Work Text:
A little question that remained ever untold, ever unspoken truly Left a bitter taste that lingered like curiosity thinly veiled, or openly displayed if you happen to be a wide-eyed creature.
What's humanity's worst enemy?
It could be the throes of a thoroughly feeble human body, or the physical need for nourishment that tie you to basic needs, or even the gods of Celestia that displayed no pity nor sympathy but a sick, twisted sense of possessiveness towards mankind and everything they owned upon the soil of Teyvat.
Or perhaps, the worst enemy is one you can't quite fight, you can't see nor touch but still hauls away everything you know like the sudden blizzard that claimed Snezhnayan territory. It hurts, it claims, it pains and takes and leaves nothing behind.
Time itself is an unseen, untouchable and undefeatable enemy, bringing upon unsuspecting folks the hefty load of a predetermined fate, written far beyond into the fake skies by the quilt of deceit in the heavenly principles' golden grasp.
To some, but not for everyone.
That aspect of time is something the doctor himself defeated a long while ago. Conquered, with the wavering flag of his knowledge firmly settled atop that particular mountain. No longer would he feel tied to measly mortality and the hurt of swept away civilizations; he's lived through that already and survived. Ever changing, ever perpetual, a motion machine of self sufficiency that carried unto the ages.
A nutcracker, whose perpetual jaw motion is sturdy enough to withstand the swift swept of time sand. unmovable, undying.
Efficient above anything else.
But while that much is known story already, what remains unheard is the trials and tribulations he went through in his relentless chase after the inhumanity that now defines his sole existence.
"God has helped" or it's short term name, Eleazar disease, ripping apart the last vestige of human pain Zandik ever felt before upgrading his body to the concept of mechanical efficiency.
A nutcracker through and through. How pitiful the tears of helplessness of poor, Young Zandik. For they felt undoubtedly foreign to the Doctor, inconsequential, like watching an old movie lost and then found. Self pity is probably one of the most humane aspects Dottore erased and buried deep, unknown and inexistent as far as anyone's aware.
Remembrance, Remembrance.
The thought simply happened to fly in when he surveyed the Eleazar research facility, something entirely too different but very familiar when the original doctor peered through the eyes of the Sigma segment. The bowtie felt rather tight, thought. Guess that's why he exchanged it for the choker of his posture corrector, a nice investment for it prolonged the life of his segments' metallic spine before it grew overused and had to be replaced altogether.
Another aspect to behold. With time comes change, and change is something Dottore adjusted to like a second skin.
Red eyes darted to an fro, The rooms (Read: cellars) where the Eleazar patients are held were on current display, with the Regrator's assistants rolling down trays of food that actually looks healthy and edible, fresh unlike the murky porridge Sigma usually has for the ill. Or maybe Barnabas, or maybe Krupp. Whoever the hell actually seems to mind the patients around here. Dottore is most certain that Sigma is usually too busy at Haeresys to actually give two fucks. Diplomacy and subtlety never his forte.
Such a soft hearted man, his Regrator. Endlessly worried over the malnourished homeless children housed in that pest well. Eleazar is going to take over them anyways, their mere lives inconsequential. Blown away by time itself.
Per usual, Pantalone had something to say about his oh so logical reasoning.
"You can end lives with the flick of a wrist, but cannot erase a live that has already been lived. Even if they die, people out there waiting for their return might grieve as a proof that they ever existed"
"You're merely prolonging what's unstoppable by your own means. Starved or inflicted by the talons of Eleazar, they're going to die sooner or later"
"Oh, but couldn't the same be said for every other human? or every other mortal creature, for the matter? it matters not who you are, dead awaits you far beyond, Doctor. Not even you are fully ridden of your mortality"
"That's to say" Pantalone grinned, dark ink gliding along his arms, the raven colored threads of gold that made out his hair danced and casted ominous shades over his pale, porcelain skin.
"Feeding a dying children amounts the same as ensuring another day of my short, human Life as you kindly tend to put it into words. As long as these fake skies stretch over us, there's no living but merely surviving, my dear. Remember that"
Remember that once, your partner was a poor destitute. Remember that once, they could have been him.
Remember how a starved children, merely by surviving another day could climb so high as to topple the mechanical throne Dottore currently sat upon. Forced a change of his views, made him question his humanity and inhumanity all at once.
Made his heart beat still, not like the clockwork mechanism inside his ribcage. Dottore could almost feel the phantom pain of heartache, numbed by the non-existence of said organ.
Suddenly, time wasn't that fast anymore. Let the minutes stretch into hours as Dottore watched and watched with unmatched Patience as Pantalone finally coaxed the little, green haired pest of a girl to take an oversized loaf of bread all for herself.
She scurried away with the prize like a scavenger clawing the recently acquired prey, Pantalone merely chuckling at the mirror image of what he once was. Except for the fact that the girl is actually lovely if one's to ignore the dark scales and the dirty bandages all over her small frame.
Pantalone himself had been a walking skeleton, too stubborn to die once and for all.
Dottore begged to differ. The Banker's beauty is unmatched, always has been, always Will be. Weight or lack thereof doesn't affect the uncanny symmetry of his jawline, or the perfect bridge of his nose. His anatomy, with or without ado is perfect as it is and will always be.
(Dottore once Said just that, a mere afterthought when he and Pantalone shared a little moment in lieu of Snezhnayan festivities. The way the Banker's face lit up in light pink was a sight to behold, eventually deciding to just conceal his flustered expression in the doctor's shoulder. Not a wise choice, but Dottore would rather have him there than anywhere else)
The trail of ebony silk from Pantalone's robes distract Dottore from his remembrance, Pale skin looking specially sunny now that they're not at Snezhnaya, covered in at least six layers of hide due the cold. Sometimes the doctor forgets how the banker is rather skinny even now, years and years of starvation showing upon the canvas of his body.
"Leaving so soon? I had been led to believe you would like to take a peek at your latest investments at Haeresys"
Pantalone smiles, soft crescents and thick lashes more clear now under the ever lasting white of the sterile room.
"Meetings have to be made with a certain amount of discretion, dearest. Stepping down into your arena would be foolish from my part and non beneficial for your little experiments in the long run"
Dottore scoffs, flabbergasted yet wise enough to catch what the banker implies. Schedule wise, Pantalone's every step is planned and traced like a route. He does not make public appearances unlike Dottore or Capitano, yet going out of his way into the underground experimentation arena would certainly put a damper on his finances if word were to spread.
After all, why make deals with the Regrator when that Mora is well spent into the madman's ghastly experiments?
Still, the banker has never wavered in his decision to take the weight of funding the doctor's work. A self imposed challenge, a gamble of an investment.
Dottore hopes it stays that way for as long as they're both useful to the Tsaritsa's cause.
Delicate fingers grace his cheek, the side not covered by the halfmask which remains free from gruesome scars and copper circuits. It's way too easy to lean into the velvet touch.
"I'll be leaving for Liyue's trading route in matters of hours. I presume one of your segments can be bothered to explain the layout of that ruin guard facility you want to revive?"
"Forget about it, that place is worthless" Dottore sneers, thinking back about the wasted time and resources despite his sentimentality regarding the manufactured ruin guards.
"Would take too long to exchange the equipment, given it's already two hundred years old. Might as well start over from zero somewhere else"
"Oh, if you say so"
Pantalone surely thinks it's wasteful, but Dottore has already outlined his outcomes and possibilities with that place.
Besides, a new facility would need to be placed somewhere the banker is willing to visit often, regarding the terms of their partnership. Most definitely not because Dottore wants to have him around every so often; listening to his quips and theories and just being himself all along.
...
The Inazuman brand of tea swirling around his cup is probably decades old, Scaramouche can tell because the leaves are too big in comparison with how small they're growing nowadays; the dendro element in them dying due the electro permeating the ambient ever since the Shogun's puppet went on rampage.
Still is so bitter, just like he prefers it. So the banker remembers, when he said out loud that he dislikes sweets.
"Excuse me for bringing this up all of a sudden, but I've noticed the... strain in your physique after returning from the deep recesses of the abyss. Shouldn't you seek out the doctor to fix that issue?"
Fake politeness? no, the banker is truly worried about him. Or unnerved, considering that the Balladeer's incessant twitching is what brought up the banker to invite him for tea in the first place.
"Bold of you to assume that Man is a doctor for anything other than the name"
He snaps, finally giving himself time to down the tea and enjoy what little he can remember of a pleasant flavor.
It reminds him of... nothing too important.
Still, he makes no attempts to go and instead settles further into the Banker's overly soft furniture, the silence between them heavy besides the endless ticking of the clock Pantalone keeps hidden within the first cabinet of his desk drawer.
Although, Scaramouche would say he detested that silence when it's born out of cowardice from lowly ranked fools. This kind of however, is merely because Pantalone is too concerned with his finance reports to pay any mind, and Even if he weren't, then there's nothing that really needs to be shared among the two.
"Aren't you afraid?"
And it's Scara the one who breaks the silence for good measure, unable to bear the dreaded tik tik tik that brings to mind the tinkering within the doctor's lab.
"Why would I be? despite your pintoresque reputation, we are colleagues"
The self serving smile, fingers interwined and fake pleasantries again. The puppet rolls his eyes.
"Not of me, you fool. Aren't you afraid of the doctor? you could be the next to be strapped to his vivisection table, and with your already feeble human body I doubt you would make it so far"
Pantalone does not answer immediately, his quilt taps dry into the chapped paper of the documents he's working on. Then, he titls his head with that dumb smile everyone knows him for.
"Can't the same be said about you? you've known him for far longer than I have. Whatever it is you two are plotting might not end well"
Scara tchs at the defiance. Unlikely that Dottore ever explained to the banker the whole debacle with the manufactured God and electro gnosis, but the man saw through his finances anyway and still allowed it, worming his way into the plan- into the doctor's side, per usual.
Whether he knows the whole extent of it or not, he's still an accomplice. Willingly at that. Scaramouche doesn't understand his way of thinking.
"Yet, you still offer the Mora on a silver platter to make it happen" he points an accusatory finger at The banker. "Whose fault it will be when that madman's ambition gets out of hand? his for being unhinged? or yours for offering the means to do so?"
Pantalone has the gall to look mildly offended. Dense, this man is.
But with such a small heart, not so different from the one Scara ever wished to own. He's going through a path paved in someone else's misery, yet the flicker of kindness is always there. The contradiction is so human, Scaramouche almost feels envious.
He's trying to warn him. It's too late for himself, but maybe Pantalone can turn his back now and reach out for his own humanity once again.
The anger in Scara backs slowly such as his posture, grateful that his minor outburst wasn't called out for. He's suddenly left wanting more of that Inazuman tea, Niwa's careful brewing clear in his mind when Pantalone served it. Still, he's got something else to point out.
"...Anyone who willingly chooses to work with him is doomed to face a grim ending. Heed my words, Ninth"
"Believe me, I'm most aware of the dangers of being the doctor's accomplice"
So, he caught upon the implications. Yet, Scara doesn't get another word in when the door snaps open rather rudely, none other than the doctor walking in with a tight set frown.
Was he listening by the other side all along? is he truly that worried that Scaramouche may expose the moss and the rot of his misshapen humanity to the eyes of his precious banker?
How foolish. That man seems to think the world of Dottore, for some reason utterly alien to Scaramouche.
"Doctor, what have I said about Knocking?"
The way Pantalone scolds Dottore is almost motherly, almost as if he's used to it.
"Save it for another day. As of now, I'm wondering why is it that I've been waiting all day long for your little guest to come over to my lab for his maintenance"
So, that's why Scara has been so twitchy; Pantalone reasons. He idly wonders if the maintenance process happens to be anything like with the doctor's segments.
And it's Scaramouche's turn to smirk, a bit too wry as he puts a hand over Pantalone's own. The banker doesn't flinch, won't try to if he knows what's good for him.
A bit too petty of Scara, but Dottore has been pushing and proding and outright forcing his own fears and insecurities to keep him in place. And now, he finally knows what it is that he needs to make the doctor snap into a fit of fury; the secret button to the heart the man didn't know he has.
"You're interrupting our conversation, isn't that a bit too rude for your business partner"
Dottore sneers, seeing through the puppet's intent before any of them have the chance to react- Pantalone wouldn't have managed to free himself Even if he tried.
"You wouldn't dare to-"
A shock of electro runs through Scaramouche's arm and directly into shocking the banker. Interesting, how he managed to keep his pained shriek in and merely jolted with a muffled wail.
The puppet is equally hurt, Dottore backhanding him across the face with enough strength to snap a human worthless neck. Yet, his smirk doesn't fade as he witnesses how Dottore all but turns in hurry to check on the banker. Fingers feeling for the pulse on his neck, gloved hands caressing his electrified, raven hair.
How weak. Had Scaramouche wished for it, The Regrator would have been convulsing and fighting to keep his heart beating. However, He's not that heartless to introduce this poor human into their feud.
Still, Scara wonders what kind of expression Dottore would make if the banker were to die on him. Would he cradle the feeble body of his beloved with shaky hands, feeling the same betrayal the puppet once felt towards the fickle humanity of such beings?
Would the puppet feel the tight knot on his chest somehow lighter upon inflicting others the same pain he went through?
"You fucking artificial imp-"
Lifted by the front of his shirt, Scara all but preens at the doctor's enraged, deformed grunt of anger. Inhumanity unveiled, taking root from too humane feelings. He's satisfied with this outcome.
"Try that again, and I'll sew both your eyelids and mouth with copper wire. Are we clear?"
Oh no. He knows the doctor is dead serious, knowing very well how much Scaramouche loathes the taste of copper. A torture for humans having to taste as such whenever blood overfills them in utter damage. Still, his smirk doesn't fade.
The doctor has done so much for him. But neither of them deserve any sympathy, Dottore merely using him for whatever means he's got in the long run and abusing and bruising Scaramouche for what he knows. About time he's got to retort, for this bullying has to stop somehow.
A part of him wishes he didn't have to get the banker caught in the fire.
"Crystal clear, Doctor"
He barely holds himself in place when Dottore lets go, immediately going back to his Regrator. The man still has his head spinning from the shock, every hair standing on end. How shameless, when the man's porcelain cheeks are cupped into the doctor's gloved hands. A tenderness too foreign for someone so monster like.
"It seems there was no internal damage done. How are you feeling as of now?"
"Mmmm..." Pantalone moves away his glasses, Head swaying back and forth.
Not even enraged or offended, Scara dully notes.
"... Jittery, perhaps a bit too dizzy. Maybe a headache coming"
"That's normal. Let me check your heartbeat"
The scene is oddly familiar, sickeningly so. Scara is overcome with exasperation.
Niwa...
And even in the midst of it, Scaramouche doesn't understand what changed. The concept of soulmates something utterly foreign, he read about over and over before concluding it's nothing but a petty excuse for humans to suddenly felt more important than their short lives may allow.
To be born a apart, half a millennia ago and somehow still find each other.
The next time he's present for his maintenance at the doctor's lab, The ruthlessness the man in question displays is not uncalled for. Not like he wouldn't retaliate, violence so deeply etched into the seams of his being. Scara is unrepentant.
"You will be the cause of his downfall"
Out of the two, he's the monster after all. For all his worth he's nothing but a puppet. Got to remind him how poisonous, how cursed he is.
It's so miserable the way these words roll into the doctor's head. They hit a nerve, and Scara wonders how long it takes to break him completely.
Revenge is best served Cold, after all.
...
"It's unexpectedly lovely, I must say. Is this for me?"
Dottore - the Omega build - turns his head ever so slightly, corvine Mantle concealing most of his features yet he catches sight of Pantalone's cupped hands, bejeweled in their usual ringed glory and gently cradling the small, ceramic figurine of a blue Aranara.
The sight brings about an odd Sense of peace he probably has never known, one his creator hasn't bothered to share.
"That's the best sample I could get regarding the creature capable of handling the fiber of dreams. Yet, I suppose you can keep it, considering Sumeru's markets are littered by paraphernalia of the likeness"
He hadn't meant it as a gift- unlike Epsilon or Delta he's not a hopeless romantic simpering over a fickle glance of the banker. The Attraction is there, of course; He's wondered several times how would it feel to twirl into his gloved fingers the Raven gold of his long hair. How many times he's stepped short of breaking into his room in the middle of the night just to catch a glimpse of his sleeping face, fully at ease with these delicate fingers devoid of all rings asides from the one that represents his partnership with the doctor.
How would these soft, petal pink lips Would feel against the usual cold metal of his upper face. A chorus of heightened senses, an ode to the doctor's most opulent desires hidden and locked away with a tint of unexpected humanity.
Perhaps he's just as smitten as all his other iterations. Just shy of admiting it all, the sheer humanity of his want; things are better when offered, taking and taking what he craves just got too old, too mundane.
A motion of the Banker's hand has Omega fully turning around to face him, and before he knows it a dark talon with several rings holds still the beak of his mask.
"May I?"
Omega simply nods. Doesn't have it on himself to say no, when his inner delusions are suddenly granted and Pantalone presses a kiss into his cold metal, where his forehead should have been.
The doctor melts into the touch. How pleasant, the Sparks of literal electricity dancing along his synthetic skin.
"Safe travels, dear. I hope Sumeru welcomes you the way you deserve"
He's definitely not going to tell Pantalone how Iota is coming to Sumeru as well. Might as well enjoy this little attention all to himself.
It's barely About a week and a half when he sends the Regrator a bucket of Star of Bethlehem White lilies, a small note tucked under the wide petals.
“ What immortal hand or eye would dare frame thine fearful symmetry? ”
-Ω
How poetic. Pantalone knew very well that if asked, he would get each and every segment on their knees for him and him only.
To conquer the man who's conquered time, life and death itself, Pantalone must be some kind of saint.
He might just cry from the farce of it all. There's no victory that comes unconditional, and he knows very well what kind of favors he'll be undertaking for Dottore's sake. Whatever he chose to do, Pantalone might get caught in the fire but that's fine too.
His own life is too small and worthless, he knows too. But a mere pebble can unbalance the Great scheme of All things.
Even if he dies, even if finds his untimely demise thanks to the doctor just like the balladeer foresaw; that won't be the end of his tight set road.
...
Once upon a time, Pantalone openly heard the doctor singing quietly in the lonesome solace of his lab. Shoulders hunched as if trying to shrink in and disappear, the moment he realized the Regrator listening he scurried away.
Not Long after he found out that's the Epsilon segment.
"He doesn't talk often, preferring to communicate through the neural network. Are you sure it was him?"
Lambda asked vehemently, as the one in charge of the lab in prime's absence. Now that's utterly odd, Epsilon hasn't spoken in... more or less fifty years. Some of the others started to believe that he had defective vocal chords, but after decades of maintenance realized he merely likes to keep to himself.
But the way Pantalone put it - Slightly shorter than the others, slightly skinnier and way too pale after staying within the lab for so long - that's Epsilon alright.
He wondered what changed, then.
...
From the very first moment he was pieced out together everything felt utterly foreign. Like being born in a body that wasn't quite his. The metal spine that kept him in one piece was heavy, skin pinned out to make room for his other iterations to keep working on his inner system.
It felt delirious. A part of Dottore - Epsilon - realized that maybe, a part of him kinda wished to be like this. Perpetual. Self sufficient, whirring with a clockwork heart like a nutcracker with a never ending jaw motion.
He longed to be like that, to be this inhumanely mechanical, to have been created and engineered by a mind bigger than his own. Being human is overly valued and useless in the long run, his true fate carved by his own hands was to create and destroy, discover the truths of this world and turn them into benefit.
He was born to defy the gods and enhance humans to reach this kind of enlightenment. And the first step is to raise a fist against his own unwanted humanity.
Still, Right now he felt nothing but sheer horror in the way his fake muscles contracted over synthetic skin; the way there were no eyes to tear up, no hunger and no thirst. The feeling of alienation came back in full Force, with ferocity that burned apart the seams of his reality.
He felt wrong. Wrong wrong wrong, wrong like in time immerorial. As if he were in a particularly grotesque, wakeless dream.
Except that he doesn't know what it feels to dream, can't recall what is like for the doctor has never experienced as such. It dawned on him that the matter of dream; everything he ever witnessed, feared, every single monstrosity was nothing but reality cast upon the canvas of his seemingly endless life.
The other segments just wondered why was he such a soft hearted individual. None of the previous segments had ever cried during the making, never attempted to; cannot even for they have no tear ducts. Still, prime allowed it readily.
Perhaps because that kind of rage and sorrow along with the inane necessity to rip apart his own flesh was so, so familiar.
...
When Epsilon was sent to Inazuma, he learned to play koto. Then at Fontaine, he learned to Play piano. With long, slender fingers anything was truly possible beyond the boundaries of human expectation. Besides, music was a grate greeting that allowed him to express that which couldn't be put into words. The sounds he made were strident at first, smoothed over quickly and perfect after a few tries.
Perfect. Too perfect, it scared him to think too much about it, could not put in words the repulsion he felt towards the binds of his own body.
Still, far away and up into the mountains he mused quietly; missing the coldness of crisp air into his skin.
Before he knew it, the very inseam of his turmoil played about from his Fingers, danced across his tongue.
His voice, too; felt foreign so he chose to kept it inside.
At Monstdat Epsilon learnt how to sew, an ability that came in handy whenever his clothes ripped open during a particular rough survey, learned far too easily how to wash his outfit to keep it pristine for appearances. Surely as a Harbinger there were a million willing servants, but what use was he if his hands were useless with menial chores such as this?
And then, he learned to cook from the book of recipes from Natlan. There was this dish- Pozole it was called and many more meals that looked so very very foreign and out of place. Epsilon's curiosity was picked. What if one exchanged the spices with the stronger, spicier radish Curry powder from Snezhnaya? cuisine on itself is another kind of science, You know!
"You prepared All of this by yourself?"
The captain overlooked into the long, regal dinning table filled to the brim with the intricacies of every experimental dish. Not like he could actually bring this into the lab; too many hazards, too little space and several intruding hands.
Epsilon nodded quickly, usual white coat missing with the sleeves of his navy dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. Of course, with an used-to-be-white apron for... safety measures.
"Impressive. Maybe I should call for the soldiers and introduce them to this banquet, a fitting reward for their hard job as of late. What do you think About that?"
He was asking him? Epsilon wouldn't have spoken even if he could. If the first Harbinger demands a banquet, by all means he couldn't refuse. Besides there's just a 0.07% that there might be something caustic among the dishes.
He let it happen, Capitano bringing in several soldiers as they chatted amicably and praised the food.
Suddenly, he was rather popular among them; for who could distrust the bloodthirsty doctor who cooked an entire banquet for Capitano's trainees?
The many eyes on him made him feel nervous. His hands felt jittery, like they had a mind of their own and chose the worst moment to grow restless. Maybe he simply disliked crowds; yet that doesn't truly makes sense now of all times.
Or maybe he was merely scared to be truly seen. For the inhumanity to claw out of his chest, for what could have been a moment of pride to turns into the never ending void of being incomplete, utterly foreign, inherently wrong despite his desires once upon a time.
He returned to the lab not Long after. The captain surely thinks of him as particularly rude considering he didn't even say a single word, but he trusts for the first to understand how every segment is ultimately so different from each other. Whatever he decides to do about it is inconsequential to him in the long run.
If he ever happens to be, say; pulled apart for having his parts harvested in order to create a more efficient segment; that too is inconsequential.
It felt like weaving his conscious in a never ending dream. Or a nightmare, for the matter. Epsilon felt as if he had been asleep for a hundred years.
...
He usually never spoke, a part of him forgot how to, never needed as such anyways. Still, Epsilon often hummed whatever came to his mind quietly, never truly allowing the other segments into the void of his mind to try and understand what it is that he was lacking.
Fools, the lot of them. The recipe he heard from a particular pastry is the only thing rolling on and about in his head.
Vanilla caramel over baked custard pudding... candied ginger and raspberry...
How much of a fool was he, to not have noticed the Regrator staring. Epsilon made a complete show of himself by scrambling around with the blueprints he was tasked into reviewing, practically running away in fear of getting caught and hiding himself into the deep recesses of the lab. Shameful, Dottore felt the kind of embarrassment his creator Buried under a thousand feet of pride.
It was Tau who found him, helping him out of his hiding spot- An odd display of self pity. The older segment was usually more level headed than the others; while Lambda and Omega often called him Defective and even tried to pull apart his limbs for a reconstruction, Tau respected their creator's wishes and demanded they left him be.
"The Regrator had been asking around about you"
Epsilon tilted his head in potential dread. Great, now he was cornered through and through.
"He liked your singing. Although I would hardly call that singing, it was more like... mumbling"
True. However... It surely caught the Regrator's particular interests. It's quite known how Epsilon thoroughly differs from his fellow segments, be it for the better or for the worst.
"You should speak to him. If anything, to spite the others. Wouldn't you like that?"
Epsilon couldn't help but smirk. That too, is true considering how often he got himself bullied, hurt, labeled as nothing but trash of scrap from the less than humane but not quite mechanical parts of the doctor's existence. That kind of bullying... Dottore truly hates himself that much, doesn't he?
Still...
What Would it hurt. To let himself be seen, Even if just by the Regrator.
...
"What's this one called? I'm certain I've heard it before"
Pantalone mused, Epsilon's fingers coated in thin metal lingering over the delicate strings of the Koto. He never got around to get one for himself, yet The Regrator's curiosity got the Best of him when he was told this particular segment could play several instruments for nothing but sheer pleasure. No longer after they were first introduced, Pantalone imported from Inazuma a handmade ornamental koto refined by an expert woodcrafter. Another debt to pay, yet The ninth refused to add into that one and forced the beautiful instrument on him with nothing but the the promise that Epsilon would teach him the intricacies of playing music upon those strings.
The Regrator truly wished to learn, Epsilon severely doubting his abilities as a music teacher. But what gives, if it's Pantalone the one asking that of him he can quite obligue.
What was the name again... for the Melody played upon both Koto or piano, this one he learnt at Inazuma...
"Zenbonsakura Ballad"
That's it, Pantalone's smile curling crescents into a mild, real gesture of impression; It was probably one of the most beautiful sights pertaining the old world. Has that Always been the very same kind of beauty Dottore tried to imprint into his creations? the one so full of flaws yet so perfect it cannot be matched nor replicated by cold machinery?
"Such a beautiful sound. Your voice, I mean"
Oh. Oh- Epsilon hadn't realized he just spoke after what felt like an entire existence of silence. How unfortunate, his voice was still as grotesque as he felt; raspy from disuse and the dull ache on his throat that begged for water even when he had long learned that his body was as dry and self sufficient like a Nutcracker of perpetual motions.
"Care for some tea, dear Epsilon?"
"...Sure"
However though, when Pantalone had smiled at him with such fondness, With such gratitude shown into his divine features just because he spoke out loud; It was worth giving it a try.
' You should speak to him. If anything, to spite the others. Wouldn't you like that? '
Tau's words replayed on his mind. He wondered what the others Would think, perhaps he could hear them if his mental walls were weaker than usual; Epsilon learnt very early in his existence to keep his thoughts only to himself and his creator lest he'll be outright pulled apart limb by limb. The thoughts About his inherent wrongness they deemed defective, the soft innards of the doctor's pride, which, in reality; was nothing but one side of the coin.
Omega would be the first, of course. So arrogant, so confident in his vitriolic cruelty. Always so eager to belittle him. Still, Epsilon never managed to hate him nor the others for it. Surely he grew spiteful, but never hateful.
He's had it with hating himself for so long.
...
"You know" Pantalone began, tracing idle fingers into the segment's naked chest. The endless tik tik tik of clockwork suddenly too loud, the ninth probably heard it crystal clear. Epsilon couldn't bring himself to bother with concealing it any longer.
"I've got a theory, as to why the other segments are bitter with your existence yet unable to erase you in the long run"
"Is that so? Do enlighten me, given that the curious way this head of yours processes info is nothing short of interesting"
It truly is. Epsilon had been led to believe Pantalone was almost asleep into the haze of post coital bliss. Instead he's still overthinking matters that are not even his to being with.
Dottore in his very core shivered in delight, endlessly smitten With his partner.
"You're him. You all are, yet you represent a part of yourself they all wish they could just rip apart"
A pause, and a light caress to his cheek. Dottore merely blinked, as if saying 'Go on'
"The inherent humanity within yourself is pretty notorious, yet you've tried to push it into one segment and forget About it altogether. Even if said segment were to be erased; that soft, humane part of yourself Will always come back. In the end, you'll Always come back"
Dottore closed his eyes. Ah, his Regrator and the Tangled web of ideas- Yet, he's right. So painfully right Epsilon might actually scream. out of rage? no, he merely wanted to scream because the inherent wrongness within him suddenly felt so, so right.
He feels human. That's why not being one has Always bothered him so much.
Epsilon- no, Dottore has Always been nothing but a spectre chasing after some kind of enlightenment that could erase his pain and his grievances, these measly feelings that still linger Even thought it's been so Long ever since his body was truly flesh and blood. He tried to shed them like a snake changing skin, leave them be and turn them into one particular segment so these wouldn't be his problem anymore- Yet, the problem is that Epsilon, and Omega, and Tau, and all of them are himself.
They're all so, so foolishly human.
Yet, if he made it so far; is it truly that bad?
His thoughts are interrupted by Pantalone nuzzling closer, seeking the warm of his embrace that Dottore offers so Willingly. It somehow amazes him the amount of scars Epsilon's body as acquired from accidents at the lab rather than actual brawls; Still the usual self hatred this segment often displayed seemed oddly missing as Dottore felt nothing but sheer adoration towards the banker, whose lovely hair was tangled into an unruly, raven mess as he hummed non-committaly.
"So it's true. There's no heartbeat"
Pantalone mused softly, drowsiness overpowering his senses but sharp as ever despite the exhaustion. Still, he wasn't patronizing nor spiteful and not even surprised. Just facts, as it always has been.
"Do you mind?"
Dottore couldn't help but ask in tandem, curiosity tainting the usual confidence he carried his arguments with. Yet, the soft purr of his partner thawed away his momentary doubts.
"Not really. Mine can beat for the two of us"
This time around, the doctor didn't bother to conceal his genuine laughter. The Regrator surely had a bigger aim than any of the other harbingers could have ever conceived.
Yet, nestling together and pressing a trail of lazy kisses over the crown of Pantalone's silken hair, Dottore felt so terribly fond beyond his own surprised expectations.
...
The lab was complete and utter Pandemonium. Epsilon didn't mind any of It, idly tracing the strings of his Koto as Omega's speech towards the Dendro archon ringed loudly in his ears.
He had seen this coming. Sooner or later, Their creator could no longer put up with the constant display of his monstrosities in the faces of his segments. He could understand that, nobody truly wants their flaws shoved directly into their face after all. It merely confirmed his ever latent thought regarding the self hatred all the segments share.
Whatever. He's got no use for it anymore, doesn't he?
It's so foolish he wants to laugh About it all. Poor, idiotic Omega getting rid of the others; of whatever he considers nothing but flaws. Constantly speaking of being the prime of the doctor's life.
Yet, It is as Pantalone put it into mere words so many years ago.
“ ...Even if said segment were to be erased; that soft, humane part of yourself Will always come back. In the end, you'll Always come back. ”
Epsilon carried With the hefty load of the doctor's humanity for so long. His soft heart, his desire for validation, his cravings and longings. Everything that the others ignored for the sake of efficiency, he carried with himself and took pride in that task.
In the end he's not defective just because he feels human and suffers like one. These kind of flaws You can't simply repair or get rid of; you just learn to live with them. It wasn't easy, but Epsilon learnt to; of course with the help of a certain banker.
Now that they're to begone, Will that humanity, that inherent softness and endless contradictions befall Omega? most likely. Will he try to get rid of them?
Most likely.
Yet, as long as the Doctor- all of them - have a heart, he'll suffer. he'll feel human like he never has, he'll hate himself, feel unworthy, try to rip apart his heart like Scaramouche once did.
His heart. Their heart. The doctor's heart.
“ Mine can beat for the two of us ”
Maybe Epsilon might end up having a single regret. That he left Pantalone so early, and with the fool of Omega out of all of them. Yet, as long as the Banker's heart beats still in his chest; nor Epsilon nor any of them Will be truly gone.
You can end lives with the flick of a wrist, but cannot erase a live that has already been lived. Pantalone will always remember, that he knows for sure. As long as his heart beats, he'll exist.
That inherent humanity Will always exist amidst the perversity, among the barbarity and among all the demons whispering in the back of Dottore's mind.
Epsilon sighed, humming quietly as if the lab wasn't a chaos around him. Feeling the quiet tik tik tik of his own clockwork heart and trying to recall the Regrator's own.
Beat, beat, beat still, my heart.
Just for a little longer. Just for another day. Just enough to teach a monster how to be human once again.
Beat, beat, beat still, my heart.
For one day all might come to an end.