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The only sound around Scaramouche was of his sandals hitting against tiled flooring as he walked. Pure, eerie silence echoed all around him, making his ears ring as they strained to catch any noise they could. He had to stop every so often and take a deep breath to stabilize his inner workings, lest he change his mind and head back for the exit.
Every couple of feet, a small lantern hung from the ceiling on either side of the wall. They were spaced in a way that suggested they were purely there for navigation’s sake, rather than any attempt at decoration. Although, the lighting was so incredibly dim that Scaramouche could barely see his feet when he looked down.
He'd walked this hall countless times and yet, it never seemed to get any easier. He insisted that he wasn't human, that he wouldn't be no matter how much he may crave it, but instincts such as these couldn't come from anywhere else. The puppet of a god wouldn't be creeped out and tempted to run from a few shadows and some silence.
Scaramouche’s feet carried him straight past his usual destination whenever he came down here. The massive double door to his left, the lantern above it providing just enough light to read a label saying that the area behind it was none other than Dottore’s lab. It led to an even longer hallway with countless doors, each sectioning off its own area of study.
There was a lab dedicated to biochemistry, to neurology, to just about any science you could think of. Dottore may be named a doctor, but he was much more skin to a mad scientist. It didn't help that the labs of the palace were built in its basement, the entrance to such places being a locked door behind Pulcinella’s office. Scaramouche often wondered how many times the man could complain about its location in a meeting before he got bored.
No, he wasn't headed to Dottore’s lab. Instead, he walked up to a much smaller door at the end of the hallway. It also had a label on it, which read;
“Sandrone, The Marionette
7th Fatui Harbinger
Enter Only With Permission”
With a wry little smile, Scaramouche twisted the doorknob and swung the door open.
The lab before him was only one room, unlike Dottore’s. However, it was much larger to compensate — so large, in fact, that Scaramouche’s eyes had to strain to see the other side of it. Fluorescent lighting hung above the room in an eerily organized pattern, but they were currently switched off.
The only light that was on in the room was directly in the center. It was a fairly tall antique floor lamp, something that absolutely didn't fit in with the rest of the albeit minimal decorations. It rested on the corner of a large rectangular metal table, and there was Sandrone sitting right at it.
She was sitting hunched over the table, goggles over her head as she worked with some machine that cast sparks in the air. Her chair was large, wheeled and cushioned incredibly well for being part of a laboratory. Beside it was a much smaller wheelchair, within close enough reach that she could transfer into it but not close enough to get in her way.
Scaramouche noticed that she didn't seem to sense his presence, though he didn't find himself willing to wait very long. As he walked over to her, his ears picked up a faint mechanical humming coming from an unknown location. He attempted to look around for it but there appeared to be nothing nearby that would make such a noise.
“.. What are you doing here, Balladeer?” Sandrone’s voice was as flat and toneless as ever.
Scaramouche couldn't say he wasn't surprised, although a little flare of irritation rose up from within. He didn't like people who refused to respect him, and she didn't have an ounce of respect in her body. It's a shame that he couldn't make her respect him. Despite being a rank above her, it was very much against the rules to kill a fellow Harbinger. Besides, Scaramouche still needed something from her.
“I’m here for-” he paused, not quite sure how to phrase his request, “Dottore sent me to you to clean up my joints.”
Sandrone laughed. It was a sharp, high noise and Scaramouche had to bite his tongue to keep from making a retort that he knew he'd only regret.
“That’s a lie if I've ever heard one.”
“Excuse me?” Scaramouche demanded.
“Dottore would rather shoot himself in the head than have you get worked on by someone else, especially me.”
For a moment, Scaramouche considered turning heel and leaving. Not out of unease or embarrassment but rather out of irritation. It became clear to him at that moment why no one was fond of Sandrone, and why she spent months by herself without saying a single word to someone else. Scaramouche wouldn't want to work with that attitude either.
“Why does it matter if he sent me here or not?” Scaramouche snapped. “I need a cleaning either way, and I'd rather deal with you right now than him.”
Sandrone was silent for long enough that Scaramouche opened his mouth to speak again, and then she abruptly set her tools down and turned them off. He watched and waited as she cleared everything off of the table afterwards, before lightly pushing her chair away from it. She turned the chair to face him, expressionless eyes boring into his soul.
“Take a seat. I don't have all day.”
—
The next time Scaramouche came down to her lab, a couple of years had passed. His joints creaked whenever he moved them, and he found himself unable to stretch without sharp pain running along his body. Part of him considered going to Dottore instead, but he knew his attitude was no better than Sandrone’s.
Her door creaked as he opened it, an awfully long and drawn out noise. Briefly, he wondered how long it had been since the door was opened and someone entered. Scaramouche was not someone who considered himself lonely, nor one that needed social interaction to get by. In fact, he much preferred spending time in solitude with only the night stars to keep him company. However, he understood the human desire for contact, and wondered if Sandrone ever got lonely.
There was no need to wonder about such foolish things. If she were lonely, she would be perfectly capable of finding some miniscule subordinate of hers to keep her company. Scaramouche had no reason to care either way, especially not with how poorly their last interaction went.
“You need to get your door oiled,” Scaramouche said as he approached her.
There was a loud clang from the foggy void in the lab beyond, and it was only then did Scaramouche notice that she wasn't sitting at her usual table. Instead, the chair was pulled away from it and the wheelchair was missing. A mild spike of concern rose up from within him, and he —...
A sharp swoosh rang out before him.
Scaramouche swiftly ducked beneath a sharp, silver knife flying straight for the center of his head. It narrowly missed, instead burrowing itself in the wall behind him. He swore loudly, a string of creative curses in a foreign language that many in the palace would not understand anymore, words long passed and buried in history centuries ago.
His lips parted, preparing to properly yell at Sandrone this time. Instead, he was interrupted by a large creature breaching the fog. It was big enough to crush him under its hand, made up of what he recognized as spare ruin guard parts. Sandrone was resting in its hand, goggles pulled over her eyes once more. She was so high up that Scaramouche had to tilt his head back as far as it could go in order to recognise that her face was twisted in annoyance.
“You’re interrupting my work.” She said, her tone as cold as always.
Scaramouche couldn't help but roll his eyes. He was in far too much pain to deal with her attitude right now. Typically, he was able to ignore the aching, push it into the back of his mind whenever it grew strong. Today, however, he was unable to do anything of the sort. It felt like his body was on fire, every move he made another log being thrown into it to fuel it. He could barely straighten himself after ducking from the knife without sucking in a sharp breath, signifying how much pain he was in to anyone who knew to look for the signs.
“Clean me again.” Scaramouche demanded. His jaw started to hurt from talking as well. “I really don't have all day.”
—
Again, years later from the prior visit, Scaramouche settled down in a cold metal chair, trying to act as if it wasn’t uncomfortable. He wasn’t human, after all. There was no reason to be uncomfortable by such things. The air around him was freezing and each inhale felt as if he’d dunked his head into a bucket of ice. Although he didn’t technically need to breathe, it had become second nature to him, a force of habit that he couldn’t be bothered to try and break.
Sandrone had moved from her ruin machine to her chair, and was sitting beside Scaramouche. Her face was scrunched up with focus as she unscrewed a clear bottle of yellowish brown liquid, a stained, off-white rag splayed out over her lap. The last cleaning went similarly, and Scaramouche knew from experience that the feeling was going to be uncomfortable regardless of how he’d gotten used to it.
“I still don’t understand why you come to me.” Sandrone sounded slightly distracted as she focused on pouring the liquid into the rag and preparing it to clean Scaramouche’s joints. “Surely Dottore would be better than I am. You have practice dealing with him, after all.”
Scaramouche laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “As if that makes it enjoyable.”
“Still. Why me?”
“... I don’t know.”
Sandrone blinked at him, confusion etched into her expression. She grabbed his hand, holding it up and splaying his fingers so that she could get the rag in each individual joint. Scaramouche pretended as if it didn’t hurt to have his body manipulated in such ways, as if his joints didn’t drive him mad every single time they got like this.
Instead of pushing further, Sandrone simply moved on. “You really should have them cleaned more often. It's not good to wait until you can hardly move your body without crying.”
Scaramouche scoffed. “I’m nowhere near crying. I haven’t done that in centuries.”
“Mhm,” Sandrone mumbled absently, her focus fully on cleaning him now.
—
The next time Scaramouche encountered Sandrone, it wasn’t for a cleaning, surprisingly enough. They’d all received word of a new Harbinger’s ascension, a young Snezhnayan boy that had been taken in by the Rooster at some point. Attendance to the ceremony was absolutely mandatory, despite how it left a sour taste in a certain puppet boy’s mouth.
He hated these ceremonies. He’d only attended a select few since his own ascension, and they were all boring, repetitive and utterly exhausting. Pantalone’s had resulted in many a loud argument between him and Dottore, and that was the last one that he ever truly paid attention to. Even if Scaramouche had attended the rest over the years, he typically zoned out and found other ways to pass the time.
This time, however, something else caught his eye. As he stood in the throne room of the Tsaritsa, impatiently waiting for the rest of them to arrive, he noticed that Sandrone was the only other one in the room at the moment. She wasn’t looking in his direction, instead settled comfortably in her ruin guard’s hand and staring blankly outside of a window that was mostly covered in frost. A leafless tree could be seen through it, branches stretched out in all directions and some even frozen solid against the glass.
Scaramouche still couldn’t believe that Snezhnaya used to be a warm and welcoming nation, only ridden with a wintery landscape every so often when the sun went away for longer times at night and the air grew colder. It used to have fairly warm summers, enough that people from times now long gone would often recommend it for those looking to have a nice vacation in the wilderness. And then the Tsaritsa ascended to godhood, bringing her eternal heartbreak with her and permanently freezing the landscape.
“Sandrone,” his voice echoed somewhat in the incredibly high, elaborate ceiling above them.
Stirred from her thoughts, Sandrone looked over at Scaramouche. For once, her expression did not depict annoyance or exasperation at his presence. She seemed mildly intrigued instead, as if wondering why he’d even be here so early. It wasn’t like either of them to attend dreaded events earlier than even Pulcinella, who had a passion for manners and respect. He stressed often about being on time as a result.
“Yes, what is it?” She asked, the intrigue in her expression making itself present in his voice as well.
“You’re here early.”
“Ah, yes–” she sighed a bit. “There was nothing else to do in my lab and I hate waiting.”
Scaramouche hummed softly, understanding her predicament personally. “That’s why I’m here too,” he said, somewhat awkwardly as he wasn’t used to making small talk or even speaking kindly.
Fortunately, their predicament was resolved as the grand double doors opened once more and the remaining Harbingers all flowed into the room at once. Dottore and Pantalone were standing irritatingly close together, and Arlecchino and Columbina were holding hands openly. Capitano and Signora stood all by themselves, and Pulcinella traveled with the small ginger that would be ascending today.
Scaramouche resisted the urge to laugh. The boy – he could not be considered a man quite yet – was only an inch or two taller than himself. His face was littered with countless scars, blue eyes void of any life as if they’d been swallowed by the sea. He looked eerily distant, as if he was peering through a cloud at the rest of them. Freckles littered cheeks still chubbed with youth, and pale lips parted slightly to take deep, regulating breaths.
He couldn’t have been older than sixteen at the current moment, yet here he was, ascending to a ranking that would grant him power unrestricted. Power that even Scaramouche could not fully wrap his head around at times. The delusion that burnt at his side, pyro energy a constant boost to the electro that his dear mother had embedded him with. The way humanity trembled in front of his wrath, cowering from his cruelty and scrambling to follow every order exactly. The respect and admiration received from the Tsaritsa, a goddess treating him as he deserved for the first time in his life–
This power should not be granted to a sixteen year old boy. From across the room, Sandrone stared at the ginger with an expression of clear distaste written across her face. She seemed to be sharing Scaramouche’s thoughts, if the way her fists clenched over a dusty brown skirt was any sign. Although there wasn’t much she respected, let alone cared about, he could tell this was different. Her distaste was born from a different taste.
The last to arrive was Pierro, the clacking of his heeled boots against frosted tile piercing the silence that enveloped the room as everyone grew settled. His gaze, nearly as frozen as the Tsaritsa’s herself and equally as ridden with grief, brushed over each and every Harbinger to make sure everyone was in their places.
Seats were only provided to Pulcinella, Pantalone and Sandrone due to the nature of each of their bodies, the former two relying on canes and the latter needing a wheelchair. Painted on the ground beneath everyone’s feet – and on the back of the three chairs – were each Harbingers’ signature constellations. Scaramouche stood a little straighter on his, chin tilted upwards as Pierro’s gaze swiped over his body.
Seemingly satisfied, Pierro made his way to the front of the room, where his own constellation was stained into the floor next to a large and elegant throne. The Tsaritsa hardly ever made her presence known, even around her most trusted Harbingers. She chose to send messages through Pierro when necessary, having him carry out most of the orders and do most of the work. In Scaramouche’s opinion, despite her kindness towards them, she was not a particularly functional leader.
And as she formed in a burst of icicles, numbly sitting in the throne with a certain detached look to her worse than the ginger boy’s, Scaramouche was reminded once more of his opinion. Even while her body was stationed here, her mind was elsewhere, reliving loss upon loss. It corrupted her, made her an unfit and cold ruler. The Tsaritsa no longer remembered how to love, the ability buried beneath the icy shield that wrapped around her heart as she swore revenge on the Heavens.
“We gather here today to announce the arrival of a new Harbinger in our ranks,” Pierro spoke, his voice booming throughout the room. “He will swear his unwavering loyalty to her Majesty, The Tsaritsa, and receive power formerly unknown to mankind as a result.”
Scaramouche sighed, already beginning to zone out. He’d listened to this speech countless times before and was growing quite tired of it. The older the Harbinger, the more exhausted they became with all of these formalities. This was evident by the way Dottore, Signora and Columbina also stared out into space – Signora was the first ever Harbinger, appointed with the arrival to godhood of the Tsaritsa and the formation of the Fatui under Pierro’s direction. Columbina had come next, rescued from the nation of freedom that had, ironically, trapped her within iron bars. Dottore was the third to arrive, many decades after the first two, when he was still human and easily won over with promises of scientific glory.
—
The ceremony ended much too slowly for Scaramouche’s tastes, even as he satisfied his boredom with fantasies of his own godhood and revenge against the first to betray him. He was brought back into reality with a BANG , a flash of purple energy burning his eyes and making reflexive false tears pool in his eyelids.
The ginger, given the name of Tartaglia or Childe, had received his delusion. It was an electro one, specially made by Dottore after weeks of studying his body and how it worked. As per usual, delusions took a long moment and a lot of energy to adjust to its new handler. It had nearly knocked out Scaramouche when he got his for the first time, and he wasn’t even human.
Considering Tartaglia now lay limply on the ground, head lolling and hair standing up, bristling with electricity, Scaramouche had no doubt that he would have some difficulty for the next few months.
—
“I can’t believe they’re letting a sixteen year old in our rankings,” Sandrone mumbled, voice tight with frustration.
She and Scaramouche had left the throne room together, trailing after Dottore who was carrying Tartaglia’s unconscious body. They’d part ways soon enough, as Scaramouche had a personal mission to take care of and Sandrone surely had something to do with the ruin machines that had been caught stealing supplies for an unknown project from Dottore’s storage system.
Scaramouche hummed his agreement to her words. “The boy is human too. Tainted, sure, but human.”
Sandrone was quiet for a moment.
“... He’s going to die.” She said finally. “He’s going to run off and get killed by some monster somewhere, and her Majesty will be devastated.”
Scaramouche sighed, heading to turn a corner. He really didn’t want to think about that possibility. He didn’t want to wonder why such a young human was so tainted, why he reeked of abyssal energy and why there was no life in his eyes. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he really did die soon. Snezhnaya may never see the summertime again if that were the case.
“Perhaps she should consider a grief counselor,” he said, voice bitter, “There’s no way all of us will survive this war, after all. You know as well as I do.”
Sandrone’s eyes pierced the back of his neck. “Of course I do. It's her fault for appointing three humans.”
If only she had been aware that their first death would not have been one of the humans after all. Perhaps she would have watched her words better if that were the case.
—
The floor beneath Scaramouche’s bare feet was ice-cold and soaked with a colorless liquid. It burnt his nose when he breathed in, and he wondered if it was going to poison him somehow.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Scaramouche demanded.
He stared hard at Sandrone, who looked about ready to toss another knife in his direction. She’d previously been leaning into the chest of a ruin machine, half of her tiny body hanging over the edge and dangling in a black void. Whatever work she was doing was interrupted and, by the fact that she was drenched in whatever liquid was beneath Scaramouche, he could only guess how dirty it was.
“I
was
working on an upgrade until the pipes burst and their ridiculously expensive ancient equivalent to gasoline wound up everywhere,” she explained in a rush before continuing to another subject, “You’re not meant to be awake for another hour.”
Scaramouche merely shrugged, ignoring the ache deep in his back. He had come to her for an upgrade that he felt Dottore would not be able to – or would refuse to – give him. The faint thudding in his chest was something he would have to get used to, as it provided him with more power than before. He would be delving deeper into the Abyss and felt that his body needed more if he intended to survive.
“I feel fine.” He stated plainly, as if he wasn’t just sliced open only a few hours ago.
Sandrone stared blankly at him, raising a dripping hand and pointing to the metal chair that’s become so familiar to him.
“Sit. I’ll clean up and then take a look at you to make sure you’re not about to fall apart and die.”