Work Text:
The artifact did not belong anywhere it had been placed. That, more than anything else, was what drew Dottore’s attention to it.
It sat upon a lacquered transport crate at the edge of the temporary Fatui encampment, wrapped in layers of cloth and sealed wards that hummed faintly with restrained energy. The surrounding air carried the familiar scents of metal, alchemical reagents and cold mountain wind. The artifact was none of those things. It disrupted the space around it too subtle for most to notice, like a pressure change before a storm, like the moment just before a thought becomes conscious.
Dottore stood apart from his subordinates, gloved hands folded behind his back as he regarded it in silence.
“Everything has been secured, Doctor,” one of his subordinates reported, careful not to stand too close. “We can depart within the hour.”
Dottore barely acknowledged him with a distracted hum, his attention never leaving the object. The artifact was roughly spherical at its core, encased in an angular lattice of ancient metal, golden and dulled with age. Unfamiliar filigree spiraled across its surface, not decorative so much as functional. At the center, partially exposed through the lattice, was the sphere itself.
That was the most interesting part.
Not a crystal nor a core or even an orb of elemental energy. It was too smooth and simple, its surface faintly reflective like polished stone or old glass. The shape invited his touch without explaining why.
Dottore stepped closer.
No one interrupted Il Dottore when he looked like that—eyes narrowed behind his mask, posture relaxed in the way of a man standing at the edge of discovery.
He crouched slightly, bringing himself level with the artifact. The wards trembled as he reached out, gloved fingers hovering just short of contact.
“Curious,” he murmured.
The sphere did not emit elemental signatures consistent with any known classification. It did not respond to stimuli the way relics of Celestia or Khaenri’ah did. Yet it responded internally, as though something inside it had taken note of his attention.
Dottore tilted his head. It almost looked like it was looking back.
An absurd thought. He dismissed it immediately, cataloguing it as a psychological byproduct of prolonged exposure to anomalous phenomena. Still, he found himself straightening, then bending closer once more, eyes tracing the faint distortions in the air around the sphere.
A pressure gathered behind his eyes and hum of the wards deepened. Then, movement.
Not from the artifact itself but from his perception of it. The sphere seemed to shift, not in space but in relevance, snapping into focus the way a realization does when all its components finally align.
Dottore’s breath stilled.
“…Ah.”
The word had barely left him when the world lurched.
There was no explosion, no dramatic release of energy. Instead, sensation folded inward. The encampment, the wind, the voices of his subordinates—all of it collapsed into silence as though someone had extinguished sound itself. His vision fractured, then went black entirely, not abruptly but gradually, like ink bleeding through parchment.
For the first time in a long while, Dottore felt disoriented.
His body felt heavy and wrong. As though it had been arranged for him rather than inhabited. His limbs were present but distant, responding sluggishly as he attempted to move. He became aware of breathing and the darkness lightened while sound returned in fragments.
Dottore opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was not canvas or open sky but carved stone, arched and reinforced with dark beams etched in Fatui script. A laboratory like his own but unfamiliar. The air smelled cleaner than expected, touched with parchment dust and the sharp, sterile edge of preserved reagents.
He blinked once then twice and his vision sharpened.
He pushed himself upright and froze.
The movement was too smooth. Too efficient. His joints did not protest as they should after travel. His balance was impeccable. When he raised his hands into view, the gloves were familiar but subtly different—reinforced seams and improved articulation were visible. His coat, when he glanced down, bore his insignia but the cut was more refined, as if the one in charge of the craft was meticulously focused.
Dottore exhaled slowly. He reached up, fingers brushing his mask. It was not the one he had been wearing moments before but an iteration beyond it, one lighter and more integrated.
He stood and observed the room around him. Instruments adjusted their hum, recalibrating to his presence. A nearby terminal flickered to life, displaying research notes in his own hand as he could tell by the tone of speech.
Dottore approached the nearest reflective surface.
The man who looked back at him was unmistakably himself yet different by refinement. This was a version of himself that seemed more honed by time and success, even the posture was familiar but more settled.
“…Fascinating,” he said softly.
His voice was his own but deeper and steadier.
He turned away from the reflection, his mind already accelerating a hypotheses. Temporal displacement. Consciousness transference. Artifact-triggered projection into a future state. The possibilities branched rapidly, each more intriguing than the last.
Then he noticed something else.
There were signs of shared space.
A second chair near the worktable. A neatly stacked pile of maps and field reports bearing the insignia of Mondstadt with a spare coat folded with care over the back of a chair. And on the far table, set beside a half-dismantled device, lay a small notebook. Its edges were worn.
Dottore picked it up and the handwriting inside was not his by a mile. It was precise and very careful compared to his own notes that he scribbled without a care for if others understood it or not, involving annotated sketches of terrain, notes on environmental conditions, observations written with quiet diligence. The name signed on the inside cover was unmistakable.
Mika.
Dottore stared at it for a long moment.
Memory offered nothing.
Yet something in his chest shifted. It was neither discomfort nor confusion but recognition without origin. As if this name had weight here.
Light footsteps approached outside the door.
Dottore turned toward the sound just as the handle began to turn and he felt something even hecould not immediately categorize.
The door opened without ceremony.
“Hello?” came a voice, it was quiet and pitched low in consideration rather than fear that Dottore had grown accustomed to.
The one who stepped inside was younger than the version of him that stood in this room but not by much. His posture was straight, though it carried a softness that distinguished it from military rigidity—if Dottore were to guess properly from the Monstadt insignia. Snow clung faintly to the hem of his boots and the cuffs of his gloves, already melting into darkened patches against the stone floor. His attire held the marks of someone who clearly spent more time in the field than behind a desk.
He paused just inside the threshold. His pale eyes flicked over the room in a single, practiced sweep before settling on Dottore. For the briefest moment, something changed in his expression.
Relief.
“There you are,” the blond boy said softly, as if grounding himself by speaking. “You didn’t respond when I called earlier..” The door did not close behind him.
He left it ajar, just enough to let the corridor’s cooler air slip into the room, carrying with it the faint scent of snow and pine resin. It softened the sterile sharpness of the laboratory, made the space feel inhabited rather than sealed.
He remained near the threshold for a moment, eyes lingering on Dottore with a quiet attentiveness that felt neither intrusive nor distant. He did not rush to speak. He did not fill the silence. Instead, he let it exist, as though silence itself were something shared between them, something they had learned to sit within together.
“You’re standing differently,” The blond said at last.
The observation was mild as he stepped further inside, setting his gloves on the edge of the table with practiced care. He did not take his eyes off Dottore as he did so.
“You know, you usually lean a lot,” He continued. “Just slightly. Like you’re already thinking three steps ahead and your body hasn’t caught up yet.”
Dottore’s gaze flicked to the reflective surface again, to the way his body's posture had instinctively angled towards the shorter boy when he entered. He corrected it, straightening himself as if he were caught.
A faint crease appeared between the blond's brows, then smoothed out just as quickly.
“…That’s new,” He murmured.
Dottore folded his hands behind his back, mirroring the stance he remembered from moments ago, his own stance, from another time. “You observe me rather closely.”
“I have to,” he replied. “You don’t exactly say when something’s wrong all the time.”
Dottore turned toward the worktable, giving him a partial profile. He picked up one of the documents there, scanning the dense notes written in his future hand. The content was advanced, iterations of theories he had not yet fully developed, conclusions drawn from experiments he had not yet conducted.
“You are accustomed to habits in me.” Dottore said more than asked.
“Yes?" he said, more of a question than a response.
He moved closer now, stopping at Dottore’s side rather than across from him. There was no challenge in the positioning, no attempt to assert space. It was simply where he belonged. His presence altered the room in a way Dottore could not quantify.
“Talk to me,” Mika said quietly. “What’s happening? You're moving unwell."
Dottore considered several responses.
Deflection would be easy. Fabrication easier still. But even as he calculated them, his body resisted. As though deception here would require effort he was not inclined to spend.
“I encountered an artifact,” he said instead. “One with temporal properties I am still assessing. I believe my consciousness has been displaced somewhat.”
The blond did not recoil. He closed his eyes briefly, inhaled, then nodded once.
“Alright,” he said.
Dottore turned his head slightly. “You accepted that with remarkable ease.”
The shorter boy gave a small, rueful smile. “This isn't the weirdest thing you’ve brought up.”
And then, with an even softer tone, "then again, you don't exactly make me feel weirded out anymore."
Dottore chose to not dwell on this anymore and to instead find out more about the world around him.
“Ah… what's our current location again?”
“North of Snezhnaya’s border. Temporary facility. You insisted on the rock foundation and said it reduced resonance interference.”
Dottore’s mind absorbed the information rapidly, slotting it into expanding frameworks.
“On that topic, you don’t have to stay in the lab today,” said the stranger, “Nothing urgent is scheduled today."
Dottore’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “Oh? You're deciding for me too?"
"You've always let me?"
Dottore left a pause to form before he responded, "And where would you propose I redirect my time?”
At first the blond paused, then reached for the rolled maps resting against the wall. He carried them to the central table and unfurled them with care, smoothing the parchment flat with both hands.
“There’s a region northeast of here,” he said, indicating a stretch of uneven markings along the borderlands. “Glacial terrain, fractured ice shelvesand many exposed rock formations that don’t match current geological models. I’ve been surveying it in sections.”
Dottore leaned in despite himself.
“I was planning to go out again today,” Mika continued. “The weather’s stable enough and I want to document a set of anomalies before the next storm cycle.”
“Anomalies,” Dottore echoed.
The blond nodded. “Subsurface structures, mainly old ones. I don’t know what they are yet.”
He glanced up at Dottore then, hesitating. “You usually come with me,” Mika said.
The statement hung in the air and Dottore straightened slowly.
“Usually.." he repeated.
The other shrugged lightly. “You say it helps you think. You like seeing things outside controlled conditions, even if you complain sometimes."
Dottore frowned beneath his mask.
Why would he willingly expose himself to the inefficiencies of the field? To those cold, uneven terrain and unpredictable variables?
He looked at the other one in the room again. At the calm expectation and the absence of pressure. He was not asking because he needed Dottore’s protection or authority. He was asking because this was part of a pattern they shared.
That Dottore's future self shared.
“And why would I accompany you today… Mika?” Dottore asked, assuming the name he saw earlier of belonging out loud this time?
Mika, Dottore's assumption seeming to be correct from his acceptance of the name, answered the question with a tilted head. "You did always say liked watching my curiosity when I survey my environment” he said. “Wow, how bad did that artifact mess you up?"
That was… not what Dottore expected.
He turned away, gaze drifting back to the window slit carved into the wall. Beyond it, the Snezhnayan landscape stretched vast and white, wind carving paths through snow older than memory. A harsh environment for someone who looked so..
Well, going out there would tell him little about the artifact directly.
But it would tell him much about Mika.
About why this boy remained within his orbit and more how his future self behaved perhaps. About what kind of connection his future self could have formed with Mika under open sky.
“There is no immediate disadvantage,” Dottore said at last.
Field observation can provide contextual data.
Mika’s shoulders eased subtly, as if understanding already this was a form of Dottore's consent to the idea. A smile spread across the blond's face.
I’ll finish preparing the route,” Mika said. “We should leave soon, before the light shifts.”
He gathered the maps and turned toward the door, pausing only briefly before rushing out the room in a seeming excitement.
Dottore stood alone once more, the laboratory quiet around him. An expedition into Snezhnayan territory with this Mika.
Whatever their relationship was, it had weight enough to draw him out into the open for something as simple as that.
Dottore felt curiosity stir within him.
.
Snow crunched beneath their boots, the sound crisp and rhythmic against the vast stillness of the Snezhnayan expanse. The sky above was a pale, unbroken gray, light diffused so evenly it was difficult to tell where horizon ended and cloud began. Dottore adjusted his gloves with keenly and let Mika move ahead.
It was not a conscious decision at first. It simply happened—Mika taking point, navigating the terrain with practiced ease and Dottore falling a few measured paces behind.
Optimal distance for observation.
Mika moved differently out here. In the laboratory, his movements were more restrained. Here, his body loosened. His steps became lighter and more instinctive, boots finding stable ground without hesitation. He paused often due to his attentiveness; kneeling to examine fissures in the ice, brushing snow from exposed stone, jotting notes with gloved fingers that moved quickly despite the cold.
Dottore continued to watch from that distance.
Mika’s excitement revealed itself in fragments rather than bursts. A subtle quickening of pace when he spotted something promising. A quiet intake of breath when a structure emerged from beneath the ice, half-buried and ancient. The faintest lift at the corners of his mouth when a theory aligned neatly with what lay before him.
it was interesting.
Most people either suppressed excitement entirely around Dottore or let it spill uncontrollably, seeking approval or validation. Mika did neither. His interest belonged to the land, to the work itself rather than being seen.
Dottore followed, boots leaving behind prints in the snow behind Mika's smaller ones. He kept his hands clasped behind his back. Inside, his mind worked steadily, cataloguing everything about the new person infront of him.
Mika spoke occasionally, narrating his findings aloud, maybe not to Dottore specifically but to the environment itself, as though ordering his thoughts by giving them voice.
“The ice fracture here is recent,” Mika said at one point, crouching near a jagged split that revealed dark stone beneath. “But the stone itself is older. Smoothed by erosion, not glacial pressure. Which means it was exposed once before.”
Dottore hummed softly, a noncommittal acknowledgment.
Mika glanced back at him, then smiled faintly, as if he were just checking that Dottore was still there and was pleased.
Predators watched prey.
Scientists watched specimens.
But what Dottore felt was neither hunger nor detachment.
He assessed Mika was careful but not timid in his ventures. He tested ground before committing weight, but once assured, he moved so decisively. He marked routes meticulously, flags and notes placed with consideration for return journeys, as if were noting for others who might follow. His awareness extended beyond himself; he accounted for weather patterns, potential avalanches, visibility shifts.
When a sudden gust swept across the plain, Mika laughed softly and braced himself against the wind as snow whipped around them. He shielded his notebook instinctively, body angling to protect his work before himself.
Dottore noted that too.
They reached the edge of a partially exposed structure some time later—stone blocks arranged in patterns too detailed to be naturally occurring, etched with symbols worn nearly smooth by time. Mika approached it very carefully, brushing away snow carefully, as though the ruin might recoil from rough handling.
“This wasn’t built for permanence, I think.” Mika murmured.
Dottore stopped a short distance away, letting Mika occupy the space alone.
He watched as Mika traced the carvings lightly, not pressing too hard, fingers lingering as if listening rather than reading. His breath fogged the air, eyes alight with focused curiosity.
There was no fear here. No hesitation borne of ignorance. Only wonder, disciplined by training.
Dottore felt a faint, unexpected flicker, something like recognition.
Mika straightened and turned, clearly about to call Dottore over then paused, noticing the distance between them. For a moment, he simply stood there and observed Dottore observing him. The look that crossed his face was thoughtful.
He smiled at Dottore again just like the previous times, such a soft look. “You don’t have to stay back there,” Mika said. “The ground’s stable.”
“I am aware,” Dottore replied smoothly.
Mika nodded, accepting the answer without comment. He turned back to his work, unfazed by the rejection.
Dottore remained where he was.
Distance, he decided, was useful. From here, he could see the whole picture: Mika framed against ancient stone and endless snow, excitement tempered by care, curiosity anchored by responsibility. A young man who explored not to conquer the world around him but to understand it for what it is.
Dottore’s own self had chosen this presence in his life.
Out here, under the open sky and cold, Dottore didn't think the idea was as far fetched as before.
.
The terrain grew rougher as they moved farther from the facility—ice giving way to exposed stone, stone to fractured shelves where snow gathered in deceptive drifts. Mika navigated it all with confidence, adjusting their route when the ground shifted beneath them, marking the safer paths almost absentmindedly. Dottore continued to trail him, distance maintained but attention unwavering.
It was Mika who stopped first.
“Hold on,” he said, lifting a hand.
Dottore halted at once.
Mika crouched, brushing snow away from a shallow depression between two slabs of rock. At first, there was nothing remarkable, just dark stone smoothed by age. Then the light shifted and something beneath the snow caught it wrong, reflecting dully instead of scattering.
Mika frowned. “That’s… not ice.”
Dottore stepped forward without thinking.
The object emerged gradually as Mika cleared the remaining snow away, revealing an angular metal lattice half-buried in the ground. At its center—
A sphere.
Dottore felt the world narrow around it.
“No,” he murmured.
Mika glanced back at him sharply. “You’ve seen this before?”
Dottore did not answer. He moved closer, boots crunching loudly now, the distance between them closing in moments. He crouched beside Mika, eyes fixed on the artifact as though it might vanish if he looked away.
The same strange pressure gathered behind his eyes.
“Why is it here?” Mika asked quietly. “This wasn’t marked on any records.”
“So it is here as well,” Dottore replied, more to himself than Mika.
It was identical. The etchings remained unchanged and the sphere at its core looked exactly as it had before.
Dottore reached out.
Mika stiffened. “Doctor—”
His body locked.
It was as though every signal he sent simply vanished before reaching its destination. His hand remained against the sphere, fingers frozen mid-contact. His breath caught halfway through an inhale, lungs refusing to complete the motion.
Mika turned fully toward him now, concern breaking through his usual composure. “Doctor?” he said again, louder. “What’s wrong?”
Dottore tried to answer and nothing happened.
His vision blurred at the edges, the world seeming to lose coherence through distance, as though he were being pulled backward through himself. Mika’s face sharpened in contrast, worry etched clearly into it now. He reached out, gripping Dottore’s arm.
“Hey,” Mika said urgently. “Hey, stay with me.” But words stretched and warped.
Dottore lastly registered Mika’s eyes, wide and unguarded, fixed entirely on him.
Then even that began to fade.
.
"Doctor..?"
The wind roared suddenly and the cold slammed into his senses. His vision cleared violently, the world rushing back in a familiar blur of crates and standing figures. Dottore staggered a half-step, catching himself before he fell.
“Doctor,” a subordinate repeated, concern threading carefully through their tone. “The expedition is ready to depart. We’re awaiting your command.”
Dottore straightened slowly. He looked down at his hand. The artifact rested on its crate before him, inert and silent, exactly as it had been moments ago.
No snow.
No ruins.
No Mika.
His breathing steadied. “I see,” Dottore said calmly.
The subordinate relaxed slightly. “Shall we proceed?”
“Yes,” Dottore replied. “Proceed as planned.”
As they moved to obey, Dottore remained where he was for a moment longer, gaze lingering on the artifact. Hypotheses assembled rapidly in his mind, threading together cause and effect, temporal displacement, conditional activation.
His lips curved faintly beneath the mask.
“Mika,” he murmured.
He turned away at last. For now, he would focus on the Tsaritsa's task at hand.
But, he thought, who is this Mika?
The answer was surely waiting for him out there.
He would have to find it himself.