UnfathomablyCute
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Chapter Thirty-Five: It has fingerprints. Why would it have fingerprints?
🕑 Added 2023-07-07 20:32:32 +0000 UTC“What?” Sydney says, vocalizing my dumbfoundedness for me.
Catherine summons an almost coffee table shaped structure out of green energy, setting the box on top of it. “Look at the glass box and tell me what’s inside.”
Her wording makes me feel like we’re being punked, though with how urgent Chassis implied things were, there’s no way that’s true. I generate a few tendrils, loop them around the bases of two empty swivel chairs, and try pulling them towards Sydney and me. Their plastic wheels clack against the tiled floor and the whole process takes longer than I expected, but I do eventually slide them behind us.
Catherine compassionately doesn’t comment on it, though Sydney has no such restraint. “Better in your head?”
“Mm.” I say as a non-answer, sitting down and focusing on the box instead of dwelling on my embarrassment.
The chair is a bit too tall to get a good angle, and while I could probably grope around to find the lever that lowers it, it doesn’t seem worth risking the embarrassment of it also going wrong, so I lean over instead. The box is—upon closer inspection—covered in scratches and smudges that I can’t quite discern what side of the glass they’re on.
“Am I allowed to touch it?” I ask, looking up at Catherine.
She doesn’t respond vocally, but her subtle nod is all the permission I need to slide my fingers across its surface. Several new smudge trails appear as expected, but what’s surprising is that none of the previous blemishes were affected in any way.
“So whatever caused those markings was, or is, inside of the box?” Sydney says from my right, coming to the same realization I did.
We both look to Catherine for affirmation, but she remains uncharacteristically silent, and I get the impression we’re supposed to work this out without her input. The part of my brain that loves puzzles and escape rooms delights in the challenge, though I remain aware that my love doesn’t make me any better at them.
The box jolts a few centimeters as I tilt it at an angle, feeling like something tumbled down and hit the far side of the box.
“I’m gonna go with ‘is inside the box,’ considering I can literally see the results of its scrabbling around on the glass happening right now.”
I glance back at my friend, her face paling even as she leans forward cautiously to see what I’m talking about. I’m certain it’s some sort of Fathom at this point, either that or some Vanguard’s ability they felt the need to keep contained.
“It has fingerprints.” Sydney says with mild horror, pointing to an older marking that isn’t quite as smudged. “Why would it have fingerprints?”
I follow her finger, squinting as I comb over the markings until I reach the one she’s talking about. It’s… definitely a fingerprint; I can see the vague lines of a plain whorl, relatively similar to my own. I notice a couple more prints now that I’m looking—the fingers that made them relatively slender, and none of them thumbs.
Something feels off, like when you dream of waking up before you’ve actually woken up. My thoughts feel stuffy and restrained; an external force keeping me from going down the paths I want to. I look up at Catherine, Both relief and sadness fighting for dominance on her expression. Before I can even ask what’s wrong, she speaks for the first time since giving us our task.
“Naomi.”
My mind rumbles, that singular word, a name, spreading cracks throughout my mental prison. The familiar feeling of a heavy boot stepping on thin ice washes through me, and I can tell just an ounce of force is all it would take to shatter it. So I push.
My eyes—still open—open once again and I see the creature within the glass cage. My stomach churns in disgust, reminded of Duff’s living leg I had to crush previously. Four digits skitter around the box, a toothy maw splitting the webbing between its middle and ring finger.
“Is she dead?” I ask Catherine, the memory of Vanguard Chassis callously informing us of mutton-chops death playing in my mind.
Naomi’s hand slams itself against the walls, displeased at finding itself revealed, even if only to me.
“We aren’t certain, but we have reason to believe she survived whatever caused this corruption—at least for a time. Our problem now is locating her. Vanguard Menagerie already combed through the entire area she found it, and is back out there expanding her search further.”
How did she even catch it if it's invisible? No- that’s not the important bit, They think Naomi is still alive. Wouldn’t she have bled out with an injury this bad?
Sydney speaks up, her tone clipped: “Oh, I get it. You wanted to test and see if Brooke could see this thing and be your tracking hound on some suicide mission she can’t refuse.“
What?
I whip around to look at her, not bothering to hide my hurt whatsoever. Guilt visibly gnaws at her, but she keeps her eyes on Catherine and refuses to meet mine.
“I wish I could completely deny your accusations, but you’re pretty on the mark there.” Catherine says, leaning back in her seat. “I will correct a couple things though: I would never intentionally send one of my Vanguard to their deaths, and Brooke can refuse anytime.”
“You say that, but you already know she’ll say yes. What are the chances of her refusing now that she knows no one else can do it?”
My thoughts are a whirl, a nauseating dizziness hitting me like an emotional spinning teacup ride.
“Sydney! Stop it!” I nearly shout, forcing her to look at me again. “You promised you wouldn’t do this. Please.”
Whatever bravado she was holding onto to say all that crumbles as she meets my eyes, an increasing stream of tears falling down her cheeks. I want to hug her and apologize for yelling, but the genuine hurt I’m feeling stops me. She knew she was going to do this even before she promised me in the car that she wouldn’t.
“This isn’t Catherine’s fault, Syd. You berating her for a choice that she’s already agonizing over isn’t fair to her or beneficial to us. Was she supposed to just keep me in the dark until it was too late for me to help? I know you just want to keep me out of danger, but don’t I get a say in things too? You yourself told me that it would hurt my family so much more if I never told them and something happened to me; The same rule applies here.”
Tears continue to trace the already wet lines down her cheeks as she nods, my chastisement having a far more profound impact on her than I intended. She’s forced to sniff as her nose begins to run, and I can’t help but wonder if I went too far.
A near silence settles over the room for a few minutes, and I figure the other two are having as much trouble figuring out what to say as I am. At least, until Catherine breaks it by saying, “If your words held no truth, then they wouldn’t sting the way they do. I was counting on Brooke agreeing to this, and I’m glad you pointed it out.”
“But you’re still going to ask her to do it.” Sydney points out through sniffles.
“I’m still going to ask her to do it.” Catherine confirms.
I flick the side of the glass, sending the fathom within into a minor frenzy, flipping about and clawing at me. “It’s a bit weird being talked about like that when I’m right here, but I suppose that’s the wrong bit to focus on.” I pause, looking between the two of them. “I’m going to do it.”
Sydney’s shuddered breath is all I need to know how she feels about it, so I finish with an addendum. “But I want Sydney to be a part of the preparations, and if she genuinely doesn’t think I’m ready, then I won’t go.”
Catherine, looking somehow more relieved than Sydney at that moment, sighs as she uses both hands to pull her hair back out of her face. “Honestly, this is a far better result than I was hoping for, and leaving the choice to Miss Sydney—who already doesn’t want you to go—takes a huge weight off of my shoulders.”
She taps her earpiece, reading a few lines of text only visible to her before continuing, “Which means we have a little under forty-eight hours to get you combat ready. I take it you ladies don’t have plans?”
————————————————————————————————————
A flickering display stutters into existence, its green light dyeing the side of Vanguard Eclipse's face viridescent. On the screen, a figure slides into frame, its body made up of thousands of pictures, all of them shifting to collage together into the shape of a human.
“Oh, looks like I caught you brooding! Here—don’t move!” The figure says, holding up a similarly collaged camera. *snap* “Oh, glowering works too, I guess. What’s the sitch, Clip?”
Rather than responding, Vanguard Eclipse grips the top of the display, turning it away from her and towards the ruptured ground in her vicinity. Massive corpses, their heads like school bus-sized angler fish, lay sundered. Scorched holes let beams of moonlight pass through their bodies unimpeded.
“Eugh, gross, no visual aids, please. HQ wants to know if they need to send support, and how long you’re going to be delayed.” The screen says, flipping to the side now facing Eclipse.
“It’s handled. We’ll leave as soon as the Gamdela mends itself enough to travel.” She says, her voice gravelly and harsh. Her lips part as she spits a glob of coagulated blood to the ground, the patchwork of aged wrinkles and faded scars on her face like sun-dried earth.
The collaged figure recoils a bit, despite his real location being nearly four thousand miles from here and under the sea. “I’m not sure how you manage to be grosser than your sister who is literally missing chunks of her face right now. Is the Fate Deck still in your possession?”
Fighting off scowling even deeper at the comparison to her sister, she slips her fingers into her jacket pocket, pulling out a bundle of cards. Tethered together with a strip of cloth the same color and brightness of the current moon, they shine through her fingers.
“Bwua—Why do you have them?! And why aren’t they in the sealed case we provided? If they become damaged because you chose to keep them somewhere unsafe–”
“There is nowhere safer than in my pocket, Database.” One of the charred bodies tries to inch itself towards the adjacent ocean, and Eclipse steps towards it, a ball of flame erupting behind her shoulder blades. “Don’t call me again unless Patroclus himself orders it.”
