My lungs are screaming when I return to my body, whatever caused this experience not bothering to make sure I’d have a living body to return to. I inhale like I’ve just breached the surface of the water while drowning, the lining of my trachea burning with every breath.

“Her mind has returned! Brooke, what happened?!” Roosevelt nearly shouts, his manifested form blurry to my watered eyes.

"Auhckkkkkk,” I respond, trying to breathe and talk simultaneously. I’m too lightheaded to really consider anything too in depth, but I have some surface-level thoughts relating to feeling like utter garbage at least once a day since I became a Vanguard. “Hyughhh," I groan, but this time it’s just me expressing my displeasure.

A wave of what feels like little fingers poking my entire body goes through me, removing almost all of the pains afflicting me. There's still a bit of a headache, but I’m pretty sure that might be a constant thing for me now.

"Sorry, I’m not in perfect shape and have run through the majority of my Chthonic wellspring,” Catherine says, somewhat short of breath. “Normally I can use a bit of spare power to smooth the process over some, but considering the circumstances, you’ll have to settle for the ticklish version. or just stop getting injured. Let's go with that last one, actually.”

“I’ll do my best. Does anyone have a paper and pen? Or know where my phone is? I need to write some things down before I forget them.” I ask, repeating the things I learned like a mantra in my head.

The spot they came up is west from here since the sun was rising behind the bubble. I’m a copper-tasting interloper with some Old One spice. Line treader/balance impossible/no paradox allowed.

Duff returns with a tablet open to some sort of word document, and I snatch it from his hands before hen-pecking the information in. “The Fathom went west; there's a hole in the ground there.” I say out loud as I type, some of the information already fading. “I-um, oh, this spider Fathom said I taste like copper, which is apparently a Vanguard thing. I think he said something about tasting mucus-y too… What was it?” I press a knuckle into my forehead in an attempt to knead the information out. “Oh! He said something like: ‘mucus-taste of a being, uh… ancient and eldritch, complicates your position.’”

Catherine's eyebrows scrunch together, a somehow endearing expression despite the horrific state of her body. “Ancient and eldritch sounds a lot like the visitor you got during your ascension, if you ask me.”

Memories flood back to me like they never left, but I can tell intrinsically that if it hadn’t been brought up, I never would have thought about it. During my first interaction with it, it granted me a supposed ‘boon’ that deeply impacted the contract I have with Roosevelt. And now on the second interaction—just last night—I traded away an action of my own will to a being I cannot grasp the intentions of. Did it make me forget? If so, why? And why would its seal be so flimsy as to be broken by just bringing it up? I’m about to go down a rabbit hole of what-ifs when I zone back into the screen in front of me.

“Shoot, hold on; I need to write down the rest of this before it escapes me.” I blurt out, cutting off

Catherine's next question. “Um, um, um, right. Okay. line-treader. I remember”

Even this memory seems to be trying to slip away as I write it down, and if I hadn’t gotten my first Insight from Naomi’s memory interacting powers, I’m sure it would have. I type out: ‘Take heed, line-treader. The forces at play make it impossible to balance, and will not allow a paradox.’ and while it feels off, for some reason, I think I got the main points. I tack on a couple of quick notes about memories being tampered with, having a second dream, and making a deal with it for a singular action.

I hesitate turning the screen towards them, giving them more things to worry about when everything already went to shit seems… cruel. Duff grabs the top of it and snatches it out of my hands, seeing my conflicted expression.

“Like a bandaid, lass. If it's shite, it's shite. No point agonizin’ over aet.” He says, before looking at it. His bushy eyebrows lower gradually while reading, settling where they cover half of his eyes. “Oof, if thas’ not ominous than me ma’s a shoggoth.”

He twists the tablet to Catherine, putting it a little too close to her face. After recoiling initially, she leans back towards it, intently reading it at the same distance he placed it from her. Some of the blood cycling through her open wounds starts to wander while she’s distracted, but they rejoin the collective swiftly once she notices.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“And you don’t think these were the same entity? The spider and the one from your dreams, I mean.” Catherine asks, her eyes begging me to reduce her problems by even one intelligent Fathom.

“I definitely didn’t get that vibe. Like, I’m sure if it wanted to fool me into thinking it was two entities, it could. But my impression of it was that it considered me too insignificant to go to that kind of effort.”

Her sigh is the kind that comes from the bones—the sort of sigh that draws in the happiness around it and smothers it. “That means we have—at a minimum—three highly intelligent Fathom who have interests in Barbaeu City.” She taps her earpiece before talking to it. “Liz, could you set up a meeting between me and Vanguard Database? No, just whenever they’re free to discuss things. Yes—you're the best, thank you.”

I watch her slouch when the call ends, as if her posture mattered to the other person across an audio-only call. I figure it’s smart to not mention it, but it seems the sergeant has no such qualms.

“Looks right goofy when ya do that.” He guffaws, his laugh infecting me a bit too.

Catherine rolls her tongue against her cheek for a bit, her expression flat. “I’m assuming you haven't connected the dots yet, Duff, because if you had, you’d know that this means my sister is going to be sent here.”

That shuts Duff up, his head snapping to the right to look at her in shock. Behind his bushy facial hair, I can see his mouth morph into a comically accurate ‘O’ shape. “Yer serious! Elder Gods, I dinnae if I can survive aet this time. Woudja be able tae help me fake my death?” He asks, completely serious.

“Able to? Easily. Willing to? Not on your life. If I have to deal with her, then you better believe I’m not doing it alone. Damn it, I want some chocolate milk.” She snaps back, before complaining woefully.

I tilt my head to the left slightly, completely confounded. “Sister? Does that mean you and your sibling both got contracted?’ I ask, once again finding myself facing the issue of trying to host people from the Vanguard hospital beds.

Roosevelt fades into existence once again, but this time from the room's entrance. “That is correct; Vanguard Asclepius is blood related to the captain of New R’lyeh’s strike team, Vanguard Eclipse. She has earned herself a reputation of sorts, though her strength is undeniable.” A bit of nervousness sends itself through our link, contrasting his words. “Also, I have checked upon your patients for you, Miss Catherine. They are all stabilized, though completely reliant on your chthonic ability at this moment.”

Catherine looks less than pleased at the news, despite it being arguably good-sounding. “I’ll continue for as long as I can, though they’re basically human colanders at this point. Once I stop healing them, they’ll leak my power until necrosis takes over and kills them.”

Dread takes its time climbing up my spine as she speaks, but once the reality of her—and their—situation sets in, I feel my throat close up. “So they’re just… living on borrowed time? That’s unimaginable.”

Duff lets out a deep breath, his reaction to the news a somber sigh. “Aye, they’re soldiers, though. None of em are wantin tae pass, but they’ll get tha chance to say goodbyes, and they’ll be right glad for that. ‘Sides, most of em were old dogs like me, an’ livin this long as a frontsman s’not natural.”

His words are as much for himself as they are for me; I’m sure he knows most of them intimately, and seeing them like this must be torture. My theory is proven right as I hear him choke back a sob before he covers his eyes with his beaten-up old hat. “S’no right. The lads jus’ wanted tae pay respects to an old friend, they alreadeh did their fightin’.”

His words cut off, and I see his shoulders shake, viscerally upset. It’s jarring, seeing the old man this vulnerable. He’s made himself out to be someone rough around the edges, like an emotional bastion of a man. Catherine stands, rubbing him on the back as he recovers from his breakdown.

“S’allright, jus gotta get me head on straight. Sorry bout tha’.” He says, trying to brush her hand away.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, tough guy. If I hadn’t tested it myself, I’d think Brooke’s ability was to make the people around her burst into tears. She got to me her first day here.” Catherine retorts, dodging his hand and giving him a bop on the back of the head. “I’m gonna go give them their diagnosis; do you feel up to coming, Brooke?”

While the idea of standing by awkwardly while Catherine tells a bunch of people that they’re doomed to die sounds dreadful, her look tells me that Duff needs some time alone, and that she doesn’t want to do it by herself.

“Oh, sure. Should I be in costume for that...?” I ask, having transformed back into my normal clothes while I slept.

She thinks for a moment, mulling over the decision. “You don’t have to; these aren’t people you need to worry about spreading your identity around. It might be nice for them to see the Vanguard in costume who saved their sergeant though.”