Chapter Text
The air was crisp and cold as always. A puppet of short stature walked among the corridors of the large castle. He slid on hand along the walls, false skin prickling at the sensation of coolness.
How funny that he was so human yet so far removed from anything biological.
He retracted his hand, dropping it to his side as he approached a towering pair of double doors. Like the rest of the fortress, the door was made up of cool, blue ice. Engraved with murals and stories the puppet had no desire to decipher or learn about. The world's lore was
The soldiers at the door nodded hastily as he walked towards them, mumbling a greeting that fell flat against the masks they wore.
They all looked the same to him.
The man dropped his head, adjusting his red, wide brimmed hat. He barely regarded them as they opened the door, if he had nerves, he would steel them for what he'd face on the other side.
An almost fog of frost escaped the doors as he stepped inside, hearing them retract back into position almost immediately.
It took a moment for the frost to clear up, but in all honestly, he would've preferred it to never do so.
At the far end of the room sat a singular throne, icicles jutting out of all direction from the seat and almost the stairway leading up to it. On it sat a woman, her face obscured, but the puppet could feel her eyes regarding him with a critical eye.
Directly in front of him, sat a long table. They had been talking among st themselves, but quietened down at the newcomer's entrance. They were the only other people in the dammed fortress not to wear masks, instead allowed the freedom to choose their dressing.
Still, it didn't stop him from blurring out both their faces and names like the fog that surrounded them.
The only face which wasn't blurred was the man sitting left of the seat of the queen god. Though she never did sit on the long table with the rest of them, her seat was erected. Untouched.
The man had a unreadable smile on his face. His eyes covered with a crows mask— a fashion choice, not a uniform like the rest of them. He was tall, taller than the puppet, yet still quite dwarfed compared to the other on the table.
"Balladeer."
The puppet looked up, and for a faint moment, he could swear he saw the flash of deep crimson eyes of their god. No further words needed to be spoken.
The puppet did not bow he simply nodded and took his place as the sixth chair of the twelve fatui harbingers.
»
"As you all are informed, a disease is spreading throughout Snezhnaya," Captino spoke. His voice slightly robotic though his mask. He was briefing the harbingers as usual, while his two superiors, Pierro and The Tsarista remained quiet.
"We are not sure yet if it has something to do with the forbidden knowledge of Sumeru, or something else entirely. Doctor, anything to add?" He turned his head to Ill Dottore, and Scaramouche had to physically stop himself from recoiling as he heard the man speak.
"From the few survivors, I can determine that the disease is both excellently fast in its spread and also its fatality. A ordinary man dies a week after contracting it," He responded, a smile ever present on his lips like he'd been reciting his favorite meal at a restaurant. "I'm unfortunately unable to do any meaningful research on it. Any test subjects I find are already half dead."
The room went silent.
The only thing that could be heard was the constant breathing of everyone in the room—everyone but Scaramouche's.
"You're saying you need fresh test subjects. Why not just inject the disease into normal people?" Signora suggested. Of course it was her who would suggest something like that.
But he had to admit that it sounded like a good idea.
Dottore shook his head, "I need something who won't die after a week," his eyes traced towards Scaramouche's direction.
He froze. Surely he wasn't implying what he thought he was.
The rest of the harbingers eyes slowly looked at The Balladeer too, until all their eyes were on him. Scaramouche resisted the urge to look up at The Tsarista to see if she was also looking at him, somehow, he knew that'd only make matters worse for him.
Scaramouche looked back at Dottore, who seemed to be enjoying himself. Despite himself, he scowled at him. "You just want a reason to study the Electro Archon's creation more. Was a century not enough for you?"
"I'm simply stating the obvious. Truth to be told, there is nothing interesting left about you or Ei."
Scaramouche clenched his fists under the table, don't let him get to you.
"I'm a puppet. Wouldn't that mess up the whole research."
"In your own words, I've researched you body for a century. It reacts the same way to pathogens as normal humans."
Scaramouche went silent, his lips closed into a thin frown. He couldn't argue more without looking desperate— weak.
So he sat there, as more than two dozen eyes stared him. Eventually, it was Il Captino who broke the silence.
"That is a good suggestion Doctor. But what if The Balladeer doesn't make it."
"Then we cut our losses and move on." Dottore replied almost instantly, a pleasant smile on his face, "I'm sure he'd be happy to die if it was for the betterment of our country. Don't you think so Pierro?"
The Director was standing with his arm crossed, "At the will of The Tsaritsa I have no problem."
Scaramouche bit him tongue, as hard as he could. It wasn't like he would bleed, just feel the agony.
How dare they talk about him like he wasn't there? Like he was too weak to even participate.
After a long moment—all of which Scaramouche stared daggers into Dottore's chest, as if just looking his way with enough anger would make a knife magically appear in his chest—the queen spoke.
"Very well. I place The Balladeer under Dottore. He is free to conduct any and all experiments he sees fit for a full month. I expect results."
Dottore bowed deeply, though Scaramouche knew it was all for show. A mock display of gratitude and respect.
More importantly Scaramouche felt his back stiffen as he met eyes with Dottore as the taller man was walking out. A surge of rage overtook it and it took at his strength to will him to not attack the Doctor— not in front of a god.
Dottore passed by him, bending his head down ever so slightly so that only Scaramouche could hear, "One month puppet. One month."