The lab wing of headquarters was essentially just an overly long hall tacked onto the building, with numerous rooms branching off it, some with extra hallways forming a labyrinth of their own, some without. Yes, wing perhaps was the most appropriate term for it, because that was what it most resembled. You could tell you had wandered into the wing when the floor changed to a different shade of tile and the lighting got strangely dim. It was like all the power was going solely into the sprawling laboratories themselves rather than making the place appealing in any aesthetic way. 

Before getting to the entrances of the laboratories proper, there was a door that was wooden instead, standing open. It actually led to an office, one that had belonged to the original Il Dottore. He hadn’t been particularly fond of it, so it was yet another space Epsilon had acquired for his own purposes. Mainly, it just existed as book storage, with the walls behind the desk covered in bookcases. 

Epsilon didn’t usually spend that much time there, much like his predecessor, but today was a unique occasion. He was sitting at the desk, patiently waiting for someone he had asked to show up. This space, at least to him, read as less intimiating than the laboratory, and considering the temperament of his guest, this was important. 

When Barbara finally made her appearance in the doorway—a quick, sudden movement like a startled animal—he did his level best to smile in a warm manner. 

“Welcome! Come in, come in.” There was another chair in front of the desk, if she were to choose to sit.

“I’m so very pleased you agreed to meet with me.” And he was admittedly surprised she actually showed up. But what was she going to do, say no to a Harbinger, and then make herself scarce? That would be exceedingly foolish.

The puppet didn't need to sleep—or, more accurately, they did, but not nearly as often as humans do. Their body didn't demand it, although their mind, at times, did, needing the break to fully process everything. But that was a more-or-less biweekly occurrence, and not one they needed tonight. A lot of times they'd curl up in bed with Epsilon anyway, but he'd gone too long without sleep and was a little snippy and had insisted he was just going down for a nap before returning to work, so. They'd let him do just that.

Scaramouche had remained awake, sitting in the strange little common area they never saw anyone use and looking over a copy of their own report on the meteorite incident. It was all their own words and the memory was still fresh, but... still. Something nagged.

It wasn't that Scaramouche was nice. That was far from the truth; it was a well known fact that they were one of the meanest of the Harbingers, sharp-tongued and vindictive without any desire to mask it with saccharine sweetness or a façade of politeness like some of the others. But—and it was a jarring but, even to themself—they'd discovered a soft spot for children they couldn't quite harden. Or one child, at least. Barbara was the only one they had any reason to interact with in any capacity.

They weren't nice, but they humored her. That was the description they'd settled on, finding that it settled easier than anything else that made some part of them want to examine why. Children were amusing, and so he humored the one he was in proximity with the most.

"A kamera?" they repeated, for a moment wondering where she'd picked that up until the where dawned on them. They did not have an issue with a child pilfering the camp of dead Fatui targets like they probably should have. "Don't tell me you're going to start scrapbooking." There was a hint of judgment to the words, but no real bite. Besides, it was followed by a faint, amused smile and a roll of their eyes.

She — forgets.  Or, no, that’s wrong.  Pain is all they feel / they’ve forgotten the joyous, incandescent light that once marked their travels.  But a millenia of muscle memory / OF BEING GOD / some things are still new, at least comparatively.  This human sort of pain, they human sort of ease that this body — not their body, not anymore — fails them.  Barbara is beside their form when they come to / and Amber is beside them both, stoking a fire.  Barbara says, “You burned your energy out in the snow, you’re shivering badly.”  They are shivering / this body shaking, like it houses a human instead of a god.  It doesn’t, of course, house either of those things.  Something worse, sicker and more useless.

Lumine is too exhausted to feel guilty for the worry in either of their eyes.  Lumine hasn’t felt anything in months, but still they say ——

“Sorry.”  It’s weak, small.  He doesn’t care if it’s convincing.  “I forgot that I can die.”

“If he was still alive, I’d have put a curse on him.”  It’s a joking offer, and clearly not a real threat; Cleo is protective of those she’s chosen to care for — has, quite literally, cursed more than a few for giving Ghoulia a difficult time — to the extreme, but she knows too well that the handful of times Deuce or Ghoulia have threatened her father on her behalf have stung more than soothed.  

She’d known Barbara would visit / not many people have, given how perpetually - friendless Piper fights to remain, but she’d known Barbara would.  And they WANT to believe their best of their little sister, they want to believe the best of them so badly, but it’s ——— 

Barbara’s good but has so often ignored boundaries for the sake of self - martyrdom, like that might make her safe.  But Piper thinks that, if Barbara tried to heal what’s left of the blot and the wounds on their body, they might die on the spot.  AND SHE WANTS TO DIE, BUT NOT USING BARBARA AS THE KNIFE.