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He can't stand this place anymore, but still continues to come back. In a way, he's stuck.
Maybe he sees something of himself in this human, or maybe he's just flattered to be useful. Nonetheless, it's interesting to observe a human failing so hard at being part of the collective of the species. It strikes him as rather amusing.
The creak of floorboards. No words are being spoken. No words need to be spoken. This has happened way too many times before. Sickening. The other man is used to it too. If only he found it useful to stop providing this sense of familiarity to this human...
The kitchen is a cluttered mess; leftovers of varying ages scattered throughout, unwashed dishes, smells and mold. Narrow, dark and suffocating. Due to Snezhnayan weather, this is a place the sun never reaches. How is this guy a Harbringer? How can he even think in this chaos? Not like the rest of the house is any better... Cleaning days do exist, but they aren't enough in number to keep up. A sign of many years of living alone. It's clear the man hates these messy habits of his, from the grimace he makes when he looks around the place. Lonely.
The usual line now would be: "Would a freshly cooked meal satiate your greed, Doctor?" which would earn him an annoyed stare. But this time, he has nothing of that nature to say. This time he is curious.
"How does it taste?"
All activity stops. "Oh? You want to try?"
"You are aware of the existence of my taste buds. My digestive system is also something you are knowledgeable in too. Why so surprised? I can eat."
"Yes, you can. But why?"
"Simply curious. Is that not something you could understand?"
"Everything I've offered so far has been refused. Maybe..." There is brief silence once more. The unfamiliar is everything Dottore loves; a sliver of excitement is inevitable. Expression of weariness changes to interest. Afterall, the puppet is his current object of study. "Typically, Inazuman food is sweeter than Sumerian cuisine. The distinction is best observed when comparing the variations of curry of each respective region, especially in the colour and texture. While Sumerian curries can vary widely in texture from thin and soup-like to very thick, Inazuman curry is usually thicker, due to its incorporation of flour into the mixture." He stops. "I assume that during your time living in Inazuma, you never had a taste. Correct?"
"No. Still not even sure what it is." Sighing, Scaramouche lets himself lean against the backrest. This chair, one of the marks of his perpetual presence in Dottore's life. From here, the puppet can observe the human taking care of another needed life function. Food. Eating. Such a bother, to need to do this everyday. "I assume this will be another lecture? What makes you think I'm interested?"
"You want to know, or not?" A frown of annoyance.
"I find it so funny that instead of looking, you stare. The eyes really don't help your situation. A complete giveaway, if you ask me."
"Giveaway of what?"
"Of you."
Silence. He can’t help but be amused at how easy it is to hurt the human ego. It’s even more entertaining to test the limits of a man so full of himself. On the other hand, his patience has been running thin lately and he feels the need for something new.
"Ok. I'll humor you. So, what about this curry thing?”
“This curry thing…” Shifting his attention to the raw shrimp he’d cleaned, the lecture continues. “You see, only recently did curry make its way to Inazuma from Sumeru, initially being considered a luxury dish associated with foreign cuisine. It became quite popular due to its adaptability to local tastes. In Sumeru, it’s a common household dish and almost every family has made their own variations to the recipe.”
“Now there’s some common ground.”
“Hard not to replicate such a concept. Versatility is comfortable.”
“Why the history lesson? Is there something you want to prove through some kind of food allegory?” He lowers his head into his palms. “I’m sure you could do better.”
Dottore smiles to himself, as he is seasoning the shrimp. Turmeric. Coriander. “No. I don’t see why you would think that. What I can see is how relaxing this is to you; to watch and listen. Am I correct?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s getting boring..”
“Then let me finish: The Shogun’s navy adopted curry as a nutritious and easy-to-make meal for sailors suffering of vitamin B1 deficiency. Over time, the dish was modified to suit Inazuman preferences by thickening it with flour-based roux and incorporating locally available ingredients like potatoes and carrots. The ingredients are stewed together, unlike the original, where spices are added individually. It’s milder and slightly sweet, typically cooked with pork or beef, and much less spicy compared to the intense flavor of Sumeru curry.”
“Making an assumption on which one you prefer is easy. So homesick for a place that will never want you. Maybe enough time will pass, they will forget, but you won’t be able to blend in.”
“Any assumption would be wrong. I do things on my terms.” He clears his voice and reaches for two plates. “I will be done soon, find some place in another room for these.”
Scaramouche shifts his gaze back and forth between the plates and the man’s eyes, refusing to move. “Did I say I want to eat?”
“Implied it, yes. Why else would you waste my time? Take them.”
“Why do you eat?”
Dottore squints in confusion, and in response, he gets the same look back.
“What?”
He lingers on the silence, finding comfort in the tension. Getting up from his chair, he takes one plate from the other’s hands.
“It’s an interesting paradox, don’t you think?”
Then he makes his way toward the hallway, leaving a scoff behind. Taking a right turn, Scaramouche finds himself exactly where, architecturally speaking, should be the living room. It's curious how loneliness can manifest in such an unruly, disorganized manner. Yet, if one were to analyze the space from a particular perspective, a certain rationale could be detected. An unwavering preference for this room left the rest of the place nearly empty, as if the existence of the other rooms would only serve to make the inhabitant uncomfortable. In a way, it’s reminiscent of the typically multipurpose spaces found in Inazuman homes, if not for Dottore’s lifestyle. The sofa where he sleeps; a chaos of papers, unfinished projects, parts belonging to various machinery, scattered clothes, more dirty old dishes and books - some meticulously kept, others with cracked spines and smudged pages. A table is pressed against a bookcase, on one of its shelves three attempts at taxidermy: a snow bunting, an owl and a corvid.
Scaramouche takes his seat, facing the bookcase, occupying the seat where Dottore usually works to avoid most environmental distractions. Moving some of the other man’s notes and pens, he raises his voice:
“Why the delay?”
“Just a moment.” The reply.
Rustling, probably moving a part of the new mess into the old mess. Moments later, Dottore enters, carrying a pot of food, a plate, and cutlery.
“You could certainly make yourself more useful.”
“Am I not a guest?”
“Guests don’t sit in my spot.”
He sits, setting the pot between them. “If only we had some bread instead…” He says, rearranging some of the previously moved objects back in their place. After serving himself, he makes an almost imperceptible gesture toward the puppet.
“Help yourself.”
Scaramouche soon follows, not without the faint feeling of disgust. Humans eating, especially hungry, greedy, are not a pretty sight. It’s easy to sympathize with Dottore’s disdain for human nature. If he weren’t so hypocritical. But it tastes good, akin to something he tried back then on Tatarasuna. A refreshing sweet aroma of rice. He lingers on it for a moment, the care he should have left behind. Noticing the other’s stare, his face suddenly turns grim:
“Stop gawking and eat your food”
The man smiles to himself: “Was simply wondering how it turned out. It’s mild; there should be no issues of the sort.”
Scaramouche scoffs, gesturing toward the other’s plate.
“You tell me how it turned out, since you’ve already eaten so much.”
“No, obviously not what I meant. Do you like it?”
As a response, the puppet gets up from the chair and with a swift, almost theatrical motion, he makes his way across the cluttered room, toward the worn sofa, flopping onto it. Dottore lets out a sound of hearty laughter. “Well, I’m not complaining.”
“It’s edible.”
Dottore goes back to his food, while Scaramouche eyes the exit, weighing whether this moment is worth lingering in any longer.
“Wouldn’t the aforementioned paradox extend to you too?”
It’s not worth his attention anymore, he thinks. Making his way to the hallway, he hears the other man get up and follow him.
“Don’t you have any work to do, Dottore?”
“Not before you answer my question.”
He turns around; Dottore is leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Scaramouche can’t help but roll his eyes.
“What question?”
Dottore answers, his tone getting sharper with every word:
“You know, you’re lucky I’m as patient as I am. There are not many people out there that would put up with you like this. You are not barren of flaws, and yet you act as though you are already a god. Well, I could say the same about the gods people worship, so I do give you that.”
Scaramouche scoffs, hurryingly grabbing his coat from the rack and turning to leave. As he reaches for the door, Dottore grabs him by the arm and pulls him back. The puppet tenses up.
“Come on, I want to know what you think. Besides, you started this discussion.”
“What I think? You want to know what I think?” He spits the words through gritted teeth. “I think that no matter the context, no matter what happens, you are still a foolish human.”
“And you are not? Well, not human, no. Your construction is extraordinary, yes, but there are holes. Missing pieces. Far from a god’s form.”
“I could kill you.”
“Oh, but you won’t. You need me as much as I need you.”
Scaramouche winces.
“I’m starting to think I don’t, really. It’s been a few years since we started working together, and yet your little project has had no real major breakthroughs. At this point, you’ll die before you get to anything and I will be left with nothing but wasted time.”
Dottore chuckles, visibly irritated.
“Wasted time? You are better than before you met me!”
“Will you let go of me?” Dottore hesitates for a moment, then slowly loosens his grip and then, finally, moves back against the wall.
“There’s something I noticed. It’s actually something I thought of a long time ago, but with you I get a confirmation. Ultimately, an obvious statement.” He pauses, seemingly trying to choose the right words. “Gods…no, archons, lowly followers of the Heavenly Principles, are intrinsically humanoid, in form and in act. While they do posses special capabilities, superior, might I add, they are born in their godly status with human flaws. Don’t you find it ironic that for a human to reach such a status they must be at least nearly perfect?”
The puppet hesitates to reply, but finally does.
“I don’t see the point of this discussion.”
“You do. Yes, you do. Think of the archons of Natlan, a simple example. With this perspective in mind I would even dare to call the archons false gods. But what’s further, no, even further? And how would one reach such a state?”
“I think you are reaching far beyond your domain.”
“Or maybe you don’t dream enough…” Dottore shifts his position, tracing his hand through his hair. “Humor me again! There must be more. Beyond our perceived divine. An incomprehensible absolute divine! That’s not of the linear dependence to our perception.” He sighs as he continues. “I believe it can be achieved by a mere human, without the assistance of any of our currently known divine knowledge.”
Scaramouche watches as Dottore slides down against the wall and lands on the floor. These ramblings could last longer than he would prefer them to. So he tries to cut it short:
“Get to the point.”
“You seemingly misunderstand my project, but intuitively sense the irony. I believe I can reach the previously described state. Join it, in fact. First, one should expand their perception beyond their dimensional limitations. Along with bettering this machine, my physical state, I wish to plant my eyes into the entire fabric of time.”
Dottore stops for a moment, observing the reaction of the other.
“You certainly find this amusing.” The man darts his gaze to the ground. “The next step would be, as you guessed it, leaving the entirety of the human condition behind. Any animal part, any instinct, all of it obsolete. This I haven’t quite yet figured out, when so many of our actions, even great, are driven by fundamentally humane reasons. I suppose, one ought to take this step by step, figure it out as their perspective broadens. Ultimately, all this should prove useful to the whole of humanity…”
Again, more silence. Outside, the blizzard howls; fitting, for a conversation going in circles. The man seems to have expected more, but the puppet, unimpressed, puts on his coat.
“Doctor, you are beyond your depth. Obsessing over something that’s destined to be ever out of one’s reach is just a waste of time. What you describe is simply impractical, intangible. So, it’s also pointless.”
Scaramouche opens the door, a strong current invading the endless tranquility of their tension. Fresh air.
“Do not underestimate me.”
“Do you?”
“I can’t fathom how you don’t find this fascinating too. It seems to me like you don’t understand; maybe you need further details? Or are you simply trying to get a reaction out of me?”
“You will fathom on the day of your death. Maybe then you’ll see how much you’ve failed.”
A dry laugh escapes the man.
“I’m afraid that won’t exactly be possible.”
Turning to leave, the puppet mutters in disgust:
“You reek of arrogance!”
And as he slams the door behind him, he can’t help but smirk, picturing Dottore staring in disbelief and disappointment…