"Hhaaaah -- I can hear it --" Tarantulas wheezes for breath, his surprisingly broad chest heaving while his fingernails and claws dig tiny grooves into the walls of Sally's bathroom. The pain had been sudden and blinding -- he'd lost time, although hopefully no more than a few seconds. He grits his teeth against the emptiness in his guts, the place where Erik has injected him itching and writhing as soft tissues rush to reknit themselves. He could take over. He could direct Erik's attention further in, where his organs were crushed and distorted by the weight of his child. It would help him heal more easily -- but he doesn't care about that. He doesn't care about anything, except --

"Where is it? Is it healthy?" he rasps, straining to see past Erik's shoulders to Sally, and the bundle in her arms.

The baby girl does not much resemble a spider, but she very much does look like Tarantulas, especially in the arrangement of her butter-yellow eyes -- two human, six arachnid, arranged like smooth little stones on her forehead -- and the cap of cobalt blue fur on her head. The rest of her skin is grey and bare, and she squalls fretfully as Sally gently cleans her up.

On her forehead are two little nubs, hard as bone. Where in the world did Tarantulas acquire such a child?