Archive of Our Own

1.

          When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by a sky so blue that he had to close them again for a moment.

          "…"

          White clouds of all shapes and sizes drifted overhead. Together, they resembled an enormous flock of sheep wandering at their own leisurely pace. Even the cloud farthest to the left looked like an especially funny-looking shepherd dog.

          He was lying beneath the canopy of a tree. The grass beneath his hands was lush and vividly green, brimming with life. Though the sun shone warmly overhead, the wind blew without pause, leaving the air pleasantly cool and dry instead of carrying the heavy humidity Sumeru so often had in the summertime. Urged along by the breeze, the flock of cloudy sheep seemed to move a little faster than before, as though their shepherd had begun hurrying them home.

          He blinked slowly, feeling blades of grass brush against his face as they swayed with the wind. There was no one else around. The only sounds were the distant murmur of water trickling through the nearby stream, the croaking of frogs, and the occasional splash as they leapt into the water. Somewhere on the trunk of the tree sheltering him, cicadas sang without end.

          Their chorus nearly lulled him back to sleep. Then, all at once, a strong gust of wind swept through the clearing, scattering fallen leaves into the air. Dust stung his eyes, and he reflexively squeezed them shut. Tears welled instinctively at the irritation, prompting him to rub at his eyes with the back of his hand.

          When he managed to open them again, the cicadas had long since fallen silent.

          There was no blue sky with drifting white clouds. No shady tree, nor the clear stream alive with the croaking of frogs. The lush green grass beneath his hands had become a bedsheet instead, and through his blurred vision he found himself staring at a gloomy, dark-blue ceiling. Beyond the narrow gap in the half-drawn curtains, snow was falling, as it always did in Snezhnaya.

          65 rubbed at the corners of his eyes, where crow's feet had long since settled. Turning toward the side of the bed where he had placed his mask the night before, he caught his reflection in the small mirror beside it. 

          A tired, aged face stared back at him.

          "...A dream, hm?"

          It had truly been a long time since he had last heard the sound of cicadas.

2.

          When he arrived at the dining hall, nobody was there yet.

          The dream had woken him earlier than usual. He couldn’t fall back asleep, and lying in bed any longer would only leave him feeling more tired, so he decided to start the day. There was little point in wasting time waiting around without purpose.

          Breakfast that morning consisted of pancakes, bacon, and sunny-side-up eggs. He was halfway through his meal when 45 walked into the dining hall. The man was wearing his Fatui cloak.

          The moment 45 noticed him, he gave a casual wave.

          "Oh, good morning. I thought I'd be the first one here today, but it seems you've already claimed the champion's spot."

          65 responded with a nod.

          "Morning meeting today?"

          "Obvious from my outfit, hm?" 45 quickly gathered his breakfast before carrying the tray over. He set it down on the same table and took the seat opposite 65. "I was tempted to ditch it, but alas, somebody has to maintain the image of Her Majesty's diligent and loyal Second Harbinger."

          He drove his fork into a pancake with more force than necessary. It looked suspiciously like he wanted to stab someone rather than the pancake itself.

          "Which the person actually representing us all couldn't even be bothered to do."

          "Omega went out again?"

          "Why else would I be here at this hour?" 45 grumbled between bites. "Even though we agreed he'd take turns attending the meetings to keep up with the overall situation, especially the important ones, he disappeared the day before just like the irresponsible scoundrel he is. I've given up counting how many times this has happened."

          "Did he mention where he was going this time?"

          "Not a word. Yesterday morning I saw him fiddling with some devices in the lab. By the time I went looking for him at noon, he was already halfway across Teyvat."

          45 took a long gulp of coffee, mumbling as the caffeine jolted each sleepy brain cell awake,

          "Should've poisoned the bastard when I had the chance. Oh well, next time."

          "..."

          65 looked at the grumbling man across from him while quietly stirring his own cup. He rarely had much of an appetite. As usual, after finishing half of his meal, he needed to rest for a while before slowly working through the remainder.

          "Are you only required to attend one meeting today?"

          45 shook his head.

          "The bad news is that there are three scheduled," he let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "I'll write my eulogy during the breaks and send it back to the lab, because I'm definitely going to perish before the day's over."

          "..."

          "You and the others could vote on who's attending meetings next. Or lock Omega up the next time you see him, and make him serve his duty properly."

          45 took a bite of bacon and chewed mournfully, as though he were already on his way to the execution grounds with a guillotine waiting for him.

          "I recall you promised 8 you'd help him assemble the machine the two of you read about a few days ago," 65 said evenly, like they were discussing the weather and not the consequences of 45’s metaphorical death. "Are you planning to leave the child to do it alone?"

          45 paused with a piece of egg halfway to his mouth.

          "Ah, right. I'd actually forgotten about that," he swallowed. "Guess I'll have to drag my soulless corpse back after all, if only so little 8 won't have to mourn good old me."

          "I doubt he'd do such a thing," 65 replied. "Though I imagine he certainly wouldn't be pleased."

          "Wouldn't be pleased?" 45 downed the rest of his coffee in one go. Whether it was the caffeine or the horrifying possibility that 8 might not cry over his death, he now looked fully awake. "Our relationship is worth far more than that. I deserve more than that. When the day finally comes for me to leave this wretched existence, his little face should be so puffy and red from crying that his eyes look like pancakes."

          Even with his face hidden behind a mask, 65's judgmental stare was clear as day.

          "That's only the bare minimum," 45 titled his empty mug toward 65. "I've barely scratched the surface."

          "And I have no interest in learning what else is going on inside that head of yours," 65 felt a migraine forming. "Don't you have a meeting to attend?"

          "So you're just telling me to leave outright, huh?" 45 drawled. "Fine, fine. I was about to wrap up anyway."

          He stood, gathered his tray, and carried it over to the counter for used dishes before returning it.

          One foot had already crossed the doorway when he suddenly seemed to remember something.

          "Oh, if you see 8, tell him I'll be back late. We'll have to postpone our machine-building project."

          "Very well."

          "Also, tell him not to go near my section of the laboratory. Some of the compounds there still haven't been tested."

          "Alright."

          "And tell him to go to bed on time."

          "...At this rate, all three meetings will have ended, and you'll still be standing here talking."

          "I feel a little offended, you know," 45 clicked his tongue. "I'm really leaving this time."

          With that, he finally stepped out of the dining hall.

          Just as 65 lifted his cup, intending to take a sip after all that talking had left his throat dry, he heard 45's voice drifting back from the hallway.

          "At least Pantalone will be there. I'll have to ask him for one kiss after each meeting."

          The voice grew fainter with every step.

          ^{"...Or maybe two after each..."}

          He let out a weary sigh against the rim of his cup. What a day.

***

          While he was slowly working through the remaining half of his breakfast, another person entered the dining hall.

          It was 25. When he noticed 65, he gave him a polite nod. A man of few words, as always. 65 returned the gesture with a nod of his own.

          The entire process of collecting his food, eating at the table beside 65, and returning his tray afterward took 25 no more than twenty-five minutes. He always minimized the time spent on anything unrelated to research down to the very second. So when he reached the doorway again, 65 simply gave him another nod in farewell, which 25 answered with one of his own.

          Then he was gone like he had never been there at all.

          A little while later, when 65 had finally finished the last bite of his meal and was sipping his tea, the sound of two voices bickering drifted in from the hallway.

          "My point still stands. The Aranara are a subject worthy of research—"

          "And what exactly are you researching? The correlation between their height and yours?"

          "You—!"

          Even before footsteps crossed the threshold, 65 already knew who the two belonged to. 

          "Someone as short-sighted as you could never comprehend their import—" 8 looked ready to kick 18 squarely in the shins before he noticed 65 sitting there. "Ah. Hello."

          "Bold words coming from someone who can't even reach the top shelves—" 18 had already begun rolling up his sleeves before his eyes landed on 65. "Hm? Oh. Morning."

          65 paid no mind to the fact that the two had been at each other's throats only moments earlier. It was an everyday occurrence by now.

          "Good morning, children."

          Had any of the other Segments called them that, they would have protested immediately. In fact, the first time 65 addressed them that way, they had done exactly that.

          But judged by age alone, 65 was nearly four times older than 18, let alone 8. Had they been ordinary humans, he could easily have been their grandfather. Besides, there was never any teasing in the way he said the word. To him, they simply were children. Eventually, the two of them gave up objecting and chose to pretend they were deaf to that word.

          65 took another sip of tea, watching them continue their argument, this time in lowered voices, as they made their way toward the serving counter. They elbowed one another the entire time, to the point that he wondered how neither of them managed to drop their tray.

          When they reached the dessert section, however, they both fell silent. A moment later, the whispering resumed.

          "Why's there only one left?" 

          "I told you to walk faster, and you didn't listen. Now look what happened."

          "So it's all my fault now, huh?"

          A brief pause.

          "...Which one of us walked into the dining hall first?"

          "...I'm not playing that game. I saw it first, so it's mine."

          "Very funny. Move over. It's mine."

          "No."

          "Stubborn, aren't we? Well, tell that to my hand, because it's about to move you out of the way."

          65 resisted the urge to rub at his temple.

          Perhaps the kitchen had prepared fewer desserts than usual that morning. Or perhaps 45 had eaten more sweets than normal. Earlier, when he had sat down across from 65 with his tray, one small dessert plate had already been empty while another identical one still remained untouched beside it. Maybe the reality of having to survive three meetings in a single day had convinced him to stockpile sugar beforehand.

          "One of you may have mine."

          Both 8 and 18 turned toward him at once. They watched as he held out the small plate with the tiramisu.

          "I haven't touched it yet, so you needn't worry."

          Breakfast alone had already been enough to fill him. Missing dessert for one morning would hardly matter if it prevented those two from strangling each other before the day had properly begun.

          8 and 18 exchanged a look, as though silently negotiating. Then, apparently having reached an agreement, 8 carried his tray over and held it beneath 65's outstretched hand.

          "Then, may I have it?" he asked.

          After a tiny pause, he added in a voice so quiet that 18 could not hear, 

          "...Please?"

          "Of course."

          He placed the plate of tiramisu onto the tray. 8 pulled it back, gave a small nod, and said with a serious face,

          "Thank you." 

          "You're welcome."

          By then, 18 had already taken the remaining tiramisu from the counter and settled at a nearby table.

          "You done over there, mushroom?" he called. "Breakfast's gonna end at this rate."

          "I'll finish before you do, even if I started later."

          "Big talk. Let's see if you can back it up."

          8 hurried over with his tray. Then the two of them immediately began eating with such enthusiasm that 65 found himself being surprised at how different they were from the person he had once been at their age.

          …If, back then, he had also had someone to quarrel with, he might have been the same.

          No use dwelling on maybes now, however. 

3.

          The rest of the morning passed with him brewing a fresh batch of Immortality Elixir alone in the lab.

          45 was usually the one in charge of it. But this time of year was the busiest in Snezhnaya, so his presence had been required at meeting after meeting over the past few weeks, leaving him a dried husk dealing with the endless paperwork. 

          Whatever free time remained was spent helping 8 with his projects. On top of that, he still had his own research to conduct, papers to write, and his scheduled visits to Pantalone’s residence to supervise the man’s health.

          In short, 45 had become a multitasking machine that was already hissing smoke from being overloaded.

          25 occasionally filled in instead, but he was currently busy with his own research. Omega was more like a guest passing through the lab than one of its residents. 8 was out of the question. And 18…

          Well. That left 65 as the only reliable option.

          He had finished writing his latest thesis a few days earlier, so taking over the task from 45 was not a problem. When he checked the storage earlier, Pantalone’s reserve of the elixir had already begun running low. It was better to replenish it sooner rather than later.

          When the elixir was complete, he opened the cabinet beside the wall and took out a row of empty glass vials. As he looked down into the cauldron, the rippling surface reflected an indistinct silhouette.

          He waited until the liquid became still. When his reflection finally settled into a clear shape, he somehow saw not the person he was now, but a youthful face without a mask staring back at him.

          It looked… oddly familiar.

          Like those afternoons in Sumeru, when he had still been a child and would run away to that grassy field to avoid other people. 

          The stream nearby had always run so clear that he could see fish gliding between the stones at its bottom. His reflection would gaze back at him. Short hair, downcast eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. Until he tossed a pebble into the water and shattered the image.

          The people in that little village had always called his red eyes the devil’s eyes.

          He did not know why he still remembered those words after all these years, when so many other memories had long since faded away.

          “...”

          He blinked, and his reflection changed. Long hair. A face hidden behind a beaked mask. A broad hat resting atop his head. The water was no longer clear and transparent, but a muted blue. Like decades had passed in the span of a single blink. 

          65 shook his head, dismissing the intrusive thoughts. There was work to be done.

          He dipped the ladle into the cauldron and began filling the empty vials. The surface of the elixir rippled beneath each movement, and his reflection dissolved once more. 

          Just as it had whenever he threw pebbles into the stream all those years ago.

***

          Lunch passed quietly.

          By the time he arrived at the dining hall, it seemed 8 and 18 had already finished eating and left. He did happen to meet 25 in the hallway on his way back to his room, and the two exchanged a nod before continuing in opposite directions.

          Early that afternoon, while searching the storage room for the tools he intended to use in his next experiment, he came across something unexpected.

          It was… an origami book. The lettering on its cover had faded, but after brushing away a thin layer of dust, he could make out the illustration of a paper beetle.

          The Segments rarely came to the storage room. The lab already contained everything they needed, and on the rare occasions they did come here, it was usually only to leave behind things that were no longer in use. Old instruments, preserved specimens, or reserve samples from past experiments.

          The books stored here had all belonged to Zandik when he was still alive. And perhaps it was because, after turning the book over and skimming the list of included patterns, his eyes caught the words flying cicada. Or perhaps he was simply curious why someone like Zandik would leave something that served no practical purpose here.

          Either way, when he left the storage room, the book went with him alongside the tools he had originally come to retrieve.

***

          The book was very old, considering it had been left in the storage room for more than three hundred years. Its pages had yellowed with age and felt as though they might crumble if he applied even the slightest bit too much force while turning them. At least it had escaped the moths.

          A bookmark had already been tucked into the section on the flying cicada. He picked it up for a closer look and found that it was a piece of paper folded into the shape of a bookmark. 

          When he unfolded it and carefully smoothed it flat, neat handwriting greeted him,

          Mass emergence may help the cicadas prevail. It's called a synchronized reproductive strategy. When many emerge at once, there are more than the predators can consume, so some will survive to reproduce.

          It was written using the Vedanagari script. 65 studied the words for a long while before turning the paper over, searching for anything else that might have been there. There was nothing.

          Eventually, he folded it back into its original shape and slipped it between the pages again before beginning to read the instructions. Tiny question marks had been scribbled beside several of the diagrams, as though Zandik himself had once become stuck there.

          The process was, surprisingly, rather complicated. The question marks suddenly made perfect sense.

          This was clearly not an ordinary origami book for children. By the time he had finally figured out how to fold the cicada halfway through, the entire afternoon had slipped away unnoticed. When he glanced out the window to check the time, dusk had already settled over the snowy landscape.

          Dinner passed without anything particularly remarkable either. 25 kept to himself as always, and even after finishing his own meal, 65 saw no sign of either 8 or 18. 

          So he returned to his room, continued studying the instructions, and resumed folding. Whether it was Zandik or the Segments, none of them were the sort to abandon something halfway through.

          Sometime that evening, he stepped out to the dining hall to fetch some hot water for tea.

          His room was on the same hallway as 45's. The first time he passed by, the room was silent. Not a sound came from within, nor did any light seep through the crack beneath the door. 45 had probably not returned yet.

          The second time, as he walked back carrying a kettle full of hot water, he noticed a figure standing in front of the room.

          In the dimly lit hallway, it was difficult to make out who it was. His eyesight was no longer what it used to be at sixty-five, so after studying the small silhouette for a moment, he called out based on his best guess,

          "What are you doing here at this hour, child?"

          The figure jolted. By the time he reached it, he found 8 looking up at him with wide, round eyes. The boy was already dressed in his nightclothes, a thick coat draped over his shoulders.

          "Did you lose something around this area?"

          "...Has 45 come back yet?"

          Only after hearing that question did 65 realize he had somehow forgotten to pass along 45's message that morning.

          "Ah. He said he'd be back late tonight, so the two of you will have to reschedule your project."

          He also recalled the other messages—tell 8 not to go near my section of the laboratory and tell him to go to bed on time. It was rather too late to mention those now.

          8's expression didn’t change. Yet he noticed the way the boy held the thick book pressed against his chest, his fingers tightening around it after hearing those words. Without a doubt, it was the book on machinery that 45 had promised to go through with him.

          "It was my carelessness that made me forget to pass his message on to you. My apologies."

          "...It's alright."

          But if 8 had come all the way here in the middle of the night looking for 45, then how could it possibly have meant nothing to him? He must have waited in his room until now, expecting 45 to return from the meetings. Then, as one hour after another slipped by without anyone knocking on his door, he must have finally grown restless enough to come looking himself.

          65 watched the small figure turn around and quietly begin walking back the way he had come. Perhaps it was because that back looked too small beneath the cold hallway lights, or perhaps he simply wished to not have his ear talked off by 45 when he caught wind of this.

          Either way, he found himself speaking again. 

          "I'm having a little trouble with my new project."

          When he saw 8 stop walking, he continued,

          "If you have the time, would you consider lending me a hand?"

          8 stood there for a moment, seemingly thinking it over. When he turned back toward 65, his expression was a little brighter than before.

          "I can help."

4.

          "Are the wings supposed to look this weird?"

          "I suppose not," the sound of pages turning filled the room. "This diagram shows the larger pair of wings near the head, while the smaller pair is partially hidden beneath them, closer to the lower half of the cicada."

          "...And the one we folded has all four wings in different sizes."

          Sparks drifted up from the fireplace before fading like tiny fireworks, filling the room with soft crackling. Their light spilled across the two figures seated at the table, stretching their shadows into strange, wavering shapes that danced across the floor with every flicker of the flames.

          "If we backtrack to this step," 65 said, pointing at the page, "Isn't this fold supposed to go outward instead of backward?"

          "No wonder it felt illogical when we first reached that part." 8 pursed his lips.

          Scattered across the table were several crumpled balls of paper that looked suspiciously like failed attempts. The origami book rested in the middle of the mess. Beside it sat two porcelain cups of tea, now only faintly warm instead of steaming hot as they had been when first poured. Quite some time must have passed.

          8 held up the strangely shaped cicada, his round cheeks puffed ever so slightly with frustration.

          "I never thought this form of art could be so complicated."

          "So did I," 65 swept the paper failures toward the edge of the table. "One more attempt."

          After multiple tries, they had finally reached the last step: the wings. Neither of them paid any attention to the time anymore. If they failed to finish the cicada tonight, both of them would be too stubborn to go to bed. In that regard, the youngest Segment and the oldest were surprisingly alike.

          Somewhere in the middle of folding yet another one, 8 spoke without looking up from the paper.

          "Do you think a cicada could still fly if half of its wings were missing?"

          Perhaps he was only wondering whether he should just fold one pair of wings and give up on the other, judging from how tightly his brows had drawn together while he stared at the paper as though willing a hole into it.

          But because Zandik had always been a walking encyclopedia, forever ready to recite whatever knowledge happened to be relevant, 65 found himself taking the question seriously. He searched through his memories, recalling what he knew about entomology.

          "I doubt that would be the case," he replied. "Insects generally rely on a balanced, symmetrical pair of wings to generate lift and maneuver through the air. If a cicada were to lose a significant portion of its wings, it would most likely only be able to jump and flutter back down to the ground."

          That immediately caught 8's interest. He lifted his head up with a curious look on his face.

          "So... technically, it would die?"

          "Not immediately, no. It could still walk, climb, and survive on the ground or among the trees for a time."

          "Then it would eventually die."

          "A vital part of its body would have been permanently damaged, so yes. Perhaps it would perish sooner than the others of its kind."

          8 looked down at the half-finished cicada in his hands.

          “So we have to finish both pairs of wings if we want a normal cicada, not a defective one.”

          65 felt that interpretation rather missed the point of his explanation. Even so, he nodded.

          “Indeed.”

          8 scrunched up his little face before taking a deep breath.

          “...I refuse to let something of this calibre defeat me.”

          That was all he muttered before diving back into folding. 65 looked over the instructions in the book once more, then resumed working on his own paper.

          For a long while afterward, the only sound filling the room was the crackling of the fireplace. Every now and then, he would glance up from his work to look at 8.

          The other had disappeared almost entirely beneath a thick blanket, with only his head and two small hands left exposed. Tonight was colder than usual. So even with the fireplace burning and the heavy coat he had brought with him, 8 had begun shivering after sitting in the room for a while.

          So 65 had fetched a spare blanket for him. Even after more than three hundred years, 8 had never truly grown accustomed to Snezhnaya’s weather. It was expected, though. At eight years old, Zandik had still been living in Sumeru. 

          After some time, he noticed that both cups of tea had gone completely cold. He rose from his seat, carried them over to the kettle, and brewed two fresh cups. 

          Just as he returned to the table, a knock sounded from outside the room.

          “It’s me. Have you happened to see 8 anywhere?”

          He set the teacups down as 8 looked up from his paper.

          “He’s in here. Come in.”

          The door opened. A rush of cold air swept into the room at once, making 8 shrink even deeper into his blanket cocoon.

          Standing outside was 45. He was still dressed in his Fatui cloak. Perhaps he had gone straight to 8’s room the moment he returned to the lab. Finding it empty, he must have begun thinking through the places 8 might have gone. His own room was probably the first place that came to mind. 8 rarely ventured out at night, which was the coldest time of day, without a destination.

          When he walked down the hall, however, he noticed light still spilling from beneath 65’s door. That was unusual. 65 was normally the earliest among them to retire for the night. So he had knocked without hesitation.

          “Are you two having a sleepover while I’m away?”

          Closing the door behind him, he walked over to the table. The firelight caught the snowflakes still clinging to his white cloak, making them glitter like tiny falling stars.

          “Whatever’s going on here certainly looks interesting, but today’s already drained every last bit of energy out of me,” he rested his hands on his hips and sighed tiredly, sounding as though half his soul escaped with the breath. “So I’ll be borrowing 8 and knocking myself unconscious with him as the teddy bear for the next ten hours. You two can continue your project another day.”

          With that, he reached his arms toward 8.

          8 immediately shrank further into his chair, avoiding the lingering cold radiating from 45. He even ducked his head beneath the blanket, leaving only two red eyes peeking out like a rabbit hiding inside its burrow.

          “You’re cold.”

          45 glanced down at himself, then at the cocoon of blankets occupying the chair. After a moment’s thought…

          He simply scooped up the entire blanket.

          “Wha—”

          8 let out a startled yelp.

          The blanket slipped from over his head with the sudden movement, and his little arms instinctively wrapped around 45’s neck to steady himself. 45 adjusted his grip before turning toward the door.

          “I’ll return the blanket later,” he called over his shoulder. “Need to appease this picky little one first.”

          Then he gave the bundle in his arms a gentle pat on the back.

          “Say goodbye. Time for bed.”

          Still looking thoroughly bewildered, 8 gave a small wave.

          “…Goodbye?”

          65 returned the gesture with a nod.

          Then 45 disappeared, carrying away the burrito blanket with 8 tucked inside it. He came and went like a sudden gust of winter wind, leaving astonishment in his wake.

          65 lowered his eyes to 8’s half-finished paper cicada, then to the one on his side of the table. It seemed he would have to finish folding it by himself before going to bed. 

          His little project partner had, after all, been kidnapped to the land of sleep.

5.

          There was an old story that went like this.

          Once upon a time, a man dreamt he was a butterfly, fluttering here and there, to all intents and purposes a butterfly.

          He was conscious only of his happiness as a butterfly, unaware that he had ever been anything else. Soon he awoke, and there he was, veritably himself again. Yet he no longer knew whether he had been a man dreaming he was a butterfly, or whether he was now a butterfly dreaming he was a man.

          If the man's question were asked in earnest, then perhaps somewhere there existed a parallel story. A butterfly fell asleep and dreamt that it was a man. Then it awoke, wondering whether it was a butterfly that had dreamed of being a man, or a man dreaming he was a butterfly.

          No clear answer had ever come from the tale. Even after all this time, it remained one of the best-known anecdotes in philosophical literature.

          And perhaps, one of the most irritating.

***

          Later that week, it was his turn to visit Pantalone's residence and check on the man's health.

          The snow had stopped a few days earlier, so he hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella with him. Halfway there, however, it began snowing without warning. The flakes quickly thickened until it resembled a storm. By the time he arrived, snow had clung to every nook and cranny of his clothes.

          Unbeknownst to him, in Pantalone's eyes he looked rather like a penguin that had fallen through a crack in the sea ice and climbed back out again, thoroughly soaked. The resemblance was not helped by the beak mask or the fur lining the shoulders of his overcoat.

          "Why didn't you find somewhere to wait until the snow passed?"

          Pantalone asked as he tossed another log into the fireplace.

          "I wished to honor our appointed time." 65 replied.

          He was now dressed only in a simple vest. His outer layers, damp with melting snow, had been removed and hung on a coat rack a safe distance from the fire.

          "And you've already seen every side of me over these past hundreds of years. A little mishap like this would hardly be enough to throw a wrench into our schedule."

          Pantalone walked over and took his seat opposite 65 at the tea table. He poured tea into both cups before looking up at 65 through the thin curls of steam. His long, dark lashes fluttered faintly. 

          "I must say, it's not often that I get to see you in such a disheveled state."

          "I may not look my best today, but there will surely be many more days like this in the future. No matter whether it's a snowstorm or a blizzard, coming to see you will always take priority."

          Pantalone's eyes curved into crescents as he smiled.

***

          After the usual questions regarding Pantalone's health had been asked and answered, their conversation gradually drifted to other matters.

          "So little 8 was kidnapped while the two of you were in the middle of your sleepover?"

          "I would call it a project," 65 corrected. "But yes, he was retrieved by 45. I did not see him again until halfway through the following day. He even had red marks on his face, most likely from sleeping for too long."

          Pantalone let out a quiet huff beneath his breath. Whether it was the image of 8 wrapped up like a blanket burrito and carried away by 45, or the thought of him sleeping through half the next day after being caught up in 45's exhaustion that amused Pantalone, 65 couldn’t quite tell.

          "And what exactly was this project that kept the two of you awake so late?"

          "It consisted of analyzing and practicing... origami."

          Even though it was the truth, 65 somehow found it rather childish to say aloud.

          "The model we attempted to recreate was fairly advanced, so it took considerably longer than we had anticipated."

          "Oh? That is rather different from your usual research. What made you decide to pursue it?"

          65 fell silent. His mind instinctively sifted through everything connected to the origami book, and to Zandik. The Segments had long since reached an unspoken agreement never to mention Zandik in front of Pantalone unless Pantalone himself chose to do so, which he never had.

          It was a grave that was never to be disturbed.

          "...I happened upon a book about origami and found myself fascinated by it."

          "Is that so?"

          One of Pantalone's elegant brows arched.

          "Sometimes you and the others develop such sudden fixations on the most unexpected subjects that I can't even say I'm surprised anymore," he rested his chin lightly against one hand. "What was the model?"

          "A flying cicada."

          For a fleeting instant, an image appeared in Pantalone's mind. 65 and 8 sat together at a table, surrounded by a mountain of crumpled paper, stubbornly folding increasingly absurd-looking cicadas. Then 45 burst into the room, scooped up a blanket-wrapped 8, and disappeared just as abruptly, leaving behind only a bewildered 65.

          He bit the inside of his cheek to hold back his laughter.

          "I can see you trying not to laugh, dear," 65 sighed. "Your shoulders are not nearly as subtle as you believe them to be."

          "Pfft—"

          Pantalone failed spectacularly.

          "My apologies," he managed between laughs. "I was... caught off guard."

          Despite saying so, it took him another moment before his laughter finally subsided. 65 gave up trying to preserve the conversation's dignity and instead focused on the examination. His fingers rested lightly against the thumb side of Pantalone's wrist, feeling for the pulse.

          Pantalone had removed his gloves earlier for the checkup, and 65 had done the same. One of Pantalone's smooth hands now lay within 65's wrinkled, calloused one, while the fingers of his other hand measured the steady rhythm beneath the skin.

          "The pulse is slightly slower than it was during our last visit," he observed without looking up. "Have you experienced any shortness of breath, fainting, fatigue, or chest pain this past week?"

          "Nothing, Doctor."

          "For the moment, it may simply be low blood pressure or poor circulation. Still, if you notice any abnormalities, inform whichever Segment is examining you at the time."

          "Very well."

          Silence settled between them once more. The examination had already finished, so there was no longer any reason for him to continue holding Pantalone's hand, yet he didn’t let go.

          Pantalone offered no objection either. He merely tilted his head slightly, looking toward the frost-covered window beside them.

          "Cicadas, hm?" he muttered absentmindedly. "I've only ever seen preserved specimens, never a living one."

          "Cicadas are cold-blooded insects," 65 explained. "They depend on warm air and direct sunlight to regulate their body temperature. Unless they are warm enough, they cannot fly, sing, or mate. So they cannot survive in places as cold as Snezhnaya."

          Pantalone had spent four hundred years in all the coldest places. Beyond business, he had never shown much desire to travel elsewhere. So it was hardly surprising that he had never seen a living cicada, which was a creature that belonged to warm forests like those of Sumeru.

          He had spoken only a simple fact. There was nothing more to it. Yet somehow, 65 found himself thinking of something else entirely.

          A journey back to Sumeru with Pantalone by his side. To the grassy field where he had spent half of his childhood, and to the sound of cicadas singing beneath the summer sun. He wondered whether that place still existed.

          But the only one who had ever possessed the right to take Pantalone there was Zandik, who had lived every stage of that life. 65 was merely the fragment carved away when Zandik had lived past that age. 

          Even the memories of childhood he carried had never truly belonged to him. He was only sixty-five, and only sixty-five he would ever remain. Forever fixed at a single point in time, no matter how many centuries continued to pass.

          He thought of the paper cicada resting inside the pocket of his coat. He had finished folding it that night, intending to give it to Pantalone. But now it felt like nothing more than an imitation. Compared to a living cicada somewhere beneath Sumeru's summer sky, a paper one seemed absurdly insignificant. Much like himself when placed beside the Zandik who had died centuries ago, for even a preserved specimen carried more value than folded paper ever could. 

          And he was already far too old. Far, far too old for feelings this impulsive and unreasonable, yet he couldn't stop his rationality from being clouded with jealousy all the same. He couldn’t even remove his mask while being with Pantalone, for his aged face always made the other fall silent, reminded without fail of a man who no longer existed.

          So he mentioned none of what he was thinking. His thumb merely traced the faint blue veins beneath the pale skin of Pantalone's wrist. Then, very quietly, he said,

          "...It seems the snow has stopped. Shall we go for a walk?"

6.

          He was back at the grassy field again.

          The cicadas were everywhere this time. On the ground. On the trees. Their brittle, brown shells littered the earth as well. If he looked closely enough, he could even spot some still climbing out of the soil through narrow tunnels, beginning their slow ascent toward the surface.

          The noise was overwhelming—a chorus of shrill cries that rose and fell without end. Among them, he noticed a few cicadas paler than the rest. They were the youngest, newly emerged from the earth, their soft exoskeletons not yet hardened. He picked one up between his thumb and forefinger. It neither bit nor stung him, merely wriggled helplessly in his grasp.

          Cicadas were neither poisonous nor venomous. They had no means of harming him. Their only desires were to drink the sap of trees and find a mate before the end of their brief lives.

          Carrying it with him, he walked toward the nearby stream. When he looked down into the water, the face of a child looked back.

          Was this truly his own childhood? Or was he merely borrowing a memory that had once belonged to Zandik? Was he a human child dreaming of becoming a Segment born from his own future? Or was he a Segment dreaming of being the child whom the people of Sumeru had condemned as nothing more than a manifestation of sin and heresy?

          The young cicada continued struggling between his fingers. For a fleeting moment, he thought of crushing it into a smear of pale flesh. Or tearing away half its wings, condemning it to spend the remainder of its short life as something defective among its own kind, just like him.

          One day, he too would surely perish in the flames, just as the cicada eventually would beneath Sumeru’s relentless summer sun. It was inevitable, like a curse that had settled into his blood long ago.

          Perhaps it would happen only after years spent dragging this body onward with a bottomless abyss hollowing out his insides. Like a cicada robbed of its wings, able only to leap again and again toward a sky it could never truly reach, until one day it finally died from the absence of the very thing that should always have been there.

          But in the end, he merely set the young cicada back onto the ground, watching it scramble frantically toward the others.

          It was futile to inflict such cruelty upon something so small.

***

          When he awoke, the window beside his bed had long since frosted over, the snowfall from the night before leaving the glass clouded white.

          There was no view of the world beyond. His gaze shifted to the bedside table, where his mask rested. Beside it stood the familiar small mirror. The face reflected in it was deeply lined with age. His red eyes were dull, lacking the sharp brightness that still lingered in the younger Segments.

          He looked at himself for a long moment. Then, without a word, he turned the mirror face down.

7.

          Quite some time passed before he saw Omega at the lab again.

          The man was standing in the hallway leading to the garden behind the laboratory. Fortunately for him, 45 was away attending yet another meeting. Otherwise, there was a good chance 45 would have truly jumped him and tied him to a pillar for slipping away from his turn to attend meetings yet again.

          When 65 approached, Omega didn't even turn his head before speaking.

          "Long time no see."

          "Likewise."

          The two of them stood shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the snow-covered garden. Trees in Snezhnaya never truly had leaves. They existed only as black trunks and bare branches, dry and sturdy enough to endure the endless cold. The grass was no different.

          Even the Segments living within this laboratory were not truly alive, either.

          "I passed through Sumeru during my trip."

          Omega was the one to break the silence. 65 turned his head toward him, waiting without a word for him to continue.

          "I only stopped to gather a few materials I needed. The old grass field happened to be nearby, so I went back to take a look," Omega hummed. "Surprise. It was turned into a cemetery long ago. The trees are gone, and the stream's been filled in."

          "...I see."

          A sudden gust swept through the garden. Snow clinging to the branches and the frozen ground burst into the air, swirling so wildly that the world before them resembled an upside-down sky trapped inside a snow globe.

          Somehow, 65 felt as though he, too, had been sealed inside one. His world overturned, his stomach churning, despite the fact that the body he inhabited was no longer truly human.

          Omega let the wind strike against him without a word. The fur draped over one shoulder fluttered in the wind like the wing of a crow. Or a cicada with one wing torn away.

          "When the cicadas emerge..."

          65 spoke at last.

          "Kill the adult one only."

          He knew Omega would pay any price in pursuit of his ambition—the ambition of Zandik at thirty-five. He understood it all. Even if those memories had only been borrowed from Zandik, he had once lived through that age himself. And the original had already been crossed out. So there was no reason for Segments like him and the others to hold any value in Omega's eyes.

          If given the opportunity, Omega would certainly kill every Segment if doing so furthered his objective, although how remained impossible to predict. The only thing capable of weighing against that ambition was Pantalone. Yet even Pantalone could not stop a man who had already chosen the path toward his own death.

          Omega finally turned to look at him. The faint smile that usually rested upon his lips was nowhere to be found.

          "And why should I?"

          He understood exactly what 65 meant. Because they were both Zandik, whether either of them liked that fact or not.

          "Because eliminating the young ones would be futile."

          At that moment, 65 suddenly remembered the words Zandik had left behind inside the old origami book. 

          Mass emergence may help the cicadas survive.

          Cicadas emerged from the earth all at once after spending most of their lives hidden underground because predators could never consume them all. If enough appeared together, some were destined to survive.

          He felt no sympathy for the other Segments. It was simply the law of nature that the oldest died first. First the original, then himself.

          He had always known that one day he would have to die. Zandik, and every Segment born from him, had been fated for death from the moment they came into existence. Like a cicada with only half of its wings remaining, they would still try to fly toward the sun, even if they would fall before reaching it.

          Even after four hundred years, he still greedily wished to remain beside Pantalone. But if that could no longer be, then perhaps someone younger would be better than an old man who could only face Pantalone while hiding behind a mask.

          8, diligently folding paper into impossible shapes. 18, stuffing food into his mouth while yawning from too many sleepless nights. 25, covering every inch of the blackboard with calculations. 45, somehow coming within a hair's breadth of setting the laboratory ablaze every other week.

          If Pantalone had to watch every one of them die, he would only be forced to relive the day he lost Zandik. But if only one of them had to disappear, then perhaps if he offered himself as a sacrifice…

          ...that would be the last mercy he could secure for the one person he had ever loved.

          "Think carefully before you act."

          He knew Omega understood exactly what would happen if every trace of Zandik vanished from Pantalone's life. So that was the only warning he offered. 

          Then he turned and walked down the hallway, leaning lightly upon his cane. Behind him, Omega remained where he stood, silently watching his back until it disappeared from sight.

8.

          Some more time passed. One morning, he arrived at the dining hall at the same time as 8.

          The two of them stopped before the dessert counter, looking down at the lone mousse cake behind the glass. It seemed there was only one left that morning. He was about to tell 8 to take it, but the other beat him to it.

          "You should take it."

          When he looked down, the boy's little face was scrunched up as though he were making an incredibly difficult decision.

          "You gave me yours once before, so I'll let you have this. Then we'll be even."

          He spoke of being even while looking every bit the eight-year-old child he had remained ever since his creation. Somewhere inside that little head, he still remembered that tiramisu cake.

          And 65 just looked at him, at the child he himself remembered once being. Now the place where they had spent that childhood no longer existed. There was nowhere left for either of them to return to. They would remain forever in this land of eternal snow, never to see that summer sun again, and 8 would never be aware of that.

          "You can have it," he said eventually. "In return, how about helping me complete that unfinished project, like you did before?"

          One slice of cake in exchange for a helping hand. He had already finished folding the flying cicada long ago, yet he offered the bargain anyway, and didn’t examine his reason for such an illogical action.

          It was hardly a trade. But perhaps it made perfect sense inside 8's mind, or perhaps the boy simply liked sweets a little too much. Either way, he only considered it for a moment before giving a firm nod.

          "Deal."

9.

          "Are you having a migraine?"

          It was his turn to visit Pantalone again. What greeted him upon arriving, however, was the sight of Pantalone nearly disappearing behind several towering stacks of paperwork.

          Judging by the dark circles beneath his eyes (which had become more like bruises by this point), the pallor of his face, and the slight unfocusedness in his gaze, Pantalone had only slept a few hours the night before. 

          Work came first. If that meant sacrificing sleep, then so be it. That was what he said while his fountain pen ran out of ink yet again.

          65 would have none of that. He promptly pulled Pantalone out of his chair, marched him to the sofa, and pressed him down onto the cushions before sitting beside him.

          "I suppose so," Pantalone removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Their shoulders were close enough to touch. "It's been rather persistent, but nothing serious. I'll close my eyes for a while, then go back to work."

          "Your Doctor is sitting right beside you, yet you still treat your health as though it were an expendable resource?"

          "Fine, fine. There are important documents waiting for my signature, but I suppose a short rest won't hurt."

          65 plucked the glasses from Pantalone's hand and set them on the tea table. Pantalone blinked his aching eyes a few times before leaning sideways, resting his head against 65's shoulder. He buried half his face into the soft fabric there, sighing quietly.

          65 had extinguished the lamps earlier to prevent Pantalone from reaching for the paperwork again. The sky outside was its usual dull grey, letting little daylight through the windows. The only remaining light came from the fireplace, flickering across the room.

          It was hardly enough for someone whose eyesight had deteriorated as much as Pantalone's. Without his glasses, he was basically blind.

          "I've been looking for merchants capable of transporting living insects between nations."

          After a long stretch of silence, Pantalone spoke again without opening his eyes.

          "Our conversation the other day left me unexpectedly curious. Unfortunately, I don't think I'll ever have the opportunity to see living cicadas myself."

          A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

          "So I thought I'd bring them here instead. They told me the cicadas in Sumeru are among the most well known, so that seemed like the logical place to begin."

          "...Bring them to Snezhnaya?"

          "Mm. They're still researching how to keep them alive throughout the journey. The climate difference is rather troublesome."

          "I suppose it isn't impossible?"

          "Perhaps. I myself think it's only a matter of time. Nothing money can’t buy, afterall."

          65 lowered his gaze to his own hands. He imagined holding a living cicada between them once more. And the sun of Sumeru would never reach this frozen land, yet somehow, for the first time in four hundred years, he thought he could almost feel its warmth again.

          He had neither a past nor a future. The present itself was only borrowed time. Even so, greed stubbornly refused to die inside him, though he had believed it should have vanished the moment he relinquished his own right to continue existing to Omega. 

          So he asked for one final indulgence. Or perhaps one last mercy before willingly walking himself to the execution grounds.

          "May I ask for a kiss, dear?"

          Pantalone remained silent for so long that he thought no answer would come.

          "...You may."

          65 removed his beak mask and placed it beside Pantalone's glasses. His wrinkled hands gently lifted Pantalone's head from his shoulder, rough fingers brushing lightly against smooth skin. When those violet eyes opened, he thought he saw the roses of his homeland again.

          He knew Pantalone's vision had long since deteriorated beyond repair. Without his glasses, everything before him must have dissolved into little more than blurred shapes. Even so, his old, weary heart still stumbled when those unfocused eyes settled upon his face. A face so terribly similar to Zandik's that even he himself could scarcely bear to look at it.

          So he kissed one closed eyelid, and Pantalone instinctively shut the other. Then he kissed that one as well. He looked at that eternal face as though trying to carve every line of it into himself, so deeply that even death would never be able to erase it. Only then did he lower his head and press a gentle kiss against Pantalone's lips.

          He could never return to his homeland anymore, but perhaps he had found another place to belong.

          When they finally parted, their lips remained so close that he could still feel Pantalone's breath. And he had believed himself resolute, but instead, the words escaped before he could stop them, whispering against those lips that felt like the sweetest temptation this frozen land had ever offered,

          "...May I have another one?"

          Pantalone laughed. Then he wrapped both arms around 65's neck and pulled him in for another kiss.

10.

          Some nights later, 8 knocked on his door.

          He had brought along the thickest coat he owned to fend off the night's cold. It nearly swallowed his small body whole with how oversized it was. If he wanted to move quickly in it, perhaps rolling would have been faster than walking.

          This time, 45 had been informed of their little project beforehand. He would come to pick 8 up once he finished his experiment in the lab. Until then, the evening belonged to the two of them.

          65 said nothing about the flying cicada he had completed after their previous session was interrupted. Instead, he unfolded another sheet of paper and began again alongside 8.

          The scene wasn’t much different from that first night they had sat together. But there was a small glass bowl of colorful candies rested on the table now. Every so often, 8 would take one to keep himself from growing sleepy. His little feet swung absentmindedly beneath the table while he bent over his paper with determination.

          For a long, long while, the room remained quiet. Only the soft rustle of folding paper accompanied the crackling of the fireplace. He didn’t know how much time had passed before—

          "It's finished!"

          8 held up the paper cicada triumphantly. His round cheeks were faintly pink, either from the cold or from excitement. 65 had finished his own cicada some time earlier, and had been drinking tea while quietly watching the boy ever since.

          "Excellent work."

          He nodded. 8 carefully placed the two paper cicadas side by side, even adjusting them until they were perfectly symmetrical. He admired them with unconcealed satisfaction, nodding solemnly like a tiny old scholar.

          "We make an adequate team."

          "It seems we do."

          8 reached for his drink. Because 45 had complained that 65 should stop serving tea to children before bedtime since it supposedly caused insomnia, despite 65 explaining it was a calming herbal blend, tonight the teacup had been replaced with a glass of warm milk.

          A white ring smeared around 8's mouth after he lowered the glass. He reached for a handkerchief and wiped it away, somehow resembling a kitten cleaning its face with its paws.

          Now there was nothing left to do but wait for 45. 65 glanced toward the window. For some reason, a snowstorm had risen outside. The weather had been calm for several days, the snowfall even stopping for a time as the air grew slightly warmer, so this was unusual.

          Perhaps this would delay the transport of the living cicadas to Snezhnaya. It was a pity. 

          Setting his teacup down, he looked back toward 8. The boy had leaned halfway across the table, resting one cheek against the wood as he stared at the two paper cicadas. His expression was unexpectedly troubled.

          "...Cicadas have brown shells."

          "Hm?"

          "This paper's white," he poked one of the folded insects lightly. "You can tell they're fake."

          "Would you like to paint them?"

          8 lifted his head immediately.

          "Do you have paint?"

          65 considered the question.

          "I believe I do."

          He pushed the hem of his coat aside and started to rise. But then…

          Pain.

          A sharp agony exploded through his chest without warning. His hand slammed against the armrest before he could collapse, fingers gripping the wood so tightly they nearly cracked it.

          It hurt. It hurt too much. As though his insides were being ripped apart and stitched back together over and over again. His breathing hitched. The room blurred, the world turning cloudy like a landscape viewed through frozen glass. He doubled over, one hand clutching his chest, desperately trying to force the pain away. Why—

          Omega.

          The name surfaced instantly. And suddenly everything fell into place. Only one possibility could make a body that was no longer truly human suffer like this.

          Omega had found something worth exchanging for 65's existence.

          "...Ah—!"

          A cry rang out. But it wasn’t his own. He had been biting down hard enough to tear his lips apart. Then—

          His eyes snapped open.

          8 had fallen from his chair. His tiny body was curled tightly upon itself, his face twisted in unbearable pain.

          There was no time to think. Instinct moved first. He lunged forward just in time to catch 8 before the boy struck the floor. 

          The two of them collapsed together. 

          "Why—"

          The boy's words dissolved into a fit of coughing. At that moment, the door burst open.

          "8!"

          45 stumbled into the room. 

          He must have been on his way here when the pain began. Without hesitation, he pulled 8 from 65's arms and pressed the boy tightly against his own chest, shielding him as though his own body could somehow block the consequences of Omega's choice.

          "Damnit—" 45 hissed through clenched teeth. The veins along his jaw stood out sharply. "I always knew that bastard would betray even himself. But erasing every single Segment is just utterly despicable.”

          8 trembled violently. Supporting himself weakly against 45's chest, he forced his head up. His face had become as white as paper. Being a Zandik himself, he understood immediately.

          "Omega… He'll regret this..."

          The words barely escaped him before his face crumpled. His eyes reddened, and tears shimmered at the corners.

          And 45, the same man who had once confidently declared that 8 ought to cry himself hoarse if he ever died, now looked utterly lost at the sight of those tears.

          Awkwardly, he tightened his embrace around 8. There was nothing else he could do. Because the truth was that all of them would likely die here before long.

          So, trembling himself, he forced out a crooked laugh,

          "When Omega finally gets sent to hell, we'll beat him up together, alright, little 8?"

          65 leaned against the leg of the table, silently enduring the agony while watching the two Segments cling desperately to each other.

          If even the smallest among them had not been spared, then Segments 18 and 25 must also be somewhere in the laboratory at this very moment, struggling against the same slow death. 

          "...Sheer foolishness. How could I have been so shortsighted back then?"

          How could the thirty-five-year-old Segment of Zandik have been so blind, willing to sacrifice almost everything merely to obtain what he desired, despite fully understanding what that choice would do to Pantalone?

          And how could he himself have been just as blind, believing that offering only his own existence to Omega would be enough?

          With trembling fingers, he reached into the pocket of his coat. When he withdrew his hand, a paper cicada rested in his palm. It was the very one he had chosen not to give to Pantalone.

          His fingers slowly curled around it, as though he intended to crush the thing into nothingness. 

          "..."

          But in the end, he stopped. 

          His hand loosened and fell limply to the floor, much like the day he had released the young cicada back into the grass all those years ago.

          It was futile to inflict such cruelty upon something so small.

          The sensation in his body gradually faded, numbness spreading through him as though the cold had frozen him from the inside out. 

          And suddenly he thought of the sun of Sumeru. Of the warmth of Pantalone's skin, which seemed to burn him every time he touched it. Of the living cicadas he would never have the chance to see. 

          Before his eyes finally closed, he found himself thinking that perhaps, if hell existed…

          It would be nice if it were warm, and filled with the sound of cicadas singing.