#harbinger x reader

A place filled with creation and destruction: Dottore’s study. 

You stand in the doorframe of the entrance when your eyes fall upon the table in the middle of the room. 

If it were any other day, you’d be here to fetch books, notes, miscellaneous items, and occasionally Dottore himself. However, today you’re the one being fetched. After an unusually eventless morning, he had tugged you with him, bringing you to where you’re standing now. 

Endless thoughts spiral through your mind as your eyes land on the table he uses as a desk, now cleared and decorated with flowers and candlelight. 

Compared to what you’re used to, the room seems to have been organised—a state in which you’ve never seen it before. A hint of his usual insanity and disarray remains, but for the first time since you’ve started your job as his assistant, you walk through the room with ease. 

Your eyes move over the remainder of the space. 

Placed against all walls, bookshelves line up against the ceiling. Every area is filled to its maximum capacity. Books and miscellaneous items lie pushed against any crevice of the ledge—the latter a residual from past experiments, stored out of sight but preserved all the same. Then, below at your feet, shoved towards the sides of the floor, it continues. Stacked up against each other and reaching to above your knees, books, books, and more books. 

The space might be crowded, but every single item in this room exists with a purpose. That much is evident from the way Dottore treats this space. ‘Organised’, only in a sense you can describe it.

And while any sane person finds his study anything but romantic, Dottore’s efforts seep through when you look at what he’s done. 

Countless books, ink-stained parchments, and equipment have been replaced by lit candles and a single vase filled with flowers. Amidst them, you recognise heliotropes, red salvias, magenta and red zinnias, violets, and purple hyacinths. The reds and purples give a welcoming pop of colour to the otherwise dark colour scheme within the room. They, similar to the fire of the candles, bring a sense of warmth that his pale blues and whites lack.

A steady hand rests on your lower back, thumb circling over the clothes that separate your skin from Dottore’s. While he had given you a moment to appreciate the room, he had now dragged out a chair for you to sit on at one end of the table. Furthermore, you notice a single white rose lying in front of you. 

When Dottore first brought you to his study, you expected him to need your help. You can recall several dozen times when he had grown frustrated trying to find a specific book or item lost in the vast sea of knowledge. Usually, you were the one who ended up in this room, spending hours searching for the correct thing. Always something to do with an experiment—or, on rare occasions, requiring your opinion on a situation or problem, while he sat back, relaxed, as you scoured the shelves.

You take the white rose that lies in front of ‘your’ seat.

The green stem has been pared. Any thorns that would’ve punished you for holding it were gone. Your fingers graze over the scars left behind, feeling the careful cuts to be precise and surgical, keeping the flower’s original beauty intact while ridding the imperfections Dottore saw. 

For the words he lacked, he made up with actions.

But… why white? Is there a meaning behind the colour and cut thorns?

You lift the flower in front of you and twirl it around. 

Against the candlelight, it has a warm outline. You resist a smile, knowing he had stolen the flower from his business partner, the ninth Harbinger’s garden, made and gifted specifically for the Tsaritsa. Quite a prize for you, even if it would wither in days now that it’s been separated from its kin. 

Your thoughts and observations are cut short when you feel warm air tickling your neck, the sensation following to your cheek. It seems he has noticed your curiosity and has sneaked up behind you. He curls his body against yours so your cheeks are side by side, less than a centimetre apart, his sight aligned with yours. A shared perspective.

He reaches forward to cage you between his body, the chair, and the table, moving his hand over yours—taking the rose through your hand in his.

“For you, my heart.” His voice is driven with purpose and lacks any visible affection, yet the gentle hold of his hand betrays him. 

Part of you wishes he weren’t as close, hoping you could peek at the expression on his face, even if he still wears his mask. 

A smile reaches your face. “Thank you.”

“Keep that thought. I wouldn’t want you to waste your breath when I’ve barely shown you what’s planned for tonight.” 

“Should I be scared?” You joke, turning your face to Dottore—just slightly.

With much anguish, you feel his half-embrace fall as he stands up. “Nonsense. You’re the star of tonight’s act. I have assured no one but I can bother you, so feel free to relax.”

A teasing peril seeps through his words, keeping you on his toes like he tends to do. And as much as you are curious, you know Dottore won’t spoil his plans. So, you watch him leave the room and return with two plates in his hands. One, he places in front of you; the other, across from you, at the other end of the table.

Before sitting, he removes his mask and puts the vase with flowers to the side, assuring nothing will be between you and him. 

“Go ahead,” he gestures to the food in front of you. Then, commands; “Eat.”

As you’ve worked with Dottore for many years, you know better than to delay any of his requests. While his actions seem patient and giving, this is, and will never be, in his nature. Any challenges will only rile him up and guarantee your downfall, much to his pleasure, probably. 

With the fork and knife, you take your first bite.

The events leading up to now are uneventful by normal societal standards, but you know he’s anything but conventional, and you’re certain he’s trying to lead up to something. You comfort yourself, knowing that whatever experiment you’re in, he will never harm you beyond what he can fix.

To your surprise, you enjoy the taste and return for another bite. 

“Are you enjoying your dinner, my heart?” 

Dottore’s voice echoes from one side of the table to the other. Two untamable strands fall next to his jawline. The rest of his pale blue hair is swept behind, falling into a mullet, with its ends curling and spiking upwards. The sleeves of his dark blue blouse are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his scarred forearms. His mask lies next to his dinner plate; face open, vulnerable.

Despite having seen his face before, the current moment brings an unusual atmosphere of intimacy. For once, Dottore is straightforward and direct without reserve or secretiveness. 

“I can’t argue with good food.” A soft chuckle escapes your lips. God knows that Dottore rarely meddles with making a full meal, lest he prepare one himself. You won’t pass up the opportunity to indulge in what’s been served.

With your fork, you stab and take another bite.

Your plate is an exact copy of what Dottore is eating. A rare steak; a side of mashed potatoes, topped with rosemary and a pinch of salt; and a side of vegetables, common to Snezhnaya and filled with nutrients and flavour. You’re certain he, or one of his segments, made it. Despite the classy choice of today’s dinner, his preference is made known through the Sumerian spices.

“It’s hardly worth your praise.” Dottore sits back comfortably in his chair. “Though I do enjoy the look of pure satisfaction on your face. Perhaps I should be required to cook for you more often.”

You laugh, “I’m afraid it’ll make me spoiled. Rarity is not a negative thing. It makes the scarce moments of true importance hold their recognition value.”

“Perhaps.” He shifts his body weight as he flaunts his hand in the air. “Though this is true, most people seem to resent this truth. No matter the efforts done; to some it may never outshine what they feel has been ‘not done’.”

“Why do you think this is?”

“Humans tend to cling onto the negative more than the positive as an act of survival and anticipation, categorising the world by what it has done wrong and reforming their perspectives accordingly. Hope, as strong as it is, is also fickle. Without a solid form of ‘light’, people will get lost in the ‘dark’. If someone lies to you, as a direct consequence, you become wary of any other person doing the same, even if no one before had done you that injustice. Perhaps it is simply human nature.”

You chew the spiced vegetables in your mouth as you digest his words. 

He segues, “Have you read about the Hedgehog’s Dilemma? It's an essay by a philosopher that illustrates the challenges of human intimacy. Quite an interesting read, if I do say so myself.”

You chuckle. “Hedgehogs have piqued your curiosity? Should I worry about the labs being overrun with those spiky rats?”

A smile forms on his lips. “Not at all. I simply found the metaphor to be an interesting one. Fun fact, in the original parable, they’re porcupines—for they have even sharper spikes than hedgehogs. Here, I’ll repeat his words to you. Perhaps you can share the sentiment with me once I finish.”

Dottore leans in closer from across the table. It seems as if he’s excited to share it—. 

He clears his throat, hands moving with his words as he starts to talk.

“On a cold winter’s day, porcupines huddle together to find warmth, but as they prick one another with their quills, they are obliged to disperse. However, the cold will drive them back together, when just the same thing happens.”

The lock of pale blue hair falls onto his cheek when Dottore tilts his head.

“At last, after many turns of huddling and dispersing, they discovered that they are best off by remaining at a little distance from one another. This is shown in the same way that society drives human porcupines together, only to be mutually repelled by the many prickly and sharp qualities one can have. Both social rules and human nature keep us from truly closing in on others. In the end, with this arrangement, the mutual need for warmth is only very moderately satisfied; but then people do not get pricked.”

Your hands rest on each side of the plate. “That seems lonely.”

“The dilemma may encourage self-imposed isolation, but the closer we become, the more deeply we may hurt each other.”

“But what if we don’t?” 

“Don’t harm others?” He interprets.

No,” you specify; “what if the porcupine doesn’t get any warmth? Isn’t it better to have a few scratches and wounds—bleeding but surviving, instead of being guaranteed to freeze to death?”

He is silent.

“The dilemma brings such a melancholic and pessimistic philosophy. Is it a guarantee that we can’t achieve human intimacy without getting hurt? What if a porcupine were to meet a turtle who isn’t hurt by its quills and can share its heat without fear or harm?”

Dottore puts his elbows on the table, one at either side of his unfinished plate, careful to avoid hovering above his food. You want to believe that his smile and gaze are as unnerving to you as it is to others, but you find a strange comfort in his attention. 

He muses to you. “And which are you supposed to be, the porcupine or the turtle?” 

He tilts his head, curious for your answer. 

“Does it matter? Either way, I won’t subject myself to anticipatory fear. In any scenario, it is better to seek what you need in an unpleasant situation instead of evading it and dying regardless.”

“I see.”

You pick up your fork and knife, aiming your attention back on the food in front of you. “One would think you’re testing my personal philosophy with these questions. Though I suppose that might’ve been your true purpose for inviting me tonight.”

A chuckle escapes his lips as he falls back into his chair, his composure slacking and relaxed. “Nonsense. This is a treat. Enjoy it as such.”

“Oh? You say it as if this is a normal occasion.”

He smiles. 

“Please,” You raise your eyebrow, holding in a scoff. “You rarely praise anyone. Let aside treat them to dinner in your… study.” 

“You’re not ‘anyone’.” 

Dottore’s voice lingers on the last word. He spats it out as if with disgust. 

His eyes shine with an emotion you can’t quite place. 

He clarifies;

“You’re my assistant.”

In your mind, you shuffle the meaning behind those words. It is a fact, you are his assistant, but there should be a reason for it being said the way he did. You are not simply ‘anyone’; yet also no more than what you are. 

You are you. That is part of why you’re sitting here tonight. The intention of his words lie in the unknown, waiting to be uncovered. Though, possibly too comfortable to want to be uncovered. A porcupine, maybe. 

You don’t support the gossip that surrounds the Harbinger sitting in front of you. You know he is far from a saint, realising he is a monster to many—but never to you. 

Perhaps that's the reason why he invited you. 

You break the silence.

“Thank you for inviting me, Dottore.”

His food remains untouched. “It is far too early to give any conclusions. Don’t thank me yet. The night is still young, and anything might happen.”

For a second, you’re blessed with the sight of a gentle smile in his eyes. 

For a moment, Dottore seems to be at peace; even more now than when he successfully finishes an experiment he holds dear. When he looks at you like this, there is no doubt in your mind. Some part of him, although it might sometimes be obscured with darker feelings, is capable of peace. 

But like the sun in Snezhnaya, it is bound to hide as soon as it reveals itself, and a cloud falls upon his mind once more. 

He lays down the knife and fork next to his plate. His expression is one of resolve.

“As my precious assistant, you know I require your ultimate loyalty. For you to never betray me, and always share your thoughts—blindly and without suppression.”

He fiddles with the utensils, moving them through his fingers before placing them down to their original state. 

“On these terms, will you promise me something?”

Taken aback, your eyebrows furrow. “...That depends.”

In your mind, you know his promise will lead to a request, which will lead to an inevitable pact hidden by the word ‘promise’. Promises are meant to last. You know he values all possibilities. If you wanted to, you could refuse him—though much to his disappointment.

What will he suggest?

Silence creeps around the room and takes the light atmosphere from before, occupying its space instead. Hesitantly, you gulp down whatever is left in your mouth. While you continue to hold your fork and knife in your hands, you let them relax on the sides of your plate. 

After nothing from him, you continue, “Sure.”

‎ 

‎ 

‘Could you love me?’  he asks.

In the silence, you find company in the absence of an answer.

Love him?

Love. 

Love?

Love is a topic you’re eager to avoid. Dottore has made it clear that he, too, is not the man to utter those specific three words you run from, yet he asks this question with more ease than you ever could be comfortable with. 

Your relationship with the 2nd Harbinger is built on respect and actions. Soft moments between you and him are as fleeting as the spring blossom, but you’re a fool to deny yourself the moments that have led up to this question. Perhaps under normal circumstances, you’d have a clear answer. But he is the 2nd Harbinger, and more importantly, you are you. 

Years with you by his side have made him used to your presence. Much so that he isn’t seen without you—not alone across Teyvat nor in the privacy of his study. He’s grown to value your opinions, used to you completing his actions and his train of thought, needy to the way you complement him—complete him. 

He knows you. 

If this moment hadn't arrived, would you have thought about the possibility of you loving him?

No. 

You are too much a coward.

“Are you testing me?” You inspect his ruby gaze, narrowing your eyes as you do. 

Love… 

Could you… 

Do you…?

You look at his face, realising that it isn’t a test. 

“You appear surprised.” He says, amused.

“Can you blame me?” 

There is no malice or mocking in your voice. 

He recognises your surprise.

“You have believed me to be unmoving?”

You almost believe you hear insult in his words. “To your subjects, perhaps. Logically driven, yes, but always with purpose. Unmoving? Not when I've seen you passionate about your goals and achievements. Hide it all you want, at this moment you remain human.”

“Then you must see the importance of my question.”

He shifts his body weight from one side to the other. Behind his eyes, you imagine cogwheels turning as he composes another sentence easier for you to digest. 

"Accepting oneself is often difficult. We tend to see reflections of ourselves in others, especially when it comes to flaws. Often, the imperfections we notice first are those we recognise in ourselves. On the other hand, the same counts for things we value. You learn a lot about somebody through their daily choices and basic behaviour."

You think about it and conclude the truth in his words. It is hard to find a flaw without you recognising it as such. If you don't have the insecurity, you’ll have a harder time noticing somebody else's. The same counts for values. Some people wouldn’t find kindness in Dottore’s actions today. But you do. It is subjective.

“Do you not believe in love?” Dottore asks.

Again, you feel as if he's leading you into a trap. But perhaps that is your answer.

You purse your lips and then try to formulate an answer as close to your ‘truth’.

“It's not that I don't believe in ‘love’. Perhaps my love is different from everyone else's subjective ‘love’.”

One corner of his mouth lifts up. “That is interesting. Then, what requirements hold your ‘love’?”

“You mean its conditions?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “All love is conditional. If gods are picky to choose who may be worthy of their benevolence, why would it be evil for humans to strive for what even gods cannot give?”

“Hm.” You shift your eyes away from him and to the side. Your hand subconsciously reaches your face. “I guess my condition would be ‘understanding’? Love in a way that only one person may recognise you as such. To be seen not only from an outside perspective, but also to be observed within.”

“An emotional worth,” Dottore concludes.

You shake your head. “Not exclusively. It is seldom that the most valuable things come without hard work. Only the person who shares my heartbeat shall know what my ‘love’ means.”

Dottore hums. “I suppose that answer is decent enough.”

The remaining food on your plates has gone cold. Neither of you touches it. 

After a while, you search his gaze again. 

“I think I could.” 

“In your way?” He asks, and you know he understands what you meant.

You don’t answer.

You suppose that you wouldn't get an answer out of him if you asked about his definition of love. Not that you are particularly interested in hearing his own specific conditions. You are certain they are impossible to be met. Even if you cannot help but gravitate towards him with curiosity. 

If you've concluded anything from your time of working under him, it’s that his thoughts are unconventional. Perhaps if he were to answer, you'd have more insight to his character, but that would require you to cross another boundary, and you had already walked over yours enough tonight. 

Unlike Dottore, you do reach for your utensils. The food has long lost its original charm when you put a bite into your mouth, and a weird aftertaste lingers once you gulp it down, but it's far from stale or rotten. 

You know it'd be a while before you get a chance to eat a balanced meal like this with the workload balanced between your own and Dottore’s experiments, so you devour it without another thought. 

‎‎ 

‎‎ The second act of the evening starts with another heart-to-heart. 

It is not unknown that the Doctor favours you to an extent. Amongst his other assistants, there is none he asks for but you. 

Unbeknownst to you, in your existence, he had found a sense of kinship. 

“Dottore?”

The pale blue-haired male comes out of the door a few beats after you call out to him. His pointed mask rests on his face. The intimacy and amity from before are now closed off by a physical border—the one between your eyes and his. 

You cross your arms, inquiring about his temporary departure in an oblique way, feeling childish if you’d otherwise ask him directly. “One would think you had started and finished an entire experiment with the time you were gone.” 

Dottore adjusts his mask so it rests more comfortably. “It is only a matter of business, unimportant to our current plans. Necessary, nonetheless.”

“As always.” 

He chuckles, “Relatable, I assume?”

“Given I work for you…” You shrug. “I wouldn't say I'm unfamiliar with a constant flow of business. Though I’d like to say I prefer it over a lax life. It gives me satisfaction in ways nothing else can.”

Dottore tilts his head to the side. He takes a moment and then concludes, “A sense of purpose by physical results in the form of achievements.”

It is less a question than a statement, nor was it something you'd think he'd find new in you. Dottore saying it out loud felt like he was trying to get a reaction out of you rather than him stating his thoughts. Though—you don’t sense malicious intent in his words.

“Are you prepared for our final stop for the night?” Dottore says without much of a segue.

You nod. “I was prepared for something of the kind. It is rare for you to organise something extravagant and selfless without concrete reasoning. I assume this is when the night truly begins?”

“You’re not incorrect.” Dottore cranes his head. “However, what if my reasoning had been to spend time with you? Would that not have justified my actions?” 

“It’d be an unlikely outcome to that wish. I believe you would've put me to work by your side instead of inviting me to a seat at a dinner table if your only purpose was to see me.” 

You glance at him. 

“Though I am entertained to see your efforts at trying to make me more agreeable for whatever you have planned. If someone told me this morning I'd be dining with you, I'd laugh.”

An agreeable hum escapes his lips. “Is it unlikely for me to make food?”

“Maybe? It is unconvincing for you to spend so much time on something you'd otherwise find a shortcut in. So I guess it was surprising to me in that sense.”

A vial of sustenance with precisely measured nutrients, vitamins, and minerals was more his style. In the height of his focus, you'd often see him in the most extreme states, dragging his barely but still human body to the limit of what it could handle. 

The only enemy of the Doctor could ever be time. 

“Shall we?” 

Dottore opens his arm to the hallway and gestures forward. 

You cannot point it out, but he seems to have grown simultaneously more tense yet less composed. The unique charm he usually has is replaced by something that mimics it. Perhaps the business he had attended was a frustration to his brain. You don’t risk asking him about it. 

Instead, you find something different to focus on.

“Can I ask something?” 

Dottore’s pace remains even and unchanged as he proceeds through the empty hallways of the palace, heading towards the lab to fill the last remaining hours of the day. 

You take the silence as a yes. 

“Why do you hire assistants when you have segments of yourself?”

Knowing he accepts any and all your questions, mainly because he takes it as a study of your character, you expect him to answer immediately—but he hesitates. 

If you hadn't been walking in pace with him, you wouldn't have noticed the slight delay. It's but a fraction of a second, yet enough to unsync him from yourself. Instinctively, your body holds back the same amount until your footsteps fall into a choir. 

You worry if the question was something you should've avoided. 

“There are certain things…” His red eyes stare ahead, lips pressing into a tight line. “I suppose ‘segments’ have inherited a similar way of behaviour, as they are a fragment of a certain time and circumstance. As much knowledge as they hold, segments are but a slice of the same life. I'd like to believe another, perhaps a different set of eyes, could give a perspective with new knowledge.”

He glances at you.

“That, and assistants are quite helpful when it comes to unwanted tasks. It saves time where it could be spent more… proficiently.”

You cannot help but smile at his quip. You don’t feel attacked, knowing this is true without harm.

“How did your question come into existence?” he asks. 

Dottore’s hands, which are usually confidently at his sides or back, fiddle with his sleeves, as if the layers of fabric were particularly annoying today. Then they remember their home on his lower back.

“I suppose I was curious. You never let me learn about your segments. Much about you, including them, remains a mystery. Even when I spend all my time working for and with you, I know close to nothing.”

He seems particularly alert to your current thoughts. “For what reason did the segments catch your attention?”

“Are you kidding me?” You resist a scoff. “Anyone who isn’t at least slightly curious about the creation of clones to that degree must be stupid or arrogant. The sheer possibilities your segments have opened in the name of science and evolution surpass me, though I don’t doubt the applicable pool of organisms is smaller than I wish for.”

You think about how different Dottore is to anyone else. He has far surpassed human standards. Even if you wanted a clone and followed his exact methods, there is a high probability that the outcome will be different. Likely, unsuccessful.

Still, you wonder what conditions the cloning would have.

Dottore seems unwilling to share his secrets. “Curiosity will be the death of you.” 

“It hasn’t killed you yet.” 

His eyes sneak towards you, catching a glimpse of your expression as he walks. “Oh? It is quite a statement to compare yourself to someone like me.”

“Life favours the bold.” You turn to him as you walk, catching his hidden gaze behind the metal mask. “Do you?”

He huffs, looking in front of him again. “If you insist, you’re exactly the person I need for my latest project. It is the most personal work I have ever done. Far beyond the usual scope of work I include assistants in. In fact, my previous business involves it.” 

As he walks, his shoulders move up in a light shrug. 

“Perhaps it might even answer your question if you pay attention.”

This piques your curiosity indeed. 

From the countless documents you've read and worked on, tests you've performed and practised in, and the amount of experiments you've been included in—‘most personal’ can range from one of his interests to something you probably couldn't comprehend. 

Your heart races when your thoughts come to the creation of his segments. This is likely because it has always been your desire to see the making of. Perhaps your close bond with Dottore comes from the mutual desire to dissect each other until both parties know every atom of their existence. Not to mention the fact they were previously the star of the topic. 

Surely, if it's personal, it would include Dottore himself more than it would his interests, right? While the creation of dreams is personal in regards to his interests, you doubt it'd lead to that experiment today. Something else… what could it be? 

Death of the cat? You feel quite alive right now. 

“Is your silence confirmation that you are in over your head after all?” Dottore pulls you out of your speculations. He taunts you. “You can still back out if you are frightened.”

“No. I mean, yes. I’ll help you.” —Though you don’t doubt this was the route you were on since the beginning of the night. 

Somehow, he is always miles ahead of everyone. You cannot help but try to catch up to him in this cat-and-mouse game. Or maybe you don't. Perhaps you are more content with your position than you're willing to admit. 

When he turns around at a familiar corner, you are forced to skip a few steps. 

Through your somewhat scattered movements from excitement, you look up at him. 

“What's the experiment? Does it include one of your segments?”

He comes to a halt and turns to you. He takes a beat, watching your eyebrows furrow together and your eyes search for reason in this delay. 

The sharp edge of the mask points directly at you.

“And ruin the surprise? Where would be the fun in that?”  

You almost cross your arms, awkwardly bringing them to your chest before letting them fall to your hips instead. 

“What is going through your mind?” he asks. 

Standing still in the quiet corridors, you gaze away from him. For some reason, Dottore seems different today. 

While he might come across as unexpected, he is still susceptible to habit. ’Only human’;  even if you are wary of classifying him as such.

He readjusts his mask awkwardly. 

“Does it matter? I’m certain you can speculate my thoughts well enough without needing an answer.”

“You want to join my experiment, correct?” He tilts his head, following your gaze before returning to face you. “In that case, your thoughts are pivotal.”

How casual of him to manipulate an answer out of you like that. 

You turn to him. “Well, I know for a fact you are only giving me the illusion of choice tonight. No matter how, I would’ve ended up in your experiment one way or another. I even mentioned this hours ago.”

No matter how nicely he packaged it, you knew he wasn't spending time with you without a motive. You count the dinner as a prelude. 

“Aside from that,” you continue, “I wonder what part of the project will be personal to you. After all, there are many sides to an experiment. Will it be personal in a sense where you are included or is it something directly connected to you? Are you valuing the process or is it the outcome you're after? There is a lot to think about.” 

He seems to think for a moment and then agrees. 

“If you are participating,” he says, “I suppose we shouldn’t waste time.” 

You watch him readjust the collar of his blouse, which, you only now notice, lacks the cravat he had been wearing earlier. His fingers move to tug on it and then retract as if they had changed their mind. 

You let out a single vowel, about to point it out, but he turns to the direction of the lab, intersecting your words before they can form.

“Follow me. By now, all preparations have finished.” 

He turns his head over his shoulder, letting you see the pointed edge of his mask. 

“The final act may begin.” 

The smile forming beneath his mask sends the feeling of precariousness crawling up your spine. It is a picture of a predator, even when he has never put you in harm’s way. 

You don't bother asking for more information this time. If you were getting anything out of him it would've already happened. Dottore, who kept the suspense by evading your questions, was clear that he wanted your thoughts raw and unprepared. 

For a second you move to take your place by his side. When he continues to look down at you, you take initiative with the first step towards his lab. 

But a moment later, he falls into your stride with comfort. 

Like a shadow, matching your movement to his. 

He eventually picks up the pace, taking the route to another hallway right before you reach the normal entrance, moving himself in front of you and changing the dynamic. 

In front of heavy steel doors he scans his face with the mask, gaining access and opening the doors with a loud click. 

You cannot say you are entirely unfamiliar with this part of his lab. There are many rooms yet to be opened, but occasionally you have been allowed to follow him inside exactly like today.

Because the labs are isolated from assistants and other personnel, it is quiet. The loud clang of the door closing behind you echoes from one wall to the other, finding no objects to absorb the sound. After that, two pairs of footsteps and the breathing of the lab is all that remains.

For a moment you wonder who cleans this space. After experiments, clean ups are important. You gather any material that can be reused, store and gather data or samples for future use, and then clear the space for a new experiment. 

Perhaps this mindset had set Dottore, or more likely one of his segments—who could possibly be watching you without your knowledge right now, up to the task of cleaning. Either way, this act of privacy made whatever went on behind the doors even more secretive and important.

‎ 

After a quite short stroll, you come to a natural halt. 

“Is this it?” You ask, standing in front of a door.

By a simple process with your thoughts, you've eliminated most options of its occupation. You'll likely be walking into a surgical chamber soon. 

It's unlikely you're wrong since the doors to these rooms tend to have a small window. While this one is blacked off with paint, it is similar to the surgical rooms back in the main labs. 

You are certain. 

Dottore gestures his hand;

“After you.”

You grab the iron handle and drag the heavy door open. The sound of conversation is immediately cut short.

“...?”

You take a step inside, finding the source of illumination to come from a buzzing and blindingly white LED hanging above. It gives you a temporary headache until your eyes become adjusted.

In the room, you find cleaning supplies and a strong infiltrating scent of bleach. It seems recently touched.

Then, with your second observation, you see supplies ranging from machines to latex gloves, lab coats and surgical knives lie scattered on an iron table in the middle of the left part of the room. 

You look over your shoulder. 

Dottore stands with patience, eyes focused on you. 

Taking it as reassurance, you take a few more steps inside, letting him catch the door as you let it go.

“Am I supposed to guess or does the equipment give it away?” You say with a hint of sarcasm. 

The room’s occupation is obvious, though your purpose within it remains unknown. 

Dottore closes the door and it clicks in place. His body then turns around and he puts a hand on your shoulder, turning you back to face forward after you had moved to him.

“Why do you doubt yourself? Can't muster aplomb?”

You shake your head. “I’m confident in myself. I believe you're the one doubting me.”

A sharp sound comes from the connected room, followed by muttering. You want to ask about it, but you know the answer. 

“Well then. Whenever you're ready, assistant.” 

‎‎ 

‎ 

 “Cut it out. You'll bring everything in disarray.”

“Nonsense. Your way of organising is hardly logical. I am doing you a favour. You should thank me, really.”

“Heartbeat is stable, blood pressure is normal.”

“Machines are all online for operation.”

“What about the other one?”

“Prepared and disinfected, ready for use.”

‎‎ 

‎ 

‎ 

‎ 

“Ah, assistant. Welcome, at last.”

When you walk into the connected surgical room, you are surprised to see pictures of his past, alive and staring back at you. 

Segments. 

Only on rare occasions have you seen this many together. Even rarer to see them silently observing you. 

They are all scrubbed in, ready for surgery. You feel like a patient rather than an assistant walking into the room.

The uncanny scene is enough to bring you to a standstill at the entrance.

Your mind is quick to count the heads in the room. One, two, … seven total—, but then you see the real Dottore on the surgical table behind them and stop the count. 

Machines hang from the ceiling, surrounding him and descending from above. The triangle shaped lights illuminating his body hangs right above him, casting a sinister angelic light. 

All the hanging devices put together look like a single mechanical wing that sinks down to just above the centre of his chest. 

If he were awake, you believe he'd find beauty in the image. You, however, haven't discovered what to feel.

Seven segments, Dottore on the table, that makes eight—adding the imposter at your side.

“Theta,” you spat out. 

With a sharp movement you turn to the segment next to you. 

His mask is on, obscuring his mechanical parts perfectly. When you look closer, you see the imperfect perfection. It seems close to the real deal, but not mortal. Perfect without pores or edges. Perfect, in ways humans chase eternal youth or a standstill with time but losing its human qualities in the pursuit and making it something new. A replica.

Suddenly, the endless fidgeting made sense. A feeling of annoyance washes over you. 

You retake some of your pride by telling yourself that you had taken notice of this. It had been your instinct telling you something was amiss. You simply hadn't had the time to figure out what exactly it had been. Theta had played his part a little too well. 

You had almost caught him, but he caught on to your notice and cut you off before you could confirm your suspicion. 

He smiles.

“Yes?”

You've interacted with this segment a handful of times. Dottore (yours) had mentioned he had been particularly pleased with Theta, as he could act as a stand-in to even his fellow Harbingers. 

As proven, this segment goes through great lengths to impersonate Dottore in his current ‘time’. He is composed and almost always on a pre-written script—a few steps ahead of everyone. Sneaky with his identity, though you can't say deceptive, knowing he is still, well, ‘Dottore’.

Similar more than any other is to their creator; but on purpose. Just the slightest less secure in who he is. A segment. Always hunting the meaning behind ‘identity’. 

That makes you remember the hedgehog problem. 

It couldn't have been Theta who had been with you, you are certain of that fact. With the mask off, you could see the faded scar covering his face, the bloodshot eyes, and the lines and creases that formed over time. 

That was your Dottore.

A temporary wave of relief washes over you before your face heats up, realising you hadn't gone unobserved.

“When could you possibly have arranged all this?” You direct your feelings of betrayal to the segment by your side. 

He doesn't take your anger to heart—acting as if he hadn't been caught. Or maybe he simply didn't care. It's not as if you had made a connection to him. Not really, you think. 

Maybe the reveal wasn't relevant to him at all. Perhaps only the interaction had been. You render all answers after the dinner invalid. Asking a segment about segments. It seems silly in hindsight. Of course his answer would be biased. 

The fragments of Dottore quietly flock together, quitting their previous actions to focus on you. One stands oblivious to his appearance with a surgical knife in hand, gazing straight at you with curiosity and leaving his previous task abandoned. Acting too ordinary for the bizarre. 

You are at a loss for words. 

Your brain, too, is having trouble coming up with your next action or thought. 

“Why is he…” Your words get stuck when you try to describe Dottore’s predicament. 

Looking closer, you realise that while he's unconscious, he is not plugged into breathing machines, nor is he getting a form of anaesthesia. 

Dottore's chest moves up slightly. He is bare, with the exception of sterile surgical drapes covering him from the hips to the middle of his upper thighs. 

You bring your fingers to the bridge of your nose and rub the space between your eyebrows. 

Is this a test of loyalty? Of character? Is your knowledge being tested? 

The only idiotic story you can weave around this fever dream is that Dottore could be gauging whether or not you would save him from himself, but that seemed out of character. So, you push that aside as well. 

No answers then. 

Fine.

Have it your way, Dottore. 

Theta puts his hand on your shoulder. His grip is grounding but far from comforting. It feels as if he's trying to divert your attention back to him. 

From the slight difference in the mask, you recognise Omega amongst the others, —

“As our assistant and a scholar, you should be prepared for any possibilities at all times. This is simply one outcome of many tonight.”

Theta tilts his head, adding; “courtesy of the Dottore laying unconscious, of course.”

“He had prepared this?” You ask.

“Would you find it more plausible that he didn't?” Another segment, one you don't believe you've met, answers. His hair is shorter in the front and he seems more withdrawn. 

You cannot argue with him. 

After the initial shock wears off, you find a strange comfort in the many faces watching over you. 

Having become familiar with his gaze, you find that it doesn't intimidate you as much as you had anticipated. 

There is no threat in this room.

“So…”

Omega nods, turning back to the image he was made of. “So, indeed.”

You take a step forward, walking underneath the outer ring of machines hanging above you. You look up, finding white led lights blaring at you, as well as the choir of buzzing and beeps. 

Then, you gaze at where the spotlight meets Dottore. 

Your eyes trace his face, his expression, and then cover his body. 

Something interrupts you.

A small paper is handed to you between an index and middle finger. The handwriting of your name matches Dottore’s. You briefly wonder whether the segments would be able to mimic that too. 

Looking up, you snatch the folded square from between Omega’s fingers.

He remains silent, so you unfold the words that would otherwise remain unsaid.

A message is written in the usual barely legible handwriting, though he noticeably added more care writing the single sentence compared to his personal notes. 

‘Prepare me for a heart transplant. All preparations are accounted for. I have found a suitable match.’

You turn it backwards, checking for anything else, but the message ends there. 

While it had direct instructions, the information remains vague. 

“A heart transplant? Is he sick?” 

One of the segments releases a manic chuckle, but shuts himself up before more gets thrown up from throat.

Omega, still at your side, lets out a breath, crossing one arm over his chest and resting the elbow of the other on the hand. 

“Yes, regretfully so. He hasn’t been himself because of it, though he has found the perfect solution for his illness, it seems.” 

A frown rests on your face. You desperately want to overcomplicate the scenario to make sense of it, but focusing on the task at hand is more important. 

His life is more immediate. 

Your brain switches over into action; knowing that hesitation will turn into a mistake. 

“How long has he been lying here?”

Theta answers without hesitation; “36 minutes since he fell unconscious, induced by relaxing medication.”

“All equipment has been readied and checked for use,” answers another. 

Your head ping-pongs from one similar looking Dottore to the next as they answer back to back, each adding a bit more information to the pool of collective knowledge. 

You stop at Omega. “What will come of his heart?”

He cranes his head. Another segment swiftly answers in his stead, “It will be repurposed accordingly. Preparations for transport are ready.”

Another, again. “The donor heart has already arrived at the facility.”

“Bypass machine is standing by. The flow is clean. Reservoir stable.” A segment with rigid body posture stands near the cardiopulmonary bypass machine. A bunch of blood pouches are on a free table, possibly sourced from Dottore himself, likely in preparation. 

You vaguely recall the difference in this segment's tonality, but you are hesitant about your claim to a name.

“Delta is ready with scrubs in the other room. 9 more minutes until the initial estimated starting time. One last check-up before the procedure starts. Gamma, start the anaesthesia and pain medicine.”

The segment who you thought to recognise by voice, one whose mask is covered in neon blues and rounder engravings, steps forward, pushing a needle into Dottore’s vein.

Gamma, it is.

The names help, even if only slightly, to keep you from madness.

You look over at Theta. “Will you scrub in?”

His arms are behind his back. He seems more like Dottore than he did before. Perhaps this is because all other segments, Dottore included, are out of the element you usually see them in. He is the only one unsheltered by scrubs and unification. 

Theta wears what Dottore had worn earlier today. It makes him more human, which he's not.

There is a dangerous comfort in that familiarity. 

“Would you like me to?” He asks. 

Part of you wants to say yes, but only because you subconsciously are seeking Dottore’s guidance. The other part says no, knowing you would no longer get it once he removes his clothes. 

You shake your head. 

“So it has been decided. The floor is yours, assistant.”

Theta mimic’s Dottore’s speech pattern with ease. 

For a single moment, you let yourself be fooled and head back into the other room without thought.

~

As expected, when you open the door, the Delta segment stands there waiting for you. He, too, is dressed as the other segments are—gloved and scrubbed in. 

On the table rests your new attire: a sterile undershirt, pants, a cover for your hair, a tie if needed to pull it back, a mask, and a set of pristine step-in shoes that lay neatly prepared. 

They hadn’t been there when you first entered the room. 

He must’ve come in after you. 

“Are you wearing any jewellery?” Delta asks. 

You shake your head.

He takes your arms, inspecting them in silence. You realise he’s checking your skin for cuts, debris, and nail length. Once you pass his exam, he gives you a short moment to change clothes. Then, after his return, you start to scrub in.

While you prewash at the cold sink, Delta silently steps forward to put the antiseptic soap in your palm. You take your time with the nailpick he hands you after. 

You clean under your nails and dispose of the plastic tool in a nearby bin once you’re done. Then, you rinse again, and Delta rips open a package, offering a sterile surgical sponge for you to grab next. 

You scrub in silence—each finger, between the knuckles, up the wrists, then along your forearms to just below the elbows. Because of your focus, time passes quickly. When you finish, Delta drapes a sterile towel over your arm. You pat your skin dry with care, never using the same section twice. The towel joins the nail pick in the disposal bin once you’re done.

Then, still without a word, Delta opens the gown for you to step into. You slide your arms in, letting him pull the sleeves up. He grabs the tie at your waist, and you turn, positioning your back to him. He fastens both ends slowly; deliberately. Not rushed. Not quite mechanical either.

“Too tight?” 

His voice surprises you. While you hadn't focused on it before, you find that his voice sounds younger than you expected. 

You shake your head, and by the time you’ve turned around again, he stands ready with the gloves. 

You push your fingers forward, letting him help you. As his hands make sure the glove is comfortable in place, you observe the way his pale blue locks fall forward and frame his face. His cheekbones also appear less sharp. Another detail that makes him appear youthful. 

Once he's finished, you continue to keep your hands in front of you and above your waist. You’re careful not to contaminate them. 

Your heart feels unruly in your chest. Stepping out had given you distance, but now, with the preparations done, needing to step back into surgery reawakens quiet doubt within you.

Delta remains patiently to the side. 

He doesn’t make any further effort to help you, so you assume his task must’ve ended. 

For some reason, you feel compelled to thank him. The words come out soft and methodically, but Delta responds nonetheless. 

A single nod—, but he doesn't move. 

He won't accompany you with your final steps.

You're on your own. Even if he's right around the corner waiting for you. 

~

One step in and you’re reminded of why you rarely help with surgery procedures. While you had the expected experience to assist in the lab, you often avoided surgery when you could, stepping in only when absolutely necessary. 

Now standing in the door frame, scrubbed in and ready for operation, the room feels quieter than before. 

Pointed masks turn to you like a flock of crows, still and sharp-eyed, as if they’re watching an intruder step into their nest.

Everything remains exactly as you left it. 

With your goal in mind, you step to the table. Dottore lies intubated and is now connected to the right machines to monitor his vitals.

“4 minutes over the estimated starting time.”

You don’t look up from Dottore’s face. 

It is strange to hear his voice without it coming from his mouth. 

Your eyebrows furrow together. 

A thought crosses your mind.

“He arranged all this, but he never said why.” 

A segment moves by your side. 

An answer follows.

“Because he didn’t need to. He left you the procedure, not the reasoning.”

Dottore’s face is the most relaxed it has ever been, yet it misses the feeling of peace you saw in his expression during dinner. He looks older now. Tired, even asleep.

He looks vulnerable.

He looks human.

You come to a cruel realisation.

“He left everything in order. He knew I wouldn’t say no.”

“He knew you would understand. That’s why he didn’t ask you.” 

His voice echoes from somewhere within the room.

“Understanding is irrelevant. Consent was documented. Procedure is scheduled,—” an exasperated sigh follows the words. “Emotional latency is outside protocol. Begin, or postpone. The body will not wait indefinitely.”

And another reminder, “9 minutes over the estimated starting time.”

You look up.

One quick look around the room confirms that everyone but you is ready, standing at their respective places.

“Stop talking like you’re not him.”

Gamma scoffs and glances at Omega, who is quietly amused. 

“It’s not that we aren’t. We simply know what he wanted.”

For your sake, you ask someone to put a surgical drape over his face. 

After that, it becomes easier. 

You stand in front of the table. Tools are ready for use, all laid out with inhumane precision. A segment, the one who counted down before, moves into place across you. Omega, who stands by your side, holds out a scalpel to you.

There is one last moment of delay where your body inhales sharply. It realises you're the only one who can start this before you do.

Your fingers grasp the stainless steel from Omega’s hand.

It feels heavy. Such simple weight should not make you falter. But it is not the stainless steel that weighs, it is the anticipation and build up.

You hover above his midline. 

“Incision details?”

“Position at the sternal midline. Incision length: twenty-one centimetres.”

The blade is cold in your gloved hand—a should-be familiar weight with an unfamiliar purpose. 

Light falls onto the blade.

“Making an incision now,” you say.

The knife meets his skin with ease. You press down, and when you drag it, a line of red follows. 

There is no real spoken coordination in the room. The only moment when information is shared is when you ask for it. Otherwise, the segments follow your lead. Their connection to each other creates a hive mind, to which you are the sole outsider. Yet, for a reason without answer, it is you who leads the entire procedure. 

It feels like a solo mission with a distant guide.

You try not to think of the paradox. Dottore, who has never feared cutting others apart if it brings knowledge, now lies dissected by his own will. 

Tissue retractors are handed to you without a word. You place them gently, pulling the skin aside to expose the deeper layers beneath. This red should remain unseen.

Your thoughts are pushed aside by focus. You turn distant from yourself when you no longer run on your feelings and opinions. You become a mechanic step-by-step. An insider. 

“Proceeding with sternal access.”

The following steps you cut out of your memory. However, the sound of saw splitting bone is sure to follow you for the next few months. 

When the bone parts, his chest opens. More retractors are placed. And there it is—his heart. Still beating. Still fighting.

You hesitate.

It looks healthy… Strong, even. 

He isn’t dying. 

You remember the message, ‘Prepare me for a heart transplant’. No diagnosis. No explanation. When you had asked Omega about it, he made it seem as if Dottore needed surgery urgently. Perhaps, he thought so. Either Dottore or Omega did. Still, the quiet thumping makes you question your next steps.

“Prepare for cardiopulmonary support. We’ll place him on full bypass before extraction.”

“Vitals are stable. Proceed.”

“Initiating bypass,” Gamma says. He is decisive and precise with his movements, taking over before you can dissect information.

You know how the bypass works. Instead of allowing the blood through the heart, it’s rerouted through a heart-lung machine. The machine puts oxygen in the blood, removes carbon dioxide, and then pumps it back into the arterial system. It bypasses both the heart and lung function, hence the name. 

You watch Gamma work. For a split second, you recognise that in his movements, he dances with familiarity. 

“Bypass is a success. Proceed with extraction.”

A mechanical heartbeat rises as the body relinquishes its need for the original one.

The monitors shift. 

Dottore is now alive by artificial means. His own heart—no longer necessary. 

You place the scalpel on a steel plate. It clatters. Then, you take a new tool.

How the heart can be so easily replaced…

“He wanted this.” Theta, who had been silently observing all this time, speaks from the shadows. “Remember that.”

You take a moment. 

“Alright.” Your hands take position. “Let’s continue without complications.”

Between his ribs, you reach carefully for Dottore’s heart. From the open cavity, you lift it like treasure, and in a way, it is. 

It's not light, not heavy, but it is. 

The organ is still warm and the blood has covered your blue glove with a deep crimson. 

One moment, you can feel the heat; in the next, a segment has taken it from your hands and quickly disappears through the doors without a word. 

You hear the door come into place with a muffled whoosh followed by a click.

“Okay.” You let go of a breath. “Where is the donor heart?”

It takes only a second for a weird atmosphere to enter the room when none of them react instantly.

Nu replies. “Donor heart is on-site. The other room is prepared.”

“For what?” Your eyes narrow as your eyebrows come down. “Moving Dottore is not possible. We need to transfer the heart fast. We should get it as soon as possible.”

“Agreed,” Theta says.

Then, silence.

You feel as an outsider once more. There is a message going around the room without it ever passing you. 

After a moment, Gamma groans. 

“Get it over with. Room B is ready with preparations.”

“Estimated starting time is 6 minutes.”

Omega puts a hand on your shoulder.

You look at him.

“Good night.”

‎‎ 

‎‎ 

‎‎ 

‎‎ 

“Wisdom which is only theoretical, and never put into practice, is like a double rose: its colour and perfume are delightful, but it withers away and bears no seed.”

‎‎ 

You’ve never felt this tired. Your body doesn’t feel like your own. It’s too heavy, too far away—you feel separate from it. 

Instinctively, you try but fail to open your eyes. It seems like they’re glued together. So, you focus on sound. It is distant and your brain fails to process where it comes from, but it exists nonetheless. And that seems enough.

After what seems hours, the locks on your eyes break and light pools in.

You remember what happened, something—vaguely. But none of it feels real. Maybe Dottore’s invitation for dinner had made your mind produce all kinds of scenarios. Perhaps your fascination for his segments had gone from curiosity to horror—a ‘nightmare’.

Dottore lies across from you. Mirrored to yours, the upper part of his bed is lifted 45 degrees so he can sit upright without strain.

You gaze at him for a while. Recognising his voice over the other muffled sounds of the room.

Your mind takes a while to process their meanings.

“Your body has undergone significant trials. Don’t force nonexistent strength.” 

Through the haze, you blink your eyes. You lift the less heavy arm to your face, uncoordinated and with pain, wiping the tear ducts clean from whatever had been building up. Slime? It seemed like thick glue. Vaseline, maybe. 

The limb falls down at your side again.

You lay there for a while, letting the two sets of heartbeats fill the room. 

Beep…beep…beep…

Once your mind starts to come down from whichever cloud it was resting on, you can properly describe the heavy feeling that washes over your body. 

An intense pain, so blinding that it becomes muffled by a sensation of tight pressure, spreads from your torso. Your throat is like cotton, and it feels foreign when you swallow the first few times. Your breathing feels odd… 

Why can’t I move my arms properly?

You don’t remember lying down.

“What happened?” You ask. 

Even your voice fails you. It sounds as if it had been put on a shelf and only recently was remembered for use.

Dottore puts a hand over his chest where his heart is. “It was a success.”

“The surgery…”

Your memories reshape with clarity, and with it; instant punishment. 

You lean over slightly, gasping as the beeping next to you increases its pace, falling out of beat with Dottore’s. You move your hand to your chest, wanting to ground yourself, but the pain intensifies, and you keep your fingers hovering right above it. 

With all your might, and being forced to, you muster your energy to take slow and controlled breaths. At first, they shake and cut through your throat, then they become familiar again. 

A wheeze escapes your lips and tears prick in the corner of your eyes.

The fog in your mind makes you walk into walls—again and again—until you forget where your thoughts were trying to go.

Beeps fall into a normal pace. Your heart slows. You are pulled back by it. 

You lean back against the pillow. It catches you and forms your shape into its feathers. 

Dottore stares at you, and all you can do is stare back. 

“Isn’t it peculiar how they call it a transplant? It's more like a trade if you think about it.”

He looks comfortable in the hospital bed. Well, perhaps not. Where are you? Not the labs, not one of the resting rooms. Certainly not somewhere you had been before.

His voice fills the room again. It’s like he cannot help himself. He has always been prone to talking. 

“Did you know our blood types are the same? This was before I modified myself, of course. Unfortunately, sharing blood is no longer viable without major complications—but at its natural state, it is compatible. A perfect match, one can say.”

The words pass by in a hurry. 

You look at your hands, which lie next to you—somehow looking even more tired than the rest of your body. You find the culprit for the strange sensation on your hand. An IV is inserted and contributes something into your bloodstream. It doesn’t hurt, but it is uncomfortable nonetheless.

Nausea seems to creep up like a shadow at dawn.

With a stable breath and the pain under control, you move your fingertips to your chest. You hover them above the blue gown. Then, as if to avoid scaring it into pain, you touch yourself lightly. 

A thick layer rests between the gown and your skin. Your fingers now rest on it, and by texture, you believe you are bandaged underneath your clothes. 

You don't play with it for longer than necessary, letting your arms fall back without grace. Tired. Your body is too tired.

“What happened…?”

Dottore doesn’t answer you.

The beeping sounds have synced up again. His heart and yours.

For a moment, you feel at peace, too spent to want anything else, but Dottore, as always, cannot be in this state. 

He calls your name. 

“How does it feel?” 

You lightly move your shoulders, too tired to get annoyed by his line of questioning. 

Exhausting, painful, confusing…

“I don’t know.”

And your answer is honest.

Dottore smiles. 

“I believe I have never felt quite as clear as I do today. Without any barricades, I can learn to understand you fully, exactly as you desire. No longer do you need to uphold barriers in fear of being misunderstood.”

He seems satisfied with something.

“It is unfortunate you don't recognise this feeling yet. Ultimately we are the same. I am glad you confirmed that to me before.”

Your hand has moved to cover the place where your heart would rest. The pain is sharp and dull at the same time. Possibly a byproduct of the intensity and your mind still trying to orient itself. 

“How so?” you muster. 

“Well,” he starts, and truly seems enthusiastic, “for one, after today we’ll always be together. Without the fear of porcupines being forced into the winter by themselves, you shall always carry me to give you warmth, no longer reliant on anyone else. No sharp pointe either.”

A heart-to-heart. 

“And then, I shall ascend us to a level where we may share more than a heart. A mind, too. With your perspective and mine combined, we will uncover a different kind of knowledge, and I am certain we will bring a new perspective into the world.”

Your fingers caress the gown, feeling the layers of tightly bound bandages.

“Like it or not, after today, you'll never be alone. Your love is reciprocated. Exactly as you wanted. A gift for you, my heart.”

It is at this moment that the synchronised beeps sound like a haunting choir. Without a second to react, your body turns your head for you and stomach acid splatters onto the ground next to you. The pain in your chest makes the retching unbearable. Yet, you cannot stop the wave of sickness.

When you are left heaving, empty in stomach and hope, you do what he forces you to—and you rest. 

With the realisation, the heavy feeling of your body also feels like a choice that was his. 

He is keeping you caged with his own heart in your chest, home in your body as if he owns your entire being. 

Then, you look at him. His own chest. Then, the heart monitor. 

Your heart beats for him. 

His beats for you. 

The diagnosis?

Omega had been correct.

He was sick.

Sick with a twisted idea of love.

‎‎ 

A heart-to-heart. Bound by a blood pact. 

‎‎ 

‎‎ 

“No rose without a thorn. Yes, but many a thorn without a rose.” - Arthur Schopenhauer

Your lover quickly responded by grabbing the back of your head and tugging it, forcing your head back and exposing your neck. "Now pet...I know you aren't putting up a pitiful fight against your punishment are you?" He chuckled sadistically.

"N-No..." You moaned, the pain from him pulling on your head blending in well with how he parted your legs even more, his fingers having more room to play with your cunt as they teasingly danced around touching you where you wanted him most. "Please...just touch me."

"Oh?" He hummed. "But I already am—" He leaned in to press a kiss to your jugular, his raven hair framing his porcelain skin perfectly as he looked at you through his long lashes. "—You'll have to be more specific darling, or else..." You keened when his fingers ghosted over your clit, delicately flicking at your nub for only a moment before his fingers went back to trailing and circling around your entrance. "...I'll continue playing with you a little more."

"My-my clit...t-touch me there...!" Pantalone laughed at how shameless you were at your begging. "I need it...n-need you, so badly..."

He had a mind to reward you with a kiss for how prettily you begged. But, as he pressed the pad of his fingers to the hood of your clit, immediately taking up a fast pace, he figured with how you were beginning to cry from the pleasure...this was a reward enough. "Try not to cum too quickly darling," Pantalone chuckled. "Let's test your endurance, hm? Needy sluts like yourself need to be trained well in how to last long."

"A-Ah—!" You yelped when his hand suddenly left your hair to begin resuming his tugs to your chain. "S-Slow down! I-I feel..."

Pantalone smirked. "Slow down? For what?" He cooed mockingly. "Don't tell me you're already trying to make demands of me darling...even after I've been so gracious with you, you still want to make demands like a whore with no training." He spat before tugging at your chain even harsher.

Your body was confused with what it wanted to do. You wanted to scream from the pain but also moan with how good Pantalone was touching your clit, your slick beginning to pool and drip down the front of the desk. "Ahh....m-master...!" You whined. "Mercy—"

"So cute darling..." He chuckled as he blatantly ignored your pleas by sliding his fingers from your clit to teasing your entrance for a moment before quickly plunging his fingers into your cunt. You choked on your own breath with how quickly he found your g-spot, the feeling of his knuckles persistently rolling into your sweet spot making you scream in pleasure. "You've always had such a lovely set of lungs on you," Pantalone continued to praise you, his words going straight to your cunt. "Let's see how much you can truly handle, hm?"

In unison with him fingering your cunt, Pantalone then started to pull at your chain, tugging at your nipples just hard enough to where you felt the stings of pain but not to where it overrides your pleasure. "N-No, this is...too...fuck...!" You whined, your hips beginning to unconsciously buck to meet the thrusts of Pantalone's fingers.

"T-Too deep..." You panted. "C-Can't take it...master..."

Your lover smirked wickedly. "You can't?" He laughed incredulously in your face. "Too bad." Pantalone then lowered his face to where you could feel his heated breath against the shell of your ear. "If you aren't feeling a little fear darling...how do you expect to learn from your mistakes?"

Tears of frustration and pleasure then began to build on your eyeline. "But...I-I have learned!"

Pantalone suddenly tore his fingers from your pussy before smacking your cunt, your body jolting from the sudden smack. "I'll be the judge of that, not you." He frowned, smacking you once more before he returned to fingering your cunt. Steadily a knot began to form in the pit of your gut, one that grew tighter and tighter by the passing second as your thighs began to shake at the force of your oncoming orgasm.

"You seem a little distracted..." Pantalone said, loosening his grip on the chain entirely as he decided to use his other hand to rub at your clit, the influx of pleasure making your arms fly to loop around your lover's neck as you quickly pulled him closer. "Are you close darling?"

"Uh huh..." You nodded dumbly, pleasured tears streaming down your face. "Please...let me cum..."

He smirked at your honesty, a quiet moan leaving his lips as he started to rut shamelessly against your leg in an attempt to stave off his need to sink himself deep inside your pussy. "The sound of you begging to cum is like music to my ears..." He moaned. "Keep doing it, and I just might have no choice but to let you cum."

Without a second thought, pleas and moans for more left your lips like a unblocked dam. Your arms looping tighter around Pantalone's neck as you began to lose yourself to the pleasure. "Fuck..." You whined. "P-Pantalone...I'm so close...pleasepleaseplease let me cum." You said as a lewd squelching noise started to reach you and Pantalone's ears alongside your combined panting and moaning.

The harbinger thought you were so cute with how earnestly you were begging him to allow you to cum all over his fingers. Although the sadistic part of him wanted to make you wait a little bit longer for your orgasm...it seemed like you were influencing him. He'd be able to teach you more thoroughly with his cock fucking you into unconsciousness. "Okay then..." He panted. "Cum, cum all over your master's fingers." He said before he pressed his lips to your own.

The tender softness of his lips on your own...that was the straw that broke the camel's back as you suddenly tensed up, a loud gushing noise escaping from your cunt as you screamed into your lover's mouth, grabbing at any article of clothing that you could to further stabilize yourself.

Pantalone only took his lips away from yours when he felt you weakly smack him to let him know you were running out from air, a single string of spit still connecting the both of you as he looked down to see the front of his pants darkened by your fluids. "Now...how did my cute pet manage to make such a mess?" He lightly scolded you, gently taking his fingers from your sex before he tasted your cum.

You blushed as he hummed at your addictive taste, releasing his fingers from his lips with a 'pop' before his eyes returned to your own. A renewed hunger settled deep within his pupils as he smirked at you. "I suppose I'll have to teach you a little longer, won't I pet?" He said before he pressed his hard-on against your leg more obviously.

Author's note:

This is also posted on AO3 HERE!!

this is a quick fic I wrote while bored, the *smut* scene is short and awkward so I apologize, but still enjoy!!

Minors dni!!

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

»I— I'll fix it.. I swear!«

I beg and plead as the shop owner shoves me out the door. I was a good employee, I really was, I always tried my best and always put my everything into every shift. I slump down against the door and begin to sob. This job was barely enough to cover for monthly food rations.. and aside from food I needed to fix up my house and save up for new clothes. I was going to even look for a second job to cover all of my expenses but now I don't have anything! I do not even know what triggered that immediate reaction, I mean, firing me on the spot? After breaking a simple vase that the shop manager bought just a week ago? From what I overheard it wasn't even expensive!

I stand up slowly and make my way back home, head hung low in defeat. I wasn't sure what to do now, I mean.. I've got to find a job, sure, but that was harder done than said nowadays, especially at this time of the year. Snezhnaya was a cold country all year round but winters were especially harsh. I wonder how I'd survive this year, I mean my roof is busted, my water supply is running low due to my pipes freezing up thanks to my broken heating system and not to mention that one of my windows cracked. With no heating, cracked windows and a part missing roof my house was as cold as the outside and I was barely surviving. I wasn't sure what to do till I saw freshly hung posters in the town square as I passed.

'Looking for hire.'

They said, and I stepped closer, considering the idea without even checking for the publisher. I'm glad I did because my eyes almost jumped out of my skull. It would've been a death sentence to join the Fatui and there's no way I'd even consider taking up this job offer, even if my life depends on it. The Northland bank is looking for hire? Yeah no thanks..

I stumble along and head home, hugging myself tightly, already missing my warm.. well.. as warm as it can get, blanket.

________

I stare at the dry piece of bread and the already lukewarm coffee set before me on the table. Everyday is getting harder and I don't know if I'll have enough money to buy food for next week. I lean forward and rest my head into my palms, sighing loudly. I don't know what else to do, I cannot find a job and donations from doing community service aren't enough. It's getting colder each day and I have a feeling I'll freeze if I don't get my house fixed up. That's when I decide that enough is enough and stand up, grabbing my coat.

I step out into the cold and begin to venture downtown, ready to start my search. I couldn't continue on like this knowing I'll eventually starve without a stable income. I knew I'd have to get up and start looking this morning when I found another window cracked.

—

I shuffle through the thick snow, snow slowly falling from the sky. It's a beautiful sight, the sun rising behind the parting clouds coloring the sky a bright gray-orange-blue-ish color. It was barely 6:30 in the morning and I was already threading through the city, heading towards the commission's guild, knowing I could make a quick buck or two there. Then I'd head towards the community board in the city center at around 9 to check for any new posters. The idea was great and It worked out perfectly.. to a degree.

I stopped by The adventurers guild like I said I would, greeting Katheryne and wishing her a wonderful morning. I accepted two out of three commissions offered to me, seeing as the third involved fighting some Hilichurls and I wasn't very skilled with weapons. I barely used my Pryo vision and even that was when I needed a source of heat, having no other use for the darn thing. The other two commissions were the delivery type. Ivanka, a widow living on the outskirts of the city required a fresh batch of groceries delivered and Jasmine, a local florist required some fresh soil that needed to be picked up from the dock and delivered to her straight. The commissions didn't take long and I was done very quickly, before the clock even struck 9.

I made my way back towards the Adventurer's guild, waving towards Katheryne from a far.

»I'm back!«

I exclaim excitedly. Katheryne offers me a bright smile, opening her mouth to speak.

»Thank you for completing Today's commissions. Here is your reward.«

I grab the pouch she holds out to me and flinch due to it's weight.

»A-Ah! Thank you!«

I grin and straighten a little then look around. People were beginning to wake up, go about their day and open up shops. I turn back to Katheryne and stare at her for a second then ask.

»Do you know if anybody's offering jobs of any kind for a little income?«

She thinks for a second then nods, giving me a reassuring smile.

»Well I believe the Northland bank is still searching! Best of luck if you do choose to give it a try!«

I freeze and look around. The Northland bank? Still? It's been a week and the spot hasn't been filled yet? There's no way I'd even get the job if no other has been able to in the past week! Still I believe there's no other choice I have.. Katheryne would've mentioned it if there were any other job offers available but I doubt there is since she hasn't mentioned anything. I slowly make my way towards the plaza hoping and praying to the Tsaritsa and any Celestial force that might hear my prayers to bless me with a job that is NOT working at the Northland bank.

I round the corner, passing by the local bakery and spot a younger girl standing by the notice board, either taking something off or nailing a poster to the board, I wasn't sure. I approach her slowly before making my presence known as to not startle her.

»Hey! Morning..«

I say and she turns around to look at me then offers me a friendly smile.

»Mornin'«

I now stand next to her and look over at the board confirming my suspicions. She indeed was taking a poster off, the one for the local flower shop. I tried applying for a simple cashier job there but I was too late and the place was taken before I could even ask about the offer. I sigh, spotting the last job poster on the board and my heartbeat speeds up a bit. I groan and the lady looks over at me, worriedly.

»You alright, ma'am?«

She asks and I nod, apologizing.

»Indeed, I apologize, I'm just having terrible luck looking for a job.«

She hums, nodding.

»Good luck, hey the Northland bank seems to still have an open spot? Considered checking it out?«

»I have but I doubt it's smart to get involved with the Fatui..«

»That is true.. well best of luck!«

She wishes me a good day and I return the kind words, watching her disappear around the block. I stare at the board. Town info, news reports, missing person posters, the board was filled with crap like that yet no job offers. I snatch the Northland bank poster, ripping it off and turn towards home, deciding that perhaps this was my last chance. I'll put on my best clothes and warmest smile and hope for the best.

_____

I stand before the large doors, shuddering at the thought that if luck's on my side today there might just be a chance I'd have to pass them every day. I take a moment to collect myself then slowly push the pine doors open, taking my first step inside. The warmth hits me in the face immediately and I stop for a moment, taking in the warm air and sweet smell. The Bank smells like a bakery would and it isn't as loud as one would think. People are speaking in hushed tones and keeping to themselves, not one dares to speak up. The place is clean, and I mean clean. Even the plants look perfect!

I step up to the front desk and the secretary looks up from the papers, giving me a warm smile.

»Good afternoon! How may I help you?«

She asks in a tone so cheery I didn't think was possible.  I look around for a brief moment then back to her, forcing myself to return the gesture.

»I heard you were offering a job?«

Her cheery facade drops and she stares at me, dumbfounded. I wasn't sure whether she was about to laugh seeing as somebody like me was definitely not fit to work in a bank, or because I was ballsy enough to actually show up to the bank without hesitation and ask about the job? I mean the poster was up for a long while therefore I'm guessing nobody realllllyyy wanted to even think about taking up the offer.

»M-Ma'am?«

I stutter and freeze up when she suddenly snaps out of whatever trance she was in and her warm smile returns.

»A-Apologies..! Come with me!«

She doesn't ask for my information, for even my name nor what the job would be other than working behind a desk! She just asks me to follow after her and seeing as I hold no authority over her I do not really have the right to stop her and ask her pointless questions that have a chance of getting answered even after I follow her.

We make our way up a looped staircase onto the first floor which is connected to a balcony that overlooks the bank. Every millimeter of the bank walls is covered in golden and wooden details, gems and crystals of different kinds. Even the floor looks expensive and neatly polished. I heard that the maids get paid quite a lot and they don't have to deal with customers or any of the Fatui officials therefore I wonder how much I will get paid for doing both! I could salivate at the thought of how well I'll fix up my little house with the hard earned money but I decided to push those thoughts away seeing as there's a chance I'll jinx myself and not get the job if I think about it too hard. I focus my attention back onto the bank worker and offer her a soft smile as she opens the glass double doors for me, the ones we stopped in front of after leading me down a maze of hallways.

»One of our employers should be in right now, they'll take it over from here. Best of luck, Comrade!«

She says and turns on her heel, leaving me alone. I take a deep breath before creaking the door open slowly, dipping one foot inside the room then following with my whole body and finally the other foot. I now stand inside the room my attention immediately falling onto the circular desk in the middle of the room. Behind it sit three ladies, all facing away from each other, a slim pillar extending outward towards the ceiling stands in the very middle. Their desk looks awfully messy and they seem to be in a rush. I step over and greet the black haired one, offering her a smile although I do not get one in return.

»Make it quick please, I'm busy.«

She chews on a piece of gum rather loudly, clicking the pen impatiently. I stutter but step closer, placing my ID onto the table.

»[Last name][Name], [Age], I saw you guys were looking for a secretary and was wondering whether there was any chance it was still open. I'll be honest I have no work experience in this field and don't really know what the job of a secretary involves... b-but I learn very quickly...!«

She stares at me and sighs, shaking her head. Her demeanor went from annoyed to tired in an instant and she didn't seem so hostile anymore.

»No experience you say? Ughh... erm.. well this job requires a lot of running around and a good memory s—«

I cut her off immediately, scrambling to catch my words. She shoots me a glance but doesn't stop me.

»That's no problem, really.. ! O-Oh and I remember things quickly!«

She nods, signalling that she indeed was listening as she writes something down.

»Well you'll have to wait because we were ju—«

Just as she was about to finish speaking she gets interrupted for the second time, this time not daring to look a bit annoyed. Through one of the hallways enters..

The Regator

The doors opened by Fatui Skrimishers as they escort him into the room and he sets eyes on one of the desk workers, unfortunately exactly the one I was speaking to.

»You!«

One of the Skrimishers calls out and she yelps.

»M-Me..?«

The Skrimisher walks over, slapping a pile of reports onto her table.

»Go make a copy for each and every one of these separately, now!«

The Regator stares at us intently and she looks up at him, then at me and finally at the Skrimisher.

»But.. M-My Lord.. I was tending to this young lady, she's here for an interview..!«

His smile twists into a large grin upon hearing those words and he finally speaks, his voice silky smooth.

»Wonderful, I'll take over from here.«

He purrs and I freeze. Take over? I'll get interviewed by The Regator himself? This is a joke..

I step back towards the desk and stare at the man who takes a step closer, eyes narrowing.

»Chop, chop! I don't have all day.«

He says, his tone changing immediately. He moves past us towards the back of the room where stands an impressive set of double doors which leads to another hallway. The Regator looks over his shoulder and I jump, realizing I have to follow and not just stare! We enter another expensively decorated room which seemed to serve as a waiting room. At the very far right wall stood yet another set of doors. I wonder how many this place even has. The Skrimishers open the door for the 9th and he steps inside. I hesitate for a second but just for a second as the next moment I am standing inside of the office, doors closed behind me. I was shoved inside and didn't really have a choice.

»Well then? I sure don't have all day. Come on, sit.«

His demeanor changed immediately, his smile gone and his eyes cold, staring daggers through my form. I approach slowly and pull the cushioned chair out, cringing at the sound it makes as it scrapes against the floor. I cautiously sit down and The Regator leans back, pulling out a blank form from one of his drawers.

»Let's make this quick. I'll need a full name and age, address, previous work experience..«

He continues on but I don't really listen to him, more than what not staring at the blank form. Would my picture go there? Why do they need so much information? What would happen if I just refused and got out of here. He snaps me out of my thoughts as he clears his throat.

»Are you still with me?«

He's becoming irritated.

»My apologies, My Lord.«

»Ah so you can speak after all.«

He grins, sliding me the sheet.

»Make sure to be quick, we'll have to interview you properly.«

I nod and swallow nervously as I rake my eyes over the sheet of paper. He holds out a pen, his long slender fingers adorned with all kinds of rings and jewels. He smiles, although his smile unlike the other employees' wasn't warm and welcoming, more like threatening. I return the smile awkwardly as I take the pen, focusing back on the paper. There wasn't much to fill out except for personal information. Why would my work place need my address? My previous one sure as hell did not, so why now? Well perhaps it was to mail me the check, but still I can collect it at work!

»[Name]..«

He mumbles as he watches me write my name down. I look up immediately and he grins, waving me off.

»Is there a problem, M-My Lord..?«

»Oh don't you worry your pretty head off, nothing's wrong, continue on.«

I hum and skip through the attention notice, then finish the task I was given. I lay the pen down and look back up. He's focused on the sheet rather intently. He reaches forward, sliding it over the desk and I freeze. Oh right, he actually has to read this. His eyes scan the page and he frowns. Oh no..

»Antique shop manager? That's unfortunate.«

»I— Is there a problem...?«

»I don't think your past work experience matches what we are looking for. Quite unfortunate I must say.«

He sighs and stands up and my heart drops. Wait.. so I didn't get it? But..!

»W—Wa— My Lord! I seriously need this job I..«

I cannot believe I'm begging for a job I was at first hesitant to even apply for but at this point it is my last chance, the only means of survival.

»Oh really? Do tell me why this position should be granted to exactly you over every other person twice as experienced as you.«

As experienced as me? For fucks sake it's just some numbers! I grit my teeth and look at him, knowing I'd regret my words immediately.

»What every other person? As far as I've noticed I'm the only one applying for this job, no other was in line behind me!«

His smile falls and I freeze yet again.

»Oh?«

»I— W—«

He slams his hands onto the table and stands up, I gulp.

»You've got guts to bark out against a harbinger, I'll give you that.«

I melt into my chair as I watch him round the table, staring down at my form.

»Not only you decide to go against my word and my beliefs you as well try to demand things from me?«

»I—«

»So tell me, Gem. Why should a job as highly paying as this go to somebody lowly like you?«

»M-My Lord..«

He scoffs and stops before me, leaning against the desk just two or so feet away from me. I look up and he grins widely for what feels like the 100th time, knowing I'm afraid and won't even think about acting out again.

»W-Well.. a tree fell and some windows cracked.. I— I have been barely s-surviving...I—«

I stare at my feet, fumbling with my hands. I know there's no chance of redemption now but all I can do is pray. He hums, grabbing my face and I flinch, staring up at him in disbelief. The cold metal of his rings digs into my face and I grimace at the feeling.

»I have an idea how we could fix this mishap..«

I try to pull away but he grabs at his belt and I think I've got just the Idea.

___

He pulls at my hair, bringing my head back as I gasp for air. Tears run freely down my cheeks as I choke on his precum and my own saliva, barely catching a breath before he brings my head back down, stuffing my mouth.

»Yo-You know— haah..«

He bites at his lips before pulling my head off again.

»I usually don't do this but.. celestia.. I couldn't help myself..«

I sob as he brings me up by my collar, chasing my mouth with his own. He groans as our lips connect, moving together furiously, melting into each other. A string of saliva connects us as he pulls away, the scene is absolutely filthy.

»The way you looked up at me.. dear Tsaritsa.. haa—«

He groans as I trace my hand up his length and attempt sink back to my knees to finish what I've started but he stops me, gripping my arm before I could. I look up at him again and he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Suddenly I'm flipped around and over his desk as he grips my hair, forcing me forward. I gasp as he grips my hips, leaning over my body.

»You know... I'm tempted to sign you up as my personal assistant right about now. You'd like that, wouldn't you?«

He says as he slowly slides pulls my pants down, slapping my ass.

»I asked you a question.«

He grips my throat and shoves me further into the table and I cry out. His cold rings making me shiver.

»Y-Yes! I would love to—«

He slaps me again, this time harder before pulling my undergarments off with such force I swear to everything I own I could have heard a rip. I can hear the grin on his face as he speaks again, fingers tracing my opening.

»I'm sure of it..«

He slides his fingers inside my heat, curling them upwards and I jolt, sobbing into my hand.

»We'll have to train you then, you said you were a fast learner? Did I hear that right?«

I simply nod but he frowns, not that I could see it, of course. He removes his fingers with a whine from my side and smacks my ass again, hard enough to leave a mark.

»I expect a proper answer whenever I ask you a question.«

»Y-Yes! Ye—ees My Lord!«

He grins again, rubbing the spot he just struck.

»Wonderful, don't you worry I'll call off my next meeting then we'll have plenty of time!« ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

“Knave, Knave, have you heard? I heard Tartaglia went to look for Scaramouche. Would you be going as well?”

“I am not,” she answers, “not unless the heir wishes for me to go, then I shall-”

“Ah, no! Don’t!” You immediately interrupt her, “How about spending time with me instead?”

“If that is what you wish, Your Highness.”

“Knave…” you gave her a look—and for her, it was a look she often saw from the Tsaritsa, whenever she is displeased, that is—“I told you to call me by my name, did I not?”

A shiver runs down her spine, bowing her head down, “I apologize, Yo—Y/n.”

She feels a flutter in her stomach when she catches you smiling brightly—as bright as the sun that does not dare to peek in the land of Snezhnaya—what was this? Is this of worry that she had displeased the heir? Or was this because it’s you? Either way, both do not go well with her—this could jeopardize her standing as a Harbinger as well.

“Good! Now, accompany me? Knave?”

“Very well… Y/n.”

PANTALONE treats you quite handsomely (just like he is…) actually. He has a ton of gifts for you, especially when he came to realize how you liked being given one. He’d shower you with material things, and would even give them personally quite a few times—your birthdays most likely.

To be frank, he only did this at first to earn your favor, at the very least, make you have a good word to say about him to your mother just in case.

But things got out of hand.

“Ah, be careful! Lord Pantalone is fond of Your Highness’ heir. He would not tolerate it if he heard you say anything about them!”

Even the others had noticed the (not-so) subtle actions of the Harbinger, and yet it was him who thought that all this time, he was only doing this for such a simple reason.

But why does he find it infuriating just by hearing others say your name? Or whenever he sees you act more friendly to the other Harbingers.

He certainly has to find a reason why.

And the only way is to go and find you and have a nice chat.

Yes… just a chat.

LA SIGNORA is known for being one of the Tsaritsa’s closest aides, and that was how you came to know her as well.

As she is closer to your mother than the others, you’ve seen her far too many times and was able to also converse with her as well.

However… she’s quite…

“Ah, well it isn’t you, little one.”

“I… why do you always call me that?” you purse your lips, almost pouting in front of the Eighth Harbinger, to which she could only giggle.

“Why? Are you displeased with such a thing? Would you rather I call you…” she paused leaning in ever so slightly and making you lean back… but she didn't say anything else—just giving you a knowing smirk and look.

“C-call me… what?” You tried to question, entertaining her response, whatever it is.

“Hmm,” she hums yet never answers the question. She stays in that position a moment longer before she leans back and crosses her arms.

“Seeing as you couldn’t propose a new name, I’ll continue calling you the same, little one.”

SANDRONE does not really speak to you much, but people could feel that she truly favors you, probably much more than the other Harbingers and even the Tsaritsa.

Yet that favor seems to have come from somewhere else.

“I see you all are unaware, yet unawareness is not an excuse for this treachery. Your Highness, if you may allow me to punish them for their disrespect towards you,” the woman bows her head with a hand on her chest, making the Fatui members tremble at their leader’s words.

“T-the heir themselves! Please have mercy-!”

“They are my subordinates and yet they do not know who the heir of Your Majesty is. I am disgraced by such,” she raises her head and sends a look at you, eyes gleaming, “Your Highness should not let themselves be treated this way.”

Is she… urging you?

“I…”

“Have mercy, Your Highness-!”

You looked away, closing your eyes with a sigh.

“I’ll leave it to you, Sandrone.”

She smirks—which you failed to see—and replies, “As you wish, Your Highness. You truly are a great fit to the throne.”

SCARAMOUCHE is not favored by everyone, and maybe that’s why he does find satisfaction whenever you show your kindness to him.

Like a lone moon in the middle of the dark.

Not that he’d ever admit to such a thing.

“Scara!”

He grits his teeth, jaw and shoulders tensing at the way you referred to him—and at the mere sound of your voice. He bit back the words he so wanted to blurt out, aware of his surroundings—the eyes and ears that your call had caught attention of.

After all, it is not that usual for you, the heir of the Tsaritsa, to call someone—let alone a Harbinger with a nickname.

“Your Highness,” he hisses, and pauses just as soon as he had faced you, glaring at you as he mutters in a low tone, “do you love me?”

“W-what?!” You staggered and instinctively looked around. It was a good thing he had questioned you without letting others hear or else—

“I said—”

“I heard you for the first time, Sixth.” Your firm voice made him halt, as well as probably caught more attention from the people around you. It was not that usual for you to talk seriously in front of others—especially to SCARAMOUCHE.

He raised a brow at your tone, only to let out a scoff when you drop the serious look on your face and smile at him again.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“No! But you got my heart!”

He makes a disgusted look on his face, only to face away with a huff, crossing his arms. Ah, he should really make you stop… but it’s not like he could—or that he’d want to.

IL DOTTORE… Well, you probably found him scarier than Pierro honestly. At first.

As time went on and you continued to observe him, you realized that...

Just as much as someone like him craves for things that are interesting for him, he was the one who you found interesting.

“Ah… you’re here again, Your Highness! A pleasure for you to join us.”

You found yourself smiling at the grin that the Doctor gave you, standing at your usual place and placing your arms on the desk—one that is quite far from his workplace, as he’d one time told you it was “dangerous to come near”.

“What is it that you’re up to today, Dottore?”

“My, my, aren’t you a curious little cat?” He hums and turns to face you, “this time will be a secret, however. Fear not! Your expectations will be granted once I present to you what this experiment is about.”

“Oh? A surprise? I didn’t know you like surprises.”

“Oh I don’t” he smirks, “but I know you do.”

You adored COLUMBINA’s voice the moment you heard her, and it was you who gave her her name.

“Damselette, truly fitting, isn’t it?”

“I am grateful, Your Highness.”

Anyone could tell that there is something going on between the two of you—either you favor her greatly or that she follows whatever you say as if it is law.

“Isn’t she the Harbinger that the Heir is fond of?”

“I bet that she only became a Harbinger because of the Heir.”

“What are you saying?! That Harbinger is terrifying! Did you not hear what she did on her most recent missions?”

“What? What did she do?”

You were passing by with COLUMBINA when you caught the voices of the Fatuus not too far away from both of you, before they could say any more, you halted from your tracks and reached for your companion’s ears, cupping them and preventing her from hearing anything.

She perks her head but does not say anything. You could still hear the others’ voices, to which prompted you to signal from the guards that were accompanying you, and they knew full well what the look on your face tells.

Removing your hands from COLUMBINA’s ears once the guards had taken the talkative Fatuus’ away, your heart swelled on the smile that she flashed onto you, bowing her head and letting you hear her sweet voice.

“Your Highness is always there for me, and this humble servant shall always be by Your Highness’ side.”

You scoffed, smiling back.

“Good.”

IL CAPITANO… he knows his place—his title as a Fatui Harbinger, but he also would have tendencies where would show some human kindness that probably very few of his colleagues do possess… every once in a while. And honestly, that was what you liked about him. That regardless of his strength and title, you could see an ounce of humanity in him—despite there being a chance that he’s not anymore.

You’d never know.

Nonetheless, it shows whenever he was with you—or when you see him, actually. You two are not that close, it was difficult to. You are the heir of their Queen, who were you to make friends with technically her subordinates? Your mother would not permit you to, nor would she let them do the same.

One day, however, changed it all.

It was the day that you had seen IL CAPITANO training on his own. Ever since, you were mesmerized. It’s quite unknown to you whether it was because of him and his movements or was it your desire to fight.

But nonetheless, it broke all the walls down and prompted you to ask “Could you teach me?”

You caught his attention—maybe way before that day.

“I mean… could you train me? To be as strong as you. You’re strong… right? I’ve heard Eleventh ask you to spar with him before. Maybe… you can teach me that too. To spar.”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t. '' You could hear the grin in his voice, but you can’t really see it with his mask on.

Actually, you think to yourself, you shouldn’t, you replied to him in your mind, only to merely smile.

Not that he’d ever know.

Not now, that is.

You cannot really remember when was the first time you met PIERRO, as he was already there when you were born, and he had been a constant in your life. Maybe you almost forgot a time where he wasn’t present and by your side.

Nonetheless, you’ve always seen him as quite intimidating, but also somewhat of a protector. At one point, you had heard your mother tell him to guide you on the right path. And since then, you’ve always noticed him whenever he was near.

And one time, you had the courage to walk up to him and actually talk to him.

He was… rigid, so to speak, but he entertained your talk and the conversation, so it didn’t stop you from trying to speak or have a chat with him every once in a while, sometimes even in his office where you just talk his ears off and he listens. He indulges you, you think. And honestly, you were just there because you were quite curious if he’ll ever tell you off or scold you in any way—just like your mother would whenever you try to initiate long nonsense chats with her.

But he doesn’t.

And maybe… you’re still trying up til this day, and he already knew your intentions whenever you try to talk to him.

“Your Highness… you’re here,”

“Ah, yes, I have another story to tell you!”

“I have reports to finish but,” he pauses, sending a look to you, “I shall listen to whatever you have to say.”

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