Staring back at me with a look of mixed horror and disbelief, my reflection mimics me as I struggle against my bonds.
Previously, I had assumed my limbs were held down by leather restraints or something, but now that I can see myself, the terrifying reality sets in. Dark crystal spines grow along my upper arm like a collection of protruding scales, meshing into the mass of tentacles my forearms have grown into. They seem... almost intelligent in their autonomous movement; some of them writhing like snakes in my defense, the rest of them tightly wound around the cot and me, cocooning me down onto it.
I assume my legs are in a similar state, though I can’t lean up to check. My pulse quickens, a rapid drum beat against my eardrums.
"Amalgam,” I hear through the din, the whisper sharp and clear.
What? What does that mean? Are they talking about me? Did I do something wrong while I was unconscious?
“Show Miss Vanguard some respect; y’all know damn well what she went through to keep us safe.” The nurse, still kindly blocking the light from my eyes, chastises them. I appreciate it, but her comment all but confirms that they were talking about me in a negative light. “Sorry love, you know how civvies can be when it comes to things outta the ordinary.
“Ith fine.” I lie. “Yu kmo… how happem?”
I regret the regret my mangled words as soon as I say them. The alarm in her eyes—while brief—breaking my heart. She regains her composure incredibly fast—fast enough that I almost wonder if I imagined it.
“‘Fraid not, ya already had the little spikey bits when I pulled the two of you from the hallway. The tentacles came after, gave me a real fright when I was cleanin your wounds.” She fans her face dramatically, making it seem like some unimportant gossip.
Irritated at my inability to form proper speech, and unable to try and sign to her since my hands don’t exist, I lay my head back and huff. “Thorry. Able be fixthed?” I ask, a bit of blood trickling down my cheek wounds that had started healing before my talking ripped them.
“Oh honey, no more talkin, okay? I know you Vanguard heal up quick, but this was a real bad one. Nothin' our lovely director can't fix, mind you, but I’m not sure there's much of anything she can’t heal at this point. Speaking of her, I’m sure she’ll be doing the rounds soon enough. I wish she wouldn't, considering her state, but we all know how she is when there’s work to do. Let me wrap your cute little face up real quick so you can get some well-earned rest.” She works as she talks, and if she was trying to calm me down by talking at me, I’ll admit to it working a bit. Taking a can of what looks like unmarked WD-40, she sprays it along the side of my head. The sensation is cooling; whatever reaction causing it to expand over my wounds clearly not exothermic.
I lay down and close my eyes, her suggestion of rest more appealing than I’d thought. “That’s Debra. Wonderful woman who’s been around nearly as long as the Vanguard has. And she’s right about Catherine; I’ve spoken with her contractor, Hannibal. He says she’ll be here shortly, but that you should go ahead and get some sleep. You don’t need to be awake to be healed, and you’ll need the rest. There will be a lot to do once we’ve recovered.”
My response doesn’t make it out before sleep takes me.
----------------------------------------
I wake, though not truly. The world around me is a mockery of the real one; its uncanny nature far more obvious after being here once before.
The memory this time is unpleasantly recent, and not paused in a singular moment like before. In front of me, I see Vanguard Chassis, his face set in a grimace of pain as I watch his chest bulge as he’s impaled in slow motion. I’m sure I’d feel nausea at this scene if I wasn’t overcome with apathy for some reason, but... alas.
I search my surroundings for anyone out of place, standing up to get a better view. Catherine, though without lips for some reason, tears apart a transformed soldier with a touch. I watch his body start to split into ribbons in slow motion; the image morbidly satisfying.
“May I leave unmolested this time?” I ask to the open air, uncaring if I anger it for some reason. “I don’t think I have the mental strength to work through a puzzle again.”
To my left I watch Duff leap off the bench, the replay of the scene unmoving to me, especially since it’s my second time watching it. I notice the detritus on the ground shifting as an invisible Naomi pulls on the arm of a me that simply isn’t there. Weird. Are my interactions with the scene just going to be gone, or are they just going to be missing the “me” part?
“You’ll have to forgive my late response; I was immersed in your dream. It is far more interesting this time than the last.” Chassis’ voice responds casually from behind me.
I sigh, both annoyed at being forced to talk to the thing wearing my maimed comrade's skin and at his obvious lack of answer to my previous plea. The memory of how angry I was when talking to Catherine about this thing comes to my mind, though the anger isn’t really there.
Duff’s blade separates the flesh of the arm going through his chest as I look at Chassis’s face unblinkingly. I have no idea what it's thinking, but I refuse to accept its apology.
The limb falls towards the ground steadily, my gaze following it along its journey to the ground. I wonder if this one grew legs like the other one did. I look up to see Vanguard Chassis pull himself off the limb again, though this time with a serene grin on his face.
“Sturdy little mortal, isn’t he?” It says, though the way he says “mortal” is the way I’d say insect.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“Would you like an apology for changing your channel, or something? I’d really like to wake up normally this time.”
The smile he’s forcing on the Vanguard's face settles into a frown with his teeth showing, like it doesn’t know, or perhaps doesn’t care, how to do it normally. “It seems dulling your emotional responses doesn’t have the intended effect. Knowledge for next time, I suppose.”
I’m confident that its comment should instill something like existential fear in me, but the most emotion I can muster is tiredness. “Could you please leave my mind alone? I’m pretty sure having an Old One tinker in there is the literal recipe for insanity.”
It grins, its puppeted eyes narrowing in interest. “An Old One? Fascinating. Explain your thought process.” He demands, and my mouth contorts to obey.
“Not. Thought. Told. Assumption.” My mouth spouts, despite my intent. I wrench control back from it, but only because it lets me.
“That is less entertaining than I had hoped.” It states as Chassis body falls to the ground, the hole in his chest filling with silvery ooze that he pulls from the floor.
I scrape my tongue with my teeth, trying to get the literal bad taste out of my mouth from it forcing me to speak. A projectile disrupts me as it passes through my chest like I’m not there, increasing my discomfort even further.
Shrieking terror surges through my body, every instinctual response I should have had through this entire situation hitting me at once. I fall to my knees, gasping for air despite me dreaming and not needing any. Catherine's boot goes through my torso as I lay on the ground, drooling.
Chassis, a chunk now missing from his lower torso, stands up with Catherine's help, one of her hands blasting the original Fathom, who attacked with green energy. I wasn’t here for this part; Catherine ran past me before this. I look towards the room's entrance sluggishly, my faculties trying to get back to normal as I watch a floating Duff disappear past the hallway opening.
I guess that answers that question.
“Your emotional responses have been restored.” It says, one of its host's eyes jabbed out during combat, leaking silver.
My bones ache as it speaks; whatever it’s doing to me is far more effective when my emotions aren’t suppressed.
“Why… are you doing this?” I groan, trying to stand again. My knees buckle as the upper half of a woman in a uniform passes through my leg and impacts the ground, still in slow motion.
“Doing what?” it responds, sounding genuinely clueless.
I freeze in place, its words finally connecting the dots for me. It literally has no idea what it’s doing wrong; there’s no malice in any of these actions. I’m the world's smallest wind-up toy, and it’s playing with my settings for convenience. The fury at being treated like that comes back, but it's beaten mercilessly by a wave of terror.
A toy is generous, I realize; its interest entirely off me and onto my memory at this point. I don’t even think I’d qualify as an insect flying in front of its unfathomable television screen. Somehow blood drips from my nose inside a dream, my thoughts spiraling downward indefinitely.
“Ah, I was wondering when this would happen.” It says, and I hear the crack of an eggshell.
What was I just thinking about?
Wait—this isn’t where I was in the dream; this woman's corpse wasn’t just at my feet! What happened to me? Where are my memories of the last two minutes?! My lips feel wet, so I touch them, my fingers coming away red. I look at Chassis' face; his expression that of patient observance. Did it... take my memories? Can it just modify me at will? I feel my forehead heat up, and my body feverish, despite that being impossible.
“I suppose a little more trimming is necessary.” I hear, and I release a sob.
The sound of glass shattering sounds out around me.
----------------------------------------
I wake, though not truly. My surroundings are a horrific mess of bodies and combat, weapons and body parts flying through the air in slow motion. Everything feels off in a visceral way, like a far more morbid version of my aquarium dream.
“If I’m not alone, can we talk?” I ask, fear starting to get the better of me. “If possible, I’d like to thank you for helping me survive my Ascension. I know thanking the fae is supposed to be a bad idea, but I don’t think you and them have very much rule-wise that intersect. So, uh, thank you.”
If the Old One is here, flattery might be a good start. It did technically save my life too, I think. While I wait for a response, I watch the fight happening around me. Catherine morphs her body into something inhuman as she rips the Fathom apart, her clawed hands and Chthonic power shredding the creature's unending font of flesh. This could all be made up by my unconscious mind since I wasn’t here, but I have a weird feeling that everything around me is accurate.
“Fascinating. Would you like to make a deal, little thing?” Chassis asks me, his body a bloody mess—more silver metal than flesh at this point.
“Do I have a choice, and may I know the terms?” I ask, rubbing my teeth with my tongue, the word “deal” aching them. By the time it answers I’m wondering if my the fae are actually that different from Old Ones.
“You may reject my offer, and I will release you from your dream. You won't, though.”
Its voice is confident, and though I’m spiteful at the way it said it, I have a feeling he’s right. We simply aren’t on the same level when it comes to exchange. The greatest thing I could offer it would be nearly worthless compared to the least of its own.
“...And the terms?” I reiterate, praying it's feeling patient.
“There is a piece of knowledge you will want shortly after waking. It will be of utmost importance to you, and the odds of you discovering it without me are slim beyond your comprehension.” I watch the floor rise up in slow motion to wrap around Vanguard Chassis like a pair of crashing waves. “In exchange, you will complete one action for me in the future. You may not know what it is, and you must accomplish it of your own will within an hour's time.”
My throat feels tight. “And the consequences of failure?”
“Dire.”
No matter how important something is to me, it can’t be worth trading for something so ambiguous. Especially with a creature whose intent is impossible for me to grasp. But… What if it has something to do with my family? Or Sydney? What does this being think "utmost importance” means, anyway? Its definition has to be completely different than my own, right?
I hold my head between my hands. There's only one answer here, really. Doesn’t make the decision any less painful, though. My fingernails scratch at my skin, the pain helping clear my head.
“I’m prepared to answer.”