Fergal frowned at Maeve's umbrella, hesitating just for a beat.

Then Maeve thumbed the 'fire' button, and the umbrella screamed as it vented.

A pillar of greenish-black poisonous blood exploded forward like a geyser, howling across the roof. It screamed over Gael's body—close enough that he could feel the heat of it ripple across his coat and scald the cracked edge of his mask—and then it hit Fergal square in the chest.

It was like hitting a stone wall with a hurricane. The force of the vent consumed the roof with a blast of pressure that scattered loose debris and sent tiles clattering off the edge. Gael's mask lens rattled against his cheekbone, and Maeve struggled against the recoil, forced to dig her heels so hard into the floor she left scars in the stone.

Then silence followed, except for Maeve's coughing and the soft tick of the umbrella winding down. Gael propped himself up with one elbow, squinting into the clearing blood mist.

"... Did we get him?" he muttered, reaching for the celebratory bottle of street-brew in his inner pocket.

No answer.

No movement.

And just as he clawed onto his feet and rejoined Maeve by the other end of the roof—two gentle taps on their shoulders.

They turned in sync, swung at the same time, and whacked each other in the head with the hilts of their own weapons.

"Fucking Exorcist—"

"Doctor, you—"

Before either of them could curse, Fergal swept their legs cleanly out from under them. Maeve went down with a surprised yelp. Gael hit the ground next to her a half-second later, breath punched out of his lungs.

What the fuck?

Fergal moved back to his corner of the roof. As he bent to retrieve a small, glinting object he'd dropped, Gael caught a fleeting glimpse: a pocket watch, its cover ajar, revealing a delicate sketch of Fergal standing behind a young girl. Maybe a daughter. Maybe a sister. The tender image was at odds with the hardened fighter who'd just put him on his ass, but before Gael could process it, Fergal snapped the watch shut and tucked it away.​

A status interface popped up next to both of their faces, right on cue.

[Identification Complete]

[Name: Fergal Venwright]

[Grade: A-Rank Wretch-Class]

[Advanced Class: Jumping Spider]

[Passive Mutation: Leapnode Araneaplex]

[Brief Description: The user has evolved four additional spider limbs on their back, which can be controlled like normal limbs. Furthermore, specialized muscle-dense nodes have evolved between the joints of these limbs, increasing their snapping and rapid acceleration speed]

[Swarmblood Art: Saltic Burst]

[Brief Description: The user can concentrate bioarcanic essence into all of their limbs, increasing their dexterity by forty percent. They can further concentrate bioarcanic essence into their legs specifically, increasing their leaping strength and speed by fifty percent]

[Aura: ~1,500 BeS]

[Strength: ~5, Speed: ~6, Toughness: ~4, Dexterity: ~5, Perception: ~5]

"... Better," Fergal murmured. "but not good enough. Your tells are as clear as day. The Exorcist is the powerhouse with the flashy moves, so any foe worth their salt will keep their eyes on her. And you, Doctor..." He let the words hang, a small frown playing on his brows. "You're so lacking in threat you're practically invisible."​

Gael groaned, pushing himself up on his elbows. "Bit harsh, don't you think?"​

Fergal ignored the protest. "Your roles are all wrong. The Exorcist has the brawn, yet she has the tendency to hang back. You, the Doctor with less muscle, tend to charge in headfirst. Hell is wrong with the two of you?"​

"I'm Bharnish," Gael wiped the sweat from his jaw, leaving a streak of grime. "We scrap. Standing back ain't in our blood."​

And Maeve's voice was soft, almost hesitant. "As an Exorcist, we've been trained to avoid close combat with Myrmurs whenever possible. If we don't have to engage in close-quarters combat, we—"

"Go home." Fergal narrowed his eyes and shooed them off. As he did, he turned, striding toward the rooftop's edge where a narrow staircase descended back into the building below. "A word of advice for the two of you: just pick fights you can win. Don't try to be a hero. Heroes don't live long in Bharncair."

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With that, he disappeared down the stairs, leaving them alone with their thoughts.​

Silence settled over the rooftop, broken only by the distant hum of the city below. Gael lay back down, staring up at the murky sky.

So I'm the threat-less one, huh?

Maeve stood first, brushing the dust from her clothes, and extended a hand towards Gael.

He eyed her hand, suspicion flickering across his face.

With a grunt, he rolled to his feet without her assistance. Maeve's lips pressed into a thin line, a hint of irritation flashing in her eyes, but…

"... But the man's got a point," Gael conceded, breaking the awkward silence. "Maybe we should switch things up? You take the front lines, and I'll hang back?"

They exchanged a glance, the idea hanging between them like a bad smell.

Then they both scoffed in unison.

"... As if," they said, nearly overlapping, voices steeped in mutual derision. Maeve lifted her chin proudly, the sting of the rooftop scuffle already swallowed up by her Exorcist composure.

"I'll refine my range," she declared. "I'll tighten my aim. I'll quicken my trigger finger. My mama taught me better than this."

Gael snorted, rubbing his jaw with the back of his hand. His fingers came away a little red. "And I'll handle the close-up stuff. I ain't lettin' some alley mutt knock me flat again. I just need another weapon." His grin turned a little crooked, a little wicked. "Something mean."

He stepped toward the roof's edge, tugging at the collar of his coat where it clung to his neck with sweat. The air still reeked faintly of poison mist. He knew well he wasn't the 'Hunter' in this professional relationship, but it didn't mean he couldn't pull his own weight in battle

Reaching down and running a finger along the torn hem of his coat, he was already picturing where he'd sew in the chitin plates later tonight. The shell of that other Myrmur carcass was still waiting for him back at the clinic. And with it, he had something else in mind: a bioarcanic weapon, harsh and fast and cruel. Fergal had given him the idea, even if he hadn't meant to.

He glanced sideways.

Maeve had her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed in thought. A little smudge of dirt clung to her cheek. She didn't seem to notice.

"And I've been thinking," she said slowly, eyes flicking down towards her umbrella. "About… a new trigger. Something built into the handle. I want to push the mist harder. Further. But…"

She trailed off, awkward now.

Gael cocked an eyebrow.

Then she cleared her throat as she scowled at him, the stiffness in her shoulders betraying everything her voice tried to hide. "But I can't do it alone. I need your help."

That made him pause.

For a second, he just blinked at her—then a wide, lopsided grin split across his face, teeth glinting like he'd just struck gold in a pile of trash.

"Well, look who came crawling to the Doctor's office," he taunted. "Guess I'm not totally useless after all."

She rolled her eyes and swatted at him, but he ducked the swing with the ease of a man who'd been dodging her umbrella for days. "Anyway," she started, "before we head back to the clinic, we should check the alleys again. Run a few loops around Blightmarch. If the Flighty is still holed up somewhere nearby, our eyes will find her. At the very least, we can narrow down the locations where we know she isn't."

Gael shrugged, tucking his hands into his coat pockets as they both headed for the stairs. "Got a few places I wanna swing by, too. I'm low on bellroot and flysear, and I think old Graffe's stall still owes me a discount."

Fergal stood in silence behind his desk, arms folded tight across his chest. The light through his office window poured dusty grey over the mess of paperwork and crates around him, but he wasn't looking at any of that.

His gaze was fixed outside, narrowed on the pair staggering out into the yard.

They were limping away from the central structure of the warehouse, passing through the buzz and motion of his men hauling crates, stacking bricks, and remeasuring beams. Gael had a slight wobble in his step and kept reaching for his shoulder like he'd just remembered it still hurt. Maeve, in contrast, moved with a rigid spine and clenched fists. Proud. Controlled. But her limp was worse. Fergal had hit her harder than he did Gael, after all.

… Hm.

He exhaled through his nose and rubbed a thumb over his forearm.

His arms were still trembling.

It wasn't a lot of trembling—it was barely a flicker, if he had to say so himself—but it was there. A dull ache in the sockets of his third and fourth spider arms where he'd repeatedly caught Maeve's umbrella swings.

Saint's bones, if nothing else, the girl could hit. She was definitely Exorcist-trained. And that pillar of poisonous mist she'd fired at him—that was a killing move. If he hadn't kicked his Swarmblood Art in—if he'd been even a blink slower to leap around them—that fine mist would've melted half his skin off.

His lungs still burned a little from the tail end of it.

In contrast, Gael was weak. Sloppy. Too loose in the shoulders. Lacking balance in his footing. His half-drunken, half-drugged attacks came in with wild momentum and no precision, and worse, he didn't even know how to guard properly. He ducked and weaved like a street brawler. In a real fight against people with Symbiotic Systems, he'd be dead within seconds fighting like that.

But there was something about the way he charged in anyways.

Something about the way he didn't hesitate.

Fergal had to admit he flinched a little every time Gael lunged with that maddening grin, and that brought the doctor an extra half-second to dodge every attack Fergal threw at him.

And that… fucking mask.

It didn't matter if he knew who Gael was. Any Bharnish would freak out a little if they saw a Demonic Plagueplain Doctor charging straight at them with a grin like the one Gael wore with every swing. It was like watching a red tide crawl up the sewer grates in midwinter—it may be slow at first, quiet as mold, but it'd be all teeth and bile once it hits your feet. No man with a mind for survival would stand his ground when that mask bore down on him.

It wasn't instinct to fight back against a Demonic Plagueplain Doctor. It was instinct to flee.

So, Fergal grimaced.

That mask—gaunt, beaked, lenses cracked just enough to suggest damage without compromising menace—wasn't just decoration. It was Gael's strongest weapon. No matter how sloppy his form was, no matter how stupidly he charged in, that damned mask would keep buying him half-seconds.

And in real fights, half-seconds kill.

… He narrowed his eyes at Gael's retreating back through the window, suspicion tightening between his shoulders.

Just where in the dead gods' crypts did you get that thing, after all?

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