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All debts are eventually paid— though not always in cash.
It is not “inhumane”, nor “brutal”. Not to him. The blood that he receives as a form of payment is fair exchange.
(Or at least, that’s what he likes to think.)
So to a child whose birth nation took away everything from him, he, in return, will bring ruin to the place he once called home.
Someday, he will bring down its so-called Archon too.
The thought of it sends the ghost of a smile curling around the corners of his mouth.
Rex Lapis should be honored, he thinks, that his demise will be at my hands.
But that is in the distant future. For now, there is work to be done. Broken contracts to be settled. Debts to be paid.
The edge of the dagger glints polished in the darkness of the shrine.
“Come out, little crow,” he hums, his voice like velvet spilling over the sides of a table. His eyes hone in on the target, weaving in and out between pillars and statues. “You haven’t yet paid off your debt to the Northland Bank.”
In his hand, the letter can be seen in the faint lighting of the faux red candles, illuminating horrible handwriting he’d struggled to decipher for days.
Funny, he’d sworn his debtor used to write more legibly than this.
But there had been no time for suspicion. Mortal lives are far too short for a luxury like this— and he needed to collect the debt he was owed. So he’d painstakingly read the address on the paper and shown up, just as promised.
Now he may or may not be starting to regret his decision.
“Mortals,” scoffs a low voice from behind the statue. “Always so full of themselves.”
A cold feeling settles in the pit of his stomach.
This is not the person he was looking for.
This is worse. Much, much worse.
He can disarm humans easily, and some beasts when required of him, but the arrogance radiating from this voice sounds so tampered with that he’s sure whatever he’s hearing is no longer human.
It’s too late to back out now.
“Please kindly pay me back.” he states, raising a dagger at the shadow behind the statue. “I have no wish to make you return the Bank’s generosity in a…different way.”
A lock of teal hair comes into the light.
“I’d like to see you try.”
Fingers encased in a layer of fabric wrap themselves around the God of Contracts’ carved stone neck, crumbling rock with the lightest touch.
A scuffle is barely audible as the banker’s boots skid backwards against soil. He shoves the letter into his pocket, apprehension clouding over his eyes.
“Oh dear. Don't run away from me.”
Disapprovingly, a masked silhouette shakes his head pityingly as he strolls out from behind the cracked statue.
Then the face comes into view, and Pantalone silently scribbles out a last will and testament in his head.
Whatever this is, it’s not his target.
His debtor has brown hair and short legs and definitely does not don that atrociously impractical test tube earring.
It’s a trap.
His instinct kicks in.
There's instantly the clanking of a blade against a shield that melts the dagger's carved hilt.
He drops it, glaring at the newly-formed burn on his hand.
“What have you done with my client.”
“Poor thing,” sighs the man, picking up the dagger and approaching him. “Wild animals always lash out when threatened. You, most unfortunately, are no exception.”
The banker's lips knit into a thin line as he composes himself, pushing down the rage that bubbles up within him at that baseless accusation.
“Rude,” grumbles Pantalone as cold metal is jammed against the carefully ironed coat he wears. “I spent far too much on that outfit for it to be destroyed by such careless hands. Now let go of me. I have money to collect and clothes to buy— and speaking of which…”
He wrinkles his nose at that disgusting laboratory coat the other wears and offers a snarky remark.
“…You, my good sir, are in dire need of a wardrobe remake, by the looks of it.”
“I liked you better when you were scuttling backwards in fear.”
“I just didn’t like you at any given time.” sighs Pantalone, folding his arms and putting on his retail worker smile. “How, pray tell, may I help you?”
“Il Dottore. Second of the Fatui Harbingers, at your service. I come in peace.”
This “peace” he speaks of is amusing, especially when he has the young accountant backed against a wall in a rural near-abandoned shrine, but Pantalone doesn’t make any comment on it.
“What have you done to my client.” he repeats, eyes narrowing as he watches the glint of knife-sharp teeth in the eerie dimness of the rickety shrine.
Cheerfully, Dottore shrugs. His elbow catches on a statuette of Rex Lapis, which topples off the pedestal.
“I intercepted one of your debt-collecting letters,” he says casually, stepping on Morax’s hooded face and breaking off the tiny stone spear in the sculpture’s hand. “Lovely handwriting, by the way.”
Something clicks in the banker. He glances at the red-stained tips of the man’s gloves.
Hmph.
“That client was mine,” he seethes. “You killed him and sent a letter in his place…”
“And now you’ve played right into my waiting hands,” finishes the Doctor. “How careless of you. I didn’t think you’d fall for it, really. It seems I overestimated your ability.”
It was careless— not that he’d ever admit to his faults properly.
Pantalone smiles, running a finger along the edge of the blade held directly at his heart.
“But what use would a humble accountant such as I be to you, O Great Lord Harbinger, Second of the Fools?”
Dottore scowls.
“Just so you know— I didn’t want to come all this way for you. I was sent here on behalf of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa.”
Pantalone mirrors his scowl.
“Run off home, then. No one is stopping you.”
There’s a swinging of portraits and the falling of tapestries to the ground as the Doctor seizes the accountant and slams him against the wooden wall, drawing out a gasp of pain from merlot-stained lips.
His hand snakes around the younger’s neck, tightening on his throat.
“Fear not, little bird…I have no intention of killing you.”
“Get your acid-smeared hands off me. I will not be your test subject.”
“Oh, quite the contrary,” a taunting voice brushes the shell of his ear, and he feels a touch of fingers against his chin's tightened line, “I would like to sign with you a contract of mutual benefit.”
“And if I object?”
A hand clamps itself around his arm, restraining him from fighting back.
“Do you not want it? Very well. After all, a poor mortal boy from Liyue can only dream of toppling the thrones of the gods…”
And here he had thought he'd burned away every inch of his miserable past.
He forces a tight grin and tenses at the marks those fingers have left on his neck.
“Such a lovely source of intel you must have.” he purrs. “And why, pray tell, would it make a difference, should I assist you and your motley crew of heretics?”
Dottore draws in an exasperated breath.
“I’m starting to question why Pierro asked specifically for you.”
“If you don’t want me, you can kill me off right now.”
“Let me tell you about my proposal first.”
Pantalone looks with disgust at those filthy, blood-caked gloves around his dagger.
“Let go of me, and we’ll talk.”
“And how do I know you will not use this opportunity to run?”
The accountant’s glare deepens and cuts through layers of artificial skin into a heart so modified it is inhuman.
“Sir, you must know that I do not run, especially not from people like you.”
Reluctantly, the Doctor loosens his grip, moving away from the wall.
From between the folds of silk-woven clothes, a flash of silver sparks in the darkness, and Pantalone scowls, holding the barrel of his gun to the older’s throat.
“Checkmate.”
He’s smiling serenely, so proud of himself, so calm and ruthless but so unknowingly stupid all the while.
Dottore almost laughs at his confidence. It’s amusing, really, how much mortals like this think of themselves, as if they could so much as leave a scratch on him.
It’s pathetic. Foolish.
But admirable nonetheless.
“You vastly overestimate yourself.”
Amber eyes crystallize into ice.
“I have a gun at your throat,” he lashes. “You should be in fear.”
The older looks at him, then at the gun aimed directly at his neck–
And laughs.
“I should think not.”
There's a sharp click as the trigger is pressed and a shower of red sprays the hole-ridden walls.
Teal hair is streaked with strings of crimson, the crack of bone audible at the lodging of silver metal into skin.
“We'll see who's smirking now,” hisses the other.
“I am.”
Pantalone jerks his head up.
This isn't just a miscalculation.
It's a glitch in the system.
Slowly, he lowers the gun.
The bullet is drawn out.
The gaping wound seems to magically heal, torn skin sewn together in fine stitches, two sides of it knitting magically together until he folds his arms, grinning like a shark.
“Impossible.” breathes Pantalone.
A sharp nail pokes his cheek, leaving a faint mark covered in grime.
“Oh please.” snorts Dottore, advancing on the shell-shocked banker. “When you are immortal, anything is possible.”
In one swift, graceful movement, he's already lunged forward and tackled the younger, pinning him to the ground.
Pantalone gasps out in surprise. His hair splays out around his face, streaked with strands of silver. There's no mistaking the chilling rage in his eyes.
After all, it's not every day the proud and unstoppable owner of the Northland Bank is humbled in this manner.
“Get off me.” hisses Pantalone, fighting against the hand clamping over his wrist.
“If you won't listen to my proposal, I'll have to make you, won't I?” Dottore shakes out his curls and sighs dramatically, as if he were a little boy playing the villain in a school play.
Pantalone sulks and doesn't reply. Pleased, Dottore continues to speak.
“Now, listen well and you will be rewarded.”
In open defiance, the banker scowls, unimpressed.
“And why should I trust you?”
“We can give you something better than the power of the gods.”
“Is that so?” mocks Pantalone. “I don’t just want their powers. I want to conquer them and have the world quake at my feet. I want to deal the final blow to the God of Contracts himself and watch him crumble away to dust.”
“What big words for a little banker,” sighs Dottore.
What big words, indeed, and yet he is the owner of the Northland Bank and nothing more.
“I’m not joining your cult.” starts Pantalone, hints of a flush rising on his face at the remark.
“You wanted a Vision once, did you not?” Dottore pulls from his coat a stone dangling from a string. “We can give you that. We can grant you anything beyond your wildest dreams and bring Celestia to ruin…and you will be just as powerful, if not more so, than a Vision bearer…”
That seems to pique his attention.
“What is that thing?”
Proudly, Dottore dangles the object between his fingers. Tinted the color of Geo, it twinkles prettily as he holds it up to the younger’s face.
“Visions, but better.”
“And they are called…?”
“Delusions.”
He quiets down, picturing himself wielding something that makes him more than worthy of the gods. To be something more than an average mortal.
It’s intriguing.
But to trust in something created by this man—
The cogs and wheels in his head spin. He decides not to relent.
“Produced by delusional people,” scoffs Pantalone, fingering the stone.
“Ah, but you are one of them, are you not?”
He grits his teeth at that.
Asshole.
He hates this guy already.
“And if I reject your offer?”
Dottore laughs.
“So be it. You will have lost the opportunity of joining the most prestigious organization in Snezhnaya…and forever, you will remain nothing.”
It is an unwise gamble. One he knows he will pay a large price for.
But he knows what it is like to have nothing. To lie trembling at the mercy of gods who have never spared him a glance. To reach out a thin hand, skin stretched over the jut of bone, and plead for someone to spare just even a single coin or rotted fruit.
Dottore observes his expression and then lets go, dusting off his clothes. His target remains on the floor, still wavering.
“Don’t want to go? Alright then,” says the scientist, turning to leave—
“Wait,” blurts a voice.
He hadn’t intended to sound so desperate, but it seeps out from the cracks in his words and reflects fear into his anxious eyes.
Dottore pauses midstep.
“Yes?”
Stopping to catch his breath, the man on the ground picks himself up.
This is the part where he possibly forfeits what is left of his loyalty to the City of Contracts.
“I would like to join you.”
“Ah. Good.” With that stupidly smug face, Dottore sweeps off his mask and bows. “After all, there are not many people who fought me and lived to tell the tale.”
The Regrator is taken aback by what he sees.
Not because the Doctor is pretty. Oh, no, he's far from that. His face is scarred, destroyed beyond redemption. It looks absolutely horrible but it's also the most fascinating face he's seen to date.
There is no humanity in what lies before him.
Also, it’s astonishingly hideous.
There is no way this guy has bitches.
The thought crosses his mind. He pushes it away.
It's not the time.
Once he completes this, the world will know their place beneath his feet.
If he completes this.
But he will hurl the die to punish all those who looked down on him.
It is worth wagering his life on, he decides.
“You have made a wise choice. The world will be indebted to you,” breathes Dottore, “and then you will make them pay in blood.”
Pantalone looks at the murals, the unlit incense, the imposing stare of the Lord of Geo burning into his skin.
Then he offers his hand, his warmth touching an artificial cold.
He takes a deep breath.
“Let us sign a contract, shall we?”