Archive of Our Own

Eighteen lived an uninteresting life, if you were to ask his fellow segments. Wasting his time on research his elders considered unproductive. Sure, Eight might spend his time wrapped up in researching the stupid aranara, and no one said anything about it, but the moment Eighteen showed even the slightest interest in anything that deviated from their shared goals, suddenly his research was a waste of time.

It was the fact that he had been pondering over this, perhaps, that had caused him to throw out Eight's research paper. He hadn't really been thinking when he did that - something everyone seemed to enjoy scolding him for.

Today, it was Thirty Five who took on the ‘daunting’ task of scolding Eighteen for this. Though, this mainly consisted of him forcing Eighteen to do tasks for him while he talked at Eighteen, the grin on his face widening every time he caught a glimpse of the scowl marring Eighteen’s handsome face.

“You look displeased.” Thirty Five commented, tone dripping with condescension as he noted this.

Displeased. As if he hadn't been scolding Eighteen for at least forty five minutes by this point. Eighteen wanted desperately to tell Thirty Five to shut his mouth, but he knew that kind of volatile reaction was exactly why Thirty Five enjoyed provoking his younger self so much.

He enjoyed the feeling of feeling like he was better. To watch his own younger self be uncontrolled, angry, bitter, to feed his own ego. To feel superior to him, as though he had long ago rid himself of such weakness.

Eighteen alone seemed capable of acknowledging the truth that Thirty Five, no, all of them seemed to deny.

The weakness never left them. They just had an easier time burying it, pretending it didn't exist.

So, he forced himself to remain calm. He wouldn't give in to Thirty Five's petty provocations.

“I just think that you're drawing this out far more than you need to.” He said, keeping his voice carefully level, placing down the heavy box Thirty Five had handed him, getting to sorting them into different cabinets.

“Drawing this out?” Thirty Five repeated, slowly. If his face were exposed, Eighteen could imagine that he would have been able to see his eyebrows lift in mock confusion.

“We wouldn't have to draw this out if you could behave yourself, Eighteen.” He then said, tone losing the playful provocation, now sounding quite cold..

“You act out like a child, and you expect us to let it go?” He stepped closer, until he was looming over Eighteen, giving the impression of a stern teacher lecturing his student.

“Your behavior represents all of us, Eighteen. This attitude, this acting out, what does it serve beyond a momentary satisfaction? You should know better. You do know better. And yet you choose to sink to such pedestrian acts of rebellion.”

“You don't scold Eight-!” Eighteen started, his temper rising despite his earlier determination to keep himself in check.

“Eight?” The anger was there now. No, it had always been there. Yet Thirty Five was not in the habit of lashing out. None of them were, except for Eighteen himself.

“Eight is a child. You compare yourself to him? Can you take any sort of responsibility for your own behavior for once in your worthless existence, Eighteen? Or will you continue to behave as though it is us at fault for holding you to any sort of standard of behavior? Eight does not meaninglessly destroy the work of other segments. He does not disrupt the rest of us in our work. Something you have been continuously guilty of.”

“You're so full of shit, Thirty Five!” Eighteen snapped, slamming down the paper he had been sorting.
“Why should I sit here and listen to you talk at me for another few hours until you've decided I've done enough labour?! You all have lectured at me for centuries, expecting anything to change! Are you really so idiotic to think that a method that had previously never worked will suddenly change things?! I-”

“Enough.” Thirty Five interrupted his tirade of insults. He did not raise his voice. The ice cold nature of his tone was enough to shut Eighteen up, despite himself.
He was scared. No matter how much he resented his other selves, he was scared of them. Scared of what they might do to him if he stepped too much out of line.

“I have no interest in humouring your outbursts, Eighteen. You are not capable of rational discussion. You are volatile. You cannot allow yourself to be the subject of criticism without losing your head.”

Eighteen intended to interrupt once more, but Thirty Five didn't give him the chance.

“You're dismissed.” He said, tone ice cold.
“I cannot imagine any of us would like to deal with your behavior for a prolonged period. As such, the most suitable punishment for this will be to ban your use of the laboratories altogether for… let's see. Let’s start with a week now, shall we? Since you were so keen on criticising our methods of correction, perhaps this punishment will encourage better decision making.”

“You-!” Eighteen spluttered, stuck between wanting to curse Thirty Five and protest this.

All this for a lost research paper? As if Eighteen didn't have his own projects to work on! This was unfair, unfair, unfair, and Thirty Five knew it!

“Surely that's harsh, Thirty Five, even by our standards.” Came the cool voice of Twenty Five. He had been silently surveying the interaction for quite a while, having been attracted by Eighteen’s raised voice.

“I didn't take you for the type to defend this behavior.” Thirty Five commented, not swayed by Eighteen’s reaction.

“Defend? Whoever suggested anything of the sort?” Twenty Five asked, raising his eyebrows, leaning quite casually on the back of an empty chair, lacing his fingers together as he spoke to Thirty Five.

“It merely seems like a rather drastic decision, does it not? After all, Eighteen's assistance, however marginal it can be, is still assistance. Besides, I suspect banning him from working altogether will cause an upsurge on pent up aggression, will it not? Inactivity often has negative effects.”

Eighteen hated this. He hated how easily they were able to discuss him as though he was some meaningless patient, no more significant than a rat in a cage they could prod around,, and not one of them.

Thirty Five considered this perspective for a second. Eighteen's nails dug into his palm, leaving marks. If this went on for much longer, he would undoubtedly draw blood.

“... Touche.” Thirty Five eventually relented, however reluctantly.
“You make a fair point. Still, we must punish this behavior one way or another. It appears that mere words do not penetrate that thick skull of his.”

“We're the same person, Thirty Five.” Eighteen reminded bitterly in an undertone. The nerve to comment on his stubbornness, as if Thirty Five wasn't the same way.

Thirty Five ignored this comment, knowing better than to engage Eighteen.

Twenty Five, too, did not acknowledge the comment.

“He can play as a lab assistant. Perhaps seeing a superior intellect at play will rub off on him.” He suggested.

Thirty Five scoffed. “As if any one of us would like to host him for so much as a day-”

“I am not opposed to it.” Twenty Five said. “After all, Eighteen can be a hard worker when you direct that endless energy somewhere.”

Eighteen scowled further, but made no further comment, as it would very likely be ignored.

Thirty Five seemed mildly intrigued, and eventually accepted this compromise.

“Very well. Eighteen shall spend the week working alongside you.”

Eighteen got to his feet, putting distance in between himself and Thirty Five. Great. Spending a week with Twenty Five. Well, it was favourable compared to any of the other segments.

“Go pack up what you need then, Eighteen.” Thirty Five, tone losing its edge.
“I shall lock up your lab for the duration of your punishment.”

Eighteen didn't say anything, stalking out of Thirty Five’s lab to do as told.

How he hated the lot of them. Hated how Twenty Five looked down on him, though they were not so different. Thirty Five and his stupid ego, Forty Five and his lunacy, how that bastard Sixty Five would keep his composure even in the throes of Eighteen's worst ‘tantrums’, as he called them.

He hated Eight for how childish he was, but moreso, how they would excuse him constantly, but never extend the same grace towards Eighteen.

How hypocritical. They treated him as though he was a foolish child, yet expected him to take responsibility like an adult. Eight could wake them up practically every night over nightmares if he so pleased, but god forbid Eighteen disrupted their work.

Eighteen did not immediately move to pack his belongings upon reaching his lab. The bitterness he had felt at his own older selves had now turned inward, and it felt like it was burning him alive.

He hated himself. He was perhaps the only segment who could accept this about himself, yet could not handle that reality.
He was volatile. Thirty Five wasn't wrong. He didn't think these things through. There wasn't any reason to destroy Eight's project. Eighteen didn't even remember what had spurred on that particular lash out.

Yet he couldn’t change his own nature. He could evolve, but he could never escape his own nature.
He despised Zandik the most. His own creator, condemning him to a life limited by the rejection he had suffered at Eighteen, the bitterness, the resentment at the world that inevitably shifted to resenting himself, his own nature, how unloved he seemed.

He reached for the blade. And he slashed.
He was being volatile. He knew that this was the exact reason the other segments condemned him so. Yet he was in too deep. Having just drawn back his sleeve slightly revealed the centuries worth of scarring.
It revolted him. It was evidence of his own failures, yet here he was, adding to the gross landscape that was his skin.

And Pantalone. Eighteen only thought of him recalling their last interaction, when the man had lightly gripped his wrist to keep him in earshot for a few moments, yet it had been a silent agony for Eighteen, Pantalone having unintentionally pressed down on a wound when he had done so.

Eighteen's grip on the blade tightened, and he drove it deeper into his wrist, provoking a pained whine, leaning his head back, eyes tightly shut. He was attempting to force down the urge to cry.
Dottore never cried. No version of him allowed that weakness, not even Eight.

A curse slipped past Eighteen's lips, yet he still hadn't done enough, though all he could see now was the red of his own blood.
He would have to hope no one came to check on him, he had not locked the door, but he knew better.
No one ever did. Not even Pantalone, he thought bitterly, who was more than likely more concerned with Eight.

The thought caused his next slash to be erratic and uneven.
Pantalone. All of them were predisposed to have some positive feelings about him, whether it was the deeply intimate connection of the older segments, the intellectual interest between him and Twenty Five, or the familial connection between him and Eight.

Yet Pantalone struggled with Eighteen. It was not intentional on his end, naturally, it was a result of Eighteen's own aggression. He would do things in a fit of rage, and no matter how unaccusing Pantalone's response would be, Eighteen would never respond well to being criticised. As such, over the centuries, Pantalone had distanced himself, clearly under the assumption it was for the best.

And with Eighteen’s constant mistreatment of Eight, a segment Pantalone regrettably was often protective over, with the distance had likely risen resentment, however slight.

Eighteen yearned for connection with him. They all did. He wanted it badly, and yet it felt pointless to even try to reach for it. When he was so disgusting, so uncontrollable.

The ragged breaths leaving Eighteen's lips could've been mistaken for sobs, if it were not for the distinct lack of wetness under his eyes. He stopped, gazing down at the knife, and then the damage he had inflicted upon himself.

He felt nauseous looking at himself. He resented his body for reflecting the years of damage he had inflicted upon it. A mere broken vessel with no right to exist. That was likely how the older selves would view this.

He had to clean this up. Moreso, he had to pack a substantial part of his belongings as well, so as not to be accused of meandering while he had been given a task to complete. He was lightheaded, but the dread of the consequences of disobeying compelled him to get to his feet and treat the injuries, desperately staving off losing consciousness.

“You’ve been a while.” Twenty Five stated, as Eighteen entered his lab.

Eighteen frowned.

“There was more to pack than I realised.” He said, somewhat evasively, setting down the box of his papers and equipment on the spare desk that had been placed there for his use.

“Very well.” Twenty Five said, not seeming to read into Eighteen's tone very much, too preoccupied with his own tasks.

And thank god for that. The last thing Eighteen needed was for Twenty Five to start sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

“What do you need me to do, anyway?” Eighteen asked, unable to conceal his bitterness at being Twenty Five's lab assistance.

Twenty Five’s eyebrows raised before he even responded.
“Surely, you didn't actually expect me to babysit you? I only said that to get Thirty Five to agree to this arrangement. Continue with your own work. I much rather do things myself rather than waste time barking orders.”

Eighteen's eyes widened marginally, yet Twenty Five missed this, as he was still preoccupied with the animal he was dissecting.

“Very well.” Eighteen said, tone surprisingly steady, and even eager, as he reached for the box he had brought, quite excited to delve back into his research.

This wouldn't be so bad after all. They were content to work without speaking to each other, and it was what both preferred.

If it were not for the sharp pains in his arm, this would've been the ideal setting to work.
No matter. The injuries would heal.

Except the very next morning, Eighteen had run into an issue. His own lab was inaccessible due to the fact that Thirty Five had locked it, yet the bandages he had from the day before were badly done, and needed immediate replacement. Yet he had lacked the foresight to take the bandages from his own lab, or anything that could assist in wound care.

Asking Twenty Five for what he needed would result in questions. Stealing it would cause Twenty Five to suspect him. Attempting to break into his own lab to take some was out of the question - Thirty Five undoubtedly sealed it with more than just lock and key.

Eighteen spent quite a while debating on what to do, as he sketched down a design for something he had wanted to build for ages. A passive debate, as his focus was on the precision of the lines, holding the ruler firm against the paper as the pencil glided along it.
He settled on taking the supplies without asking, as there was a slim chance Twenty Five either wouldn't notice, or wouldn't care to bring it up.

He did so during lunch hour, as Twenty Five had offered to bring Eighteen lunch in the lab to save him the trip. He took just what he needed, not a bit more, and ensured he left everything looking in the same condition he had found it in.

He hid in the bathroom to actually do the bandages. He couldn’t allow Twenty Five to even glimpse the process of treating the injuries, or he would get questioned.

He would regret this decision later on.

“Sandrone’s being insufferable again..” Twenty Five said, snickering to himself, once he had returned to the lab, placing down a plate of food on the few inches of space on Eighteen’s desk that wasn’t littered with papers, mechanical parts or whatever else.

“Did Pantalone reject her request for funding again?” Eighteen asked, feeling a slight bit of bitterness, as Pantalone had done the same to him just a few days prior, quite likely something that had contributed to him lashing out at Eight.

“Worse,” Twenty five smirked under his mask, something Eighteen could tell even with it on just by the look in the man’s eyes. “He’s drawing it out. Making up excuses as to why he can’t yet give a definitive conclusion. Something to do with paperwork and ‘having to look into her prior requests’.”

Well, that was a more entertaining thought at least. Eighteen allowed a slight mocking chuckle to escape his lips.

“Serves her right.” He said, reaching for the food Twenty Five had brought him.
“Maybe if she fixed that attitude he'd be a little more willing.”

Twenty Five was admittedly quite amused at the hypocrisy in Eighteen’s statement, but did not express it beyond smiling to himself.

“Perhaps he would.” He said, taking a seat at his own desk.

This wasn’t that bad. Perhaps Eighteen hadn’t noticed this before simply due to his resentment, but even when Twenty Five spoke to Eighteen to ask him to do something, while he never uttered the word ‘Please’ (none of them ever would) , it was not with the same demand Thirty Five’s tone had, as though if Eighteen didn’t drop everything right then and there to assist he was being a fool, nor the curt tone the other segments used. It was uttered like an absent minded thought, oftentimes a minor task Twenty Five did not mind waiting to be completed.

It was a comfortable arrangement. Thirty Five would surely be displeased with how little Eighteen was feeling the effects of this ‘punishment’, but Eighteen felt no desire to inform him of that.

By the evening, he felt tenderness underneath the bandages. It was nothing, he told himself. He would go to sleep, and change the bandages again the next morning. He would have to steal from Twenty Five again, but Twenty Five did not notice this time, he might not notice the second time.

Who was he kidding? The injuries were showing signs of infection. He could feel the heat radiating off his skin, changing the previous bandages, hidden away in the bathroom again.

How foolish of him. He had rushed the treatment of the injuries, and now he was paying the price for it. He couldn't put a finger on what exactly he had done wrong, but he had been rather lightheaded.
No matter. No use dwelling on how it could've happened.

It was too risky to try and steal anything to treat these, however. Twenty Five would definitely notice ointment or antibiotics missing.

Damn Thirty Five for locking Eighteen's lab… Eighteen was fully capable of treating infections and had done so in the past, when he had free access to whatever needed for them.
Now, he had to be careful. However badly the infection could end, the worst case scenario to Eighteen was the other segments discovering this habit of his.

For now, he cleaned the injuries best he could with what was already in the bathroom. This was his best hope. Keep the injuries clean, hope the infection did not worsen significantly over the days left of his punishment, and then he would treat the infection.

Eighteen was well aware it was a reckless plan, yet what choice did he have? He didn't trust anyone with this, nor did he want to risk stealing from Twenty Five more than he already had.

It was rather unfortunate for Eighteen that Twenty Five already had noticed. It greatly amused Twenty Five that Eighteen thought that - to any extent, he could keep this concealed from him.

Twenty Five did not condescend on Eighteen the way that Thirty Five did. He did not feel the need to pounce on him the moment the opportunity was presented. He was perfectly capable of sitting back in silence, observing until he had enough information to make sure that Eighteen had no possible way of escaping the confrontation.

Eighteen had considered the possibility. Naturally. All of them, though fixed in the nature of the state Zandik was in at the age they were made to reflect, had still grown to be able to anticipate each other's behavior, whether it was an older segment recalling Zandik's memory of that age, or the younger's understanding through observation.

Eighteen had considered the possibility of Twenty Five already noticing the missing bandages. He had half a mind on the ruin guard replica he spent the day constructing, considering what he would do if Twenty Five had noticed the missing bandages.

Eighteen had not taken anything besides the bandages. He could claim it was something as simple as spraining his wrist, and taking them to stabilise the joint. They had been cohesive bandages after all.

If Dottore was not Dottore, this would've been upsetting, perhaps. He had been sincerely looking forward to building the replica, only for it to be overshadowed by this insatiable need to tear his skin apart, as though if he let himself bleed, eventually, everything undesirable would bleed out of him.
And perhaps it would, along with the rest of him.

Eighteen settled on the excuse of a sprained wrist, as if Twenty Five questioned him any further, he could show the bandaging partially to back up his claim. And though he tried to focus his attention back on his task, the very task he had been so eager to get to just a week prior, the pains stemming from infection would constantly divert his attention to keeping his face straight, his breathing even, so that if Twenty Five spared him a glance, he would not see anything out of the ordinary.

Five days to go. Eighteen scowled, a scowl that turned a handsome face into something much more unpleasant, gazing down at the injuries.

What a stupid feature anyway, he thought. What the hell did Zandik think they needed to be able to get infections for? Perhaps some twisted sadism in seeing them suffer.
Eighteen knew it was more likely that it had to do with the man's ego, that creating something so lifelike it couldn’t be told apart from an actual human, save for their indefinite lifespan would be the ultimate accomplishment, yet it was easier for Eighteen to direct his frustration at his deceased creator, lest it turned back onto himself, and the urge to ruin his already gruesome skin further returned.

Twenty Five would definitely notice and confront him about the bandages. There was no way he wouldn't. Eighteen was so preoccupied with mentally rehearsing that conversation, preparing the lie he would have to convey, that he nearly did not notice the pus clinging to the old bandages he was removing.

He wrinkled his nose in disgust. There was no odour yet, but there was no guarantee that would last. He redid the bandaging, ensuring it was secure.

It was getting worse. He knew it was, yet the threat of being dismantled by his own older selves took precedent over the base instinct to seek assistance.

It was reckless. Yet it was a decision any of them would make in his position, he was sure. None of them enjoyed vulnerability, especially not in their own midst.

While he found an easier time focusing his mind on his project, he could not help wincing occasionally, or else having a more difficult time with assembling the pieces due to the pain of his injuries.

“What's hurting you so, Eighteen?” Twenty Five asked, after a particularly harsh wince from the younger.

“Only a sprained wrist.” Eighteen responded, coming off convincingly grumpy rather than nervous.

“Is that so?” Twenty Five said, skepticism dripping off every word.
“A sprained wrist? That is all that’s causing you to react so strongly?”

“Yes? Do you imagine how difficult it is to work with a sprained wrist?” Eighteen asked, rolling his eyes.

“Do you take me for a fool, Eighteen?” Suddenly, Twenty Five was looming over the younger, eyes narrowed.

“Given your insistence that a mere sprained wrist is something out of the ordinary, I'd say so.” Eighteen said, rolling his eyes slightly.

“Show me then.” Twenty Five said slowly.
“But I warn you, Eighteen, if it's anything more than that, I'll go right back to Thirty Five and make sure you spend the next month in his lab.”

Eighteen's breathing picked up subtly, but behind the fear rising, that brilliant mind of his was working. Attempting to think of anything to get out of the situation he was in.

It was no use. He’d show the bandaging, and attempt to talk his way out of it. Eighteen, keeping his expression in check and controlling his breathing, rolled up his sleeve, presenting Twenty Five with the bandage. Since the bandage spanned his entire forearm, the sprained wrist excuse obviously wasn't going to work anymore.

“It's-” But Twenty Five hadn't given him the chance to say anything, taking Eighteen harshly by the arm, and Eighteen, however well he could keep his composure, couldn't help letting out a cry of pain in response.

But to his surprise, the grip became a lot more gentle following it. Twenty Five clearly hadn't meant to hurt Eighteen.

“Apologies.” He said, in a low tone, low enough for Eighteen to miss it if he was inattentive.

But he focused, and began to undo the bandaging, having felt the moisture and clocked it as unusual, and did so quickly enough for Eighteen to not be able to respond to this move until the bandaging was fully undone.

“Get off-!” Eighteen struggled, as Twenty Five had expected him to, but it was of no use. “Don't touch me!” The bandaging was off, and the sheer damage was exposed.

Eighteen had never seen Twenty Five surprised before. At least not to this extent, a few seconds during which even a mind as attuned to constant work as Dottore's seemed to go blank for a few, crucial seconds.

Yet Twenty Five did not get to regain his bearings, before Eighteen took a hold of his collar, with a grip that betrayed the ruined state of his arm, and pulled him by the collar in a way that made Twenty Five wheeze, his throat constricted.

Seemingly it was not only Eighteen discovering something new. Twenty Five had never witnessed Eighteen in such a raw state either, a state in which his mind had gone completely blank, actions and words now fueled by sheer, unregulated fury. Yet, beneath the furious predator was the cornered animal attempting to shield itself,

“Don't you dare tell anyone about this!” Eighteen snapped, voice breaking with how aggressively he spoke. The pain in his arm was unbearable, but he barely felt it with the adrenaline fueling the unusual feat of strength.
“If you tell any of the others about this, I'll kill you myself!”

Twenty Five did not recoil. He did not fight Eighteen's grip, though he was already getting lightheaded. He recognized that struggle would do nothing here.

“Kill me..?” He rasped.
“Kill me over this? Let me go, Eighteen. You're worsening your injuries.”

“You think it matters now?!” Eighteen practically roared. It was lucky for him no one was close to the lab at that moment, for the loudness of his voice would've undoubtedly drawn attention to this.
“You think I care about those stupid cuts?! Say it! Tell me you won't tell anyone!”

Twenty Five recognized the desperate cadence in Eighteen’s tone. He reached for Eighteen, and rested his hands on Eighteen’s wrists, but did not attempt to pry them off.

“You're doing yourself no favours, Eighteen.” He said, speaking as calmly as he could manage with Eighteen’s tight grip on his collar.
“You know very well I have no desire to torment you. I am not Thirty Five. I am not Pantalone. I function in the best interest of all of us. Release me.”

Yet it had not been Twenty Five's words that prompted Eighteen to let go of him. No, his grip has loosened the moment Twenty Five's hands had touched his. It was a painfully small thing, but the gentle touch was foreign to a soul as starved for it as Eighteen was.

Twenty Five took the opportunity to take his injured arm and turn it over, properly examining the injuries, mentally cataloguing all the symptoms. Redness, swelling, discharge…

“I shall keep my silence, if you allow me to tend to these.” Twenty Five said, looking up at Eighteen, gazing directly into his eyes so Eighteen

“Fine.” Eighteen responded, curtly, averting his gaze both from the injuries and Twenty Five himself. It was a win-win deal, in any case.

Twenty Five nodded, leading Eighteen onto the sofa, collecting all the items needed to treat the wounds properly, and began to apply ointment to each cut individually, noticing the varying depths and lengths. This was done erratically, no doubt.

“Did you do this the day you came here?” Twenty Five asked, cleaning the biggest laceration on Eighteen’s forearm.

“Yes.” Eighteen said faintly. Twenty Five could not begin to guess what he was thinking, but he was still avoiding looking at the cuts, or Twenty Five for that matter.

Twenty Five sighed, focusing back on the injuries themselves.
Eighteen’s arm was scarred. Unbelievably so. Twenty Five had overlooked this initially - the infection had been concerning enough, let alone the ghosts of thousands of healed cuts marring Eighteen’s skin.

Twenty Five, having applied ointment to every infected injury, began to rebandage Eighteen's arm, doing so much more carefully and clinically than Eighteen himself had.

Eighteen felt like he was in a haze. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving him tired, with nothing but the aches in his arm to distract from it. The bandaging was finished, and for a moment, the two sat in silence.

Twenty Five leaned closer then, gazing at Eighteen intensely.
“Strip. Now.” His tone was demanding, perhaps even angry.

“And why would I do that?” Eighteen asked, characteristic annoyance edging back into his voice despite the strange haze he was in.

“Because the scars span past your forearm. I want to see the extent of what you've done to yourself.” Twenty Five explained, gesturing to the bandaging he had just done.

“You..” Eighteen had wanted to say something insulting in response, but found he couldn’t formulate anything, though the annoyance had definitely been conveyed.
Nevertheless, after a moment's hesitation, he obeyed. Twenty Five had already promised to keep quiet, after all.

Yet the haze cleared as Eighteen’s body came into view, and for the first time, he felt the crushing shame of the state of it. Every inch of skin that had become visible was tainted, tainted with centuries worth of the destructive coping mechanism he had adopted, leaving the pale man standing in front of him to wonder how he had kept this hidden for so long at all.

Even for someone as detached as Dottore, the sight of his own self, however unlike him he was, in a state of such ruin.. It was nauseating. Perhaps he had already realized that this had been going on for years judging by the state of Eighteen’s arm, but his body conveyed decades of suffering Eighteen had internalised.

Eighteen, felt the insurmountable need to recoil at the pressure of Twenty Five gazing at him so intently, the shame settling in his chest, the dizzying clarity at his body being exposed, and made to get off the couch, to get away from it all, but he was immediately caught by Twenty Five and pulled him back down, but not before he had felt the sudden lightheadedness that came from standing.

“What do you think you're doing?” Twenty Five asked, voice unusually sharp for himself, clearly betraying the fact that he had been disturbed by the sight.
“I don't need you passing out and cracking your skull open. Sit down, you stubborn fool.”

Eighteen was not in any state to resist the firm grip on his waist, though he would’ve taken the opportunity to insult Twenty Five for doing something as intimate as pulling him down by the waist, and the older knew that.

Eighteen’s teal hair splayed over the pillow as Twenty Five pushed him down to lay on his back, and he let out an instinctive sigh of exhaustion. He didn’t doubt he looked pathetic, but he could not muster the strength to resist.

“There. Now lay still.” Twenty Five said, voice still sharp, though he had just done a slight double take at noticing the scars on Eighteen’s back, and briefly questioning how Eighteen had managed to treat those wounds on his own, but dismissed the thought. That was not relevant to his current situation.

“You are hesitating to rest, though it is the logical decision here. Why?” Twenty Five asked, brow furrowing, puzzled.

“...” Eighteen’s face flushed slightly, with shame still. Twenty Five's hands were still on him, and though he refused to admit it, he wished for the contact to remain. If he went to sleep, he would wake cold and bare, possibly left to rest without a blanket.

The older segments could close each other's needs for closeness amongst themselves or Pantalone. Eighteen had yearned for it from a distance, yet never said a word, too stubborn and proud like the rest of them.

Was Twenty Five not the same? Though he was more secure and collected than Eighteen was, they all had the same wounds to their core. Did he not possess even an inkling of desire to feel close to another body, to feel needed? Yes, the other segments extended a respect towards him that they never spared for Eighteen, yet Twenty Five was never in their inner circle either.

Eighteen opened his mouth to speak, torn on telling Twenty Five to go away or to come closer, yet managed nothing as a result, and feeling all the worse for it.

Twenty Five clearly was trying to understand what was going on in Eighteen’s head, gazing down at his younger self, and in his attention to detail noticed how Eighteen seemed to both lean into his touch, yet tense at it simultaneously. He had kept his hands on Eighteen in case he had attempted to slink away again, but came to realize it was this touch that was causing the conflict.

“Ah. This is what I failed to account for.” Twenty Five said, seeming to soften ever so slightly.

“Don't mock me.” Eighteen said, meaning to sound aggressive again, yet his voice breaking ruined the effect.

And he was promptly pulled into the warmth of Twenty Five's chest, without question or insults thrown his way.

Eighteen froze only for a moment, and then took the contact as though he were a starving man getting his hands on food.

“You better stay here.” He said, fingers curling into the fabric of Twenty Five’s shirt.

Twenty Five let out a mocking snort.
“I wouldn't dream of it.” He jeered, knowing full well that if he responded any other way, Eighteen would've withdrawn at being vulnerable.

He was correct, of course. Eighteen managed to slip into unconsciousness, his head heavy against Twenty Five’s shoulder.

And Twenty Five was left alone with his thoughts.
Yes, he had promised Eighteen to remain silent. Yet that had been prior to discovering the full extent of the damage inflicted onto his body.

Twenty Five, however intelligent he was, could not feasibly prevent Eighteen from doing this again. Not when it was so deeply ingrained into the younger.

Going against Eighteen’s wishes would break the fragile trust they had developed that evening. Yet… How long could Eighteen keep going like this?

However badly he denied it, Twenty Five’s silence would doom Eighteen to a painful end.

And selfishly, he wanted to cling onto Eighteen. Logically, he knew they could dismantle Eighteen. Perhaps create a new segment in his stead, though that would undoubtedly take time and resources. Create a segment who would not consistently get in the way of all their work.

Yet, Eighteen was still a part of them. A version of them that, however unstable, was still a part of Zandik. Though they had been the tools to dissect Zandik, they had still felt sorry for him, had they not? Why should this part of themselves be different?

Twenty Five sighed, moving to dress Eighteen, seeing no reason to keep him exposed.

He would wait. It was rare for Dottore to be uncertain, yet in this case, different parts of himself were warring against each other, and he did not know what conclusion to make.
For now, all he could guarantee was Eighteen did not feel so isolated.

“Those two seem.. Unusually close lately.” Sixty Five commented, which was his first time speaking for a few hours.

They had recently wrapped up a meeting, though a few segments remained in the larger laboratory, Sixty Five, Forty Five, and Eight. Twenty Five and Eighteen had just left together.

“Eighteen’s punishment ended a few weeks ago, yet he still seems to spend more time at Twenty Five’s laboratory than his own.” Forty Five agreed, glancing up at the door that had just closed.

“They’re so gross..” Eight murmured, sounding deeply disgusted.

Forty Five snickered. “You only say that because you don’t like Eighteen.” He said, sounding deeply amused.

“It’s still gross.” Eight said stubbornly.

“Eighteen seems to have mellowed out.” Sixty Five pointed out.
“However much it displeases you, you only gain from this, do you not? He does not pick on you as often now, does he?”

Eight grumbled, too low for either to hear, but making it clear that he had not forgiven Eighteen, earning a laugh from Forty Five.

“How amusing! I look forward to hearing about whatever revenge you’ve thought up, Eight” He said, returning the plush Eighteen had placed out of Eight’s reach to the child, which was the extent of Eighteen’s lashing out these days.

Eight, seeming to take the return of the plush as a peace offering, eased up, and went back to sketching aranara in his notebook.

“It is abnormal, though.” Sixty Five said, speaking to Forty Five now. “It would seem that neither of them were the types to go for such a close knit relationship.”

“Well, one could say the same about you.” Forty Five said, tone making it clear this was meant as an insult, “Locking yourself in your lab for days at a time, does that strike you as the behavior of someone who’s open to socialising with the rest of us? Yet here you are.”

“Touche.” Sixty Five relented.
“And yet, one does wonder what caused them to get along so suddenly.”

“Only time will tell.” Forty Five said, though curiosity had flashed in his eyes.
“Yes.. I look forward to finding out what that catalyst was.”

“It works.” Eighteen said mildly, watching his model of the ruin guard boot up.

“Naturally it works.” Twenty Five responded. “Things tend to work when you’re focusing on matters with a rational mind.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Eighteen said, rolling his eyes. He began to look over his project, ensuring there were no malfunctions or weak points. There seemed to be none, and Eighteen sighed, satisfied.

“It's a miracle Pantalone's funding was enough for this.” Eighteen commented.
“Although, now that I'm finished with this, I'll have to go through the tedious process of requesting for more.” He commented.

“Does he still give you a hard time over it?” Twenty Five asked, sounding mildly surprised.

“You don't imagine.” Eighteen sighed.
“Oh, Eighteen, you know I expect a better presentation for these things.” He mocked, making a startlingly accurate impression of Pantalone's mannerisms when he spoke.

“It's like he expects me to prostrate myself at his feet for a sack full of mora!”

Twenty Five did manage to conceal . “I have some mora leftover from my previous venture. Feel free to take it.”

“Well, thank you for the generosity on your leftovers.” Eighteen said, sounding in a bad temper, but knowing Twenty Five would still give the mora to Eighteen regardless of the jab.

Twenty Five glanced at the ruin guard, looking at Eighteen's work.

The older segments truly did underestimate Eighteen often, he thought. The ruin guard, while not built with the original Khaenri'ah technology, managed to replicate it convincingly enough.

And as Eighteen went through a list of things the ruin guard should be able to do, all successfully, Twenty Five could not help getting distracted from his own work to watch Eighteen’s work. Eighteen was hyperfocused and fascinated, clearly enjoying himself in his research when one of his older selves wasn't talking at him about the aimlessness of it all.

Yes, Twenty Five could get used to his presence. Perhaps he already had.

“I told you, it wasn’t my fault!”

Truly, life was strange in this manner. Annoying, in Eighteen’s opinion. How, not even in the span of twelve hours, his mood could go from near euphoric, to thoroughly wishing Zandik had neglected to create an eighteen year old segment in the first place.

The ruins of his lab remained burned into his mind as the cause of it, and now he was stuck answering to an exceptionally infuriated Pantalone and Thirty Five.

The clock on Pantalone's desk ticked ominously, the darkness and stuffiness of his office contrasting rather heavily to how well lit and open Dottore liked his workspaces. Every shelf, every surface was littered with trinkets of great value, yet none were dusty, well taken care of by the butlers Pantalone employed.

Yet the darkness of the room made the two figured before Eighteen all the more intimidating, Pantalone sat behind his desk, legs crossed, hands intertwined on top of his knees, Thirty Five leant on the side of the desk, arms crossed, eyes undoubtedly on Eighteen, though the younger had no way of confirming it.

“Not your fault?” Thirty Five echoed. Clearly, he was taking some sadistic pleasure in lecturing Eighteen, especially when the younger was reacting like this.
“Eighteen, it was your experiment that malfunctioned. It is your responsibility to ensure your projects do not cause such damage. Such recklessness is unbecoming of you.”

“Damages I have to pay for.” Pantalone added, tone exceptionally angry despite the smile on his face, though even that was strained. Eighteen was sure that if he was not a segment of Dottore, the wrath he would be facing would be much worse.

“I told you, the model worked fine when I activated it in Twenty Five's office, I don't know why it malfunctioned!” Eighteen appealed.

“Then who does?” Pantalone asked. He did not raise his voice. His anger never presented itself through the explosive outbursts of lesser men. Pantalone had mastered the art of making his wrath known without such displays, whether it was through the quiet, deadly tone he adopted, the coldness behind his gaze if his eyes were open, in which case, they were, boring into Eighteen's with an intensity the younger could not remember ever being on the receiving end of, or the threats, delivered in a tone so soft it added to the intimidation rather than detract from it.

“I have to pay for your mistake, pay for the repairs in your laboratory for your use, pay for whichever reckless project you decide to take up on next, and all you have to offer is a denial?” Pantalone asked, not letting up in the intensity of his gaze and voice even for a moment.

“What do you want me to say?!” Eighteen burst out, that nasty temper of his flaring up once more.
“Get on my feet and beg for forgiveness, is that it?!”

“It would be a start.” Thirty Five said coldly. He clearly did not care very much for the destruction of the lab, he himself was not affected by it.

How Eighteen hated him. He didn't need to be here at all, he just enjoyed seeing Eighteen in such a position.

“I'm afraid you'll find,” Pantalone interrupted, tone dropping into an incredibly dangerous whisper, “That you are not in a position to snap at me.”

Eighteen fell silent, though he was seething. While he had no qualms about snapping back at Thirty Five, it was not the same with the man whose violet eyes were boring into his crimson at that moment. He found himself wishing for a mask like Thirty Five had, perhaps to shield himself from such an intense gaze.

“There. We're already starting to control our temper.” Pantalone said, though the praise was condescending. A thinly veiled warning to not lash out again.

“Now,” Pantalone said, starting to rifle through his papers.
“The damages sum up to a few million mora.”

So, barely a penny to you, Eighteen thought, but did not speak his thoughts out loud.

“I shall pay for the repairs.” Pantalone continued, “But I shall be taking interest off your future funds until you pay them off in full.”

Eighteen grit his teeth to stop himself from making a comment and nodded.

“I think that is all.” Pantalone said, closing his eyes and not opening them again.
“You're dismissed.”

Eighteen stood up and left the room before Thirty Five could make a comment that could wind him up further.

How stupid he was to think the equilibrium he felt could’ve lasted. To imagine that things could’ve stayed like he felt with Twenty Five, respected and calm. He had forgotten there was a world beyond that, a world which still took any opportunity to remind him of his place.

And he didn’t know why the ruin guard had malfunctioned. An issue from transporting it from one lab to another? But that wouldn’t be Eighteen’s fault, but the fault of the agent that had transported it! And he would have to start over on a project that had taken him months of sketching, planning, and procuring parts and modifying them before he had gone onto putting it all together. All of that preparation, and the nerve Thirty Five had to imply that it was Eighteen’s negligence that had caused it, as though he never considered any of the consequences of his lab being in ruin.

He had to return to his room, but the urge to tear at his skin had returned. The problem being, he lacked the supplies he had in his lab. Perhaps in a more rational state, Eighteen would’ve considered this, but he was at a point where he was barely thinking at all, scrambling all over his room, looking for something sharp enough to tear skin.
The moment he found something that would do, he did not even register what it was. He immediately devolved to mindless mutilation. This was the state behind the majority of the wounds on his body. One in which he did not spare thought for reason or consequence, and slashed aimlessly until the pain was too much to bear, and his mind was forced to focus on nothing but the fiery aches he inflicted upon himself.

There wasn’t any rhyme or reason to the injuries he inflicted. They varied in depths, length, many barely breaking the surface of his skin, others immediately starting to bleed the moment they were inflicted.

And then came the burn of the injuries, the injuries over his arms, legs, even his back, and Eighteen collapsed against the floor, dropping the chisel he had used in place of a knife, doubling over himself, expelling harsh breaths from his lungs, clutching at a wound over his stomach, one which he couldn’t even recall making.

Then came the familiar sting of regret, the fear, the shame of it all. None of this was new. And coming back to his senses, Eighteen chastised himself for this lapse in self control. He was doing his very best to not fall unconscious, he still had to treat the injuries, he wouldn’t make the same mistake that had led him to infection last time.

“Eighteen?” Twenty Five had entered the room, having come to visit Eighteen the moment he had been made aware of what had transpired.

“What?” Eighteen snapped. By the time Twenty Five had come in, he had cleaned up the mess caused by his relapse, and the wounds were hidden beneath bandages beneath long, pristine Sumerian robes.

“...” Twenty Five stood in the doorway for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. He couldn’t just ask Eighteen if he was alright.

“Show me your arms.” He said eventually.

“No!” Eighteen responded, immediately confirming Twenty Five’s suspicions.

“I can help you-” Twenty Five started, trying to appeal to Eighteen to accept it.

“I don’t need your help!” Eighteen shouted back, slamming his hands against his desk and standing up to look at Twenty Five, raising his voice when Twenty Five had approached him with a perfectly unconfrontational tone.
“Don’t patronize me!”

“I’m not patronizing you.” Twenty Five said. “I simply have no desire to see you fail over something that is mendable.”

“I don’t need you for this!” Eighteen’s voice broke again, as if often did when he forced its volume beyond its limits.

“I’ve done this on my own for centuries, do you really think I need you for it?!”

Twenty Five could only assume the damage done was extensive, for Eighteen would have no other reason to react this way.

And gazing at the state Eighteen was in, Twenty Five realized that he had to break his silence. There was no other way.

Though Eighteen was correct, he had lived a long time like this, he clearly was deteriorating. The fact that he had allowed such a severe infection previously was proof of that, and Twenty Five knew that Eighteen was on the path of total self destruction.

He had to tell someone.

“Fine.” He said, turning on his heel and leaving the room.

Eighteen regretted his outburst the moment Twenty Five left the room. The only person who was ever on his side, and Eighteen had lashed out at him. He felt nauseous from the self hate bubbling up in his chest.

And he picked up the chisel once more.

“Strange. I don’t recall there being a group collaboration between you three.” Twenty Five commented. He had barely slept at night, mulling over the situation in his head, and had decided to confide in Sixty Five, him being the most level headed of any of them. And so, he had entered Sixty Five’s lab, only to find the other two also there.

“If I recall,” Thirty Five responded. “We do not answer to you. I do not require your permission to visit another segment’s lab, Twenty Five.”

“And I think you will find I never implied that.” Twenty Five said, careful to not come off as defensive. “I was merely stating my surprise.”

“Come now, Thirty Five,” Forty Five said lightly. “Always so suspicious, and the poor man hasn’t even said a word of his intentions yet.”

“Enough bickering, you two.” Sixty Five finally spoke up, to interrupt Thirty Five from responding to Forty Five’s comment.
“What is it, Twenty Five?”

“I wished to speak to you in private.” Twenty Five said, regaining some confidence.
“Come now,” Forty Five said. “What will you tell him that you cannot tell all of us, Twenty Five?” The curiosity in his gaze immediately told Twenty Five he had realized this was about Eighteen.

And Thirty Five had noticed that Forty Five had his suspicions about what this meeting was about.

Twenty Five stood silent for a moment, contemplating what to do. He had intended to tell only Sixty Five, but there was no way he could get both Forty Five and Thirty Five out of the room for it. They were much too stubborn.

“It’s about Eighteen.” Twenty Five said slowly, seeing the satisfaction at being correct on Forty Five’s face, and the intrigue on the expressions of his companions.

“Eighteen?” Sixty Five asked, stepping forward.
“What of him?”

“It seems Twenty Five is attempting to make his tantrums our issue.” Thirty Five said, sounding relatively uninterested in the subject itself, more so why Twenty Five felt it necessary to bring their attention to it.

“No.. It is more than that.” Twenty Five said, eyes narrowing visibly in concentration. The way he phrased things next would make or break this attempt.

“Then what of him?” Thirty Five asked impatiently.

Twenty Five grimaced in annoyance.
“There is something we have overlooked for far too long, and it is detrimental to him.”

Before anyone could interrupt him, he continued.
“I believe we have treated him unfairly, and it has contributed negatively to what has occurred. And I…” He faltered. Dottore did not falter.
“I don’t wish to contribute to his possible demise.”

The other three became noticeably more attentive when he said that.

“Demise? Explain.” Sixty Five said, approaching Twenty Five, with an intensity that wasn’t threatening, rather, only conveyed the fact that he was taking Twenty Five’s concerns seriously.

Twenty Five, seeing that Sixty Five at least was willing to give him the chance, began to talk. Explaining all that he had found out, concisely. He did not stop at any point, unwilling to allow himself to be interrupted until he was finished, until he had impressed upon them how disturbing the sight had been, but most importantly, that Eighteen deserved to continue to live.

Once he was done, the three segments before him were all silent, all clearly deep in thought.

“Bring him here, Twenty Five.” Thirty Five said eventually.

“You won’t-” Twenty Five started.

“Dismantle him?” Thirty Five asked. “No, Twenty Five. We will not. The issue arises in ensuring that fact penetrates that thick skull of his.”

“Perhaps easing up on the insults may be a start.” Forty Five commented, moving back into the lab to gather supplies.

“If we are all present to discuss with him, he will shut down.” Sixty Five pointed out, as Twenty Five left to retrieve Eighteen.

“Then only one or two of us would be preferable.” Thirty Five said.
And then realized that the other two were looking at him, Forty Five having abandoned the bandages.

“Oh? Why select me for this task? You know full well we don’t mesh well.” He asked, genuine intrigue colouring his tone of voice.

“It is precisely that friction that shall convince him.” Forty Five said. “Reassurance from someone who dislikes you means more than reassurance from someone who has a tendency to coddle you.”

“Very well.” Thirty Five agreed. “And who else?”

A short silence.

“Feofan.” It was Sixty Five who broke it.

“Feofan?” Thirty Five repeated, glancing at Sixty Five.
“Do you really think that’s the best idea?”

“All of us are predisposed to get along with Feofan.” Forty Five pointed out.
“We share the original's approximate feelings with him. And though they can differ based on our ages, it is not so much that Eighteen would respond badly to him.”

“Perfectly true, and yet their relationship has been strained as of late.” Thirty Five said. It occurred to none of them how truly unlike Dottore this discussion was.

“I still think he has a better chance of getting through to Eighteen than any of us.” Sixty Five said.

Thirty Five grimaced, remembering the argument Eighteen and Pantalone had not even a day before.

“Very well.” He conceded. “I shall… inform him. Tell Eighteen to go directly to his office.”

Pantalone, to his credit, reacted quite calmly. Thirty Five had not gone into much detail, something that would likely result in Pantalone being caught off guard later on.

“... I see.” Pantalone finally responded. When Thirty Five had initially broken the news, his only reaction had been a soft, barely noticeable gasp, and he had then gone silent, not unlike Thirty Five’s own initial reaction.

“And it is… severe?” Pantalone asked, slowly.

“I have not seen it myself.” Thirty Five said, "Twenty Five seemed quite disturbed recollecting the sight, however, and that leads me to believe it is.”

Pantalone sighed. The firm demeanor had faded slightly, yet it gave way to what seemed like exhaustion and compunction.

“I see.” Pantalone said again, seeming somewhat lost for words, something Thirty Five hadn't seen from the man for quite some time.

“... Do you understand why he does this? He is a younger version of yourself, after all.” Pantalone asked, once he had collected his thoughts, something that had taken several minutes of silence.

“My dear Regrator, it is as though you expect me to hold the answers to everything.” Thirty Five said.
“I can speculate, yes, but Eighteen remains a separate entity. Only he can give us the answer.”

Pantalone sighed. “I understand.”

A knock sounded at the door at that moment. Just in time, Thirty Five thought.

“Enter.” Pantalone called, leaning into the cushioning of his chair, if only to soothe the ache in his bones resulting from the poor posture he kept as he slaved over paperwork for hours on end. Thirty Five chose to not point out the clear exhaustion audible in his voice, though he normally would have, with quite a bit of glee at that.

Eighteen slipped inside, opening and closing the door practically silently, seeming sulky, likely due to the argument he had with the two of them just the day before.

“What is it?” He asked, sounding annoyed. It seemed Twenty Five hadn’t told him what this was about.

“Come, sit down, Eighteen.” Pantalone said, indicating the seat opposite him with a slight nod of his head.

Eighteen’s guard was already raised by the strangely soft tone employed, but as he sat down, his eyes fell on the rolls of bandages, gauze, needles and string that had not been there yesterday, and his eyes widened.

“Ah, so you have caught onto what this is about.” Thirty Five said, tone.. Almost approving.

“... He told you?” Eighteen asked, concealing the fear he felt well, betrayed only by the slight tremble in his tone, and the way he shrunk back into the chair slightly.

“He did.” Thirty Five confirmed.
“Before we discuss anything, show me the damage. If the wounds are indeed fresh, then treating them now is logical.”

“I already-” Eighteen started.

“Even the best doctors rely on others to treat their wounds.” Pantalone interrupted.
“Understand, it is not a question of your skill, Eighteen. We are merely ensuring everything is truly in order.”

“...” Eighteen was still hesitating, shoulders hunched, and as he turned his face away-

“Eighteen.” A gloved hand rested on his shoulder, not the painful grip typical for Thirty Five when he scolded Eighteen, but a gesture to indicate that everything was alright.
“There is nothing for you to fear. If any fresh wound has been treated correctly, I will only verify that. However, Twenty Five tells me you tend to make injuries in places that are difficult for you to treat yourself. That is my concern.” He said. His tone did not soften, it was not unlike his usual intonation, yet Eighteen was capable of reading into it, to see that this was very unlike not just Thirty Five, but Dottore as an entity.

And he wasn’t wrong. The lacerations on Eighteen’s back ached dully, yet he could not even gauge their depth.

Eighteen saw the same expression that had been on Twenty Five’s face on Thirty Five’s and Pantalone’s as he revealed the expanse of wounds, marred and uneven skin beneath the soft cloth of the Akademiya uniform.

Pantalone was silent, watching the older segment examine the younger, a mournful look in his eyes that neither noticed.

“These ones weren’t done with scalpels.” Thirty Five noted, having realized that the rest of the scarring clearly was. “What did you use?”

“The chisel from the workshop.” Eighteen admitted, face flushing with humiliation.

“Using unclean tools against your skin was foolish.” Thirty Five stated plainly.

“I know.” Eighteen’s flush worsened, pain of the alcohol against injury secondary to the shame of being seen like this.

It was then that Thirty Five noticed the shame.
“Do not waste your energy on such a feeling.” He said, voice sharp enough to force Eighteen to pay attention to him over the cocktail of emotions that being exposed, physically and mentally, had caused.
“This has already happened.” Thirty Five said, waving his hand in gesture to the countless scars. “There is no use dwelling on it. The only reason I noted the chisel is so you do not repeat the use of it.”

Eighteen glanced back at Thirty Five, wishing he could see the look in his eyes in that moment, but he understood the meaning of those words. It was the closest thing to comfort he was capable of offering him.

Eighteen let out a hiss as the medicinal alcohol was brought back up against the wounds, leaning away instinctually, prompting Thirty Five to catch him by the shoulder to keep him still. The grip was merely restrictive, however, and Thirty Five took great care to not hurt the younger, something that did not go unnoticed.

“Eighteen.” Pantalone said, leaning forward as Thirty Five finished the treatment.
“We need to know why you do this. Such behavior, you understand, cannot continue.”

Though Pantalone had not meant it that way, Eighteen took it as scolding, and leaned away again.

“It seems there is a concern to be addressed first.” Thirty Five said calmly.
“Rest assured, then, that we have no intention of dismantling you.”

That had been the boy's fear, after all.

“You don't?” Eighteen asked quietly.

“What correlation does this habit of yours have to do with your dismantling, Eighteen, if not by your own hand?” Thirty Five asked.
“Did you believe you would suffer a worse fate by our hands, when this is how you treat your own vessel? What reason would we have to put an end to your life?”

Eighteen flushed. When Thirty Five so plainly questioned him, it did indeed sound silly. Yet during those sleepless nights, when the pain of the injuries kept him up, the prospect seemed very real.

Unable to form a proper answer, Eighteen mumbled something about Zandik.

“Zandik?” Pantalone asked faintly.

“Foolish child.” Thirty Five scolded, though his tone held no anger.
“Your situation and Zandik’s situation are entirely different. Zandik’s death was an inevitability, and ultimately served a purpose in allowing us to create the elixir to prolong Feofan’s life. What purpose would your death serve, pray tell, other than lowering our number?”

Eighteen paused, considering his answer.

“I thought-” He started, and cut himself off.
“I believed you would consider me broken beyond repair.”

Eighteen admitted, and it was perhaps the first time he acknowledged this himself. The shame he felt, the fear of death he felt, though it was what he was driving himself to.

He believed himself to be broken.

It was Pantalone who spoke next.

“You are exactly what Zandik intended you to be.” He said, opening his eyes for the first time to meet Eighteen’s. There was no concealed fury from the day before. It was almost a mournful gaze.

“Zandik always intended a limited amount of evolution for his segments. You, while you are capable of retaining new information, changing your worldview to a certain extent, but you are still trapped by what he intended you to be. You are meant to be an accurate iteration of what he was like at that age.”

He sighed heavily, lowering his head. His feelings were a lot more difficult to gauge for Eighteen than Thirty Five’s, perhaps because reading another version of himself was a lot simpler than a man he had conflicted with for decades.

“While Zandik grew past the volatile resentment, the bitterness he felt at the world, the self hatred he no doubt experienced at that age, became a lot more rational, you are eternally trapped in that state of mind. It is to be expected for a reaction like this to occur. It is… merely a shame that we did not foresee this, to an extent.”

Eighteen sat there, feeling a strange mix of emotion welling up. But the strongest was relief. Pantalone had finally met his eyes, and Eighteen hadn’t realized how badly he had wanted for the coldness in his gaze to melt away until he had gotten just that. There was no anger, no coldness. It was almost a soft reverence in those violet eyes of his.

For the first time in decades, Pantalone looked at Eighteen not as a volatile asset, but as a version of his beloved Zandik.

“If this was not in your nature, this would still not have been grounds for your death.” Thirty Five stated.
“You consider yourself broken? You are still capable of pushing back against choices we may make, you are capable of work and setting goals for yourself. But most importantly, you are capable of thought. Zandik's death was an inevitability, yours an inconvenience that would serve no purpose. Do you understand, Eighteen?”

The younger stayed silent for a while, processing what both had told him. Pantalone and Thirty Five had taken two different perspectives on his confessed feelings of inadequacy, but the sentiment remained the same. They would not view his death as a relief, and were rather insistent that he was aware of that.

“I understand.” Eighteen said, hands clenching slightly.

“What is it?” Thirty Five asked immediately, noticing his hesitant gesture.

“... If you truly value my presence as you say, why do you constantly look down on me?” Eighteen asked. It was a risky question, one that could cause Thirty Five to lash out once more, but since the attitude of the older segments towards had contributed to his relapses, he felt it was worth the shot.
“Even when I haven't done anything, you all treat me like I'm lesser than! Fine, Eight hates me, let him, yet the rest of you-!”

“I would've thought you understood that yourself.” Thirty Five interrupted the lashing out before Eighteen could work himself up too much.

“What?” Eighteen's question did not contain much of a tone of surprise, his mind having gone blank for a moment at having his ranting interrupted.

Thirty Five turned away from Eighteen, shoulders slightly tenser than they had been mere seconds ago.

“We look down on you for the same reason you do the same to Eight. You remind us of traits we all share, yet are much clearer in you.”

Thirty Five didn't seem capable of putting into words what he meant. It would mean being more vulnerable than he was capable of being.

But Eighteen understood. The self hatred, the anger, the humanity they all desperately strived to abandon, was clearest in Eighteen. He was proof of Dottore's weakest moments, and while Eight was too, it was easier to dismiss his humanity in the fact that he was a young child, and did not lash out as much as Eighteen did. As such, Eighteen ended up a scapegoat of Dottore's own self hatred, a detestment they all shared.

Eighteen gazed at Thirty Five's back, realising that he was unwilling to look at Eighteen due to the vulnerability of this statement.

“... It's illogical.” Eighteen eventually said, looking away himself.
“Are we not above this? We are geniuses, the smartest minds of the Fatui, and we fall to such insignificant arguments?”

“I find that delightfully hypocritical coming from you, given your treatment of Eight.” Thirty Five said, which shut Eighteen up quite quickly.

Yet, after a short silence:

“Point taken.” He relented. “I shall consider what you have said and discuss it with Forty Five and Sixty Five. You are correct, naturally. We should be above this, and we are.”

Eighteen relaxed slightly.

“However, I expect to see the same efforts on your end towards Eight.” Thirty Five said. “He is no more deserving of petty sabotaging than you are.”

“Understood.” Eighteen said, and for once, intended to go through with it.

“One more thing , Eighteen.” Pantalone said, before Eighteen could get to his feet.

“I am not naive to think that a mere discussion will be enough to fix your centuries old habit of taking things out on your own flesh.” Pantalone stated. “Nor do I think is Thirty Five.”

Thirty Five turned to face Eighteen once more as Pantalone spoke, no longer feeling exposed.

“So, I would also like to propose an agreement. If you feel you are at risk of hurting yourself, seek out myself or Twenty Five. If you end up hurting yourself regardless, find one of your older selves to tend to the wounds. I do not wish for you to continue to attempt to handle this on your own any further.” His tone was firm, yet he focused his gaze down onto his hands as he adjusted the rings on his fingers to spare Eighteen the vulnerability of looking at him.
“Perhaps you will never fully recover from this habit, after how deeply you have sunk into it. However, it is evident none of us gain from losing you to it. If our presence improves your state even slightly, it is a worthwhile exchange.”

Eighteen was a lot more hesitant to agree to this. What caused him to finally do so was the tone of voice Pantalone had taken, how firm he was about Eighteen being treated and not feeling the need to hide any further.

“Very well. I'll do it.” Eighteen agreed eventually, tensing slightly as he did so, yet still speaking firmly enough to make it clear he would obey.

“Excellent.” Pantalone said, tone returning to his normal, somewhat honeyed manner of speech.

“I believe that is all we needed to discuss. Unless you have something to add?” Pantalone asked Thirty Five, opening his eyes marginally to glance at him.

“Nothing.” Thirty Five said, also gradually returning to his typical behavior.

“Then you are free to go, Eighteen. Consider the tax on your funds lifted.” Pantalone said, gazing at Eighteen over his glasses.

“Thank you.” Eighteen said, somewhat awkwardly. Yet, he left Pantalone's office feeling a lot lighter than he came in.

He returned to Twenty Five's lab, barely noticing who he passed. He walked quickly until he reached it, and pushed the doors open.

Twenty Five stood by the windows of his lab, and turned around at hearing Eighteen enter.

For a moment, neither spoke, gazing at each other silently.

“It is alright?” Twenty Five asked, to which Eighteen nodded silently.

They remained silent for another few beats, silence growing awkward rather quickly.

“... Going behind your back was-” A mistake? Unlike Twenty Five?

Whatever it was, Eighteen did not let him finish.

“I don't want your excuses.” He said, words coming out harsher than he intended, prompting a barely noticeable flinch from Twenty Five.

It was not how Eighteen had intended to come off.

“I…” Eighteen paused, walking over to stand by Twenty Five's side.

“You believed it was necessary.” Eighteen said, looking away. “It was necessary. I don't need justification for something that had to happen.”

Twenty Five glanced at Eighteen, though he did not force the younger to meet his gaze.

“Warning you of it would have still been a better course of action.” He said.

“No matter.” Answered Eighteen. It was half true. While it had bothered Eighteen that Twenty Five hadn't warned him, strangely, he found he did not feel the need to lash out at him for it.

The silence that followed was comfortable now that the elephant in the room had been addressed.

“I recovered the blueprints you made of the ruin guard.” Twenty Five said. Eighteen looked at him, slightly startled.

“If you wish, we can begin the process of rebuilding it.”

Twenty Five noted the spark of excitement in Eighteen’s eyes, and found he did not mind the warmth rising in his chest at the sight of it.

“Let's.” Eighteen said, following Twenty Five to his desk, over which the blueprints lay, somewhat charred, perhaps, but still usable.

“Eight?” Pantalone called, tone even and lacking in sharpness.

The boy looked up at him, the grumpiness evident, but undercut by something else.

“I want to speak to you. And I expect you to be honest.” Pantalone said, sitting down beside Eight, and Eight pushed himself up from laying on his stomach over the book he was reading to being sat on his knees with the book on his lap.

“You overheard the conversation we had with Eighteen, did you not?” Pantalone asked, leaning back on his arms, tone utterly serene.

“... Yes.” Eight said, pouting slightly, annoyed at the mention of him.

“And it was also you who caused the destruction of his lab, was it not?” Pantalone asked, something Eight did not admit to as readily.

“Come now, Eight. Even if you deny it, I am well aware it was your doing.” Pantalone coaxed, still sounding comforting.

“Fine. I did it.” Eight admitted, and turned away from Pantalone slightly.
“I'm not sorry.” He said.

“Who's asking you to be?” Pantalone asked.
“I do not care to convince you that you should be. Even if you were, I doubt Eighteen would care for your apologies.”

“So why are you here?” Eight asked.

“I merely wish to request that you do not repeat this behavior. I do not care to scold you for the colourful language you use when talking about him, yet this sabotage has inconvenienced me quite a bit, given I have to pay for the repairs.”

A tiny flicker of guilt crossed the young segment's face.
“I didn’t mean for it to do that.” Eight said, curling in on himself slightly.
“I only wanted it to break down.”

“I believe you.” Pantalone said. He did not seem particularly angry.
“I merely wish for you to understand that it is in your own best interests to behave. The less mora of mine I use on repairs, the more I can provide for your own endeavors.”

Eight nodded.
“... What if he picks on me again?” He asked skeptically, clearly not having much faith in Eighteen’s attitude towards him improving.

“We will have to wait and see.” Pantalone said.
“Rest assured, Eight. Neither of you will be left in the dark again.”