Archive of Our Own

Mitya has long since learnt to tune out the sounds of the Armory Palace around him when he is at work on his office - needing to think without the distant hum of generators, the clank of machinery, and the occasional creak of the building around him. It doesn't always work, but his method is to measure his breathing, close his eyes, and pretend that he is sitting in his favourite seat at the theatre, waiting for the curtain to rise. 

He imagines the whisper of the audience around him, making the most of the time before the curtain opens, their whispers echoing softly from the sweeping rafters. Then he imagines the stage lights coming aglow, and the main hall's lights dimming (here he dims his overhead light, and turns on his desk lamp) as everyone falls into a reverent hush. Next the great rasp of the curtains opening, a sudden gasp in unison from the audience as they hold their breaths, and then a great sigh of awe as the first performance begins. Finally, he imagines music, picking his favourites from the usual shows on rotation (he has them memorised by now), humming the tunes lightly under his breath. 

If all goes well - and it goes well tonight - then the music fills his head and drowns out the noise, and he can finally think clearly. Mitya's mind is at its sharpest when he is sat in the theatre, surrounded by beautiful things and watching beautiful people, but it'll have to be enough to mimic the experience when the theatre is closed, and the guards by the Palace doors will hardly let him steal out into the cold night. 

On the desk in front of him is a form. There is only one thing he must do, and that is sign it. Mitya has been carefully ignoring its presence in his office for the past week, but his deadline for response is fast approaching, and he will have several people to answer to if he doesn't provide one - whether it is a signature or a rejection. 

The particular performance he is reciting first debuted three months ago. There is nothing in particular that sets it apart from the troupe's usual fare, but something about its simplicity makes it comforting. It starts with a gentle string quartet, playing a short, sweet prelude to the night - then a more energetic concerto, in preparation for the rest of the orchestra to join in. Mitya hums his way through mostly the first violins' part, though he shifts where the melody suits him, scribbling idle notes in his ever-thickening notebook. The form remains untouched as he scribbles calculations and schematics, pausing only to twirl his pen around his fingers or occasionally stick it between his teeth. 

He has just about reached the interval when his scarf suddenly shudders to life, and before he can start the second act, it reaches for the form and pulls it neatly into the centre of his gaze. Mitya tries to avert his eyes, but the scarf, maddeningly, follows them wherever they go, before finally resorting to forcibly holding open his eyelids when he tries to close them. 

"Fine, fine," Mitya sighs, finally reaching out to take it. His scarf gives him a thumbs up, clearly pleased to have bullied him into doing what he's paid for. 

He skims the proposal. The paperwork is all in order. The hypotheses are sound. These are useful tests, and even if they don't get what they're looking for, the data will be helpful to his own studies. He can't expect every researcher in the organisation to wait around for his instruction, even if he's the one that has to approve their major experiments. 

But it will require a lot of Kristal. Much more than he can afford to allocate to them, if he wants to keep his own experiments running - and he must, for the higher-ups very much have their eyes on his work in particular - even including the back-up stockpile that protocol requires they keep. He could simply reject the proposal, of course, but then there would be questions. And the proposal is meticulously researched, cited, and justified (better then he could have done it, to be honest): he would have nothing to bring up but the energy issue, which would hardly be an issue in their eyes. Simply divert some more Kristal to the Armory Palace, easy-peasy. Isn't that what Project Stuzha is for?

Mitya contemplates it. He turns the issue over in his mind, over and over, around and around, and slowly its abstract image warps and re-coalesces into something else. A silent white swan, revolving on the stage. Act Two has begun. His scarf stretches and falls in its equivalent of a sigh, but allows him his indulgence as he begins to spin in his chair as well, holding the paper before his eyes without quite seeing it. 

The music is slow, mournful, and he can imagine its sadness in vivid detail if not the exact notes of the cello: she moves as if under a shroud, her gaze always distant, something heartbreaking and fragile in her frame despite the strength in her limbs. She stretches her arms in supplication to the heavens, as if begging the wind to come and take her to the skies once more. Mitya sees the ballerina's clear lilac eyes gazing distantly upwards, as if she wishes for her arms to transform into great white wings and take her up to the rafters, out of the theatre, and into the distant clouds - and his heart soars with her, a swelling and pounding in his chest.

Until finally the music draws to mournful diminuendo, and she sinks to the stage. She lies there, unmoving, as the curtains draw closed, and Mitya's own rendition of the orchestral accompaniment dies out similarly. 

His chair comes to a stop. His office spins around him for several more seconds afterwards. Mitya blinks, and then pauses. 

He turns. There's nothing there; the night is silent, the air undisturbed, and he feels only the firm presence of his own company. He could simply put it down to the lack of sleep, paranoia caused by his post-spinning dizziness and the ambient sounds of the Armory around him. There's nothing out of place at all, except...

...he did not leave his door open. Yet there it stands, half-ajar, the darkness of the corridor behind it.

His scarf rises behind him like a dog on its hackles, and he stands from his chair with faint trepidation. The other researchers should be home and asleep in their beds by now, and anyone who would come see him would have certainly have made more noise as they approached - not that they're the types to play a prank like this in the first place. 

Mitya takes a step towards the doorway, and then finds a knife at his throat. 

Somehow, without making a sound, someone had slipped into his office. The moment he had turned his back, they moved like a paper-thin blade through the air, barely causing a breeze even as they pinned both his arms and scarf behind his back. Mitya freezes, a gasp caught in his throat. 

"Who are you?" He asks, strained. No response. "...if you want something from me, you're going to have to say it."

A soft scoff. It comes from somewhere below his ears, so the assailant is shorter than him - but much physically stronger, he can already tell. Breaking out of their grip by brute force isn't going to work. 

"My name is Lelek." Their voice is low and measured, and muffled as if coming from behind a mask. Mitya would venture to say that it is a woman's voice, but he can't quite be sure. "Do you know who I am?"

He lets out a slow exhale, careful not to move too quickly should the knife find cause to slip, but already some of the tension is bleeding from his shoulders. "I do. I don't believe you've ever done a personal consultation before. Should I be honoured?"

"In a way." The blade brushes the skin above his carotid briefly, as if in warning, and then Lelek pulls it away for long enough to turn his head to his desk. "That proposal."

Don't tell me this is a roundabout way of getting me to do my work, thinks Mitya. "...yes? What about it?"

"Reject it."

"Okay."

There's a pause. Lelek clearly isn't expecting the easy cooperation. Mitya decides to fill the silence by explaining himself. "I wasn't sure I wanted to accept it, either. At this stage of Project Stuzha, I can't imagine asking for even more Kristal to be diverted to us, you see? But I'm in a hard place here, too. There'll be questions if I reject such a perfectly sound proposal, and they don't care about the feedstock needed."

"It is not perfectly sound," says Lelek, voice cool and disguising well any surprise they may have felt. "Have you even read it properly?"

"I— well, yes, I—" To tell the truth, Mitya has not thoroughly read anything in a very long time. He's far too used to skimming. "—perhaps you could let me have another look?"

A quiet sigh. "...fine. I'll let go of your hands. But you will keep your back to me, and you won't make any sudden movements. If I have any reason to do it, I won't hesitate to drive this knife into your back."

Mitya knows when a threat is empty, and this is not one of those times. He swallows a nervous chuckle and says, "Yes, of course, I understand."

The pressure on his back disappears. Strangely, he feels himself still burning where he had been touched. The shadow skulks behind him as he takes slow, careful steps to his desk and picks up the proposal again. 

Something blunt pokes into his back. He only just keeps from full-body flinching. 

"The whole thing," says Lelek.

"The whole thing?" He asks blankly, then realises. "Oh! The whole thing..."

He turns to his inbox, where the final three pages of the proposal have been sitting for the past week, untouched since his first skim-through on the first day, hidden under two heavily annotated graphs and a crumpled bill from the theatre. Conscious of Lelek's incredulous eyes on him, he reads it carefully, word-by-word, line-by-line. Then he throws it down on his desk and flings his hands up in disbelief. 

That, surely, would count as a sudden movement, but apparently Lelek has deemed him harmless enough to let it slide. Mitya fights the urge to turn to them with a grimace, but settles for slumping his shoulders dramatically. 

"I had no idea," He says. "Really, I'm ashamed."

"You ought to be." Lelek almost sounds amused. 

"Well, the good news is that I can reject this thing with a clear conscience now," Mitya says, surveying the three pages with a great deal of disdain. They are, like the previous ones, perfectly written and cited - the issue now are their ethics. "I don't know how they thought they'd get away with this. Well! Goodbye to their dreams of academic glory. Good riddance."

There is a silence. He wonders, inexplicably, if he has disappointed Lelek somehow.

"...I suppose that takes care of my first objective," They say at last. "But..."

"Ah. I couldn't have expected that to be all, can I?" His scarf wriggles restlessly. Mitya wills it to calm down. Not yet. "The illustrious Lelek certainly wouldn't visit a humble scientist such as myself without asking their most iconic question. You want me to vote against Project Stuzha, and—"

"I understand it will be difficult for you."

"—you must— pardon?" Mitya fights, once again, the urge to turn and look at them. "What did you just say?"

"You are the face of the entire operation," They say.

He winces. "Well, I wouldn't go that far—"

"Everyone in Snezhnograd knows that your research decides what is done with the diverted Kristal." The blunt thing presses briefly into his back again. "It would be ridiculous for the energy expert to vote against obtaining more energy. And that is why you will do it."

"They know you're manipulating the votes, you know," Mitya tells them, his voice beginning to lose its humour for the first time. He is a man of reason, and he hates when people refuse to see it. "Every time another major vote changes, the only word in the Veche is your name. You think they won't question it?"

"They will."

"And that's what you want?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"I'm sure I could make a fair stab." He fights the urge to sweep an arm at the room around them. "I am, after all, a scientist."

"You are a scientist in an office a hundred miles away from anyone who suffers the costs of your research," spits Lelek, and the words are like poison, sizzling white-hot into his skin. "Tell me, of the seventy-three people who have died to the cold in the past month, how many of their names have you bothered to learn?"

Mitya is silent. Lelek scoffs. In their passion, the knife has slipped somewhat, and he can tell the angle at which it is held by its shape against his back: the tip is pointed back and away from him, most likely with the sharp edge facing upwards. 

"None," He says finally, his voice low and melancholic. "But that doesn't mean I don't regret them. Someone like you, who has no idea of the magnitude of any of this - you have the right to ask questions, but not to presume."

"Since when have I presumed? I've asked you questions, and you've given me answers. Telling ones. But I've never presumed to know anything."

They're talking too much in their passion, and giving away too much in the process. Mitya's ears prick at this, picking apart at the meaning beneath. 

"Ah," He says. "In other words, you already do know. This is an inside job."

A tiny shift in their stance, the smallest drop in the knife's angle - Mitya seizes the opportunity, knowing this is likely the furthest their guard will ever drop, and twists backwards. His scarf flies to defend his neck as he lifts his knee and drives it into their—

—hard midriff, and rather than doubling over in pain, Lelek simply seizes him by the wrists and slings him around them like a sack of potatoes, then slams him into the floor, pinning his scarf to his back with their knee. 

As Mitya's face becomes very acquainted with the metal floor, he can only hope that someone downstairs might have heard the thud. 

"That was foolish," says Lelek, voice unmoved, and he can't help but feel rather embarrassed. "You have a Linchpin. Why wouldn't you use it?"

"So do you," He shoots back, and though he can't see their face, the shift in the distribution of their body weight indicates subtle surprise. "There's a certain connection that one can sense, if they pay enough attention. Why won't you use it? Because it is too unique to your civilian persona, perhaps?"

Their knee digs into his back, and his cheek squashes a little further into the metal. He feels his heart quicken, a strange heat spreading across his body despite the frigid cold that Lelek seems to exude. 

"The two of us could implode this room from the inside out if we were to duel it out," He pants, voice wavering when Lelek presses harder, his arms beginning to ache with the strain. "I'd rather not do that. There's a lot of work in these four walls."

"I could destroy it all," says Lelek - lightly, as if only entertaining the idea. "Bring Project Mistilteinn to a grinding halt. Then what happens to Project Stuzha?"

Mitya tries to disguise the brief flash of panic at the name - how does Lelek know about Mistilteinn? How much do they know? Only the name? He sincerely hopes that it's the name, and they've only dropped it to unnerve him. "Nothing happens. If anything else, it accelerates. The Tsaritsa will want to recover the lost information quickly, and the quickest way would be more experiments. Besides, almost everything in here has a copy in—"

Suddenly he stops, his mind moving at a million miles per hour and his mouth unable to keep up. A memory - only a brief one - has resurfaced, an obscure detail in an old report, and the new array scribbled in the most recent page of his notebook. Then surely— perhaps—

𒈓𒈙

𒈓𒈙𒈓𒈙𒈓𒈙

𒈓

—eureka! He thinks, but cannot quite remember what it is he is thinking about.

He opens his eyes and blinks. His face is still pressed to the metal ground, and it does not feel as if anything changed. But his mind is suddenly blank and filled with fuzz, and he doesn't remember closing his eyes in the first place. It's the sensation of a daydream, of waking up from an unexpected nap, but what in the world could have possessed him to fall asleep? Had Lelek drugged him?

Mitya shifts, then pauses. The weight of Lelek remains on his back, but something about it has changed. They're slumped over slightly, pressed against his shoulder blades with what feels like their elbow digging into his back. They're lighter than he had expected, from the way they had tossed him as if he weighed mere feathers. 

He braces himself experimentally on his forearms. Lelek's dead weight slips down his back. Despite himself, he feels a flash of worry.

"Lelek?" He lifts his torso a little further, and this is finally enough to shift their body off-balance. A wisp of hair ghosts over the back of his neck as they slide away, and somehow even the soft landing of their body on the floor is silent. 

He turns. A hood is drawn over their head, and a masquerade mask covers the entirety of their face, but a single lock of hair has escaped. Its colour is warped somewhat by the shadows and warm lamplight, but he can see that it is a soft blue, not unlike his own. Their body is well-hidden in the folds of their cloak; he can see that it is smaller than his own, but hardly fragile in build. 

Lelek's head lies limply on the ground, mere inches from his hand. Sprawled on the ground with their black cloak fanning out around them, they look like a crow struck from the sky, surrounding by a pool of shed feathers. Mitya cannot stop himself from reaching out to unmask them.

It is curiosity, of course, and a desire to know who it is who has been terrorising the rich and turning their stoutly-held votes in the matter of a night. Lelek is an enigma, one that invites both fear and fascination: their dogma is both clear-cut and shrouded in mystery, its only known fact being their vendetta against Project Stuzha. But before tonight, they have not been seen. Their shadow steals in and out, only perceivable by the negative space left behind. Their voice has never been needed before. 

So what is it about Mitya that has changed their modus operandi? He finds himself needing to know - needing to shake them awake and ask them, to hear their truthful answer. To hear their voice again at all, the memory of their weight and touch lingering on his skin still: a fascination that burns, a heart stirred only in scientific interest, in the need to know more that has driven him all his life. In this moment - on this night - it is directed only to the masked stranger lying before him. 

His fingers meet the cold porcelain of the mask. It is a well-crafted, robust thing, and one he recognises. A piece of traditional Snezhnayan art, rooted in an old tradition practised by fishing villages in the south - nothing like the theatre practised here in the city. It almost slips from his fingers, but he begins to lift - and then Lelek snaps back to life. 

Their body shudders and takes in a harsh breath. He cannot see their eyes through the mask, but he knows that they are staring at him. 

"Hello," He says, smiling. 

Lelek responds by swinging a leg upwards, hooking it around his ankles, and sweeping him straight into another restrictive hold. 

"What did you do?" They ask, voice dangerous. "What just happened?"

"I don't know - honest." They've given up trying to keep his eyes off of themselves, and now keep his back against the metal, cold fingers gripping his chin as if to force him to talk. "You don't remember, right? Neither do I. It seems like we both lost consciousness for a moment."

He widens his eyes, tries to make them see the breadth of his honesty. The impassive mask stares at him for a moment, but it too must sense that what just happens defies common reason, and they relax a little. 

"Then it doesn't matter," Lelek says calmly. "Shall we finish our discussion?"

"Right— Project Stuzha." He swallows. The situation hasn't changed much from before the strange lapse in consciousness, and there is no fear pooling in his stomach, but suddenly his throat his dry and he feels his heart pounding. "Well, my friend - I barely attend the Veche, anyway. I can tell you that my bosses would hardly consider my vote important - after all, I work for them. Even if I were to vote against it, it's more likely that they'll see it as an eccentric act-out. I might even be punished."

Lelek's grip on his chin tightens and presses the back of his head harder into the wall. Mitya realises after a moment that he is holding his breath as tiny lights burst and bloom before his eyes. 

"Many innocent people are being punished for the sake of your research," They say calmly - even lazily, as if they know he will not fight back, as if they know his life is almost perfectly happy to sit in their hands. "Isn't it your turn to make a sacrifice?"

"This is a delicate game to play. I'm sure you understand that already." For their work to be so perfectly un-delicate, they must. "And I must admire your tenacity. But I'm afraid I do not have the swaying power you seek, even if I do set out to vote."

"It won't be your vote alone." 

"What?"

Lelek's knee digs into his stomach. "You are going to pull out of Project Mistilteinn."

"...ah."

Mitya relaxes. Now that the cat is out of the bag, he feels much more at peace. 

"Unfortunately... I can't do that."

Lelek's silence only invites him to explain. 

"It won't be enough to halt the experiment," Mitya tells them. "Even if you kill me now, they will continue. I'm a useful expert, certainly, but the work will go on without me. I'm sorry, but there is nothing you can do to stop this project from moving forward."

"Then explain to me what this project is. This weapon you are building - who is it pointed at?"

"...you may not understand it."

"Try me."

"How many history books have you read?" Is he really about to do this - divulge this secret? The Jester could have his head for it. But the words spill unbidden from his mouth, and he finds an old-fashioned delight in it - in explaining something new to the unknowing. "The Tsaritsa's goal is the Heavenly Principles. The governor of this world and the originator of its laws - humankind's creator and shackler. I don't fully understand it myself, but it seems that our goal is to kill something even greater than a god."

The silence - or close enough, as the sounds of the Palace are unquenchable - is solid. Lelek's mask stares at him for a long time, as if to as whether he thinks they're a fool. Mitya gazes back, trying to place all the weight of this information - the weight he has felt on his shoulders - the weight of whatever destiny the Tsaritsa expects them to fulfil - in his earnest eyes. 

"...you know," Lelek says after a moment. "I almost believe you."

Mitya smiles. "Almost?"

"It tracks," They say shortly, and their body sags a little. "In short, trying to end Project Stuzha is fruitless."

"I wouldn't say that," Mitya says. "Turning votes makes Lord Pulcinella nervous, but it also gives him reason to enact change. We have been trying to find new sources of energy. We know that using Kristal isn't sustainable, either. There isn't enough Kristal in all of Teyvat."

"Then why keep going?"

"The Tsaritsa decrees it." He offers an ironic grin. "And we, all of us, are loyal to her. But that doesn't mean there isn't wiggle room."

Lelek sits back. Their guard is down entirely now, and if Mitya wished it, he supposes he could make an attempt to arrest them again, or else an attempt to run for it. But he doesn't. 

"You are strange," They say at last.

"If you almost believe me, then I suppose I am almost your ally," Mitya replies, and smiles. "And we can continue to push as many different pressure points as we can find on either side until something gives. I give you my word that as soon as I find the pieces - as soon as I have my breakthrough - I will end Project Stuzha by my own hand. But Project Mistilteinn must continue. That is non-negotiable."

"...I suppose that will do." Lelek finally stands. Mitya massages at the sore spots on his torso, and finds that the imprint of their cold hands leave his bare skin colder still. 

They watch him cautiously as he stands as well, every line of their figure taut like a bowstring about to snap. But Mitya only dusts himself off, and offers them a charming grin. "I don't suppose you'll let me walk you out?"

"Don't push it," They warn. "You are not out of my sights just yet. If I find that you are making poor decisions..."

The glint of their knife at their hip finishes the rest of their sentence. 

"You don't seem worried that I might call for help," He points out. "Or that I might tell everyone you were here as soon as you've left - or give a detailed description to the officers trying to track you down."

"You won't," Lelek says simply. "Not if you value your life."

"I don't know... I can't say I didn't enjoy you manhandling me like that."

This, finally, is what breaks their composure. They stiffen on the spot, whipping around to face him with what he is sure must be an incredulous expression under their mask. He looks back without shame, and Lelek lets out a huff, then bodily shoves him back into his own chair by the collar.

"You talk too much," They grumble, and disappear out into the darkness without a trace. Like a feather blown by in the wind, and at once it is as if they were never here to begin with. 

Mitya sits quietly for a long, long time. His scarf dangles limply at his side, only twitching slightly when he finally spins back to his desk, to the form waiting by his pen, and strikes a harsh line through the box in a single motion. As if nothing had happened at all, the faint strains of music find their way back into his mind, and now he finds himself humming again - something light and airy, a figure in white soaring as if lifted by winged slippers. The only indication that anything happened at all remain the feverish beat of his heart, and the faint outline of fingers on his wrists and jaw.

In the morning, he will tell the researchers that their proposal was a sham, and he will tell anyone who asks that the marks on his face were the result of falling asleep on his desk after a long night's work. He will keep the memory of tonight wound up in a white-hot ball in the pit of his stomach. For once, he doesn't feel the need to ask why. Only the need to keep it close.

He spins in his chair again, humming to himself a much pitched-down version of an aria. The expression that spreads across his face is much akin to a lovesick grin.

Mitya goes back to work as usual the next day. Things do not feel as if they've changed, but he finds himself more conscious as he reads reports, asking more questions about the sources of their Kristal rather than simply thanking the foreman and getting back to work. Three days after the shadow graced his office, another important vote changes sides at the Veche, and Lelek's name is peppered all over the papers again. 

He finds himself collecting the clippings. He reads the accounts - both the factual and fanciful - and begins consulting Veche transcripts for their name. He asks some of his coworkers for old papers they might have around the house, telling little white lies about using them as insulation or wrapping paper, and picks through them for those five letters, too. 

Piece by piece, he puts together a clearer picture of the Lelek in the public eye. Ruthless, absent, mysterious - never seen, never heard, yet the terror they inflict so all-encompassing that it turns nobles' allegiances in a single night. Yet there are lines they won't cross, certain morals that are never stated but clear in their doctrine. The world spectulates and theorises, and Mitya remains the only person in all of Teyvat who has met Lelek in person. And the exclusivity delights him.

He replays that night in his memory over and over, and he finds himself staying late at his office even more often than usual, always hoping against hope that the shadow will darken his doorway again. He almost wants to act out - attend a Veche and announce what stunning progress they're making - at his most extreme, order an extra shipment of Kristal to be diverted to the Armory - if only it will force them to return to his side again, even if only to plunge a dagger into his heart. 

But he does not, and they do not, and the Lelek of that night remains only in the rhythm of his heart and the heat of his cheeks, only to be roused when the hours are late, and he has only himself for company. 

Valeriy notices the shift in his disposition. Mitya has a reputation for being absent-minded outside the lab at the best of times, but the recent shift has taken a turn for the theatrical. He hums to himself even more then usual, a strange spring in his step, his hands finding their way to his own throat and jaw, pinching himself on the wrists as he pauses to observe a newspaper stand. He practically dances his way up the steps to the theatre, and Valeriy is giving him an odd look as they get into line to present their tickets.

"What is wrong with you?" He asks plainly. Valeriy has never been one to mince words - it's quite refreshing. "You've been acting insane for a week."

"My friend, surely it's obvious?" Mitya resists the urge to spin on the spot, barely short of clicking his heels. He settles for spreading his arms. "I am in love!"

"In love?"  Valeriy repeats incredulously. "Is that some kind of a joke?"

"Think what you like," Mitya says breezily, though he is not entirely sure himself. This feeling, like flying, like burning up - he has never been in love before, but he has always imagined it might feel like this. The part where he'd been unsure whether he'd live to see morning, not so much, but he almost enjoyed that the most. 

They file in to their seats - Valeriy, again, chooses to sit on the next one over to maintain a healthy distance, even though the sofas can easily seat three people apiece - and Mitya settles back, his hand already tapping on the hard cover of his notebook through his pocket. The lights go down, the curtains go up, and another show begins. 

Today is exciting. All shows are exciting, of course, but today is doubly so, because the prima ballerina is debuting a brand new dance. Mitya hadn't even been able to get his usual preview tickets, as quickly as they had been bought up by her truly ravenous fans. But there are always a few reserved for the critics, and those lucky enough to go have all said the same thing: Odette Spessiva, truly, is the most wonderful jewel in the crown of the Snezhnayan ballet, and all with an interest in dance simply must go to see her. 

Odette's dance is to round out the night, and Mitya settles down for a happy evening of song and dance. Vodyanitsa's voice is especially supple this evening, bringing several audience members around him to tears. The orchestra is on perfect form, not a single player out of place, and Mitya's mind runs into overdrive as the sound of their harmonies reach the rafters. 

Finally, a reverent hum ripples across the crowd, and the curtain opens on the final performance. Odette's figure is resplendent in white, aglow in the spotlight, standing in repose as a soft requiem begins to play on flute and cello. 

It is a story about noblewoman trapped in a tower, consigned to spend the rest of her life weaving, never to look out to the outside world and only permitted to view it through glimpses in a looking-glass. She goes on in this monotony, trapped at her loom, half-resentful and half-resigned, until one day, in the looking glass, she sees a knight ride by. Odette twists into herself in her solitude, always reaching towards but never quite turned to the audience, her face a picture of grief. 

The sun reflects from knight's metal armour, a brilliant smile on his face, endless stories written in his eyes. Celebratory bells ring around him as the townspeople call out, the air filled with celebration, and suddenly she is seized with such longing, such desire to see the beauty of the world, that she turns to the window, and in this way she dooms herself. Odette's dance becomes frantic, her face filled with fragile, terrible hope, and she looks to the audience for the first time - holds herself on a single, long note. She gazes out at them with wonder, as if she can scarcely believe their beauty. Mitya's heart begins to race. 

The ballerina's eyes stare into a scenery that only she can see. As she dances, Mitya suddenly feels as if he is there beside her, the two of them spinning around each other like two moons in orbit. He fidgets in his seat, his heart beating faster as suddenly the memory comes to him: those cold fingers on his face, that arm pressed into his back, the sharp glint of that knife at his throat.

The noblewoman descends from her tower and alights a small boat, and drifts downstream on the current. Odette's movements slow with the music, a delicate vibrato, until the entire audience is leaning forward in their seats. She turns her face towards them, and smiles. The noblewoman dies. The curtain falls. 

Of course, the audience erupts into rapturous applause - and Mitya is among them, for once having spent an entire performance with his eyes glued to the stage and never turning to his notebook. He cannot explain the feeling in his stomach, the giddy grin that crosses his face as he already begins to replay her every movement in his mind. The way she had moved, how delicate she seemed, and yet that strength clear in the lines of her body—

—the same way that Lelek had moved on that night. Framing her face, the same locks of powder-blue hair. 

At the curtain call, Odette's head remains high, her expression aloof. She doesn't look at the audience as she takes her bows - she never does - even though the loudest of the cheers are for her. She accepts them all with a simple incline of her head, a sharp contrast to Vodyanitsa's radiant beam beside her, and is the first to walk back offstage. Mitya's eyes remain on her until she disappears completely into the darkness behind the curtain and doesn't realise that he is gripping the fabric of his trousers in tight fists until Valeriy comes to haul him to his feet.

"There, you've seen your show," He says. "Back to the Armory Palace with you."

And Mitya has every intention of doing so, until he sees the crowd forming in the foyer. He knows an impromtu meet-and-greet when he sees one, and the opportunity to add some more signatures to his notebook is not one he can pass up. Anyway, he owes so many epiphanies and equations to the wonderful performers on this stage; they should really get a credit. Valeriy does not budge at first, but Mitya's wheedling - as well as the fact that work this week has been slow, anyway - finally wears him down. 

What luck, too - it's the prima donna herself, Vodyanitsa, with a clamour of fans around her. Mitya dutifully gets in line behind a young girl and her mother, both whispering excitedly, clutching playbills to be signed. He's been in line for Vodyanitsa several times before, but the extra Valeriy-convincing time usually means getting there late, and so far the managers have always whisked her away before he gets the opportunity. Her signature is one he particularly covets.

"Oh! Everyone, please stand back for a moment!" Vodyanitsa's voice rings out around them, and despite their rowdiness the crowd easily bends to her command, rolling back like the tides to make way for— something. The prima donna has spotted something in the shadowy stage door, and she skips behind it briefly. "Come on, come on! Everyone wants to see you!"

Mitya's heart leaps into his throat. He finds himself stepping on Valeriy's foot as he tries to get a closer look (the man, graciously, only grunts a little is discomfort) as Vodyanitsa comes back through the door. Beside her, being ushered unceremoniously - Odette, with a gossamer-light wrapper pulled over her lovely dress.

The crowd roars for a brief moment before Vodyanitsa shushes them all with a gesture like a conductor, and they all dutifully pull themselves together. (From newcomers, it's reverence - from regulars, there's a little fear.) Odette herself remains impassive, only inclining her head. 

A teenager at the front of the crowd ventures, "Miss Odette, your dance was so beautiful tonight. I didn't even want to blink, I was so enraptured."

This is enough for several others to get a little braver. The more reserved only murmur in agreement; others call out their own praise, some of them perhaps a little more passionate than appropriate. Mitya remains quiet, his gaze fixed on her figure - pale and almost blurred before his eyes, like a mirage - trying to imagine a mask on her face and a dark cloak around her shoulders. 

Vodyanitsa waits for long enough for Odette to soak in the compliments - or perhaps only long enough for them to bounce off of her unstirred countenance - and then hushes the crowd again. Odette gazes across all of them, her eyes frozen over, clearly not really seeing a single face in the crowd. 

"Thanks for your support," She says. 

The same thing he has seen printed in papers, whenever she's been asked for a comment, and yet the words send a shiver shooting up his spine. Because - even though she is no longer affecting a lower register, nor muffled behind porcelain - it is undoubtedly the same voice that threatened to stick a knife in his back.

"It means a lot to our troupe," Odette adds, and then inclines her head in a gracious bow. As she raises her head, suddenly her gaze snags on him, and she meets Mitya's eyes. 

It's like a shot of Fire-Water poured straight down his throat. His body tenses, heat in his stomach and ice on his neck. And then she turns away again, and disappears back into the darkness of the stage door. Just as he had watched Lelek disappear from his office, he watches her retreat into the darkness, lingering long after she has disappeared from his sight.

The crowd calms after a while, and goes back to its queue. Vodyanitsa absorbs Mitya's heartfelt compliments with clear delight, signs the back page of his notebook with a flourish, and asks coyly that he come back to see another show. Mitya returns that he most certainly will - she's preaching to the choir with him. 

Valeriy gives him a hard look as they finally leave the theatre. Mitya barely notices it. 

Mitya continues to collect news of Lelek, but now he begins to collect news of Odette, too. He digs through the old playbills sitting around his office and sits there for hours at a time, eyes shut, trying to recall the details of each performance, cross-referencing the lines of her body with the folds of Lelek's cloak. He compares the tabloids with records of Lelek incidents, putting together a map and schedule of her movements. He finds old interviews and magazine articles, teasing her story from within the tangle of rumours and gossip. Slowly, the dark patchwork of Lelek comes together with the glassy shards of Odette, the shadow finally melting into the light.

At work, he is diligent. His routines barely change; he attends shows and stands at their machinery in equal measure. He continues to fill his notebook with scribblings, collecting more and more signatures from the troupe, but not Odette's. Others have received it - short, polite message cards reading Thanks for your support, which the masses are more than happy to covet. But Mitya will settle for nothing other than meet her, to watch her put pen to paper herself in his own notebook, and Odette has not appeared at the stage door since that first performance. 

She's performed this dance on regular rotation each week since then. Mitya has been there to see nearly every single one, and most others too. He still often has epiphanies and start scribbling midway through other acts, but hers he always watches with full attention. These days, his mind is always whirling, and he feels as if he is spinning around her on the stage even when he isn't sitting in the audience. 

And now, at the end of each performance, when she is called to the stage for her bow, her head lifts briefly. Her gaze sweeps across the hall, and catches on him. Her expression never changes, but her eyes stop, and it is enough for him. In that split second, the world falls away. 

Odette is a celebrity, and it would be nigh impossible to arrange a meeting - especially if she denies that they have ever met. Lelek is another matter. 

They seem to strike unpredictably, but Mitya has been tracking their marks for a while now, and honed the art of guessing who they will target next. He has been right thrice in a row. He has enough hubris to believe that he will be right a fourth time. 

By moonlight, he dons a dark cloak of his own. He has not stayed late at the office tonight, for it will be a lot harder to sneak out of the core of the Armory Palace than it is to leave his own apartment. Snezhnograd never quite sleeps, and he isn't foolish enough to think his shadowy attire will be enough to hide him from the city lights. He has already studied maps of the city's underworks, and creeps through its dark underbelly on featherlight feet.

Osipov lives alone in an apartment in the quieter outskirts of the city. He is not a particularly rich man, nor a politically powerful man, but he holds great rapport among a number of important people - a critic well-respected for his taste and sensibilities, the kind that men of lesser calibre tend to imitate. So far he has evaded Lelek's ire, perhaps because he is a common and liked guest at the theatre, but tonight Mitya is sure this will change.

He knows better than to try to meet them at their work, or to catch them as they escape. Instead, under the endless sea of stars, Mitya makes his ploy: he chooses a platform lit both by the moon and the streetlights, where anyone passing the apartment block could see him. He stands there with his cloak drawn over his head, turned carefully to the moonlight, such that anyone who knew the lines of his face could recognise it. 

It pays off. He has been standing there for a mere fifteen minutes when a stone flies out of the darkness and strikes him on the cheek.

He turns in its direction and smiles. "Hello, Lelek."

There is no response, but the shadows look as if they are waiting. Mitya takes a step forward, and the moment he has left the light, a hand closes around his wrist and yanks him into a maze of alleyways.

"What are you doing here?" They hiss. Mitya attempts to seek their face, but they catch this and immediately slam him into the wall.

The air rushes out of his lungs, but the grip on his arm is deceivingly light - though he can only tell because he's felt it much firmer. It's almost a shame. 

"Is this some kind of trap?" Lelek mutters. "Were you followed?"

"No, and that's the honest truth." He attempts to twist around to face them again. "If I wanted to take you down, I would have done it by now. And someone as clever as you would have noticed by now if she had been had."

They are silent for a moment. Cautious - suspicious. Unsure of who really holds the cards. 

"My dear Lelek," says Mitya, "I hope you don't think so little of me that you don't believe I've deduced who you are."

"...and?"

Their grip has already loosened, the air between them chilled. Mitya gently unhooks himself from their grip, and turns to offer a sincere smile. "Your performance this morning was breathtaking," 

The moonlight streams through a gap in the city's bones above, seeping into the dark hollows where the mask's eyes are carved. A single lilac eye stares out at him expressionlessly. 

"You are an ally?" Odette asks.

"A devotee," Mitya replies. 

"...you are strange," She decides, but now she has relaxed entirely. "I don't understand you."

"Is that why you kept looking for me?"

"I did not," She says, though the response is too quick to be sincere. She steps back, listening for a moment, then sighs. "...that night... you really don't know what happened?"

It takes him a moment to realise what she's talking about. He has, after all, been focused on other things. "...I don't. I've had lapses in memory before, but whatever happened to you - I have no answers. Has it happened since?"

"No. You?"

"Not that I remember," He replies, though with a degree of uncertainty. He thinks so hard, loses himself in his thoughts so often... really, it could be happening daily and he wouldn't even notice. "...we're quite far from the theatre. Might I tempt you to come back to my quarters?"

A flash of derision through the eyes of the mask. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"...maybe not." Mitya steps back. "I'd be happy to part here, of course. But I would very much like to see you again. If we are both more honest, we could be useful to each other."

"I doubt it," says Odette, though her voice betrays her. The idea of having an inside agent - the brains behind Project Mistilteinn himself - clearly appeals to her. "...come to the theatre after the show tomorrow, when it is completely dark. I'll let you in through the backstage door. You know where it is, don't you?"

"Of course I do." Mitya smiles. "What kind of fan would I be otherwise?"

Odette's room is barebones. Unpersonalised. The only thing that really marks it hers is the music box in the shape of a swan on the table, but it seems to be broken, and she doesn't yet seem interested in fixing it. 

He becomes familiar with it over time, and with the route from his apartment to it. Each groove in the door, the way it creaks when she eases it open - not quite trustful enough to give him a key - and her soft footfall as he follows her to her room. She can, of course, walk as silent as she wishes, but Mitya cannot see in the dark, and he doesn't know the hallways as well as she does at first. She lets him hear her for his benefit, and that is enough to make his chest burn. 

They are collaborators, now, and they will both have much to answer for if either is found out. But Mitya couldn't imagine selling her out, even if they uncover him - and, perhaps foolishly, believes that she feels the same about him. Their jobs keep them both away from the easy friendship of everyday folks, and Mitya finds himself going to see her even when he has no intel to share. And Odette lets him in, nevertheless. 

She is surprisingly honest, when he asks the right questions. The shape of her life is carved and crystalline, and so often brought on stage for all to see. She doesn't see many things as secrets.

Odette is like fire beneath ice. No one deludes themselves into thinking this ballerina is defenceless, for hardly anyone is unaware of her role in the Fatui, but everyone is deceived by the white of her dress. Her black feathers are something only Mitya bears witness to. Her passion burns white-hot behind her frosted face, and only he is privileged enough to catch even a glimpse of how it burns. 

It's exciting - the taboo. He feeds her information, gently suggests where her distant gaze ought to fall next. Each vote turned in the next Veche sends a burst of joy through him, and when he is at work his pulse quickens whenever he is reminded of the absolute secrecy he has been sworn to. Lelek's modus operandi does not change, and makes no more exceptions, but the idea that it might - the idea that her knife might slip - fills his heart with a thrill that he cannot explain. 

She is a collection of preserved truths and honed lies. She lets him watch her practise her dance, sometimes, and Mitya finds himself helplessly enchanted by each line, each movement of her body. Even when - especially when - her limbs move with too much power, or when the expression of a lovelorn maiden accidentally falls back into cool apathy. When the music peters out, and he fills the silence with his own hum, one hand twitching on the handle of a pen, his mind spinning, spinning around the room with her.

"It needs improvement," Odette will mutter, her eyes fixed on her reflection. A ghastly bruise is visible through her sheer tights, a mark of a mishap while on one of her night-hunts, but she doesn't even flinch as the muscle flexes and pulls. 

"I like it," Mitya will offer. "Because it's you."

She will glance at him through her lashes and turn back to her practice. Mitya will watch her dance with a smile bordering on dopey, sometimes irritating her enough to grab his collar and tell him to do something else. That only makes him want to do it more. 

Sometimes, she sits quietly with him as he pores over a blueprint until his eyes are red. She picks up the quirks of his research quickly, and though she misses much of the technical reasoning, she's able to point out little kinks in his reports, in the same way she picks apart her own performances. Mitya finds that he thinks clearest with her by his side. When he is alone in his office, he hums some of the simple music-box songs she uses to warm up. 

Sometimes, Odette seems afraid that she is more a weapon than a girl. Her heart belongs to her pointe shoes, but she spends equal time in the theatre's practice rooms and within Glupov's recesses, and often Mitya spies injuries that she could not have sustained from ballet. 

Sometimes, when she is especially frustrated, she will over-stretch herself before her dance, and her frown pulls taut across her face. The dance that follows is frantic, unpolished, a raw display of emotion, and something even more beautiful than he has ever seen on stage. 

When she collapses to the floor afterwards, it is hard to tell whether the dampness of her cheeks is sweat or tears. Mitya offers a cloth regardless, and when he holds out a hand, Odette lets him take hers. 

Odette is the prima ballerina of the Korolevskiy Troupe, but she is also a highly respected Fatui agent - next in line to become a Harbinger, even, and it is nigh-impossible for her now to escape the eyes trained on her. The woman who inducted her died in a foreign land, and she finds herself torn, her loyalty divided between the little girl who cried bitter tears and wished more than anything else to leave, and the woman who no longer knows how to be anything else. 

The fury he had seen on that first night - the frost with which Lelek had first gripped his heart - bubbles beneath the surface. Sometimes the wrath that fills her eyes makes him shiver.

The girl, the sword, the ballerina. The black-feathered wings have settled over this land and will seek recompense for those who fall under its unforgiving snow.

His loyalty lies with humanity, and for now - for the greater good - it seems that this means it lies with Tsaritsa. Project Mistilteinn marches forward. Project Stuzha continues. Unavoidable fate, moving forward like the the tide, and yet Odette seeks to freeze it. Even knowing the truth, knowing that the status of Project Stuzha rests not on her mission but the outcome of Mitya's research, she makes her mark. She forces change, no matter how small. She is a wild card, an unpredictable variable. It delights him. 

One night, she escorts him out into the backstreets with the soft glow of the moon illuminating her soft blue hair. She pauses, then presses a small, cold key into his hand.

"See you tomorrow," She murmurs, and leaves him standing in the twilight, a frozen kiss lingering on his cheek.