Chapter Text
Sandrone hated funerals. If you'd asked her—if you dared to ask her, and there weren't many people who did—she would have long since elected to skip any and all of them, but it's not like she had a choice, even if Rosalyne didn't rank in the top three of most annoying coworkers she knew. That distinction belonged to Pantalone, Columbina on a bad day, and Dottore on any day that ended in Y.
Still, she showed up. Harbingers didn't just skip the funeral of another Harbinger, no matter how little they'd actually liked them. It was an unspoken rule, as rigid and inflexible as the ice outside the windows—though unlike that pointless weather, this rule served no practical purpose beyond preventing the kind of political tremors the Tsaritsa despised.
Politics. Ugh.
So there she stood for however long that tedious performance lasted, in a coat that felt like restraint, watching people she barely tolerated pretend to mourn with closed eyes like it meant something. Farcical hypocrites, every last one of them—no point in pretending if you won't commit to the lie properly. At least Dottore had the decency to barely pretend at mourning anyone. But Pantalone? Playing at sorrow like some second-rate actor in a passion play. Pathetic.
She would always remember that expression of perpetual disappointment frozen on Rosalyne's face: your work lacks elegance, Sandrone. How many times had she heard it? How many times had she produced research of such meticulous precision, only to have it dismissed for lacking some intangible quality that La Signora had deemed necessary? The irony was sharp enough to cut. Here lay the one who had issued that criticism countless times, and the coffin—the only work of theirs Sandrone would ever acknowledge—possessed more genuine elegance than anything Rosalyne had ever managed to criticize properly.
But that was the way of it, wasn't it? The dead couldn't appreciate the failures they'd pointed out in life. They couldn't see their own shortcomings reflected back at them, nor make arguments against the living. Sandrone would have told her, if she'd had the chance: elegance wasn't something you imposed through critique. It was something you built, tested, and perfected through relentless dedication to the work itself. That's why Sandrone's research would outlast all of them—even if nobody here understood it.
She didn't allow herself to linger on the memory.
Sandrone slammed her wrench against a seized bolt, and when it still wouldn't give, she threw the whole thing across the room.
"Worthless piece of scrap."
The wrench clattered against something metal—probably some half-disassembled reconnaissance unit. She didn't particularly care. Everything in here was metal anyway—her real workshop, a far cry from the sterile showrooms where she was forced to tolerate bureaucrats and their endless, idiotic paperwork.
She snatched up a different tool and headed back to her workbench.
She’d ripped off that ridiculous fur coat the second she cleared the cathedral doors, heading straight here to change into her coveralls and work boots. The front was permanently caked in oil stains, and she’d never bothered to hide the scorch mark on the left knee—the lingering proof of a regrettable incident with live ammo.
Her hands never shook. Steady as always. That was the main thing separating her from the amateurs around her, and she was damn well going to keep it that way.
She refused to think about the cathedral anymore. She blocked out the memory of the frost crawling across that ornate coffin, and the dying flutter of Rosalyne's flame. Most of all, she wouldn't think about the look she’d stolen during the final respects, watching the others bow their heads on cue like well-trained animals.
Let them put on their little show. She had actual work to do.
The small turret prototype on her workbench had three blown circuits. It was a quick fix, something she’d done a hundred times. Her fingers flew through the familiar motions—threading wires, checking connections, testing responses. Except the response times were… lagging. She’d have to recalibrate the whole thing from scratch.
Fine. No big deal. She’d done that before, too.
Only, she kept hitting the wrong settings. Kept having to start over. The pieces just weren't coming together the way they should.
"Focus," she muttered. "It's basic maintenance. A child could do this."
Pulonia sat idle in the corner, massive frame dark and silent. She’d need to run a full diagnostic on it soon—it had taken a beating in a skirmish last week. The upgrades she’d planned would just have to wait.
Footsteps echoed from somewhere in the workshop. Too light to be any of the Fatui grunts, who knew better than to push their luck.
Sandrone didn't bother looking up. "The workshop is closed. Come back never."
The footsteps kept drawing closer, slow and practically melodic, before pausing at the edge of her workspace.
"Hello, Marionette."
That voice. Of course it would be her. The universe truly never missed an opportunity to spite her.
Sandrone clenched her jaw. She still didn't look up, just kept with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. "I'm busy."
"So it seems."
"Then perhaps exercise some basic social awareness and leave."
"I just thought you might want some company."
"You thought wrong. As usual." Sandrone jammed a cluster of wires back into place. "I’m in the middle of actual work here. Not standing around making noise when no one wants you here."
Sandrone waited for retreating footsteps, but they didn't come. She risked a glance over her shoulder.
Columbina hadn't moved an inch. Her eyes were closed, hands folded, looking for all the world like she’d drifted in with the snow. Like the laws of physics didn't apply to her. Like standing uninvited in a workshop at—Sandrone glanced at the time display—past midnight was the most natural thing in the world.
"I said leave," Sandrone repeated, turning back to her workbench.
"I heard you."
"Then why on earth are you still—" Sandrone cut herself off. She yanked a tool from her rack with way too much force. "Fine. Stand there if it makes you happy. But don't expect me to drop everything for small talk."
"Of course."
Sandrone hunched back over her workbench. Calibrating this thing should have been a breeze—she’d programmed the code herself months ago. Yet the readings kept coming back skewed. She punched in the corrections and ran the test again. Still off.
Behind her, Columbina didn't move an inch. She didn't speak. She just stood there like a fixture of the room, an infuriatingly persistent shadow.
Sandrone’s fingers fumbled on a connector. "You have got to be kidding me."
"Are you—"
"I'm fine." The response came out with way more bite than she intended. "Completely fine. Some of us don't require constant validation."
"I only wanted to—"
"Well, don't." Sandrone's hands shook—barely visible, just a faint tremor that she instantly buried by curling them into fists. "The workshop is my domain. I don't need a babysitter. I don't need—just stop breathing down my neck."
Silence fell again. Then, quietly: "Alright."
Columbina stayed right where she was.
She spent a few glorious seconds considering hitting the security alarm. Imagined the automated systems sweeping Columbina out of the room while she delivered a few choice one-liners about boundaries. But the words died in her throat, and she couldn't bring herself to pull the trigger.
She picked up her screwdriver and forced her attention back to her work.
The minutes dragged on. Her shoulders were rigid, every muscle coiled tight. She could feel Columbina’s presence like a heavy shadow—not suffocating, exactly, but undeniable. The other woman didn't move. Didn't make a peep.
Witnessing.
Sandrone finished locking the system down and transitioned to the gyroscope. Her hands fell back into their rhythm, pure muscle memory guiding her. Pop the housing, check calibration, tweak the screws. Simple. Mechanical. Predictable.
She was knee-deep in her work when Columbina started humming.
It was so faint at first that Sandrone almost missed it over the workshop’s ambient hum. Just a thread of a melody, wordless and strange. Not a song from Snezhnaya, nor anything else Sandrone could place. It sounded ancient.
Sandrone's hands froze.
The humming expanded, filling every corner of the workshop. It was the exact same melody from the funeral, that Columbina had crooned while resting on Rosalyne’s coffin like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Sandrone knew she should tell her to shut up. She should point out that this was a machine shop, not a concert hall, and she needed to focus. Something biting about basic social decency.
Sandrone returned to her workbench. She let the reprimand die.
The song stayed with her, soft and unyielding, as she worked. She ran another diagnostic, and the readouts finally flashed green. Good. She cleared the board and reached for the next assembly.
Without her meaning to, her movements began to fall into step with the humming. Her tools clicked in perfect counterpoint to the tune. The work flowed easier now, mind settling into a comfortable groove.
Columbina’s voice faded away.
Sandrone wiped her hands on a rag, mostly just smearing the oil around rather than getting it off. Her fingers were still shaking. Just a tiny fraction, but it was there.
"I didn't hate her," she blurted out.
The words caught her off guard as much as they probably did Columbina.
Columbina shifted slightly. "No?"
"Rosalyne." Sandrone set down the rag with deliberate precision. "People always assume I did. We'd argue at meetings and everyone would make their ridiculous assumptions. But I didn't. She was just... constant. You knew she'd show up and be exactly as arrogant as last time. Exactly as critical. It was predictable."
"Yes."
"Predictable is—" Sandrone choked on the words for a split second. "—easier. To handle."
"I see."
Sandrone stared at the half-repaired automaton in front of her. "The last time we spoke, she made some brainless comment about my Katherynes. Called them worthless playthings, as if her entire combat strategy wasn't just setting everything on fire and hoping for the best. I told her she spent more time on her makeup than her paperwork." Her fist clenched around the rag. "Pierro shut us both down. That was it. That was our final conversation. And it was over nothing."
"Perhaps it was enough."
"How on earth could that be enough?"
"Because it was normal. Because it was just you and her, the way you’ve always been. Not everything has to be profound."
Shouldn’t endings mean something? Shouldn’t last words carry weight?
"I miss her." The admission came out rough, almost angry. "Which is absurd. I couldn't even stand her half the time."
"It doesn't have to make sense."
"Everything should make sense! That's the foundation of knowledge—categorization, understanding, logical progression."
"Should it?"
Sandrone finally turned to give Columbina a proper look. The Damselette hadn't budged an inch, still looking serene and untouched.
"You miss her too?”
"Yes." Columbina's voice was feather-light. "Very much."
They locked eyes in the silence for a moment. Sandrone was the first to pull away. She glanced at the clock on one of her instruments and felt a jolt of genuine surprise. Three in the morning. She’d been buried in her work for—eight hours? Longer?
"Ridiculous." She stood up, joints cracking in protest. "I should—"
Should what? Call it a night? Eat something? Keep working until exhaustion forced her to stop?
"You should get some rest," Columbina supplied.
"I’m more than capable of—" But now that she’d broken her rhythm, fatigue washed over her. Circuit-deep and heavy. "Fine. I'm going."
She headed for the door, hearing Columbina’s footsteps close behind. She kept her mouth shut, even if a petty part of her wanted to point out that she was perfectly capable of finding her way to her own bed.
They navigated the deserted corridors of Zapolyarny Palace without a word. Just their footsteps cutting through the quiet—Sandrone’s heavy boots contrasting with Columbina’s feather-light tread. The halls were dead cold at this time of night, but that was nothing new. Snezhnaya didn't care about comfort.
Sandrone's quarters weren't far from the research wing. When they reached her door, she stopped. Keyed in her access code.
"Well." She stood in the open doorway, refusing to step inside just yet. "This is my stop."
"Will you be alright?"
"I'm always alright. Superior engineering and a logical mind tend to yield that result."
Columbina offered no reply. A slight tilt of her head, almost bird-like.
Sandrone’s fingers drummed against the doorframe. The words slipped out before she could catch them: "Do you want some tea? I’ve got some lying around somewhere. Probably stale, but it's drinkable."
She didn't usually invite people in. Ever, to be honest. The invitation felt foreign on her tongue.
"Are you certain?" Columbina asked, surprise in her voice.
"Obviously I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t certain. Though I'm rapidly reconsidering based on your tendency to question straightforward statements." Sandrone stepped inside, leaving the door wide open behind her. "Are you coming or not?"
Her quarters were exactly as cluttered as her workshop—the main table was covered in schematics, the shelves were packed with manuals and components, and a barely touched kitchenette sat off in the corner. The only concessions to actual living were an armchair by the window and a door leading to her bedroom, where naturally her bed would be.
Sandrone went straight to the kitchenette. Started rummaging through cabinets while Columbina made herself at home in the armchair like she belonged there, which was presumptuous but somehow not unexpected.
"I know I have some in here somewhere..." Sandrone shoved past coffee tins and a spare battery that was there for some reason. "Aha."
She pulled out a battered tin of Liyue tea. No idea where it had come from, but it didn't particularly matter.
She filled the kettle, set it to boil, and grabbed two cups while waiting. Plain white ceramic, the kind the palace handed out to everyone. She rubbed her greasy hands against her sleeve, which only managed to make things ten times worse.
"You have oil on your face," Columbina observed.
"Obviously. I've been working." Sandrone touched her cheek. Her fingers came away black. She tried to wipe it off, smeared it further, and gave up. "It's hardly a fashion emergency."
The kettle whistled. She tossed tea leaves into both mugs—way too much, probably, but she didn't care about precision when it came to tea—and drowned them in hot water. The brew immediately turned darker than was probably safe.
She carried both cups over, set one in front of Columbina, then stood there. The chair was occupied. Her desk chair was inside her bedroom. After a quick internal debate, she slid down onto the floor with her back against the wall, figuring that standing around awkwardly would look way worse.
"So." She wrapped her hands around her cup. "Tea."
"Tea," Columbina agreed.
They drank. The tea was definitely stale and definitely too strong. Sandrone couldn't care less.
Outside the window, the snow came down thick and heavy. It always snowed in Snezhnaya. The cold worked its way into everything—bones, metal, the gaps between your thoughts.
"I should change," Sandrone said, looking down at her oil-covered coveralls. "Give me a moment."
She retreated to her bedroom, stripped off the work clothes, and caught her reflection in the small mirror. Oil smeared across one cheek, and her hair was a complete disaster. She cleaned her face with more speed than grace, then ran fingers through her hair until it looked marginally less of a mess, and threw on a shirt and trousers. No point in bothering with her dress if she was going to sleep anytime soon.
When she came back, Columbina was exactly where she'd left her, cup cradled in both hands.
Sandrone reclaimed her spot on the floor, picked up her tea, and stared into it.
"It's weird," she said. "How everything just keeps moving. Like nothing even happened."
"Things have changed, though."
"Have they? Fatui operations are still on track. The other Harbingers are hitting their targets. The world keeps spinning." Sandrone took a long drag from her mug. "Rosalyne is just a seat to be filled now. Just resources to be reallocated."
"Is that all she is to you?"
"No." The word shot out harshly. "Obviously not, or I wouldn't be—" She gestured vaguely at herself. The sheer absurdity of it. Three AM, a cup of garbage tea, crouching on the floor like some kind of—
"I don't have a clue what I'm doing," she confessed. "This isn't me. I don't do this. None of it."
"I know."
"So why are you still lurking around me like a particularly annoying Hilichurl?"
"You asked me to stay."
"I offered you a drink. That is a far cry from asking you to—" Sandrone scowled down into her mug. "That was just basic manners. Nothing more."
"Was it?"
They finished their tea in silence. Sandrone's exhaustion was catching up with her now—eyelids heavy, thoughts starting to blur at the edges. She really ought to send Columbina away. Go to bed. Get some sleep before tomorrow's work.
"I should—" she started.
"Would you like me to stay?" Columbina asked quietly. "Just for tonight."
Sandrone opened her mouth, only to click it shut and try again.
She couldn't bring herself to say yes. Nor could she drag herself to say no.
"I don't—" she stammered. "That's not how—"
"It's alright," Columbina said gently. "I can stay either way. If you'd like."
"You’re incredibly presumptuous."
"Am I really?"
Despite everything—the exhaustion, the confusion, the entire bizarre situation—Sandrone felt a laugh bubble up. "You're insufferable."
"So you've mentioned."
She gave up the fight. She fetched a blanket from her room, bundled herself up, and found a more comfortable spot against the wall. Columbina remained in the armchair, looking for all the world like she intended to stand guard until morning. It was absurd, but weirdly reassuring.
It was strange. It was uncomfortable. A far cry from how Sandrone normally lived her life.
It beat being alone.
Her eyes drifted closed. She forced them back open the second Columbina spoke.
"Sandrone?"
"What."
"You looked nice tonight. In your work clothes."
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"Just an observation."
"An observation." Sandrone snatched up the nearest pillow and hurled it right at Columbina’s head—dead accurate, but with no real weight behind it.
The Damselette let it whack her in the face, a tiny smile playing on her lips.
"Go to sleep, Marionette," she said softly.
"Insufferable," Sandrone muttered, but her heart wasn't in it. "Completely impossible."
Sandrone pulled her blanket tight around her shoulders.