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Hotel Debord was wholly abuzz.
Days before the Hotel Debord cooking contest, guests from all over Teyvat had checked in to witness the spectacle. From food connoisseurs to artists, tourists and the press, every single room had been booked out weeks ahead.
Though the most exquisite suite was occupied by an odd combination of guests.
One of them being the Fatui’s very own top banker.
The Harbinger by the name of Pantalone, titled the Regrator, who was reclining on the hotel’s couch not because he awaited the upcoming cooking show, but because he was in Fontaine to handle business with Northland Bank’s new branch.
For shows, he had no interest, and many a rich man who did would find his occupying the splendid suite an offensive waste to the arts. Or human etiquette, which, neither bothered the Regrator in the least, as he had the same rights as other families did to dwell under this roof. With his own family.
Leaned over the sofa’s armrest, Pantalone delicately brushed girl's hair who sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of him.
Equally lost in thought as the Harbinger, she busied herself with weaving rattan into the form of a swan.
The comfortable silence was only broken by the sounds of the fibers being pulled through each other, and the metallic clinks of cutlery in the background.
Her hair was black, the same shade that would always remind the Regrator of someone else. He brushed through it with his fingers one more time before pinning it up with silver accessories.
“You must never cut your hair, Lan Yan,” he said, fixing a pin, “It’s so long and beautiful. It’d be such a shame to lose it.”
And why would he ask this of this girl? Lan Yan knew.
It wasn’t the simple fact that the Regrator liked her hair, but what he connected it with.
In simpler words: she was her father’s daughter.
Not similar in much optically but their long, black hair, straight and silky that Lan Yan had inherited from him. But she was also the Regrator’s daughter, from whom she had everything else.
Who, like she did, missed the other parent.
Terribly.
The Captain’s absence had left a suddenly collapsing ravine in his heart, one that he still tried hopelessly to fill by surrounding himself with his daughters.
Unsure if he would ever glimpse a sight of his lover again, the reminders of him were all he had left.
Coats and clothes, old furniture, unfinished paperwork that had landed on Pantalone’s desk for him to finish.
None of those things, however, could give him the same skipping heartbeats as seeing the back of Lan Yan’s head when she sat somewhere, briefly giving him the illusion that his Captain was right there.
Losing that part of him, too, was something the Regrator wasn’t certain he could handle on top of everything else.
Even if that made him selfish.
Only when Lan Yan suddenly flinched, and droplets of water trickled down on her craft, did Pantalone worry whether his phrasing had hurt her.
He reached for her shoulder, opening his mouth to apologize, when she called out first, “Fee, this rattan is painted!”
Looking past her, Pantalone saw Escoffier peeking up from behind a becoming ice sculpture, eyeing them up and down as well.
“To be fair, the floor is a splash zone,” she quipped, “Why wonder when you’re sitting there?”
With a slightly annoyed huff, Lan Yan picked up her weaving and climbed up the opposite end of the couch to join Pantalone.
After seeing the other woman continue with her haphazard sculpting, he chimed in as well.
“Escoffier, this isn’t the kitchen. Towels, I told you. Towels!
Let me get up later and have one wet spot on my socks, they’ll land in your pot. And I’m not telling in which one of them.”
A grimace of disgust distorted her face, and she looked about ready to counter with a threat of her own if he were about to do that. But, after a moment of weighing her options, she did indeed put down her tools to grab some towels from the bathroom.
Pantalone was glad she took him seriously, even if he loved her fiery temper sometimes.
Though she wasn’t his daughter by blood, ever since he’d met her as a young aspiring cook, he saw himself in her. In the way that she, too, had incredible potential as well.
He’d tasted one dish of hers and would never trust another cook again to prepare his meals with as much passion and thought to quality as she put into them. Escoffier’s talent could not be bought, which had only spoken for the Regrator’s decision to begin sponsoring her – wherever she would end up working, he knew no amount of money could make her turn against him.
With how many were often out to poison him, she was worth a true mountain of gold.
Better yet, Escoffier had been close to Lan Yan’s age at the time, and they got along like they were each other’s yin and yang.
It was a joy for Pantalone to see the two growing up together, their personalities in constant contrast but never in the way of deepening their sisterly bond. Inevitably, Escoffier grew on the Harbinger as well, and over the years they had spent with each other, he more and more came to consider her his daughter as much as Lan Yan was.
Not even adulthood could cleave their family apart anymore.
It was harder to find dates where they could all get together, but it made times like these all the more precious to Pantalone.
A peeved Escoffier returning to wipe the floor and sisterly trysts would never ruin them, quite the opposite. This was what good times were made of.
Twirling a leftover silver pin between his fingers, the Regrator leaned back, eyes closed, and relished the presence of his loved ones. The sounds of blades on ice picked up again, a little quieter now.
The sun shone brightly through the windows, warm and enjoyable. The rattan’s rustle stopped.
“Dad?”
“Yes, my swallow?”
It was a moment before Lan Yan brought out her words, voice cracking at the last.
“I really miss pa.”
Pantalone opened his eyes.
As quickly as that, the room began to feel cold. The sculpting sounds, hesitant.
The younger girl made no more utterance, no movement, anticipating her father’s reaction, which came slowly, numbly.
“I know, my love, I know you do. So do I.”
Hearing her put her weaving aside, Pantalone at last looked over, finding his daughter with a woeful expression and knees drawn up to her chest.
“I don’t think- I don’t think I’ll ever understand why he left us. Weren’t we happy? We had everything we needed, life was good,” she lamented, helplessly gesturing with her hands.
The man sat up with a sigh, reaching out to rub her shoulder in reassurance.
“We did, but your father had to take care of a wound that was there long before us. Something that was bigger than us,” Pantalone explained.
Heavy-hearted, he himself wished he could offer a better reason than this. But the harsh truth would always be that no one knew what had truly gone down in Natlan except for those who were present in that moment.
As none of them had been, all he could depend on was hearsay and try to make sense of it.
Fabricate it into some scheme that made Capitano’s decision understandable. Because how was a parent to tell the child its father had chosen a cold throne over warm life? Pantalone couldn’t even accept it himself.
Which was also why he just didn’t get behind Lan Yan’s blinding naiveté and goodness. She took his words for what they were and still managed to act as if all would be alright. And her kindness, oh, she did not get that from him.
“It still hurts. I’m sorry, dad. I know it must be a lot harder for you.”
Not able to say anything for the risk of tears falling, Pantalone gave her a tight-lipped smile, glad when Escoffier joined in on the rather grim conversation.
“You two had the luck of knowing him, at least. There are so many memories connecting you.
Every day, I wish I’d met all of you as a child to experience some of them, but I’m still thankful for what I got. From that I can tell that you, Lan Yan, carry him with you everywhere.
Each minute we’re together, it’s like he’s here with us too.”
The Regrator fondly watched the two exchange smiles, comforting and reassuring. How it soothed his heart to know they’d be there for one another, and in that train of thought, he came up with an idea.
“My girls…,” he sighed affectionately, “Lan Yan. Would you like to go see him?”
The latter of them looked up, taken aback by the suggestion.
“See him?”
With a bitter taste on his tongue saying this, Pantalone continued, “Well, he’s still in Natlan, that’s no secret. It might help you find closure or… well, talk.
Maybe get any feelings back into order, before you bottle them up, sweet swallow.”
“I think I’d like that. But… Why didn’t you mention that before? Don’t you want to come along?”
Pantalone’s smile dropped.
“No, my love. I am not ready to face him yet, nor do I have the time. There’s a lot of work for me to take care of in the coming weeks.
You know I'm leaving tomorrow, and I can’t say when I’ll see you two next.”
Lan Yan seemed disappointed at this answer.
But how was she to know that, were Pantalone to go, he’d never be able to leave again? He couldn’t go, not yet.
“Please don’t overwork yourself, dad. Remember it so the others don’t need to remind you,” she said, instead of voicing her own worries.
Such a sweet child. Pantalone brushed over her cheek.
“We’ll do our best. Fee?”
All alert, Escoffier replied, “Yes?”
He nodded to her ice sculpture, a sweeping swan with a tablet of foods balanced on its wings.
“If that tastes as good as you present it, all the other contestants can pack up and leave. Very lovely.
After the competition is over, you wouldn’t mind accompanying her, right? I’d sleep a lot better knowing she has someone trustworthy at her side during her stay in that place.”
Much to his relief, she hastily agreed beaming, “Of course! I’ll gladly tag along, no questions asked – It’s been too long since we’ve been on a proper girls’ trip, anyway.”
“Thank you, I’m sure the two of you will have a good time as well. Enjoy some of the scenery, try their food.
Despite everything… I hear the tribes are, at the very least, quite hospitable. Just promise me one thing.”
The Regrator waited to have both their full attention, and only then relayed his condition.
“Because of what happened there, I don’t want you to stay long. Five days,” he insisted gravely, “At most. Five, two for coming and going, use the rest how you want. But once they’re over, you’re returning straight back to Fontaine – or Chenyu Vale, to your grandpa.
That’s all I ask, and I’ll take no arguments. Don’t overstay.”
“All right.”
“Got it.”
He looked at them, reassured that they respected his wish, and stood up. With a last pat on Lan Yan’s head, he told them how proud he was of them and that he’d retire for the rest of the day.
His bags wouldn’t pack themselves, nor would his work be able to wait.
~
The girls were left alone until the next morning, when the three of them gathered one last time in Hotel Debord’s lobby.
Whilst servants already carried the Regrator’s bag to the Aquabus station, the Harbinger bid his daughters goodbye.
To Lan Yan, he gave a small pouch filled with Mora.
“This is for accommodation. Use what’s left for what you’d like,” and, hugging Escoffier as well, “Take care of each other. Don’t let your guard down too much.”
They also wished him a safe trip and, when all was said and done, watched their father put on his gloves and hat, and depart for his own journey.
The Regrator took his line up to the station where a carriage picked him up, and from there on out, his route was set straight for Zapolyarny Palace.
Even that time was used for his personal benefit; he slept when they drove over rockier roads, and wrote letters when they were even, locking them safely in an ornate box when they stopped at an inn for the night. There, he worked on official business some more, until the next morning came.
Back inside the carriage for another day of travel, a man walked up to the door and knocked on the window. Pantalone looked out, discovering a messenger wearing the Fatui’s Pale Star sigil, and opened the window.
“Lord Regrator, we wished to let him know his parcel has arrived in Zapolyarny,” the messenger reported politely, “And where would he like it stored?”
The recipient acknowledged the news, grabbing a coin from his pockets to hand the messenger for another run.
“Where it belongs. The First room.”
Saluting him, the messenger declared the order good as done and went on his way.
The carriage followed soon after. Thus, the drive went on.
Some more forms filled, some more letters composed. An hour before midnight, distant church bells rang.
He folded the last paper, placed it in the box. Inserted the silver key.
Ring.
Turned it left.
Click.
The Regrator stepped out of the carriage, in no way relieved to walk the blood back into his legs.
With brisk strides, he headed for the tall doors of Zapolyarny where the guards let him in.
Then he stormed right to the higher staff, demanding an audience with the Tsaritsa at precisely midnight, and he would not take no for an answer.
After some tedious back and forth, once he got his yes, the Regrator retreated to his own chambers to refresh himself.
He decorated himself so meticulously like men geared up for a war. They, who carried photographs and drawings of their beloved, for whomever they fought for.
Pantalone donned his Captain’s coat, strung with diamonds he had sewn into the fur with his own hands, thinking them bringers of good fortune. And he found his way into the Captain’s room, dark and long unused.
A circular hall almost, whose furniture had been covered in white sheets and pushed up against the walls, and the long curtains draped over high windows.
Ring.
If that was not enough to make this feel like a crypt for the dead, the Regrator knew what was.
He approached a separate item, propped upright in the middle of the room, and gripped the sheet with cramping hands.
Knowing what was beneath it – that he had ordered it – offered no feeling of preparation when he pulled the cloth down. It was… sickening. His face contorted with repulsion, distaste and utter, utter disappointment.
The item was a stone slate, in the masters’ hurry only haphazardly chiseled around the figure depicting a man with helmet.
The Captain’s unmistakable likeness.
And yet he’d been reduced to a simplicity the Regrator would’ve killed the artist for.
It was simple, it lacked depth, it did not even show him in his entirety – and this was supposed to be a memorial for a hero?
Touching a hand to the surface, he could barely contain his hatred rising in his stomach, the bitter bile of it that he wanted to spit from this disgrace.
The stone was sandy, rough, full of groves that did not belong. It had no quality, it spoke of a rush, a neediness to complete something instead of nothing. He did not have to see the whole carving to know the hands that had made it had not loved this work. Put neither soul nor proper thought into it.
A cheap commissioned piece, that’s what it looked like. Pantalone rubbed his thumb over the coarse line of the Captain’s mask.
They had put his lover on this ugly rock, giving him no glory of his own. Like plucking the finest of roses, only to add them to a bouquet of daisies and dandelions, when it was meant to shine with the rest of its graceful kind.
He hated it, and could not keep his hands from it. Caressing the outlines – the closest he could get to a real body – he thought of all that had been, all they'd had. Before the rims of his consciousness were drawn with veins pulsing, boiling, with the urge to take back what he’d been deprived of.
How?
First, the doors had to open.
Creak.
And a splash of light poured in, illuminating the Harbinger’s back.
Then a goddess had to enter, click, clack, upon the ground She walked with ice. And the doors would shut, the night returning.
Her steps echoed, each precise, each clear. A dark duplicate of Her Majesty, fashioned in Her deep blue ice.
Delivering Her grace, but imperfectly saturated with cracks across Her surface. When She spoke, Her lips broke apart, forming white spiderweb-lines in accordance with Her movements.
It was a rasp, at all unclear before it took its weight, and flowed through Her vessel like smooth running water.
“You called for an audience. A rare request from you, and yet. It was me, whom you had awaiting your arrival, that. Which did not ensue.
My time is fairly precious. Yet you waste it by as much as making me search all over in this shape.”
“Forgive it, Your Majesty,” the Regrator said plainly, sparing no courtesy by turning around to greet Her, “For once, I thought it necessary to confirm the lengths You’d go for us, when You have long been certain of those we go for You.”
A heel clacked impatiently behind him.
“Turn around, my child. If you doubt your Majesty, have the decency to do so as you look into Her eyes.”
When Her command was not executed, the man heard a new crack forming and wondered where it was. Between Her cold brows, perhaps?
Unsheathing a blade from Her bare body to strike him for disloyalty?
A cheerless smile flitted over his lips.
“Criticizing You is not my objective here. Your Majesty, I demand that You recall the Harbingers. All of them.”
Crack.
“Call the Palestar Edict.”
The Tsaritsa dropped splinters in the silence.
Sounding intrigued yet bemused at the absurdity, She asked, “You believe yourself in a position where you can make such demands of me? After having me chase you down, on top of that?”
“Oh, You will indulge me this time, Your Majesty,” Pantalone predicted with full confidence, which was not met kindly.
“Recall my Harbingers, hm? On what account? You’re aware of how that will make me look, child.
See, the Tsaritsa has Her forces retreating from each their missions – so close to completion! – for She is fearful of suffering yet another of their losses.
Hark, every land will think Her weak!”
“Because You are!” Pantalone hissed, “You are weak. In their eyes, You’ve never looked weaker. They watch Your Harbingers streaming in and out of other nations in lower numbers than they entered with. With a Gnosis – if they were fortunate enough – or countless sacrifices on our sides.
Your quick missions, these grab-and-runs might’ve worked with the first, but more and more goes wrong, and You don’t retaliate. Of course they’ve begun thinking You a coward.”
The brutal change in his usual way of speaking to the Tsaritsa was jarring, assuaging and praising words exchanged tonight for a tongue sharp as a silver knife.
It severed the tendons upholding his image, showing him unraveling, revealing a truth about him. A little spark, a growing flame, whose bite She returned.
“Hm, yes? Because I seek no war with them, Regrator. Unlike you,” leering, She appeared at the Regrator’s side, touching a cold hand to his atop the monument, “And the war you have started with them. Bold, Regrator, reckless, unauthorized.”
He recoiled at the touch, evading Her by moving on the other side of the stone, and faced Her at last.
Barely able to contain himself, the man now fumed, “They did not deserve him. That lot is unworthy of his sacrifice, entirely. He owed them nothing and gave up his life – his family – to save them all anyway, and they think a mention of his name and a collective memorial is enough to do his deeds justice?
The weights of the scale are so uneven I want to bleed from every orifice, that’s how I feel about this. What they’ve done is an insult to his whole life, and I seek only to correct it.”
“Talk, Ninth,” She rasped.
And now the Regrator knew he had Her ear, as She glared with an intensity speaking for Her curiosity.
Naturally, the Queen of Ice paid attention; She was witnessing a fire grow.
“Bring me the other Harbingers. Bring them to Nod-Krai, and entrust the Pyro Gnosis’ acquisition to me. It is the least Natlan ought to give for the Fatui’s assistance in their squabbles.
While I’m there, I’ll show them a real feud,” he swore solemnly.
The Tsaritsa complimented this, Her expression crackling with a twisted glee, “This spirit becomes you. What is your plan? What will you do?”
“I’m mobilizing our forces in Nod-Krai and taking the assistance I can get from the others to charge at Natlan. They’ll weaken that excuse of an Archon, then I’ll deal the final blow.”
“Bold, for someone who appreciates no ‘countless sacrifices.’”
“I have a personal score to settle. This will not be written under Your name, Your Majesty,” the Regrator assured.
He lifted his hand to the fur collar, pensively rubbing a diamond between his fingers.
“I wonder… How many of their lives I’ll have to take before their deaths can justify my Captain’s?”
With expectancy, he locked eyes with Her over the stone wall, and She met him with a proud posture. Squinting, tapping the Captain’s helm before Her fingers slid from it.
Pantalone watched Her turn Her back and quietly walk away without an answer.
But just when he was about to doubt Her, the door opened, and the light was back.
“Find out,” She simply said.
The very next day, the Palestar Edict was called into effect.
~
Pantalone, being no exception to the highest of commands, was invited to share the earliest carriage with the Mayor to save time.
Although they'd had a fair amount of disputes in the past, if there was any time for them to work together, it was now. No opportunity went to waste – the whole ride to Nod-Krai, they discussed the finances of Pantalone’s planned endeavors, working out the best investments to get the most use from them.
A couple of days later, when finally all remaining Harbingers had arrived, they gathered in a chamber far below ground.
Around a round table, they listened to the Regrator’s ideas, who had flashed each of them the papers in their face to prove his authority in this mission. Once he'd done that, they quieted down.
Instead of bickering amongst themselves, they were unionized and focused on the task at hand.
Only two – the most vital to this mission, contributed naught to the conversation, sitting idly by, and tinkered with their toys.
When everyone else had been dismissed, the Doctor and Marionette remained.
“You want to mobilize this?” Dottore gestured at the roof above them, “It is not ready, not by far. The moon is still-“
“We do not require the power of the moon for this, Doctor,” Pantalone interrupted him brusquely, already out of patience and energy.
“We need its physical prowess, its scare factor. The weight and its cargo capacity.
We need the men, the weapons. Not your experimental magic – you can do all of that later.”
Sandrone put down her tools, asking, “What, you’re making this a trial run? See if it holds? What if it doesn’t? We’ll all be in trouble, big time, if the damage is irreparable and we’ve no means to fix it in time.”
Bang!
“…”
“Years!”
Pantalone slammed his fist on the table, spit flying as he screamed at them.
“It’s been years – far more than I should’ve, but I did, support your delusional visions, helped you realize them and turn them into things that could help us.
Still, you play around like it’s your sandcastle! Enough of this. For years, I have paid you! Now I expect your due.”
The other two shared a look.
Dottore shrugged, “All of this sounds like it’s more than just an opportunity to prove your loyalty to Her Majesty. My, that attack must mean a lot to you, but say… You’d really go through with it, knowing your pretty darlings are over there?”
Pantomiming a bird in flight, the Doctor grinned, and Pantalone could strangle him at this moment.
But right now, he wasn’t even in a mood to worry about how he’d got hold of this information.
There were more important matters at hand; this could not cause their delay.
“They’ll be long gone before we get this behemoth into the air – which, you will start the process now – so stop wetting yourself at the prospect of hurting innocents. We’ll do enough of that anyway.”
When Marionette giggled, the Regrator tackled her next, “This process requires you as well, no? You two are going to stick your heads together and work on this, after I've had a private word with you, Sandrone.”
Just as quickly as she’d started, her laughter stopped.
With no way to worm her way out of an Archon-issued order to comply, she was dragged into a spare conference room by the Regrator.
Inside, the man shut the door and locked it, listening for any sounds coming from outside to make sure they were alone. He couldn’t have Dottore snooping around again.
Not in this personal matter.
“The task I’m going to give you can under no circumstances leak to ears uninvolved. You will be adequately compensated if it comes down to it.”
Sitting on top of the table, Marionette shrugged expectantly.
“If it comes down to it, huh? Let me guess, I’m going to hate it.”
“Quite the opposite,” Pantalone presumed and, unable to look her in the eyes, spoke his task out loud, “I need you to watch me in Natlan. Make sure that, if I am to enter Ochkanatlan, I do not leave it.
Kill me then, make sure that no one sees and gets the idea you’re a mutineer.”
The woman’s eyes widened with surprise.
Her dislike for the Regrator had always been a fact, but even she could not have expected him to ask such a thing of her. But Pantalone knew that precisely because Marionette couldn’t stand him, she would be the only person to do this for him.
If he really went to Capitano, if he saw him in his lifeless state – he knew he’d never be able to go back and lead a normal life again. Not without his Captain.
Moving on was something for other people. Living so his lover would be proud of him, for other people. Not for the Regrator.
“Well, just don’t go there?”
Pantalone huffed a laugh.
“Oh, like I haven’t thought of that? Trust me, I’ll do my utmost to resist the temptation, this is merely a safety measure in case I fail.
No need telling you what the Captain and I had, so I’m quite sure you’ll understand my reason.”
“Sex,” Sandrone said bluntly.
“Woman, you-”
“Here we see what sex does to a person, people.”
“Would it kill you not to mock me for once when we’re talking about something this serious?!”
When Pantalone looked like he was about to explode and launch a chair at her face, Marionette held up her hands, telling him at last, “Fine, fine. I guess I’ll do it.
Do I get to choose the weapon, though?”
Running a smoothing hand through his hair, the Regrator sighed.
“I suppose so, as I’d die anyway. Okay, that’s settled… Ah, wait, one more thing.”
He stopped halfway to the door and turned around, handing his colleague the silver key.
“Craft this into an accessory, for the hair or something. Just keep the key functional. Yes?”
Without waiting for an answer, he decided their little meeting concluded.
“Good work.”
~
Lifting a non-typical airship into the air proved no easy task for the Fatui.
Its form was impractical, a rounded and circular top balancing on a core to make it fly.
To the sides hung two moon-shaped halves, carrying even more heavy weaponry and machines the Regrator couldn’t bother to identify.
The important part was that it could fly, if a little slow – that, Dottore had said, wouldn’t be the case if they had waited to claim the moon’s powers – but there was no going back at this point. It flew, and it was a giant, blocking out so much land with its shadow that the Jade Chamber paled in comparison.
The downside of something so enormous really was its speed, the lack thereof. It would take days to arrive in Natlan, and it was hardly inconspicuous, so they could rule out Natlan being wholly unprepared for their arrival.
Their course was set too clearly for an opportunity to surprise them, yet Pantalone had full confidence in their own forces.
At least the soldiers believed this to be the reason why he did not fly on board the vessel with them and chose instead to travel on the ground.
The actual reason?
He had to take a detour to see his children.
Especially before such a big mission, he couldn’t bear the thought of going without seeing them one more time, and had sent a letter ahead of him to tell them he’d be coming.
Leaving the Aquabus station to make his way to Hotel Debord, Pantalone felt elated, looking forward to handing Lan Yan her new gift.
Every trip he’d gone on, he never returned empty-handed. This time was no exception. And for Escoffier; always a new recipe for her to improve and turn into her own masterpiece.
With a smile he could not suppress, he spotted their figures waving for him from the other side of the plaza.
Nearly floating in his steps, the Regrator walked to them whilst they ran, and he couldn’t be happier to be received like this until-
He stopped dead in his tracks, face falling before he could even think of fixing his expression.
The other two were too excited to notice, nearly throwing him off his feet with a bone-crushing hug.
It took him until they let go to find his voice again.
And he went off.
“Lan Yan, your hair! What have you done to it- oh, look! It’s atrocious, by the gods, what are these…”
Lan Yan’s smile dropped as her father grasped her hair – braided and dyed in multiple fashions of different tribes.
Behind her, Escoffier coughed.
“Told you he’d hate it.”
“Dad-“
“Your beautiful hair, my swallow, why would you treat it like this?” Pantalone could not contain his shock at her look, her beautiful, natural look marred by the cosmetic preferences of the people that had taken his Captain, the father of his daughter.
“These colors have to wash out fast, I don’t even know who convinced you to get so many – they clash horribly with your complexion.”
All disheartened, Lan Yan grabbed his hands out of her hair and took half a step back.
“We were just having fun. Like you said we should…?”
He hadn’t told them to go native.
Unable to argue with that, the Regrator looked at them in silence.
It would be an overstatement to call his expression angry, more so… disappointment.
He was about to leave on a mission to attack Natlan, to seize their Pyro Gnosis even if it meant hurting innocents. And now he was faced with his daughter who had possibly befriended those very innocents. He had told them to be wary so they wouldn’t get attached, so he wouldn’t have the guilt of destroying what was dear to them.
Seeing Lan Yan in this updo hurt him more than he dared to admit. He hadn’t wanted to say goodbye to his daughters like this.
If all went wrong, he could not stand the idea of remembering her one last time with the colors he hated in his Captain’s hair.
“Dad?”
He could not.
“Pantalone, what’s wrong?” Escoffier asked, oddly concerned when the Harbinger turned away from them.
He could not do this – not like this.
On the edge of a breakdown, he tried to keep himself together in front of his daughters, but it was just too much.
He never should have let them go, he had just wanted peace for her, for her to see her father one more time before-
Before he said something he’d regret, he glanced back at the station, making his decision then.
He forced a smile onto his face and turned to the two, giving each a kiss on the cheek and the bag of gifts into Lan Yan’s hands.
“I’m sorry, my loves, I neglected to tell you how much of a hurry I’m in. I have to go.”
“But you’ve only just arrived!” Lan Yan cried.
“Don’t fight, alright? I love you.”
With those words, he walked away in brisk strides.
His own heart ached leaving them this way, even more so when he heard them running after him.
“Wait! That big Fatui aircraft heading for Natlan,” Escoffier said, and Pantalone stopped to hear it, “Do you have something to do with it?”
For the comfort of their minds, the Regrator lied, “Just its finances.”
Then he disappeared inside the station without another word.
~
Oh, if the Captain’s sacrifice was useful for something, it was the safety Natlan lulled itself to sleep in.
No more fear of monsters, no more fear of the Fatui that had dwelled in their land.
Now, the Regrator could wake them up to a horror they couldn’t have dreamed of, as a full-blown force of soldiers jumped down ladders and ropes hanging from the airship right into the Stadium of Sacred Flame. Machines and puppets joined the throng, tearing down the building's doors.
From the safety of the ship, Pantalone watched the happenings through a wide window of the control room.
Attached to his ear was a device to relay orders directly from him to loud amplifiers fixed in every place in and under the flying behemoth.
When he calmly spoke through it that the soldiers should break into the Speaker’s Chamber, the speakers roared, and the Fatui acted.
Dottore sat by the steering board, just as interested how things would turn out and just how much damage their weapons could do.
For the most part, he was idly waiting by, tapping his fingers on his knees in anticipation of getting the Pyro Gnosis in his hands.
The Regrator told him he’d need to wait longer for that – until their forces had tired Natlan’s candle-lit excuse of an Archon out enough that they could seize it.
Afterwards, the ship was equipped with an energy-supply system that still sat empty. Infused with elemental cores, such as concentrated moon particles or, in their case now, a Gnosis, there was no telling to how much power this flying weapon could rise.
Dottore and Sandrone’s calculations determined it to be high. And despite it not being Pantalone’s ultimate goal here, he, too, was curious what the Pyro Gnosis might be able to do for them. But first things first, they had to get it before anything else.
Even if it took hours.
And it did take hours.
When, at last, Natlan’s Archon went down, all her power exhausted by the persistent onslaught of violence against her, the Regrator released a breath like he’d held it forever.
Considering their positions for a moment, Pantalone commanded the last troop near the Archon’s flaming head.
“Ensure the Pyro Gnosis’ collection.”
The Doctor sat up in his chair, flipping various switches to open up some gates and doors.
“Not fetching it yourself?” he asked.
“Why would I get my hands dirty? That’s the foot folk’s purpose.”
With an amused huff, Dottore got up and went to receive the Gnosis himself, leaving the other alone in the room.
Pantalone hadn’t moved from his place the entire time, stiffly keeping watch over the world down below.
Making sure everything went smoothly, that he saw everything and everyone dancing out of line.
Skirmishers who had found the Gnosis carried it in a secured formation back the destroyed path to the airship, guards on every side to deter angered lizards and warriors.
Silly animals, the lot, who thought their scales could shield them from sharp projectiles.
Silly flyers, who thought their beaks hard enough to pierce the hull and windows of the ship.
Everything that came into range, Pantalone stared it down until it fell, messes of shot feathers and broken bones, and watched on with grim satisfaction.
Except once, when another saurian banged against the glass, and the Regrator naturally looked over, glimpsing the promising horizon behind its falling body.
All the way back there: the island Ochkanatlan.
The prison of his Captain.
If Sandrone were in the room with him, she’d eye him up like a prize already won, so obvious was his conflict.
To go or not to go.
To die or not to die.
His heart twisted with the longing to go there, to see his lover trapped there on that island.
Trapped, because of the mess these people couldn’t handle on their own. Away from his family, because this nation couldn’t stand up better for their own.
Oh, these people. Oh, this Natlan, that had taken what he treasured most in this whole world. And his gaze hardened, fixing itself on the ants fighting each other blood for blood, tooth for tooth.
Bowls of fire were toppled, setting fire to the fabric hanging over the arena, causing even more havoc on top of it all.
The Regrator gritted his teeth.
A moment later, Dottore returned successful – the Pyro Gnosis unharmed in his hands – and hurriedly inserted it into the see-through compartment of the power system.
With a click, the Gnosis was seized into position, and immediately the wiring and tubes were infused with red hot elemental energy.
The ship rumbled beneath their feet, unfolding into a higher shape, growing larger, more powerful, complete despite it being designed for another element entirely.
Liquid fire flowed through its pipes, but it worked.
It supplied unimaginable masses of energy, an endless source of power that could now be wielded in whichever way one pleased, and nothing would be able to halt it. Pantalone hadn’t felt this connected to something for a long time.
Dropping back in his chair, the Doctor took over the steering.
“Here we go, mission accomplished, huzzah. Time to head home-“
“No.”
The Regrator denied firmly.
Hands and shoulders tense, he stared at the land below with undisguised hatred – if looks could kill, so help this Natlan, its population: none.
Like a pot boiling over, he’d had enough of restraining himself. Everything poured forth all at once.
The disbelief at hearing the news at first, the anger, his denial of this reality, the grief, the comfort, all that was left of the Captain – his rage! The agony! His pain, and now.
Now they’d pay.
“Burn the woods,” he mumbled.
And the speakers thundered with a might, echoing his command to all below.
Burn the woods!
Dottore perked up with newfound curiosity, fixing the volume in anticipation.
With a sound-devouring whoosh, rays of fire shot from the spouts of canons and arms, transforming the surrounding forest into an inferno the likes of which the devil would dream of.
The sparks flew and ash erupted from the falls of trees and pillars, higher than the eye could see, and shut the rising sun out whole.
For those who viewed it from sheltered corners, it bore a spectacle worthy of applause, and every audience knew such a show had to last forever.
“Burn them slow,” he said, drinking in the sight, relishing the screams of those who died.
And the speakers thundered with delight, echoing his command to all who raged.
Burn them slow!
People ran from the catching fires, some tried to fight those who set them, inevitably succumbing to the purifying heat that had once been used benevolently by their ‘goddess.’
Purifying – purifying the sins of those people who’d taken the Captain from him, had insulted him, dishonored him, used him. And Pantalone felt guilty less and less.
“Burn the trees down,” he said, “Burn their bones.”
And the speakers thundered with a might, echoing his command to all below in a chant more frightening than Natlan’s defenses could ever hope to be.
Burn the trees, burn their bones burn the woods burn them slow burn the trees burn their bones-
“- burn the earth,” the Regrator swore.
To the embers!
They would never know a fire like his.
~
The nation of fire and war had never looked more like its namesake than it did now.
Far and wide, the land was burned to cinders.
Buildings lay collapsed in heaps of ashes, people and animals among them dead and injured.
Smoke rose in billowing masts towards the dawning sky that appeared to mirror the sea of flames still raging on below. A perfect sunrise this would be.
For Pantalone to watch from high up in the ship set to retreat.
He felt calm now.
He felt just.
Like this was all that was needed to lift the weight off his chest that had been there since the Captain left. But there was still… something that did not give him rest.
What good was revenge, if the one it was for did not hear of it?
What good was revenge of this extent, when everyone, including his own children, would hate him for it?
Suddenly, the weight of consequence bore down on him, as the adrenaline and numbness let off and he realized what he’d done.
He had reduced a nation to blood and ash.
For what.
His eyes swept across the devastated land.
Then to Dottore, entirely unbothered by it all. One could not count on sound council from him, the Regrator should have known.
Sandrone was nowhere to be seen.
The Tsaritsa had given him Her blessing.
But this was still on him.
All of this for someone who would never walk the earth with him again. Then, wasn’t it for nothing?
The Regrator searched the distance.
Ochkanatlan – hardly visible through the air’s pollution. Its sight pulled. It beckoned, like a yearning grave. And suddenly it clicked.
He never was meant to make it home alive.
No one had tried to stop him. Of course it had all worked so effortlessly.
Everyone had been so easy to convince, because they knew the lengths he’d go for love.
Especially the Tsaritsa.
This was not a mission he’d been granted to go on, this was a scheme, a way to use his grief, and they all knew how it would end.
Particularly due to this realization, Pantalone knew, too.
Tearing the microphone from his ear, he addressed Dottore.
“Change course.”
“Where are we headed, darling?”
“You know where.”
Indeed, the Doctor turned the airship without another question, confirming his suspicions.
What a glorious deception by his god. Well played.
He grabbed his coat and ran out of the control room.
Through winding hallways brightened by the pyro glow, he went level after level to the bottom of the ship where dozens of soldiers lingered around the door and the circular window in it, all awaiting their signal to descend.
Pantalone waited with them.
And when the sea below turned to stone, and the door slowly opened, ladders falling, none of them got a signal.
The Regrator gripped the ropes, alone, and climbed down the long way to a broken bridge. The wind ripped at his clothes and hair at this altitude, its smell suffused with the reek of smoke and death from far away, stinging in his nose and eyes.
Holding onto the ladder for dear life – though how dear could it be if he was already here – he craned his head to gaze at the top of the carved mountain.
Dark, glacial ice pillars jutted outwards like a crown. It was clear what the source of this phenomenon was.
A comfort so little amidst it all; the Captain had made himself at home at least.
Pantalone stepped foot onto the ground, and the moment that he took a step forward, the ladder was pulled back up.
With his heart beating like a thousand drums, he walked across the bridge, when halfway, he heard a loud, heavy thud.
Knowing this did not bode well for him, he turned to look behind himself.
No.
Surely enough, he was faced directly with Marionette’s mechanical sentinel, armed with hot-glowing guns.
No, this couldn’t be.
She hadn’t even been on the ship, how could she have known? With all the smoke, he’d thought he lost her, somewhere, way sooner!
But what scared him more was that it was so soon.
He’d only stepped foot on Ochkanatlan, he wasn’t even at the top yet.
Not yet, not yet! He hadn’t even seen him, he hadn’t even-
He looked at the machine’s faceless head with pleading eyes, his lips involuntarily beginning to tremble.
Still, he couldn’t move.
Frozen in anticipation of how it would happen, he could do naught but watch it lift its heavy arm.
Then it seized him.
“Agh!”
The Regrator’s world was sent spinning in the matter of a second.
Claws dug into his left arm and suddenly he was shaken, thrown.
He didn’t understand what happened until his face collided with the cold floor and his back against an unforgiving wall.
His vision was swimming, his mind overloaded with sensations crashing down on him from every angle. He felt so oddly light despite it all, but a stinging pain in his shoulder rapidly made itself unbearably noticeable.
Trying to prop himself up and failing immediately helped him understand why. He looked at his left shoulder.
There was nothing attached to it.
Horror blanching his face of all color, he looked back at the machine.
Just in that moment, Pantalone could make out the black sleeve of his arm in its hand before its other one aimed a gun at him.
Panicking, he tried scrambling away with what he had left when he heard a high frequency sound ringing in his ears.
Before he could even regain control of his limbs, a hot projectile missed his middle by an inch, grazing his side in searing agony.
In his shock he lost sense of where to go, he had forgotten how to crawl how to breathe the bullet burned deeper sizzling his flesh.
A thud, the monster left.
Leaving him bleeding, burning, burning in his body’s mess.
He clenched his jaw so hard in pain a tooth chipped off, stemmed his weight up with his right arm, crying out when he fell and the dirt and rock scraped his open wounds bleeding, bleeding.
The stairs were right there, right in front of him. He could make it, he had to.
“Ahh! Come on!”
Forcing his body to work with him despite of the pain making his head go numb, he managed to get on his knees.
Hand digging into the wall’s crevices for support, he climbed up bit by bit, trying to ignore the burning in his side and shoulder.
It took him every bit of strength to make his way upward.
Stumbling and swaying from his new weight, he landed at the top of the first flight, heaving for breath and vision swimming again.
And there were more steps to go.
So, so many… And he was so tired.
But he didn’t want to sleep yet, not without seeing him one more time. If he was destined to die, let it be in those arms, at least.
He had to have this, if nothing else.
Sobbing, he climbed the next flight. Step by agonizing step, until his legs gave out.
Until black framed his view.
“So close… please.”
Nails separated from their beds as he pulled himself forth, and the ground turned colder the higher he got – which he took as comfort.
At the coldest point, he would be there.
Step.
He became deaf to his own pleas.
By step.
Needed no eyes anymore to see.
Another.
He only had to feel.
Suddenly his fingers slipped through air.
Pulling himself forward, he brushed over the ground. Flat.
Almost.
He lifted his heavy head, trying to tear his eyelids open with the little strength remaining in him. He saw him.
A dark figure, sitting high.
Four more steps.
“Lone, come on…”
Swallowing his pain, Pantalone gripped whatever the surface gave him to hold, pulling himself up, he was so close, could not give up.
One more.
“Come on.”
He’d finally get some rest.
One more. He huffed a laugh, breathless.
“Some gateway for the dead, huh? I wonder… hope you’ll see me…”
His bloody hand. One. More.
Pulling forward.
One-
He reached out for the Captain’s boots.
Then he was gone.
. . .
The sky was red when he awoke anew.
Coral, crimson, flickering flames fading into lights. And he felt warm, though he turned cold.
The Captain’s arms held him, safely tucked against the comfort of his body.
With a weariness edging at a final peace, the Regrator turned his head and glimpsed – he was content – his lover’s face and knew.
Here was their end.
“I’ve got you now,” his Captain said.
Pantalone nodded, smiling up at him.
With this expression, and nothing less, Capitano raised his sword a final time –
“Hear the swallows? I once heard ours as I slept, my love. So utterly perfect.”
– and burrowed it deep in both their chests.