Collaboration with Glorifiedscapegoat.

Shion dreamed of his mother's bakery.

The scents of buttery croissants danced in his memories, the fresh snap of apples drifting around him. Shion had spent his entire life in the warmth and comfort of his mother's bakery, surrounded by pastries and the freedom to create.

In his dreams, Shion helped his mother prepare a fresh loaf of bread before the bakery opened. She stood beside him, covered in flour, humming to herself as she kneaded the dough. Her dark hair was pulled back and held out of her face by her signature lilac bandanna.

The memory of his mother made Shion's chest ache with a cocktail of sorrow and happiness. He missed her. He missed the simple days spent in the kitchen with her. The nights spent laughing as they closed up the bakery and went upstairs to cook dinner. The sleepovers with Safu and the thunderstorms that rattled the little living space Shion had known his whole life.

He wondered how they were doing. He wondered if Horizon Labs had left them alone once Shion vanished along with Nezumi. Now that he'd been apprehended, there was no need to interrogate his mother and Safu any further. What little information they might have about him didn't mean anything now that Shion was kept behind invisible walls.

Shion drifted awake to the memory of his mother's brilliant smile and her gentle fingers running through his hair. His vision blurred at the edges; a strange, itching sensation on his cheek startled him, and Shion realized that he'd been crying in his sleep.

He eased slowly into a sitting position.

His body ached, and Shion grimaced. It'd been a couple of days—he thought—since Lab Coat had performed his 'tests' on him. Shion's soul cried out at the memory of allowing himself to give Lab Coat the information he wanted, but he shoved it aside.

He'd traded his soul for information on Nezumi's well-being.

Lab Coat hadn't given him much. He'd informed him simply that Nezumi was alive and well. "He's a stubborn one," Lab Coat exhaled, labeling the vials of Shion's blood with a series of numbers and placing them carefully into sealed plastic bags. "But he's alive and unharmed."

Nezumi. Shion leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his legs. He pressed his face into his knees, the fabric of his jumpsuit damp where his tears soaked in.

His heart ached at the loss of his family. He missed his mother's warmth and Safu's support. He missed the freedom of the open sky and the sensation of grass beneath his feet. He even missed the cool snap of autumn sending goosebumps across his skin.

And more than that, he missed Nezumi.

He missed the glint of light in Nezumi's silver irises. The semi-permanent scowl plastered to his face and the frustrated huffs he'd make when something bothered him. The musical sound of his voice and the ability he had to change his tone at the drop of a hat. And he missed the comfort of Nezumi's arms around him. The sound of his laughter and the feeling of his hand fitted perfectly within Shion's own.

Shion exhaled and wiped his eyes. Now wasn't the time to cry. He'd done plenty of that in the past few days.

Now was the time for action.

He lifted his head and stared into the dimly-lit room. His companions had fallen asleep, and Shion's memories of his life before confinement shook him awake. On her cot, Hitomi snuffled and rolled onto her side, deep in her own dreams.

"Bad dream?" came a soft voice.

Shion jolted, and then calmed when he realized it wasn't Lab Coat.

Aki sat up on his own cot. The old man's sunken, dark eyes glinted in the dim light, surveying the world with a sense of disillusion and misery that Shion couldn't begin to comprehend.

"No," Shion admitted. "A good dream."

Aki hummed. "I remember those."

Shion's heart stuttered. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and calmed down. Things were difficult for all of them—just in different ways. Shion's experiences weren't the same as Aki's, not even a little bit, but both of them had suffered.

Shion had been handed an opportunity. He hadn't had many moments with Aki, and he needed to make good use of this time. While Rin and Hitomi dozed, Shion intended to learn all he could.

"What else do you remember?" Shion murmured, resting his head on his knees. He hoped it sounded casual and not too probing.

Aki narrowed his eyes, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Not much anymore, I'm afraid. Time down here will do that."

Shion nodded slowly. "I'll bet. You were part of the first trials, right?"

"I was," Aki allowed, but didn't elaborate further. He eased himself onto the edge of the cot, the metal springs groaning beneath him. He winced at the cracks in his spine; Shion couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Aki stand up and wander around the room. "One of your parents must have been part of the first trials, yes? Your mother?"

"My father, actually," Shion said.

"Mm. What could he do?"

"Illusions." Shion drifted his hands through the air. "He could make pictures out of thin air, for a little bit."

"I see. I didn't know him, then."

"That's OK." Shion smiled sadly. "I didn't, either."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Shion sat with his knees pressed against his chest, his back aching from the position. He didn't want to move from it. The pain meant that there was something real to cling onto—something to keep him from slipping into despair. The pain meant he was alive, that there was something better outside the Lab's walls to keep him going.

"What about your mother? She wasn't part of the trials?"

"No," Shion replied carefully. "She's a regular human. She owns a bakery." He paused. "I miss her."

Aki nodded sympathetically. "A bakery. I remember those, too. There used to be one down the street from where I grew up as a boy. I don't remember much about it, but I remember saving up my pocket change to purchase muffins."

"I like muffins," Shion mumbled.

He glanced over and noticed Rin peeking out from their pillow. They ducked their face quickly, trying desperately to hide the fact that they'd been eavesdropping.

Shion smiled. The gears began to work in his head. Rin being awake meant that they'd overheard their conversation—and it also meant that Shion could put his plan into effect.

He didn't have his father's illusions or Nezumi's ability to peer into people's minds and urge them to feel a certain way. But he did have his stories. He had his memories and his dreams and his ability to paint them into vivid pictures.

Shion had an advantage his companions didn't. Horizon Labs had captured him recently. Shion's memories of the outside world were fresh in his head. He'd tasted freedom for much of his life before it'd been dragged away from him.

He might not have been able to use his abilities to shake the walls around him, but he could use his words as a weapon.

And so Shion told his companions about his mother's bakery. He told them about the scents of fresh fruits and flour, the warmth of the sun on his cheeks and the crisp brush of autumn wind ruffling through his hair. He painted them vivid images of the world beyond the cement walls of Horizon Labs, the world they might be able to see again if something were to happen to rip the Lab down from the inside out.

In the middle of the night, Shion allowed his dreams to become his companions'.

⁂

Nezumi dreamed of his parents' cabin.

He woke beneath the threadbare coverlet his mother had managed to scrape together from scraps of fabric Nezumi had outgrown from his infancy. The mattress beneath him creaked as he slowly eased into an upright position; the twin-sized bed had been far too large for him in his adolescence, but now it was just a bit too small to sleep comfortably on.

Nezumi swung his legs over the side and placed them on the hardwood floor. A thin layer of dust stretched across the expanse of wood. He'd been too little to use the broom before the Lab found him, but he'd kept his mother company when she swept his bedroom. He sang pointless songs to her as she giggled and swept the dirt into a little pile. Nezumi liked to hold the dustpan and dump it outside.

He wandered out into the dark hallway, trailing his fingers along the empty walls. In another life, there might have been paintings placed on them. Pretty, crayon-drawn artworks to liven up the otherwise gloomy space. Paint was expensive, but as a child, Nezumi dreamed of the day when he might be able to acquire some and smear it on his parents' walls, brightening their world with just a hint of color.

His dream-cabin was a mismatched patchwork of his childhood memories and the half-rotten remnants he'd found years later. The windows bled with a mixture of shadows and frost, a handful of cracks in the corners. The drapes were old and outdated. Nothing matched—not the furniture, the carpets, or the assortment of dishes his parents had managed to scrape together—but it was home, all the same.

Nezumi plodded into the living room, remembering to step over the threshold carefully. He'd always tripped over it when he was little. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, the curtains drawn back to allow the natural light to brighten the wooden room. The little generator provided enough energy to keep the cabin running, but Nezumi's parents liked to conserve it as often as possible. The winter months took a particular toll, so the spring and summer months were spent without electricity.

The clinking of glass from the kitchenette caught Nezumi's attention. He spotted a short woman swaying steadily back and forth in front of the sink, cleaning the dishes with a basin of water she'd dragged in from the creek outside.

Nezumi's chest tightened; his vision blurred as he made his way to the kitchen. The woman hummed, the musical lilt of her song drifting around Nezumi like a calming mist. It was a sound he associated with his childhood, when the world was innocent and safe.

The woman glanced over her shoulder as Nezumi stepped into the kitchen. Her silver eyes danced, her dark hair pulled back and bound with a dark blue scrap of fabric. "Well," she said, "look who's finally awake. Good morning, dear."

"Morning, Mama," Nezumi murmured.

She didn't turn away from the sink, but she jerked her chin toward the table. "Why don't you have a seat? Your papa will be inside in a few minutes, and then we can have breakfast."

The world outside the cabin windows was dark and cold. Nezumi's brow furrowed. Hadn't it been sunny just a few moments ago?

The kitchen table behind Nezumi squeaked as someone leaned against it. Gran, no doubt. The old woman who'd helped his parents escape the Lab was infamous for waking earlier than everyone else, but Nezumi's mother preferred to do the cooking herself. She prided herself on her culinary creations. Sometimes Nezumi helped her—though usually it amounted to him standing at her side and handing her boxes while she patted him on the head and praised him for his assistance.

Nezumi turned to the kitchen table, opening his mouth to say a soft greeting to his grandmother, and the words died in his throat.

Shion smiled back at him from the other side of the room. His hands were folded neatly in front of him, his fingers long and pale. His dark eyes glittered in the sunlight—except that it was dark outside, and there wasn't any sunlight—and a pleasant smile stretched across his face. His hair peeked from beneath the purple knit hat Nezumi's mother had worked so hard on.

Nezumi's eyes drifted to Shion's throat. A pinprick of scarlet sat in the divot of his collarbone, and a stream of blood dribbled down his pale skin. The droplets splattered on the kitchen table, staining the wood. Shion's clasped hands were peppered with wet rubies, each one horrifying and beautiful.

Shion's brilliant smile vanished. "What's wrong, Nezumi?"

Nezumi's hands trembled. The world around him trembled with streaks of shadows. His mother hummed at the sink, and Nezumi could hear the steady drip-drip of water trickling from the faucet.

Thumping came from outside, and the kitchen door clicked open. "It's a mess out there," Nezumi's father announced as he kicked his winter boots against the door, knocking the ice loose. "We'll have enough wood for winter, though."

"Oh, good," Nezumi's mother replied.

Nezumi turned, his heart hammering in his throat. His father stood in the doorway, illuminated by the open door. He grinned as he locked eyes with Nezumi—his sharp, serrated teeth were bloody and white, and seven bullet holes dripped a pool of scarlet on the floor in front of him. Nezumi hadn't seen the bullets strike, but he'd both heard and seen the aftermath. He'd seen his father sprawled out in the middle of the living room, his glassy black eyes staring lifelessly up at the ceiling as blood pooled on the floorboards beneath him.

Nezumi's mother moved away from the sink, but the dripping of the faucet continued. She drifted into view like a pale ghost, blood spilling from the wounds that had ended her life. Nezumi had seen the agents strike her down; the dull punch of the bullet that had sent her crashing to the ground on her back, her dark hair fanned out in the hallway behind her like a silk scarf.

Gran had gone outside to fetch the mail. The agents caught her there and left her for dead. Nezumi had only found her after stumbling away from the cabin, his whole world left in shambles. She looked, in that moment, as if she'd risen from the earth itself, reaching for him in a moment of desperation.

And Shion…

Nezumi closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. He couldn't remember what they looked like without the bloody wounds that had ruined their lives. He couldn't remember his mother's face without the pallor of death, or his father's teeth without the bloodstains. Shion's dark eyes, glassy with death, peered back at him when he closed his eyes and tried to remember their journeys on the road before everything had fallen to pieces.

He didn't want to remember these nightmares. Didn't want to think that he was all alone in the world. Everyone in the world he'd ever cared about had been taken away by Horizon Labs, and now even Nezumi's memories of them were corrupted by what the Lab had done to them.

"Nezumi?" Shion murmured, his voice muzzy and thick. He hadn't made a sound after he'd fallen to the ground with the dart embedded in his throat, but Nezumi had heard him mumble in his sleep, stifled by the pillow's fabric. "Nezumi, what's wrong?"

What's wrong?

What the fuck isn't?

Nezumi didn't want to look. He didn't want to see Shion or his parents or the old woman stained by death. He didn't want to face what Horizon Labs had taken away from him—how brutally they'd been wrenched from this world, simply for being who they were.

But, to forget them completely….

Nezumi's heart hammered, echoing like a drum in his head. He curled into the darkness, misery drifting over him, clinging to the memories and holding them even though the edges sliced into his skin. He couldn't let them go. He just couldn't let the Lab take everything from him, even if the memories that stuck hurt. The pain pierced through him and swallowed him like a freezing ocean wave, but they were his memories. They were the only thing he had left in the world of the people he loved.

I have nothing anymore.

Nothing.

Nezumi jolted at the loud clang that echoed through the room. He darted upright, instinct forcing him awake.

The door to his cell swung open, and Nezumi's stomach sank. After Lab Coat had swept out a few days ago, Nezumi had been left blissfully alone. With the exception of meals being delivered to him through a slot, no guards in black uniforms had come by to taunt him from beyond the cell. No doctors in white lab coats had come to try and bargain with him.

Tsuyu marched into the room. Nezumi half-expected Benkei at his side, but the other guard didn't follow. His compromised position must have been discovered shortly after Nezumi's recapture.

On Tsuyu's heels came two other black-uniformed guards, each clutching large guns across their chests. Scarlet red scramblers rested in their ears—and then behind them came Lab Coat.

Nezumi's shoulders dropped miserably. He lowered his head, staring at the guards' boots.

"Good morning," said Lab Coat cheerfully. "How've you been enjoying solitary confinement?"

Nezumi didn't respond.

"Ah, the silent treatment? That's all right. You must be overwhelmed." Lab Coat clicked his fingers toward the front door.

A pair of boots echoed on the cement. They were steady and cautious; Nezumi felt a chill dance down his spine at the familiarity of the steps, cold terror shivering through his body.

Rashi glared back at him. Behind his thick-rimmed glasses, Nezumi could just make out the edges of a healing black eye. He'd driven his fist into Rashi's nose during the riots, apparently hard enough to nearly break it.

His damaged hand was taped up with pristine white gauze, his broken fingers strapped together. He glared at Nezumi from behind the safety line created by the other guards; Nezumi spotted his scrambler and the edge of his buzz baton, but he didn't see Rashi's gun.

"You've been in solitary for several days now," Lab Coat said, "and the higher ups feel as though you've learned your lesson. We'll be much more cautious of you in the future. And since you've been good and haven't caused any trouble, we think you're ready to go back."

Nezumi lifted his head, slowly, and looked Lab Coat in the face.

"Go back?" he echoed.

"Why, yes." Lab Coat's lips drew back in a brilliant smile. "To Section M, of course."