Chapter Text
"No! Wait— Please! Anything but the Gnosis! That's mine! I'll never— I'll never go back!"
Desperation clouded his judgement of everything. He only had his eyes set on the gnosis. He needed it. Why was he losing so pathetically?
And how are they winning so effortlessly? As if crushing someone’s hopes and dreams were the most normal thing in the world.
When did he ever consider his goal to be his ‘hopes and dreams’?
But could he really blame them? He was the antagonist in their story.
His hand reached for the chess piece, the tubes straining against his porcelain skin. The gruesome pain felt nearly numb—he was ready to throw everything away just for it. He felt as if his skin was on fire—Everything burned. Terribly so.
Every inch of his body burned more than anything.
How could’ve everything gone so wrong?
He had the perfect plan, a goal that was right in front of him. A clear path. He swore he had everything in the palm of his hand. But then the Traveler and that Archon granted themselves a role in the play they were never invited to. Messing everything he worked so desperately for.
Was everything he ever did for nothing?
Was all the suffering he had to endure for nothing?
Scaramouche knew the tubes were ripping his skin but how can he care about that when his precious heart(?) was being stolen right in front of his eyes like a piece of candy from a toddler? He had used all his power, every last scrap of divinity. Hell, he probably doesn't have enough energy to stand, let alone take it back.
Screw this god. And this self-inserting Traveler.
Sticking their noses into every situation when someone is in trouble.
Screw everything about their righteousness, too. What about him? He had to go through utter hell, as well.
It is simply unfair.
He wanted—no, needed to be a god. To prove to everyone around him that he can succeed. That he was not some mistake to be replaced so easily.
He needed to win.
“That’s mine—! Don’t even try! I’ll never—I’ll never go back!”
The gnosis floated into the grasp of the dendro archon and with that, the tubes behind him snapped and he fell from the machine. The gaze of the dendro archon looked almost pitiful, as if her expression would change anything.
He doesn’t want her pity.
He doesn’t need her pity.
His thoughts searched in raw urgency for a last thread of hope he could pull.
No…
He can’t win.
He lost—he cannot keep defying that because the more that he pushes forward, the more he breaks himself. The last of his adrenaline fading as he closed his eyes, bracing for impact and accepting his fate.
…
Yet it never came.
He wasn't that high from the ground, was he?
Why was it taking him so long to hit the ground?
That was when he felt his atmosphere change—a cold breeze as if he were high in the sky. His eyes slowly opened to see the bright blue sky above him. He swore he was in the Joururi Workshop, his battle between the Traveler and Buer ended with an unfortunate ending. A stinging pain shooting through his back made him reach behind him. The tubes—some of them were still connected to his back, the weight of them dragging him down.
He heard voices below. Some shouting, others talking in a distressed tone. He then felt bandages wrap around him, pulling him to the ground. He wanted to speak, but when his mouth parted to speak, nothing came out. His throat was parched. Fatigue washed over him. Others rushed towards him, checking for his vitals.
But of course, as a puppet, what vitals did he have?
Why can’t these humans mind their own business?
That was when everything turned to pitch black, and the noise around him faded into nothingness.
When Scaramouche felt his consciousness returning, there were voices nearby.
"—around 15 or 16 perhaps? How could he have gotten so many injuries like these?"
The other man sighed.
"I have no clue. You were the one who spotted him in the sky. If it were not for you, he might have..."
"There's no point in talking about what could have happened. Now, we have to focus on the present and what we have ahead of us. Who is this boy?"
Scaramouche's voice interrupted the two men's conversation. His voice hollowed as he croaked out.
"State your purpose for my captivity."
It was not a question—it was a demand. But his words had no impact on them for the drawn-out battle he was in took a toll on him.
The two men stared before one, the black haired stepped forth and introduced himself.
"I am pro-hero Eraserhead and beside me is pro-hero Present Mic. We have no purpose of capturing you. We saw you falling from the sky. Did that answer your question?"
Scaramouche glanced at the blonde man, wearing some odd sunglasses, whose hair could rival the shape of a banana and had a smile that shone too brightly for his own liking. No, none of his questions were answered. In fact, it made him question even more about his little predicament.
"Where am I.”
"You ask a lot of questions, don't you? How about we ask some questions about you?"
The room went silent. Then, there was an outburst from the indigo-haired boy.
"Do you think this is a joke? Where am I. Because I'm not going to be messing around with people who call themselves heroes. What, do you run around and save cats from trees?"
The two proclaimed 'heroes' looked at one another worriedly, then back at the boy.
"Listen, we're also trying to make sense of the situation as well and we wanted to know of your origins. Do you have a guardian?"
The silence stretched longer than Scaramouche would have liked.
"Quit turning questions onto me. Where am I.”
...
The room, being as small as it was, became almost suffocating for Scaramouche. The air around him became humid—and the feeling burned like it did when he was trying to grab the gnosis back. Everything he wanted he earned. Which was taken so easily from him.
What a joke.
He put in everything he had just to win so how was he so blinded to miss a single factor that destroyed his entire bridge to reach his goal?
The power of dreams placed upon him in the beginning. He should have seen it. Then maybe he would not have lost.
He should have seen it.
He was too blinded by the victory he had already declared for himself.
He was too proud.
That Traveler. If he were not there—would he have won and been able to keep the gnosis for himself?
His fate was sealed from the moment the battle began.
His train of thoughts came to a halt when the Eraserhead spoke.
"What is your name?"
"Who are you to ask for my name? —" He began.
A beat.
Then another.
He needed to control himself.
He looked down onto the mattress he was on, then took in his surroundings. His outfit is still the same as he always wore in Fatui. A symbol of his dignity—superiority. He could still feel his electro power pulsing within him—a constant reminder that he lost. He was weak.
Too weak.
“What is your name?” The man repeated.
"Scaramouche.”
He hated how easily he gave a name. He was meant to be stronger than this. But now, after having used up a majority of his power and needing to recover, all he should do for now was to oblige to whatever scheme they were up to. He hated not being in control of the situation.
And suddenly, he felt small. Not big and powerful like he’s supposed to be.
The name the boy gave made Eraserhead raise a brow. This certainly was not a name from Japan. Nor was it from anywhere he could distinguish at the top of his head.
Present Mic suddenly spoke up loud enough to fill the whole room.
"What's your quirk?"
"Stop throwing words around like they mean something."
His face contorted to a confused one, but he refused to show it too much—it showed a tinge of defensiveness to it. The word that was mentioned, he has never heard before. No, he had—but what did it mean in this context? His behavior? What about it?
The word 'quirk' itself meant a peculiar aspect of one's behavior, no?
"You say that word as if it's an object or some sort of genetics to have. Is there a piece of information that I am missing?"
"Ah... Do you not know what a quirk is?"
"No. Am I supposed to?"
Even more uncomfortable silence. It was even more suffocating than Scaramouche had ever experienced. Well… He had experienced far more intense situations, but he would rather not reminisce of the past now.
Present Mic chimed in, an almost comical expression similar to shock.
“How can you not know what a quirk is—?!”
“Not now, Mic.”
Eraserhead remained expressionless, apart from the fact that he looked utterly sleep deprived. He raised his hand to his mouth to clear his throat.
"A quirk is—well, to put it simply, an ability someone possesses that is unique in their own ways."
"I don't have a 'quirk'."
Eraserhead nodded, taking a mental note of the information.
"Thank you for answering some questions. We will leave you alone for now.”
“…Get out of my sight.”
Was that it? No, it can’t be. They would come back with even more troublesome questions.
Everything seemed too easy. Too relaxed.
With that, Scaramouche closed his eyes and heard the door click open and close, signalling their departure.
His mind drifted off to the mysterious occurrences of what had happened so far. This all felt so terribly wrong. He was out of place and he knew it. He could not even feel a flicker of elemental energy within the two men and what Scaramouche had engraved into his mind was that every being had elemental energy. Every single one. With or without a vision.
Humans simply cannot live without elemental energy.
How was it that they did not have any at all?
It just was not possible—least of all, in Teyvat.
Perhaps he was not even in Teyvat?
If that were the case... the real questions stand before him; how did he get here in the first place?
And...
How would he get back?
But there was a thought gnawing at the back of his mind.
‘Did he want to go back at all?’
Because once he returned, he would be heading straight back to nothing.
He would be a criminal, and a runaway. He became the top priority of the Fatui’s wanted list— to be captured and executed—just because of his own selfish agendas.
There’s nothing he truly cherished waiting for him.
Because everything he ever cherished was taken from him.
…
The next few hours were him laying alone in the unfamiliar room. The silence is deafeningly loud—it is not every day that you travel to another world. Scaramouche was still unsure of this fact, but it is still at the top of the list of 'what happened'. The tubes behind his back were most likely removed—but in such a short span of time?
Even Dottore would not be able to remove them this quickly.
Was the technology more advanced here than in Teyvat?
There were too many unknown factors that made him uncomfortable.
He felt his porcelain skin healing—slowly but surely.
There was a gentle knock on the door, then it opened, revealing the hero Eraserhead and someone else—not the obnoxiously loud blonde man. The other man was more presentable, wearing a suit and a tie. He gave off the subtle aura of an officer or a detective. Eraserhead cleared his throat and introduced the man to Scaramouche.
“This is Naomasa Tsukauchi. He is a detective and will ask you several questions about yourself. You must not be afraid; he will not do any means of harming you.”
He was right. But this was not the setting for an interrogation.
Scaramouche watched every movement of the detective in front of him as the man pulled a chair to sit next to the bed he was on whilst at the corner of his eye, he saw that Eraserhead remained standing at the now closed door. He sat up, conscious of his surroundings. Is this a trap? What are they trying to do?
To gather information about him. That must be it.
“Hello, Scaramouche, which is what your name is, correct? As Eraserhead had said before, I am a detective. My quirk allows me to detect if someone is lying or not. Do you have any questions?” The detective spoke, spinning a pen in his hand and holding a small, pocket-sized notebook, presumably to write whatever Scaramouche answered.
“Nothing from me. I do not waste my breath on pointless conversations.” His voice sounded wary and sharp—it was obvious he did not trust them.
“Let’s begin, shall we?” He opened the notebook, writing some prior details.
“For starters, your name is Scaramouche. Can we check if this fact is true?”
Scaramouche frowned, he had already given them a name, and now they want to know If it is correct or not? This is so stupid.
“My name is Scaramouche. I have already said this before, what more do you want—blabbering on the same question over and over like a broken record? Do you even hear yourself?”
“Aha… Moving on—”
What a feeble attempt to divert the conversation.
“What is your age? By the looks of it, you seem to be around the age of 16, am I right to assume it?”
Scaramouche felt his eye twitch. 16? 16? What a naïve age to assume him as. Did he seriously look that young? Impossible. They need to get their eyes checked.
“I’m not 16.” There was a tinge of bitterness that lived in his voice.
Bitter.
That’s simply how he has always been.
“Then what is your age, may we ask?”
“…”
“Should I repea—” Tsukauchi started but was cut off by a scoff from the boy he was interrogating.
“Fine, 16, and we’ll leave it at that.”
It was not a lie nor a truth, therefore it will not count as lying or telling the truth at all. It is a statement. It is a reliable tool to use during interrogations like these. Because of the detective’s… quirk.
Tsukauchi studied the boy for a moment, then nodded and returned to writing into the little notebook with neat, cursive handwriting. ‘Sixteen’.
“Do you remember what happened before your fall? If so, could you explain it to me in detail? Oh, and can you also tell us your background—”
The detective’s words from then on were a blur.
Now, they were digging into the past. Places where they should not nudge their heads into. Everything about them screamed that they are people pretending to be a hero for the sake of a child. He wanted to vomit at that. Wherever he went, there were always false hope. And to think this particular society was allowing them to run around playing ‘hero’.
How could this world so easily draw a line between what’s right and wrong? Both evil and good cannot be so naturally defined.
He spoke absentmindedly—half of his mind barely in the room.
“Have you ever considered keeping your questions to yourself? You act entitled to know everything about me, and I’m not spilling my story to someone I have never met."
Eraserhead spoke up, trying to ease the tension.
“Listen, kid. We need to understand who you are and why you are here. Keeping people safe is our job.”
Not used to being called a kid, always being known as a harbinger or a superior. But now he was reduced to some ignorant child. So, he retorted. An attempt to deflect his vulnerability. Or to try and prove something.
“Spare me your ‘virtues’. I won’t be treated like someone who needs saving.”
Scaramouche was fuelled with a sense of anger still left behind by the battle in Joururi Workshop. He doesn’t want to be seen an innocent, lost kid—Trapped in the cycle of continuously being—
Betrayed.
Archons, did he despise both humans and the gods alike.
He execrated the ridiculous amounts of fabrication both conjured up just to feed others false hope. They would do anything to justify their own reasons for doing the right or wrong things.
“Tsukauchi, we should give him space.” Eraserhead whispered, though Scaramouche caught the words. He decided not to comment on it—it would cause more problems anyway.
His expression must have given it away that he was feeling uncomfortable.
They probably think he was some weak, helpless—
The detective nodded, tucking the notebook into his pocket and standing up from his seat. He made it to the door and muttered something to Eraserhead, that Scaramouche could not quite hear, before leaving.
Wonderful, of course they would start running their mouth again at a distance he couldn’t hear. He swore if it was any more idiocy, he would throw himself out the window without any hesitation.
Eraserhead sighed, looking back at the boy, really studying him properly. His face was certainly similar to Asia’s facial features—and his clothing resembles the old Japanese culture and some parallels to the old Japanese royalty clothing. The fabric was refined so well. How odd.
Why did this boy look so similar yet so different to everything all at once?
But it did not take long for Scaramouche to have noticed it.
“What are you doing, gawking? Leave.”
The pro-hero’s eyes narrowed slightly. Then he turned on his heel and walked out without another word.
Then the silence filled the room for the nth time.
Alone—Just like it had always been.
Maybe if he did not spend centuries pushing others away.
…
What nonsense.
The thoughts he had were laughably naïve.
Why else would everyone leave him?
He kept them too close.
Because he made the mistake of letting them get too close.
And now he had to live with the one thing he could never put down—the regret of his own isolation.
…