Chapter Text
Lace did not know what to make of the ordeal.
When she had begun her journey to the Exhaust Organ for a long-overdue visit, she had expected a brief respite, or perhaps even a small celebration. Mother was gone, and she intended to share the good news with her dear sibling.
She did not expect to happen upon the most unusual sight that awaited her there.
She stood at the threshold of the Exhaust Organ and felt once more that the world had tilted just enough to unsettle her balance.
Mist coiled along the pipes and vents, drifting in lazy skeins that caught the dim light and softened the corroded metal into something almost gentle. The Organ sang its low, constant hymn—breath through iron, pressure through age—and normally the sound wrapped around her shell like a familiar shawl. It was Phantom's domain, Phantom's solace. Lace had always found comfort here, knowing that no matter how cruel the Citadel might be above, this place still belonged to her sibling.
But now, Hornet stood amid the curling Mist, her needle grounded beside her. And cradled in her arms was Lace.
Or something that wore her shape so perfectly that Lace's thoughts tangled.
The threadling was no crude imitation. She was not a doll, nor a half-formed weave like the sleepers Mother had abandoned. She was small, yes, barely the height of Lace's hip, but every curve of her shell echoed her own—as it had been when she was young. The slope of the mandibles. The delicate flare of silk at the shoulders. Even the soft, loose shape of her headdress, not yet coaxed into firmness.
Worst of all, her eyes were the same bright, glossy knots of silk that reflected the world with unsettling attentiveness.
A sound bubbled up in Lace's chest, sharp and sudden, and before she could stop it, laughter spilled out of her—high, breathless, wrong. It echoed against the pipes and dissolved into the mist.
"Oh," she managed, clutching one claw against her shell as if to keep herself from unraveling. "Oh, spider. Oh! You—you've been busy."
Hornet turned at the sound, stiffening as though struck. Her posture shifted immediately, shoulders drawing back, stance grounding—ready for a threat that did not exist. When she saw Lace, truly saw her, the tension in her frame eased, replaced by something more cautious.
"Lace," Hornet said. Her voice was steady, but there was an edge beneath it. "You've returned sooner than I expected."
"Ahahaha! So it seems!" Lace's laughter continued, a bright, brittle cascade she could not quite rein in. She gestured vaguely toward the threadling. "I don't suppose you'd care to explain why I am… perfectly recreated in miniature?"
The threadling tilted her head.
Lace froze.
It was a small motion, barely a twitch of silk, but it struck her like a spear to the shell. Her laughter hiccuped, faltered, then surged again, louder now, trembling at the edges.
Phantom emerged from the mist then, their tall, frayed form resolving between the two great exhaust pipes that lead to their room. Their silk hung in soft, uneven layers, gray and worn, but their posture was alert, attentive. Their gaze flicked from Lace to Hornet, then settled on the threadling with unmistakable discomfort.
"She's still here, then," Phantom said quietly.
Hornet exhaled. "Things drawn from memory do not fade easily. Or at all, for that matter."
"Things I understand, little spider. This—" They gestured to the threadling. "This is not a thing."
Lace staggered forward a step, claws scraping faintly against the metal floor. Her laughter cracked, finally breaking apart into sharp, uneven breaths.
"Phantom," she said, pleading without meaning to. "Why is there another, smaller me in her arms?"
Phantom's mandibles tightened. They did not answer immediately.
Hornet did.
"I will explain," she said, stepping closer. "But you must understand that this was not done lightly."
Lace's laughter ebbed into a faint, shaky giggle. "I think," she said, voice thin, "that explanation would be very welcome."
Hornet nodded once. She set the threadling down before reaching back and unveiling something from her tool pouch: a narrow shard of pale magic given shape, shining with faint, ethereal light.
"A Dream Nail," Hornet said.
Lace's eyes widened. She had heard whispers, of course. Of blades that could pierce thought and memory, of ancient magic that touched the soul as easily as bugs drew breath. But to see such a thing here, in Phantom's refuge…
"I acquired it recently," Hornet continued. "Not by traditional means. As you know, the Needolin carries Memory magic. I used it to take this from an old memory of mine, for I wondered what would happen if Dream magic were guided through those same threads."
Her gaze shifted, briefly, to Phantom. "I asked if I might try it with them."
Phantom inclined their head. "I agreed."
Lace's laughter surged again, abrupt and wild. "Of course you did," she said, though there was no accusation in it. Only a sharp, aching fondness. "You always were braver than me."
Phantom's eyes softened, just slightly.
Hornet went on. "When I strung the Nail, the magic took hold—but not as I expected. I was pulled into a memory. Only for a heartbeat."
"A memory?" Lace echoed.
"Yes. One of theirs." Hornet's voice grew quieter. "I will not speak of what I saw. It is not mine to share."
Lace glanced at Phantom, whose mandibles were drawn tight, their claws clasped behind their back. Lace felt a pang—of guilt, of curiosity, of something like envy. To be remembered so vividly that one's memories could take form… she did not know whether to recoil or ache for it.
"The combined magic rejected me swiftly," Hornet continued. "I was expelled—returned here, to the Organ. To Phantom."
"And the threadling?" Lace asked faintly.
Hornet sighed. "When I returned, she was by my side. I did not bring her deliberately. I believe…" She hesitated. "I believe the combined strength of Dream and Memory gave her form."
The laughter died. Lace stared at the threadling, truly stared at her now, and felt her chest tighten. Something warm and painful bloomed behind her mandibles.
She laughed again, but this time it came out softer, a breathy thing that wavered like a silk thread held too close to flame.
"Oh," she said, crouching despite herself, bringing her eyes level with the threadling's. "Oh no. Oh, Mother below, you poor, unfortunate little bug."
The threadling regarded her with unwavering interest. She did not blink. Her mandibles parted slightly, as though tasting the air, and the Mist curled eagerly around her small shell, clinging to her like a fond aunt.
Hornet shifted her weight, clearly uncertain of how to proceed. "She has not spoken," she offered. "Nor attacked anything. She follows me. Watches. Mimics small motions."
Lace snorted. "Well, that's reassuring. If she started cackling uncontrollably, we'd truly be doomed!"
As if summoned by the idea, Lace's own laughter bubbled up again—bright, chiming, and edged with nerves. She pressed a claw to her shell, trying to steady herself, and failed spectacularly.
"This is marvelous," she declared to the pipes, to the Mist, to whatever lingering higher beings might be listening. "I finally become free of Mother's shadow, and now you accidentally conjure a younger version of myself out of memory and dreams. Honestly, the audacity!"
The threadling tilted her head again.
Lace squeaked.
"That," she said, pointing, "is unfair."
She reached out before she could overthink it, extending one claw toward the threadling's shoulder. Her movement was slow, exaggerated, as though approaching a wild nymph. The Mist thickened, a hush falling over the Organ's song.
Her claw brushed silk.
Warm.
Not the warmth of flesh, but the subtle resonance Lace recognized in her own shell—the gentle hum of silk and soul bound together. The threadling shivered, just slightly, then leaned into the touch.
Lace's breath caught.
"Oh," she murmured, laughter evaporating into something small and fragile. "Oh, you're real."
Phantom stepped closer, their presence steady at Lace's back. "We thought it best not to let her wander. The Mist… reacts to her."
"As it does to you and I?"
"Yes. It worries me."
Lace pulled her claw back, suddenly aware of how tight her shell felt, how the humor she wielded so easily had slipped from her grasp like silk through water. She rose unsteadily, laughter threatening to return, the reflex tugging insistently at her chest.
"Well!" she said too brightly. "This explains the staring. I always did have excellent posture as a threadling."
Hornet blinked. "You find this amusing."
"Oh, absolutely," Lace replied, her claws flapping with renewed vigor. "Only something this horrifying and deeply uncomfortable could be so entertaining!"
The threadling took a tentative step forward.
Lace froze.
Every instinct screamed at her to laugh, to deflect, to make it light before it could become heavy. She did laugh—but it came out thin, trembling at the edges.
"Careful there," she said, backing up half a step.
The threadling paused, as if considering this, then mirrored Lace's movement exactly—backing up half a step herself.
Her laughter spiked again, sharp and almost manic. "Oh, Phantom, this is terrible. She's got my timing. Do you know how long it took me to perfect that?"
Phantom's mandibles twitched. "Longer than you'll admit."
"Rude," Lace sniffed, though she was grateful for the normalcy of the exchange. It anchored her, if only a little.
She looked at the threadling again, really looked, and the humor faltered. This was not merely her shape. It was her—before the Citadel, before the pressure, before being told she was the last and therefore must be perfect. Before the laughter became a shield instead of a spillover.
A memory with claws and eyes.
"What… what does she know?" Lace asked quietly.
Hornet hesitated. "I do not believe she understands herself as you do. She is you, and yet she is not you. She is a manifestation—drawn from Phantom's memory of you. How they saw you. How they remember you."
Lace felt that settle in her shell, heavy and strange.
"How… they remember me," she echoed.
Phantom did not look away. "You were kind," they said simply. "You smiled often. You made the dark places bearable."
Lace's claws flapped furiously.
"Oh no," she said, voice wobbling. "No, no, that won't do at all. You can't just say something like that."
The laughter came then, unstoppable—bright and ringing, ricocheting off the pipes until the Organ itself seemed to join in. Lace doubled over, shaking, tears of soul clinging to her face.
"I was a menace!" she protested between peals. "I stole your things! I pestered you endlessly! I dragged you into trouble more times than I can count!"
"Yes," Phantom said. "But you also saw my truest self when the others wouldn't."
The laughter faltered.
Lace straightened slowly, breath hitching. "That's… that's not fair, Phantom," she muttered. "That's not fair."
The threadling watched her intently, eyes reflecting the dim lights of the Organ. Then, with a giggle so soft it almost hurt to hear, she raised her tiny claws and flapped them.
Not in fear.
In joy.
Lace made a strangled noise.
"Oh," she whispered, kneeling again despite herself. "Oh, you're happy."
The threadling smiled.
It was not a wide smile—just a small curve of mandibles, tentative and earnest. But it struck Lace harder than any accusation ever could.
Her laughter returned, softer now, threaded through with something wet and warm.
"I suppose," she said hoarsely, "I was happy then."
Phantom rested a claw on her shoulder. Hornet looked away, granting her the dignity of privacy.
Lace reached out again, more confidently this time, and the threadling took her claw without hesitation. Their silk resonated together, a gentle harmony that made Lace's chest ache.
"Well," Lace said, voice trembling but light. "This is going to require some adjustments."
Phantom huffed. "That's quite a serious understatement, dear."
"Of course it is," Lace replied, "but we can't leave her lying about. She'll get into trouble. You know how I was."
Hornet arched a brow. "You intend to keep her?"
Lace looked at the threadling, at Phantom, at the Mist curling protectively around them all.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I think… I think she deserves kindness."
The threadling squeezed her claw.
Lace laughed, bright and ringing, and for once it did not feel like something she had to hold onto.