When do we start running through a bunch of doors?

I pick up the frame, holding it out to be seen. "Sammy, do you know these two?"

The Slime sloshes over to me, and looks at the picture. "Oh! That's Creator! And that's..."

Sammy stops smiling. Her eyes go blank as she begins slightly shaking. This must be what it looks like; seeing someone having a "fit." When the light returns to the Goo-Girl's eyes, her smile remains lost. She takes a hold of the picture frame, grasping it tightly. Not a word comes from her as she slowly moves to an empty corner of the lab, taking a seat; staring at the picture.

I followed her as she moved, and spoke as she slumped down. "Sammy, are you ok?"

"No." She whispered. "Alone. Now. Please."

I wasn't going to argue, and decided to look for a way further into the lab; worry filling my heart. There was a door just opposite the entrance I had used, and I opened it, taking a last peek at Sammy to make sure she was staying put. This one didn't fall off of it's hinges, thankfully. It leads into a short hallway with three more doors; the pale, magical bulbs of flame lighting my way. I take the closest door on the right.

This room seems to be for record keeping; Cilla and Eve will be having a fun time in here. The layers of dust were just as thick as the lab; still unused for a very long time. The files were stored on shelves, each marked alphabetically; Yep, Cilla's version of the Heavens. Pulling one free from the S-Marked shelf, which was the most tightly packed, I open the folded packet of information; the penmanship of which is staggeringly perfect.

Day eight. Mixture is responding poorly to dead subject; resulting in aggressive increase in rate of decay. Further testing required before use on Subject W. Living subject responded positively; returning to an active state after induced coma. Waiting for further possible effects before attempting use on Subject S.

The images of yet another corpse is within the file; a male Orc warrior, by the looks of it...

Wait... what's that?

Marks on the arms; not tattoos, nor scars, but imprints. Like those of chains, wrapped around the arm; exactly like those my Hook left on me after wearing it for long periods. I look through the file further, finding the comatose subject mentioned prior. A Dwarf; unsure if male or female, as Cilla had told me that the females will grow their own beards out if married. At the time the picture was made, they seemed to be angrily yanking on the restraints placed on their wrists, waists and ankles. More words follow on yet more documentation; the writing having degraded in quality, instead being aggressive, or made in haste.

Day Thirteen. Further tests on dead subjects, even with Doctor Litwick's assistance, have had no further results. I am ceasing attempts at full resurrection of the dead to preserve resources, and save time...

The writing then splits, becoming sloppy and smeared where clear droplets had stained the paper; partially obscuring the next line.

I'm sorry, Wanda.

It resumes it's more refined form on the next page.

Previous living subjects have all expired. Destabilized cellular structure; creating an ooze similar to Slime. Slime. Slime. Slime. Slime...

The author repeats the word Slime until it begins to spill off the page. I close the file, and place it back with it's brethren; disturbed, and worried for Sammy. I leave the record chamber, and peek back into the lab. There she remains, seated in the corner, staring at the picture. It was almost too much to take alone, forcing me back into the hallway; I take the left door this time, just a bit further past the previous.

This room appears to be a study. A single desk, with papers strewn out onto it, and the floor. More filing areas against the walls hold yet more secrets, and I spot a familiar string of words upon the desk's wooden surface.

Slime. Slime. Slime. Slime.

A mental break, or a breakthrough idea?

I check the desk with God's Eye; nope. No hidden switches or other similar contraptions. The papers seem mostly blank, with a few having a scant minimal amount of words; usually the same ones. Repeated attempts at writing something. I examine the discarded papers, and find one that is far more complete.

Dear Doctor Laurence Litwick.

It has come to my attention that you have recently been exiled from your familial line, after your tenth attempt to bring about a Wild Mage amongst your particular branch of the family tree. I am offering you food, shelter, and coin in return for assistance with a very important project of mine. I am sure you have heard of me. Everyone has...

Sincerely yours; Thedo Squij, the Warmaker.

This came from a crumpled, balled up piece of parchment. One tossed far aside from the desk. Yet, it still contained the concerning information I sought. Thedo the Warmaker, a supposedly dead Artisan of the Dark's forces I was told about back in Saltmoore. A human, as well, from two hundred years ago. If this was truly him, then he had somehow faked his own death, and expanded his lifespan by well over a century. If not, then this was someone using his name; but the highly advanced laboratory I was in told me otherwise.

Is he the old man in the picture?

I make my way out of the study, and towards that final door at the end of the hall. I pull at the handle, but find it locked... no. Looking at where the door met the wall, it seemed welded shut; air tight.

Not that it would stop my investigation; I was too intrigued by this point.

I pull back a clenched fist, taking in a deep breath, before slamming it into the door's center. The sound of an echoing gong, tearing metal, and my own grunt of exertion fill the hall. The door bucks free from it's weld, and it's hinges. Before it falls, I grasp the door tightly, and pull it back into the hallway, leaning it against the wall. What I find sends shivers down my spine, considering where we were.

A child's bedroom; or, rather, a recreation of one. The only room free of dust, due to it's air-tight seal. Blue painted walls, with a window leading nowhere; just a painting of a meadow, with one of those magical lights acting as the sun. Several strange machines were set next to the child's bed; medical, in nature, given the sterile smell. They were more rudimentary in appearance, but comparing them to the visions of my past life, their purposes were clear. Maintenance of a life unable to move. On the bed itself was a single toy, at first glance, a strange blue ball; on closer inspection, it appears to be a stuffed toy slime, with an absurdly wide smile.

So disturbed was I by the sight, that I didn't notice Sammy walking past me until she had come fully into view. She seats herself on the bed, and takes hold of the stuffed slime.

She speaks in a mock voice of an older man. "S.A.M Experiment Number One seems to be a minor success... cognition has suffered, but general memory may still be intact. Samantha, honey, can you hear me... do you recognize me..."

Her tone changes completely; cheery as ever once more, she says. "Yes, Creator! You are my Creator!"

The tone changes once more, back to the glum goop that had walked in. "No, sweety. It's me, Papa... Sammy? Please, honey... please remember."

Her tone changes again; fully lucid, and now filled with anger. "Stupid... stupid... didn't... remember... then..."

I wasn't sure before if Slimes could cry; now I knew. Little distinct slivers of herself pooled from her eyes, dropping onto the stuffed toy in her hands. Before I can try to comfort her, the tears then cease; a new, fierce look crossing her malleable face. One of determination.

"Find... Creator."