Chapter Text
—I think we're done.
Hearing the best news of the day, Scaramouche jumps up instantly. He sits up, dangling his legs off the surgical table. This time, there are no restraints on his hands, and they didn't try to tie him down, so he personally takes great pleasure in ripping off all the wires and sensors, as if they were leeching parasites. Connected to his entire body, thin and sprawling in different directions, they really did resemble pests—any closer to his throat, and they'd strangle his trachea.
If Scaramouche needed to breathe. In the usual human sense. They'd already covered this with the Doctor, and a few days without oxygen access followed by natural functioning was hardly the minimum.
—I asked you to wait until I freed you myself. No regard for the equipment or our budgets, — Dottore clucks disapprovingly, watching sidelong from his seat as Scaramouche removes the last wires and jumps to the floor.
In truth, the Doctor couldn't care less about the integrity of the property or any money. Only when his orders and demands are left as mere sounds in the air. In that regard, Scaramouche even plays with privilege in such trifles, but he doesn't want to waste even extra seconds here.
The table where Scaramouche had been for the last hour is nauseatingly sterile, just like everything in this small laboratory. The floors and walls tiled in poisonously white ceramic—like a prepared blank canvas, ready to absorb splatters of red and other fluids.
The surgical lamp overhead, leaning almost right up close, burns his eyes and makes him wince. The air smells of concentrated chemicals, seeping into the skin, and fabric.
Being here was never a pleasant pastime, and leaving as soon as possible becomes a natural need. Though the Doctor himself considered it downright resort-like conditions.
The frosty cold, maintained at morgue chamber levels, prickles even through the puppet's artificial skin as he walks barefoot across the floor, ending up at the table where all his clothes are neatly folded—his familiar dark Fatui uniform with Inazuma's characteristic styling. Today, they allowed him to leave his things nearby, instead of handing him a translucent robe of rough fabric on flimsy ties.
—Where are you rushing off to? — Dottore inquires with venomous sweetness, watching sidelong as Scaramouche hastily dresses. —Could it be that you didn't enjoy our reunion after such a long separation at all? I missed you.
Dealing with the younger versions of Dottore is both a blessing and a curse. Unlike their older, more mature variants, they so loved to fill the air with useless chatter and always infused their voices with that false interest. As if talking to his favorite white rat.
The other versions of the Doctor had arrogance too, but they handled the performance for the audience better. Even the game of liar comes with experience.
—You could only miss a face like that in nightmares, — Scaramouche snorts, turning to the man in the lab coat. His jab only elicits a sharp responding grin slipping out from under the half-moon mask. —Even the Abyss is cozier than your lab.
—You're hurting my feelings. I actually care about a healthy and productive atmosphere, — Dottore sighs theatrically, as if this version from his youthful period had once considered acting in theater. It still comes out barely natural. —I just installed a phonograph straight from Fontaine, — Dottore gestures broadly with his hand toward the named device on his desk, lost among a multitude of vials. —Now we can listen to music during our meetings and checkups. And it's scientifically proven to have a beneficial effect on both the doctor's productivity and the patients' well-being.
Scaramouche frowns skeptically, adjusting his native hat on his head, which he wouldn't let go of even indoors. It sounds like mockery: the sounds of a working saw and blood splatters to a classical waltz—dubious pleasure. But anything's better than someone else's insane commentary.
For Scaramouche, his latest prolonged expedition into the Abyss had only just ended. Not the first and certainly not the last journey. The Jester was both greatly impressed and intrigued by the puppet's ability to venture into the realm of void, into depths where ordinary mortals couldn't safely tread. Peering into the void was one thing; withstanding its gaze in return was another.
Even their advanced veteran soldiers became defenseless lambs at the Abyss's threshold, thrown onto the blades of a meat grinder, and the Tsaritsa clearly wasn't ready to sacrifice other Harbingers to untested risks.
Scaramouche turned out to be a very fortunate variable. The ideal candidate, already vetted through no less deadly trials—the Doctor's interest.
Few survived the latter as well.
The Fatui already had a ready sample of the Abyss's energy influence on living beings in the form of the newly minted Eleventh Harbinger—and he was the most successful.
Many others sent down below, at best, simply didn't return. At worst, they were no longer themselves. The power of the depths corrupted: the unfortunates upon return barely resembled humans—abominable, fused clumps of flesh from fear, rage, and unnatural hunger. The outcome was the same for all—ending up on Dottore's table amid his excited muttering and ready vials for samples.
Visits to the Abyss passed relatively harmlessly for Scaramouche, but even he couldn't escape consequences entirely. One of them was a wild, almost uncharacteristic fatigue and sharp drop in strength. Always increasing proportionally to the time spent in the Abyss and how deep he had to descend. The farther—the more significant and faster the symptoms appeared. From a simple irritating sleepy haze in his head to complete loss of strength in his limbs.
The Abyss sucked all the life juices out of him like a vampire.
Stepping onto the surface, Scaramouche was ready to kill for basic human privileges—rest, a shower, silence, and, absurdly, sleep. But Dottore wasn't much concerned with the opinions and desires of his best patient, whom he was so eager to see. Arguing, especially with this version of the Doctor, wasn't appealing. It was easier to endure, like an annoying pest, and then go his own way.
Yet today, Dottore was surprisingly hasty for such a desired and long-awaited meeting. No virtuoso experiments, detailed studies, or particularly intrusive questions. Just the most superficial dry check and readings.
Though he doesn't hide his elevated mood.
Apparently, this time the Abyss drained not only all his energy from Scaramouche but also his sense of self-preservation, because at his own risk, he decides not to just leave silently but to ask a question. It's equivalent to a madman deciding to peer into the maw of a Riftwolf.
—Are you in a hurry somewhere today, Doctor?
—Yes, — he replies instantly, as if waiting for this question, and his face reflexively spreads into an even wider, anticipatory smile, as if asked about a long-awaited gift in colorful wrapping hidden under the tree.
The Doctor finally finishes fiddling with the vials and removes his medical gloves, only to put on new ones. He picks up one of the nearest stacks of papers and begins diligently flipping through each sheet.
—Today, I received a new batch of high-quality samples straight from Sumeru! True, they said the same about the previous ones, but after a month, almost all had to be disposed of without any significant results. Many were defective to boot, but this time we have a reliable supplier, so I'm hoping for at least some progress with this group, — the lively chant shifts to a short pause. Dottore bites the tip of his finger, irritation rippling through his voice. —Lately, I haven't been able to advance any developments forward, and the progress is negligible... The Omega versions won't like this.
The last words are full of unclear mutterings that Scaramouche doesn't find important to note. Taking advantage of the Doctor clearly delving into his thoughts, he finally decides to slip out of the lab unnoticed.
He's not ready to risk more than once.
The lab door is heavy, steel, and clearly several centimeters thick. It reluctantly slides aside but surprisingly quietly clicks its lock teeth at the end. The dimness of the corridors envelops like a soft blanket after the unbearable brightness of the fluorescent lamps, but even here, the floors and walls smell scrubbed with chemicals to a shine.
At the entrance stands one of the lab assistants like a stretched rod. Also a Fatui member under Dottore's command and ownership. Like many others—dressed in identically dirty-white suits, they worked in the lab corridors like ants. Used and dying with the same ease and frequency.
Noticing the appearance of the Sixth Harbinger, the assistant straightens even more rigidly, denying himself breath and blurting everything out in one exhale.
—Allow me to escort you, Lord Sixth Harbinger.
—I don't need your services, — Scaramouche's tone cuts off any objections like scissors, leaving a piercing gaze as a warning: follow—and you'll pay. Blood drains from the assistant's face, blending him with the tile color, and Scaramouche strides quickly deeper into the corridor. He even chooses the direction mostly at random, not caring much about his destination. Just to get as far from the lab as possible.
And the deeper he gets lost in the corridors, the less the pressure squeezes in his chest, and his step slows on its own. Scaramouche can even allow himself to stop and take a free, albeit unnecessary, sigh.
Scaramouche can remain as calm and inscrutable as he wants inside the white walls and under the Doctor's dissecting gaze, but give him an opportunity, a crack, and he'll slip through it immediately. He'll increase the distance between them by any means possible.
This isn't escape, just a precautionary measure. For his own peace of mind.
How often the two Harbingers of such distant ranks worked and interacted together earned the loud title of close colleagues somewhere deep in the unknowing Fatui ranks. In reality—a pretty wrapper for a rotten, worm-ridden coffin.
Reaching another fork, Scaramouche stops and looks around. Completely identical loops of stone intestines diverged in opposite directions, framed by spines and ribs of pipes. No hint of signs here. Not even maps. The nearest doors are locked tight. Flickering light hid cracks and rust traces in the shadows, drawing bizarre silhouettes around corners.
Perhaps, anticipating wandering through an identical labyrinth, Scaramouche feels a ghostly regret for the missed escort offer for a moment. But he doesn't need something as useless as human help. Especially in such a trifle.
Scaramouche snorts and turns right, listening to the echo of his own steps and the guttural hum of pipes. He can still roughly determine the right direction, sensing changes in the flow of elemental energy far beyond the walls. He just needs time to pinpoint the correct way.
And rest.
Archons, how hard it is just to move. It's been a long time since Scaramouche's body felt so mechanical. Puppet-like. When every joint unpleasantly clicks from strain.
Fatigue, something so human, really hinders Scaramouche from focusing and affects him more than he's willing to admit. Even thoughts flow sluggishly.
That's why he doesn't react immediately, doesn't even notice the hum of bare feet slapping on the floor and the subsequent small shadow flickering from around the next corridor corner. A blurred silhouette—it darts like a nimble mouse near the floor. It jerks forward and crashes headlong right into the Harbinger's legs. It yelps in fright and falls to the floor.
Scaramouche stands motionless, not even flinching from the collision. Just as silently, without blinking, he watches the creature squirming on the floor at his feet, rubbing bruised elbows and a bumped forehead. A cocoon of dirty clothes, torn bandages, and disproportionately small limbs. A child of an age allowing walking but hardly defending against the world's hardships and dangers.
An unfledged fledgling, already tossed from the height of the parental nest onto cold ground. They die easily and unnoticed, without ever singing their first and last song.
At some point, the child realizes he's not alone. He shudders but remains sitting on the floor, craning his head higher. There, under a mop of tangled green hair, eyes the color of violet melon peek out, outlined by dark circles and days of fatigue.
He doesn't blink, doesn't move, and seems not even to breathe. The child stares at Scaramouche like a frightened little animal, caught in a hunter's sights and cornered. The confusion is genuine, but the fear intoxicating. Such ones have only two instincts: fight or flight. A step one way—the child will bolt; the other—he'll attack with teeth and tiny claws.
The puppet and the little human stare at each other unblinkingly for long, boundary-losing minutes, neither daring to make a move. Both equally bewildered by the sudden encounter in the empty corridors.
One would think Scaramouche shouldn't spare even a shred of interest for such a trifle. Accidental, momentary, not concerning him. But he continues to stay put, staring back, studying and unconsciously catching more details and trifles with his gaze. Flaws settling somewhere in his subconscious and making him tense in an unfamiliar but familiar way.
This isn't intuition. These are scattered breadcrumbs.
The way the child moves and periodically shudders, tensing and clearly in pain as he pulls his arms to himself. No danger in the small creature, just a sack of skin and half a kilo of bones inside. Thin and fragile, with pale glassy lips and a chin covered in scabs.
They should be roughly the same... Too similar.
Scaramouche involuntarily frowns and finally averts his gaze, so unbearably wanting to rid himself of this itch. To tear out this unnecessary, leeching comparison from his thoughts.
The child is about the same age as his old friend, left on the cloud-shrouded islands of bitterness and discarded memories. And if that were the only similarity.
Diving into useless past is dangerous.
The surrounding world shatters their mutual silence loudly and unceremoniously. With frequent, relentlessly approaching stomps of foreign feet, time launches forward again. People in dirty-white coats need seconds to burst out from around the corner like a snarling pack. From both sides. Their eyes gleam from under the lenses of dark protective goggles, and hands are bent into claw-gloves. They resembled soldiers more than ordinary lab assistants.
The child immediately jerks, trying to rise hastily, but fails. His legs tremble, and his face cracks from a sharp bout of pain, making him awkwardly tumble back to the floor. It's just a few seconds, but enough for the arrivals to enclose them in a tight ring of outstretched arms and widely spread legs, blocking all possible escape routes.
Fear and panic tear through the small body, and the child jerks in different directions, eyes darting for any opportunity, chance. And unexpectedly, their gazes with Scaramouche intersect again.
Living pupils dilate for seconds. Something flashes there, in the dirty murk of tangled thoughts and uncontrolled emotions.
And the child lunges toward Scaramouche. He scurries on all fours and hides behind his legs like a saving shield. He tangles in the veil hanging from the hat and curls into a ball on the floor, peeking out at the frozen, confused assistants.
The child has no escape routes, but she clings tightly to Scaramouche, preferring the silent stranger to the already baring-teeth hunters. Seeking nonexistent salvation in him, like sparks of fire in a burned-out candle. Foolish childish naivety.
Allowing the child more than any other mortal in the last centuries, Scaramouche remains an immobile figure: he doesn't interfere in the events and only watches with hidden curiosity. This game was lost from the start, but it's always interesting to watch the drowning struggle.
Perhaps he finds it amusing. Perhaps tragic.
No one should place such pure hopes on a being without a heart.
—Lord Scaramouche, we deeply apologize for this unforeseen situation and the inconveniences caused. We promise it won't happen again, — one of the boldest and stupidest assistants takes an uncertain step forward, figuring out which side to approach the child hidden at his feet. He clearly didn't want to cross the boundary of what's allowed before the Sixth Harbinger, not known for his patience and benevolence toward lower-rank subordinates, but he strained notes of politeness and courtesy in his voice with all his might. A bit more, and he'd start crawling on the floor, begging for his safety.
Scaramouche clearly doesn't wish to make their situation even a drop easier, so he doesn't step aside, remaining an insurmountable barrier.
—You're so incompetent that you can't handle one pathetic bug. What does that make you, if not worms?
Scaramouche hums, enjoying the situation more than he should. He tilts his head, glancing at the child behind him. She peeks out, scouting the situation, but noticing that now not only the people in coats are watching, she darts back under the veil.
—As the organizer, I offer my deepest apologies for all these misunderstandings and promise to conduct several discipline lessons with my subordinates without fail. Such things are truly unacceptable.
The cold voice pierces each assistant through the spine like a sharpened blade, making them all instantly straighten like strings. Freeze in either submission or panic.
Dottore's heel clicks are distinguishable along with the echo of his voice, but he's in no hurry. Appearing at a measured pace from around the corner, accompanied by several soldiers, he surveys the presented scene with a stingy smirk.
—Lord Dottore. The cell lock was loose, and she got out. We tried to catch her, but she slashed one of our faces, — the speaking assistant doesn't even try to apologize, hastily swallowing words of excuse. They already knew they'd fallen into a pit; now they could only hope to slow and soften their fall onto the spiked pikes.
And indeed, one of the assistants standing boredly behind had clear red stripes on his cheeks and lip, which he now tried to shamefully cover with a mask.
At the sight, Scaramouche can't hold back a smirk. The child's little prank endeared her to him a bit more than before.
—With each word of yours, my patience drains away. I advise you all to shut your mouths and be silent before I personally cut out your tongues.
Dottore hacks with each word, not cuts. He beats out the last flutters and attempts to save their position, and all the guilty assistants shudder and shrink.
—And now, finally grab the sample, — the Doctor throws shortly, snapping his fingers.
The soldiers and assistants may fear Scaramouche, but they're in mortal terror of Dottore. Those closest lunge forward and roughly yank the girl toward them, pulling her from her hiding spot. This time, they don't stand on ceremony, leaving bruises and not shying from pulling hair, dragging the child across the floor like a sack. For the first seconds, the girl tries to get away but is immediately caught in the strong, merciless palms of adults. She screams desperately, kicks, tries with all her might to escape the reaching people like from fire. But this time, there are more of them. This time, they're tearing her apart.
This is the end.
And at some point, she manages to grab Scaramouche's ankle. She lifts her head, looking into his face and searching for something there. Despair and broken hope splash at the bottom of her pupils.
—Enjoying the show? — the Doctor inquires, stepping closer and tilting his head, now studying the child more attentively. —Or has something interested the Sixth Harbinger in this child?
Scaramouche winces for a moment. He pretends not to notice how, at the mention of his title, the girl's body shudders, and her grip weakens. Then he steps aside, breaking the contact between them. Depriving her of the last support before the horde of wild beasts.
—No, of course not, — Scaramouche drawls boredly, shaking his head. All fleeting curiosity. They're unlikely to cross paths again.
The child screams, curses, refusing to give up until the end as the assistants and joined soldiers pin her to the floor. Immobilize and bind her, and perhaps inject something, for very soon the sounds of resistance fall silent. Scaramouche doesn't watch as they take her away.
—A truly interesting sample. Even in her condition, she managed to get this far. Perhaps I should give her special attention in the future project, — the Doctor mutters thoughtfully, not hiding an anticipatory smile. The brightest and most vivid since the start of this meeting.
Now, with calmer surroundings, Scaramouche pays a bit more attention to the Doctor himself. Ever since his appearance nearby, alarm has flared in the puppet's thoughts like burning sparks and clouds of smoke. A sense of wrongness.
Now, the flames are clearly distinguishable.
Dottore looks different. Not like just recently in the lab. The absence of the usual white coat is the most noticeable. He's taller and broader in the shoulders, on a roughened face that lost teenage contours, a pointed mask hiding his eyes, and wrinkles cutting into his cheeks. He carries himself differently—with tangible arrogance, not hidden in his unhurried gait and raised chin.
It's very easy to confuse two snakes wearing the same skin, but Scaramouche has good experience dealing with cold reptiles.
No one warned him that today he'd have to deal with two Dottores at once. Especially in such different age categories.
—How was your journey into the Abyss? — Dottore's question is as sincere as his smile, even if boredom is masterfully lost behind feigned courtesy. The gaze hidden behind the mask skitters over the frowning puppet like a centipede. —As I see, all limbs are in place this time.
What a shame—heard behind his words.
Such a thing did happen on a particularly difficult and deep descent into the Abyss, to the lowest floors where monsters were tougher, and Abyss Heralds especially aggressive. Ley Line anomalies didn't play a positive role either. As a result, Scaramouche didn't return but clawed his way to the surface, clutching his hard-won left arm from a toothy maw under his armpit.
And straight to the lab table.
The Doctor had pounced on him then like a child getting a bug, eager to tear off the remaining legs.
—You'll read about it in the reports later, — Scaramouche cuts dryly, turning away and measuring the corridor passages with his gaze, where the assistants and soldiers had recently disappeared, dragging the child like a sack in their hands. He still needed to find a way out of here.
—Leaving already? — the question bounces off the bare walls like an echo.
—Yes. The Jester warned that he wants to assign me a new mission as soon as I return.
The words are hardly a lie, but Scaramouche exhales them with more relief than he should. This is his loophole, his golden ticket out. A perfect excuse to bail as quickly as possible.
He really wants to rest badly. Every extra second piles on him like grains of sand from above, weighing him down to the ground and closing his eyelids.
Oh, if only he could foresee how easily he'd fallen for the thrown hook with bait.
—You don't need to worry about that. I've already contacted the Jester and discussed everything, — Dottore deliberately draws out each sentence like a thin thread, watching as on the opposite side, Scaramouche's shoulders instantly tense, and his head jerks sideways. The jingle of bells on his hat counts the long seconds. —They'll give your mission to Childe. The youngster really wants to prove himself and flex his muscles. Better he causes chaos in the enemy's rear than in our barracks.
—What? To Childe? — Scaramouche's surprise is so genuine, as if they're trying to serve him nonsense on a silver platter. That would inspire more trust than the info that the skies are a lie.
The reason is hardly Childe and his infamous tactlessness toward missions and any professionalism across all units. Only how quickly the coin flips to the other side. How simply and arrogantly the Doctor pins him back against the wall.
—Yep. I also got permission from the Jester to take you under my care for the next month or two. Maybe more, — Dottore steps forward and stands next to the frozen puppet. One shadow easily overlaps the other. —I need you here, Scaramouche.
Old song, old words, known moral. All the Harbingers knew perfectly well what really went on between the Doctor and Scaramouche and what these constant business meetings truly were. They gossiped behind backs but accepted it as given.
Signora would surely mention it sarcastically during the next skirmish, Pulcinella would shake his head, Arlecchino would snort arrogantly, and the Jester would ask not to fall behind schedule.
—What is it this time, Doctor? — Scaramouche's tongue grates like sandpaper on his teeth. Exhaustion hardly helps contain the irritation boiling to the surface.
—A very interesting experiment. We start tomorrow. I'll brief you later, — anticipation oozes like poisoned honey from the other's lips. The Doctor is clearly eager to dive into the process, for to him, the start of a new experiment is a ritual celebration in the name of science and his own twisted curiosity. A bit less restraint, and he'd start rubbing his palms businesslike.
They didn't even ask him. All Scaramouche could do was silently sign the contract waiving his own safety and integrity upon completion of all procedures.
It's almost routine.
When all this ends, maybe Scaramouche can press on the Jester's pity and beg for a private vacation somewhere far in the wilderness. Or ask to be thrown back into the Abyss.
—Is there a place here close to the surface Ley Lines? — Scaramouche asks listlessly, pressing his fingers to his eyes. He has no strength left even to argue or quip.
—Of course, — satisfied with the other's compliance, Dottore nods.