Relying on her perception, Freak followed Left through the sewer the entire way, though the noise down there made it hard to hear clearly.
In a deserted back alley, during daylight. The supervisor's back was turned to Left. Silence surrounded them. Left fell heavily to her knees behind her superior, her hands trembling uncontrollably. The mechanical eye in her left socket flickered with faint red light, like a pupil constricting under stress. Sweat rolled continuously down her pale cheeks.
Left's superior—let's call him the "Inspector"—kept his back to her. His voice held no anger, only a coldness born of utter disappointment, perhaps even weariness. It was more suffocating than any shout.
"Once, Left. In the past, you needed only one attempt for any target." He slowly turned, looking down at her. "Has your mind grown dull? Or has that redundant component in your body finally begun to interfere with your efficiency?"
"The Church invested resources for you to use that ability, not to be burdened by her. If she's gone from weapon to vulnerability, then her destination is the recycling station. Keeping only the left hemisphere personality benefits both you and the Church."
Her remaining healthy, golden-brown left eye trembled violently, tears silently spilling forth—Right's despairing cry.
"Understood. I misjudged the stability of the Emotional Kaleidoscope. It will no longer be defined as a weapon, but as redundant process." She raised her right hand, which had taken on a translucent, stained-glass quality. "I will execute… formatting."
Just as Left's hand was about to touch her own head, in the instant of Right's final, silent scream—
"The Executor's Self-Destruct Program and the Redemption from the Sewers… What a tragic and beautiful composition!" Freak muttered, mesmerized. The manhole cover behind her didn't pop open; instead, it "melted" upwards, bulging like soft mud. It instantly abstracted and deformed into several sharp, twisted metal spikes, stabbing viciously towards Left's back and legs! Left narrowly evaded by combat instinct, but was still slashed several times, leaving bleeding gashes. In the moment she was stunned by the agony and shock, Freak's hand shot out from that puddle of "metallic slime". Her power, like an invisible hand, precisely "grasped" the painful, pure emotional consciousness that was Right, "extracting" it from Left's physical brain. It quickly merged into the darkness of the sewer and vanished without a trace.
All that was left for Left: the sudden disappearance of the "noise" that had plagued her for years, and a deathly silence of absolute rationality. And Freak's parting whisper echoing in the alley: "This beautiful 'error', I'll take it~"
"Don't think you can run."
Left started to chase, but was coldly stopped by the Inspector's hand. Thwarted, she fell clumsily to the ground.
"What's wrong?" the Inspector's voice held no emotion. "Is that 'machine brain' of yours malfunctioning? Remember, over there—it's not just one person."
"Understood. Everything will proceed according to your orders."
Would Left let her go? Absolutely not.
The order shot from her mind like an icy arrow—
"Ordnance Division, this is Left. Requesting fire support. Coordinates synced. Initiate saturation bombardment of the sewer system, radius 450 meters from my position. Authorized use of 'Believer-10', 10 rounds rapid fire."
"Received. Executing immediately."
The moment the order was sent, Freak, hidden in the shadows of the pipes below, twitched her ears. She had already perceived the dull thrum of infrasound, imperceptible to ordinary humans, as the shells tore through the air.
"Seriously?" She chuckled softly into the foul air of the sewer, as if talking to Left across the distance. "Just taking an installation package, and you reply with gunpowder shells? Guess only my ears don't let me down."
She looked down at the unstable, flickering, chaotic mass of light in her hand—Right's painful yet pure self-aware consciousness. A mad decision crystallized in her heart.
"Looks like I'll have to ask you to crash at my place for a while…"
Without a moment's hesitation, she slammed the mass of light against her own forehead. Forcibly stuffing it into her mind—like abruptly plugging a second, independent processing core into a delicate system.
HUM!
A flood of unfamiliar memories and emotions surged into her mind. Freak's own consciousness, like the master system, quickly erected a firewall, isolating Right's consciousness in a secure "sandbox". She could perceive everything about Right, like reading an open book, but Right couldn't actively touch her core.
"Don't move, little poor thing," Freak whispered to the new consciousness within her own mind. "If you're going to live in my head, you'll have to listen to me." But she couldn't help furrowing her brow.
Borrowing the brief neural overclocking from the consciousness integration, her reaction time and speed were pushed to the limit. She sprinted at full speed through the complex pipe network, heading away from the bombardment zone, muttering to herself as she ran: "Did you really think my brain was useless? If I hear the sound, I know to get close to the source—after all, no one would bomb themselves, right? These shells are scarier than those mutts."
Almost the instant the explosions erupted, Freak's figure gathered like a ghost behind Left, carrying the damp air of the sewer, her form like a cluster of chaotic shadows.
Was Freak's action truly without logic? Or was something really wrong with Left's head?
BOOM——!
"Get in the car! I told you to run, not to launch shells! Do not execute any orders without my permission!"
The situation for the villain was critical. The Inspector yanked Left into the pre-arranged car with one hand, flinging her onto the seat. Might this machine even get broken by such force? With the roar of the engine, Left and the Inspector vanished, the dust from the car's departure still hanging in the air.
Freak stood still, hand propping up her chin, the nerve pain from just having forcibly accommodated Right's consciousness still lingering. She watched the direction the car had disappeared, the playfulness gone from her face, replaced by an almost chilling calm.
"…How rude. Not even a thank you." She murmured to herself, shaking her head, as if that could also shake off the unease of the new tenant in her mind. "Whatever. Time to go see my two drifters."
She turned, her heels clicking a hurried and lonely rhythm on the empty street, quickly returning to the banks of the Seine. Nightbloom and Crimsonlyn were still waiting where she'd left them, Nightbloom's face already etched with impatience.
Freak walked past them without stopping, leaving only a remark: "Don't complain, little demon. Taking you somewhere you can actually sleep. I've had enough of the sewer smell."
Nightbloom roared impatiently: "What the hell took you so long?! You crazy woman, treating us like pets you can just summon and dismiss?!"
"Pets? Oh no, no, no," Freak scoffed with a laugh, turning away. Her heels clicked a clear rhythm on the silent street as her voice drifted back. "You're 'exhibits'. And I'm taking you to my private gallery to lay low. Better than sleeping within range of the Church's shells, right?"
It was an unarguable point. Nightbloom clicked her tongue in annoyance and followed reluctantly. Crimsonlyn silently brought up the rear, her silver thread always maintaining a subtle distance from Freak—close enough not to lose her, but ready to react at any moment.
Freak led them into an inconspicuous alley and stopped before a heavy metal door covered in graffiti, which looked like a back entrance. There was no keyhole, only an inconspicuous, seemingly paint-stained fingerprint scanner. She pressed her palm against it.
Click. A faint sound of machinery, like gears and levers moving, came from within. The door slid sideways, revealing an old freight elevator.
"Come in. An artist needs a proper studio." Freak stepped in first. The elevator rose slowly, eventually stopping.
When the door opened again, a smell mixing turpentine, linseed oil, and some kind of cleaning agent wafted out. The sight before them made both Nightbloom and Crimsonlyn pause.
It was less a studio and more a meticulously kept "nest". The open space was clearly divided: one side was the creative area, piled with canvases and sculptures, colors wild and unrestrained; the other was the living area, furnished with what looked like exceptionally comfortable, plush sofas, tatami mats with clean rugs, and even a fully equipped open kitchen, all surfaces spotless. The large windows were covered with custom roller blinds, filtering the light to a soft, even glow. It combined an artist's unruliness with the order and warmth of a "home".
"You…" Crimsonlyn finally spoke, a hint of barely noticeable surprise in her voice. "This place is… clean."
"Inspiration needs chaos, but rest needs order." Freak walked to the kitchen sink, slowly washing the grime from her gloves. "Otherwise the brain explodes." She shook her hands dry, gesturing to the living area. "Sit anywhere. Bathroom's over there, hot water 24/7."
She opened a cabinet under the kitchen, pulling out two unopened boxes and sliding them over. "Here, tablets. Only my number is in them. Until you completely remember who you are, don't use them to contact any 'past people'." Then, she brought out two sets of brand new, high-quality silk pajamas. "Change into these. You two reek, and you're about to pollute my sanctuary."
Nightbloom picked up a tablet, her crimson eyes scrutinizing Freak. "Why are you helping us? Just for your damned 'art'?"
Freak didn't answer directly. Instead, she walked to the wall and pulled off a huge dust cover. Beneath it was a massive, half-finished painting. The style was wild yet powerful—the composition was strikingly similar to the series of works that had recently fetched record prices at auctions for the anonymous artist "Monas".
"Looks like you're lucky. You've lost your memories but not your common sense." Her tone was flat. "Now, is 'Monas' ensuring the safety of her most important 'inspiration' reason enough?"
Crimsonlyn's pupils contracted almost imperceptibly. She understood. Freak wasn't acting out of kindness; it was a venture capital investment. Or maybe, just maybe, it was her way of rationalizing her own goodwill?
Just then, Freak rubbed her temples, a genuine look of discomfort flashing across her face. "Alright, enough chit-chat." She looked at Nightbloom, her gaze becoming focused. "Demon, you've got plenty of empty space in that head. Let me borrow some."
Before Nightbloom could react, Freak raised her hand and pointed to her own brow, then pressed two fingers together like a blade, precisely aiming at Nightbloom's forehead. A faint stream of light, pulsing with waves of sadness and fear, was extracted from her own mind and shot directly into the depths of Nightbloom's consciousness.
"Urgh!" Nightbloom grunted, stumbling back a step, clutching her forehead. A cold, utterly foreign "presence" had abruptly appeared in her mind.
"What the hell… what kind of garbage did you stuff into me now?!" Nightbloom roared.
"Garbage?" Freak was pale from the extraction, but managed a smile. "Right's self-awareness, perception, subconscious… all of it's in you now. In me, we repelled each other; system crash was just a matter of time. Your brain… well, it's more sturdy. It can handle this kind of external data impact. Purely the optimal technical solution. Besides, having it in my head was a real pain. Mostly, I'm just lazy."
She paused, looking at their shocked and suspicious faces, and offered her deduction: "Your situation—forgetting who you are, but still remembering how to fight, how to use your abilities… it resembles dissociative amnesia caused by a massive shock. Lucky for you, core functions are intact. Unlucky for you, the work to recover the past is a lot more trouble than painting a masterpiece."
"Next," Freak snapped her fingers, pointing to the bathroom, "your first priority is survival. Second is not causing me trouble. Now, go get yourselves cleaned up. Only one bathroom, so to save time, you're going together."
This statement made both Nightbloom and Crimsonlyn freeze. Nightbloom's face flushed instantly with a mix of shame and embarrassment. Crimsonlyn subconsciously tightened her grip on the silver thread at her fingertips, her ears growing hot.
"Ah… alright." Crimsonlyn's fingertips touched together nervously. "Who wants to shower with her?!" Nightbloom practically shouted.
Freak was already lounging back on the sofa, eyes closed, using her last shred of patience: "Either shower together, or get the hell out and sleep on the street with your stench. My house, my rules."
The bathroom door closed with a soft click…