UnfathomablyCute
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Chapter Forty-Seven: A Dash of Innocent Condescension.
🕑 Added 2023-10-20 21:18:06 +0000 UTCI comb my brain for answers to questions I have no way of knowing. How’d you get your powers? I don’t think that’s public knowledge; how much trouble would I get in for accidentally revealing state secrets? I’m also pretty confident I’m not supposed to mention Silo at all, since they haven’t announced his death yet.
“There are thirty seconds left if anyone needs to wrap up their questions! Make sure it’s family-friendly!” Carry sing-songs into the mic.
Shoot, I’m so not ready for this. I clench the muscles in my calves, trying to banish the numb throbbing they’ve started as I’ve been standing here.
A feeling like a warm poncho settles on my shoulders, but I can immediately tell it’s roosevelts doing. “Confidence. You’ve got the capability, just not the mindset.”
“That’s easy to say when you’re not the one talking in front of thousands of people,” I retort, but his words still bring a degree of comfort.
Rather than being focused on me, the various screens are scrolling through dozens of these people's questions, some of them too long to read before they’re swallowed up by the bottom of the screen.
Erin V. asks, “Are you a dog person or a cat person?”
Thomas S. asks, “Have you ever killed someone?”
Rupert M. asks, “If the law of conservation of mass states that for any system closed to all transfers of matter and energy, the mass of the system must remain constant over time, how is it possible that you..."
Old Ones, please let my questions be more like Erins than those other two. I’m not ready to answer the death one, and I don’t even know how to start on Rupert’s.
“We have finished accepting questions at this time; once we’ve reviewed the last few questions, we will pick five names at random! If your question is not chosen, feel free to direct it to @Vanguard_Amalgam’s socials!” Carrey says, drawing a collection of cries from the crowd who didn’t finish their question.
I furrow my eyebrows at the comment about my socials, as I was unaware I had Vanguard-specific ones up until this point. “When was I going to be informed that I have accounts that interface with the public in my name? And who manages those?”
“When asked whether you wanted to be a part of the branding aspect, your answer was a resounding ‘No.’ I wouldn’t worry about it, though; it’s in good tentacles.” Roosevelt responds, sounding smug.
“Wait, you’re the one who acts like me?”
“Does anyone else know you quite so intrinsically?”
I ponder that for a moment, comparing how much he and Sydney know about me regardless of how long they’ve been apart of my life. “You’ve read my mind, so that’s not really a fair contest.”
“Would you rather someone else try to mimic your behavior?” He asks, giving me a psyonic nudge that shifts the way I perceive my balance momentarily.
It’s jarring and irritating, but not nearly as bothersome as the fact that I agree with him. He’s probably the only person-thing I’d trust to act like me; it would be too embarrassing otherwise. Not that I plan on telling him that.
Carrey stills for a moment as she listens to her earpiece, reanimating like some sort of machine once she’s finished. “We have our lucky five! Please remain where you are; if you’ve been chosen, our event workers will come to you. Everyone else, please make way for anyone wearing our uniforms.”
A collective grumble rolls over those who weren’t chosen, but no one seems to be impeding the brightly colored employees as they swim through the crowd. One seems to find his mark, positioning his drone’s camera at a young child on her father's shoulders. Relief courses through me as I assume my first question will be less intense than I was worried about.
“Our first question is from an eleven-year-old Miss Leilani Pata; would you ask your question into the microphone, please?” Carry requests, her tone shifting to be just a tinge sickly sweet as she addresses the young girl.
I watch on one of the screens as a microphone extends from the drone towards her, stopping right above the hairline of her father's slightly balding head. She opens her mouth to speak, but—as if the realization that she was being watched by everyone only just hit her—she turns red in the face and tries hiding behind her father's head.
My lips quirk upwards despite myself; her plight both relatable and endearing. I lean over and speak into Carrey's microphone, ignoring her displeasure. “You can take your time, Leilani. No one’s going to rush you.”
Her only partially hidden face peeks out further, looking past the camera and at me. Her confidence doesn’t return, but she does lean down to whisper something in her dad's ear. His rueful face as he leans back to reach the microphone is more than enough for me to infer what’s going on.
“As Leilani has been afflicted with a case of the butterflies, she has asked me to ask for her.” He turns his head, asking her if she’s sure, to which she vigorously nods. “She wants to know if you’d come to her birthday this year.”
I fight off a smile, as I want to give her a serious answer and make her feel heard, though I can’t do a lot about the quiet laughter going on all around her.
“When’s your birthday?” I ask, looking right at her this time.
It takes some encouragement from her dad, but she does eventually speak into the mic, her voice quiet, “October fourteenth.”
October… That’s what, three months from now? If everything goes well on the mission, I should be back well before that; knock on wood. I tap my foot on the likely wooden floor twice, not wanting to jinx myself.
“I recommend a gentle yet indefinite postponement; you cannot feas-”
“Sounds like a plan, Leilani. I’ll be there. Have your dad send us your address.” I say, confidently, ignoring Roosevelt's objections. There can’t realistically be a cooler birthday party than one with a literal superhero, and now that I have the ability to make that happen on a whim, why wouldn’t I?
Both her and her father's expressions shift to shock, which is bizarre to me since they were the ones who asked. They shout something I can’t hear as the drone and employee have left, but judging by their expressions, it seems like gratitude.
I bundle the bit of warmth that gave me into my chest, using it to charge my dwindling social battery. One down, four to go.
“What a heartwarming interaction! Looks like our newest Vanguard has a soft spot for birthdays.” She says, letting the audience make noise for a bit. “Our next comment comes from Randy Grus, and it definitely isn’t about a birthday!”
The screens light up as soon as she finishes speaking, revealing a surprisingly kempt man for how ominously bloodshot his eyes are. His greying hair makes him seem closer to fifty, but I’m really unsure since he’s got a really nice complexion.
His voice surprises me most of all, though, as it’s a very deep, commanding one. “How much do you know about what the Vanguard is doing?” He pauses, as if leaving room for me to answer, but starts again before I can respond. “Is it that you’re willfully ignorant of them strangling our free speech to talk about what’s going on outside?”
His passion is almost inspiring, but I can already imagine the damage his “free speech” would inflict on the city. The crowd around him is already murmuring, and I shudder to think of a Barbeau where the Vanguard don’t have the people's backing.
“You seem uneasy; would you like help?” Roosevelt asks, re-railing my thoughts back on task. I send feelings of confidence over our connection to assure him and myself.
I tilt my head to the right a bit as I speak into the second microphone a staffer grabbed me so I wouldn’t steal Carreys. I slather a healthy—but not overdone—amount of innocent condescension onto my words. The kind someone ignorant of a situation would have without meaning to.
“I might be missing the point here, but if that’s the case, how are you asking me this question in front of everyone?” The laughs this time are quiet, but I definitely hear them, and that means this Randy guy does too.
I was hoping that would be enough, but he opens his mouth again, sails once again full. “Obviously they won’t be blatant about it; shutting me up in the middle of an event would be tantamount to admitting guilt.”
“So what you’re trying to tell me... is that the Vanguard, an incredibly technologically advanced organization that you claim is out to silence you, just let you be picked in a raffle that would allow you to say this in front of everyone?”
I feel a bit guilty for gaslighting him about something that’s at least partially true, but I can also see more of the situation than he can. It’s a literal matter of survival at this point. He doesn’t answer, but his glare makes me feel like I've made an enemy of sorts, which is a relatively new feeling for me.
Carrey moves on, gesturing for the cameraman to move on to the next bit, but I watch Randy out of my peripherals until he fades into the crowd.
“What do your appendages feel like?” comes the next question, hailing from a brown-haired woman near the front.
I’m put off at first, thinking it’s some gross kink-related thing, but as I look at her I can’t help but think it’s a genuine question. Maybe it’s the glasses? Those are pretty good at disarming me…
“Well, it depends. Normally they’re just kind of smooth and malleable, but I can change it pretty much at will.” I say, demonstrating my point by holding myself in the air like some kind of hair-spider. To her credit, she looks absolutely fascinated; enough so that I offer something I probably wouldn’t have under normal circumstances..
“Wanna touch it?”
She, somehow the embarrassed one in this situation, nods at me and says a polite, “yes please.”
I walk over to the closest part of the stage to her, sliding one of the inky black appendages her way. A few hands other than hers reach towards it, but I slip it out of their reach like a cat that doesn’t want to be touched. They get the hint easily enough, putting their hands away as it slithers its way to the glasses lady.
She holds out her hand, and I take the opportunity to coil the end of it on her palm, changing the end of it to look like the closest depiction of a snake's head as I can manage. I probably should have found out if she’s scared of snakes first, but she seems pretty delighted overall.
I let the snake flick its tongue before letting the whole tentacle crumble into ash, dissolving the whole thing into nothing before her eyes.
“You’re right, it was smooth!” She shouts towards me, drawing a smile to my lips. I definitely expected a lot more apprehension from people than I’m getting, which is nice.
“You’re a brave soul, Miss Graeme; I’m not sure I’ve got the heart to touch one of those things!”
Ahh, there it is.
I manipulate my hair into a small collection of snakes, noiselessly hissing at her as she turns her back like a half-baked medusa. How do you even get this kind of job while being so judgy?
She speaks again, so I ditch the snakes in favor of preparing for the next question. “Our fourth winner, Mabel Taft, has a question quite a few of us have been wondering! Go ahead, Mrs. Taft.”
She’s clearly a reporter, if her outfit and equipment are any indication. “Your costume—what inspired you to go with that kind of design? And how was it made? Did you design it yourself?”
Her rapid-fire questions set me off balance, but they also perfectly line up with what I assumed she’d be like. “I’ll ignore the second two questions since the first is the easiest to answer. My outfit—this is a little embarrassing—is based on a memory I had from my first time at the Barbeau Aquarium. There’s a Sea Nettle display there, and they have it set up so lights above the cage make it look like the jellyfish are constantly changing color. Fourteen-year-old me fell for that trick hard, and I suppose the attachment to those magical-seeming Sea Nettles never went away.”
I gesture to myself as I finish my rant, emphasizing the impact the jellyfish had. The woman who asked the question doesn't seem too bothered that I ignored her other two questions and immediately begins typing my heartfelt story into her tablet for what I presume is a report of sorts. Feels a little detached, but I guess some folks gotta be.
“Our final question also comes from the front row! I won’t spoil it, but it’s got the power to break quite a few hearts here today.” Carrey says, clearly spoiling it despite saying she won't.
I’m about to say exactly that when I notice where the cameraman is stopping.
Oh no.
"Alright, Dominic, go on ahead!” She says, speaking to a face I recognize all too well.
Standing between my brother and Ryan is Dominic Fisher, the twenty-two-year-old whose texts I’ve been ignoring since getting superpowers. I didn’t really mean to, but the messages started getting a little weird, and I had more important things to deal with at the time!
He, much to the event employee’s chagrin, grabs the microphone attached to the drone and holds it up to his face as he prepares to speak. I beg him not to be that guy with my eyes, but I’m too far for him to see, and he’s too dense to notice anyway.
“Uh, are you single?”
My last scrap of respect for him winks out of existence as I let out a sigh. My posture must have deflated too, as I hear a brief stint of laughter from below the stage. My brother looks even more exhausted than I do, his eyes doing their best to wither Dom where he stands.
How should I even respond to that? ‘Yes, but not for you.’? Maybe I should lie and say I’m in a relationship…
Settling on saying I’m taken, I pull the mic to my lips and start, “Unfortunately, I’m—” but then my gaze slips behind him, meeting Sydney’s as she stares back, “—Not interested in men.”
My brain overheats immediately, not at all having planned to say that. Cheers and whoops erupt from specific parts of the audience, and I click off my microphone before I dig myself any deeper in this hole I’ve made.
“It appears General Tso owes me a cylobite.” Roosevelt adds, confounding me further.
“Are you saying you bet on my sexual preference with my cat?”
“I retract my statement.”
Carrey fans herself dramatically as she walks over to me. “Well, I was right about some folks leaving brokenhearted, though this is beyond my expectations!”
Revision, though this time in his full armor, walks back onstage, smiling at the audience with his stupid, brilliant smile. I’m no genius, but thankfully, it doesn’t take one to figure out the next event I wasn’t told about.
“Why is it always sparring with these people?”
Comments
A wise proverb states, "Fuck around, find out."
Kaywye
Damn. She really does not get the point of a PR team does she? I mean the birthday alone will have sent several departments into either a frenzy of activity, or debilitating seizures. I get that no one likes being told what to say, but just saying whatever you want is going to backfire in a big way. Lol
