The bioarcanic machines failed to stabilize experiment #808 in the underground lab.

It happened in an instant. All Gael saw—and heard—was his papa knelt over the corpse of his mama one moment, injecting a screeching mold into her chest through a syringe, and then there was an explosion.

Every machine in the house exploded all at once. The crystalfly lightbulbs shattered. The overhead pipes burst and sprayed with slick black oil. Vein-like fleshy tendrils streaked across the walls, splintering the cobblestone, debris flying every which way. Gael had been holding up a lantern so his papa could perform the injection correctly, but something big and sharp flew into his stomach, throwing him onto his back.

It hurt.

His throat was dry. He cried out in pain. His heart pounded as he tasted hot oil falling on his lips. Bronze-tinged. There was a shudder, a deep-seated tremor in the lab that just wouldn't stop, and it came from his mama—like a chained, slumbering beast had just been awoken.

"... Mama?" he croaked. "Papa?"

He forced himself into an awkward, disoriented roll as the lab went up into sickly green flames. His spine ached where he'd landed, and the sharp thing was still digging around his stomach, scraping as he crawled forward.

But he wasn't that far away from his papa slumped and kneeling on the floor.

He wanted to see what had happened to experiment #808 so, so badly, but then there was another shudder. Another tremor. He braced his head, pushing his face into the ground as a low growl tore across the room. For a moment, he thought it was his mama waking up in her usual annoyance, and he forced himself to look, eyes wide, hope flashing in his chest.

Instead, he saw two inhuman claws ripping out of her chest, pushing its way out of her body.

Mama started jerking. Shaking violently. Her mouth opened wide, another sound escaping her throat—something between a gasp and a scream, a noise he'd never heard her make. A gasp of fear escaped his lungs as he stopped crawling forward, his bloody nails digging hard into the cracked floor.

"Mama?" he whispered, though he already knew. Or maybe he should've known better. His papa's experiment was yet another failure, but this one was still alive.

Sweat and oil glistened down his papa's forehead. His papa shuffled back, muttering under his breath, eyes frantic. "You… you're not—" He didn't finish the sentence. The beast within slashed his face with so much force he flew into a glowing vat, glass shattering, shrapnel flying everywhere.

Gael winced and braced himself again. The skin on his back stung even more.

"Papa?"

"What's going on, papa?"

The truth? He knew what was going on. He just didn't want to accept it. Tears streaked down his face as he pried his head up, watching the beast tear the rest of its body out of mama's chest.

Between the ghastly flames, the flickering glow of the broken bioarcanic bulbs, and the pinkish-purplish pulses of alien light coming from the fleshy veins on the walls, he could hardly tell what it was supposed to look like. It was a jagged thing with too many spikes and too many eyes. Its wings were unfolded, dark and translucent, glistening with a sickly sheen. It had four arms and two legs. It was a monster. A thing from nightmares, something that very well shouldn't exist.

It rose to its full height, four horns scraping the collapsing ceiling, and then it locked all of its burning red eyes on his.

'It sees me.'

'It knows I'm here.'

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. The pain hurt so badly before, but now all he could feel was the rush of panic flooding his veins, the overwhelming sensation of dread swallowing him whole. He wanted to get up and run, but his limbs felt like they were made of lead. The floor had swallowed him whole.

Time seemed to stretch out as the beast clicked its mandibles at him. Buzzed its wings. Filled the air with a sound like the wind itself had turned savage. He could hear acid dripping from its fang—like pitter-pattering raindrops—and it'd already eaten her mama from the inside out. It'd already slashed his papa's face open. It was coming for him next.

He could do nothing but stare and hold his breath as it crawled at him on all six limbs.

And then there was a second explosion.

The wall behind him shattered into a thousand pieces, and debris flew through the air once again. The sound shocked his body into motion. He instinctively covers his head as the dust and smoke clouded everything around him, but he didn't cover his ears.

He heard the creature's screech cut off abruptly, replaced by the sound of something—someone—dashing into the lab through the wreckage, wrapped in a cloak of pure green mist.

'Who?'

'Papa?'

He peeled one eye open and looked. Of course it wasn't his papa. That was a black, diamond-patterned mourning dress made of chain-linked chitin plates. The lady had long black hair braided past her waist, and if the black umbrella she twirled in one gloved hand wasn't recognizable enough, the patchwork emblem of the two-headed wasp on her shoulder was.

'... Exorcist!'

'Parasite-hunters!'

He didn't know what to make of them at first, but the 'correct' response kicked in half a second later: giddy excitement. She was a Symbiote Exorcist. A Hunter with a Symbiotic System. A hero of Vharnveil. She was here to save him.

And to kill a monster.

Just as quickly as his hopes raised, his heart dropped again. Inexplicable dread filled his lungs and choked his breath as he watched the Exorcist step over him, but it wasn't until she lunged at the monster with her umbrella that he let out a shrill scream.

"Wait!"

"Stop!"

"That's… mama and papa's creation!"

"Don't kill it!"

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Tears filled his vision as he looked down, punched his thighs, and willed himself to move. The Exorcist danced in the sickly green flames, spinning her umbrella to fan clouds of poisonous blood at the monster, and the monster leapt to the wall. To the floor. It darted around the crumbling lab, trying to find a blindspot, but when it leapt at the Exorcist from behind—he screamed again, his hands flying to his eyes when a spray of the Exorcist's poisonous blood was flung into his face.

The last thing he saw was the Exorcist driving her umbrella down the monster's throat.

'My eyes.'

'Where are my eyes?'

He didn't understand. His body was shaking, his heart still racing in his chest, but the Exorcist panted for a moment before hearing his short, shallow, panicking breaths. She whipped her head over to glare at him, and he could still see—through his hissing, steaming face—but the crumbling roof finally caved in over their heads with a distant strike of thunder. Dark rain fell in. Howling winds blew in. Debris was about to crash on his head, so it was only pure instinct that made him brace himself one last time.

He didn't need to do that.

In a single, smooth motion, the Exorcist dashed over to his head and opened her umbrella, shielding him from the rain and debris as the rest of his house crumbled down.

She stared down at him, and he stared up at her. His vision was muddy. Her features were blurry. Moonlight refracted through her dark umbrella in blinding white rays, and… and he hated the light. It stung against the corroding skin around his eyes.

"Shit," the Exorcist breathed, her free hand rummaging through a small pouch on her belt as she continued to mumble, "you were awake through all that? I was sure my numbing bomb knocked every human out before I even came in. What's up with your tolerance to toxins?"

'Experiments,' he wanted to mumble back, though he was in too much pain to open his mouth. 'Papa… made me… drink poison… so I can help with the experiments to bring mama–'

"Shh," she whispered, stroking his cheek. Her glove was cold. Uncomfortable. "It's okay. It's alright. The Myrmur's dead. I'll make sure this whole thing gets settled and you find a new place to settle in."

And her glove had to be laced with some sort of drug—something he had no tolerance for—because the burning lab was growing darker, and his body felt heavier than it'd ever felt before.

"Trust me," she said, pulling down her brass gas mask to send him a strained, forced smile. "This isn't the end. Far from it. I know you'll get through this, and I promise you, I will figure out what happened here."

… No.

She wouldn't.

Then she blew a fistful of emerald dust into his face, and he knew he wouldn't wake up until the flames died down.

Gael's eyes cracked open, and the first thing he felt was the sickly weight of sunlight slanting across his face.

… My mask.

It's still on.

Thank the Saint.

He groaned, squinting against the bright intrusion, not quite sure where he was. Something about the light felt off. Too clean. Too pure for his usual dark, dim bedroom in the clinic. His body felt sore, stiff, and there was an ache in his head that wasn't from a hangover.

As he lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the light, he realized where he was: an abandoned child's bedroom. It was hard to miss the faded wallpaper, the cheap wooden bedframe, and the little dresser tucked against the cracked wall with a few hand-stitched dolls still scattered across it. It reeked of dust, rot, and forgotten things.

This damned place.

His stomach churned a little as he let his gaze wander around. He hated it here. He'd spent too much time in this orphanage as a boy, watching it slowly fall apart as people either left or disappeared. And now, here he was again. Great.

He sat up straight, the bed creaking under him, and that was when he realized he wasn't alone. Maeve. Of course. She was curled up next to him, eyes closed, her breath steady in sleep, but not anymore. They were connected, after all. She stirred awake the moment he sat up straight, and a soft groan escaped her lips before her own eyes fluttered open.

She blinked, taking a second to adjust to the light before her eyes landed on him.

There was a moment of stillness.

Then, in a voice that was barely awake, she muttered, "I had a strange dream."

Gael's brow furrowed, and he couldn't stop the sarcastic chuckle that escaped. "Sure you did," he said, his voice rough from sleep. "Someone thought it was funny to place us on the same bed again, huh?"

Maeve didn't respond right away. Instead, she just stared at him, her gaze distant. It wasn't the kind of blank stare he expected, though. Something in her eyes made him feel like cutting them out so she'd forget whatever she saw in her dream.

… Tch.

So the flashbacks do go both ways.

He barely gave the bed another thought as he rolled off of it, the room still spinning from the sleep and the events of the night. He rubbed his lenses, trying to clear the fog that clung to his brain, and immediately noticed the familiar clutter around him. His cane, hat, and coat were all where they should be: on a nearby rack or propped up against the wall. With a grunt, he grabbed his things, his fingers brushing over the torn chitin-plated fabric of his coat.

"Damned coat's gonna need fixing again," he muttered under his breath. And his flower glove was gone, too. He'd have to remake that from scratch as well, though he did have a few improvements in mind.

His eyes flicked over to Maeve's briefcase sitting next to the cane, and without a word, he scooped it up and tossed it in her direction. "Get up already, Exorcist. Who knows how long we've been sleeping here."

She groaned, a tired protest slipping from her lips, but she took the briefcase without hesitation. Gael gave her a half-smirk, half-sigh, before pushing the front door open. Maeve followed a half-second later.

They were on the third floor of the orphanage—where they'd first encountered the three-headed hounds—but Gael cast a quick glance around and found the hallway much less threatening now.

"It's a lot less scary in the morning with the sun pouring through," he muttered, a dry smile tugging at his lips. Then he moved straight to the nearest shattered window and peered down at the central garden.

The wilted field sprawled out beneath them, and the first thing he noticed was the odd calm in the air. About a dozen or so Repossessors stood around the garden in small groups, talking among themselves. The four oversized three-headed hounds were nestled beneath a few decaying trees, sprawled out, completely docile and exhausted. They looked... harmless. Unlike most hounds in Bharncair.

The Myrmur carcasses, however, were nowhere to be seen.

Right on cue, though, footsteps from the left had both of them whirling. Cara and Fergal walked around the corner side by side, and the Repossessor gave a short nod to him while Cara immediately rushed to Maeve for a hug.

"Are you alright, Maeve?"

Maeve looked a little taken aback, but she didn't exactly pull back. "I'm… fine. How long has it been since—"

"Just last night. You were only out for the night—"

"Who's who's older sister?" Gael grumbled. In response, Cara shot him a glare before continuing to hug Maeve, so he was glad that Fergal was here to break up their happy little reunion.

"My boys have the building locked down," Fergal said sternly, gesturing out the window. "As I said, nobody's coming in and out. Those three-headed hounds aren't going anywhere."

"And the Myrmur carcasses?" Gael asked.

To that, Cara tilted her head out the window and towards one of the larger gates by the side of the garden. "We're having him haul them back to the clinic. Don't worry about them for now."

Gael's brow furrowed as he watched, distantly, the Cleaner struggling to drag a massive hound-shaped Myrmur through the gate.

When the Cleaner felt Gael staring, he gave him a cheerful wave. Gael didn't wave back.

"And what are you going to do with the hounds now?" Gael asked, looking back at Fergal. "I don't assume your boys are all too willing to take them in as pets."

Fergal narrowed his eyes. "You're the one who fought to keep them alive last night. What do you want with them?"

Gael scowled. "I'll do as I promised Evelyn," he said, his tone firm. "I'll check up on them, give them calming syringes for now, and see if I can help them get their original bodies back, even if it's… unlikely. They got roped into what happened last night, exactly the same as us. Even I'd feel like shit if I just put them down like rabid beasts."

Then he turned sharply, suddenly looking around in search of a particular someone.

"Who are you looking for?" Cara asked.

"Evelyn," he replied, "where's the kid?"

It was Fergal's turn to frown. "How do you know her name?"

"She told me," he lied, eyes flicking out the garden as he tried looking for her there. "Where is she? I need to talk to her a bit about what she said last night."

Fergal didn't seem convinced, but he didn't press further. "She's in the basement," he said slowly. "Lorcawn and the Fingers are torturing her."

Gael paused.

Then he blinked, turning to stare at Fergal.

"What?"

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