UnfathomablyCute
patreon
Chapter Thirty-Seven: The televised execution of my public image
🕑 Added 2023-07-28 22:58:01 +0000 UTCA wave of sensation sinks through my body, with pleasure and itchiness working equal parts through my various abrasions. The nail on my left middle finger loses its shine and falls off; its replacement pushing it out of the way to reveal a healthy new one. Reaching my hips, the feeling makes its way to the pair of horrible bruises on my inner thigh and I audibly sigh as they disappear.
I idly notice—and ignore—the floor absorbing my broken finger nail as I lean my head back, locking eyes with an upside-down Catherine. “Heaven knoweth no angel as beatified as thee, oh director mine.” I singsong speak towards her.
Her eyebrows raise, though her gaze remains flat as she looks down at me. “I’ve seen this world's angels, so that’s not nearly the compliment you think it is.”
The scrunch of my eyebrows causes wrinkles between them. Is this another one of those Vanguard secrets that I’m supposed to gather piecemeal? The fact that angels exist? Does that mean God is real too? Would he even be the Abrahamic God?
A nail taps on my forehead, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Looks like you’re getting rabbit-holed, so let me interrupt your ponderings with a question: What kind of angel are you thinking of?”
My brow furrows further, not understanding the question, “The winged kind...? I’m not sure I understand…” I say, realizing her intention halfway through my sentence.
She presses her earpiece, generating a transparent green screen that I can actually see this time. On it, she pulls up a video which she pinches and widens with her fingers.
“Entity Sap005. One of the earliest and most devastating Fathom we as a species survived through; Used mental compulsion to manipulate the entire population of the Vatican into starting the ninth crusade on the rest of the world.”
I can’t help but watch, transfixed to the screen, as a creature with four heads—two bestial and two human—floated above a crowd of thousands of people. I shiver as it starts to sing; its song like that of a whale but instead made up of overlapping bell chimes. Its wings open, revealing countless open eyes along its body and wheels as its song reaches a crescendo. Beneath it, I watch as the people weep, their eyes filled with unblinking fervor.
A terrified hiccup escapes my lips, my diaphragm spasming as a survival instinct I’ve never experienced before. Catherine closes the hologram, sparing me from watching the rest.
“What—hic—what happened after that?” I ask, my curiosity warring against my fear.
“Its control spread rapidly to the rest of Italy, as anyone who directly heard its song would abandon their previous lives to forcefully ‘evangelize’ others. At this point, the Vanguard was only just starting out and didn’t have the means to stage much of a defense against it.”
She gives Sydney a glance to see if she’s still okay with the direction of the conversation, and I feel a great deal of pride in her as she waves off Catherine's concern. Syd’s made as much personal progress as I have; just a week ago, this kind of talk would have been too much for her to stay for.
“Its forces cut all the way through the majority of Austria before they were stopped, breaking against the closest thing the Vanguard had to an organization at that point. Well, saying they stopped them is a tad disingenuous; it wasn’t until... Old Ones, what did he call himself? Sylburus? Syllabary? Regardless, it wasn’t until he slew the Cherubim itself that the cult lost steam.” Catherine says, running out of breath a bit at the end.
She pulls up another quick hologram, this one showing a still image of a man in extraordinarily tight spandex with his arms crossed dramatically and his fingers in complex signs.
“This is him, Syllabary; I was right with my second guess. He was—and probably still is—pretty crotchety about revealing how his powers worked, even after he joined the Vanguard. We do know it’s related to his deafness and the Austrian Sign Language, though.”
I attempt to wrap my head around that for a bit, especially the “probably still is” comment she casually threw in there. My mouth opens, but the question dies on my lips, Sydney's voice cutting through with a far more harrowing question.
“What happened to all those people? The cultists, I mean.”
I smush down the guilt at not considering that myself, knowing the feeling is irrational. I lean my head back again, looking up at Catherine now that she’s gone silent. An exhausted melancholy leaks through her expression for a moment, the question having opened a quickly healing crack in her unflappable facade.
“Once Sap005 was slain, the people it manipulated were no longer able to convert more to their cause, but those already affected found their affliction irreversible. The Vanguard took it upon ourselves to release them from that fate.”
The gravity of her statement doesn’t hit me until I hear Sydney's quiet gasp, and my horror quickly matches her own. Wouldn’t that mean they killed literally millions of people? I know it’s unfair to think of it that way since their humanity was brainwashed away, but it’s still hard to reconcile that with the organization I’m now a part of. Would I have to do something like that?
Catherine's hand settling on my shoulder grounds me a bit, pulling me from my thoughts. “To answer the question I’m sure you’re thinking about, you shouldn’t ever be in a situation where you’re forced to kill other humans. Even if a situation arises where drastic measures are necessary, someone of a higher rank will take care of it.”
Sydney’s eyes meet mine at the word “should” and the implications therein. “But it’s still possible, then?” I ask solemnly.
“...Admittedly, yes. There’s always a chance of plans going wrong and getting stuck in a bad situation. I’ve had the misfortune of being in over my head a few times over the years.”
Catherine’s killed someone.
Maybe not someone. Do people not under their own control count as people? I guess that depends on how intact their ego is. They still used to be a person, at the very least.
Roosevelt's baritone voice talks over my thoughts, scrambling my train of thought. “I am loathe to interject here, but does this conversation feel a bit forced on Miss Catherine’s part to you?”
I sit up, the hand she rested upon my shoulder sliding off of me as I twist toward her, connecting the dots. A bit of frustration wells up in me, but I ask my question coolly to ensure I’m not getting the wrong idea.
“You didn’t bring this up on purpose to dissuade me, did you?” I ask, though my intonation makes it sound more like a statement than a question.
Conflict makes itself known in her thoughts, her lips twisting and her eyes flicking around in search of a way to respond. It’s at least clear enough that whatever that answer is, it’s not as simple as a “no.”
Her fingers grip the headrest of my seat, the foam material beneath its covering letting her squeeze it like a stress ball. “I didn’t come in here with the intention of scaring either of you into leaving the mission, but I definitely said more than I needed to.”
I bristle somewhat, feeling like no one’s taken me seriously about all this, like I’m someone who can’t decide things for herself. Everyone keeps saying things like “of course she would” or “there’s no way she could say no,” but those are my choices, and the reason I do those things is because that’s the person I want myself to be.
“What’s with everyone and ignoring my resolve? I’m literally injuring myself training so I can be more ready for this; do you think I’d do that out of some sense of obligation? I am what I make of myself, and I’m tired of people questioning it because they think I need to be protected. I’m a Vanguard now; aren’t I supposed to be the one doing the protecting?”
My breaths are labored as I try to make up for the breathing I forgot to do during my rant. Letting it all out feels like the relief of dropping a sack of cat food from my shoulders, though the feeling doesn’t last long as I see the two of them looking absolutely devastated by my remarks.
“Sorry—I went too far there; I know you—”
“Stop.” Sydney interrupts, putting her hand up to prevent me from saying anything else. “Don’t apologize right after saying something important to you; it gives other people the excuse to downplay it. You were right to begin with. I’ve spent so long watching you get caught up doing things for other people that I just assumed it was my job to keep people from taking advantage of you. But it’s not like I asked what you wanted.”
She shifts in her seat, touching her sandal against my worn sneaker, the action bringing me more comfort than I expected.
“I have no excuse.” Catherine says, remorsefulness in her voice. “Ensuring you all have the autonomy to still live your lives as people is my duty, but it seems I’ve taken it to the point that you’re feeling the opposite effect. I can't apologize enough.”
Her polite and distant words evoke a sense of awkward discomfort in me, so I lean on my side to smack her hand that’s dangling over the top of the seat. Her squawk of surprise does a lot for my mood, and the mood of the room in general.
“I know I’m the one who made a big deal of things, but I hate awkward situations like that, so I’m revoking you two’s ability to be mopey and distant.” I say, standing up and extending the length of my tendrils.
Sydney’s expression looks like she took physical damage from my words, disgruntled confoundedness forming on her face as she tries to retort. “Revoking our—ack!”
I grab the both of them and pull them into a hug with my now far more durable tendrils. Sydney’s shudder at being grabbed by my inhuman limbs brings me a bit of vindictive satisfaction, but I keep that to myself.
“Thank you both for listening to me seriously there; even if I’m forcefully brushing it all away right now, I really do appreciate it.” I say, squeezing them tightly with my actual arms.
“I regret it already; now let me go, you superhuman freak.” Sydney gripes, though she doesn't try to stop the hug even once herself.
Catherine, far stronger than me—an alarming fact to learn—pries herself out of my grasp casually. She moves her hand to put it on my head, but pauses before setting it on my shoulder instead. “If you need to talk again, I’ll find the time.” She says before looking at the wrist of her other arm. “Speaking of time, though, I’m running late if I want to see the trailers the PR team have put together for your public debut.”
My brain stutters to a halt at the bomb she just dropped on me, giving her just enough time to shuffle away while I digest it. “Trailers? What trailers!? Why do I have trailers, and why haven’t I seen them!?” I shout, running after her with a groaning Sydney still in one arm.
