Purple Lace

after making sure no one else was around, 8 delivered a swift kick to 18's shin, before jumping on your lap for a snuggle. he likes to pretend that he's mature and grown up, but given that the others weren't here, he couldn't resist the cuddle pile.

18 wanted to strangle the little brat, but the scene in front of him was oddly domestic. he'd rather die than admit that he craved to be the one receiving your affectionate touches, wanting nothing more than to lock the geezer somewhere where he can't steal all of your attention.

he was about to leave, but once you called out to him, it didn't take much to convince him to stay. 18 sat beside you, stiff as a board, until you tugged him to lean against you, as he slowly accepted that he was in fact enjoying himself. 8 was already asleep, mumbling something about dumb segments and aranaras.

with your free hand, you caressed 18's face. seeing him scowl and blush was always so much fun. and now that both zandik and 8 were dozing off, he didn't want to be loud and risk waking them up, opting to roll his eyes to show his (fake) displeasure.

The lighting that day had been perfect. Deep red satin shining in the afternoon. A perfect, shining gem coveted for its luster and cut.

His days were numbered. So many patients said they felt their body failing them. Feofan had confessed as such over the decades.

His hands had always been so steady, so capable. Surgery was nothing more than child’s play. Fine motor work that was second nature, honed and refined in long hours few ever bothered with. Painting was your forte, your second love, but you’d taught him with patience that almost outpaced his own.

How did someone barely in their third decade be so willing to wait? At that age, he was only patient when it mattered, but you?

You felt at ease in this world. He didn’t so much envy you as he did long to capture it, understand it, so he too could feel it, one day.

Zandik stepped back from the canvas, brow furrowed as he forced his bad eye to focus. Depth perception was difficult and his heart sank.

Nothing but a shadow. Colors stood too sharp against one another, his fingers having been too sore for longer blending periods. It was obvious he’d had more energy for your face, the finest part of the entire masterpiece. Ten years ago, this would have been so easy.

Useless.

Old.

Decrepit.

Why did you bother with him, he wondered. This was meant to be your birthday present, the way he saw you and what you meant to him.

Would you feel compelled to fix it? Straighten the lines, smooth the colors, make quick work of his shaky splatters?

He couldn’t hold a wrench anymore, nor were his eyes good for small mechanisms. With all of the major projects outsourced to the better and more capable parts of himself, this was all he had left. How else did one capture their world visually?

He sat down, palette knife in hand, contemplating just slashing the thing to pieces.

“Zandik?”

Your voice, a melody.

One he didn’t deserve, not right now. The sentiment must have shown or you would not have hesitated as you said, “I can come back.”

He held out a hand, dropping the knife and beckoning you. You took it upon reaching him, fingers finding the sore joints you always worked. So warm, like morning sun on dewed grass.

Your appraising silence was a strange comfort to the voice in his head.

“You are unhappy with it, I take it?” you asked, nestling onto his leg, skirts rustling as you pulled the palette knife from his other hand.

“I can’t do anything anymore,” Zandik whispered. “What good am I, when parts of me are so much more efficient, quicker witted, not prone to failure? What do you see in me?”

You pressed a hand to his cheek and he turned to look at you, still barely halfway through life and full of vigor. Eyes that spoke far beyond their years. Those were always his favorite part of you, so expressive, vibrant.

“I see a man determined,” you started. “Who sacrifices himself in hopes of breaking a wheel he may not be around to see shatter.”

You picked up a brush and without breaking your thought, mixed colors nearby.

“Who looks at the world and understands he still has much to learn, even now.”

Skilled hands filled in the space above your shoulder, painting hands, a jacket, red eyes.

“Who looks at me as if I am a marvel despite having experienced every cruelty this world has to offer. Who has let me chip away at the rational transactional walls that stood between us for many years and given me a treasure unimaginable.”

His eyes stung but through a fog, he saw a soft expression, watched as you turned your pose from a stoic mirror into a dynamic, private moment. Your pose originally involved looking off to the side, away from the viewer, but now you looked at the new figure.

Him.

Two styles, not quite clashing but not blending together, either. Faces the only parts in focus.

“I see a man who loves me, Zandik. And that has always been enough.”

He pulled you closer once you put the tools aside, burrowing his head against you. Other parts might say he grew sentimental in his old age despite ripping apart his soul. Perhaps he had. What else was there for the world to teach him?

Segment 8 was the first who sought you out. A little boy with striking eyes, always glancing around like he expected danger to emerge from the shadows. Knowing his later selves perhaps that idea wasn't too far-fetched. Hands that were far too small to bear the weight of future deeds had reached for the blue vial hanging from his ear.

"Tongue out," he'd said while you stared with wide eyes. The top of the vial had been popped off.

You'd always figured the earrings were an aesthetic choice. You should've known better.

The youngest segment had tugged on your hand insistently (the touch itself surprising) while hurriedly urging you to kneel down. You'd smacked at his hand while he tried to pry your lips apart, any frustration with him gone the moment you saw the petulant pout on his lips when you didn't oblige.

"It's good for humans. Just a few drops so no one notices.." You'd seen the hesitation in his eyes before he softly added 'do it for me?'

It swiftly became routine. Every few weeks, the little 'boy' would bring appear out of thin air and clasp your hand tightly, dragging you into a corner of the laboratory where he'd feed you a little bit of what you came to learn was an elixir of immortality.

Segment 25 was the second to offer you this boon of their research. Perhaps you shouldn't have been as surprised as you'd been, 25 had always been the most forward.

He'd cornered you one day just before you'd retired for the night, exhausted after a long day of maintaining equipment and preparing various experiments for them.

Gloved fingers had squished your cheeks together before you could do as much as ask what he wanted. That usual feral grin on his lips bared the sharp teeth of a predator.

When you hadn't tried to fight him, he'd cooed and praised you although surprise had been clear.

"You really trust me this much? I'm flattered." You'd been released with a pat on your cheek before he put the earring back on. "Consider this a little gift, one the others don't want you to have. It will keep you young, and you will keep me company."

There'd been no uncertainty within him, only pure confidence that he knew what you wanted. Or knew that you would be too afraid to argue with a harbinger.

It only took a week or so before segment 18 appeared uninvited in the doorway to your private chamber. He'd refused to look at you while expaning the purpose of his visit, the contents of the vial they all carried, and what he expected in return for this favor.

For all the severity in his crimson eyes, the 'demands' were so tame you'd almost laughed. An attentive listener when he rambled on about his ideas. The so called privilege of resting his head atop your thighs and having you comb your fingers through his hair.

18 looked like he wanted to slip through the cracks of the floor while he listed what he wanted in exchange for 'wasting resources keeping you alive' as he'd put it. There'd been particular emphasis on how the rest of the segments did not want the precious drops wasted on some lowly assistant like you. It had taken all your composure not to chuckle at that.

45 and 65 had appeared together. The older looming as 45 explained their awareness of what 'the youngsters' had been doing. They both found it quite amusing how the three had been trying to cover their tracks. Elixir disappearing (to refill what they gave you from their vials). Their sneaking around. The furious and harebrained arguments they'd make when questioned.

But, as 45 had said, what the three had been independently giving you was only enough to stagnate the aging process, not halt it completely.

While your attention had been focused on 45, the older one had moved, making his presence known with the touch of his beaked mask nuzzling against your cheek from behind.

"Which is why 45 and I decided to step in. You see, we have grown quite fond of you as well."

"Of course," 45 had chimed in, "we expect a little more in return than innocent pecks on our cheeks and hugs. We're certain you understand."

Omega had, unsurprisingly, been the last to approach you.

"You've not aged a day in decades. I've been willing to turn a blind eye since you're useful. Don't you think that deserves special thanks?"

Masterlist

The scholar analyzes that feeling, where it comes from. Is the difference, perhaps, because you are already his? This is you, sharing something precious that feels too vulnerable to admit to him - a feeling he knows very well - not a stranger gushing over him without properly knowing him.

When you meet next time, Alhaitham seems lost in thought. Yet at the same time, you feel his gaze following your every move. Because he is. He notices everything. Between the two of you, you might be the more outspoken one, the one who tends to confess your feelings more directly. Right now, though, he can see you speak his language of love fluently too - more than he gave you credit for, too blinded by how easily you seem to express your emotions aloud and trying to meet you there.

Now he sees it, though. Every little gesture, every lingering touch, every indirect admission that you care. You startle when he slides his hand across the table to catch yours. Maybe this is enough, maybe just as he knows now, you understood his feelings the whole time.

Ayato

It is not his style to be hiding in the shadows but Ayato always keeps his mind open to trying new things. Such as now, biding his time in the cool shade the tree offers while he listens to the voices approaching. There’s something about the hushed excitement with which his sister speaks that already piques his interest, yet it is only when he hears the unmistakable shyness and panic in yours that he considers abandoning his previous plan of making a surprising appearance. He’s a curious man and if you’re not careful enough to make absolutely sure nobody hears what you’re saying, it can’t be that important after all.

And thinking that is his undoing. He has to stifle a laugh. How foolish he was for dismissing what he’s going to hear as a simple ammunition for teasing. His posture shifts, now he leans against the trunk comfortably as he gets lost in your sweet confessions. He stares up at the sky obscured by the leaves. You’ve said those things before, maybe not with the same words, but he’s never doubted your feelings. So why does he feel this way now?

His surprise is postponed. Instead of scaring you by jumping out of the shadows, Ayato surprises you with dinner ready on the table, the servants dismissed for the remainder of the day. Your home is quiet, safe for your husband describing the delicacies on the table and teasing the special dessert he prepared for later - no doubt something he thought of himself. And while it’s not unheard of for him to make romantic gestures such as this, something feels off.Yet when you press him about it, Ayato offers only a mysterious smile and a playful can’t i adore you for no special reason? accompanied by a fleeting kiss to the corner of your lips.

Baizhu

“You have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“Qiqi will forget this conversation soon. Your secret is safe with her.”

Intrigued, Baizhu ducks closer to the wall. Secrets? Secrets between his two favorite people? He’s curious and amused at the same time. Should your voice be strained, he would worry and interrupt whatever was going on, but seeing as you were giggling along with the little girl, he barely expected more than a silly exchange that would warm his heart and provide him with sufficient energy to push through his tasks for the day.

Instead, what he hears makes his heart stop for a moment and his legs weaken. Perhaps he should make his presence known. Perhaps he won’t need to, simply collapsing on the spot should be enough. 

Once the dramatics leave his body with a quiet, shaky breath, he carefully peeks into the room. His eyes land on you in a second, on the shy, embarrassed smile and eyes, fortunately, closed while you laugh with Qiqi about the foolishly sweet things you’ve said. Baizhu bites back a smile and finds another route to his destination.

Later, however, while you’re getting ready for bed, he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around you. His lips leave a trail of soft kisses from your shoulder to your jaw, no different than if he was running a feather over your skin. But his arms, they keep you in place without fail. 

“The effect you have on me is concerning, my heart,” Baizhu whispers into your ear before you can voice your surprise.

His hand finds yours and guides it to his wrist, allowing you to feel his racing pulse. He feels your confusion growing, but he doesn’t explain - how could he? He will treasure the secrets he heard, although they’ve perhaps never been secret at all. Not when he can see them all now that he looks into your eyes.

Dottore

He bristles when he hears a voice responding to yours, and soon the irritation is doubled. Dottore assigned you a task of utmost importance and time sensitivity. It’s a test of sorts, sure, yet the notion that you’d fail and what’s more - that you’d skirt your duty to mindless chatter makes a confusing mix of irrational feelings well up in his chest.

Yet he’s stopped in his tracks before his steps can get within your earshot. His enhanced senses can perceive what a regular human couldn’t, such as your voice, calm and poised, explaining the inner workings of your heart to the other person. 

It makes his face contort like a child’s after drinking a bitter medicine. Then an incredulous laugh bubbles quietly up his throat. The world tilts on its axis, nausea follows. Those words are not unheard; they’re simply usually heard much more quietly, privately, behind locked doors and between the sheets. You whisper them to him, mumbling them against his skin because he won’t meet your gaze or acknowledge them. He never thought he’d hear them aloud - spoken without hesitation, doubt or shame. 

You don’t flinch when you find yourself trapped between his body and the desk a minute later, the other bolting away the moment he appears. He doesn’t feel you stiffen or tremble at all when his breath hits the vulnerable skin of your throat, nor when he bites down on the side of your neck. Not hard enough to draw blood and, he realizes belatedly, not hard enough to hurt. Only enough to leave a faint mark. Somehow his fingers find their way between yours, pinning you to the desk. He’s already panting so hard it makes him laugh. 

This is not the experiment he had in mind for today, or any other day for as long as he lives, but inspiration is known to strike at the oddest of moments.

Flins

He wakes up to a voice. Which is strange because he also wakes up to a feeling of safety, and Flins has grown so used to safety meaning loneliness. It takes him a moment to fully process all that he can hear and feel, and for the time being he remains still as if he was resting. First is the touch - a hand combing through his hair slowly, which threatens to lull him back to sleep. Then the voice gets clear enough. Your voice, your words. Suddenly, sleep is no longer tempting.

Fortunately, his face is hidden against your stomach enough that he can allow himself a secret smile. He has to express himself somehow without also being discovered. It’s been so long since he’s known intimacy such as this. Compromising this moment is the last thing he wants. He promises to himself he’ll make it up to you somehow, he has to, but for the time being he chooses to stay as he is. 

You don’t seem any wiser when Flins pretends to wake up. Very slowly, uncharacteristically affectionate. So much so that you don’t tease him, skipping straight to suspicion and mild concern. But he only reassures you, telling you about a beautiful dream he had while kissing your wrists, your hands, all the way to your fingertips. He doesn’t let you pull away - every attempt is met with a gentle squeeze and a pleading look. And you’re no monster to say a no to that.

Despite his best efforts, he can’t quite figure out how to make you feel as loved as your words spoken while he was supposed to be oblivious to them made him feel. He ends up hovering around you, and it’s so unfair how effortlessly you pile onto that feeling with every touch, every word of concern. He doesn’t think you understand why he holds you so much tighter when he finally breaks and pulls you close.

Neuvillette

He knows it’s wrong. The Iudex of Fontaine, listening in on hushed voices, albeit voices behind his closed doors, inside of his own office. There’s already been a precedent of a secret being kept from him, and he’d rather not think about an event of similar severity being repeated when the voice he recognizes is yours. The gasps of the melusines do nothing to calm his beating heart, he can only press his ear to the wood of the door and close his eyes.

They don’t stay closed for long. It makes little difference as Neuvillette stares blankly at the ground, his sight unfocused and shaky. He holds his breath, he doesn’t mean to, but if he misses a single word of your confessions he feels he’d regret it for eternity.

The moment passes too soon. Steps get closer to the door and he does his best to act as if he witnessed nothing. He thinks he must be doing fine until you stand in front of him - he feels the facade crumble. Neuvillette leads you back into the office despite your playful scolding that you’ve already held up his work enough. 

He confesses to listening in before you can decode the expression on his face. The tips of his ears turn red, his voice wavers. Then the silence stretches, before he eventually, softly, admits how hearing you speak that way about him has affected him. Like you couldn’t tell from the uncertainty radiating off of him. 

So now it’s your turn to take his hand and pry details from him. With utmost patience despite your racing heart, you delve to the root of the issue - that he feels just as strongly about you too, yet struggles to come up with a way to show you. The realization comes with a self-depreciating chuckle and an apologetic smile that becomes a little more relaxed when you inform the hydro dragon that a simple kiss will suffice.

Pantalone

It’s almost time to leave. The annual ball is about to start and Pantalone means to be fashionable late. He is the main star, so to speak, after all. Your handmaiden should also be aware of the time, and so he sees no point in knocking-

“I’ve wished the marriage wasn’t a matter of convenience for a long time now.”

His hand hovers above the doorknob and retracts. His brows furrow. While your voice is somber, almost desperate, the voice of your handmaiden is excited, albeit concerned. He doesn’t understand.

It’s only when, upon the woman’s insistence, you let the floodgates of your feelings open that he gets the full picture. 

Smirk tugs at his lips, one he can barely contain. A man should not feel as he feels hearing such confessions from the one he’s wedded to, yet here Pantalone is. Pride soars through his chest, a sense of victory, the satisfaction of a beneficial deal struck. And all the while - peace. Like a guard dog with no master stumbling upon a lamb, given purpose anew.

There seem to indeed be some things the value of which cannot be expressed or evaluated.

Nobody, of course, dares to comment that your late arrival at the ball borders on rude instead of fashionable. The talk of the town, or rather the content of the hushed whispers that the speakers think cannot be heard over the music, is all about you and your husband.

About the way the regrator’s hand remains possessively on your lower back, both seemingly to guide you and to prevent you from straying too far away. In fact, it seems the closer you remain, the better. They talk about the many instances when his lips brush right against the shell of your ear whenever he’s talking to you privately. 

The whole hall wonders - did the ninth harbinger fall in love?

Tighnari

His ears twitch and turn in the direction of the sound that does not belong this deep in the forest. A smile’s already tugging on Tighnari’s lips when he listens for a moment longer and recognizes the voice as yours, accompanied by another’s. It’s impossible to keep you away from the more dangerous parts of the forest, he’s made peace with that, but he’s at least relieved you listened to him and didn’t venture this far alone. 

He finishes the task he was devoted to and is about to greet you and join you, should his company be welcomed, when he hears it. The way your voice drops lower, barely heard above the songs of the birds and the hum of the trees, and how it grows softer, fonder. For a moment he hesitates, some part of him worried about what he might hear because a tone like that is supposed to be reserved for him. Only it turns out it is.

He breaks into a wider smile - then he reels himself in. He shouldn’t be listening in on your private conversation, even if he’s the topic of it. A very, very cherished topic it seems. But his body won’t listen. His tail has a life of its own and his feet remain stuck to the ground. His expression grows softer, fonder. He might’ve remained there, staring in the direction of your voice like a fool if it wasn’t for his emotions simply growing too overwhelming. 

Tighnari grins sheepishly when you yelp the moment he appears from between the trees, more so when your friend suddenly has a very convenient excuse to flee - though he calls after them that they shouldn’t be by themselves in these parts. Even if he prefers to have you to himself. Suddenly it seems like all your eloquence disappeared. But that’s fine - that’s cute, he chuckles. He can do the talking now, if you only take his hand.

Zhongli

Idle chatter is a rare occurrence without the director around. Any sort of lively energy, really, especially on days like this one. And so with her out on business, Zhongli is intrigued by what made hushed conversation resonate through the empty halls of the parlor. Above all, he picks up your voice, strained by emotions. Hardly a surprise after the display you’ve all bore witness only hours prior.

Meaning to check on you, he approaches slowly. Yet finding himself to be the topic of the conversation, his steps pause, then stop altogether. His brows furrowed. It’s not that he doesn’t understand why the sudden outburst or why you’d feel the need to talk about your feelings with a third party - what he doesn’t understand is the trembling of his own heart. How can it still be so fragile after aeons of heartbreak?

Later, in the quiet privacy of your bedroom, Zhongli comes clean. It remains a mystery to him why his heart flutters again when he watches you get flustered - first by the realization, then by him recounting similar sentiments to you. It only gets strangers, the feeling shifts into an ache first, then into a stable pressure that feels almost crushing.

You’re lying on his chest, at his insistence as much as your desire to remain close to him. It’s been hours since he coaxed you to sleep but he himself can’t bring himself to drift off. He’s watching you, marvelling at the feeling stirring inside of him. Perhaps it is because of the funeral and the young widow you’ve all witnessed earlier, sobbing at her husband’s grave, that you are - that he is - so desperate to make the feelings you harbor for each other known. 

Sitting in the labor room, you held the red scarlet-eyed baby in your arms, stroking the infant's tuft of blue hair every now and then. Segment 8, or "Little Doctor" as you like to call him, leaned over the side to look at the newborn, an innocent sort of curiosity brimming in his very own pair of red eyes.

Your baby was born healthy, looking just like a mix of both you and Zandik. He'd helped deliver it himself, muttering about how he trusted no one but him to take the task upon himself.

Well, technically, it was just Segment 25 who helped with the main task; the others volunteered themselves with other stuff, such as weighing the baby, stitching your tears up, cleaning the blood, storing your placenta and umbilical cord for research purposes, etc.

All the segments insisted on helping out, even Little Doctor, who unfortunately had to sit outside for most of the labor but was eventually allowed in to see the baby and check on you. Everyone's main goal was to ensure the mother and newborn were both safe and healthy.

Now that everything was successfully executed, you and the newborn were both taking a small, well-earned nap. All the adult segments turned to look at one another with suspicion.

Who the fuck was the baby's real father?

They all had slept with you, came inside of you, so the possibility that one of them was the father was 20%.

Except they were all Zandiks.

They all had the same DNA, the same blood. They might as well all be identical twins, if identical twins were all the segment of a man who died a century ago.

"Well? What were we all even expecting? That the baby would be born, and we could take a DNA test to verify the paternity? We all share the same blood dipshits. Ever thought of that?" Segment 18 spat out, looking at the other older segments after they'd all stepped out.

Segment 25 merely took off his mask and gloves, opting to let the other Segments deal with the guy instead.

"We were hoping to keep the peace until the baby was born to keep our Lady's pregnancy smooth. You know she gets troubled when we all get into unnecessary fights." Segment 65 explained, stepping closer to your door to make sure it was locked in case their argument woke you up. "A miscarriage would've been tragic. Besides, we all had our own goals to accomplish during this period. I doubt Omega is going to let you have a share of the placenta."

Omega, or Segment 35, who snuck off to the side to keep your placenta in a freezer, shot them all a dirty look. "How rude! Preserving the placenta has it's benefits-"

"We never said it didn't. But must you be so greedy as to keep it for yourself?" Segment 45 cuts off.

"-because I am the most research-oriented out of all of us, one who shall produce the most fulfilling results. In case of a genetic disease or a tumor, it will prove to be very useful." He preened

"You talk as if you're the real father." scoffs Segment 18.

"Well, of course I am. Who else but I could produce such brilliant progeny."

The comment riled up Segment 18, who walked up to Omega's face, his sharp teeth bare, "So sure of yourself, aren't you, old man? You sure your sperm can even swim that far? Your cock get that hard? Well, getting erect would be no problem for such a beauty; however, I bet her fallopian tubes shriveled the moment you got in you son of a-"

"Alright, alright. There's no need to stir up a ruckus right here," said Segment 25, wiping his hands dry on a towel, clearly the most tired of them all.

Unlike the other Segments, he had to be on-call and close to you that day, and hence had stayed by you till the moment you had pushed the baby out. "She's still inside, sleeping, taking a well-earned nap before one of us has to wake her from her blissful slumber in two hours to take her vitals again. Not to mention, we will need to attend to my newborn as well. For now, we could all take a moment, Segment 8 will alert us should anything happen-"

"What do you mean, 'my newborn'?" Segment 45 butts in, "You didn't even try to debate whether the child is yours or not."

"Well, of course, because it is mine. Only fools fight over what's not theirs-"

"Get a load of this asshole-"

"Can we all take this somewhere else, the baby might wake up-"

"Dottore!" a voice booms from down the hall, along with the sound of multiple footsteps.

All Segments turned around to see The Regrator, Pantalone, along with a few Fatui agents carrying many boxes and bags with them.

"I believe congratulations are in order? How is the missus and the baby?" asked Pantalone.

"Who let this guy know about her labor? I thought we were to keep this information from the other Harbingers," sneered Segment 25.

"And you certainly did, I assure you. No one other than me knows about this little joy of yours. I only happened to find out about this because the 8-year-old segment seemed quite anxious about not being let into the operating room. Seeing as you did not hesitate to let him watch the dissection of the original Zandik, my only conclusion about not allowing him in the operating room was that your wife was giving birth. That, and the fact I hadn't seen her for quite some time. Seemed easy to deduce." The Regrator stated, shrugging and rustling his fur coat.

"And what if it was a surgery like, say, an appendectomy? What use are the gifts then?" Segment 18 pointed out.

"Then I believe that you must get started on producing a progeny, no? Anyway, I've brought a few tokens of goodwill. I hope you'll accept them from a friend."

"Leave them out here. She's sleeping, and we'd rather not disturb her or the baby." Segment 65 said, pointing towards a table for the gifts to be kept. "We'll let her know of them as soon as she's able to concern herself with things other than herself and the baby. I hope you understand she's not in the condition to receive guests at the moment."

"That's alright." The Regrator signed his agents to keep the presents on the table and take their leave.

"Speaking of not disturbing the baby, though, what were all of you arguing about? Well, it's not rare to see each of you in disagreement with the other. Rather, it happens pretty often to be rare. But an opportunity that brings all of you together to have such a conflict......."

"We were discussing who the real father of the baby is," said Segment 18.

Pantalone nodded in understanding.

"I'd hardly call that a discussion. But does it truly matter? All of you are the same person, and hence, similar at your core. I'm sure the child would benefit from having multiple parental figures. I wouldn't call it a major issue."

"It is." Said all the Zandiks there in unison.

"Dear Feofan, it seems you still don't understand us all, even when you are a dear friend of ours. We all may be derived of the same Zandik, but as Dottore, we're all different," Omega explained, "Our values, our approach to research, our research, and our view of this world, they all differ due to the number of memories we carry. Determining the true father is determining whose legacy will be carried on. It isn't as simple as 'raising a child'."

".......so it has to do with your ego," Pantalone cheeked.

"How rude, I have genuine affection towards my wife and my child," said Omega.

"There he goes again," Segment 45 groaned, rolling his eyes.

"Oh my god, it's MY baby you twat," argued Segment 18.

"Well, you're certainly not raising my child with that mouth of yours," said Segment 65 calmly.

"Gents, gents," Pantalone raised his hands, trying to mitigate and calm down all the Dottores before it would escalate, lest they end up dissecting another one of them again.

"I have a solution. How about you solve this the way you know best? You're all intelligent and highly educated individuals; surely you can come to a conclusion amongst yourselves."

All the Zandiks looked at each other, as if they had never considered that idea.

"Determining the father of the baby through research. We can't do a DNA test, but....." mused Segment 45.

"Surely, only DNA can't be the only factor to determine the paternity," suggested Segment 18.

"If we can't find a way to find a match with blood, tissue, or DNA, we could always narrow down the possibility of one of us being the father by calculating the fertility factor of our sperm, the time between conception and delivery, and the general condition of the mother and the baby during pregnancy," Segment 35 muttered.

Pantalone sighed, seemingly relieved that he had managed to prevent another Zandik from being dissected today.

"I must, however, object to executing this plan right now," said Segment 25, "her postpartum period is to last for at the very least 2 months, and we have a newborn to care for as well."

"Naturally," all Segments agreed and nodded.

"Then," smirked Omega, "we shall have a time limit of 2 months to conduct our research. Whosoever manages to bring concrete proof along with the timeline and convinces everyone that the baby is theirs shall get to claim the progeny and raise them. Do we all agree?"

"Yes," said all the Segments.

"Then shall I volunteer as a referee? You know, as a neutral party, to keep things nice and fair?" asked Pantalone.

"Of course, friend. You're more than welcome to invite yourself to my research discussions. You are, after all, the one funding all of our experiments," said Omega gleefully.

Pantalone watched with interest as all of the Segments dismissed themselves, some going to rest after what he assumed was a long day of being in the delivery room, others sprinting to their assigned labs to get a head start on their research, while the rest stayed to be available for you.

'Ah,' Pantalone thought to himself, stepping outside and pulling out a cigarette, 'this whole ordeal shall be quite entertaining.'

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـ

Part 2??? (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

a/n: hello hello everynyan |˶˙ᵕ˙ )ﾉﾞ I wrote this at 3 am in a fever dream lol. Fun fact: kids of identical twins are genetic half-siblings. SO if you have an identical twin and have a baby, the baby is also half of your twin lol. It gave me the idea about what if multiple people shared the same DNA and boom that's how I wrote this fic in 2 hours when I have like 12 other drafts that have been collecting dust ehe (ᵕ—ᗜ—) I might make a few edits here and there so pls excuse any grammatical errors lol I don't know english well ≽^•⩊•^≼ anyway enjoy ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

Eight recognized the creature immediately, and you witnessed more emotion than you had seen before, with his eyes widening and mouth parting. He closed his notebook shut and tentatively reached to brush his small fingers against the drawing, and you pushed it closer to him encouragingly. 

“Have you ever seen one like this? You know, there are the round ones and-”

“The ones that are skinny with long hats.” Before you could finish your sentence, Eight interrupted you. It was like a switch had been turned on.

“And then there are some with flowers on their heads-”

“And the ones with leaves on top.” It looked like he really was an expert on Aranara facts.

“You know a lot, don’t you?” You beamed at him with interest, and suddenly the child felt a bit shy. It was rare anyone took interest in him or anything he liked, but at the same time, knowing a lot had once gotten him in trouble a long time ago.

“I didn’t expect you could… be so detailed,” Eight said, changing the topic as he brought your doodle close to his face, examining the detail as his nose almost brushed it, in true childlike wonder that he always kept hidden.

“Well, in the Akademiya, you’re usually asked to sketch out your observations like wildlife or architecture, even potential machines and inventions, so I know a bit.” He only continued gazing at the messy Aranara. “You can keep it, if you like.” Eight glanced at you, slowly nodding as he finally set the paper down. He looked a bit more relaxed now.

“Now… would you mind if I see your drawings?” You pressed the tips of your fingers together, brightening with hope. Eight already guessed you had been itching to ask him that for a while. At first, he would have rejected you, but now he felt a bit more… comfortable.

The child Segment didn’t need to answer, only opening his notebook to the first page and leaving it there for you. You clasped your hands together with a resonant ‘thank you’ as you pulled a chair to sit next to him at his desk. 

“Some Aranara have hats of different shapes and colors. Some of their hats cover their faces. Others have leaves drooping down instead of hats,” you read aloud from the journal. Each description was accompanied by a drawing. “Some also have bowties or carry around weapons. They’ve also picked up habits from humans, such as cooking or living in houses.”

For someone who didn’t seem to feel much, Eight watched you intently as you examined his notes. Maybe he subconsciously looked for approval. At the very least, you looked to be absorbed in his words, allowing him to feel a bit proud of himself.

“This is some really good research. Thank you for trusting me with it,” you said softly, hand reaching out to hold his, until you stopped midway and drew back. Perhaps it was best not to push things so quickly. “Though… I do think some of these sketches could use some color.”

“I would,” the boy nodded in agreement, “but I don’t have anything to color them with.” A spark of sadness flickered in your heart, knowing that he was chained to the mindset of a child and was not even allowed to indulge in it.

“Well, why don’t I get us some colored pencils and we can fill them in together? Adding a bit of color is sure to add some life, hmm?” 

And so a few days later, you were once again sitting near Eight with his notebook open. You had made sure to order the most high-quality coloring supplies for little Eight. Even he could not hold back his excitement, observing them up close one by one and picking out the ones he’d use for the Aranaras. In all honesty, he was more focused on coloring than you, and seemed very intent on making sure everything was accurate… But you didn’t mind. You only gave some pointers here and there and answered his questions on whether the color he chose was good or not.

“Thank you,” Eight said eventually. He couldn’t remember the last time he expressed gratitude for something, because the only thing other people ever did was hurt him.

“Anything for you, sweet one.” He didn’t respond to the pet name, and you quickly worried you had overstepped, before Eight nodded and went back to coloring.

Perhaps if he had just had someone who supported him when he was young and took interest in him, things could have turned out differently.

—

One day, you had called Eight to the kitchen, and he was immediately greeted with a delicious smell.

“Oh, you’re right on time!” You called for him and ushered him closer. He took in the mess of the kitchen before he noticed what was making his mouth water. A tray of baklava sat there, sliced and ready to be served.

“You all still like to eat, don’t you? I thought I’d make something for all of your hard work.” You were busy cleaning with your back turned. “I invited you to have the first bite. Help yourself.”

He and the other Segments would go to the Fatui’s cafeteria, and although it was nice, it didn’t really have food from Sumeru. They would never bring up their dissatisfaction, however. But now, one of his favorite treats from his homeland sat in front of him. The older Segments might have lingered around you some more, but him? The child couldn’t help but want to dig in as soon as possible.

“Thank you.” Those words were starting to become familiar to him again. Eight’s fingers pinched a piece of the dessert and took a small bite before immediately devouring the whole thing. It was probably the best thing he’d ever tasted. He glanced at you before taking another piece, and another…

“Do you like them?” You finished cleaning the area and washing the tools as you made your way to the table. “It’s been a while since I made any so-” You paused when you noticed at least a third of the tray was gone, and the child had stuffed cheeks.

Eight blinked at you. You blinked back. You were at a loss for words before you burst out laughing at the sight.

“Y-You don’t need to eat that fast, you know. I can always make some more.” You grabbed a tissue and began wiping around his mouth. You remembered Zandik being a fast eater back in the Akademiya, but you didn’t know he could gobble stuff down this quick. Eight stiffened as you tenderly wiped off the crumbs and fussed over him, and though it felt weird, it wasn’t weird enough for him to push you away.

“Hmm… I guess I’ll portion the rest for the others. We can give Eighteen the least for being a big meanie. Hehe, don’t tell the others, alright?” Your little accomplice nodded, chewing the dessert slower, not only savoring the flavor but… your kindness too.

Eight had started to open himself up to you, slowly but surely.

—

Little Eight had begun to seek you out on his own, cling to your side, to grab onto your sleeve and look up at you with expectant eyes. With that, the boy had become oddly observant of you.

“You don’t look well,” he pointed out.

“Hm? Oh. I’m… I’m fine. Just a bit tired but-” Before you could finish, Eight grasped your clothes and led you over to sit down. Of course, you couldn’t refuse him. “Really, I don’t-” Eight pressed his small hand against your forehead.

“Your face is warm, and you’re sweating a bit. You should stay here. I’ll get one of the others and the medical record.” It was almost jarring to see a kid assess the situation with such calmness. Perhaps he already had experience with this from Regrator, though. Or maybe he just had to grow up quicker than other children.

“But… you don’t need to do all this. I can take care of myself…” He should just be allowed to be a child, you wanted to say. He shouldn’t have to be in this dreary lab with experiments of this nature.

“I want to.” Eight was surprised those words left his lips as easily as they did. He had thought he had become numb to the suffering of others. He knew something was wrong with him for that. But when he looked at you, it made him upset that you were in pain.

“… You’re very sweet. Thank you.” The others had told you that the child Segment had already lost his compassion, but every day, you learned that clearly wasn’t true. 

—

The eight-year-old carried around his notebook like it was a lifeline, clutching it to his chest. If he had to put it down, he’d always make sure it was within his line of sight. You knew that his notes were important to him, but you couldn’t help but feel that there was something else to this behavior.

You found out the answer one day, when you were in Eight’s room. He was searching for his notebook in front of you when he opened his drawer to reveal a few copies of the same black notebook, before grabbing one of them.

All of the notebooks looked the same, so you had no idea he had multiple. But it didn’t strike you as unusual at first. You just assumed he had filled up that many notebooks with his ideas, and naturally, you wanted to see.

“Do you mind if I read these?” You pawed at the covers.

“You can, if you want. But you probably already read most of them.” That made you pause.

“What do you mean?”

“Those notebooks all contain the same content. I just wrote most of the important stuff in all of them.” So… he was making duplicates of the same thing? 

“But why?”

“Sometimes I misplace them. And then sometimes one of the others throws it out.”

“Throw… throw them out?” You repeated, as if you were in disbelief, but Eight seemed to be unaffected.

“It’s mostly Eighteen that does that. But I don’t want to lose my ideas, so I just write them down in multiple places just in case.” Your jaw was left slack as Eight calmly flipped through his current notebook.

“A-And what does he say?”

“That it’s childish. Or a waste of time. Things like that.” He didn’t think about it when you didn’t respond, but before he knew it, you were up and pacing around the room. “What’s wrong?”

“He can’t do that to you!” You had never spoken to him this loudly, which took him off guard, and you recognized that and took a deep breath. “That… is just wrong. I will not let him do it again. I’m- I’m going to speak to him right now!” Eight realized that this was the first time he saw you truly frustrated, and it was on his behalf, too. You almost burst out the door before he called for you.

“Wait,” the child requested. Never one to ignore Eight, you listened. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Yes, I do. If I’m here, no one is doing that to you. Why, I might as well go and throw out his property and see how he likes it!” Eight felt a bit of warmth prick his face at your outspokenness. But he really didn’t want to start a fight with Eighteen, which would probably escalate to the others, with Thirty-Five telling them not to hinder his work, Forty-Five laughing, Sixty-Five being tired, and the original Zandik… what would he do? 

“I’d prefer it if you stayed with me.” You opened your mouth and closed it again, expression softening.

“Well then… I guess me and Forty-Five will do something to get back at him in secret instead then.” You couldn’t help but give in to Eight, especially when he was learning to be so genuine with you. You sat on the edge of the bed with him and rubbed your hand on his back. However, you still looked troubled.

You thought back to the days you spent with the original Zandik back at the Akademiya. Eighteen was the only Segment you had a concrete understanding of, considering he was a replica of the one you knew so deeply when you were young. You had seen his bitterness firsthand, the desire for himself and his ideas to be acknowledged, only for it to never happen, sending him deeper into his resentment for the world. He would grip you, stubborn tears rolling down his face that he silently asked you to ignore. Perhaps if you had remained in the waking world, you could have done something, but…

“You know, um, Eight,” you began, and the Segment gave you his attention. “About Eighteen… I wouldn’t say he hates you. He just…” The child’s eyes bore into you as he watched you fumble for words. “I guess… He might be a little jealous of you.” That seemed to surprise the little boy.

“I don’t understand. There is nothing I have that he doesn’t.” Eight furrowed his brows, carefully thinking, and a part of you was flattered he was taking your opinion so seriously. “Eighteen has his own lab, office, equipment, proposals, funding, experiments… I don’t really have any of that.” Well, there had been proposals he had been drafting for Pantalone, some with your assistance, but he had yet to present any of them… Most of his duties included assisting the others with their tasks instead.

“Well, all of that is true but… Eighteen doesn’t have your mind.” Perhaps deep down, Eighteen wished he too could be a bit “childish.” Although Eight had clearly gone through something rough, he managed to retain something Eighteen could not. Could Eighteen ever find something and pursue it with pure wonder and excitement as a child could? He couldn’t. Instead, the older Segment was only trapped within the harsh reality of this world’s cruel rules and laws. But how could you explain that to a little boy?

“By which I mean, he doesn’t have the proper mind to appreciate your dear Aranara. And it’s a shame, because he wants to, but… can’t.” You tried to word it as best you could. “Of course, what he did is still wrong, but…” You trailed off, really not knowing what to say, but Eight only leaned into your embrace. He could understand that this was your attempt to make him feel better. Honestly, you had already done more than you knew, because Eighteen always seemed to be in a far better mood whenever you were around. And whether he liked it or not, the older Segment still stayed with him for a lot of things.

The original Zandik, the one who was fascinated with you more than any sort of research, had once told him that your warmth could fill an entire room. Obviously, that didn’t make sense in the literal way, so it was metaphorical. But only now did Eight understand what the older man had meant by that. Actually, now he understood why all the other Segments trailed after you, looking for attention.

You were truly a warm person.

His eyes flickered from you to the floor, and back to you again, as if he was making an important choice. Within the span of a few moments, the tiny Segment turned to fully embrace you, arms wrapping around your body, making you softly gasp. Without hesitation, you gently reciprocated and held his smaller body. Eight always did like when you patted the top of his head.

The child really liked you a lot. Maybe you could convince the others to let him take a trip to Sumeru? Or at least get one of his proposals approved? But for some reason, those things didn’t seem as much of a priority now, when compared to spending time with you.

He hoped you’d stay with him forever…

The realization alone always earned the same reactions from people unfortunate enough to learn about it.

Wide eyes.

Careful sympathy.

Concern disguised as politeness.

“Oh…”

“That must be difficult.”

“Are you…safe with him?”

As if she were some poor thing being held captive in his laboratory.

If only they knew.

If only they saw the way Dottore looked at her when nobody else was around.

The way his sharp crimson eyes softened the second she entered a room.

The way his gloved fingers immediately sought her waist, her hand, the sleeve of her shirt—anything to establish contact.

The way his voice lost that cold clinical edge and melted into something quieter.

Warmer.

Possessive, yes.

Obsessive, absolutely.

But cruel?

Never.

Not with her.

The first time she’d visited one of his laboratories, she’d expected something intimidating.

Complicated machinery.

Guards.

Security measures she wouldn’t understand.

Instead, Dottore had calmly taken her hand and pressed it against a glowing mechanism near the entrance.

The machine whirred softly.

“Biometric authorization accepted.”

She blinked. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he answered smoothly, “you may enter any of my laboratories whenever you please.”

“…Any?”

“Yes.”

“And everyone else?”

Dottore tilted his head slightly.

“If an unauthorized individual attempts entry, the defense system will eliminate them.”

Silence.

Then—“

You said that *way* too casually.”

“I fail to see the issue.”

“Zandik.”

His lips twitched beneath the edge of his mask at the sound of his real name.

That stupid, tiny reaction nearly always happened when she used it.

A terrifying Harbinger capable of unspeakable things, and his composure still cracked over hearing his name from her mouth.

“It is important that you are protected,” he said simply, as though he hadn’t just informed her his laboratory would kill intruders on sight. “You will never be denied access to anything that belongs to me.”

And that was the problem, really.

Dottore cherished her with the same frightening intensity he applied to everything else in his life.

Every emotion he possessed existed in extremes.

His ambition.

His anger.

His curiosity.

His devotion.

Especially his devotion.

It manifested constantly in little things that left her flustered beyond belief.

A passing comment about cold hands resulted in him redesigning the lining of her gloves himself.

One mention of struggling to sleep earned her an entire absurdly expensive mattress specifically engineered for “optimal spinal support and temperature regulation.”

When she admired a dress in passing, he bought it before she’d even finished the sentence.

And the praise—Archons, the praise.

It never ended.

Sometimes she genuinely suspected he enjoyed embarrassing her.

She’d stepped out wearing a new dress once, smoothing down the fabric nervously.

The silence from Dottore had been immediate.

Intense.

His gaze traveled over her so slowly she could physically feel herself heating up.

“…What?” she’d asked cautiously.

He approached without a word, resting both hands on her waist before turning her gently.

“Again.”

“What?”

“Turn again.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“And you are beautiful. Humor me.”

Her face burned, but she spun once more anyway.

Dottore watched her with undisguised fascination, like she was the most extraordinary thing he’d ever seen.

“There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

She groaned and covered her face while he leaned down, clearly delighted, pressing kisses against her knuckles despite her complaints.

Another time, she’d made the mistake of criticizing herself aloud after a particularly exhausting day.

“I look awful.”

Dottore had gone still.

Slowly, dangerously still.

“What,” he asked carefully, “did you just say?”

She immediately regretted it.

“It’s not a big deal—”

“You,” he interrupted, stepping closer, “are attempting to call my partner ugly.”

“…Maybe a little?”

His expression turned almost offended.

“Absurd.”

“Zandik—”

“No. Absolutely not.” He cupped her face firmly in both hands, forcing her to look at him. “Do you have any idea how frequently I am distracted by you?”

She stared at him.

He continued without hesitation.

“You are beautiful when you wake up. Beautiful when you are angry. Beautiful when you are speaking. Beautiful when you are silent.” His thumbs brushed warmly over her cheeks. “You are quite possibly the loveliest creature I have ever encountered, and I am growing increasingly irritated by your inability to comprehend this.”

By the end of it, she could barely form coherent thoughts.

Which, unfortunately, seemed to amuse him greatly.

“There,” Dottore murmured, smug satisfaction bleeding into his voice as he watched her turn red. “Much better.”

------

There was one major problem with dating Il Dottore.

Actually, several problems.

But the *main* one?

The segments.

At first, she’d assumed they would ignore her.

Perhaps tolerate her at best.

After all, each segment possessed different objectives, personalities, and levels of patience. They were all Dottore, technically, but fragmented into different versions of himself across various ages and mindsets.

Which meant, unfortunately for her—Every single one of them inherited the obsession.

The moment she stepped into the laboratory halls, it began.

Every.

Single.

Time.

The heavy laboratory doors hissed open, and instantly heads turned.

Conversation stopped.

Pens paused.

Mechanical limbs froze mid-adjustment.

And then—

“There she is.”

“Good afternoon, beautiful.”

“You visited later than usual today.”

“She braided her hair differently.”

“Oh, she did.”

“It suits you.”

“Very pretty.”

Heat flooded her face instantly.

“Oh no,” she muttered under her breath.

One of the younger segments leaned halfway over a worktable just to wave enthusiastically at her.

Another abandoned whatever horrifying experiment he’d been working on entirely.

The eldest among them merely looked up from his notes, eyes narrowing thoughtfully before speaking in that calm, intelligent voice that somehow made everything worse.

“You appear fatigued. Did you sleep poorly again?”

“She definitely slept poorly,” another chimed in immediately. “Look at her eyes.”

“She is still adorable.”

“Agreed.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Would you all stop—”

But they never did.

That was the problem.

Dottore’s mind, regardless of age or fragmentation, apparently reached the collective conclusion that she was the most fascinating creature alive.

Which meant traversing the laboratory hallways felt less like walking and more like enduring an onslaught of affection from dangerously intelligent men who all shared one consciousness.

“You should stay longer today.”

“You smell nice.”

“That color is pleasing on you.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Your heartbeat increased the second we noticed you.”

“Oh, don’t tell her that. You’re embarrassing her.”

“I believe she’s already embarrassed.”

She kept her head down and walked faster.

Which only made them more entertained.

“There she goes again.”

“She’s hiding her face.”

“Her ears turned red first.”

“Cute.”

“Extremely.”

By the time she finally reached the main laboratory, she was fully flustered beyond recovery.

Dottore himself barely had time to look up before she marched directly toward him and buried her burning face into his chest.

Silence.

Then his hand settled automatically against the back of her head.

“…What did they say this time?” he asked, sounding entirely too unsurprised.

She groaned.

“That does not answer the question.”

“They’re horrible.”

A pause.

“They are technically me.”

“You know what I mean.”

She could feel the faint vibration of amusement in his chest.

Traitor.

“They seem fond of you,” he said smoothly.

“‘Fond’ is not the word I’d use.”

Dottore hummed thoughtfully while stroking a hand slowly through her hair.

“They *are* behaving more tolerably than usual today.”

Her head snapped upward in disbelief.

“More tolerably?!”

“Yes.”

“Zandik, one of them analyzed my heartbeat!”

“That narrows it down very little.”

“Another one told me I smelled nice!”

“That was likely an observational statement rather than flirtation.”

She stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, slowly—The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“You’re enjoying this.” She huffed.

“A little.”

“Unbelievable.”

Truthfully, though?

She suspected he liked seeing her flustered because he caused it just as often himself.

Especially whenever he made things for her.

Dottore approached care with terrifying thoroughness.

Nothing involving her was ever rushed.

A passing complaint about restless sleep had resulted in nearly three straight weeks of research.

Not because he wanted to sedate her.

Quite the opposite.

He refused to make anything habit-forming or harmful.

“It would be irresponsible,” he’d said flatly when she suggested ordinary sleep medication. “Most solutions merely force unconsciousness rather than improving sleep quality itself. Inefficient.”

So naturally, he made his own.

When she arrived at the lab that evening, he was already waiting near his desk holding a small glass vial filled with pale lavender liquid.

“I have completed it,” he announced.

She immediately reached for it.

Dottore lifted it slightly out of reach.

“Before you drink unidentified substances, perhaps allow me to explain what they are.”

“You wouldn’t poison me.”

“Correct. But your confidence remains concerning.”

She held out her hand expectantly instead.

Without missing a beat, Dottore glanced around the laboratory.

Then, with complete seriousness, opened a drawer and retrieved a glass straw.

He handed it over like this was a perfectly normal interaction.

Which, unfortunately, for them?

It was.

Satisfied, she took the vial back and waited patiently while he adjusted his gloves and picked up a notebook.

“It should encourage natural sleep onset by calming excessive neural activity,” he explained, already slipping into lecture mode. “Non-addictive. Mild herbal base. No dependency formation during trials.”

She took a sip through the straw.

“…Sour.”

Dottore stopped speaking immediately.

“Sour?”

“Mhm.”

He picked up his pen instantly.

“Noted.”

“It’s fine.”

“You dislike sour flavors.”

“I said it’s fine.”

“The formulation can be improved.”

“Zandik.”

He was already writing.

“Reduced acidity. Possible floral sweetener addition—”

She laughed softly, reaching over to push the notebook down slightly.

“You do not have to optimize every single thing for me.”

Dottore looked genuinely confused by that statement.

“Why would I not?”

“Because normal people don’t completely redesign medicine over flavor.”

“I am not normal people.”

“…Fair point.”

He looked oddly pleased by her concession.

Then his gaze flicked toward the vial still in her hands.

“Continue drinking it.”

“Yes, doctor.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“You are mocking me.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Hm.”

Despite the dry response, he stepped closer anyway, one hand settling against her waist while he watched carefully for any sign of discomfort.

Not clinical.

Not detached.

Just attentive.

Careful.Like every tiny reaction she had mattered.

-----

You've been so kind and generous, understanding in a way that wasn't blind, but compassionate and iron-clad. As creepy as it was, considering his age, Dottore truly wondered if you were the one.

That said, he was actually looking forward to his birthday, finally. For the past few years, you brought him a small treat and a small gift to celebrate. You've been with him in a way that truly mattered for quite some time now, and he acknowledges it.

You were a smart person, a scholar like him, someone who was wildly accepted and most people saw bright things in your future, him included.

And yet, you stayed with him.

It was later than you would have liked, but Zandik had been having some trouble enjoying things. He wasn't entertainable like his segments. Plus, his palette was discerning. You had submitted some paperwork on his behalf, completed a small collection, picked up some uniforms for the new recruits, and polished up some mechanical pieces for complex machinary before you were even able to go out shopping.

On your hip were the items you settled on. When choosing gifts, you chose things that would give someone a peaceful moments. Something nice to eat, nice to see, nice to hear, and nice to do. It just made sense to you.

A couple slices of homemade baklava, the smoothest custom pen money could buy, a few of your personal essays for him to criticize, and finally a music sheet of some pieces you edited to flow more to Zandik’s taste. He enjoyed instruments, so you learned a couple to appease him. Performing while he does his work soothes him, your notice.

Yet, what you say was not that elderly friend of yours when walking in the door…

Zandik was gutted on a table, his entrails to his left, jars of his blood to the right.

Now, Zandik didn't come to love you because you were just sooo loving you'd throw yourself down and sob. You cried, yes, but you weren't hysterical.

Still…

With a soft, humane tone you asked, what had done him in? What was the final blow?

The segments… shrugged! He fell, they said, and it just seemed an opportune time to see inside their selves. Literally and metaphorically. No point in wasting effort to save a man that would be dead in the coming years anyway.

Experience led them to believe you'd just leave, what's dead is dead, but instead you sat done, let your bag fall the floor.

Mournful, your hands covered your face as your tears began to flow. You thought you could control your tears, but than your eyes flickered to your gifts, sticking out the top of your luggage…

Zandik must have been waiting for you, too… he once said he'd actually been marking his birthday on his calendar now because he knew you'd be there with him…

And you weren't there.

He died on his birthday, having no idea someone cared for him. Like his segments often pointed out, they all were under the impression you stayed out of obligation, a pretty paid caretaker. In actuality, your pay was pretty much just given right back. You had lodgings, the cafeteria provided food. All the money you got went to help Zandik.

In confidence, you could say you loved Zandik. He was someone you respected and felt honored to be his partner in academics when he allowed. You weren't nearly as intelligent, but his chastisement was kept at a low just for you. His own little way of being kind.

As for the segments… they were at a loss. Someone like you… crying for them…? But why? The old man never gave you anything to warrant this.

Tears were shed for some several minutes, and you were slowly getting annoyed, where they all just staring at you?? You hadn't hear them move or speak at all.

Lifting your tear stained face revealed you were indeed just being gawked at. They had yet to proceed with their dissection.

And Archons… they all wore Zandik’s face… you hated it. You expressed sometime ago that, while the segments had research potential, giving them autonomy in this manner was grotesque. They'd better serve as code in a computer.

This opinion still stands.

Yet, it's horribly different. These segments… they're all you have of Zandik now. His memories and likes and dislikes are packed into each and everyone of these segments. As it stands, they're more Zandik than Zandik is…

A nightmare, that's what you called it. You'd begun pouring more tears and saying, this is a nightmare, in your grief.

While you were regretting ever letting the segments stay a thing, the segments had much different ideas going on.

Some ideas started slow… one by one, like crows coming to attention, they had come to the same conclusion.

You are such a sweet a loyal thing, aren't you? Always doing right by Zandik, treating him fairly in spite of their nature.

Older segments thought, with Zandik dead, perhaps you'd like someone older and wiser, wouldn't you? Of course you can come under his wing, he'd never turn the likes of you down.

Young adults were looking at how Zandik dies with no family, perhaps you'd like to be apart of his? This age is one more inclined towards familiar thougt , after all. Legacy, family unit images, pumping fertile wombs full of his children.

As for the young one, their ideas were far less perverse. They watched an old version of them die, and a youthful woman go full widow about it. At this point, you were somewhere between a mother figure and a divine figure.

However, their thoughts were interrupted by Pantalone. Obviously, he had his own ideas about the situation, but he was more type to keep his opinions to himself. In any case, the assistant Zandik loved was distraught in the room and clearly no segment was prepared or willing to help.

All fake smiles and sympathy, Pantalone coaxed you out of the room. The segments watched and said nothing, but they all wished you'd stay. Perhaps you'd cry more the incisions they made into the originals body. They wondered how ruined they could get that face, and simply by harming themselves! It was adorable!

Yet, you left, and when Pantalone returned he had relayed your wishes.

Employment stops now. You dont need the last check, no use in it anymore. Any pieces of Zandik left unused, cremate and kindly give them to you. Take the gifts, they're useless now.

Laughable, really. You wanted an intimate keepsake like that? Just what had that old man done to get you so hooked? As for the gifts, you really knew him well.

No scraps would be wasted, though, they knew. However, you would be non-the-wiser should they give you a random vial of ash. Plus, they'd get to see you get sentimental over it.

You were long gone, but what you didn't know was that the segments new fixation was you.

Even after his death, you’ll be seeing Zandik’s face an awful lot from now on.