Chapter Text
Roughly three hours before the first match of the day takes place, the signs at the arena’s public entrances are updated. Bigger venues like those in Liyue Harbor or Inazuma City have tightly regulated schedules that scroll past on giant screens. But here at Qingce Stadium, there are three old-school mechanical boards that clickity-clack through letters and numbers until the proper sequences are displayed. The signs have just enough lines and spaces on those lines to fit the day’s matches, who would be in them, and when they took place.
Abbreviations don’t sit right with the person responsible for ensuring the listings are displayed, so the signs always have the participants’ full designations properly spelled out.
SPINDRIFT VS REGISVINE 8:00
SHENHE VS MITACHURL 12:00
TARTAGLIA VS RUIN HUNTER 16:00
The first two matches feature veterans of the Liyue circuit, but the last name is a new one to Qingce Stadium. Those who’ve never heard of Tartaglia are curious about how he’ll fare solo against a giant ruin hunter.
However, the more hardcore members of the audience—the ones who recognize his name from abroad—know they’re in for a good show tonight. Cyborgs aren’t uncommon anymore, everyone and their vishap has seen at least a few matches featuring one. But Tartaglia? One of the experimental lazzi who created their own category for what their bionics could do and endure? That alone should be worth the ticket price…provided he lives up to his reputation.
—— ——
Childe wonders how much Ningguang knows about him. The manner with which she watches his every move and analyzes his every word, it’s almost like that of a machine. From the moment they meet, she makes it clear she will brook no shenanigans from him. If he is out of line in any way, she will make sure of the consequences.
Ningguang is keenly aware of her abilities and her role; and since Qingce Stadium is a part of her, she knows the place and its people just as well. Although she may be just an administrator of just a countryside stadium, she has the presence of an executive with deadlines and bottom lines to enact. Her hair is done back in a precise bun, her uniform is well-worn but with not a thread out of place, and she’s constantly twirling a pen between her fingers, ready at a moment’s notice to either write him up or stab him through.
But she can menace him all she likes. Childe doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him and his behavior. It’s when people find out about his siblings that he’ll make sure they learn to keep their mouths shut. He has very few compunctions about permanently silencing those who might reveal anything about his family.
Even if Ningguang does know about his situation, she doesn’t seem like the type to idly taunt him about it. She’s more of someone who’ll wait until a strategic juncture and then leverage it for all it’s worth.
For now, the extent of their interactions has been finalizing his transfer to Qingce Stadium and signing the waiver for his first set of matches. The waiver is a pointless piece of formality, nobody really gets much of a say once they land in debt and begin their indenturement to Celestia.
—— ——
The ruin hunter makes a final, desperate swipe at Tartaglia. He dodges, the attack whistles through empty air, and the force of the blow causes the straining machine to collapse in on itself.
There is a gladiator standing over an unmoving pile of metal parts. There is a stadium filled with silent, shocked spectators.
Then all at once, the cheering begins. People clap, scream, and stamp their feet. Some throw tokens down into the arena. From the shadows of the lower holding area, Ningguang writes a note in Tartaglia’s file.
Tartaglia lingers in the center, triumphantly basking in his audience’s attention. Heedless of how badly one of his legs is smashed, he limps a few laps around the fallen ruin hunter with a dazzling smile on his face, throwing the occasional salute toward the roaring crowd.
It isn’t until he’s back in the sunken holding room that his smile vanishes and the toll of his injuries becomes evident. He’d put on a spectacular show for the people, part of which meant taking a beating to raise the fight’s stakes. Since first impressions catch the audience and twists keep them hooked, his plan to start as an archer then use his bow and arrows as melee weapons to turn the tide in the final third has been a resounding success. What’s left of his arms and shoulders scream in protest whenever he moves, but he’d do it all again for that rush of victory.
A medical assistant approaches Childe. The little girl in her purple uniform waits a safe distance away until he beckons her closer. He’d met Qiqi earlier today and knows she’s experienced with handling gladiators after their matches. She knows not to get too close until their faculties have sufficiently returned.
Childe carefully sits down on the floor so she can assess his injuries. She does a preliminary cleaning and wrapping of the worst of his flesh wounds, but frowns at each of his bionic sections when she reaches them.
She dabs at the long gash that bleeds blood from where it begins at his shoulder, and oil where it ends at his hip. “Hmm. Qiqi is trying her best. But Qiqi doesn’t know how to fix all of Mr. Tartaglia.”
“It’s okay, you’ve helped me out plenty. Look, I can walk much better now.” Childe gingerly stands and takes a few steps. His smashed-up leg smokes and sparks as it receives more of his weight than it would’ve liked, but he manages to reduce the severity of his earlier limp. “If you could direct me to a machinist, I can get the rest taken care of in no time.”
“Machinist?”
“Someone who fixes machines.” Childe wipes his hand on one of his torso bandages, then pats her on the head. “Like how you fix people.”
“Oh.” Qiqi frowns at the fresh layer of grime on his bandages, but thinks for a couple moments. “Okay. Follow Qiqi.”
The little girl trots to the exit, uses her key card to deactivate the lock, and holds the door so Childe can go through. As soon as he’s clear, she darts past him and leads the way down the corridor. He follows Qiqi through a few more staff-only areas paved with drab stone, illuminated by flickering electric lights, and faintly smelling of smoke and dry metal. Childe is mindful of stepping quietly when Qiqi has her back to him and moving evenly when she turns to check on him, even though she’s probably figured out that he’s putting on another performance.
But soon, they arrive at a workshop set inside the stadium’s outer wall. The room is impossibly filled with light and motion. Sunshine filters through the double rows of bars on the windows, causing the well-worn tools hanging from the walls to catch the natural light and cast weird shadows. Below the tools racks are hatches of different sizes, ranging from just big enough for a potato to the height and width of several stacked crates. Various mechanical parts clink and clack on every surface, large spools of wire wind and unwind with some kind of pattern, and puffs of smoke billow from a furnace in the corner. The air is warm, and smells of metal, resin, and…something oddly soft that Childe can’t place.
Qiqi hurtles into the workshop, making a beeline for a handsome man in fitted, red and brown blacksmith’s apparel who is studying a giant piece of paper at one of the tables. She urgently tugs at a corner of his shirt. “Quickly. Mr. Tartaglia needs a machinist. Quickly.”
The man glances down at Qiqi and then across to where she’s pointing. He takes one look at Childe, then sweeps aside the paper he’d been examining. “Help him lie here on the table. I’ll be back in a moment.”
The man vanishes through a doorway on the other side of the workshop.
Qiqi rushes back to Childe and herds him over to the table. “Here. You must lie down. Qiqi will help. So Mr. Zhongli can fix Mr. Tartaglia.”
She interlaces her fingers and positions her hands at the height of his knees. She looks expectantly up at him. “Qiqi will help.”
Childe appreciates her resolve, but he’s not so far gone as to need or accept a boost from such a small girl. She’s not even as tall as Teucer, who’ll good-naturedly complain about how heavy his big brother has become with all the metal that’s been fused to his body.
“Thanks, Qiqi, but I’ve got this.” Childe can’t help but pat her head again. “Why don’t you see if Mr. Zhongli needs your help instead?”
“No. Mr. Zhongli said to help Mr. Tartaglia. Qiqi will help.” She gently nudges Childe’s less-injured leg with her interlocked hands.
“Alright then. But I can get on the table by myself. You can stand by to catch me in case I slip, okay?”
She nods and extends her arms with her palms up. “Qiqi will catch you.”
Childe sits on the edge of the table and gingerly swings his legs up. Qiqi fusses over the terrible crashing sounds made by his bionic leg against the table’s surface and she hurries to clear more space so he can fully lie down. His heart tightens with fondness and chagrin as she, like his siblings, clears far too much room so there’s a generous margin between him and the previously orderly rows of gears, wires, and handwritten notes.
The man from earlier reappears with a toolbox and a medical kit. The medical kit is similar to the one Qiqi used after his match, but the toolbox is about fifteen percent larger than the standard issue one and has a faint, golden outline of a diamond-like sigil on the lid. He helps Qiqi move more papers and metal parts elsewhere, before dismissing her. “Thank you, Qiqi, I’ll handle the rest. Will you wait outside?”
The little girl nods again. She looks at each of them in turn. “Okay. Mr. Tartaglia is too nice. Mr. Zhongli should make sure he feels better.”
With that, Qiqi solemnly waves farewell and goes to wait outside the entrance of the workshop.
Both men wave back. As soon as she’s gone, the machinist turns to Childe and introduces himself. “As you’ve likely inferred, I am Zhongli. You are Tartaglia?”
“Tartaglia is my name out there.” Childe points back in the direction of the arena. “I go by Childe.”
“Very well then. If you would, Childe, please lie down. Where does it hurt the most?”
Childe complies, easing himself back and down (and providing a new vantage point of Zhongli’s jawline). “Leg. Arms and shoulders, too. And there’re some slashes that feel like they’re on fire.”
Zhongli’s sharp, golden-amber eyes examine each of the areas. There is a sharp intake of breath when he gets to the smashed leg.
“You should see the other guy. He fell on my leg and I caved in his eye.”
“I don’t doubt that.” Zhongli gently rotates Childe’s leg and tests the outer paneling. “How does this feel?”
Now that Qiqi isn’t in the room, Childe lets himself grimace at the fresh twinges scorching up to his hip . “Not great.”
“Unfortunately, the seams have ruptured. There is significant damage, and the runoff has made it much worse. Ideally I would be able to salvage most of the inner workings, but we don’t have time for that. I need to take this apart by force.” With one hand still gently resting Childe’s leg, Zhongli leans close to check on the rest of his vitals—heartbeat, breathing, eyes. “Do you need to prepare?”
Childe nearly gets lost seeing Zhongli’s all-encompassing, amber eyes so near his. He starts to answer no, but suddenly there’s agony, searing fireworks of pain filling his vision, the sound of metal and circuitry tearing away from his leg, and Zhongli’s other arm driven against his chest to hold him in place.
It takes a second for Childe’s thoughts to catch up to the present.
Wow, he’s even prettier up close.
Ouch, that REALLY hurt.
Wait…he did that on purpose, didn’t he?
He can’t help but appreciate notice just how strong Zhongli must be to pin him down with one arm like this. Powerful enough to actually keep him lying here, while also gentle enough not to further aggravate his chest wounds.
“Breathe, Childe.” The weight of Zhongli’s arm lifts and the fireworks in his vision give way to a fuzzy version of the golden gaze and attractive features from before. “Stay still.”
Childe isn’t in a state to do much of anything else. He continues lying there while Zhongli tends to him, alternating between using items from the medical kit and the toolbox. Anyone who works at or near a gladiatorial arena has simple first-aid proficiency, but Zhongli’s familiarity with the medical kit betrays more training and experience than most.
The machinist’s touch is always gentle and precise. From what Childe can see and feel, there are no wasted movements as Zhongli works. He applies the same amount of care and experience to rethreading the wiring through Childe’s machinery as stitching shut the lacerations across his skin. Medical and mechanical treatment is contractually afforded to all indentured under Celestia’s purview and practitioners of various kinds must be maintained at all facilities, but meeting someone well-versed in both is rare. Maybe Zhongli is one of them because this is a more rural venue, like how a blacksmith might act as a doctor or dentist when there are no other options.
Aside from occasionally asking how Childe feels and reminding him to take deep breaths, Zhongli focuses on his work and doesn’t speak beyond the occasional “is that so” to Childe’s anecdotes or “how does this feel” while surveying his work.
Childe does most of the talking as Zhongli puts his leg back together. He gives a dramatic retelling of his match against the ruin hunter. He chats about the meal he’d been given this morning, about how much he misses forks and knives. He discusses his current journey in mastering the bow. He even throws in a flirtatious remark here and there, just to test the waters (none of which earn much of a reaction from Zhongli, save for the maybe-too-far line about eating with his hands—that one had netted a look that lasted half a second longer than usual).
Childe doesn’t mention his transfer to Qingce Stadium or the rumors about Liyue’s gladiatorial industry. He doesn’t bring up how he’d become part man, part machine, part monster. He certainly doesn’t say anything about his younger siblings, even though they’re all he’s thought about ever since he left. (Are they still safe? Are they eating enough? Are they remembering to lower the blast shutters all the way at night?)
Worrying about his family makes it hard to continue idly rambling about how warm it is and it’s not even summer yet. Childe forces himself to finish whatever sentence he’d been saying, then falls silent. He’s used to tempering his chattiness to the demeanor of whoever’s treating him, but this has been a long day and while Zhongli has been a good listener, he probably wouldn’t find it awkward if there’s quiet between them.
Childe doesn’t realize his eyes have closed until he opens them again and finds Zhongli hovering directly over him again. Childe blinks. “Hello there.”
“Hello.” The machinist places the back of his hand on Childe’s forehead. “I’ve taken care of the worst of it, but I want to conduct a full-body diagnostic when you’re able.”
A corner of Childe’s heart sighs sadly when Zhongli removes his hand, but Childe pretends not to notice. “How forward of you. Let’s at least have dinner first.”
“I suspect that can be arranged.” Zhongli pauses in putting away the medical kit to bring a hand to his chin in contemplation. “What time is your evening meal scheduled to take place?”
Childe’s jaw nearly drops open as he sits up a little too quickly. Before he can answer, a buzzer and an orange light go haywire over one of the larger hatches in the adjacent wall.
“Ah.” Zhongli glances at the hatch, then looks at Childe for a long moment. “Perhaps another evening. It seems I have additional work tonight.”
Amidst Childe’s fuming at the upset to their dinner plans, the hatch door lifts and a cart with the battered, still-smoking ruin hunter rolls into the workshop.
“All the same, you should return here tomorrow if possible, so I can re-assess the state of your healing and repairs.” Zhongli extends his hand to help Childe off the table. “I’ll clear it with Ningguang, and she’ll send someone to escort you here and back.”
Childe is still annoyed, but the promise of a future meeting is a little mollifying. “Tomorrow then.”
“Yes. Good night, Childe.” Zhongli dismisses him with a wave as he goes to examine the ruin hunter. Now that Childe is taken care of, all his attention is focused on the next item in need of mending.
Childe cautiously limps back to the workshop’s entrance. He’s even sorer from all that lying still and his leg creaks when he puts weight on it, but at least it’s not giving off sparks anymore.
Qiqi puts away a small notebook when she notices him approach. “Mr. Tartaglia is feeling better?”
Childe nods. “Thanks to you and Mr. Zhongli.”
“You’re welcome. Qiqi will take you back now.”
She leads him back through the stadium’s drab passageways, badging her way through doors and holding them open for him, eventually delivering him to the quarantine cell for new transfers.
Waiting for him on the floor is a tray of cold food. Childe picks up one of the chopsticks to poke at the steamed fish and charred vegetables that have gone soggy. He doesn’t mind whatever they feed him so long as it provides enough nutrition to keep him going.
He’ll get this down tonight, get some sleep, then hopefully see Zhongli first thing tomorrow for his follow-up appointment.
Welcome to Qingce Stadium.