My fingers run along the crocheted surface of my keychains, their texture doing little to improve my mood despite the pleasant lines of stitches running along them.

“Try changing it in a way that isn’t just extending it or adjusting its width.” Catherine says to me, indicating to the tentacle that she’s had me lay on the table in front of her.

She’s spent the last half hour or so prodding and scanning the tendrils that I can make, and while I’m glad to have something to keep my mind off how Naomi’s doing, it's dreadfully dull. I try to do as she asks, the inky appendage pulsating as I attempt to form something akin to spikes on it, though the only results are gross bumps that I can’t get to stay still.

“That’s all I can manage, something about it doesn’t want to change forms.” I say, straining my already fatigued mind further.

She slices the end of my tentacle off, and though I don’t feel any pain from it, the sudden lack of sensation makes me twitch in discomfort. I imagine it's like a toned-down version of what amputees go through, though that's entirely speculation on my part.

Catherine has two robotic limbs lock down its tip and stump, restraining it as she channels bright green energy into it.

“Try to stabilize it and keep it from decaying.”

I let out a sigh, sitting up and focusing on the detached piece of me despite my growing headache. Immersing myself in the link between the tentacle and my consciousness, I do my best to imagine that it is not, in fact, severed from me, and instead that I am simply unable to see the parts between myself and it.

A tentative bond forms, the connection feeling sticky and unnatural, but it is better than it was the last time she asked. I sense the tentacle, and though I’ve tricked myself into thinking it's still attached, the degradation still occurs. At this rate, the attempt will only last slightly longer than the first time I did it before shriveling and turning ash-adjacent.

“You can stop; it's no longer sustainable.” She says, flopping into her own office chair, the wheels on the bottom sliding her backwards. Her fingertips are giving off a bit of smoke, and I’m forced to wonder if all Chthonic abilities have costs like Naomi’s.

She must have noticed my gaze because she holds her hands out as if her fingernails were painted, examining them. “Am I right to assume you’re worried about your own powers having a negative aspect?”

“I—sort of? I think it's more that I’m confused at how Chthonic abilities work in general; none of it seems to be based on any standard that I can tell. Naomi can do things like read the future or choose to not exist to people around her, but mine let me... make hair tentacles. On the other side of that coin, though, the both of you seem to go through a lot of pain due to your powers. Do stronger abilities just have costs involved? Is mine just kind of weak?”

She listens patiently as I ramble, an amused smile growing on her face. Instead of answering immediately, she scoots her chair to a somewhat cluttered table full of papers and colored vials, freeing something from underneath. I giggle a bit; the sight of her sliding around the room on an office chair more silly than I anticipated.

She parks her chair in front of me, pulling on either side of a long rectangle until it opens like a high-tech version of a scroll. “Those are all incredibly valid questions that we unfortunately don’t have enough data to properly answer.” She says, navigating the blue screen faster than I can read it. “But I’m sure you want a more satisfying answer than ‘we don’t know’ so I’ll let you in on some of the less official bits we’ve worked out.”

A bit of my exhaustion fades at that offer, the chance to understand my predicament even slightly better alluring me.

“As a general rule, there are no hard rules when it comes to Chthonic energy. It’s literally unfathomable power; most of the knowledge we do have on it comes from researchers who have lost their minds. That said, there are a few pieces consistent enough to draw conclusions.” She sticks up a finger, counting on it: “The first is that our powers are based on what we personally consider our greatest wants at the time of our Ascension. In my case, I wanted nothing more than to purge the corruption from the soldiers I was responsible for and put them back together.”

I scrunch my face at that, unsure how much I like that answer. “If that’s the case, wouldn’t that mean my ‘greatest want’ was to have weird tentacle limbs...?”

“Pfft—Yeah, you’d think that, wouldn’t you? I might have agreed too, if these results didn’t tell us that you’re wildly underutilizing your abilities.”

A little offended, I try to defend myself. “That’s a little harsh, I’ve only really had two chances to try them out at this point. Besides, how much better can you use noodle limbs than this in the first place?”

Her expression says, “I knew you’d say that.” and I’m filled with the urge to disprove whatever she has to follow it with.

“It’s not an insult; you’ve done more than adequately with the tools you think you have.” She says, and I cross my arms at her, still feeling vaguely insulted as she continues: “If what I’m hypothesizing is true, you aren’t a Somatic-class at all; you’re a Fabrication type, and possibly the most open-ended one I’ve seen to date.”

I hold my hands up to stop her, lowering my head as I try to context-clue my way to understanding her sentence. “I’m a what and what? And why?”

“Sorry, it’s easy to forget how new you are to all this sometimes; you know how all vanguard are vaguely classified by classes, right?”

I lower my hands and give her a hesitant nod, “I’ve picked it up here and there. I don’t know anything about them, though.”

“Gotcha, they aren’t one hundred percent accurate anyways, so we treat them as guidelines more than anything. Since new classes pop up all the time and you realistically won’t need to know most of them, I’ll only explain the ones we have here.” She clicks a few buttons on her tablet-scroll, bringing up a series of icons with our faces on them. “I’m a Manipulator-class, which is a really stupid name for it since almost all of us manipulate things with our powers, but I digress. What we thought you were, and what Revision is, is a Somatic-class. Vanguard of that designation’s abilities are entirely physical-based and make up the majority of Vanguard's numbers.”

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My headache from before is starting to come back, but it feels like I’m getting the gist of things. “That makes sense, what are Fabrication-class, then?” I ask.

“I’m getting there, before them are Psychic-class, the hardest ones to both deal with and work with. Not only are people whose ‘greatest desire’ involves influencing the minds of others hard to deal with interpersonally, but their abilities tend to be resistant to anything not psychic-based as well. Brute forcing an engagement with them is both ill-advised and dangerous for both parties.” She says, giving me a look at that last bit.

“And what about what happened to Naomi? What caused her to react like that?” I ask, feeling guilty about getting distracted from her and enjoying myself.

She crosses her legs and sets the blue screen on it. “Well, that's another way they’re hard to deal with. Each one is so drastically different that we can’t compare cases between them at all. While it seems like just a drastic overuse of chthonic energy, it’s not like I have a previous incident to refer to. For all I know, her foresight interacted with another, stronger, Psychic class entity, and they attacked her. If that's the case, though, then we have far larger problems than I thought.”

Her tone turns dark as she finishes talking; the topic something she seems to have had an experience with. “And the Fabricators?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.

“Right, sorry. Both you and Vanguard Chassis are Fabricator-class, or, well, at least he is. Your status is still up in the air. Most of the time, these types are created with something very specific in mind—in Chassis’ case, the despair of seeing a destroyed bubble city developed into his ability to create and control living buildings like this. Normally the trade-off for something with that kind of potential is being limited in scope, but as far as I can tell, you don’t have any specification whatsoever.”

I wiggle a few tentacles at her, expressing my disbelief. “If I’m not specialized, then what’s with all the deep sea and tentacle theme going on here? I feel like I’d be aware of it if I could do anything else with it. I’m also still lost on the ‘greatest want’ bit, or are we looping back to that? Your expression says we’re looping back to that.”

Her grin is infuriating, but I’m glad to see it return.

“Yeah, we’re looping back to that. What was happening during your Ascension? The full one, that I was there for.”

“Um, I went through an inordinate amount of pain? My hair tried to smother me?”

She squeezes her hands together, taking a moment before responding gently. “The part after that. The one you don’t want to talk about.”

I shudder involuntarily; even the memory sending chills down my spine. “What about it.” I say, more forcefully than I intended.

“What’s the emotion you felt most strongly in that moment? You don’t have to answer, just think about it.”

What did I feel most strongly? Fear, I guess. Though I don’t think that’s what she means. There was panic, a bit of wonder smothered by the fear, and… some indignation at the unfairness of it all. Anger at the disparity between us as lifeforms, and melting fury at the audacity of it to treat my existence as passing entertainment.

My attention is pulled from my thoughts as Catherine takes hold of my hands. “Hell of a look there, girl. You figure it out?” She asks, and I notice Roosevelt hovering near her.

“Yeah, I think so. Do you think getting pissed off at a God for looking down at you would do it?”

Her eyebrows lift, giving me a good view of her wide green eyes. “That might do it, yeah. Are you trying to say your want in that situation is to bridge the gap between you and a God?”

“A dangerous dream, though it is, as Silo would say, ‘pretty metal.’” Roosevelt adds, self-satisfaction flowing through our link at his own joke. I lean over and snatch him, holding him in my arms as Catherine speaks.

“The reason I don’t think you have a specialization, is that every time I examine one of your created appendages, it’s made from drastically different things. There’s frankly nothing tentacle-like about it other than its shape; it’s as if a room full of things collectively decided to become an octopus. It’s inane, and can only be explained with you doing that part yourself”

I’m about to respond when I feel Roosevelt nudge my thoughts to interrupt me subtly. “I apologize for interrupting, though I’ve been waiting for a good chance to inform you that Naomi is stirring. She is well past stirring at this point and is quite awake now.”

Both Catherine and I look at the hand-sized cephalopod who decided to crack a joke before informing us of this, and race out of the room, leaving him behind.

—

“And I’m guessing you still can’t tell us a damn thing about what you saw?” Catherine asks Naomi, her tone resigned, yet fond.

Naomi writhes in the bed, learning the hard way like I did that the cloud beds are terrible for receiving guests. Her clothes are soaked with sweat, and her hair is matted to her skull in a way that looks dreadfully uncomfortable.

“No. I want a shower.” She says, continuing her writhing. “I can’t move my core or my limbs, but they also feel like the painful fuzzy feeling when something’s asleep.”

“Your core’s asleep?” I ask the disgruntled teenager, somehow not expecting sass.

“No, everything I’m saying is a lie.” She says as she stops wriggling, her breath labored. “Sorry, I’m kind of upset right now. Yeah, it feels like it at least. How have we not fixed the sleeping limb problem yet? We have literal forcefields.”

I giggle at that, and I’m sure she’d glare at me if she could move. Catherine taps at a machine attached to a needle in Naomi’s arm, and a glowing cyan fluid flows through the tube into her.

“aaaAAHHH COLD! WHY IS IT COLD INSIDE MY ARM!” She yells, the liquid visibly glowing under her skin.

“1.5 cc’s of luminacin. Has to be kept below freezing, but it's great for removing specific unwanted chemicals from your body. You’re going to have to pee in around seven minutes, so until then, let's talk.”

Naomi looks like she wants to commit murder, but for now she settles for flexing her muscles and hopping around now that she can move again. “I already said I couldn’t say anything about my vision. And I refuse to go through that again; it's like I was trapped inside of a box in my own mind. I was still able to see everything around me, including myself dying.” She looks at me, pausing her jumps, “Thank you, by the way. You didn’t hesitate at all when I collapsed.”

I give a hesitant nod, but remorse is digging a hole in my stomach. How can she thank me when I’m the one who did that to her?

“We can’t talk about your vision, but what if we talked about casual preparations it might be prudent to make in the event of an emergency? "Have any squeamish feelings about that?” Catherine asks, and I’m confident she’s going to be shut down.

“That’s… possible. I can’t suggest anything, but I’m not getting a response from the idea of saying what would be smart to do in any emergency.” Naomi responds nervously, like she’s waiting for a hammer to fall. “Yeah, that could work.”

Catherine smiles, looking at a screen we can’t see. “Guess we’ve got a plan once you get back, it’s been five minutes and you’re relatively small.”

I barely have time to look back at Naomi before she blurs past me, her bare feet on the floor louder than Catherine's cackles.