Work Text:
The air in the Omega Segment’s primary laboratory was thick with the scent of ozone, caustic cleaning agents, and the stale, oppressive aroma of coffee that had long since gone cold.
To any ordinary citizen of Snezhnaya, the room would look like a vision of the future or a nightmare of the past.
Vats of bioluminescent fluid bubbled rhythmically, and brass gears the size of carriage wheels ground against one another with a precision that defied the natural laws of friction.
At the center of this mechanical chaos sat Il Dottore. He was slumped, a posture rarely seen by his subordinates, on a high-backed velvet chair that looked wildly out of place amidst the surgical steel.
His gloved fingers drummed a frantic, irregular beat against the mahogany armrest. His mask, that iconic crow-like visage, was tilted upward toward the vaulted ceiling as if waiting for a revelation to drop from the rafters.
"Boredom," Dottore muttered, his voice echoing with a slight metallic rasp. "Is a physiological failure. It is the brain’s inability to synthesize interest from its environment. It is a deficiency of stimulus."
He stood abruptly, the hem of his heavy coat sweeping aside several discarded blueprints. He began to pace.
For the first time in countless winters of active service to Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa, the Great Doctor was stuck.
The Omega Segment, known as the most ambitious, refined, and peak version of his many selves, was currently staring at a blank metaphorical canvas.
He had already mapped the ley line deviations in the permafrost. He had perfected the durability of the latest Delusion husks.
He had even spent a week cross-referencing the genetic markers of Sumeru’s desert-dwellers against the Snezhnayan indigenous populations just for a lark.
Nothing. Not a single spark of genius.
"The variable is missing," he whispered, stopping before a massive chalkboard covered in equations that would make a scholar at the Akademiya weep.
"I require a grander scale. A project so absurd that the sheer logistical impossibility forces my mind to adapt."
He turned to his desk, his eyes (hidden beneath his mask) gleaming with a sudden, manic light. If the mind was stagnant, it needed to be shocked. And in the world of the Fatui, the strongest electrical current available was Mora.
Dottore grabbed a fountain pen and a fresh sheet of heavy vellum. He didn't just write a proposal; he composed a manifesto of excess.
It came out as a detailed plan to construct a mobile, subterranean laboratory capable of boring through the crust of Teyvat to study the "heartbeat" of the world.
It required rare ores from the Chasm, refined oils from Fontaine, and a labor force of three thousand automated puppets.
The cost? A number followed by so many zeros it looked like a decorative border.
"This will do," Dottore smirked, sealing the envelope with a dab of dark blue wax.
"The Regrator loves a challenge. He’s always complaining that I don't give him enough warning for my withdrawals. This should keep his accountants occupied for a fiscal year."
He didn't send a subordinate. Dottore felt he needed the brisk air of the Zapolyarny Palace to clear his head. He walked through the corridors of power with the casual arrogance of a man who owned the air he breathed.
Guards snapped to attention, their breath hitching as the Doctor passed. He was a force of nature, and his partner in the Great Game, the Ninth Seat of Fatui Harbingers, was the only man who could truly calculate his worth.
---
The Northland Bank’s central administrative wing was the antithesis of Dottore’s lab. Where the lab was chaotic and smelling of chemicals, this place was silent, smelling of sandalwood and old gold.
Dottore bypassed the receptionists, the clerks, and the mid-level managers. He kicked open the double doors to Pantalone’s private office with a flourish.
"Pantalone! I’ve come to save you from the monotony of your ledgers," Dottore announced, tossing the heavy envelope onto the desk. It landed squarely on top of a stack of trade agreements from Liyue.
Pantalone did not look up. He was a vision of refined stillness, his fingers laced together beneath his chin. His glasses caught the light of the fireplace, obscuring his eyes.
"Doctor. You’re early. I didn't expect you to emerge from your hole for another three days. Did you run out of test subjects, or simply out of insults for the lower staff?"
"I’ve run out of scale," Dottore said, leaning over the desk, his hands planted firmly on the polished wood. "That proposal is my masterpiece. Read it. Sign it. We’ll need to start the excavations before the spring thaw."
Pantalone picked up the envelope. He didn't use a letter opener; he simply slid a finger under the seal, his movements slow and deliberate.
He read the first page. Then the second. His expression remained a mask of polite, terrifying neutrality.
"Subterranean exploration," Pantalone murmured. "A mobile fortress. You want to spend more Mora than the entire defense budget of Mondstadt on a... 'hunch'?"
"It’s not a hunch, it's a hypothesis," Dottore corrected.
Pantalone set the papers down. He finally looked up, smiling that thin, beautiful, and utterly predatory smile that had bankrupted nations. "No."
Dottore froze. He tilted his head to the side, a gesture that made him look like a confused bird. "Pardon? The acoustics in here are dampening the sound. I thought I heard you say 'no'."
"Your hearing is as sharp as ever, Zandik," Pantalone said softly, using the name only he was permitted to utter without losing a tongue.
He continued, "The answer is no. This proposal is... let’s call it 'fanciful.' It lacks a clear return on investment. It’s a waste of the Bank’s liquid assets."
Dottore laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound.
"Since when have you cared about ROI with me? Last month you approved the purchase of a dead sea monster's skeleton just because I said I liked the shape of its ribcage. You didn't even ask for a receipt."
"Last month was different," Pantalone said, his voice dropping an octave. He stood up, smoothing the front of his impeccably tailored vest.
He walked around the desk, stopping just inches from Dottore. The Regrator was slightly shorter, but his presence filled the room like a rising tide.
"Last month, I felt... generous. Today, I find myself feeling rather fiscally conservative. Perhaps it’s the weather. Or perhaps I’m tired of being treated like an automated teller machine."
"You are a banker," Dottore snapped, his irritation finally bubbling over. "Your function is to provide the fuel for my engine. What is this? A power play? If Pierro has put you up to this—"
"Pierro has nothing to do with this," Pantalone interrupted, his smile never wavering, though it didn't reach his eyes.
He reached out, his gloved hand hovering near Dottore’s shoulder before he seemingly thought better of it and adjusted his own cuff instead.
"I simply think you’ve become spoiled, Doctor. You think you can waltz in here, throw a tantrum on paper, and I’ll open the vaults. You haven't even offered me a greeting that didn't involve a demand for currency."
"I said hello!"
"You said 'Pantalone'," the Regrator corrected. "With the tone one uses for a particularly stubborn mule."
Dottore stared at him. He was trying to analyze the situation.
Was Pantalone under the influence of a mood-altering substance? No, his pupil dilation was normal. Was he being coerced? Unlikely. He was the wealthiest man in the world; he did the coercing.
"Fine," Dottore spat, snatching the proposal back. "I’ll revise it. I’ll add a section on how we can weaponize the tectonic vibrations. That should satisfy your 'ROI' requirements."
"Don't bother," Pantalone said, turning back to his desk. "Until my mood improves, the vaults are closed. To everyone. But especially to you."
Dottore stormed out, the doors slamming so hard the glass rattled. He didn't see Pantalone sigh, sink back into his chair, and rub his temples.
"Genius," Pantalone whispered to the empty room. "He can rewrite the laws of life and death, but he can't remember that yesterday was the anniversary of our first contract."
He glanced at the closed door, yet only silence filled the room.
"...I even wore the silk tie he accidentally spilled acid on three years ago. Not a word. Not a single, solitary word."
---
The "Great Freeze," as it would later be called in the whispers of the Fatui barracks, began that afternoon.
It started with Childe. The Eleventh Harbinger had arrived at the bank expecting his usual stipend for equipment and casualty reparations.
He was met with a polite rejection and a suggestion that he start a savings account.
"A savings account?" Childe yelled in the hallway, clutching a slip of paper. His messy hair, already mussed up from battle, stuck up like a very angry orange dandelion.
"I just broke three ruin guards with my bare hands! I need new bracers! Pantalone told me to 'monetize my hobbies'! What does that even mean?!"
Next came Arlecchino. She had submitted a request for the expansion of the House of the Hearth’s winter facilities.
She was told that "real estate is a volatile market" and that the orphans would have to "learn the value of a shared blanket."
By the second day, the Zapolyarny Palace was in a state of high anxiety. The Regrator was the heartbeat of the organization. If he stopped pumping Mora, the entire body of the Fatui would go into cardiac arrest.
And everyone knew why.
---
"It’s the Doctor," Pulcinella sighed during a grim lunch in the officers' mess. He stirred his borscht with a silver spoon, looking every bit the tired grandfather.
"I saw him leave the bank yesterday. He looked like he’d just been told his test tubes were made of plastic. Pantalone hasn't smiled since. And when the Regrator doesn't smile, Snezhnaya freezes."
"I don't care about their domestic squabbles!" Sandrone snapped, her steel puppet looming behind her, its mechanical eyes whirring.
"I need my shipments of clockwork springs from Fontaine. If Pantalone is upset because Dottore is an unobservant idiot, then Dottore needs to be made observant!"
"He’s dense," Capitano muttered, his voice deep and echoing from beneath his helm. "The Doctor sees the world in equations. He does not see the subtext of a silent dinner or the meaning of a lingering glance. He is... socially incompetent."
"He's a menace," Arlecchino corrected. "And he's currently the only one who can fix this. If Pantalone is holding our budgets hostage until Dottore notices him, then we are all at the mercy of the most oblivious man in history."
---
Meanwhile, back in the lab, Dottore was suffering.
Without the promise of his subterranean fortress, his boredom had mutated into a physical ache. He tried to focus on smaller tasks, but his mind kept drifting back to the bank.
Why had Pantalone looked at him like that?
That specific squint of the eyes, which usually denoted amusement, but yesterday it had been laced with something... sharp. Like a blade wrapped in silk.
"Subject Pantalone," Dottore muttered, scrawling on a fresh chalkboard.
"Symptoms: Irritability, irrational fiscal conservatism, localized spite. Possible causes: 1. Neurological decay. 2. Boredom (contagious?). 3. Attempted mutiny."
A pause. "4. Lack of attention?"
He laughed at the fourth option and erased it immediately.
"Preposterous. He’s a man of commerce, not a child seeking a pat on the head."
A knock came at his door. Not a polite knock, but a heavy, rhythmic thumping.
"Go away!" Dottore shouted. "Unless you’re here to tell me the Northland Bank has been struck by lightning, I’m busy!"
The doors creaked open. It was Pulcinella, followed closely by a very grumpy-looking Childe and Arlecchino, who looked ready to commit a series of assassinations.
"Doctor," Pulcinella said, his voice dripping with faux-sweetness. "We need to have a little talk about your... relationship management."
Dottore turned, his lab coat stained with something purple and pungent.
"My what? If this is about the budget, take it up with the Ninth. He’s the one who’s lost his mind."
"He hasn't lost his mind, you're just losing us our Mora!" Childe barked. "Do you have any idea how expensive it is to maintain a fleet in Liyue? Pantalone told me to 'sell cookies' to make up the difference!"
"He is pining, Dottore," Arlecchino said, stepping forward, her eyes narrowing. "And you are the cause. He is currently denying the House of the Hearth their winter rations because he’s in a 'mood'. Fix it. Now."
Dottore blinked. "Pining? Pantalone doesn't pine. He calculates. He hoards. He occasionally drinks wine that costs more than a village. He does not pine."
"He wants you to notice him!" Childe threw his hands up. "How are you this smart and this stupid at the same time? Buy him a gift! Take him to dinner! Tell him his hair looks shiny! Just do something so he'll sign my requisitions!"
Dottore stood frozen as the three Harbingers stared him down. For a man who had dissected gods, the concept of "buying a gift" felt infinitely more terrifying and complex than any surgery.
"I... see," Dottore said slowly, his mind finally beginning to whir. "You believe his fiscal rejection is a manifestation of emotional neglect."
"YES!" they all shouted in unison.
"Very well," Dottore said, straightening his mask. "If it is an experiment in social engineering he wants, then I shall provide. I will 'romance' the Regrator. I will do it with such clinical precision that he will have no choice but to reopen the vaults."
As the Harbingers filed out, relieved but skeptical, Dottore sat back down.
---
High above the lab, in a hidden observation gallery accessible only by a series of convoluted passcodes, a small, golden mechanical bird sat on a perch.
Its eyes were tiny cameras, transmitting everything back to a private screen in the Northland Bank.
Pantalone watched the feed, swirling a glass of fire-water. He leaned back, a genuine, delighted laugh escaping his lips.
"Clinical precision, is it? Oh, my dear Doctor... this is going to be the most entertaining quarter the Bank has ever seen."
He picked up a pen and crossed out another line on Childe’s budget, just for the fun of it. The show was only just beginning.
*** Maybe continue ... ***