomfortable.

“You’re making that face, there’s no way I’m getting on it now. There’s a perfectly good Pepsi fountain over there, and I have absolutely no qualms about ditching you to avoid this thing.”

The woman at the desk—I see now that her name tag says Melanie—smirks briefly in amusement before adding to the discourse. “Unfortunately, if you wish to use any of the building's facilities, including the soda fountain, you must participate in the scan.”

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

I’m sure Sydney planned on working herself up to stepping on it so I wouldn’t be alone, but hearing that she didn’t have an option seems to have soured her impression even further. Putting her hair up in a ponytail and wrapping her arms around herself straight-jacket style, she steps upon the plate and braces.

Now able to see it from an outside perspective, I’m surprised to see that there isn’t any indication of wind whipping around her; just her clothes flapping violently under her grasp. It doesn’t even last a full second, but based on her expression, if it had been any longer there might’ve been a murder.

I help Syd take off the hair tie and brush some of the frazzled hair down, having already tamed my own. Melanie's eyes flash with dull golden light for a moment as she addresses us.

“Thank you both for your cooperation, I have informed the relevant parties of your arrival. Please proceed to the back office.”

“The same one as last time? With the mutton-chops guy?” I ask, realistically only asking to see how she reacts to my description of him.

“Mutton…? Ah, yes. Well, the back office is indeed the same room you visited last time. Do you have any further questions?” She responds, her customer service voice feeling a bit strangled partway through.

“No, um, thank you for the help,” I say, feeling like I asked something I shouldn’t have.

Once we’re out of earshot, Sydney whispers to me, “There was totally something off there; do you think something happened between them? Maybe he’s a creep or something and keeps hitting on her when she can’t leave the desk. I had something like that happen when I worked at Spit-Stop.”

Rabid excitement has replaced the sour pout she put on after using the scanner, the scent of mild gossip overriding her previous thoughts. I wouldn’t say she’s a gossip…? Gossiper? Whatever, she isn’t the type to actually spread gossip; she’s more of a drama hoarder who collects and makes up her own endings for them.

We finish our trek to the back office, dropping the topic before we get there to avoid an awkward situation with the person in question. As I reach out to knock on the door, it whips open, catching the barest piece of my knuckle during its swing.

Like all super-minor injuries, it stings more than if the door had caught my entire hand, and I’m about to give mutton-chops a piece of my mind when I notice he isn’t there. No one is, for that matter. The entire twenty-five square meters of office are dead silent, the humming of a computer's fan the only sound.

“Are we at the wrong office...?” Sydney poses, and I won’t admit it but I’m starting to have doubts of my own.

“This is definitely where we came last time, I remember the same picture on his desk.” I say, gesturing to an older-looking photo with what I presume is a pre-facial hair mutton-chops. “Could he be on lunch? Also, that door definit—”

“Apologies, Vanguard Amalgam. I was held up on my way to pick you up.” Says the metallic half of a face sticking out of the wall.

I fight back a scream, the terrifying experience only somewhat dulled by my thoughts racing to catch up with what it called me and the fact that it sounds like Chassis. Sydney has no such distraction, and belts out a scream as she throws the only thing in her hands—her phone—at the protruding half-face.

A vertical section of said face splits open, little metallic tendrils grasping the phone and slowing its speed to a stop, letting it rest gently in the crack.

Roosevelt reacts to the burst of fear I sent through our link, responding immediately. “No need to panic! I can sense Vanguard Chassis’ Chthonic Signature from that construct. There is no danger.”

Already having worked that bit out myself, I turn to my friend, freezing terror across her features. “Hey, woah, it's alright. He’s a Vanguard, even Roosevelt said so. There aren’t any Fathom here. Deep breaths.” I say, standing in front of her to block her vision. Her breaths are quick as she leans her head against my collar, trying to wind herself down.

I pet her hair as I turn just my head towards Chassis, his new terrifying body sticking out of the wall silently. “It’s good to see that you’re okay, though I’m curious why you’re the one greeting us instead of mutt—The Corps member from last time. Isn’t this a bit of a waste of your time?”

He slides a foot out of the wall, and I’m led to wonder whether he’s a full structure inside of the wall or just whatever parts are sticking out. “The problem you have been requested for is relatively urgent, so my presence is warranted. In regards to Corporal Banks, he sustained fatal injuries in defense of Barbeau City’s Vanguard Headquarters.”

“Fatal… He’s dead?” I say, not even grasping the meaning of my own words as I say them. I saw him within the last four days; how could he be dead? He would have to—Old Ones, he was at the funeral, wasn’t he?

My body shudders, and I squeeze the still-silent Sydney perhaps a little too tight. The guilt I’ve been dragging around like a far too long cape finds itself stepped on by another spectral footprint; the worst of the feeling coming from my lack of sadness at the news. It’s somewhat of a shock at best.

“He is deceased, yes. Will you be bringing Miss Sydney Singh along for the meeting? Her visiting privileges have already been granted by the Director.” He responds flatly, his humanity difficult to ascertain behind the cold tone and metal.

“Yes. She will be.” Sydney grits out, trying—and failing—to look at Chassis as she speaks for me.

Chassis tilts his half-head to the side slightly, no less terrifying despite the dog-like action. “I take it you agree with this sentiment?” He asks me.

I give Sydney's expression a glance, and despite her still using me as a wall to not look at Chassis, I can tell there’s no way she’s going to budge on this. “Yeah, what floor and room? We’re gonna take the stairs.”

“The director is waiting in her laboratory; I can take the both of you up from—hrm.” He cuts off, having enough tact to read the look I’m giving him. “Floor Three, four rooms to the right if you’re coming up the stairs. Please be swift.” He finishes, melting into the floor.

I stand there for a moment, giving her some time to get a hold of her emotions and stop shaking so violently. I know whatever situation is going on is important, and that I’ll probably feel bad when I find out what I delayed, but right now Syd’s my priority. She’s earned that much.

“C’mon, I’m fine. He said this is time-sensitive.” She says, fruitlessly pulling on my arm to get me to leave the room.

“I know the difference between your ‘I’m fine's.’ The world already ended, so whatever this is literally can’t be the end of the world, and even if it was, you’re more important. Let’s talk about it.”

She stares at me blankly for a moment, a bit of surprise and irritation banishing the previous emotions from her face. “That’s… Ugh, you can be so obnoxiously unfair sometimes, Brooke.” She sighs, letting go of my arm. “Can we please at least walk while we talk about things? I’ll be way less than okay if something happens to someone because you were consoling me for being scared of a Vanguard.”

I quirk my lips to the side a bit, wishing I was better at reading her when she actually wants to hide her thoughts. I know pushing too hard can be even worse than not trying at all, but that also feels like I’m giving myself an excuse to not help my best friend when she needs it most.

Scratching the back of my head in indecision, I let out a frustrated growl-like noise at the situation. “Graah, fine. We can walk and talk, but don’t think I haven’t noticed that these always end in you saying, ‘I’ll tell you later.’

Squirming uncomfortably, she gives a hesitant nod. “We’ll talk about things.”

----------------------------------------

We did not talk about things.

Three flights of stairs and a weird invisible wall later, the only thing we even briefly talked about was Chassis' new body being nightmare fuel. I admit, some of that was on me, I totally let the silence play out, thinking that it was more important to let her think things through.

“Sorry, I really did intend to talk things through. I just didn’t account for my mental ineptitude.” She says, staring at the wall of Catherine's laboratory.

There aren’t any windows, just like the rest of the building, only cold marbled walls and their consistent heartbeat. “Ditto,” I say, mental exhaustion already setting in.

“Hey Roosevelt,” I say aloud, “are we supposed to open the door ourselves? Or are we waiting on them?”

He slides into existence to my left, making Sydney flinch a bit. “I will inform them of your arrival; I wanted to ensure you had the time you needed to speak.”

I send him a quick “Thanks Roce.” in my head for his consideration as the wall creates seams in itself, sinking into the floor like an opening puppets mouth.

Sitting in her office chair, head slumped onto the glass case in her lap. Her hair cascades off of its sides, and I can feel the exhaustion radiating off of her without even seeing her face. She mumbles something as she lifts her head, puffy red eyes made worse by the dark bags beneath them.

She slaps her hand on top of the case lightly, and I swear I see it jump around on its own a bit.

“When you look in this box, what do you see?”