Part 2: The Newcomer

The sun has quickly followed the rain, causing humid vapor to rise up over the puddles on the road.
The paper reads March 31st and reports in bold print that Vienna's tourism industry had hit its first peak.
Another article boasts of Janette, the renowned dessert, chocolate, and sugar art master, who would soon debut her new creations at the Easter celebration.
The column on page three announces that the investigation into the missing egg artists is "still ongoing."
Semmelweis: "Three egg artists vanish—an artistic exodus or a mysterious kidnapper on the loose?"
Semmelweis: Another sensationalist headline ...
It is Sunday, but the shops have been open for the Easter holiday. Festive songs fill the bustling Ring Road.
Coming back to Vienna feels in some ways like watching a rerun on television—the same places, same roads, same blinding sunlight, and nearly the same people.
It seems that the city has not lost much in being washed by the "Storm"; for her, the sunlight is the real problem.
It pierces through her cheap sunglasses, intensifying what has been a dull headache.
Semmelweis: It's quiet here. Is everyone on holiday?
Female Foundation Staff: It's always like this for Easter.
Female Foundation Staff: Thankfully, things are usually quiet this time of year, but that doesn't mean Vienna's citizens aren't exposed to danger, especially when it comes to our field agents and—
Semmelweis: —Cases involving arcane events.
Female Foundation Staff: That's right. It's big news. You should see the headlines in the newspapers.
Female Foundation Staff: There have been several disappearances over the past month, involving Vienna's three most famous Easter egg artists: Elena Hall, Martina Keim, and Nora Ostern.
Female Foundation Staff: They vanished from their studios without a trace of forensic evidence left behind—no fingerprints, no footprints, not even a single hair.
Female Foundation Staff: They were all key members of the local artists' guild. However, testimonies from other guild members revealed their relationships to one another had become somewhat rocky.
Female Foundation Staff: The papers have been speculating that their disappearances might involve some kind of personal conflict.
Semmelweis: Missing artists, rocky relationships, all vanished without a trace. It makes sense why the newspapers are so eager. But why should it involve us?
Female Foundation Staff: The investigators found a grayish-black powder at the scene that doesn't originate from the region. Our analysis confirmed it as a byproduct of burning mycelium.
Semmelweis: Yes, I read about it in the "Amber Manual." Commonly used to make paint, but if burned, produces a hallucinogenic dust, to be handled according to arcanum procedures.
Semmelweis: Under normal circumstances, this material wouldn't circulate in human society, yet here it is in Vienna. It clearly has a link to the disappearances.
Semmelweis: I'm prepared to take on this task. But given that the case involves unknown arcanists and possibly The Beyonds, not to mention hazardous materials, I request the return of my—
Female Foundation Staff: —I'm sorry, Miss Semmelweis, we won't be able to provide you with your regular equipment for this investigation.
Semmelweis: And why is that?
Female Foundation Staff: Ahem, the quartermaster is on vacation ...
Semmelweis: ...
Female Foundation Staff: If you should run into any arcanists, or precisely, The Beyonds, try to avoid any direct confrontations and contact the Foundation right away.
Semmelweis: Fine. This won't be a challenge.
???: Excuse me, miss, would you like to buy a poem?
???: I know it isn't much, but I need money to find a place to stay for the night.
A disheveled woman is approaching her with hobbled steps, her voice weak and low.
Their eyes met, as if she could see straight through Semmelweis's shaded lenses.
Semmelweis: Sorry, I don't think I can help you.
???: Please miss, have some sympathy. Have you ever had to sleep on the streets, cold and terrified in some dark corner?
Semmelweis: I have. Yes. But supposing I did spare you some change, what would you do with it?
???: I need medicine.
Semmelweis: What for?
???: Burns, miss.
The woman lifts a strand of hair, and Semmelweis follows her spindled fingers to the horrific burn scars formed around her eyes.
The sight elicits some unusual sense of sympathy from her. She passes the woman a not-insubstantial bill from her bag.
???: Thank you. Happy Easter, and enjoy the game.
Semmelweis: Enjoy the game?
???: Ah. I suppose you don't know then. Never mind, miss, it's only what we say here during the holiday.
The woman leaves, and Semmelweis looks down at the poem she has offered her.
Semmelweis: "Fearless souls wield the needle sharp."
Semmelweis: "Dancing with fire, yet untouched by its spark."
Semmelweis: "With a beam of light, let shadows depart."
Semmelweis: "Time stretches as we bridge the space apart."
Semmelweis: What could this mean?
Semmelweis: It's obviously nonsense. A useless trifle, I suppose she uses that line on everyone.
Semmelweis doesn't like walking the Ring Road anymore; it is more for vehicles now than pedestrians.
She prefers the Kärntnerstrasse instead, though chiefly because the shade from its buildings covers most of the sidewalk.
On the street, reporters in festive attire are broadcasting live, hyping up tomorrow's Easter egg parade.
"The Easter egg hunt is in full swing, with each and every egg specially handcrafted by the Artists' Guild ..."
"Citizens who discover the eggs can open them alongside the finder of the Treasure Egg during our city-wide festival ..."
A small cluster of people gathers around a shooting gallery as a man concentrates intensely, aiming his dart gun.
The dart flies out and Semmelweis watches as the prize jiggles, then drops.
Male Tourist: I got it! Did you see that, huh?
Female Tourist: I did! Great shot, darling!
Booth Owner: Hey miss, care to play a few rounds?
She shakes her head dismissively, her sense of déjà vu intensifying with each step.
Tucking herself beneath the wide, shaded awning of a restaurant, she removes her sunglasses to watch for a moment as people and traffic drift past her.
Nearby, the joyful laughter of children running and playing fills the air. Quite suddenly, one of the boys falls on the sidewalk, and an Easter egg rolls from his hand toward her.
Kid: Ow—ouch!
Only a moment passes before the scent of the child's blood reaches her.
It awakens that familiar craving, welling like a deep desire inside her chest.
It has not been the first time since her transformation, but this time the craving is much stronger and harder to control. She is desperately thirsty for blood.
Semmelweis walks toward the child, reaching out her hand. But the child suddenly puffs his cheeks and spits blood. The blood splatters on her face. All goes dark.
Semmelweis: What?
She is engulfed in red-black, her heartbeat pounding violently, frantically, up through her neck.
She stares into the child's wide eyes. His mouth is open, contorting with pain and fear, a hand—her own—is clutching his neck.
There's blood now. It pours out from the wound along his throat—the wound she made.
He screams, but no sound escapes from his gurgling throat. Yet somehow, she hears it, reverberating in her ears and up from her throat like it were coming from her own body.
Kid: No! Stop! Help—
Semmelweis: ...
Valentina: I can sense your excitement, all that blood really gets you going, doesn't it?
Kid: Mom! Help me! Help—
Semmelweis: Shut up!
Bella: How much longer can you hold out? Your hunger cannot go unsated forever.
Valentina: And that's why you're so magnificent. Because just like me, you can't resist ...
Semmelweis: Shut up!
She snaps, as if addressing someone else.
There is something wet and sticky pouring over her hands. Blood. His blood.
The boy seems to melt in her hands, transforming into a red ooze that drips, then flows onto the ground.
Semmelweis: Did ... Did I do this?!
Suddenly nauseous, she watches his face form again on the blood's surface.
The face then morphs into Valentina's, then Bella's. The child, Valentina, Bella ... all in a relentless cycle. Their faces growing more twisted and deformed, like eerie masks mocking her.
The blood creeps onto her feet, climbing up to her knees. From the depths, a low growl beckons her to join.
They gnash their teeth, gnawing at her skin, clawing at her legs, roaring and howling, until her knees buckled beneath her.
Semmelweis: No ...
Valentina & Bella: You need blood, just a little taste. Then we won't bother you anymore, we'll lie at your feet like faithful hounds.
Kid: No—NOOOO!
The child's face appears again, and Semmelweis reaches out impatiently toward it, eager to tear it apart, but she grasps nothing.
At that moment, her vision blurs away entirely. She strains her eyes, but nothing returns to her.
Her world becomes a blur of red panic, her own screams echoing in her ears.
Semmelweis: No—NOOOO!
A sharp ringing fills her ears, drowning out her own voice. The red before her eyes turns white, and soon all sound and image fades.
Her vision clears, and she sees her hand. It is gripping the child's shoulder tightly. She swallows hard.
Semmelweis: Oh my God.
Kid: Uhm. You okay, miss?
Semmelweis: Yes, I'm fine. Can you stand up by yourself?
Kid: I think so.
The child gets up, then runs over to his fallen Easter egg. It is entirely black, a color she has never seen on an Easter egg before.
Semmelweis: Where did you find this egg?
Kid: Oh, you're not from Vienna, are you? This is the best part of the whole festival!
Kid: Right now, there are Easter eggs hidden all over the city! Everyone is out hunting for them!
Kid: This is just one of the eggs I found. My goal is to find the Treasure Egg. They say whoever finds it will receive the "Apostle's Blessing."
Semmelweis: "Apostle's Blessing"? What's that?
Kid: I guess it's some kind of special surprise prepared by the egg makers!
Kid: My mama says they're God's messengers, like angels, and anyone could be one—are you an angel, miss?
Semmelweis: Sorry, I'm no angel.
Semmelweis: Since you've already found such a unique egg, you must know where the Treasure Egg is hidden, don't you?
Kid: I can't tell you that! You've got to find it for yourself, miss!
Semmelweis: So, it's a secret?
Kid: The biggest secret of the whole festival! I can only tell you the most important rule: the clues to the Treasure Egg are hidden on each egg.
Semmelweis pats the child on the shoulder as she stands, noticing now that she is directly over a storm drain.
Besides blood, what else can quench her thirst? Water—if only temporarily. And any water will do, rainwater, river water, perhaps even this water.
Kid: Wait, miss! Take this.
Semmelweis: Why?
Kid: Well, I guess you look like you need it! You seem a bit tired, miss. I thought you were going to fall over.
Kid: Anyway, it's yours now! I'll find another one soon, so giving you this one is no big deal.
Semmelweis: Are you sure? I should warn you, you might miss out on the Treasure Egg because of this. And this stranger you're being so generous to could be a devil-in-disguise.
Kid: Really? Haha! We'll see!
Kid: Goodbye! Enjoy the game!
Semmelweis watches the child run back into the crowd, feeling the curious gazes of her many onlookers.
She puts on a polite smile, attempting to disarm their looks of concern, before donning her sunglasses once more and making a quick exit.
Semmelweis: Dreadful, bloody dreadful. Why am I hiding again?
She stifles a faint whimper from her throat.
How had the monster within turned her into this? How had just touching that child triggered those murderous hallucinations?
Thinking about what she was capable of, that child's life fading away in her hands, in such vivid and grotesque detail, she can't help but shiver.
She has realized now, it is not a beast to be tamed; it is caged, and eventually it will tear out from inside of her.
And when it does, it will claim all that's left of her rational mind.
Damned all because of this blood ban she imposed on herself, limiting both pleasure and pain, holding her back from true freedom.
If she is damned either way, then to hell with this blood ban!
Semmelweis looks up to the sky. Birds are flying across the blue canvas above. Spring is the time for new life and a time to hunt.
Semmelweis: Time to move.
Semmelweis: The situation in Elena and Martina's houses each match the reports from the police investigation, and there aren't any new clues. I'll have to hope that Nora Ostern's place will have something.
Semmelweis slips gently under the checkered tape, as she reaches the other side and begins her investigation.
The gray-black walls seem to absorb every hint of color. Graffiti is scrawled across them with a single repeating word "Easter."
As she sweeps her eyes over the scene, what stands out most is the oppressive atmosphere within the house, its windows tightly sealed and curtains drawn, enveloping it in near-total darkness.
Semmelweis: A house like this, it seems unusual for a kidnapping. Too dark, too inaccessible. It had to be targeted, rather than random.
She draws back the curtains, letting moonlight spill into the room.
She immediately takes notice of the crack in the window and follows its trail to a circular gap.
Semmelweis: Was this the method of entry?
Semmelweis: No, it can't be. There is no way to open the window from here. And the crack is old and worn. This was made before the kidnapping.
Semmelweis: Why was it left without repair?
Nora Ostern's workbench casts moonlit shadows on the carpet. Papers are scattered haphazardly over her tools. The front panel of the drawer appears to have been burst open, with a letter opener left sticking in the lock.
Semmelweis: This was forced open. These files likely came from inside.
Semmelweis: An orphanage, Vienna University, and various shops on the Kärntnerstrasse ... These are client orders.
She continues flipping through and finds a group photo of the Artists' Guild under the last file.
In the center of the photo is Nora. Elena and Martina stand on either side, hands resting on her shoulders.
Nora is trying hard to appear happy in the photo, but there is something in her smile that seems forced.
Semmelweis: This photo was taken a month ago. They must have already been working on their designs by then.
She puts the photo back and continues her inspection. Under the workbench on the carpet, she finds a shattered egg.
Picking up a piece of the shard, she holds it up to the moonlight.
Semmelweis: Black, much like the one the child gave me before. Then this is Nora Ostern's design.
Semmelweis: But why would she make black eggs? Do they have some special meaning?
Semmelweis: Huh? Wait, the color here seems off.
Under the moonlight, she can see through the thin shell of the shard, except for some speckled spots that don't reflect any light.
She touches a spot with her thumb, it is slightly damp with a pungent, tantalizing scent.
Semmelweis: Blood. Quite fresh too, but to whom does it belong?
The shard cracks suddenly under her finger's pressure, its surface bursting apart. There is another scent now.
Semmelweis: Cough! This smell, it's burning ...
She flicks off the fragments, steadying herself against the edge of the table.
Her facial muscles spasm out of control, and from her contorted mouth she begins to laugh, but her eyes betray no sense of joy. But perhaps due to it only being a small shard, the effects wear off quickly.
Semmelweis: It's mycelium! So, then it's laced into the egg's coating, but what is happening to me?
Semmelweis: Let me see. There are small bloodstains on all the remaining shards, and recent too. They must have smashed the egg and hurt themselves.
Semmelweis: They were sloppy about it too; must have been in a hurry. So, who could it be?
Semmelweis: If it had been the kidnapper, why would they leave any trace of their blood behind?
Semmelweis: And if it had been Nora herself, how did she escape, and why would she return here, and not go to the police?
Semmelweis: And if it was neither, then who else would have come here and left in such a hurry?
Semmelweis: To answer these questions, I must find out whose blood this is.
Semmelweis: Time to try my arcane skill.
She closes her eyes, concentrating, trying to focus on the scent of the blood, just like she had practiced in the hospital ward.
Now she can vividly recreate any scent she has encountered before, her senses sharper than ever. Images flash inside her eyelids.
When she opens her eyes again, the scent materializes as a trail in the air.
Semmelweis: Perhaps I can still catch up.
Semmelweis watches as the air blurs and the shadows transform into two figures. One of the shadows flickers on the wall and darts outside.
The breeze stirs the curtains, making them flutter, while police sirens outside rise and fall along with the wind.
Following the scent's trail onto the empty road, Semmelweis soon finds herself at the edge of a dark forest.
She catches a glimpse of a shadow darting by and stops, seeing only a dark path ahead. The trail of that sweet scent leads inside.
There is another sound—swift, light footsteps, lighter than a human's, closer to an animal's, the paws of a hound.
Semmelweis: It's nearby.
There are no howls or snarls, no obvious sign that the shadow intends her harm. But Semmelweis knows the truth is quite the opposite: whatever else it is—it is hunting her.
The rhythm of the shadow's movement changes in an instant, then silence.
Suddenly the silence is broken in a burst of sound, as her eardrums register the shockwave of a shot, and a nickel-iron bullet comes flying straight towards her.
Semmelweis: ...?!