The mass of black fungus on the table shifts. Tendrils unfurl and grow and wither and die, and something rises, the fleshy pile bulging. It splits open, spilling inky black liquid onto the floor that reflect more memories -- Fenris and Anders, Richtofen, Wrench, Sal.

What appears, floating there as flesh decays and falls off around it, is a long, thin dagger. Its blade and handle are both pitch black. There is a bulging eye on the base of the handle that looks around the room, and the grip is textured with what look to be tendrils wrapped around it that move in subtle motions.

"Take it," Maka's father says somewhere beneath -- or around -- all the chaos. "Blood sssspilled with this blade under the full moon will releasssse a memory. But -- you musssst do it in the proper place. The caves... The lake... The dump. Where itssss pull is greatessst."