Chapter Text
Zhongli is a simple man who leads a simple life.
He rises at six, showers and eats, and gets to work on his dissertation with a cup of tea by seven. Some days, he teaches his scheduled classes at the university; other days, he is left with only research and grading. He takes a second tea in the afternoon, spends the evening reading or writing, and goes to the gym in the dark of evening. He retires at midnight to wake once again at six after an invariably restless night.
The days blur into each other with monotonous repetition, but Zhongli doesn’t mind. Routine is a comfortable blanket, a handhold to cling to when all else crumbles away.
Today, there is a deviation in his rigid schedule.
Xiao looks unusually shifty tonight. He stares into the rich, murky broth of Zhongli’s best bamboo shoot soup for several minutes without a word leaving his lips. Likewise, his wine glass sits untouched before him.
Zhongli isn’t bothered by Xiao’s taciturnity. Easy, relaxed silence has defined their companionship for years, including these occasional dinners at his apartment. Xiao has never been a man of many words, but he will speak his mind if there is a serious problem. So Zhongli enjoys his own soup and waits for the younger man to speak.
He is not, however, expecting Xiao’s chosen conversation topic.
“Sir, I have a request.”
Zhongli sighs, a rush of air weary with the weight of mountains. “Still with the ‘sir’? I haven’t been your commanding officer for five years. I have been no one’s commanding officer for five years.” He swirls his own wine and watches the yellow liquid glint. “You’ve already reached the rank that I was when I retired. Don’t you think it’s time to drop the formalities?”
Xiao folds his arms. “It has nothing to do with rank or command. You saved my life for all time, so I will respect you for all time. This is how I demonstrate my respect.”
Zhongli attempts to swallow another sigh, but it leaks out of him. “What must I do to get you to call me by name?”
“There is nothing you can do, sir.”
Zhongli stares him down, then chuckles fondly at his resolute expression. “Very well, then. What is your request, lieutenant?”
He’s mocking Xiao because he hasn’t been a lieutenant under Zhongli’s command for many years and is in fact a colonel himself now, but his tone can’t help its exasperated affection.
Xiao’s sharp eyes gleam, victorious. “Sir, my request is that you come out with me and the others.”
“Come out with you?”
“If I may be frank, since you retired, sir, it...it feels like you died. You vanished.” His words are respectful, but their content is cutting. “The others and I...we care about you and we want to see you. Ganyu said she hasn’t heard from you in months. It feels like you never leave your apartment.”
“We’re having dinner right now, are we not?” Zhongli raises an eyebrow, displaying his usual outward composure even as his heart stings. Xiao’s words aren’t too far off; it’s true that some part of who he used to be died back then.
“Sir.” Xiao frowns sternly. “You know what I mean. You must be bored sitting around every night reading about rocks. Alone.”
He casts a distasteful glance at the neatly arranged bookshelf that occupies an entire wall of Zhongli’s studio apartment. It does indeed contain mostly books about rocks.
“I’m actually spending most of my time writing these days,” Zhongli offers helpfully.
“About rocks?”
“Of course. As you know, I’m in the middle of my dissertation, but there are several side projects I’m pursuing as well. In particular, the history of earthquakes in Liyue is quite—”
“Oh gods, please spare me. I literally couldn’t think of anything more boring than your research.” Xiao closes his eyes in dismay, then takes a deep breath. “Listen, sir, I–I hate going out, but I’d go if you came. We could go to a bar or restaurant or something, or even a geology museum if that would make you say yes.”
Zhongli chuckles. “You’re so worried about me that you’d be willing to brave the only enemy that can best you—crowded public spaces?”
“Sir.”
“I am doing just fine, old friend.” He takes a sip of wine and attempts to savor the regrettably cheap flavor. “Please don’t concern yourself with my happiness. I assure you, my life is rich with valuable experiences.”
Xiao chews on the rejection for a minute. Then, in a reticent tone that betrays his repulsion to his own words, he says, “I apologize if this is an impertinence, but if we go out, maybe you could...meet someone. Someone new and interesting.”
Zhongli’s eyebrow disappears into his hair. Does his living situation truly appear so dire that Xiao is suggesting he get a partner?
“I thought you detested the very idea of me dating someone?” he says with a teasing smile. “I believe back in the day, you even sabotaged a date I had with that lovely medic. Didn’t you scare them off by threatening to rip out their fingernails if they hurt me?”
“Yes, and I don’t regret it,” Xiao says, eyes flashing dark at the memory. “But you’re clearly lonely now. Could you at least get a dog or a cat or something? What do you like, lizards? It’s fucking depressing around here, sir.”
Zhongli laughs aloud at hearing Xiao call him sir and swear in the same breath, though his chest aches with anything but amusement. “I am perfectly content with my life.”
“Are you really, sir?” The young soldier’s gaze is far too keen. Uncomfortably perceptive.
Zhongli maintains a smile as he ever does, rather than look down and swallow as he wishes to. “Yes. I truly appreciate your offer, but right now, I simply can’t afford to go out.”
A glance around his humble studio apartment confirms it: peeling wallpaper, a leaking pipe, creaky old furniture that looks like it might collapse to dust upon contact.
“Do you need money?” Xiao’s brow contracts in concern. “I can lend you some, I have ple—”
“No, no, that’s not necessary.”
It’s true Zhongli is struggling to make ends meet—he is a third-year PhD student after all—but things aren’t that bad. His lack of spending money is a convenient excuse. The bitter truth about his reluctance to spend time with his old comrades is that it’s hard to face them. Even after all these years, the poisonous caress of tragedy haunts every memory of when they served in the military together and bubbles up to scald him when he is in their presence.
Zhongli has long since accepted the fact that he can’t escape the war. It will linger around every corner and within every stray thought. But he doesn’t have to go seeking the reminders of what has robbed him of a restful night’s sleep for five years.
So Zhongli conjures up the only acquiescence he can think of to placate Xiao: “I can’t afford to go out, but I would be happy to attend anything you host.”
Xiao folds his arms again, scowling. “You didn’t show up to Cloud’s birthday this year.”
“I will make an effort to attend more events,” Zhongli says heavily. He does feel guilty about abandoning his friends after everything, but there’s not much way around it. “Does that satisfy you?”
Xiao seems to accept that Zhongli will not be further swayed, though his gaze is still suspicious. “It’s...a start, sir.”
After that, the two old comrades share a nice, quiet meal, enjoying the only wine Zhongli can afford and discussing nothing of importance until the clock strikes ten and he realizes how late it’s become.
“I apologize for rushing you out,” he says as he clears the dishes, “but I have to visit the gym tonight.”
It’s hardly a have to when he goes every night, but he prefers to maintain his routine as much as possible.
Xiao perks up a bit at that. “Do you still train, sir? Could we spar together sometime?”
Zhongli almost drops a glass into the sink, flinching as those words pierce him like daggers of ice. “...Yes, perhaps, sometime.”
He has no intention of following up beyond the vague reply. Being in a combat-adjacent situation with one of his former subordinates is the surest way to trigger things he’d prefer to keep buried. Sparring with strangers at the gym is safe, as he does several times a week, but he can’t risk it with Xiao.
At the door, Xiao pauses. The darkness of the street outside seems to warp and curl around him, and the lance of golden lamplight paints his back in a halo of wings. “I mean it, sir, as I always do. Anything you need, I’m here.”
Zhongli has taken knives and bullets several times over his years of military service, but no flesh wound could hurt as deeply as the concern that brims in the eyes of someone he loves.
“Thank you, old friend,” he says quietly. “Goodnight.”
***
After changing and grabbing his things, Zhongli heads out into the darkness himself. He doesn’t own a car—can’t afford one—but the twenty-four hour gym is a quick walk from his apartment in Chihu Rock. The one indulgence he allows himself with his pitiful income is a membership to a gym attended by some of Liyue Harbor’s best martial artists. The joys of exercise and martial arts fled him at some point during the war, but he likes to keep in shape anyway.
The street is empty of people. Zhongli strategically chose an apartment close enough to be able to walk to his university’s campus but far enough away that he doesn’t run into any students. Chihu Rock can be a seedy place, a clutter of narrow streets and dim orange street lamps. A light breeze susurrates various scatterings of litter, the early summer air thick in his lungs and cool on his skin.
Although there’s usually no danger in this neighborhood—at least not any he couldn’t easily deal with—Zhongli moves through the darkness on high alert. It’s a habit he’s tried and failed to break. His body will not settle when he’s outside, nor even when he’s alone in his apartment most of the time.
There are plenty of days, even five years after leaving the military, where Zhongli wonders if he will ever fully adjust to civilian life. His mind has been warped in a paradox of ways—he habitually identifies makeshift weapons in the environment and yet just as habitually forgets his wallet. He makes sure to secure potential exits in each room he enters and yet spaces out for extended periods of time when he’s in conversation with people. It’s a frustrating inconvenience that he’s learned to live with.
Tonight, however, his battle-honed instincts find a true purpose for the first time in years. He rounds a corner, and abruptly all of his senses light up with cries of danger.
Something is wrong.
He blends silently into the shadows and scans the street. Walking ahead is an unassuming young man—orangish-brown hair, foreign features, maybe eighteen or so. Dressed in a shirt bearing the logo of the university Zhongli attends. Wearing a knit cap despite the heat. A student, perhaps? Does he recognize him?
But the threat steals Zhongli’s attention. Two dark figures are stalking the boy through the same shadows Zhongli utilizes, both dressed in black, masks pulled over their faces to hide every inch of skin. They tail him down the length of the street until he turns into a side alley.
Then one pulls a gun. The other pulls a knife.
Zhongli moves instinctively. He crosses the space with the stealth that remains second nature to him even five years out of action, slips after the dark figures as they follow the boy into the alleyway.
Under the harsh yellow glow of a streetlamp, the gun is raised at the student, who finally notices the danger. He turns, face paling in horror, but then Zhongli is there to intercept.
A quick move disarms the dark figure, catching them off guard and knocking the gun to the ground. The other leaps at Zhongli with a knife. It’s trivial to react without thinking, to slip back into the battle instincts he once lived and breathed, to blank out and allow his limbs to move.
He blocks the stab with crossed arms, twists and sends the knife clattering to the pavement. Their fists whip at him, and after a quick tussle, he throws the person into the alley wall and ducks to pick up the—
Pick up the gun.
A shift and dance. Gunshot like thunder and the spray of blood. Heavy summer air, clogging his lungs. Before his mind can catch up to what his hands are doing, Zhongli is holding the gun with perfect poise, trained at the dark figures, shifting between them.
He hasn’t...he hasn’t held a gun since—
His vision swims. A gun. A gun in his hands. Bodies on the blood-soaked earth. A smile. A rain of fire. Screaming and then silence.
Ruthless, they whispered. The dragon.
A dragon felled.
Zhongli blinks. Three people stand before him in the harshly-lit alley, unharmed. The boy is frozen, watching the conflict with wide eyes. His would-be killers stare at Zhongli from behind their masks.
Before Zhongli’s mind can focus enough to form verbal questions as to their identity, the dark figures are glancing at the boy, then at each other, and then backing away slowly with their hands raised.
He follows them with the gun until they’ve disappeared around the corner. Quiet, hurried footsteps indicate that they have taken off down the main street.
Zhongli drops the gun as if burned. The impact echoes too loud, reverberates through the thick night air like an earthquake to tremble his bones. He stares at it, innocuous yet leering on the pavement.
“Are you okay?” A muted voice swims in his ears, and he drags his attention back to the young university student. “Mister, are you okay?”
“Yes.” Zhongli can’t feel his tongue. His heart flutters, sharp.
“You saved my life.” The young man’s blue eyes shine. “Thank you so much!”
“Are...are you alright?” It dulls slowly, the buzzing. His mouth moves. “Why did those people attack you? Who are you?”
“I’m fine! And no idea.” For someone who was nearly murdered in an alleyway, the boy looks entirely unbothered. Excited, almost. He glances at the gun on the ground, then back at Zhongli. “I was just walking home to the dorms and then I saw that person with a gun! My name’s Teucer, I’m a university student.”
Teucer. No, Zhongli does not know him, though it does feel like he’s glimpsed him on campus before. Time wobbles, then corrects itself.
“We should...call the police,” he says as his mind clears.
“No, that’s okay, Mr....” Teucer pauses. “What’s your name?”
“Zhongli. I also attend”—he gestures to his shirt—“your university.”
“Well, it’s okay, Mr. Zhongli!” What a strange boy, that he would smile after such an objectively terrifying experience. “They’re gone. It’s safe now.”
Zhongli swallows. There is a gun on the ground. Expensive. Fontainian make. Model used primarily by that country’s elite secret forces. He recognized the feel of it in his hand instantly.
This was no ordinary mugging. They should call the police.
“Could I escort you home at least?” he finds himself asking. “They may try again.”
“That’s okay!” Teucer grins, and Zhongli wonders if this boy has a singe ounce of self-preservation in his body. “The dorms are close by.”
Yes, they are, but that is not the issue. If Zhongli could think clearly, he would protest, but the strange boy is already waving at him and jogging away.
“Thanks again, Mr. Zhongli! Hope I see you on campus sometime!”
Zhongli watches him go. His hands have a slight tremor as he pulls out his cellphone and calls the Millelith.
“Yes, I would like to report an attempted homicide.” He squints up at the security camera on the streetcorner. “The victim and perpetrators have disappeared, but they left a firearm here.”
Routine disturbed once again, he does not end up making it to the gym.
***
After the Millelith took his statement and dismissed him with no further questions, Zhongli thought he could put the strange incident behind him, but what happened that night does not come without consequences. A few days later, his life is disrupted by his worst nightmare manifesting itself in reality.
Zhongli is cleaning up after a lecture when he spots him, leaning against the classroom’s back wall, watching him with stony eyes. He ignores the uninvited guest and the violent plunge of his stomach to finish cleaning up.
Azhdaha accosts him by the door.
“Good morning, colonel.” A friendly smile is worn on a calculating face. “It’s been far too long, hasn’t it? How are you?”
“I am not a colonel anymore.” Your people saw to that. Zhongli attempts to walk past him, failing to stem the frost that creeps through his tone. “What do you want?”
“You wound me, old friend.” Azhdaha steps in front of the door. “Am I not worthy of a simple ‘hello’ from you anymore?”
Zhongli looks at him and sighs. Rudeness is unproductive, even when facing the man who ended his career. “Hello, general. Why are you here?”
Azhdaha’s friendly smile bears a sharp edge. The large man is dressed as a civilian today, sporting a brown suit that is irritatingly close to Zhongli’s own outfit. It’s been years since they saw each other, but he looks much the same beyond the new gray streak decorating his dark hair and the shadows under his eyes.
“Can we speak in your office?” he asks.
“I do not have an office,” Zhongli replies. “I’m a teaching assistant.”
Gone are the days when Azhdaha was his subordinate, his right hand. Over the five years since Zhongli retired, Azhdaha has risen to an even greater rank than he once held. But somehow, the humiliation of being a thirty-four-year-old former intelligence agency colonel reduced to a mere teaching assistant is almost worth seeing Azhdaha look taken aback.
“Is there another private place we could talk?”
“Is this urgent?” Despite his best effort, Zhongli’s voice clips. “I have two more classes today.”
“Yes, it’s highly urgent.” Azhdaha regards him in that resigned, stalwart way he used to years ago, when the two of them would sit down and discuss tactics, craft their master plans, decide which soldiers would live and which would die. “It would not be an overstatement to say that the fate of the country may depend on this conversation.”
The fate of the country? Zhongli swallows down sudden, sinking dread.
“You could not have given me a call or an Akasha-mail first?” he asks. “Some warning that you were coming?”
“You’re being watched,” Azhdaha says. “I needed to talk to you in person. There’s someone posted near your apartment, so I came here.”
Zhongli’s mind whirls off towards the horrifying potential implications of this development, but he leads Azhdaha out of the classroom, through a hallway of chattering students, and into an empty TA lounge. He locks the door and turns. “So?”
The general surveys the room first, drawing the blinds and sliding his hands over the furniture for bugs. When he seems to deem it safe, he settles in a chair and looks at Zhongli. “Those two people you beat up the other night, they were Marechaussee Phantom agents.”
Zhongli remains standing and frowns. The Marechaussee Phantom are an international, inter-governmental police organization, headquartered in Fontaine. He’s worked with them many times before. That explains the model of the gun, but....
“They were going to shoot a teenager in the street,” he says. “A student of this university.”
“Despite how it may have appeared, they claim they were attempting to arrest him, before you interrupted.” Azhdaha sighs. “And that boy is not a student here. He is a dangerous criminal, a prodigy inventor and one of the Fatui’s foremost ballistics experts.”
Zhongli doesn’t blink. The news that Teucer is a Fatui agent comes as no shock after his bizarre nonchalance in the face of danger the other night. “Why is he posing as a student here?”
Azhdaha shrugs, a roll of his muscular shoulders. “We’d like to know that as well. He’s not enrolled here, but he seems to be hanging around and going to classes. Our working theory is that his boss is trying to recruit someone from the university.”
“He’s not...here for me, is he?” Zhongli guesses, disturbed. What could the Fatui possibly want with a retired agent? He’s lived a peaceful civilian life for five years.
“He didn’t appear to be interested in you. At least, he didn’t until you saved him from arrest.” Azhdaha leans back in the chair and draws his gaze up the line of Zhongli’s figure. “But now, the Fatui have their eyes on you. I am fairly confident that they will contact you soon to offer you a job.”
Zhongli finally takes a seat, winded by the information. “A job? What gives you that impression?”
“We’ve noticed Fatui scouts at other universities in the area. The boy you saved has been chatting up your geologist colleagues here. It is not a large jump to assume that they’re searching for a geologist, and you just happen to look favorable at the moment.”
If Zhongli were to follow the shimmering thread of insinuation in Azhdaha’s words, he would see exactly where this conversation is going. But he doesn’t want to follow it, doesn’t want to even consider the sickening conclusion they’re racing towards.
Azhdaha drags him there kicking and screaming anyway. “As I’m sure you can infer, this is a perfect opportunity for us to plant someone inside the Fatui.”
No. No, no.
Azhdaha must see his expression because he leans forward, stony eyes intent. “The Snezhnayans were our allies during the war, during your time, but our cold stalemate has broken with their increasing aggression. The Fatui are practically a state sponsored terrorist organization at this point—bombings, drugs and weapons trafficking, assassinations, destabilization. They are ruthless and looking to expand their influence to every corner of Teyvat. You can’t have avoided all news of their crimes.”
Zhongli tries not to read the news these days, but yes, the Fatui’s exploits are infamous. “I am...vaguely acquainted,” he says through the knot in his throat.
Azhdaha’s heavy gaze pins him in place, an inescapable avalanche come crumbling down upon him. “There’s a new Fatui Harbinger assigned to Liyue—young, ambitious, reckless and trigger-happy, from the rumors. His name is Tartaglia, and his presence spells serious trouble for this country. His adopted brother, Teucer, just happens to be the boy you saved that night.”
“His adopted brother?”
“Tartaglia is rumored to be fiercely loyal to his dearest subordinates, to the degree that he considers them his family. The Fatui are watching you now, so I’d say that saving his adopted brother got his attention.”
Zhongli’s jaw clenches. Just to get the inevitable over with, he says, “So you want me to accept his job offer and spy on him for you?”
“Exactly.” Azhdaha leans back. “The Marechaussee Phantom are willing to give this mission to the Qixing. From what they’ve gathered, they have reason to believe that Tartaglia is plotting something major.”
Zhongli eyes his former subordinate as his stomach roils. Azhdaha said that the fate of Liyue was at stake, and he is not one to exaggerate. What could possibly be so serious?
“We need someone to infiltrate Tartaglia’s branch of the Fatui,” Azhdaha continues. “To work for him, get close to his operations, and gather intel on what he’s up to. It would be a longer assignment, but you would be compensated generously.”
“Get someone else,” Zhongli says immediately. Firmly. Uselessly. “I am retired.”
The general meets his indifferent stare for several long seconds. “Believe me, old friend, I wouldn’t ask this of you unless I had no choice.”
“You have plenty of choice,” Zhongli retorts. “You say he’s looking for a geologist? I don’t even have my doctorate yet. Plenty of my colleagues here would fit the profile better.”
“He already has his eye on you,” Azhdaha counters, unyielding as bedrock. “You just happened to save someone he cares about. Your living situation indicates that you could be bought off. You were discharged from the military under...less than ideal circumstances, so it’s easy to assume that you are disgruntled with the government. You’ve already published research, which is plenty enough to qualify you as an expert in your field.” He shrugs. “I fail to see a better candidate. Either way, it’s safer to put someone with training in the field over one of your civilian colleagues.”
Less than ideal circumstances? And whose fault is that? Zhongli internally bristles.
“I saw the security footage of the incident.” Azhdaha doesn’t give him a second to summon an argument. “You keep yourself in good shape. Unnecessarily good shape for a civilian. Almost as if you miss being in the field. I can’t imagine that a decorated soldier could be happy sitting around talking about rocks for the rest of his life.”
If Zhongli were a person who employed profanity, he would tell his old friend to fuck off. The anger that tightens his jaw conveys much the same.
“I’m offering a chance.” Azhdaha’s softened gaze could be mistaken for kind, if its purpose weren’t cruel. “One mission, and you can earn it all back. The medals and status and even a generous pension.”
Zhongli just stares. Surely Azhdaha can see how despicable it is that the government would dangle everything that he already earned through his years of service—that they stripped from him —in his face as if he is a dog that will jump at the chance to put his life on the line again. Zhongli, who was once one of Liyue’s most accomplished intelligence agents, decorated soldiers, and valuable commanders, who was respected by his superiors and worshiped by his subordinates, who dedicated his entire existence to this country’s defense and sacrificed everything—
A deep breath. The settling of simmering blood.
After a lengthy staring contest, Azhdaha appears to come to the conclusion that Zhongli will not be moved. With a heavy sigh, he stands, pulls a flash drive from his pocket, and sets it on the table in front of him.
“Here are the briefing files. Read about the damage that Tartaglia has done in other countries and just think about it. Not for me, but for the people of Liyue. The people you swore to defend.”
***
The flash drive sits on Zhongli’s desk at home for a week before he caves. In the end, it is morbid curiosity and restlessness that prompt him to open it.
It’s a sleepy summer afternoon when Zhongli sits down on his creaky twin bed to meditate. Just as Guizhong taught him all those years ago. It’s one way he carries on her legacy, even if her death was—
No.
He clears his mind.
It wanders.
If only Azhdaha could know what he had to go through to achieve this peace of mind. With no help, no pension, and the veteran agency’s useless—
No.
Zhongli clears his mind. The room is too warm; his studio apartment doesn’t have air-conditioning. The fan by the open window turns lazily, complemented by the cicadas outside buzzing a pleasant harmony.
His mind wanders.
Is Azhdaha at peace? After all they saw and did together? Does he sleep at night? Xiao doesn’t, that is certain. Not a single soldier came out of the war unscathed. And now the bastard storms into his peaceful life and dares to bring it all back up—
No.
He clears his mind. A cloud passes, darkening the backs of his eyelids. A drop of sweat rolls down his back. Sweat like blood.
His mind wanders.
Think about it. For the people you swore to defend.
Well, he did defend them. From the moment he came of age and joined the military, until the moment he was no longer fit for service. He has done his duty. Made his sacrifices. And now he has built a nice life for himself. He will get his doctorate and become a professor and lead a comfortable life. It is time for younger and fresher people to take up the spear he set down. For someone else to—
No.
Clear. Unclear. Shifting like the summer clouds outside, taken by the breeze, beckoned by stubborn destiny.
What could the Fatui be planning? What could possibly be so serious that Azhdaha would call upon him in this cruel, abrupt manner? Could his cooperation truly save lives? Could he—
Gods, this is pointless.
Zhongli surrenders to his churning thoughts, rises to make a cup of tea, and settles at his laptop with the flash drive. He will just take a look, he tells himself. Just to satiate his curiosity.
He’s already checked his apartment for bugs and cameras, so he knows no one can see his laptop screen. And, naturally, the files are encrypted. Azhdaha didn’t give him a password, but he puts in their old codeword and scowls when it works.
Person of interest: the 11th Harbinger of the Fatui, Tartaglia
“‘Harbinger,’” Zhongli scoffs aloud. What a ridiculous word. The Fatui may be a terrorist organization in all but name, but even zealous fanatics ought to restrain themselves from such theatrical titles.
Most common alias: Childe
True name: unknown
Age: estimated mid-20s
Zhongli pauses in surprise. What a young age to have already become a formidable crime boss. Not that he is one to talk himself, also having reached a high military rank by that age.
Nationality: Snezhnayan
Appearance: height, approximately 180 cm; build, slim; eyes, blue; hair, red
History: Early life, unknown. First appeared with the Abyss ten years ago. Record unclear. Quit after some months. Reason unclear. Immediately joined the Fatui. Involved in Case 412 and the bombing of Mondstadt Cathedral. Promoted to harbinger two years ago. Since, responsible for Seirai Incident, [REDACTED], and [REDACTED].
Zhongli pauses again. He joined the Abyss when he was a teenager? The Abyss is a notorious international gang, never too much of a nuisance for the world’s governments to deal with, but known to spring back like weeds when cut down. A pervasive, global cancer. He supposes it’s no wonder this man rose through the Fatui’s ranks so quickly after that experience.
Current whereabouts: Assigned to manage Fatui forces in Liyue. Dealings confirmed with [REDACTED]. Rumored to operate out of Liyue Harbor. Last sighting was [REDACTED].
Notes: *WHAT FOLLOWS ARE THE AUTHOR’S PERSONAL OBSERVATIONS* Mixed reputation. Known in the Fatui as ambitious, unpredictable, and violent. However, is also known to be honorable, often in contrast to other harbingers. Rumored to be eager for conflict even when there is nothing to be gained, yet also rumored to always opt for negotiation first. Rumors disagree, especially concerning [REDACTED]. Has publicly claimed to have “standards,” evidenced by refusal to cause harm to children and humane treatment of prisoners. Be warned, these weaknesses cannot be exploited. Is known to act alone, little delegation. Also known to value loyalty from subordinates—
Zhongli stops reading and sighs. Evidently, the author of this file considers being unwilling to hurt children and treating prisoners well to be “weaknesses.” Zhongli remembers the bombing of Mondstadt Cathedral well—an event that shook the world for months—and recalls that only five people were killed, none of them children. The newscasters commented that it was strange that the Fatui-backed terrorists opted to set off the bomb when almost no one was in the cathedral. Any death is still a tragedy, of course, but the notes here make Zhongli wonder if Tartaglia’s involvement had any influence on the noticeable lack of victims.
This line of thinking is dangerous when Zhongli has been explicitly asked by a general of the Qixing’s intelligence branch to join them in bringing this criminal down. And yet, in spite of the crimes written on the screen before him, Zhongli can’t help the sinking pity that weighs heavy on his chest.
Tartaglia, or Childe, reminds him far too much of himself. Zhongli isn’t sure how he came to this conclusion from this scant information, but some undeniable similarities feed his gut feeling. The harbinger is also an ambitious warrior thrust into a life of violence as a teenager. He also avoids delegation. He also seems unwilling to waver on some moral standards despite what his station requires.
Zhongli scrolls down and a picture appears. Once again, he’s struck by how the harbinger could be no older than 25. In the photo, he is greeting a person whose face is blurred out with a charming smile and a tailored gray suit, stunning red hair and confident posture. A possible kindred spirit, Zhongli muses, just stuck on the opposite side of this conflict.
That disturbing intrusive thought makes him freeze. The old Zhongli would never have been able to summon mercy for a criminal, let alone empathy.
Obviously, the Fatui should be stopped at all costs. Zhongli has single-handedly put an end to operations like theirs in the past, swiftly and ruthlessly eliminating threats to Liyue’s peace for years. He was often compared to an immovable mountain, rumored to have a heart of stone, feared by all who stood in his path. He has killed dozens of people like Childe, some worse but most much more innocent.
So what is it about Childe that makes him pause? Perhaps it’s just that Zhongli is feeling particularly sensitive after seeing Azhdaha, after their conversation unearthed clawing, bitter memories he’d tried to bury. The old him wouldn’t hesitate to take this assignment, but the current him....
Despite his extensive service record, Zhongli has never considered himself a hero. He wasn’t a hero when they pinned medals on him, and he certainly wasn’t one when they stripped those medals away and kicked him to the streets. He has never wanted to be a hero.
Zhongli’s deepest loyalty will always be to the people of Liyue, and his highest obligation will always be their defense. But he is retired, and Liyue can defend itself just fine without him. It’s no longer his job to save the world from villains.
He wants to rest. Has he not earned his rest?
You’re bored, aren’t you, sir?
I can’t imagine that a decorated soldier could be happy sitting around talking about rocks for the rest of his life.
Zhongli shakes off these pesky thoughts like the fly that alights on his teacup and stands to stare out the window. Outside, summer ripples, little flutters and heat waves. Cicadas roar, rise and fall.
To the stark blue sky, he murmurs, “Have I not earned my rest?”
The universe gives no reply. He sighs—a worn, eroding thing.
The deal is good, Zhongli must admit. He would receive a pension and restored honor. A bit of excitement and a safer world. The fact that he knows that the peace of this country once again rests on his shoulders...it is never something he’s been able to ignore. As bitter as the thought is.
And why say no? He may have to sacrifice this fragile farce of a happy life. He is disgruntled with the military for their treatment of him and wary of the trauma that being in the field may bring up. He’s tired.
These are pathetic reasons. A coward’s excuses.
For a moment, Zhongli considers consulting Xiao on this. But no, he doesn’t want to add another burden to the young colonel’s busy mind, and it’s likely highly classified anyway.
Azhdaha didn’t give him a deadline, but Zhongli is sure he has at least a few days to think it over. He should request more information on what would be expected from him before agreeing to anything. Hammer out a thorough contract. Consider every pro and con. Think hard and long about this.
And yet, even as he clings to logic, something twinges deep in his stone heart. Something like love turned bitter, like duty upheld and sacrifice scorn. Something like a decision made long ago.
“Don’t do this to me,” he sighs to the clouds that stain blue, that roll and billow and shade the sun. “Ask someone else. Anyone else.”
Silence answers him. But not stillness. The universe carries on, and the future is paved from the past, recycled and waiting.
Rest. A foreign concept. One that has never belonged to him, even in this peaceful civilian life. Let someone else do it. An even stranger concept. Duty is all he’s ever known.
Zhongli feels himself slipping, and he knows he has already lost. For the majority of his life, he had every intention to die for his country. He ought to have died for his country. And if called upon once again, he will die for his country.
He just...he needs to think it through. With a nod, Zhongli turns from the window and picks up his abandoned tea. He’ll sleep on it and contact Azhdaha for more information tomorrow.
But fate has not allowed him a good night’s rest for as long as he can remember. Why should tonight be any different?
***
It is somewhere between the shifting darkness and the heavy drag of drugs that Zhongli realizes that he’s been kidnapped.
He comes to slowly, accosted by bright sunlight and a muddled mind. A bed softer than any he’s ever felt cradles his body, and the air carries the refreshing scent of the sea. The profound sense of nothingness leaks off his consciousness, a feeling one can only gain from sedatives, accompanied by comforting notes of relaxation that beckon the recipient to sink into its arms.
But Zhongli is a soldier before anything. The moment he surfaces, he is jolting to attention, eyes wide and hands raised, ready to fight.
A startled yelp greets him, and when his vision adjusts, Zhongli finds his surroundings utterly bizarre.
The boy, the fake student, the ballistics expert—Teucer—is standing by his bedside, backlit by the light from a large window. He sags as if relieved.
“You scared me, Mr. Zhongli! Jumping up like that.” Teucer shakes his head with fond exasperation. “I thought we had your dose right, but you weren’t supposed to wake up yet. Do you feel alright? Any side effects?”
“You drugged me?” He works his sluggish tongue.
“Yeah.” The boy smiles sheepishly. “Sorry about that, but we had to be careful.”
With no immediate danger, the adrenaline fades and Zhongli relaxes back into the pillows. He doesn’t know whether to rage at the boy or comply with his questions, so, undecided, he takes stock of the room instead.
Zhongli is sitting in a luxurious bed that occupies a spacious bedroom. The room is furnished in an expensive-looking modern style, but the circular window is latticed in traditional Liyuen fashion. This is enough for Zhongli to guess that they are still in Liyue, though the view is obscured by an opaque film over the glass. By the strength of the light, he judges that it must be midday. Teucer stands by the bed, watching him with a friendly smile, no one else present in the room.
Other than the grogginess, Zhongli feels fine. He checks himself quickly and finds no evidence of harm. He’s dressed in the bedclothes he fell asleep in at home, which is somehow just as jarring as the other facts of the situation.
The immediate conclusion is that the Fatui have kidnapped him. At the moment, it seems that they intend him no harm, so it’s likely that this is a convoluted security measure that Tartaglia has taken to ensure a private conversation when he offers Zhongli a job. Or some kind of intimidation tactic.
With no time to adjust to this shocking reality, Zhongli carries on. His thoughts swim in billowing clouds, but he remembers that he’s not supposed to know who Teucer is. So he looks up at the boy and asks.
“My name is Teucer!” he replies cheerfully. “I told you before, remember?”
“Yes, but—” How would a normal person react to being kidnapped by a lone teenager that they thought was a student at their university? “Why would you kidnap me?”
“Oh yeah!” Is the boy feigning innocence or is he really this asinine? “I’m sorry for lying to you, especially after you saved my life, but I’m not a university student. I can’t tell you who I am just yet, but I promise you’re safe! We just wanted to talk to you.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Zhongli asks, despite knowing the answer.
“Hm, I don’t think I can tell you that either.” It’s disturbing to see a wanted criminal put a finger to his chin like a clueless schoolboy. “You just have to trust me, Mr. Zhongli. But I promise it’ll be okay!”
Bewildered, Zhongli can only stare. “I—”
Thankfully, the door opens and a somewhat older-looking man walks in. Unlike Teucer’s disheveled sweatshirt, he’s wearing a nice button-up and glasses, alongside shaggy brown hair and a stern frown.
“Teucer! You were supposed to alert me when our guest was regaining consciousness.”
“Oops! Well, he’s awake now, so—”
The man brushes past Teucer to stand at the side of the bed. “My apologies, Mr. Zhongli. Please forgive my brother’s incompetence. We did not intend for you to awaken in such a disorienting manner.” He offers a kindly smile. “I am the doctor around here. You may call me Anthon.”
Zhongli continues to stare in stunned silence. He has never been a prisoner of war, but he is fairly certain that the experience that Tartaglia’s underlings—because that must be who kidnapped him, yes?—are giving him is far from what is standard from violent criminals.
“How are you feeling?” The doctor, Anthon, sets a briefcase on the bed and opens it to reveal some medical equipment.
“...I am feeling confused,” Zhongli decides to say.
“It is typical to experience confusion after being sedated,” Anthon says as if reciting from a medical textbook. “I assure you it will not last long. Will you allow me to examine you?”
“No, I am confused because you have kidnapped me.” Despite the circumstances, a note of amusement sneaks into Zhongli’s tone. “I would prefer an explanation to a medical examination.”
“I’m afraid I’m not authorized to provide you with an explanation,” the doctor says. “You appear to be experiencing no side effects, but it is best to check.”
“I...very well.” Zhongli has never been one to panic even in the most dire of situations. As long as they don’t harm him, he doesn’t see a reason not to cooperate.
Anthon checks his vitals quickly. He seems even younger close up, possibly in his early twenties, though a large burn scar on his neck indicates that he is no stranger to combat.
“Everything looks good.” Anthon tucks his equipment back in the case. “But please do inform me if—”
The door bursts open and a third person now strides into the room—a woman who looks older than the two men, also dressed in a nice suit, with her dark blonde hair in a ponytail and stress contracting her expression.
“Anthon! Teucer! Is our guest—? Ah, Mr. Zhongli, you’re awake!” She comes to stand by his bedside with a strained smile. “Nice to meet you. I’m Tonia.”
“We’re good here, sis,” Anthon says. “He’s recovered well.”
“Sorry about all this,” Tonia sighs to Zhongli and shakes her head, becoming the third Fatui agent to apologize for purposefully kidnapping him. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions, so as soon as you’re feeling ready, I’ll take you to our boss.”
This false sense of friendliness is disturbing, but Zhongli takes it in stride. Any remaining grogginess is washed away by a thrilling thrum that rushes through his veins to flood him with curiosity and anticipation like he hasn’t felt in years. Counter to the fear he ought to feel, it is excitement that stirs his dusty heart.
He surveys the trio of strange people gathered around his bed and asks, “Who is your boss?”
Teucer beams at him. “Our big bro, of course!”
***
Zhongli is given a set of clothes taken from his closet back home and some guest slippers and directed to the ensuite bathroom to freshen up. He ignores the fact that the Fatui agents must have sorted through his things to find clothes to bring along. The only incriminating thing he has in his possession is Azhdaha’s flash drive, which they couldn’t break into anyway, but the thought is almost as disturbing as the fact that they managed to sedate him while he was sleeping.
His mind runs off with several hypotheses of tranquilizer darts and poisoned tea, but there is no way to determine how these people got the jump on him. That, more than anything, speaks to how dangerous they are, past this cordial facade they’re putting on.
The three agents leave him alone in the fancy bathroom. It has no window, but there are plenty of things he could use as a weapon. Do they really think the chances of him escaping are so low that they can allow him access to potential weapons?
How foolish. Arrogant, almost, if they know his reputation.
Still, Zhongli opts not to offend his hosts by fashioning a weapon just yet. He freshens up and puts on the clothes as directed. Back in the bedroom, Tonia offers him a black bag and an apologetic smile.
“Just to be safe. We’re planning to let you go, so we can’t let you see too much.”
Let him go? Any rational person would doubt that, but there’s not much choice either way. Zhongli pulls it over his head and allows her to lead him through several hallways. They leave Teucer and Anthon behind, though two other sets of footsteps fall in beside them once they exit the room. At least his captors have the common sense to have guards accompany them.
They walk for a long time before Zhongli hears a door close and the bag gently slides off his head. He blinks, finding himself in a bright room, an office, furnished in the same style as the bedroom, the windows similarly filmed to block the view. Zhongli instantly identifies the set of Liyuen-style swords displayed on the wall as a weapon. Another option is the firearms the two masked guards wear on their hips. There are no exits besides the door they came through. Four people in the room—Tonia, the two guards, and....
Zhongli does not know what he’s expecting when he comes face to face with Tartaglia for the first time.
He does expect the flash of auburn hair. The stunning dead blue eyes. The dangerous aura that makes his instincts sound the alarm.
He does not expect the seasoned criminal to jump to his feet and cross the room with a bouncing step, to clasp Zhongli’s hand between both of his own and smile a wide, disarming smile.
Warm, scarred hands. A perfume of seasalt and threats. A cheeky grin.
“Welcome, honored guest! It is an absolute delight to meet someone of your reputation. I apologize for our lack of hospitality, but we can’t be too careful, you understand?” Childe leans close—the lure of dull eyes, the surge of adrenaline, a tingle of promise set alight in Zhongli’s veins. “Now, if you would be so kind as to entertain me, I have a proposition for you.”