A leaf from a large oak tree crunches beneath my shoe, a liberating satisfaction running up my spine at the destructive action. On my walk home from the Vanguard installation, I decided to take a longer path—one that takes me through the city's center and the park located there. This choice was only partially motivated by my need to think of an excuse for my mother, since I was gone overnight without telling her where I was. And, like, I don’t necessarily HAVE to tell her anything since I’m a grown adult and all that nonsense, but considering what happened the last time I disappeared overnight... I’m reluctant to leave her to worry.

Another leaf meets its cronchy end to my sneakers, my path a zigzag assault on the crispest-looking ones. It’s difficult to do without looking goofy to the other people in the park, but I think I manage to be nonchalant enough about it.

I wasn’t a hundred percent serious when I considered just telling my family that I’m a Vanguard, but the idea is starting to warm up to me. I have a great relationship with them—at least compared to a lot of other families—so I’m pretty confident they’d keep it a secret. The problem remains, though: can I guarantee that they’ll treat me the same as they do now?

I’m not worried about being treated poorly all of a sudden; in fact, my biggest concern is that the opposite will happen. I know my brother has a bit of an obsession with Vanguards, and both of my parents have a mild interest at the very least. The idea that my family could wind up treating me like I’m some higher being gives me cramps in my stomach. I step on another leaf, but this one just kind of flattens wetly, dampening my mood along with it.

With my train of thought thoroughly derailed, I unhesitatingly flop myself onto one of the cushioned benches lining the sidewalk, my legs thankful for the break. I let my eyes close, trying to give my brain a soft reset by letting the puzzle pieces of my problems dissolve into their individual parts. A lot of people get overwhelmed when they have too many issues going on at once, but I’ve found that breaking everything down to its base form helps me see them as less impactful and easier to deal with.

When my eyes open, I let out the breath I’ve been holding, exhaling as my retina adjusts to the light again. My gaze is drawn to a family setting up a plaid blanket on the grass to eat on; one of the children helping what I assume is their grandmother to sit down on it. I don’t see anyone young enough to be the kids' parents, and I’m a little shocked when I realize my first assumption is that they were killed. It’s true, I’m sure, but that being my automatic answer instead of something like “their parents have to work today” leaves me with mixed feelings.

It’s just sort of how the world works now; we’re all so desensitized to the concept of death that it’s the natural assumption in a scenario like this. One of my memories from back when things were more “normal” is me breaking down crying because an actor I liked passed away. If something like that happened today, I’m not sure I’d feel anything more than a brief “that sucks” before moving on.

I let out a sigh without opening my lips, the unpleasant noise resulting from that sounding like a mixture between a gas car not starting properly and a horse flapping its lips. A squirrel with its cheeks half full of acorns freezes at the noise, his slightly tubby body a result of having zero predators in this carefully maintained environment.

I mime having food in my hand to entice him into getting closer, but when he does, I’m left with an awkward predicament of not having anything to give him. I guiltily open my palms, showing the squirrel that he was deceived, embarrassment coloring my cheeks as I try to charade the rodent an apology with my hands.

I watch the irate little guy scurry off into one of the huge oak trees, his dark brown tail disappearing behind its branches.

“That felt somewhat unlike you, Brooke. Are you well?” Roosevelt’s voice sounds out in my mind, his deep, echoey tone not startling me for once.

I sit there for a bit, not responding, unsure how to put my problem into words. “You know how you mentioned in the sewers that you could read my mind if I gave you permission?” I ask aloud, my eyes following a jogger as he makes his way toward my bit of sidewalk.

“I recall, yes.”

“Did you and Silo do that?” I question in my head, the jogger now close enough to hear me.

“The short answer is yes, but the situation is a bit too nuanced for a short answer to suffice. It took six of our nine years together for him to be willing to share his thoughts regularly, and that’s mostly because we were in danger often enough that it became the more prudent choice.”

“Wait, are you saying he only did it because he had to? My impression was that he was much more open than that.”

I stand up from the bench, my butt leaving a quickly dissipating indent in its cushion. Nervousness at going home wars with guilt at not being there already, the turmoil making my feet move in a subconscious motion, following the jogger's path as I await Roosevelt's response.

“Contrary to popular belief, Silo kept most of his cards close to his chest. He definitely acted the outgoing type, but I could count on half my arms the number of other humans he opened up to.”

For some reason, my brain gets stuck on his use of “arms” instead of “tentacles,” even though it's entirely impertinent to the conversation. “That’s… hmm. It didn’t seem like you guys had any lack of trust, so what—” I stop mid-question, finally realizing that the feeling of melancholy that’s been bugging me wasn’t mine at all. “Ah! I’m so sorry! I didn’t consider my questions at all; that was super tactless of me.”

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The jogger ahead of me twists around at my outburst, but he doesn’t stop running.

“Do not apologize, my agitation is neither your fault nor your responsibility. I am simply dwelling on my failures during the funeral attack; please continue your questions.” His words are resolute, and despite my reluctance to let it drop, I can tell he genuinely doesn’t want to talk about it. I’m sure he senses my disappointment at not being able to help him in the ways he’s helped me, as he continues: “My emotions may seem similar in nature to a humans, but they are a facsimile at best. An existence like mine provides a perspective and type of comprehension utterly alien compared to your species, so mutual understanding is difficult. I’m only as adept at human interactions as I am due to my prolonged stay among your kind. In other words, our minds are too different for your consolation to have any real effect, but the consideration is genuinely appreciated.”

His explanation puts me on my back foot, and I do my best to wrangle my emotional responses. Hearing that we’re that far apart existence-wise makes sense, but it feels like a bit of a slap in the face since I thought I was starting to understand him. My right foot trips on the lip of one of the sidewalk panels, my other foot slamming down with all the force of a distracted Vanguard.

Embarrassment crawls up my cheeks as I try to act confused about the source of the sound, swiftly walking away from the crack in the cement. Rather than being scared of how my parents react, I’m now terrified that someone I know will recognize me acting like a sociopath in the park.

I make sure to not speak out loud this time as I address Roosevelt, “Right, well, this whole train of thought came about because I’m kind of nervous about the mind-reading business, but want to get across some things I can’t with words.”

His response is instant, but his words are slow and patient, like a parent on their third child answering a question they’ve been waiting for them to ask. “You have a couple of options here, actually. We can wait until you’ve found the right words—however long you need—so you don’t feel rushed into this process. Alternatively, we could treat it more like a test drive. I’m contractually bound to never delve into your thoughts without permission, which means that you can reverse the decision at any time.”

The idea of an off switch does a lot for my nerves, as does his relaxed nature while explaining it. I can still feel an undertone of moroseness through our contract, but it seems like having something to focus on helps to alleviate it.

“I’m feeling less apprehensive about it, but just to clarify—this isn’t a physical change to me, right? I see myself as a little less human every time a part of me morphs into something else.” I say, stepping over another raised lip of sidewalk, far more prepared for its nefarious intentions this time.

“No such problems will arise, it's entirely based upon your consent and my own inherent abilities. Though, as a warning, the very nature of your powers seems to be rooted in the morphing you’re concerned with. You will likely be forced to reconcile with it as you grow in strength.”

While alarmed by the new information, I try to push it aside before it can shatter the confidence in my choice I’ve gathered. “Right, gonna not think about that bit until later. How does the consent process work? Is it verbal? Or can I just will you the ability to read my mind?”

My ears pop as he chuckles, the sound muffled like a bubbly underwater laugh. “Any sort of direct consent will do, including—yes, that worked.” Roosevelt states, going silent for several moments afterward. A bit of dread creeps around my heart, the emotion squeezing at my chest at his reaction. Can he see something terrible? Does he hate me? I know I can think some pretty messed-up stuff, but those are just intrusive thoughts! “Apologies, it’s a lot to parse all at once; I should have a handle on it now though.”

My shoulders sag in relief, though a hint of anxiety sticks around as I think back at him. “We’re all good, then? No uhhh—”

“‘Messed-up stuff’? No. But even if there was, I’m no novice when it comes to the human brain, and there’s very little you could think about that would alarm me.” He interrupts before waiting another beat. “That said, I’m a little shocked by how much processing power you’ve currently devoted to the semantics of why I call my tentacles ‘arms’.”

Outwardly, my face is the image of calmness, nothing other than a slight tint of red on my cheeks revealing the internal screaming going on in my head. ”I knew this was a terrible idea, I should have never agreed to this.” I blurt, trying to disconnect the link before he sees anything else embarrassing.

“Forgive me, I didn’t properly consider the ramifications of my words. I was simply surprised that that was your focus, considering everything that’s happened to you recently. If you’re still curious, though, I’d be happy to explain the nuances of cephalopod limbs to you.”

My steps stop as I reach a crosswalk, its holographic bars a jarring red against my retina. I’m not sure how they make it different colors depending on the angle it's viewed from, but that’s another rabbit hole I don’t care to entrap myself in. “It’s fine, I think I’m just a little too touchy about my mind. I’m not sure when it started, but I’ve generated this instinctual fear about having my thoughts tamped with, and even though I trust you, it’s hard to let go.” I chew my lip before speaking again. “...That explanation would be nice, though. Now that I know there’s more to it, I’m even more curious.”

The sensation of him anxiously undulating his… arms? Occurs within my head. “I noticed a couple discrepancies in your memory, so trusting your gut there is probably smart. It could just be the result of trauma, but having me and Miss Catherine take a look at it is probably a good idea. Until then, though, let's talk cephalopods!”

My feet step onto the obsidian-like road as the crosswalk turns green, Roosevelt’s teacher-voice the soundtrack for the rest of my walk home.