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It was an open secret within the Fatui that Dottore, the Second of the Harbingers, managed to create multiple segments of himself. They were all distinct, cut from different periods of his life. Some were young, barely at the cusp of adulthood, while others were more mature in both age and experience. Not all of the segments would show themselves in public. As such, it was unclear just how many of them had truly been made.
There was, however, one segment who could often be seen by Dottore’s side. He seemed to be the youngest among them, seemingly below ten years old based on his appearance. He was a small thing, almost precious had it not been for his true identity. Ever the child, he always held onto Dottore’s hand whenever they were in public together.
Nobody, outside of a select few, knew of the truth. Unlike the other segments, whose creation had been a complex affair which involved Dottore having to split his soul and shaping them into mimics of his past, the circumstances behind the youngest segment was straightforward.
In fact, the segment wasn’t a segment whatsoever.
At least, not in the truest sense.
Rather, Dottore supposed that he was dearer to him than the other segments, who were simply just ‘him’. For his youngest ‘segment’ was, in actuality, his own flesh and blood. It wasn’t that he was a biological segment, as some would theorize after having seen him visibly age throughout the years.
He was Dottore’s son. His one and only; born inside a laboratory in lieu of a mother’s womb, yet one look at his genetic makeup revealed that it was composed not only of Dottore’s own, but also that of someone else’s.
It was an obscure memory.
Vague. Quite fuzzy every time he tried to recall it.
He had yet to be ‘born’. He was resting in a chamber that was meant to mimic a mother’s womb. Two voices were picked up by his developing ears. One was Dottore, who he would come to know as his father. The other was who he supposed was his mother. The two were arguing, or rather, his mother had been screaming at his father.
“—never wanted a brat!” His mother was overcome with rage. His tone seeped with bitterness, sounding as if he had been betrayed, “You extracted my… against my… How dare—?!”
Dottore didn’t seem the least bit affected by his outburst, with his tone quite dull, “…an experiment.”
“Experiment?!”
His mother’s anger had worsened. He wished that he could have opened his eyes and watched what had happened next. It was a shame that his own human fragility prevented him from both properly seeing and hearing the entire exchange.
Before his ‘birth’, Dottore would often talk to him. As did the segments, whose voices he soon learned how to differentiate. They would tell him about their dangerous experiments, their expectations of him, and even their menial concerns. Sometimes, his mother, too, would come to visit him and complain about how awful his father and his segments were. How he hoped that he, as a son to them both, would be an improvement upon Dottore’s callous nature.
He would curl his hands and kick his feet. His mother would rest his palm against the glass of the chamber where he had been kept. It brought him the barest of comfort as he leaned close to what he perceived to be his mother’s warmth.
The passage of time had been akin to a haze.
All that he knew was that, soon enough, he had been ‘born’. His frail body was extracted from the chamber, and he was then cradled within his father’s arms. He sniffled, shedding tears as he hid his face by burying it into his father’s chest.
“What’s his name?” He couldn’t tell who it was that asked that question. The voice was muffled, barely louder than a whisper. He wanted to believe that it was his mother, but he was never sure.
“Alpha. It means beginning.”
And, that was that.
Dottore’s son had been brought into the world—his skin pale, his hair a light shade of blue, and his eyes a brilliant blood-red. He resembled Dottore far too much. He was the spitting image of Dottore during his youth, coming across as another one of his segments rather than as his son. He didn’t take after his mother whatsoever. It was odd, but he never questioned it.
“It’s because I’m not human,” His mother would later explain, “I’m a puppet. I have nothing to pass down to you, which is why you’re practically your father’s clone.”
“If that’s the case, then how was I even made?” Alpha asked.
At the time, he was just a little over four years old.
His mother closed his eyes. His hand cupped his face, his thumb brushing against his cheek, before he combed through his hair.
He released a sigh, “I don’t know.”
Alpha never pried after that. He knew well enough to not upset his mother. It wasn’t as though he had ever been hit or even screamed at by him. However, there was an incident back when he was still learning how to speak, one that would forever haunt him. He recalled the look on his mother’s face that day. The downturn tug at his lips, the knit in his brows, and the disbelief in his eyes.
“Mama,” He had called him. Similar to how, at the time, he called Dottore ‘papa’.
His mother sucked in a breath, “Don’t… Don’t call me that. I’m not your mama. I’m nobody’s mama. Did Dottore tell you to call me that? If so, then disregard whatever poison he must have tainted your ears with.”
“M- Mama…?” Alpha’s bottom lip wobbled.
His mother fled the room. Alpha couldn’t understand what he did wrong. The next thing he knew, Segment 45 made his presence known and picked him up. He rubbed soothing circles on his back, comforting him before he could burst into tears.
“You’ve really upset him, huh? It’s okay. You’re still young so he won’t hold it against you. Just make sure to never call him that, or any iteration of that word, ever again. Do you understand, little one?” Segment 45 wore a strained smile on his lips. Alpha wanted to shake his head and say that no, he didn’t understand.
Why didn’t his mother want to be called that?
Wasn’t that who he was? His mother?
But, not wanting to cause more trouble, he hesitantly nodded, “I do.”
“Good boy.”
His mother didn’t visit him for a month. By the time he finally showed himself to Alpha again, he clung to his warmth, nuzzling his face into the crook of his neck as he was carried, refusing to let go of him any time soon.
He missed his mother.
He missed him so much.
“If you must, call me Scaramouche,” His mother said.
Alpha had been quick to agree. He babbled the name until the other segments wanted to either shut him up or have their ears surgically removed with how obnoxious he was being. Scaramouche merely hummed, approval making its way onto his features.
Alpha still referred to Scaramouche as his mother, but only in his mind. He did as he wanted. He called him Scaramouche both in public and in private, ignoring the slight ache that he felt every time he did so. At times, he would wonder if he was so unlovable that even his own mother refused to acknowledge him as his child.
He tried to ignore them. The intrusive thoughts that told him that he would never be enough, that his own mother would never accept him. He may have inherited plenty of Dottore’s traits, but he seemed to lack his ability to ignore the mean voices in his mind.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
As Dottore’s son, it was only natural that Alpha would inherit his mind. He possessed an eidetic memory, just like his father, and he could easily follow the complex discussions that the segments often had. Once he was deemed old enough, he was even allowed to participate in their more tame experiments.
As a child, however, he wasn’t immune to what the segments deemed as juvenile behavior. His current research proved as much.
“Why are you still hung up on investigating Aranaras? They don’t exist. They’re nothing more than a figment of children’s imaginations,” Segment 18 argued, frowning as he looked over Alpha’s shoulder to read the contents of his notebook.
“They’re real! They have to be!” Alpha refuted, “How is it possible that children who’ve never even met each other somehow have the same so-called imaginary friends? It doesn’t make sense.”
“It could be mass psychosis,” Segment 25 suggested.
“Shut up.” Alpha glared at him.
Segment 18 almost stumbled on his feet from laughing too hard. The segments may respect his intelligence and see him ‘as one of them’, but they also patronized him at times. They treated him as if he was nothing more than a foolish child, and in some ways, he was. Even so, it still hurt him whenever they disregarded his research simply because they have existed for centuries longer than he had. So what if he was still a child? That didn’t make him lesser than them.
It wasn’t fair. He scowled as he continued to write, ignoring the segments who commented on his chosen topic with an air of condescension.
“Let him study what he wants. Haven’t we all had absurd ideas at his age?” Segment 35 spoke from his corner of the room. The other segments relented, begrudging that he had a point. Alpha felt the slightest bit grateful, even if Segment 35, too, saw him as nothing more than a naive child.
His relationship with the segments was odd. It always had been, more so once he learned that his ‘father’ was actually split into five individuals, who were stuck in the ages that they represented for the rest of their lives. That his ‘father’, his true biological father, had been long dead centuries before he was even ‘born’. The segments, out of curiosity, decided to perform an experiment with what little genetics they possessed of the original Dottore.
The end result of such trials was him.
It was strange for him to witness the different stages of his father’s life. The segments may be the same person, but they each had their own eccentricities. More unusual was when he struggled to identify which of them would have been his true father had he still been alive.
Segment 18 was too young, in his opinion. Segment 25 didn’t seem to be the type to want a child of his own. As such, he viewed those two as his ‘older brothers’ rather than as his ‘father’, even if they had a right to the title.
He supposed that the older segments acted more like how a father should. Though, he had doubts about Segment 35, who was too engrossed in his research.
Segment 45 treated him gently. He was the most fatherly among them. Meanwhile Segment 65, the closest to the original Dottore’s age before he died, was comparable to that of a grandfather rather than a father. Still, no matter how he looked at it, they were all his father.
The segments were all Dottore.
He was Dottore’s son.
The distinctions he made between them were pointless as at the end of the day, he couldn’t deny their relations to each other. He could whine all night long that his family was complex, only for Segment 35 to pat his head and smile.
“Don’t concern yourself with such nonsense.”
And so, Alpha would listen and simply accept the truth that was. He was Dottore’s son, and there was nothing in the world that would change that fact.
He called them a variety of titles. Sometimes, he called them by their respective numbers, but there were also moments during which he called them father. Segment 45, in particular, usually pinched his cheek with such affection whenever he called him father.
“You’re such a good boy. Quite unlike your fathers,” He would say. Alpha didn’t know if that was a good thing, but that didn’t stop him from beaming at the praise before he tightened his grip on Segment 45’s hand.
There were days during which Segment 45 brought him outside. He deemed those ‘taking his son to work’ days, as he would typically lead him through the headquarters of the Fatui, allowing him to sit inside his office while he worked. He trusted that he could handle himself, leaving him all by himself whenever he was called for a meeting.
Alpha didn’t mind being alone.
He was just glad at the change of environment.
Segment 45 bought him plenty of toys and books that he could use to stimulate himself with. They were enough to keep him entertained. There was also how, on rare occasions, Scaramouche would pass by and choose to watch over him.
“You’re growing so fast,” Scaramouche commented as he measured his height.
“I’ll grow taller than you one day,” Alpha giggled, while Scaramouche rolled his eyes and lightly hit his head as he pretended to scold him.
“Don’t be so cheeky.”
Alpha pursed his lips, “How can I not be? I learned this from you.”
Scaramouche huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose as though warding off a headache that Alpha alone could summon into being. There was no real irritation behind the act. Alpha had learned, over the years, how to read his mother’s expressions, now aware of the subtle differences between his genuine anger and his playful jests.
Alpha swung his legs after he sat atop Segment 45’s desk. He scattered a few of the papers that had been stacked on its surface. He knew well that Segment 45 wouldn’t mind that much. He was the nicest segment among them. Scaramouche also didn't bother to scold him for the mess.
He simply watched him. His arms were crossed, as an unreadable emotion flickered behind his eyes.
It was moments like these that Alpha treasured most.
They were fleeting and quiet, rather unremarkable to anyone else. But, it was these shared instants that he longed for more than anything.
Scaramouche rarely lingered. He came and went like a passing wind, and Alpha had learned not to chase after him each time he left. Following after him only made him leave faster. Was it wrong for him to want his mother? It was a question that his mind asked whenever he sought him out and was turned down with a conflicted tone.
“Did I do something wrong?” He would ask the segments whenever Scaramouche avoided him. There were days when his mother did that—rushing away whenever they saw each other in the laboratory.
“No. None of this is your fault,” Segment 65 assured.
It felt hollow.
He didn’t quite believe it.
Segment 35 rested his hand on his shoulder, “Don’t take it to heart. Scaramouche just has a lot of complicated feelings, none of which are meant to burden you.”
Alpha hugged Segment 35’s leg. It was alright, he would silently tell himself. He was certain that, deep down, his mother cared for him. His father(s), for all their faults, often doted on him, and Scaramouche did too whenever he could bear to embrace him.
Once, in the dark of the night, Scaramouche visited his room. He heard his footsteps, and he pretended to be asleep, so as to not make him leave.
Scaramouche sat down on the empty space beside his bed. His hand caressed his cheek before he smoothed out the blanket that covered his legs, bringing it up to tuck in his entire body under its warmth. He did his best to not furrow his brows or twitch his lips, maintaining the facade that he was deep in slumber when his forehead was kissed.
“Oh, my boy. Don’t grow up so soon…” His mother began.
Alpha could hear his breath hitch.
“I can’t bear to lose you too.”
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
Alpha was eight years old when he lost his mother. It wasn’t that Scaramouche died, which he knew was an unlikely scenario due to his sturdy puppet body.
Rather, he lost his mother after he had been defeated in Sumeru. Segment 35 separated them, pulling him away when he tried to reach Scaramouche. Segment 35 now saw Scaramouche as nothing more than a failed God, a disappointment who he chose to abandon. Never mind the many years they spent together. Never mind that they had a son together.
“M- Mama! Mama…!” He tried to run to his mother after he fell, only for Segment 35 to cover his mouth and drag him away before anyone could see him.
“Didn’t he tell you not to call him that?” Segment 35 scolded.
“I want my mama. Please, let me go to him.” Alpha held back a sob, his voice muffled by Segment 35’s hand. He trashed within Segment 35’s hold, kicking and making a fuss that he would never normally do. He was usually a more behaved child, rarely disobedient that even the segments found it fascinating.
Now though, he was anything but.
He didn’t know why he was doing this. Time and time again, Scaramouche had pushed him away, leaving him to wonder why his own mother didn’t want him. But, just as many times as Scaramouche walked away, he also came back, still distant with his sincerity, yet gentle in how he treated him nonetheless. It was a constant back and forth that left Alpha wanting for more, yearning for the impossible day when his mother would finally accept and love him.
Please. He just wanted to embrace his mother.
Why did his parents even bring him to Sumeru? He had no purpose there. Perhaps, it was because Dottore had missed his homeland and had wanted to show it off to his son. Maybe, it was because Scaramouche had wanted him to watch as he ascended to Godhood.
None of it mattered. This entire trip had been a disaster from day one. Segment 35’s touch felt cruel for the first time in his life.
It scared him.
“Would you rather be imprisoned alongside him? Just because you’re a child doesn’t mean that they’ll treat you with any kindness. You’re our son, the embodiment of our flaws,” Segment 35 said, tightening his grip on him after he finally burst into tears.
The same day that Alpha lost his mother, he also lost his fathers aside from one. Segment 35 not only had chosen to leave Scaramouche in Sumeru, but in exchange for the Gnoses, he made a deal with the Dendro Archon to erase the rest of the segments. Alpha could only watch in muted horror as Segment 35 became the only parent he had left.
He was carried in the arms of a monster soon after.
“Come, child.” Segment 35 smiled sharply, “Let’s go home.”
The Dendro Archon frowned at him as she watched them leave. Had he known better than to cross Segment 35, he would have gone down on his knees and begged for her to at least allow him to meet with his mother one last time.
He didn’t though. Instead, he chose to bury his face into Segment 35’s shoulder, uncertain of what else he could do but cling to his father.
Some time later, after they returned to Snezhnaya, Alpha suddenly felt all the more hollow. Unbeknownst to him, he had forgotten his mother’s existence, leaving behind a gaping hole in his chest reminiscent of grief.
Loneliness followed Alpha wherever he went. With the other segments gone, the laboratory lacked any of the noise it once had. There were no longer any footsteps rushing down the hall. There were no more overlapping voices discussing an experiment. There were no hands to reach out for whenever he wanted someone to keep him company.
Only Segment 35 was left to accompany him. No. It was only Dottore now. The identity that had once been shared now only belonged to one.
It took a while, but he eventually had gotten used to the solitude. He had accepted that he would never be teased by Segment 18, nor be indulged by Segment 25. He was well aware that he would never feel Segment 45’s warm embraces ever again, nor would he ever hear any of the stories that Segment 65 shared every time he reminisced about the good old days.
All of that would forever be in the past.
It was only him and Dottore now. Him and his father, who seemed unaffected by the loss. He didn’t even care that his efficiency had plummeted significantly.
“Cheer up, child. There’s no point in dwelling in what’s long gone,” Dottore said.
“I hate you,” Alpha spat.
Dottore scoffed, “Get over yourself. You’ll understand when you’re older that what happened to the other segments was a necessary loss. As you should already know, life isn’t fair. One day, you’ll be faced with a difficult choice and you’ll be forced to do the same as I did.”
“It didn’t seem all that difficult of a choice for you.” Alpha could still recall Dottore’s sheer delight at obtaining the Gnoses. He saw no grief or regret.
Dottore stopped writing. He looked up from his desk and smiled threateningly.
“Careful, Alpha.”
His tone was almost daring. Normally, Alpha would know better than to talk back to Dottore. He wasn’t stupid. But, still reeling from everything that happened in Sumeru, he dared to talk back, just this once.
“Or what? You'll kill me too?”
The moment those words left his mouth, a cold emotion shifted behind Dottore’s eyes. It wasn’t quite anger, but it somehow made him feel smaller than he already was. It was then that Dottore stood up from his seat, pushing his hands against his desk, which made Alpha lose whatever nerve he might have had.
“I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” He stammered, shuffling his feet as he readied to leave.
“Go to your room. You’re grounded,” Dottore ordered, ending the conversation at that, as he then sat back down after he saw Alpha pathetically nod and do as he wanted.
He left without another word, wandering back toward the empty halls, toward his own room, entirely alone once more. He thought, not for the first time, that he might spend the rest of his life surrounded by the ghosts of a family that had never quite been whole to begin with.
He sat on his bed. Something was missing, but he didn’t know what.
Did he really miss the other segments that much? They did watch him grow up. They were his fathers too, and a large part of him wanted them back.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
“What are you doing here?!”
Alpha flinched as he looked up. He had been crouched down on the ground, picking on a few flowers out of boredom. Dottore had brought him to Nod-Krai, stating that he didn’t trust anyone to watch over him back in Snezhnaya, and that he would rather not leave him alone because he might do something foolish. His words, not Alpha’s.
And so, there Alpha was. Doing whatever he could to entertain himself while Dottore had been busy with his latest experiment. That was until someone interrupted him with a yell.
“W- Who?” Alpha was surprised when he saw a man, whose hair was dark and short, with his eyes a lovely shade of indigo, and his face rather beautiful. What was more of a shock to him was how this same man made his chest ache. He seemed far too familiar.
How could that possibly be?
“Do you know him, Hat Guy?” Someone from behind the man asked. He had lilac hair, bright red eyes, and a few draconic features such as wings, horns, and even a tail that curled around his leg. He certainly wasn’t human, at least, not entirely.
But also… Hat Guy. Was that the dark-haired man’s name? No. That sounded wrong. Why did that sound wrong? Wasn’t this the first time they have ever met?
Alpha stumbled when the two neared him.
“…Scaramouche?” Alpha mumbled as he furrowed his brows. Where did that name come from?
“You… You remember me?” The dark-haired man’s eyes widened. Was Scaramouche his true name then? If so, then why did Alpha know it? That didn’t make any sense at all. That was unless this wasn’t the first time that they have met.
Then how come he didn’t remember him? His memory was near-perfect. At least, it was supposed to be. He never would have forgotten someone like him.
Alpha’s head throbbed, a dull ache blooming behind his eyes as fragments of something long buried tried to claw their way to the surface. Warmth against glass. A hand cupping his cheek. A voice that trembled when it told him not to grow up too soon.
“I…” He pressed his hand against his temple, wincing, “I don't know. I don’t understand why I said that.”
The dark-haired man, Scaramouche, as his reaction had confirmed, took a step closer. There was something raw and desperate that flickered across his face before he schooled it back into indifference, “You shouldn’t know that name. No one should have been able to remember that name.”
“Then why do I…?” Alpha’s voice wavered, small and confused in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to be in years. An aching familiarity then clung to him like static.
There were gaps in his memory.
Why were there gaps in his memory?
He narrowed his eyes. There must be something that he was missing. Wasn’t he smart? He was Dottore’s son, ‘born’ intelligent just like his father. He should be able to solve this mystery. He should know who Scaramouche was to him.
Come on. He closed his eyes and forced himself to think harder. Connect the dots, you foolish, foolish child. Why did he know Scaramouche? What could he be missing?
It was hazy at first.
He heard the whispers of a familiar voice. He felt the warmth of a touch that he had long missed.
The gaps were filled in much slower than he had wanted, but surely, he began to remember. There soon was no longer a hollow space in his chest, nor a hole within his memories. His eyes welled with unshed tears when he finally opened them to the sight of Scaramouche looking at him with a crumpled expression on his face.
Alpha’s breath caught as he suddenly stood up. His knees buckled, and he might have fallen entirely had Scaramouche not lurched forward to catch him.
“Mama!” He sobbed as he clung to Scaramouche, “I remember you, mama!”
Scaramouche cradled him close, “Oh, my son. I’m here.”
He kissed the crown of his head.
“Mama! Don’t leave me again! Mama, please—!”
For once, Scaramouche didn’t recoil at being referred to as Alpha’s mother. He merely tightened his embrace, whispering sweet nothings, promising him that he would never abandon him ever again. For a moment, Alpha could almost believe that he was loved.