Work Text:
It is all too often that she tires of her work.
She is on one moment, and off the next. Warm and soft for a breath in, as cold as snow for a breath out. She feels herself struggling between desire and lack thereof, to feel well and at peace with herself, these fools, this castle of ice, this home far away from her homeland. The winters are too cold, and the summers are too cold, the skies are too clear and the water is all but ice. She recalls a time when the midsummer sun would shine down upon glistening waters, and its heat would dance upon her cheeks, and she would rejoice in the feeling until she became far too intimately aware of her body, and then she would despise herself.
She wonders if, perhaps, things would've been different if these people had not offered her exactly what she wanted.
She is the puppet and the puppeteer; The Marionette, they call her. It is through their aid, her own expertise, the input of a certain researcher, and her own self loathing that have led her to where she is today. It is the conglomeration of all things held in high esteem to the divine that have allowed her to ascend.
To Celestia? No, of course not. She has simply ascended beyond her corporeal self.
"S-Sir, I'm sorry! Really, I - please, have mercy!"
She hardly bats an eye when she hears his victims anymore; her eyes, even now, remain closed, as her faithful puppet carries her along through the frigid halls of Zapolyarny Palace. The gentle bobbing rhythm of its heavy footsteps reminds her of a time when she would have been upon a gondola through the liquid streets of her homeland, but alas, those days are behind her. She holds only her name and her language to tether her to where she once was.
"Enough! Can't you see you're wasting my time?!"
"B-But sir, it was an honest little mistake, r-really, you have to believe me!" The victim begs, and she can hear him rushing along after more irate footsteps, the shouting voices approaching her rather rapidly. "I promise it won't happen again, I promise! I - oh, please, in the name of our Great Lady Tsaritsa, please!"
"Have you not caused me enough strife?!" A loud, resounding slap echoes through the halls. "Useless menial! If you're not even good enough to handle a simple task, then stop your whimpering and find something else to do with yourself!"
"My lord, I can assure you - "
"Hey!"
The puppet stops in its tracks, halted by the subtlest of gestures from the puppeteer. She opens her eyes to the scene before her.
The Doctor - one of the younger Doctors, the one with shorter hair and eyes all bugged out - wears a thick grimace across his face, nearly panting in rage. Beside him is someone she does not recognize, but she understands him to be one of the Doctor's aids… one who has not succeeded in his tasks, to boot.
"Do you think you could make use of this thing that's been wasting all my time?" The Doctor snaps, speaking in that wild, breathy voice that he has. Said menial remains half-crouched beside the Doctor, attempting to supplicate himself, but his bows and pleas fall quite short of success.
"There's no need to be so short with it, Il Dottore."
"Look at this rat bastard! Twice, Sandrone - twice!" This Doctor is loud, but he often does not finish his thoughts in any coherent way. He is from a time where he was at his lowest, one of the oldest prostheses created, and yet the youngest in age. "Twice in one day, even!"
"M-My lord, please, with all due respect - "
"Respect this!"
He kicks the assistant - former assistant, perhaps, given the nature of this exchange. The man doubles over, groaning in pain and clutching his gut.
"Please, Il Dottore. If you're making an offer, I would like to start with an unbroken slate."
It is only then that the Marionette waves her puppet to lower her to the ground, upon which she steps out of its hand, her feet barely touching the floor. She feels the pressure of the frigid stone pushing back up against her, and she grimaces. To still feel things like this is wretched.
"Do with him whatever you will," he scowls. "I have better things to do with my time." And yet, this Doctor turns back to his former assistant, still hunched over in pain, just to snap at him once more. "You knew that failure to execute explicitly given commands will result in your termination. We have our methods of disposing of waste like you."
The man merely whimpers, eyes teary, nose runny, the putrid tell-tale signs of a human's fear.
"Oh, don't cry…" The Marionette kneels beside the man, patting his shoulder, just to see how much muscle is on this body. "You don't want to cry, do you? I can fix that for you."
"You…" He sobs, hiccups, pitiful imperfections of the human body, proof of their failures as creatures of Teyvat. "P-Please, you have to help me…"
Ordinarily, the Marionette is comfortably numb in the palace of everwinter.
"I only need to do with you as I see fit."
Sometimes, the Marionette burns.
There is one key similarity between the Harbinger known as Il Dottore and the Harbinger known as Sandrone; they do not appreciate the human body.
Some Harbingers do. Some of them are human enough, and they recognize their physical limitations, and they make peace with it. To Il Dottore, it is a waste of time. If one were to have the capacity to make a human divine, should one not seek such an ideal? It is this relentless pursuit of perfection that Il Dottore strives to achieve. Each iteration of himself seeks still this end goal, even if only the Doctor in his prime can properly articulate the matter.
Then, there is Sandrone. She seeks not perfection in divinity, but for the simple removal of all those foul things that sully the human body.
"No! No! Stop!"
The human mind can be perfected quite easily.
"Shhhh… it's okay…"
The human body is unforgivably broken.
The man screams again. She takes a moment to examine him for the worst piece of flesh still attached to the body, and she determines that it is either those vocal chords that make this disgusting cacophony of misery, or perhaps the tongue that allows him to bellow worthlessly human desires.
She taps her foot in the blood that has pooled at her feet. It is a disgusting, squelching sound. It is a sound that reminds her how foul the creature before her still is, an imperfect work in progress, a writhing mass.
"What to do, what to do…"
She taps the dull end of her scalpel against her gloved hand. She can hear the way the metal gently tinks against her own metal hand, and she is pleased with this noise. It's a lovely little dollop of sound, the poetic manifestation of a little dewdrop plopping down from a leaf into a tiny puddle of fresh rain.
Oh, to be a little bite-sized doll. Oh, to use a flower as an umbrella, to dance a waltz with a butterfly, to sip heartily from a honeysuckle among the bees, to share teeny-tiny biscuits and milk with the mice in a hollowed-out log. If only she were so lovely.
But no. No. Some fucking ruthless, vile excuse for dinivty decided it wanted her to be human, and so they made her this - this absolute stain on Teyvat, they imprisoned her in a tomb of wet meat. Some disgusting freak in the sky above decided that those lovely living things are also so dirty. They spit and they shit and they are so deeply wretched.
Oh, to rebuild the world in her image. To dance the infinite dance of machines. To twirl a pirouette like a gear turns in a toy, to step in rhythm like an engine perfectly calibrated.
…This man's sobbing is getting on her last nerve.
"I would like you better if you'd stop your worthless blubbering, you swine. I'm doing you a favor, here."
She is irate. She takes her scalpel and stabs it into the man's flesh, between two bones, but it hits a nerve, and he howls, and she detests that her own body was, at one time, made of so much flesh that she would've cried out if a nerve had been severed as well.
But no. No. Some strange man came along and made her an offer she could not refuse. Between the Khaenri'an's generosity and the researcher's aid in her pursuit of perfection, she is officially something absolutely lovely.
Lovely… more or less. She could be better. There are still parts of her that are soft that should not be soft. She doesn't want her tummy to squish and ache when she eats. She doesn't like that she still has skin that can grow slick and slimy with sweat when the hottest sun pours down on her. That is one thing she feels conflicted about, she supposes; she does not like to be hot, but she does enjoy the sun. She would like to replace the rest of herself as soon as she can, but metal conducts sunlight quite well. Though, at least it does not sweat.
If she could only finish herself, she could be such a nice little puppet.
"You could be such a nice little puppet, too," she coos, and she slices an artery upon his neck, to which he tries and fails to scream. "Puppets don't scream, see? Now, isn't that much better? Once we get all this yucky stuff out of you, I'll fill you back up with the most lovely little gears and sockets. Isn't that exciting?"
The man does not answer.
It is all too often that she tires of her work.
It's not that she dislikes what she does, no. She merely feels that something is missing, sometimes. Snezhnaya is a beautifully brutal place. There is no room for the utterly human misery that may befall any ordinary human here; Snezhnaya does not believe in tears.
And yet, even the Harbingers of the Fatui are still human.
She thinks about all those human things that surround her, sometimes wondering how they've made peace with themselves, or how they cope with their humanity. The Jester prides himself not on his humanity, but upon his status as a Khaenri'an. Beyond that, though, his mind is rather mysterious. The Doctor has not contented himself; thankfully, at that, for he would be remiss to be so intelligent without seeking a solution to humanity's filthy little problem of flesh and bone. The Rooster - well, an elf is not human, but they have the same problems as these fleshy things, and yet he only concerns himself with the soul over the body, and perhaps forgets how… how squishy humans are. The Knave - ah, when The Marionette tried to address the matter, she merely waved the whole thing off as nonsense. She cannot get a clear answer out of The Damslette, either. The little dove merely sings vague allegories to herself with her eyes half shut at all times.
All so human, in so many ways. She wonders if she could prove herself, something higher than human, as stronger than the others at their next reevaluation.
Which, come to think of it, that should've happened yesterday. Alas, the meeting was adjourned early, and the ranking trial postponed. They were informed by carrier pigeon that The Jester would be bringing a new Harbinger today. Perhaps he wanted to maintain some semblance of normalcy for the newcomer; there's always arguments when their rankings get reevaluated, when one who used to be the fourth becomes the fifth, or some such inconvenience. The last thing they need is to hear screeching voices shouted so loud and so guttural that they spit as they scream and prove themselves to be sins against this earth that could be so much more lovely.
There is so much filth upon this earth. It is a shame her dress is white.
"Sandrone."
"Yes, Pierro?" She looks up from the man she'd been perfecting the other day, his body finally rid of those organs, that blood, nasty things that made him smell like sin. "Is it pertinent? I'm in the middle of - "
"It is."
"Very well."
The Marionette removes her work apron, places her instruments down; she has traded a scalpel for a wrench, stitches for a welding torch. About sixty percent of him has been nicely tidied up; it is a shame to leave her project behind so near to its completion, but the puppet will not go anywhere without the puppeteer.
With little else said, she climbs into the hands of her most beloved puppet. It was the first one she made, modified as a "trial run" when she had first joined the Harbingers in their blasphemy. What used to be a Skirmisher wielding an electro delusion and a hammer is now but a simple tool for her to use, to transport herself and her instruments about the palace as she pleases, play dress up, to let her feel small in its hands, like those lovely dolls she collected in her youth.
Oh, to be a little doll.
Oh, to stop the flames from burning their lovely hair away.
Oh, to forget the scent of burning flesh. It was what taught her what she knows now. The flesh body is unforgivable.
"With the utmost of respect," she says softly, the sound of only her puppet's footsteps echoing in the halls of the ice kingdom, "may I ask what is of such utter importance that I must be interrupted?"
The Jester is often a more or less harsh man, but to that question, he smiles. "It's about our recruit. I think he may interest you."
"Oh?"
"I've already sent Il Dottore to begin some research, based on some samples we brought back from Inazuma," he explains. "In the meantime, I would like you to observe the new Harbinger's behavior, as well as his… physiology."
"I see." Her interest is dying. "How old is the body?"
"Some centuries old, now - but he doesn't look it, mind you."
She shuts her eyes, embraces the bobbing of her puppet's gondola ride, attempting to keep herself from boiling so fast; metal is a powerful conductor, indeed. "I don't understand how that could be. You know I'm not interested in the flesh, anyway. Something that rots is of no worth to me. It can't truly be beautiful."
"Sandrone, I suggest you withhold your judgment."
It is not a suggestion, when he says it; it is an order. "Very well. My deepest apologies, Lord Pierro."
Their walk continues. When they reach the presumed destination, she hears The Jester pace back and forth, as if looking for something. That spurs her to open her eyes, only to see him looking about.
"Where did you go?" No answer. "Scaramouche?"
"Oh?" She tilts her head. "Is that what he's been named?"
"Yes, but he's…" He sighs. "I think we'll need to keep a closer eye on him than anyone else. Collectively, we must ensure he doesn't go wandering off."
She narrows her eyes at him. "It's unlike you to recruit someone who doesn't seem willing to show the utmost of loyalty, Pierro. Is this a skirmisher, or a Harbinger?"
"He is a Harbinger… and he chose to accompany us, sans coercion."
"Why might that be?"
"He thought we were interesting."
Interesting indeed. This would be the first Harbinger who chose to join the Fatui without any gaslighting or apparent ambition. Why may that be? Surely, his motivation is not so simple…
"Scaramouche!"
The sound of clicking footsteps echoes through the main hall of Zapolyarny.
And then she sees him.
It's a pair of two-toed geta that make that lovely click click click she hears, and it is when she sees him that she gasps. Everything about him is flowing, from his sleeves to his hair to the bells and strings adorning his hat - and the bells jingle, like a pretty little instrument, the joy of a horse-drawn sleigh without the putrid smell of the equine or the intolerable buzzing of flies around their rears.
"Where did you go?" The Jester asks sternly, to which the new Harbinger answers simply; he lifts his arm with a single slow, smooth motion, his hand bobbing gently as he comes to a halt. Perhaps she is seeing him move in slow motion, but the way he moves is beautifully mechanical.
"Over there."
Oh, and his voice is divine.
So too is his face absolutely holy, adorably round and almost carved with the utmost of meticulous intent. From what she can see of his body, of what lies uncovered by his flowing garments, she can see the way his skin lies perfectly stretched across his frame, without even a hint of a blemish. His posture is upright, and she ponders about his gait, light and bouncy - but not too bouncy, no, he is like a hydraulic press, rising and falling at the perfect interval every time. His eyes glimmer like pretty little beads, empty yet charming, and his lips are a perfectly painted dash of pink upon his face.
He's too pretty. He cannot possibly be human.
"Don't wander."
"Okay."
The most beautiful boy in the world gives The Jester the most utterly unconvincing response. His voice is so even-keeled, a soft tone with a lingering pressure, a steam powered engine awaiting its release, like thunder clouds desperate to rumble and flicker.
With a sigh, The Jester turns back to her - and she finds she's already hopped down from her trusty puppet before she can stop herself, and she hardly feels the floor when she hits the ground. "Sandrone, this is our newest Harbinger. He is Scaramouche; codename, The Balladeer. He is… an artifact from Inazuma."
She locks eyes with him. For something so lovely, he does indeed look too empty to be human… yes, yes, he must be something else, an artifact.
(Something about that emptiness leaves her feeling hollow, too.)
"Scaramouche," The Jester turns back to the new recruit, "this is Sandrone; codename, The Marionette. She'll act as your mentor for the time being, and will oversee your refinements alongside Il Dottore."
"Okay." Perfect, perfect, perfect, he said it the exact same way as he did before. It is mechanical and charming. He speaks like a little music box.
"Sandrone, Scaramouche is… missing a few parts," and yet she has stopped listening with the utmost of attention, in favor of observing this exquisitely beautiful boy. "We believe we can fix him - perhaps even improve him, but this is where you and Il Dottore come into play. I expect the two of you to cooperate and work to make him completely functional. Do I make myself clear?"
"Quite clear," she hums, practically answering to the quiet Balladeer more so than The Jester. "Hello, there."
"Hello." He flinches as she places her hand on his cheek, rubbing circles over his skin with her thumb. His skin is so smooth, and so cool. What is he?
"What in the world are you?" she coos. "You are the most lovely little thing I've ever seen in my entire life, Scaramouche. I could make a lovely puppet out of you."
"Oh." Pause. "I'm already a puppet, though."
She does not often sense the movements of her face anymore, modified as she is, but she can feel the grin that spreads over her cheeks, the vibration of an involuntary giggle. "Oh, you're perfect!"
"Hardly so," The Jester interjects, but she cares not what he has to say about this lovely little thing before her. "If you would listen to me, Sandrone…"
Oops. "Yes, of course."
The Jester pauses, ensuring he has her attention. "He is incomplete. He is a prototype creation made by Raiden Shogun herself, a sort of divinely created doll. Yet, he has some errors we'll need to work out. Please understand that he has the capacity to be volatile, and that you must handle him with the utmost of caution."
She tilts her head, then looks back at the little doll. "He hardly looks dangerous at all. He's simply adorable!"
"Sandrone…" But no, she has turned all her attention back to the little doll. Her hands are cupped around his jaws and he flushes at the touch.
"Aww, look at your little blush…" Her fawning has brought a shade of red deeper still to his cheeks, beautifully concocted, not too bright, but hot enough that his bashfulness is laid bare for the world to adore.
"Sandrone."
Ah - and she feels her own face must have a little red on it too. She didn't mean to get so carried away. "Ahem - yes, Lord Pierro."
"He is imperfect and volatile," The Jester explains. "He is missing a specific component that would make him whole, and I believe there are a few extraneous components inside of him that are hindering his divine powers. It is up to yourself and Il Dottore to fix him."
"Of course."
"It is also up to you specifically to keep him in line until we can fully trust him," he adds, "since I cannot trust Il Dottore to stay focused on him. Scaramouche is the cause for the downfall of nearly four clans of Inazuman weaponsmiths, let alone what other destruction he's caused in the background. We can use that kind of calamity… but we cannot allow him to wreck such havoc among the Fatui. Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal clear, my lord."
The Jester's eyes turn to The Balladeer, who stares back with that lovely sort of hollowness that makes her feel just a little bit sad. "It is up to you to follow our orders and behave yourself. Once you're fully initiated, we will give you your ranks to maintain."
"Okay."
"Do I make myself clear?"
"...okay."
She can't help but laugh at how cute and hazy he is. He's perfect. He's perfect. He is already a puppet, already divine, free of the sins of flesh and bone, yes, yes, yes, he is a perfect little puppet, a lovely little doll!
The Jester sighs. "Show him around Zapolyarny, Sandrone. His quarters will be the empty dorm adjacent to yours."
"Your wish is my command," and yet she would've done it without any prompting. She has a new doll to play with - a doll, a doll, a doll that can withstand the horrors of life, a doll that can - that has - freed this lovely world of some grotesque vermin called humans. "Come along, Scaramouche! Hold my hand, now!"
"Sandrone, this is a task, not a game."
"I understand, my lord." She takes The Balladeer's hand in her own, anyway, and she catches the way his eyes drift to their intertwined hands, and she can almost hear the gears turning in his head, as he tries to understand what it means.
"And he is a Fatui Harbinger, not a toy."
"I hear you loud and clear."
The Marionette looks at The Balladeer, and winks with a little grin. He stares blankly at her for a moment, and then he mimics the gesture perfectly, and she almost squeals.
"...do you want me to entrust him to Il Dottore instead?"
What a rotten human, threatening to take her little doll away.
"No, my lord. We'll be off."
She tugs at his hand, and he follows, and he matches her gait, his right foot hits the ground when her right foot hits the ground, and vice-versa for the left. She bobs as she walks, giddy as she is, and once he notices the motion, he mimics it, his own bubbly gait shifting to match her own.
Her trusty puppet walks alongside her and her new doll. As not to leave it feeling left out, she holds as much of its hand as she can in her own (and it is really just half a finger she can wrap her own hand around).
(Ah, but her new doll's hand fits perfectly in her own.)
"I think you'll enjoy Snezhnaya," she offers sweetly, her eyes practically glued to his own, and he has made no effort to look away either. "If there is anything I can do for you, or give to you, or anything at all that you want from me, you need only ask; I will put my whole heart into anything you desire. Perfect puppets deserve the utmost of care, after all."
The Balladeer's answer makes her feel a painfully human sensation. When he makes his request, The Marionette stops, frowns, and feels a sinking in her chest.
"I want a heart, too."
She doesn't know what to say to that.