Chapter Text
The laboratory reeked of burnt metal, smoke and fire.
Mitya stood at the center of the chaos, his hands blackened with soot, his hair singed at the edges, and a broad smile spreading across his face like sunrise over the frozen tundra. The apparatus before him, a delicate arrangement of crystal conduits and volatile compounds, had just exploded in a spectacular display of purple-white light.
Mesmerizing. Beautiful, even.
He was still breathing hard, his heart racing from the adrenaline. The residual energy crackled in the air, making the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. He could feel the heat still radiating from the shattered crystals, could taste copper and something bitter on his tongue. His scarf was wound tight around his neck, pulsing with the same electric thrill that ran through his veins.
"Doctor Dmitri!"
The voice cut through his euphoria like a blade. Mitya turned, still grinning, to find a cluster of assistants and junior researchers huddled in the doorway. They looked like they'd seen a ghost. Or maybe some type of abyssal monster. Or maybe both.
Mitya counted them automatically: Katya, his lead assistant, pale-faced and trembling slightly. Behind her, three junior researchers—the tall one with the glasses, the nervous one who always flinched when Mitya raised his voice, and the new kid who'd been here all of three days. The new kid looked like he was about to cry. None of them blew up with his lab equipment at least.
"Yes?" Mitya asked, his voice light and airy, the picture of innocence. He brushed soot from his sleeves with theatrical dignity, then flicked a piece of debris from his shoulder. "Can I help you? You all look like you've swallowed a live frog. Very unflattering, by the way. Y'all should like maybe close your mouths or flies will fly in."
Katya stepped forward, her hands clasped so tightly in front of her that her knuckles had gone white. She stared at the smoldering remains of the experiment with the expression of someone who had long since given up on understanding the universe. "You—the—it—" She gestured helplessly at the destruction. "The apparatus—"
"Performed admirably," Mitya rejoiced. He crouched down, sifting through the debris with practiced care, his fingers closing around something warm and intact. He pulled out a singed notebook with the same pride as if he'd found buried treasure. "I got exactly the reaction I was looking for."
"The explosion?"
Mitya's grin widened, bright and infuriating. "It's not an explosion, Katya. It's a rapid energy release event." He patted the remaining soot from his knees, and flipped open the notebook. The pages were singed at the edges but the script was intact, precise and elegant. "Very different. One implies failure. The other implies—" He paused, tilting his head as if considering a particularly fascinating puzzle. "Well, it's a learning opportunity."
A successful one, he added silently, his eyes tracing the energy dispersion pattern he'd been chasing for weeks. The data is beautiful. The reaction was exactly what I predicted. If I can replicate this—
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "A learning opportunity that destroyed three months of work."
"Four months, actually." Mitya corrected cheerfully, still absorbed in his notebook. He traced a finger along the diagram, feeling the residual warmth of the reaction. "But I've documented everything. The data is perfectly intact. We've been very productive."
"I wonder sometimes why you're not fired yet," Katya muttered under her breath.
Mitya finally looked up, his grin sharpening. He closed the notebook with a decisive snap and tucked it into his coat. His scarf twitched, tightening almost imperceptibly around his neck.
"Mm, other than my great genius brain, I also have impeccable hearing." He took a step closer, his voice dropping to something low and pleasant. "So you should better cease your complaints under your breath before I fire you instead." He winked, smile widening. "After all, you need this job, right?"
The silence stretched for a beat too long. Mitya watched Katya's face go pale, watched the junior researchers exchange nervous glances. The new kid—Mitya made a mental note to learn his name—looked like he was trying to disappear into the wall.
Fear was a useful tool after all, it kept people from asking questions.
He turned back to his notebook, flipping through the pages with exaggerated care. "Now, where was I? Ah, yes. The energy dispersion pattern. Perfectly recorded." He held up a page covered in intricate diagrams, the symbols and calculations so dense they looked like a foreign language. "I've been trying to achieve this for weeks. The fact that it also vaporized my equipment is merely a... side effect."
"Side effect," Katya repeated weakly.
"A small price to pay for scientific progress." Mitya's voice was light again, the dangerous edge gone as quickly as it had appeared. He began pacing, his scarf trailing behind him like a living shadow. "You should be proud. You're witnessing history. The birth of a new era in energy research. I'm practically a visionary." He paused, letting the words settle. "And you're watching me create something revolutionary."
"He said that last time too…," someone muttered from the back of the group.
Mitya's head snapped toward the direction of the sound. His eyes scanned the cluster of assistants—three junior researchers, two lab technicians who'd been lingering in the doorway, and one very nervous-looking intern who was trying to hide behind the tall one with glasses.
His grin sharpened. "Who said that? Come on, don't be shy. I love feedback." He took a step forward, then another, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence. "Constructive criticism is the foundation of scientific progress."
Of course, no one moved.
He tilted his head, eyes scanning the crowd. "No one wants to claim it? How disappointing. I was going to give them a promotion." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "A prestigious promotion even. To the frozen wastes. Where they can study the fascinating flora in peace."
The junior researchers shuffled nervously. One of them—the nervous one—squeaked something unintelligible. Mitya's smile widened.
"That's what I thought." He clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and final. "Now, unless anyone else has complaints they'd like to voice, I believe we have work to do. Clean up this mess, please. And someone bring me more volatile compounds. I have a theory to test."
His scarf gestured broadly, mimicking his hand movements as he explained. "My promising theory is that the energy dispersion pattern indicates a potential for controlled catalyst stabilization." He was pacing again, his steps quick and excited, his voice rising with enthusiasm. "If I'm right—" His eyes lit up with genuine excitement, the earlier menace completely forgotten. "—we could revolutionize energy conversion. The applications would be—"
"Explosive?" someone suggested.
Mitya laughed, bright and genuine. "Exactly! You're learning." He spun to face the group, his scarf swirling around him. "Now who wants to be my assistant for this test since Katya here seemed to be against my methods?" He sent Katya a little glare, playful, but with an edge of warning.
A junior researcher—young thing, maybe eighteen, with wide eyes and trembling hands—raised his hand. "I—I can do it, Doctor."
Brave, Mitya thought. Or stupid. Probably stupid.
"Excellent!" Mitya beamed at him. "You're promoted." He watched the kid's face go from nervous to terrified. "Temporarily. Don't get too excited. I promote people all the time." He waved a dismissive hand. "I demote them too. It's a very fluid system. Keeps everyone on their toes."
The junior researcher gulped visibly. Mitya could see the regret written all over his face.
He turned back to his notebook, making a show of reviewing his notes while his assistants scrambled to clean up the chaos. He let them handle the physical labor, only occasionally glancing up to offer criticism ("No, no, that goes in the containment bin—are you trying to cause another explosion?") or direction ("Be careful with those shards—they're still reactive.").
When he was satisfied that they were sufficiently cowed, he retreated to his corner, a small alcove near the back of the lab where he'd set up a secondary work station. It was cluttered with notes and half-finished projects, the papers stacked in precarious towers that only he understood.
His scarf was wrapped around his neck and shoulders, a familiar warmth. The sentient fabric made a scolding gesture, as if to say, You're enjoying this far too much.
"Of course I am," Mitya murmured under his breath, not looking up from his notes. "It's fun like this and way more efficient. Don't you know, chaos is the only thing that makes sense?" He traced a finger along the energy dispersion pattern, his smile softening. "Order is a lie we tell ourselves to feel safe."
The scarf tightened slightly. You sound like your father, it signed.
Mitya's hand stilled. The grin flickered. "Don't", he uttered, "Don't you dare."
The scarf continued, relentless: He said the same thing. Before the fall.
Mitya's jaw tightened. His fingers curled into fists against the paper. "I said don't," he hissed, swatting his hand away. "Don't ever mention father again. I've told you a hundred times."
The scarf retreated back, compliant for once. Mitya could feel its hurt through the bond, a dull ache that mirrored his own.
Good, he thought, forcing himself to breathe. That's good. He needs to learn boundaries.
But his hands were shaking as he turned back to his notes.
He forced his grin back into place, announcing himself loudly to his assistants again. "Right! Who's next? I have a schedule to keep. Experiments to run. Equipment to explode." He strode past them, his scarf trailing behind him. "The Tsaritsa demands results, and I demand entertainment."
The Fatui headquarters was a labyrinth of cold stone and colder politics. Mitya had been walking its halls for years now, and he still found new passages, new secrets, new ways to get lost.
He liked it that way.
His footsteps echoed against the stone floors as he made his way through the winding corridors. The walls were lined with ancient tapestries depicting the Tsaritsa's rise to power—scenes of conquest and cold beauty. Mitya had memorized them years ago. He'd also memorized the hidden passageways behind them, the maintenance tunnels that ran between the walls, the servant corridors that no one else seemed to know existed.
Hidden things are always the most interesting, he thought, his grin softening slightly as his hand drifted to his chest—to the mark hidden beneath his clothes. I would know.
His fingers brushed against his coat, and suddenly he was there, in that cold stone room, his father's voice echoing in his skull:
"You carry my blood, Mitya. The blood of a Sinner. It will make you brilliant. It will make you powerful. But it will also make you a target. The Heavenly Principles will hunt you. The mortals will fear you. You must hide what you are. Never let them see."
Mitya shook off the memory and focused on the present. He couldn't afford to dwell on the past. Not now. Not with Pierro waiting.
He took a detour—his usual route to the Jester's office was longer than necessary, but he liked to have time to prepare. He stopped to examine a strange sigil carved into a wall, his fingers tracing the ancient symbols. They were familiar, somehow. Echoes of something he'd seen before.
Khaenri'ahn script, his mind whispered. You recognize it because you have Khaenri'ahn blood.
He pushed the thought away and continued walking.
He peeked into a storage room and pocketed a few interesting-looking vials—"for research purposes, obviously." The shelves were dusty, the contents clearly forgotten. Mitya made a mental note to come back and catalog them properly.
He waved at a passing agent, who immediately started pretending they hadn't seen him.
"Rude," Mitya called after them. "I'll have you know, I'm probably the only scientist who has ever met the Jester personally." He pointedly concealed the fact that none of those visits were for positive reasons.
His scarf twitched against his neck, a subtle warning. Stop stalling.
Mitya sighed, his shoulders dropping for just a moment. "I know. I know. I'm just..." He stopped, his grin flickering. "He's been on my ass these past weeks. What if he knows? What if he—"
The scarf tightened around his wrist, warm and comforting. A silent reassurance. Mitya's hand came up to touch the fabric. His father's last gift.
"Right," he whispered. "Right. I can do this. I'm just a brilliant scientist. A completely normal, human brilliant scientist." He took a deep breath, focusing on the feeling the familiar weight of the scarf around his neck. "And he'll have to see that too, right?"
Completely normal, the scarf seemed to agree. Absolutely.
He squared his shoulders, plastered his brightest smile back on his face, and continued toward Pierro's office until he reached the front entrance.
The imposing doors that were carved from dark wood, inlaid with gold symbols that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them. Mitya had always found them unsettling. He suspected they were enchanted. Probably to spook him out specifically. To make anyone entering forget the lies they'd planned to tell.
Good thing he was an excellent liar and improviser throughout. He took a deep breath and knocked cheerfully.
"Come in," Pierro's voice rumbled from within.
Mitya pushed open the door with theatrical flourish, his scarf swirling dramatically behind him. "Lord Pierro! You wanted to see me?" He swept into the room, his footsteps confident on the polished floor. "I hope I'm not in trouble. Although, if I am, I'm sure I can explain. I always have explanations." He pressed a hand to his chest. "I swear they're true—well, mostly."
The room inside was vast, lined with shelves of ancient texts and arcane artifacts. At the center, behind a massive desk, sat the man himself. Pierro was tall, his face half hidden behind a mask that revealed the left side of his stony features and the faintest hint of a smile. His presence filled the room like a physical weight.
Mitya forced himself to meet Pierro's gaze. He kept his posture loose, his smile bright, his hands relaxed at his sides. No tension, he reminded himself. No tells.
"Mitya." Pierro's voice was deep, resonant, like stones rolling in a river. "I appreciate your promptness."
"I try my best," Mitya said, settling into a chair without being invited. He crossed his legs, leaning back with studied casualness. "So, what's the verdict? Am I being promoted? Demoted? Exiled to the frozen wastes of the abyss?" He perked up. "Oh, I hope it's the abyss. The abyss has interesting flora. I've been meaning to study them."
Pierro's smile widened slightly. "You seem remarkably unconcerned about the possibility of exile."
"Concern is so draining. I prefer to maintain a cheerful disposition." Mitya shrugged, spreading his hands. "Also, I have it on good authority that I'm extremely difficult to kill. I've tried several times. It never sticks."
The scarf tightened around his wrist.
Mitya's grin didn't waver, but he added quickly, "Obviously I'm joking. I'm very fragile. A single blow could kill me. Probably. I've never tested it. That would be a terrible experiment. It would be very short and anticlimactic."
Pierro studied him for a long moment. The silence stretched, and Mitya felt, for the first time, a flicker of unease. The Jester had a way of looking at you like he could see through every layer, every mask, every carefully constructed lie.
He knows, Mitya's mind supplied unhelpfully. He knows everything. He knows about Father. He knows what I am, no no no, fuck—
"You're brilliant, Mitya," Pierro sighed, leaning back in his chair. "The Tsaritsa's researchers have never produced anyone quite like you. Your understanding of energy conversion, of catalyst stabilization—it's unparalleled in your generation." He paused. "And highly valuable to the Fatui."
Mitya beamed, his smile bright and genuine. "Thank you! I've been saying that for years. Finally, someone recognizes my genius." He gestured vaguely. "I'm so glad you're kissing my ass instead of getting on it. You're so much more reasonable than my shitty coworkers—"
Pierro continued as if Mitya hadn't spoken. "You're also reckless, undisciplined, and insufferable."
Mitya's smile didn't waver. "That's also true." He tilted his head, considering. "A complete picture of my character, honestly. You must have read my file very carefully."
"I certainly did." Pierro reached down, pulling a thick folder from beneath the desk. "It's one of the reasons I called you here." He opened it, flipping through the pages with deliberate slowness. "I have grounds to believe a few things are missing from your file. Deliberately left out or manipulated."
Mitya's heart stuttered. He kept his smile perfectly in place, but his hands—hidden beneath the desk—curled into fists. His scarf wound tighter around his wrist, a grounding presence.
"Missing?" He laughed, bright and careless. "I assure you, everything is documented. All my experiments, all my rapid energy release events, all my—"
"That's not what is missing." Pierro shook his head, his eyebrows furrowed beneath the mask. He pulled out a single sheet of paper, holding it up for Mitya to see. "This." He pointed at a section that was conspicuously blank. "You have no origin."
The words hung in the air. Mitya felt the scarf tighten around his wrist, a silent warning.
He laughed, bright and careless. "Of course I have an origin. I was born. I had parents." He waved a dismissive hand. "They're dead now. Tragic, really. I never knew them. I'm a mysterious orphan." He clutched his chest dramatically. "I thought you knew that already."
"Where were you born?"
Mitya tilted his head, feigning thought. "Hmm. I don't actually know." He shrugged, crossing his legs. "I was found, you see. In the ruins of an ancient temple." He pressed a hand to his chest, right over his heart. "It's a devastating story, really. The Fatui took me in, raised me, turned me into the brilliant scientist you see before you." He beamed. "So inspirational. I should write it down and inspire others with my story."
Something flickered in Pierro's eyes—recognition, maybe.
"A temple," he repeated. "What kind of temple?"
Mitya's smile froze for just a fraction of a second. No way. That old man is onto me again. For the... twenty-third time.
He recovered quickly, shrugging with practiced nonchalance. "I don't know. Some ancient ruin. The records were lost." He made a vague gesture. "Everything was lost. I was just a kid." He pointed at himself. "I can't really remember because I was just a kid."
Liar. The scarf's judgment was a cold weight around his throat.
He could feel Pierro's eyes on him, watching for the crack in his armor. The Jester was too careful, too deliberate. He didn't ask questions he didn't already know the answer to. Which meant he already knew.
But Pierro didn't push. Instead, he leaned forward, his masked face suddenly much closer.
"I knew a wise man once," Pierro said, his voice quiet. "The wisest man in Khaenri'ah." His eyes—what Mitya could see of them—were distant, lost in memory. "He was the most favored of the king's servants. President of the Universitas Magistrorum. Chief Royal Mage." He paused. "He was brilliant beyond measure. He had everything."
Mitya's smile froze. His scarf wound so tight around his neck it almost hurt. He forced himself to breathe evenly, to keep his expression neutral.
Pierro continued, his voice carrying a bitter edge. "And then he fell. He stole forbidden power. He became a Sinner." His gaze sharpened, focusing on Mitya. "He did nothing while his nation burned."
Mitya forced a laugh, bright and hollow. "Khaenri'ah is gone." He spread his hands. "There's no point dwelling on it."
"No. You're right." Pierro's mask tilted. "There isn't." He paused. "But I've always wondered: where did his brilliance go? What happened to his legacy?" His voice dropped. "I suppose it died with him. Like everything else."
Mitya felt the words like a knife. He deliberately forced himself to relax, not to clench his fists or build tension anywhere. His scarf tightened around his throat further, holding him together—but also almost choking him.
Pierro was testing him. Pierro knew—or suspected something.
He had to get out. There was no way, he was staying here, watching as Pierro put the pieces together.
"I don't know anything about Khaenri'ah," Mitya said, his voice carefully measured. "I'm just a scientist. A scientist from a completely normal background." He met Pierro's gaze steadily. "Nothing interesting about me at all."
Pierro was silent for a long moment. Then he leaned back, his smile returning. "Of course." His voice was smooth. "My apologies. I was just... thinking aloud."
Mitya's heart was pounding. His hands were shaking beneath the desk.
He fucking knows, that old ugly geezer, son of a bitch—
"I didn't summon you here to discuss ancient history, Mitya," Pierro said smoothly. "I summoned you to make you an offer."
Mitya blinked. "An offer?"
"You've heard of the Harbingers, I assume." Pierro's visible mouth twitched—amused.
Mitya forced himself to focus. "I've heard of them. I've worked with some of them." He made a face. "Dottore keeps requesting my research notes, which I find suspicious." His voice dropped. "He seems quite interested in my work on genetic markers specifically..."
Pierro's smile sharpened. "Dottore sees potential in you. As do I." He leaned forward. "The position of the Tenth Harbinger is... currently contested. Future ranks could become vacant as well when the new objective begins."
Mitya's lungs stalled mid-inhale.
A Harbinger.
The word echoed in his skull like a bell. A Harbinger. One of the Tsaritsa's most trusted. Power. Influence. Access to resources he could barely dream of.
And visibility.
The kind of visibility that would attract attention. The kind of attention that could expose him. The kind of exposure that would destroy everything.
He carefully kept his expression neutral, turning his smile into a rigid line of teeth.
"You're offering me a Harbinger position?"
"I'm offering you the possibility." Pierro leaned back. "If you prove yourself capable. If you demonstrate that you can manage not just your experiments, but your behavior as well."
"I'll have you know I manage my behavior perfectly." Mitya's voice was sharp. "I do exactly what I want."
"That's the problem."
Mitya opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. He couldn't deny the truth.
"I'm willing to be patient," Pierro continued. "I know you're young and still learning. But the Tsaritsa's goals require not just brilliance, but reliability." His voice hardened. "The Harbingers must be controlled. They are a representation of the Tsaritsa's most trusted people."
Mitya wrinkled his nose. "Controlled. Ugh."
"Yes. Controlled." Pierro's voice was dry. "Which is why, for the time being, you'll be assigned a handler."
Mitya's expression shifted. The lightness in his voice dimmed. "A... handler."
"Effectively, a bodyguard. Someone to ensure you don't destroy any more laboratories." Pierro counted on his fingers. "Someone to keep you on schedule. Someone to—"
"To babysit me," Mitya deadpanned.
"I prefer the word 'supervise.'"
Mitya's jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists beneath the desk. His scarf wound tighter around his wrist, a grounding presence.
"I don't need a babysitter," he huffed, his voice losing its cheerful edge. "I've managed fine—"
"You've nearly killed yourself three times." Pierro's voice was calm, clinical. "You've destroyed millions of mora worth of equipment. You've caused diplomatic incidents in the name of 'research.'" He paused. "You need someone to protect you from yourself."
Mitya wanted to argue. He wanted to shout, to storm out, to prove that he didn't need anyone. But the words died in his throat. Because deep down, in the quiet part of himself he never acknowledged, he knew Pierro was right.
He was the son of a Sinner. He carried the taint of Khaenri'ah's fall. He was brilliant and powerful and utterly, terrifyingly alone.
And he had been alone for so long it had probably turned him into unbearable company as well as a danger even to himself.
"...Fine," he said, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. "Assign me your handler. I'll make sure they regret it."
Pierro's smile was knowing. "I'm counting on it."
Mitya stood, his body moving on autopilot. "Was there anything else? I have experiments to run." He forced a smile. "The kind that definitely won't explode."
"Just one more thing."
Mitya paused at the door, not turning around.
"Your father," Pierro said quietly, "was he a wise man?"
Cold flooded Mitya's veins, freezing him from the inside out. His scarf could only do so much to warm the chill that came over him.
"My father?" He forced a laugh, bright and hollow. "I told you, I don't remember him." He shrugged. "He was probably a scholar. Or a farmer." His voice dropped. "I prefer not to think about it."
He didn't wait for Pierro's response. He strode out of the office, his steps too fast, his shoulders too rigid.
His scarf moved, wrapping around his neck, pulling him close like an embrace.
He knows, Mitya thought, his heart pounding. No. He suspects. But he is so fucking close.
He stumbled into an empty corridor, pressing his back against the cold stone wall. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. His hands were shaking—he hadn't even noticed.
Calm down, the scarf seemed to say, caressing his back. Calm down. He can't prove anything.
Mitya pressed his hand to his chest—to the mark hidden beneath his clothes. The symbol of his father's legacy. The proof of everything he was.
"I'm fine," he whispered to himself. "I'm fine. I'm—"
He wasn't fine. His hands were shaking. His heart was racing. His vision was swimming at the edges.
Calm down, the scarf repeated, its warmth spreading through him. You're safe. You're in control.
Mitya forced himself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. He counted to ten, then twenty, then thirty.
Gradually, his heart rate slowed. His vision cleared. His hands stopped shaking.
Good, the scarf seemed to say. That's good.
He heard footsteps approaching and snapped his grin back into place.
"Ah, there you are!" Mitya called cheerfully to the startled agent rounding the corner. "I was just admiring the architecture." He gestured vaguely. "It's so... Snezhnayan. So cold. Don't you agree?"
The agent stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
Mitya winked. "Don't worry. I'm perfectly fine. Just taking a brief break from my important scientific work." He swept past the agent, his scarf trailing behind him. "Off I go!"
He walked quickly, his footsteps echoing against the stone floors. His smile was bright and unshakeable.
But inside, his heart was still racing.
And his scarf—his father's gift, his only comfort—pat his shoulders to comfort him.
Be careful, his father's words echoed in the back of his mind. Be careful, my son. The world is not kind to those who carry the blood of Sinners.
Mitya's grin didn't waver. But his hands were shaking nonetheless.