[ As far as catacombs go, these are far from the worst the Operator has encountered. Sure, they’re dark, damp, and close, but at least they aren’t Infested. There is no other-flesh lining the walls, no gruesome monstrosities shrieking and squelching through the corridors. There is only bone and rock, and what must be miles of twisting passageways.

For the first half-hour or so, the Operator simply walks in focused silence along with the rest of their party. Their small stature is an asset down here. At worst, they simply have to stoop over to make it through some of the tighter passages. Some of the adults are willing to follow them. Some are not. It doesn’t matter to the Operator either way; they’re well-capable of taking care of themself.

They emerge from one such tight passage, blinking in surprise when the space suddenly opens onto a wide cavern—moreso when they see the house as the center of it. Immediately, they remember the house-that-was-not-a-house that they had stumbled into their first night in Trench and all at once, their guard is up. They approach carefully, eyeing the silent shadow figures standing behind the windows. The beings are so still, it’s hard to tell whether they’re alive at all.

The Operator is still staring hard at the figures—when the door suddenly bursts open and that long, agonized scream wails out. The Operator jumps, eyes widening. Someone—someone is in there? Their head whips towards the other member(s) of their group and if any betray the slightest indication that they can hear the screaming, too, that will make the Operator’s mind up for them. It might be a trap. But if those screams are from another Sleeper who has already been ensnared, the Operator has to find out themself—to save them if at all possible.

Their eyes lock with one of their traveling companions, face eerily calm. ]

Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.

[ And just like that, they’ll dart into the house and the inferno within.

Once inside, they do their best to follow the sound of the screams, but it's difficult to pinpoint the source over the roar of the fire. Surely the screams are coming from the kitchen—no, from upstairs. They race from room-to-room, always sure that whoever is trapped inside is just behind the next door.

They are always, inevitably, wrong. ]

[ The ordeal with the burning house has left the Operator soot-stained, weary, and more than a little paranoid about what other snares this place might have to offer. When they come to a room full of treasures, rare weapons, and priceless artifacts, they are immediately on edge.

They grab the hand of whoever they’re with—it doesn’t matter if they’re a stranger. ]

Don’t. Touch. Anything. [ Golden eyes glare out from an ash-smeared face. ] We can’t trust this place.

[ When the Operator first realizes they’re being followed, they’re understandably on-edge. It has become clear that this place wants to harm them. Perhaps it’s getting tired of using such passive means. More than once, they whirl around to try and catch whoever—or whatever might be pursuing them. And every time, there is never anyone there—

—until, finally, there is. ]

a.) [ The faces of their mothers stare back at them, soft and sad: Margulis, the first to have adopted them as her own, and the Lotus, the second. For a long moment, the Operator is frozen in their twin gazes—one as eyeless as they had been for so long and the other still glimmering with a searing reflection of the Jade Light. The Operator can’t move. They want to run. They want to stand there, by their mothers’ side, for all eternity.

In the end, they bite down on their trembling lip, close their eyes tight, and turn away. They can hear their mothers’ footsteps behind them as they walk, but they dare not look back. They aren’t real—they can’t be. And, if by some impossibility of chance, they are?

Well. The Operator isn’t ready for that, either.

b.) [ The face of a stranger stares back at them, someone who lived and died long ago without the Operator ever once meeting him. Except—he’s not a stranger at all. He’s Isaah, their son. Except—he’s not their son, he’s Umbra’s son. Except—

The young man’s throat is a bloody ruin, his golden armor dripping crimson. The Operator remembers the boy’s ragged cries, the sounds of tearing flesh, their own incoherent weeping, begging Ballas for mercy. ]

I’m sorry, [ they whisper to the ghost. ] I didn’t want to hurt you. Ballas made me— [ They shake their head, sharp and pained. ] No. No. He made Umbra—

[ But they can’t finish the sentence. The ghost watches them, silent and sorrowful, as they wrestle with the two lives, two sets of memories, winding through their head. ]