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The man strapped to the table screamed, sharp and full with visceral pain. The people standing around him in plain white robes paled even further than before, except for the one that turned green.
Dottore let out an annoyed huff, wiping his bloody hands on his pants. He motioned at one of his little trainees.
"You! What did I say about screaming?" the young man, a bony, thin brat parading as a scientist turned nearly grey and flinched as he was called on to answer.
"That... that the pain is the problem of the... the patient, my Lord. And that ours is dealing with the actual issue. My Lord." came the stuttering answer. Dottore was surrounded by these pathetic, whimpering things. He wanted to have nothing to do with them, and yet, he had to bear with the idiots, least Pierro grew a little too cross with him.
But what a waste these people were! Truly disappointing. Some of the best among the Fatui, bright as any simple mortals could ever expected to be. And still, they walked through their lives with their eyes half closed, their minds clouded by the veneer of divine order and the shroud of blissful ignorance the heavens decided to drop on their heads. Never to question, never to see, never to understand.
Dottore looked down at the writhing soldier on the operation table. The man was the leader of a whole regimen, given command and a higher end anemo delusion. By all rights, he should have lasted for a few years more at least, but it was not to be. An injury from the abyss and the effect of the delusion combined led to a rather interesting effect. The delusion melted itself into the soldier's chest, serving as some sort of fuel for the corroding effect of the abyss.
The man already lost a portion of his lungs in only a day, surviving by the grace of his delusion, if it could be even called that.
And Dottore already had at least fifty questions, all requiring more in debt research, testing, and thinking, and prodding, until he found the answers that he sought, each leading to even more questions. Knowledge branching out, like an ever-growing tree, nurtured by a never ending hunger to know. To know all things, to answer all questions.
But did these others think? Did they have any questions? Did they wonder? Did they hunger?
No.
They stood, frozen breathless by fear, the horror that sat on their faces deepening with every noise in the quiet of the laboratory. Their brains unworking, their eyes unseeing.
A waste.
Dottore gritted his teeth, assigned each some task and descended deeper, into his private working space. He had much better things to do with his time than to babysit. All of him did, with all of his time.
.....
The first sign was always just the slightest discomfort and the feeling of being watched. The air was heavy, nearly vibrating, and sourceless heat was spreading through the space. She wasn't even quite there yet, this was all just the herald of her coming.
Finally the silence broke and the walls echoed with a sticky sweet, melodious laughter. Moments later the material world rearranged itself around the many winged, many eyed shape of one of the eldritch horrors of the world. Or rather an angel, according to some.
"Hiii! Do you want some cake?" asked Columbina with a giggle.
"Where did you get it, hmm?" Dottore was slightly irritated at the interruption to his work, but he did like cake. Brains burn sugar after all and his was always put to good use.
"It's edible!" pouted Columbina, stuffing a whole slice into her mouth, where it probably promptly disintegrated.
Dottore wasn't so sure he could believe her. The last time he accepted food from her it turned out to be merely the impression of a cupcake, not fully anchored in reality, made from light and void and solidified music.
"Oh? Can you not answer such a simple question?" he asked with a small sigh, shaking his head exaggerated sadness.
He learned how to deal with her centuries ago. She did not understand any human sentiments, but inspired by children's books on kindness, love and friendship she tried her best to replicate them, using superficial clues to figure out any given social situation. And indeed, Columbina looked stricken at his seeming disappointment.
"No, no! I can, i can!" her wings fluttered and fluffed up like an anxious chicken. The laboratory hummed with with soundless noise, vibrating deep in the bones. "I got it from the... pastry chef! Yes! What's his name?..."
"Unimportant." huffed Dottore, finally accepting the cake and taking a generous bite. Columbina never lied, after all. He wasn't sure she was even capable of it. The cake tasted like a normal cake, rich and sweet. He blinked up at her, mostly placated by her offering. "So, what is it you truly here for?"
"Can I not be here just for a tea party?"
"No."
"Awww, you are no fun, Doctor! Not at all!" she once more looked pitifully sad, but seemed to get over it in a second. "Anyways! I'm here to gossip!"
Dottore gave her his most unimpressed look, sure to translate even through his mask. Columbina only giggled.
"Did you not know? We are getting a new banker!" she said, eyes widening in mischief. Those eyes were floating above her head.
"Hmm. They are usually short lived." by his loving contribution too, of course.
"Yes, yes. But this one... He will be named a Harbinger!"
...
There are scientific explanations for beauty, especially for the beauty of people. Beauty had been studied for untold millennia, artists and scholars all aiming to understand why the eyes were drawn, the soul lifted, the heart enamoured.
There were principles of symmetry, structural harmony and colour theory to consider beyond the less objective personal and cultural preferences.
Dottore never studied the topic in depth, he was never interested in pursuing it further down the familiar rabbit-hole. Maybe he should have.
Maybe then he would have had an explanation, instead of...
The sounds were too loud, the chandeliers to bright and he felt light headed. And he couldn't, for the life of him, look away, his eyes glued to...
He was never before so grateful to have been wearing his mask. He didn't want to know whatever was written on his face.
The man. The banker. The Regrator, as he was newly titled. Pantalone. He should have been dreadfully boring, just a little pest to get rid of eventually, unimportant and uninteresting, barely more than a stray note at the back of Dottore's mind for when he needed the mora.
Instead, he was beautiful beyond any reason or comprehension, like a mirage in the desert, unreachable and false like the stars. Only he was real, kneeling before the Tsaritsa's icy in throne, under the cold lights of the crystal chandeliers, instead of floating just above the burning sands in a trembling vision.
To be fair, the banker would have been a rather strange sight in the desert, dressed in all black velvet and with a face so fair and cold.
And he was beautiful. Oh, he was.
He shouldn't have been, objectively, the most beautiful person Dottore has ever seen. There were signs of ageing on the fair face, the wear and tear of the years and faint wrinkles in the corners of dark eyes and smiling mouth. Streaks of white through dark, silky locks.
The features were not completely symmetric, one fine cheekbone a little higher, nose just the slightest bit crooked, likely an old break. And many more, tiny imperfections. All of them there, all of them inconsequential.
Because despite the imperfections, the features were perfect. Despite objectivity, the banker was the most beautiful person Dottore has ever seen.
It seemed like Dottore has, for the first time since he got that name, ended up beyond rational thoughts. It was an... experience, one he mildly disliked for how faint he felt, but otherwise interesting in its novelty. Inconvenient, too, but he couldn't care at the moment.
Not when his newest, most baffling colleague just stepped up to him in his round of greetings, just after Pierro and the Captain. The banker seemed to follow the order of ranks.
"The Doctor, I assume. Good evening." said the Regrator. His voice was light and deep and deceptively warm.
"Correct, but it would be better if you didn't assume much with me." Dottore was mildly mortified at how rough his voice suddenly sounded.
Pantalone smiled, his eyes turning into little crescent moons behind his glasses. Rarely did the Dottore see such a false expression. "Let me assure you, I'm no betting man."
"For the better, if you will have all our money. The previous bankers have been..." he let the sentence hang in the air unfinished. There was no need for him to say more.
"Well, they are all dead. I have every intention to not be." said Pantalone easily, opening his eyes to look into the doctor's face, still smiling. Dottore, for a fraction of a second, wondered if he could see through the mask.
His eyes were a pale violet, with freckles of gold around his irises. His eyelashes casted a deep shadow on his cheekbones.
"More easily said than done." he let himself smile too, his widest, wildest smile, showing off his sharpened, monstrous teeth. A threat and a warning. A challenge. For what, he wasn't quite sure. "Why risk it?"
"Oh, I do know that I play a deadly game. But I have many vices."
"Such as?"
"Greed." said the banker after a heartbeat. "Hunger."
A sentiment so familiar, it knocked the wind out of Dottore, leaving him breathless a second time in the evening. He threw his head back and laughed, feeling feverish and slightly deranged. "Oh, Regrator, we'll get along well! Just don't die or embezzle my research founds. Both will end with you six feet under."
Pantalone tilted his head to the side, like a curious bird, more puzzled than scared. He smiled again, truer this time, extending his gloved hand. "Here's for the hope then, that I will last until the next one of these delightful little banquettes and that I won't run away with all your mora."
Dottore barked out a laugh again, unintended, and took the offered hand. He felt how delicate the bone structure was under his thumb and he was careful to not squeeze it too much. The hand was human and breakable after all. Human and very warm and terribly lovely.
"Here's to that, banker. May you thrive among us fools."