In fact, Ethan was in such rapture at the sight that he almost forgot his sense of urgency, not to mention to look where he was going. He stepped right into a festering pile of Doomshade remains as he went. He moment he heard them squish underfoot he looked down and silently winced, trying to wipe the blackish, squealing slop from the hem of his robe as he went.

"It must be quite a task, keeping that clean," the Iron Overlord said, waving to the guards they were approaching. They'd set up twin barricades by the stairwell, with guns in fixed positions. As the two men came closer the guards nodded, standing up to blast away anything that tried to follow them in.

"It is," Ethan said: "But that's what comes with achievement and advancement."

"Fancier clothes?" the Old-Timer commented, chuckling a little at his joke: "You were wearing black, the last time we met."

"Yes, I was a Journeyman, then" the Alchemist sighed, still unable to remember what the Overlord had been wearing. Was he sure he knew him from before?

"Your work here tipped things in your favor, then?"

"Amongst other things," Ethan lied. He really hoped the man would take his short answers as a hint and stop asking questions. They not only distracted him from his true purpose, but they made him face uncomfortable truths.

The truth? It was his practical ideas in the face of the Storm that had seen him become a Master. He wished it had been for what he considered his real achievements - his other researches - but such was not to be. Everything he had done in his laboratory in Rome was either ignored, skipped over or lukewarmly debated.

He almost wished he'd remained a Journeyman, rather than feel as though the robe and mask he wore weren't really his. Maybe this would change all that.

Maybe this will change you? His Shadow asked, ever-anxious to make him seek attention. He didn't deign to answer; He was afraid he already knew.

The pair walked through the doors and headed downstairs. The walls at the bottom of the stairwell were lined with Souled plates, and the sound of moaning rushed up to greet their ears.

Down the basement corridor were several, insensate wraiths chained to the walls with sleeping shackles: minds off on vast, endless tangents, thanks to the nature of their bonds. And behind each empty doorway, up against the opposite wall, was at least one iron maiden. Each one held a prisoner who was either too willful for the sleeping shackles, or else to valuable to trust to them.

"He's down here, at the end," the Iron Overlord said, pointing to the only real door in the entire place. Nasty, hissing noises came from behind it, and its cracked, gloomy window read BOI  R R OM.

"I would prefer to interview him alone," Ethan said.

"I understand," the other man said: "I can let you have one hour with him. If you have any problems, I'll be right outside, here in the hallway."

Ethan nodded and, getting his mind as clear as possible, walked away from the Iron Overlord, and then right through the waiting door.

The next time Ethan remembers the picture in the garbage can, he's contemplating the Wierd of the Worm.

His first Master - long since lost to the Storm - stands before Ethan and the other, black-clad Apprentices in the small, dusty laboratory. He conjures an image of the world between his hands, and then superimposes over it the Great Worm, Itself. The world is wrapped in Its great coils, which lie just beneath the skin of the earth.

"Behold, Ouroboros," he says: "Here lies the great serpent which swallows Its own tail. Its length wraps around this world, crossing and criss-crossing itself endlessly. Where the coils overlap, there is much power to be found..."

His Master says many other things - many important things - but Ethan cannot concentrate. He is imagining the great Worm, lying there just under the surface of the real world. And as he does, he cannot help but think of his mother's coffin, and the sound the dirt made as it fell on top of it.

For a moment, in his mind, the coffin turns into a section of Ouroboros' immense, blood-red length. It glistens with mucus, and undulates, as though It were moving. And stuck in the goo that lubricates its scales are pieces of that torn-up picture, along with coffee grounds and orange peels...

The thought makes him bolt upright in his stool, and for a moment all eyes in the room come upon him. He nods his head by way of apology, and waits for his Master's chastisement. Instead, he is given a sere nod by the man - as though he somehow knew what his Apprentice was thinking, and why. And the lesson continues.

In time, Ethan more than made up for his embarrassment, and passed his trials and tests with distinction. The other Apprentices' efforts all paled by comparison, and his Master was generous with his praise: holding Ethan up as an example of what they should be, and doing so repeatedly.

This lavish recognition of his efforts made him the center of unwanted attention. The stares from behind the other Apprentices' black masks felt like knives slicing into him, and he became extremely unpopular with his peers. He was seen as a suck, and a Master's Boy; They said cruel things about him, as though they were schoolchildren teasing the smartest child in class.

But Ethan couldn't stop doing what was expected of him, so he bore it as best as he could. There were many days that he just wished he could crawl into the dirt between the High World and the Low World, like great Ouroboros, and be recognized for his worth without ever being seen.

When Ethan got to the other side of the door, he realized he was too late. There, in the murky and cluttered darkness of the boiler room, a man-shaped scattering of ashes lay on the ground, before the only free wall. Useless chains dangled down from waist-height, their free manacles lying where the ash-pile's 'arms' had been.

Damn it! Ethan cursed silently: Why couldn't I have gotten here sooner?

It's not your fault, his Shadow consoled him: You did the best you could-

It fell silent as they both heard a shuffling noise, back behind the hissing boiler. There, in the gloom, something moved.

Ethan's eyes looked to the pile of ashes once more, and saw a small trail of ashen scrapings going from it to the great, metal machine. He smiled, thanking the Maker for this favor.

"There's no sense in hiding, sir," he said, walking closer to the boiler: "I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to ask you some questions."

"...get out of here..." a voice said. It was a man's voice, but terribly reduced: it almost sounded like air escaping from a punctured lung.

"Why?" Ethan asked, coming around to the other side of the machine.

What he saw made him pause. Here was the depiction of the worst-case scenario made real.

The prisoner looked like a circus freak burned to ashes, yet somehow still together. His arms and legs were little more than worn-down stumps past the elbows and knees. The front of his chest had collapsed, revealing his powdery ribs. His head and face were mostly intact... at least around the front. But as he tried to shove himself back into the darkness Ethan saw that the back of his skull had also collapsed into dust.

Trails of dark, thick ashes followed after the man as he crawled pathetically away from Ethan.

"Where will you go?" the Alchemist asked, recovering from the sight and kneeling down to get at the man's eye level.

"...it's not safe, here..." the man whispered: "...leave, please... it's dangerous..."

"I don't think you're going to do me too much harm, Legionnaire," Ethan said: "And if you try, I don't think it'd take more than a good sneeze, would it...?"

He let the point rest. There was a look of anger in the ashen man's eyes, but it went away fairly quickly.

"Who?" He asked, dust falling from his cheeks as he grimaced.

"Master Job," Ethan said: "I'm an Alchemist."

"... never heard of you..."

"Not surprising," he replied: "The Artificers sidelined us for a long time. It's only now that we're back where we belong."

There was another flash of understanding in the ashen man's eyes. He nodded, and dust fell from his chin.

"Who are you, Legionnaire?" Ethan asked.

"Daniel... Daniel-"

"That will do nicely," the Alchemist said, holding up his hands: "Daniel, I'm not going to lie to you. You're in a bad spot of trouble, and I don't think there's anything I can do to help you at this point-"

"therE iS nothinG yoU caN dO, noW," the Legionnaire said, his voice suddenly grown thick and bold. It echoed around the room, seeming to linger for much longer than it should. It rattled about in Ethan's head, booming through his entire body as though he'd been standing next to a massive loudspeaker.

Oh yes, the Alchemist thought, seeing the tired confusion on the poor wraith's collapsing face: That's all too true. But there's something I can do for myself, here.

And, keeping that in mind, he began to ask the Returned man many, many things...

The Alchemists' inquiry into the matter hadn't had as smooth a start as those steering it would have hoped for.

For starters, it had been very hard for the Guild to find any of the Returned at all. Those whom the Labyrinth had held onto came back to find that their previous social arrangements were often harshly altered, or done away with completely. And, as a result, many of their number were sent straight back to the Labyrinth by fellows they'd once crossed, former friends turned enemies, or old underlings who had more than a few discomforts to repay.

So those Returned who survived the first few days back discovered the best way to survive these changes was to strongly avoid mentioning what they'd been before. Some went even further underground, seeking new names and faces to suit their new lives. {It was said that the Masquers' coffers were filled well past the brim by these, but - as always - the Masquers never told tales to outsiders.}

And that was before the aforementioned strange stories took root, and twisted with each new telling. What few definite pieces of information were to be found had bloomed into ripe, rank gardens of sinister innuendo: tales of their being Dopplegangers, walking bombs or generators of nasty Shadow-stuff started to accompany the other details. Those Returned foolish enough to identify themselves were soon driven away, or else tipped into a nearby Nihil.

If there were any loquacious Returned to be found before, those blossoming tales quickly shut their mouths. But, quite perversely, the violent backlash worked to the Alchemist's advantage: they needed only to follow the lynch mobs and see who - or what - they were driving to the Necropolis limits. And, given the Guild's new, elevated position in matters of security, it was little or no trick to take these harried Returned into "protective custody."

Later, once the prisoners were well past all prying ears and hateful eyes, the Guildwraiths could explain the situation, and make a bargain with them. Sometimes their charges were grateful to be delivered from froth-mouthed hooligans, and willing to do anything for protection, and sometimes they were not at all happy to trade one sort of prison for another. But when faced with the reality of what awaited them - graphic depictions of the most pathetic cases being kept on hand for just such a purpose - most of them turned quite cooperative when promised some hope of a cure.

Thus began what would become long months and years of true experimentation and careful observation, off in Rome. The Guild's hard-won specimens were a motley and dissimilar lot, and there seemed no single binding factor between them, other than when they had been taken by the Labyrinth. There was a tendency for those who'd come back the earliest to be showing symptoms: smoking and bubbling when using their Mana, flaking away at the extremities. But some were indistinguishable from "normal" wraiths, in spite of having come back earlier, and some were starting to disintegrate, in spite of having come back recently.

There were times that the Grand Master in charge of the inquiry was ready to throw up his hands and admit that there were some things that just were random, and this was one of them. Of course, had he done so, he would have been replaced in his position rather quickly by another Grand Master with a personal theory to prove. So he toiled on, hoping to one day discover that one, elusive piece of information that would finally explain it all.

And there was a further disappointment: even after years of study, and carefully watching those specimens who had the worst symptoms, none of their test subjects had begun to prophesy. Not a one could do more than make an educated guess, or try to activate their Oracles' Arts {with results as mixed as they were painful}. Nowhere was heard the booming, authoritative voice that seemed laden with deep, cthonic powers. Nowhere the inescapable force of What Must Be. Just blank stares, sad expressions and the pathetic look of someone who just can't do what you've asked of him.

But here, before Ethan's eyes, was such a one.

There was no way he could have transported him from here into the Middleground and thence to Rome. The poor fellow would have collapsed in Ethan's arms before they'd gotten halfway there, provided the pressure differential didn't destroy him straightaway. And while he could have asked the Overlord for more time, left Daniel here, gone back, and returned with others more "competent" in these matters, there was a good chance his subject would have blown away before they'd returned.

No. This was Ethan's task, now, to gather as much information from the man as he could before the fellow disappeared, or the hour came nigh. There was no cure he could offer, and no comfort he could provide, but each piece of information he took from the man brought him - and the Guild - one step closer to understanding the nature of this condition.

That it might also fulfill some deep-seated ambitions went without saying, but he tried to put such matters behind him. Dreams of such things clouded both his memory and his judgment, and gave his Shadow far too much to talk about...