Chapter Text
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Dottore tugs his Harbinger coat tighter around him.
Shipment days are as exciting as they are dreadful. New equipment for his lab means more experiments, more tools available at his reach to do what he must and what he pleases. But it also means standing watch in the large garage bunker with the doors blowing in the cold air as Fatui agents unload the crates and boxes into order.
If he trusted any of these agents as far as he could throw them, perhaps he wouldn't need to oversee the mundanity. But after one too many incidents of broken or crushed boxes from carelessness, he finds overseeing their movements brings the best results. Standing above on the higher level with his arms crossed, he cuts an intimidating enough picture to keep even the clumsiest individuals in line.
Footsteps approach, a vaguely familiar visage that he hardly cares to recall the name of.
"Lord Harbinger," the stale man greets, rather short in stature with thinning brown hair and deep set eyes. He smiles, polite and pressed as he holds out a clipboard of papers. Mr. Patrov, he recalls belatedly. He's been utilizing the mans company for a few years now, perhaps he should bother to remember. "Everything should be accounted for and in order. As usual, it just needs your signature."
Zandik takes the paperwork without a word, scanning the items clinically. As usual, it is not cheap. But mora means little to him outside the pursuit of science and general comforts. If only its abundance wasn't a necessity for his goals. Pierro may have another stern word for him going over budget, but he'd circumvent the consequences with results of his work.
With a final sweep of his eyes from beneath the material of his mask, he grunts an affirmation and clicks the pen to sign.
"Commander, if I may..." A sudden satin voice chimes in from his side.
The Doctor pauses, indignant, lifting his chin to see a figure in standard Fatui uniform approach. It is when he notes the precision of their steps and the grace of their gait he registers who has interrupted. That, and the lack of mask. Instead, glasses perch elegantly across a sharp face. Prescribed by none other than himself, in fact.
Since his little test subject has since been relocated beneath his command, Dottore has found it easy to identify him from the rest; almost hyper aware of his location amidst the masses. A strange sensation, one he hasn't bothered to analyze.
Curious at the intrusion, pale brows raise. "Mr. Veksel. What is it?"
Feofan smiles, in that ever pleasant way he seems to facade around. "I had simply thought it perhaps helpful if I took a look at the receipts myself before you sign. I'm rather adept at financing, and might be able to catch any discrepancies."
Mr. Patrov scrunches in offense. "Why, who do you think you are?! I've been providing service to Lord Dottore for years!"
"I meant no offense," the agent croons. "I simply wish to best assert myself where I am most useful for my Lord, you see. And I am by no means an aid to those doing the muscle work as you can imagine."
"You think the brilliant Lord Dottore incapable of doing it himself?!" The business man continues to rage, beginning to look rather like an upset blubberbeast. "Why, you should be executed for such slander!"
Feofan folds his gloved hands, but his words effortlessly parry. "On the contrary, I rather think it is simply beneath him to do such banal work. I'm sure his mind is rather occupied with things of higher import than crunching numbers. You don't disagree, do you?"
"Well I- I mean, no, of course not. But..."
Zandik remains quiet, impressed by the verbal backing into a corner.
"Besides," the agent continues, adjusting his glasses. "If there is no issue within the calculations, there should be no reason to resist having someone else take a look, correct ?"
Mr. Patrov, red in the face, flounders. "It's not...! Of course, it's a matter of...principle you see!" Finally, he huffs and turns back to the harbinger, scrounging his dignity up to speak more calmly. "Lord Dottore, I am sorry to see you have such inhospitable workers beneath your station. Simply sign the papers and we can move on from the transgression and be done with it."
Dottore hums, looking down at the papers then back up. It's true, he doesn't particularly care about the cost, so long as he gets the materials needed. Yet this display before him...
He glances at his former test subject, and as if able to feel the gaze through the mask, the agent tilts his head and opens his eyes briefly. There's a glint. Knowledgeable. Calculating.
"Feofan," Zandik hands over the clipboard without another word.
Feofan's smile twists into something satisfied. "Yes, Commander."
"You-?!" Patrov jolts, before seeming to remember his audience and scrapes together a tense chuckle. "Well, whatever. You'll find everything in order and polished as it has always been. Patrov Industry is known for our integrity, after all!"
"Indeed," the agent taps his finger across the paper. "Then, you wouldn't happen to know why there's been a three percent overcharge on the overall total, would you?"
"What?!" Sweat forms on a scrunched brow. "That's preposterous!"
"Three percent doesn't sound like much, but when you're dealing with mora in the millions, it tends to add up, you see. A scrape off the top that a busy, eager man like yourself might not notice, Commander."
Dottore strides closer to see the papers just over the shoulder of his agent. This time, he runs the calculations in his head.
The total is exactly three percent over what it should be.
"Indeed," The Doctor drawls.
Patrov waves his hands. "It must be an honest mistake! We will get you the correct-"
"Actually," Feofan interrupts, looking back up to the harbinger. He almost startles a moment, as their faces are closer than he realized, but he continues on without flinching. "I'd recommend having a look at past receipts and see if this has been a reoccurring issue. An honest mistake it may be, but I would not trust a man on word alone. This may have been happening for a long while as an extra padding of pockets."
"I see. That is a good idea." The Doctor grins. "I'd hate to have such a reliable business partner prove to be unfaithful, after all."
Mr. Patrov is almost purple by the time he finds his words. "W-Why I'd have never- you must...! You can't...!"
"Oh?" Dottore purrs. "What can't I?"
The business man looks back and forth between the two men staring at him. At last, the fear pushes his flight or fight to kick in.
He runs.
"Ah. As I thought," Feofan simpers, crossing his arms.
The Doctor mirrors the motion. "Only a guilty man would run," he states the thought they're both thinking. Both men watch as the man runs down the stairs leading down to the loading bunker, pushing agents out of the way as his shiny shoes squeak the whole way down. True desperation of a dead man walking.
"Well, allow me, Commander," Feofan steps forward, pulling a gun from the hidden holster and aiming.
"Keep him alive."
"Of course," the agent smiles. "Consider him my replacement in the experiments."
"How generous~," the harbinger chuckles.
A gunshot rings throughout the concrete. Patrov falls, clutching his leg.
"Seems those prescriptions are working well."
"Of course. I had a very good doctor."
Zandik smiles.
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Down below, a box drops.
"Ow! Mila, what the hell? That's my foot!"
Mila quickly lifts the crate again. "S-sorry!"
They continue moving, the other agent grumbling about his injury.
Meanwhile, Mila sweats beneath her hat. She could have swore she just saw the Doctor smile at one of them. Not the manic grin, but an actual smile...
How strange. She must be more tired than she thought.
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