Bharncair had teeth early in the morning. Not the usual, lazy kind of teeth—long and curling and drooping like tongues out of gargoyle mouths—but real ones, biting sharp along the back of Gael's hand as he crouched behind Miss Alba's noodle shop, elbow-deep in the opening of a decently sized saltwater pipe that stank like old squid broth left to boil over a corpse.

"Don't yank too hard now, Doctor!" Miss Alba warned from behind, voice weary like rusted hinges. Her two kids, both tiny and nose-dripping, peeked around her dress with looks halfway between fascination and dread.

He couldn't very well yell at them to go away. Saltwater would splash onto his tongue if he opened his mouth in this precarious position.

"You're going to get bitten," Maeve said matter-of-factly, standing right behind Gael with her arms crossed.

"That's the whole point," Gael mumbled back, digging further into the muck. His gloves squelched. His brows scrunched. "It's a bitey kind of plant. You ain't gonna see its shitty little teeth unless youaahhh—"

Something chomped down on his fingers. He immediately gripped his hand into a fist, twisted his entire arm until his shoulder cracked, and then—with a slurp and a snap—yanked as hard as he could.

With a splash of pipe-water, mud, and shredded moss, he wrenched the whole stem and root out into the air. The bright green flower twisted in his grip like a wet cat mid-tantrum, half bristly, half pulpy, all angry. Green-veined sawtooth petals snapped open and closed, all teeth and bile. It was a Gravepetal Maw, no doubt. A nasty little creeper for sure.

Maeve, hiding over his shoulder, immediately squinted at the snapping flower in his hand.

"I told you," she said primly. "I saw three or four of them growing in the corner pipe last time I came to eat here. They were glowing. It was suspicious."

Gael turned around, cradling the flower like a newborn. "Oh, you're a little man-eater, aren't you?" he cooed to the plant, which chomped at the air as he tickled its stem. "Look at you. You're gonna make me a realllll nasty piece of work when I get to work drugging you."

Maeve rolled her eyes and turned, dipping her head at Miss Alba instead. "Thank you for humoring our request."

The lady chuckled and rubbed her hands on her apron, dipping her head in return. "It's no trouble, sweetheart," she said. "I've been meaning to clear them things out. They've been blocking the saltwater pipes I've been using for my specialty Wraithpier-style coldwater noodles, but I couldn't dare to stick my arm in and get rid of them myself. You're doing me a favor, really."

"See?" Gael said, waggling the flower over his shoulder like a trophy. "Public service, this! Gutter charity! Saving noodle economies one flower at a time!"

Miss Alba's youngest, the little girl, squeaked and hid behind her older brother when the flower snapped in her direction.

"I'll come back for the rest!" Gael shouted, already half-jogging back towards the main road that slithered back toward the clinic. "Don't let nobody else have them, Miss Alba! They're Gravepetal Maws! Real hard to find these days, especially ones that grow in salt-sludge!"

Gael and Maeve bolted down, boarded up, and barred the surgical chamber like it was the deadliest ward in a madhouse. The windows were smothered with planks, and the front door was dragged into place with chains and extra wooden beams nailed across for good measure. None of it looked like it belonged in a place meant for healing, but that was because it wasn't healing Gael was aiming for today.

It was invention.

The two of them grunted as they dropped the heavy box of Myrmur parts and organs onto the surgical table with a loud thud. Dust kicked up from the impact, and Gael wiped his jaw with his sleeve, squinting at the box like it might fight back.

Maeve, already moving, didn't waste a second. She fetched chairs from the side of the chamber and dragged them next to the table, pulling the surgical cart over as well. She'd done this song and dance before. She knew how long it'd probably take him to make a bioarcanic equipment.

Aight.

Let's do this.

Rubbing his hands, he snatched the Gravepetal Maw off the surgical tray—which had been stuck in a glass vase full of saltwater to keep it from dehydrating—and slapped it on the table next to the carcass box like it was just another scalpel. The hungry little thing snapped at the air, furious, but Gael didn't pay it any mind.

He fished the engineering book from inside his coat and flipped through, licking his thumb every other page until he found the bit he wanted.

"Here we go: robber flies," he muttered, tracing the text with a finger. "They possess a specialized system of micro-spiracles embedded within their flexible intersegmental membranes of their chitin plates. These spiracles are connected to a network of tiny internal pneumatic sacs called 'pneumochitin channels', which can be found all across their entire body. As air flows in, it inflates these elastic sacs, which temporarily increases limb volume and creates mechanical pressure for stronger strikes and jumps."

Maeve pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged herself, making herself comfortable. "Which means?"

"Their chitin plates can suck in air and make them puff up like a ball."

Book tossed aside, tools gathered, and flower still hissing in front of him, he rolled up his sleeves and dove his hands into the box. He rifled through a mess of jagged black chitin plates, some thick and hard like cracked stone, others thin and greasy like the skin of an overboiled sausage. He didn't want the thick stuff. The thin ones would suit his purpose best.

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After a few moments of searching, he yanked out a chitin plate about the length and width of his torso that was nearly translucent. Thin, stretchy, and shimmering like a film of oil.

"Perfect," he purred, slapping it down in front of him.

"And what, exactly, are you going to do with that?" Maeve asked, eyes narrowing.

He pushed the box aside and spread the flexible plate out across the table. "That spider said I either gotta back off in a fight or make myself a proper weapon, and you know how I be sometimes as a man of Bharncair."

"Reckless."

"Not a veinless coward," he corrected. "Fuck backing off."

Then he stripped off his right glove with a snap and tossed it flat on the table.

Time to check up on his suturing skills.

Cracking his knuckles, he reached for a bonesaw from the surgical cart. The thin, large, flimsy-looking plate of chitin lay before him, but with his bonesaw, cutting it a dozen smaller chunks of fabric-like chitin wasn't tough at all. It was just like sawing through bone. Not that he'd openly say he had much experience doing that, but… well, that would be a lie.

With the plate cut up into smaller chitin fabrics and membranes, he pinched one between his fingers, and tugged it until it stretched with elasticity he would normally only find from a hardened sheet of oil. Myrmur biological properties really were peculiar after all.

Good.

Now get to work.

Tossing the bonesaw over Maeve's head, he reached for a fine stitching needle from the surgical cart next. He threaded it with care, the little string already soaked in something that reeked faintly of hardening chemicals and iron. Not that he minded. If it didn't sting the eyes a little, it wasn't a proper thread that would hold in a stitch.

With the needle threaded, he started covering the glove on the table with the small chitin fabric inch by inch. Fingers first, wrapping each one in a chitinous fabric, careful not to bulk them up too much. Flexibility mattered. Next, the back of the hand, then the palm, stretching the chitin fabric to fit snug and slicing the edges to round off where needed. His brow stayed furrowed the entire time, lips slightly parted, tongue flicking out every so often when a cut went a little wrong.

Once he'd layered every part of the glove with the chitin fabric, he started stitching the additional layer onto the glove. Oh, it was painfully slow, like sewing flesh but ten times more delicate. The glove was hard leather and didn't give easily to his needle, but Gael was patient. Madmen could be patient if it meant the result was perfect.

Maeve sat next to him, perched on her chair, legs pulled up, chin resting on her knees. She didn't say a word. Just watched as he worked and time blurred by.

Minutes turned into hours. Hours bled into each other, marked only by the occasional shift of Maeve in her chair or the creak of the overhead lantern. His will was iron, his focus impeccable, though a few drops of sweat did find its way off his jaw every once in a while—so when he finally snipped the thread and tied it off near the cuff of the wrist, he let out a loud breath and rolled his shoulders.

The once-leather glove had now been turned into a pseudo black-chitin gauntlet, but with all the flexibility and the softness of a normal glove.

Maeve leaned over to the side and picked up his engineering book instinctively, already flipping to the glyph index for him.

"Don't need it," he said, picking up his scalpel. "I've memorized the glyphs I need already."

The hours slipped by unnoticed again, save for the slow ache creeping into his shoulders and the faint throb behind his eyes as he carefully etched the lines into the palm of the glove. Maeve watched the entire time in silence. Once he was ninety-nine percent done with swirly, alien lines sprawled across the palm of the glove, all that remained was the final line—a little curly flick he carved onto the pinky finger of the glove.

He stood up straight and cracked his aching back, grimacing and admiring the almost-complete piece like an artist about to ruin the canvas with one last stroke, but not yet. The glyph may be carved already, but the equipment was still missing its most vital part.

Beside him, the Gravepetal Maw sat in its water jar, jaws parted, snapping every so often at the air like it could sense something coming. The roots writhed in the water, hungry, twitching as Gael looked up at Maeve and grinned.

She scowled, reaching for her briefcase instinctively. "What now, Doctor?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he plunged both hands into his coat and pulled out vial after vial, glass clinking in a chaotic rhythm. They were small, wicked things filled with liquids that shimmered or frothed or pulsed with unnatural color, and he brandished them like daggers, letting them dance between his fingers.

"One for strength." He popped the cork, tipped a bright red liquid into the vase. The flower jolted, petals shivering. "One for vigor." A green, syrupy drop followed, sinking fast into the water. The flower screeched, low and grating, as its veins darkened. "And this one is for the nerves," he finished, adding a cloudy black concoction into the vase for his final touch. "Don't want you going all sluggish on me now, hm?"

Another twitch. Another snap.

More vials came, his hands moving in a blur—each tipped into the jar with a flourish, each ingredient named like some twisted recipe. Cellulose-tougheners. Fibre-thickeners. Vitality-boosters. Whatever he had lying around that sounded nasty, he added, laughing under his breath as the Gravepetal Maw contorted in pain and agony.

The thing was practically snarling now, its petals flared wide, veins bulging, color bleeding from bright green to something closer to rotting darkness. He didn't care. He held up the final vial, pale blue and faintly glowing.

"And here's your bedtime tea," he murmured, pouring it in.

The flower spasmed violently, then stilled. Petals drooped. Its jaws slackened.

Maeve leaned in. "Did you just ki—"

"Not dead," he cut in, already rolling his sleeves back. "Tamed. I gave it a little… ah, what to call it… a plant sedative. It'll lie dormant without any need for food and drink from now on unless it gets really agitated and wakes up."

And now he was ready for the final part. He yanked the flower out of the vase, roots and all, and though it hung limp in his grip, he could still feel the life pulsing beneath its deep slumber.

Perfect.

First, he picked up his chitin-layered glove and slid it onto his hand. He flexed the fingers, testing the fit. The stitched chitin plates gave a slight resistance, but it moved how he wanted. Then came the wrapping: he tied the roots of the flower around the cuff of the glove, and then tightened each individual section until the flower was coiled firmly around his entire glove, one side of its sawtooth petal jaw sitting above his wrist, and the other below it like his hand was getting devoured.

… Ha!

He jumped onto the table, raising his flower glove to the swinging lantern above. The sickly orange light glinted off the chitin and the dark, pulsing veins of the flower, but oh, he'd never seen anything as pretty before.

"Behold!" he declared, a wild cackle bubbling up from his chest. "New toy!"

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