Chapter Text
Goodbye, Feofan. The words kept thrumming in the void behind Pantalone's ribs, echoing in the cavity that was supposed to house his heart.
But his heart had burned, and fort the first time in four hundred years, he was alone in a world without Zandik.
What a joke, he thought, climbing off the the carriage, lowering the hood of his coat to hide his face. He had to cross half of Teyvat like a thief in the night, only to watch his world go out in flames, and even as the Irminsul burned... Even then, neither of them had dared to breach the one subject that was truly worth what little time they had left.
Goodbye.
That was all he was worth in the eyes of the Doctor. Pantalone felt his heart grow heavier with each accursed step, like the tissue had decided to incur spontaneous necrosis.
Bah. Dottore would laugh in his face at the very thought, and then he would complain that Pantalone was too quick to blame him for his own misery. But Dottore was dead and yes, Pantalone had his fair share of the blame, he thought as he climbed the stairs to his apartment inside the Liyue branch of the Northland Bank.
He was the one who kept the Doctor's ridicolous obsession with godhood funded. He was the one who opened the coffers of the Northland Bank after each of Dottore's stunts, to appease the very important people he inevitably alienated.
He was the one who said nothing, when Dottore left for Nod Krai.
No, he shook his head, sliding the key card inside the final lock, opening the door to his private rooms. Dottore had said nothing, too. He was to blame as much as Pantalone was.
Goodbye.
Zandik had chosen to spend his last moments with him. To spend the last pulse of energy on that goodbye, to say his name one last time.
That must have meant something, right?
Yeah, right. He was not going down that trail of thought, not tonight, not ever.
Pantalone tossed the heavy cloak on the floor, kicked off his shoes and slumped on the bed. He tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he could see the branches of the Irminsul burning bright, too bright, heavy, suffocating–
His eyes flew open. Sleeping was a very bad idea at the moment.
With a sigh, the Harbinger reached for his tablet, ran the authentication and connected to the Fatui internal network. He might as well take care of the storm of messages his dear colleagues had undoubtedly bestowed upon him during the last week.
Ah, there they were. Half a dozen from the Rooster, a loud few from Marionette and one from the Knave too, undoubtedly sent on her mechanical friend's solicitation, even a couple from Childe. He skimmed those, variations on the same theme, barely worth a reply.
He mustered something anyway, scraping the barrel of his limited energies and quantity of fucks left to give.
Why is the Irminsul burning? Not my idea.
Why did Dottore burn the Irminsul? Ask Dottore.
Where are you? Not with Dottore.
Where is Dottore? Not with me.
Why aren't you replying? I've been sick.
There, all done. Half of it was bullshit, but at this point he couldn't care less. He just needed to dress up the same drivel and send it to Pierro, whose message was the only with a modicum of importance.
Pantalone did employ a sliver of sincerity in his reply to the Jester, since the director would certainly report to Her Majesty, but even the usual level of courtesy he reserved to his superior was too much of a bother at the moment.
These past days have been spent in utter physical misery on my part. As far as I know, the Doctor's plans did not involve setting the Irminsul Tree on fire; what I do know is that the event resulted in the Doctor's permanent demise. I will report in further detail to Her Majesty the Tsaritsa upon my return, hopefully within the fortnight.
There. Reasonably polite and surprisingly honest, given the situation. Pantalone did feel miserable: his legs ached, his lungs burned, and his eyes... He sent the message and wiped at his face.
He was not crying. He was just very, very tired, and he'd been out in the field for days, smoke and dust and ashes all around, on top of his preexisting issues. Of course his eyes were tired.
Uh. Apparently, he was so tired that he'd missed a message. The sender was... all scrambled up, which was definitely not supposed to happen on the Fatui's secure network. Sandrone was arrogant, noisy, and she lacked manners, but she knew her ways around machinery.
An attempt to breach the system, then? But who had have the means and the motive to do such a thing?
The sensible thing would be to leave everything as it was, stop using the tablet, and inform Sandrone as soon as he set foot in Glupov. If the stars were merciful, the anomaly would distract her from all the awful, invasive questions she was undoubtedly dying to ask him.
If he had to hear one more comment about the smoke from Irminsul...
The unread message blinked at him from the screen. Pantalone lit a cigarette, took a slow, painful drag, and opened the thread. To the Abyss with Sandrone, he thought. He was very good at pretending to be too old to know how these things worked.
He started reading.
> ComMun1c4ti0n Protoc0l: Mar4na.
> ComMunic4ti0n Atte3mpt: 174.
> CoMmun1cat1on 3st4blished.
What.
Pantalone looked at the sender again, blinking slowly.
Whoever this "//\|\||)|(|{ was, they were definitely not on the Regrator's list of reliable contacts, but they had written quite an awful lot. Even though half of it was glitching out.
> Can y0u re4d m3?
Well, he could now.
> R3grat0r.
Ugh, more of those visual glitches. He groaned, taking another drag from his cigarette. They were awfully hard on the eyes, but he kept reading. In for a mora, as they said...
> L0rd Pant4lon3, IX of th3 Fatui Har8ing3rs.
Were they... trying to confirm his identity?
> Feofan Sergey3vich Veksel.
The glitches seemed to be tapering out, but Pantalone felt a sense of dread. The number of people alive who knew his full name was extremely contained. If the information had leaked out, somehow–
> Fanya. Answer me.
The cigarette fell from his mouth.
It can't be, he thought. There was only one man who called him Fanya, and he'd been dead for three hundred years, his legacy annihilated by a fragment of himself, his essence scattered and burnt. It just couldn't be.
Pantalone stared at the screen until the acrid smell of burning fabric invaded his nostrils. He cursed out loud and picked up the cigarette, before he accidentally set the whole room on fire.
Oh, the irony would be unbearable. He set it on the ashtray and glanced at the screen again.
Forget Sandrone, he had to get to the bottom of this now.
I am the owner of this device, he wrote. Who are you?
He tapped the send button, and "//\|\||)|(|{ did not keep him waiting.
> You kn0w who I am.
> Breathe. And put out that cigar3tte.
His heart beat faster.
No, his hands moved on the keyboard of their own accord, You have lost the right to tell me what to do.
> When did you ev3r listen to me?
No, no, no. This was some kind of sick, awful joke. Pantalone would find the mind behind this... this thing, and he would wrap his hands around their neck, and then he'd wring the life out of them. Yes. The thought made him feel a little better.
You have one minute to explain yourself. Use it wisely, he wrote. He needed all the information he could get to find the bastard.
Immediately, a wall of text appeared.
> Preliminary hypothesis: th3 "soul" can be compressed into a str3am of data. Hypothesis proven, leading to the cre4tion of the cluster of data placed in your custody. Secondary hypothesis: the digitalized "soul" can be transferred through suitable supports, maint4ining all properties of the original. Hypothesis proven through the Irminsul Infiltration 3xperiment. Do not make that face, you know I am right. Tertiary hypothesis: the Internal Communicati0n Network constitutes a suitable support. Hypothesis proven in emergency. Insurgence of visual glitching well within acceptable paramet3rs. Integrity of the data stream preserved with 692% accuracy. Probability of detection negligible barring ext3rnal intervention. Prot0col Marana can be consid3red a resounding success.
> Bonus: we have once again demonstrated my superiority over the Seventh Harbinger. Her network was dre4dfully easy to hack.
> There you are, and with pl3nty of time to spare.
> You are welcome.
Well, fuck.
Pantalone read the message again and again.
He felt something terrible happen inside his chest, like his heart had decided to expand beyond the confines of his ribcage, reclaiming all of the space behind his ribs, pressing his lungs to the side.
Breathe. He needed to breathe. Breathing made sense.
Actually this made sense, too, but he had to be sure.
Prove it, he wrote. Even that took a considerable effort, given the way his hands were trembling.
> A reasonable requ3st.
> The scar on your hip. We let Segment 8 suture the wound and his h4nd slipped. You refused correct1ve surgery, claimed that the jagged outline "gives it character."
Pantalone swallowed a gasp, his hand drifting to trace the scar in question. He remembered the event, of course. It was just a slip of the hand, but Eight was distraught. He'd been sulking for hours behind one of his notebooks, until Pantalone had made that comment, and he couldn't quite get it fixed afterwards, now could he?
He brushed the jagged line absentmindedly, typing with the other hand. Let's say I believe you. What do you want from me?
He had the right to be careful.
> Talk to me, Feofan.
> My consciou5ness moves at th3 speed of machin3s, now. Have you any id3a how terribly dull it w4s, waiting for you?
The sheer audacity!
Well excuse me, you inveterate egomaniac, I was busy crossing half of your blasted homeland on foot!
I would say I'll try to walk faster the next time you commit international terrorism, but I think your world-shattering days are well past you.
Pantalone sent the message and grabbed his cigarette without an ounce of regret.
He had the right to be callous, too. He wouldn't start crying and praising the Doctor's genius just because he'd found a way to preserve himself, no, not even for all the mora in the Golden House.
After all, it was not like Dottore was ever going to apologise for... well, anything. At all. Ever.
> You wound me, Fanya.
Oh, the bastard was playing dirty.
How lovely, trying to sound like dear, departed Prime. A flawless attempt at placating me, not transparent at all.
He scoffed.
> Mem0randum: the Marana Prot0col needs a medium t0 express hilarity.
Excuse me?
> You are excused, my dearest banker. I will leave you to consid3r the con5equences of forcefully ejecting all the d4ta relevant to "Zandik" into a system with limit3d filtering capacity.
Pantalone stared at the screen like a gaping fish, reading the message again and again. As far as small mercies went, at least Dottore couldn't see his face right now.
You cannot possibly mean what you are implying, he wrote, trying to wrap his head around the process.
> Oh, I do. Adap7ing has been... chall3nging.
Challenging, right. That was the understatement of the century. He snorted, picturing Dottore trying and failing to collide into himself. Served him right for splitting himself and then killing himself.
I'm sure you'll manage, he wrote, still snickering. I have complete faith in you.
Pantalone realised what he'd just written a second too late. He cursed under his breath, scrambling for a way to undo the damage, but he found nothing.
Fantastic. Just what he needed, to give that lunatic another ego boost.
> I kn0w you do.
> Thank you, Feofan.
> I will m4ke sure to offer appr0priate returns on your investm3nt.
Pantalone blinked slowly once, twice, three times, just to make sure his tired eyes were not playing tricks on him. Dottore was... thanking him. It was not an apology, but it almost felt like one.
It felt better than that. It felt honest.
He started typing, deleting, typing again.
"//\|\||)|(|{ – no, Zandik waited.
Feofan smilled to himself, finally settling on something that would not make his skin crawl with embarrassment.
I'll humor you, Zandik. I'm buying a reconditioned Gardemek off the black market, as a token of faith. Cannot wait to see you take it over.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the screen fill with another wall of text. He wasn't going to get any sleep, and it felt wonderful.