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What was the most annoying and obnoxious sound in the world?
Well, for Pantalone, it was the sound of Dottore’s clone’s constant stream of incoherent mumbling and creepy laughter. It had been slightly unnerving the first few times he’d heard it, but after so many years of being around the clone, his unease had been replaced with annoyance and, eventually, frustration.
Thankfully, the noise really did only come from that single clone, which he could generally avoid if he was careful. It was the only one that wore a dopey bow tie, after all. The other clones made no weird sounds or smiled stupidly and generally dressed the same. Those clones were quietly cunning and perhaps a little too smug, but they at least didn’t put their bat shittery on display.
It did honestly make him wonder what the fuck was wrong with that particular clone if the others could be described as almost normal, but Pantalone couldn’t find it in himself to care enough to ask. Maybe it got run over or something, who knew. He had more important things to care about, such as how to collect all the debts he was owed.
He was mulling it over when he heard the faintest sound of maniacal laughter. His fingers tightened around the quill he was holding as the noise steadily grew louder and Pantalone quickly surveyed his office. It was a little cluttered, despite how big it was, but that served him well for once. It would be easy to hide amongst the mess.
Pantalone wedged himself between the wall and a couch, covering the entrance with a lamp, then a random quilt that was lying on the floor for gods knew what reason. He…might have had a hoarding problem. It was fine, even if his therapist disagreed.
He waited in the shadows while he heard Dottore rattling the locked door’s knob. “Regrator!” the Doctor whined. “Let me in!!”
Stupid bastard, he always did this, every Friday afternoon without fail; when would he give up trying to barge into Pantalone’s office to beg for money he would never recieve? Never, unfortunately. Dottore wasn’t usually so obnoxious about it, though. Seriously, why was he laughing like that? Pantalone frowned, trying to think about which clones were where. He was quite certain his least favorite one, which sounded as though it were at his door, had been dispatched to somewhere far, far from Snezhnaya, so what the hell?
Please, did he make another one?!
Pantalone grit his teeth, wondering how much money it would cost to have someone kill it. Probably a lot, but Pantalone had mora to spare.
“Come on, don’t make me kick the door down again,” Dottore complained, slapping the door. “Didn’t you say you actually liked this one?”
He did like that door, but that was beside the point. He didn’t feel like listening to another rabid spiel about how Dottore deserved more funding for his projects nor did he feel like suffering through the complaining he would do when Pantalone denied him. He had better things to do- such as figuring out whose legs he should break in order to collect a particularly hefty debt..
The muttering and scratching slowly stopped and Pantalone held his breath.
He heard the tell tale sound of shattering wood and mentally sighed. Another day, another door…
“Regrator?? Fuck, wait, shit, are you actually not here? What the fuck. This is bullshit. You’re always here. Hold up, are you hiding? My feelings are hurt.”
Pantalone rolled his eyes as he heard the Doctor shuffle around the room, knocking things over. Leave it to that minty rat to have his schedule memorized so that he could bother him at maximum potential.
After a few minutes, Dottore made a disappointed noise. “You’re really not here? Where the fuck did you go? You didn’t even leave any money behind, either. Shit…”
Something else fell to the ground with a crash and Pantalone’s heart skipped with excitement at the thought of subtracting enormous amounts of mora from Dottore’s paycheck to cover the damages. It was his favorite hobby, taking money from his coworkers. So fun! Actually, he loved taking money from people in general, but it was particularly satisfying when he took it from people in power.
Pantalone waited a few moments before daring to poke his head out of his hiding spot. The door, his poor door, lay in pieces on the ground.
The Doctor was also still in the room.
Pantalone ducked back beneath the quilt, swallowing a curse. Thankfully, the other man had had his back towards him, but still. What the fuck was he waiting for? He couldn’t actually be waiting for Pantalone to return, could he?
Oh, it would be a long night. Wonderful.
He blinked and then peaked again, brow furrowing.
Oh, you stupid motherfucker, you really did make another dumb ass clone, Pantalone thought to himself as he noted the lack of unusual clothing on the thing. It looked like one of the normal ones, but was acting just like the dumb one. Tsaritsa damn that man, he was really getting on Pantalone’s last nerve.
The clone looked around the room once more before staggering out the door- or the place where the door should have been. That poor fucking door. The next time he did this, there would be hell to pay.
He waited until the footsteps faded before creeping out from behind the couch and surveying the damage.
Time to go subtract hundreds of thousands of mora from Dottore’s paycheck, he thought gleefully, rubbing his hands together.
“WHAT IS THIS,” Dottore demanded, kicking down Pantalone’s door.
He watched the newly installed oaken door fall to the ground and sipped his tea to restrain himself from trying to strangle the other harbinger. “I do believe that’s your paycheck.”
“There must be a mistake, what the fuck is this? Why is it so low? Why are there so many taxes? Insurance tax, rat tax, clone tax, door tax- DOOR TAX? THE FUCK IS A DOOR TAX?”
“Here, give it to me,” Pantalone said, setting down his cup and holding out his hand.
Dottore thrusted the piece of paper into his hands with a huff and then crossed his arms as Pantalone took out a pen.
“It does look like I made a mistake,” he said, crossing out the number. “It seems that I put an extra zero.”
“FUCK YOU-” Dottore snarled, making to grab the paper.
“STOP BREAKING INTO MY OFFICE. KNOCK LIKE A NORMAL PERSON,” he shouted, ducking when Dottore swiped at him.
“FUCK YOU, IF I KNOCKED, YOU WOULD IGNORE ME.”
Pantalone yanked open a drawer in his desk and removed a slipper. He stood abruptly and raised it threateningly. Dottore scuttled backwards, hands raised in defense, paycheck forgotten. “Now, now, Regrator,” Dottore said slowly, placatingly. “There’s no need for that-”
He hurled the shoe and Dottore yelped, ducking. The slipper landed with a clatter somewhere in the hall and Dottore smirked, straightening. “It looks like you m-”
The next one hit him squarely in the face with a loud smack.
“Start running,” Pantalone said, opening another drawer. Hoarding problem, remember? It did come in handy, sometimes, especially when the urge to beat someone with a slipper came upon him. His therapist said that was probably bad, too, but what else was he supposed to do when someone was being a little shit?
Dottore hesitated, one hand cupping his swelling face and the other braced against the doorframe, but bolted as soon as Pantalone stepped out from behind his desk.
Pantalone waved the slipper experimentally and found that it was a very well balanced shoe, perfect for smacking and throwing.
He waited an entire minute before exiting his office.
“Scaramouche? What’s wrong, child, why are you hiding in the closet like this? And what is that ungodly noise?” Pulcinella asked, crouching down next to the cowering harbinger. “Was someone arrested for treason?”
Childe patted the other’s head, something that usually would have resulted in a fight, but wasn’t even acknowledged at the moment. Scaramouche’s eyes were wide, his hands over his ears, as he relived some horrible experience from ages past.
“He’s suffering from PTSD,” Childe said.
Something crashed into the door loudly and all three flinched.
“I’VE LEARNED MY LESSON, REGRATOR, I’M SORRY!” Dottore shrieked. “I’LL NEVER BREAK DOWN ANOTHER DOOR EVER AGAIN. PLEASE-”
Dottore’s plea was abruptly cut off as the sound of a shoe striking flesh echoed through the hall. The door rattled with the force of Pantalone’s slipper as the screaming began anew.
“Not the slipper,” Scaramouche wailed over the shouting, curling in on himself. “NOT THE SLIPPER! MOM, I’M SORRY! AUNTIE YAE, HELP ME!”
“Oh dear.”