UnfathomablyCute
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Chapter Thirty-Eight: Threat of death under spork-point
🕑 Added 2023-08-05 03:10:55 +0000 UTCI pour my french fries onto my tray, picking out the crunchy ones to save them for last. It’s probably a little weird, but the difference in texture is a big enough deal to me that they’re worth separating, especially right now.
“I can’t believe they did me like that,” I say hollowly.
“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.” Sydney snarks between bites, her eyes not leaving her phone to look at me.
“Those were obviously theatrics to make you want to talk about it more! Have some compassion for me; my life is over!”
Her eyes flick up at me, but since her head is still tilted towards her phone, they’re partially blocked by her brows and lend her an irritated look. Or maybe she actually is irritated. I’m bad at telling the difference, and asking never seems to end well.
“They didn’t even look bad; you’re just weirdly self-conscious about the outfit your own subconscious came up with.”
I lay down partially on the table, my head resting sideways on my arm as I pout at her. “I don’t hate the costume; in fact, it's kind of growing on me. Pfft–” I let out a laugh at my accidental pun, ruining the fake-seriousness I was going for. “My real issue was the super cringey poses I was in for most of them. And the angles! Ugh, it’s like they wanted to focus on my pudge.”
This time I’m pretty certain she’s actually somewhat irritated, considering she put her food down and crossed her arms. “Aren’t Vanguard supposed to be super flashy and dramatic? It looked just like any other Vanguard promotional material I’ve seen, if not even better quality. And lose the pudge talk; I weigh more than you, AND I’m shorter than you. I would literally kill for your metabolism.” She huffs, giving my fries a stink eye.
“Okay, but you're not the one whose body will be on every screen in Barbeau for months.” I say, freezing when her glare shifts from my fries to me.
She points her salad spork at me, murder in her eyes. “I. Would. Literally. Kill.”
I’m saved from deciphering how genuine that threat is by both double doors of the facility’s cafeteria swinging open enthusiastically. Contrary to the door's enthusiasm, the woman crossing through their threshold looks like someone just put out a cigarette on her tongue, and she just found out they live here.
The harsh clack of her greaves matches perfectly with the steps of the four similarly armored soldiers flanking her, and when I say perfectly, I mean uncannily so. People can’t simultaneously do the exact same thing consistently; our bodies are too diverse for that, and that’s not even mentioning the thousands of minute differences between our minds.
“I recommend standing at attention, Brooke.” Roosevelt murmurs into my thoughts, prompting me to look around and see everyone other than me and Sydney standing up and doing some salute no one ever taught me.
I quickly stand up from my bench, doing my best to copy the weird seatbelt-shaped salute the other corps members are doing with their arms. Sydney clamors behind me to do the same, hissing a question I can’t make out. My confused shrug and look don’t help much, based on her reaction.
“Who is this, and why do we need to salute? No one does this for Catherine.” I think towards Roosevelt, watching as the woman walks towards one of the more full tables, examining them.
“Rank three, Vanguard Eclipse, Captain of the Vanguards incursion and sibling to our lovely Director. As for the salute, let’s say that Barbeau's Vanguard installment is relatively lax compared to the other bubble cities. There’s still a degree of militantism when it comes to the non-ascended, but Miss Catherine subscribes to a more… free roam ideology in regards to her Vanguards.”
Hearing the term “free roam” in regards to my restrictions makes me feel somewhat like poultry, but I suppose it’s accurate enough. I’m about to ask Roosevelt another question when I watch the soldier Eclipse is talking to look directly my way and point at me before resuming his salute.
I’ve been sold out.
I burn his face into my memory, refusing to let him escape punishment for his crime, only turning away once the older Vanguard turns to look at me herself. Her clicking steps feel like the seconds on a timed bomb, counting down until she’s right in front of me. My gaze remains rigid, giving me a perfect view of my sweating reflection in her chest armor.
“At ease, Vanguard.” she says, looking me over.
While I understand the meaning behind the phrase, I have a feeling that putting my arms down and revealing the design on my shirt would be a bad idea. So I play dumb.
“That means drop the arms. I’m itching to see the rest of your “questioning your authority” shirt.”
I suppress my grimace, regretting thinking I could outsmart one of the strongest people on the planet by vaguely covering up my t-shirt. That said, I don’t drop my arms. If outsmarting is off the table, maybe I can outstubborn her.
We both stand there for nearly a minute, and right before I can properly consider how bad of an idea this is, she narrows her eyes at me and then sniffs once, really aggressively.
“Ha-ah?” I blurt, leaning away from her as far as the bench will allow.
Her face contorts into mild disgust as she nearly spits her next words: “Ah, no wonder. You’ve got the smell of Barbaeu’s golden boy on you. You must be the rat they coerced into replacing him. Got a name?”
I nearly say “Brooke,” but pause, thinking better of it. I’ve done a pretty terrible job of keeping my personal life separate from my Vanguard one, which makes this moment a pretty important one if I’m going to start drawing the line between them. Still, I can’t say I’m super enthused with the name I was given—or at least the implications behind it.
It’s not directly calling me a monster to my face, but the word “Amalgamation” it’s based off of is pretty clearly a poke at how fathom-like my abilities are.
I also know that changing people's perceptions of you is a lot harder than just changing your name. It’s going to take action, and… maybe enough of that action could change how they see the name, too.
At this point, Eclipse is getting impatient, and I notice a singular twitch of her left cheek beneath her eye.
“Rank thirteen, Vanguard: Amalgam, at your service.” I chant, unsure why I added the last bit and regretting it already.
A vindictive glint appears in her eye, the one not sporting a thin scar this time. Quiet dread creeps up on me as I wait for her to absolutely lay into me, but instead she turns away, looking back at the cafeteria door.
There, looking only slightly bedraggled this time, Catherine leans against the doorframe. I’m not sure when she arrived, but it can’t have been too long after Eclipse herself did.
“Just gonna stand there, Wallflower? Most folks would have welcomed their sister by now.” Eclipse asks, her words clipped yet goading.
“Well, my hope was that you’d keel over from old age while harassing my newest subordinate, save me from having to speak with you ever again.”
While I’m surprised by the vitriol in Catherine's response, I can’t manage anything but a quiet sigh as I wonder if my food will be cold by the end of this.
—————————————————————————————————————————
I reread the message I sent my parents, searching it for something wrong for the eighth time.
“I have something important I want to tell you guys when I get home.”
It’s irritatingly vague, and I hate sending people anxiety-inducing messages like that, but this is the kind of thing you need to say in person. I also haven’t worked out exactly how I want to tell them, but with this tentative mission on the horizon, I’m running out of time. I can do it. It’s just a couple words that definitely won’t change their perspective on me.
Sydney jostles me with one arm, the other still on her car's steering wheel. “You’re spiraling. Say the words out loud so I can make fun of them, I bet I can make you feel stupid for worrying about them.”
I bark out a laugh, not doubting her in the slightest. “Thanks, but I think I’ve finally gotten a hold on it. We’re also turning into my neighborhood, so there’s hardly time for that.”
Her palms slide along the sun-faded wheel as it spins left, letting the car straighten out. I’m almost sad to hear the blinker turn off, as its rhythmic clicking was helping me settle my stomach.
“I reacted pretty well when you told me you’d turned into a squid, ya’know? And that kind of shit terrifies me. Are you trying to tell me your parents—the famously supportive ones—are going to react poorly when even I didn’t?” She says, slowing to a stop perpendicular to my house, but without blocking the driveway. “No chance.”
I know everything she’s telling me already, but I appreciate her reinforcing it for me. It’s a whole lot easier to slip into panic than it is to build up confidence. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, exhaling through my nose.
“Got it, thanks Sy–”
My gratitude is cut off as an ocean blue minivan swerves into the driveway way faster than it has any right to, stunning my words out of my mouth. There’s only one car in the entire city with that many cat stickers on it, and I know who owns it.
“That’s your dad, right?” Sydney asks as we both watch an outrageously suspicious man—my father—walk sideways, so we can’t see his back as he slips into the house.
“I’m not sure whether being worried or being relieved is the right option at this point. Maybe I should crash at your place?”
“Not happening. Go find out what he had behind his back and text me, or I’m never driving you again.”
Her threat is empty, but I get out anyway, preparing for the worst.
—————————————————————————————————————————
Across from me sit the two individuals who raised me, nervous excitement bubbling on their faces. Victor isn’t here, but I heard his computer chair rolling so it’s probably a safe bet to say he’s listening in. I haven’t figured out what my dad snuck into the house, but he’s doing a terrible job of hiding its boxy corners under the table.
“You guys are clearly up to something, which means you must already know what I have to say.”
My mother smiles gently, tilting her head just slightly to the right. “We’ve been waiting for you to be ready to tell us, though only having an hour's warning to get ready was a little hectic.”
Alarm bells go off at the words “get ready” but my dad’s already talking so I let it go.
“But yes, we’ve known for a while. Subtlety has never been your forte, which made catching on rather quick.”
My head is swimming at this point. They knew this whole time? I was that careless? My cheeks dye themselves a light red as I think about how ridiculously stressed I’ve been. I guess I really didn’t have anything to worry about after all.
I idly rub the bracelet-shaped tactigon on my wrist, feeling a bit giddy myself. “I got myself so worked up about this, worried how you guys would respond—not that I thought you’d be unsupportive—I just… I was scared that our relationship would change; that you’d view me differently even if you treated me the same.”
“Oh pumpkin,” My mother starts, traces of tears welling up in her eyes. “We raised you, how could we see you as anything but our daughter?”
I can feel my own eyes starting to dampen, her words striking the wound in my chest I’ve been trying to ignore. I’m not a monster. No matter what people call me, or what I turn into, I’m still Brooke, and that can’t be taken away anymore.
My dad finally lifts the box above the table, spinning it around before setting it down in front of me. One of its corners is dented like it took the brunt of a collision against a wall, and I fight off a laugh.
Technically, this means Mrs. Tabitha knows too, but I know she makes your favorite and isn’t the type to blab.” He says, lifting the lid.
The dots of understanding in my mind grind to a halt. Mrs. Tabitha? Like the cake shop owner?
The lid fully comes off, revealing the cake's design.
“Congrats on leaving the closet! We’re proud of you!” is written in big bubbly rainbow letters, and between them is a drawing of an opossum peeking out of an open closet.
“Oh, my. How unexpected.” Roosevelt murmurs from inside my head, his surprised statement scattering my already jumbled thoughts.
“Wait, what? I’m not—that isn’t—I’m a Vanguard!” I sputter, finally connecting the dots.
A small plate falls from my mother's slackened hands, shattering against the floor.
Comments
James Walsh
well that is awkward. Thanks for the chapter and have a good day!
