Who's next?

Unless it did. But it wouldn’t, because no one was stupid enough to sound the alarm by taking unsanctioned injury in front of the facility’s healer.

“Better luck next time,” Childe called, tone bright despite where he presses a knuckle to his bleeding lip. The prisoner doesn’t respond – because he’d have to be conscious to do that – and the Harbinger emerged in the coupon cafeteria to a meal paid for by others. You earned that one, is the quiet message.

His mother would be undeniably distraught to know that he gets along with convicts better than most other people. Some are more upstanding than you’d give them credit for, he’d argue, which would just turn the tears on him faster. Oh well.

Whatever status the harbinger was earning during his stay, eventually he’s given a wider berth. Those participating in Pankration Ring matches were still eager to go against him, even if he had the benefit of better training. None could compare. What once offered thrill was running stale too quickly, and the Administrator hadn’t shown his face in days. Weeks?

Childe couldn’t blame him. The sudden blackouts created chaos, happening more and more frequently. Inmates went missing. The men sat around their work and horror stories of real happenings – like a wrench that shifted into a blade in the blink of an eye. Like hallways that lead to places that didn’t exist. The lists grew by the day, and the little healer was likely up to her ears with patients to treat.

Despite the warnings, Childe had been beginning to think that it was all made up. Even when the first lightbulb in the hallways shattered. Then the second. By the third, he could see the outline of a person. A creeping silhouette that seemed to draw closer with every flash of light. He pulled a grimace, readying a fighting stance. “Come on, I think I’ve already proved that I’m not afraid of the dark.” On the contrary, adrenaline brought new sharpness as the thing came closer, revealing blood-tinged eyes and barred fangs. It barreled into him with the force of twenty people. Grappling with the faceless enemy in rapidly circling darkness, Childe kicked, rolled, shifted away from the feral hiss that followed.

They collide again, again, again.  

This hallway shouldn’t feel so long. The Fortress of Meropide was as uniform as anything else in Fontaine, and instinct made him count the paces until it was memory especially given the rolling blackouts. Whatever latched onto him seemed to be doing just that, intent to keep him close over do damage. A good thing…even if he couldn’t make sense of it.

Then, with a gentle click of whirring mechanical gears overhead, the lights returned. Momentarily blind, Childe brought a hand to shield against even the dimmest of lights, lunging the second his shoulder bumped something solid.

Someone. Someone solid – and Childe had been right about one thing. The hallway hadn’t been that long. More like he’d somehow traveled half of the fortress with one tussle in the dark. Faraway, a heavy door slammed shut, but he was more focused on where his grip dug into Wriothesley’s shoulder. “Heya.” Letting go was harder than he wanted to admit, still caught between the fight or fight response that illogically painted the Administrator as the enemy that’d been slapping him around in the dark.

And Wriothesley couldn't be sure that he wasn't, in that very moment. In the dark, he'd certainly appeared to be something monstrous and far from human. Something with teeth and claws and bathed in the murky glow of the abyss. Childe's attempt to play the whole thing off like an honest mistake, and even change the topic, didn't help either. When the Duke no longer had to keep his eyes peeled for an attack, he turned them, narrowed with suspicion, back to the Harbinger.

"If you're looking for the Coupon Cafeteria, why don't you come with me? I was just about to take a late lunch," he lied, and shouldered Childe in the direction of the administrative floor. He wasn't asking; it was a command wrapped in Fontainian dressing. "As you can imagine, I've had my hands full with these blackouts, but there's been no word from the court about releasing you early."

Childe was barking up the wrong tree for the appeal, in other words. Whether or not "word in the Ring" was true about this great Administrator, he was merely a warden, not the judge. But even if he was, returning Childe to society was the least of his concerns at the moment. The blackouts had been interrupting production in the factory, and besides the hemorrhaging costs, none of the Fortress' engineers had been able to get to the bottom of the phenomena. The generators and the internal power grid, while old, were still functional, and they'd picked up no new unstable energy spikes from the Arkhium mine that could be disrupting the rest of the Fortress' machinery.

And then there were the ghost tales, the inmates reporting hallucinations and waking nightmares to Sigewinne, and, of course, that shadowy beast Wriothesley had glimpsed in the dark for the second time just before the lights had cut back on to show him his newest charge once more making threats behind a lackadaisical smile.

They made a leisurely trek toward the cafe, the Duke evidently in no hurry, but clearly unwilling to let Childe out of his sight again so soon.

The Duke began as if…as if nothing had happened at all. In his pockets, Childe’s hands were curled, still primed to strike. He couldn’t help but be stunned, eyeing Wriothesley while he grabbed Childe’s bluff toward a truce and made it reality.

He’d never been one to tap out mid-fight. He didn’t know how some liked to say, but the truth was more like he didn’t want to.

Whatever he’d been grappling against had been roughly Wriothesley‘s height, wielding size and strength that seemed appropriate and when the other man brushed past him, he knew. It had to have been him. Who else could it have been?

Wildly, he could only think: if he attacked Wriothesley now, he’d know for sure. In the light, he’d be able to confirm that whatever hulking, terrible creature his mind had conjured in the dark was a figment. That he’d imagined the blade-like claws digging into his skin in place of worn leather for sheer effect or wishful thinking. Stranger things had happened…

“So, you still think I had something to do with this.” Irritable, his tongue clicked the against the roof of his mouth, eyes narrowing to glare. They might be walking side by side, but the Administrator’s glacial gaze never left him, even as he paced ahead to lead.

A good call on his part. “As for my escape-“ It was almost embarrassing to think about now, how utterly outmatched he’d been. He was stronger than before. It wasn’t enough. The smile curving his expression felt wrong. “If you know everything that happens down here, then why are you asking me?“

The Abyss wouldn’t save him now…and he could be sure that the same pathway wouldn’t appear twice, either. They wound down each new hallway, all nearly identical. Only the slight rise in temperature lets Childe know that they’ve roamed into a more populated area. “You don’t have to believe me, but blackouts and a few scary monsters aren’t really my style. I’d be offended that you think I need to turn the lights off to have a good time,” The new smile at least felt more real, a taunt. “But you don’t know me very well! Maybe the other Harbingers want to play games with their targets,” His shoulders rolled back into a shrug. “I’d take them head on. I don’t need an opening. I’d make one.”

The hand that extends to him is a bit withered. As he considers taking it, he has the creeping suspicion that his hand might look the same if he were to inspect himself any further. Spidery, purple veins weave where normal ones would be. The other man’s eyes are open but unfocused. Dazed or unseeing.

he's heard variations, nicknames, strings of titles and terms of familiarity woven in ways that don't seem to fit this village life. a life aboard a fleet of ships, each a civilization of their own... not tied down to this ground beneath his feet. "are you... is ajax correct for you too, if you have to ask me my own name?" they don't belong here. they don't belong here. they don't belong here. they could belong here. but if they walk longer, ask more questions, then it is hot oil spilled across skin, poison burned behind corneas --- it can't be taken back, the damage will be done.

　　　　　　　　go back.

　　　　　　　　　　go back.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　go back.

but which way is back?... jiaoqiu doesn't wait for the answer to the question spoken, and acts on the one in his mind instead as hand tightens its hold and starts to walk backwards. "I... don't think we're supposed to be here, ajax. what about your sister?"

It feels like too much all at once. It feels like he’s hovering in a familiar void, and his feet want to pull in all directions in answer. He wills hydro to whip viciously in response and he doesn’t even care for who it strikes- merely needs the physical representation of his struggles to carve lines into the fog around them.

Except that it doesn’t, because his vision is missing. His grip tightens until the bones underneath creak, and he looks at Jiaoqiu again. “Don’t call me Ajax.” He says in lieu of answering, the sound of his own name cutting his tongue on the way out. The fog is getting thicker, but he plants his feet and forces the other man to halt in the process.

His mind races, he shakes his head. He laughs, for all that Jiaoqiu’s question makes his heart hammer faster. Tonia…Tonia, his sister. He can hear the bright sound of her laughter clearer than ever these days…because he heard it just this morning. At least… he thinks he did. He can hear them all now, each one of them begging for big brother to come home.

With a huff, he lets go of the stranger’s hand before he breaks it. If he hasn’t already. “She can’t be here,” He argues, somewhat nonsensically. “Can she? No…” Whatever middle ground they’re standing on, neither side of the playing field is clear enough to take a real shot.

He thinks he’s had this thought before, but this is the first time he says it out loud- “This doesn’t feel real.” Except that it does, especially when the fog is so thick that he allows himself to lead down the trail where they’d come from. He watches the sickly black veins on ashen skin fade back toward lawlessness, even his own scars seeming…less.

In the spirit of the competition, he offers a small salute to his parter (and maybe something more mocking toward the competitors that have their eyes fixed on him).

“Okay friend,” The engine clicks to life. It’s easier to talk to his companion now that he’s got fresh features to match the outlandish name. Not that Childe is one to judge, but hey- “Let’s do some damage.” Hadn’t Sampo promised that he and Childe looked similar parts? It couldn’t be true by half, but he found his accelerator in the first few seconds – braced for impact as he crashed another car against the rail in a bid to turn without braking.

Making connections is one of Sampo’s favourite things when it comes to business. Credits are, of course, another, but there’s just something, a certain je-ne-sais-quoi about shmoozin’ that gets him giddy, you know? The wider his reach, the more people he can buy from and sell to, and the greater his overall network in the event of things ever going, ah, sideways. (Not that that’s ever happened, of course.) O, Joy to the universe! Hehehe.

Anyway, he’s not sure if he’s anymore convinced that they’ve got what it takes to actually rank, but at least he’s proper motivated now! 

It doesn’t stop trepidation taking hold as he clambers into his own vehicle, waits for the go-ahead, and revs ‘er UP. Call it intuition, but something about the funny words his partner’s spitting out so early into the round don’t instill the greatest confidence in him.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way, I’m sure.”

And dang if Childe didn’t seem keen on Finding A Way.

Gretting his teeth, knuckles whitening, Sampo swerves left as indicated, and not a moment too soon. At least he’d gotten a heads-up, one supposes, but… “Eesh! Got a trigger finger, or what?”

Sampo flips the switch on his end and zooms away, leaving in the literal dust the two behind him who'd crashed into each other upon Childe firing on them.

“If you do blow that thing up, might be I’ll have to swing by and pick you up off the floor, friend - now, does that sound fun to you?”

(It is NOT permission to go ahead and do so, by the way.)

“I think ol’ Sampo will zip on ahead if ya don’t mind! Feels kinda dangerous hanging out back here with you, for some reason.”

And zip away he does -

right up until someone unceremoniously crashes into his car and sends him spinning out into the wall. "Guh! ... It's fine, I'm fine!"

At least… that’s what the flier and flashing lights had said. A little grin flits across his features, something like a laugh caught in his tone, curbing the worst of the malice he’s keeping under the surface. The way the cars jolt, spark, and sputter on impact has to be painful. “Haha, I’m just getting warmed up.”

So what if a couple of people died on the track? Wasn’t this world virtual? A simulation, someone had very politely tried to explain on arrival, though Childe’s immediate line of questioning over fatal injuries had sent them packing too soon.

Hindsight is kind of funny that way.

A low whistle builds as he spies his partner’s car up ahead. “Might wanna evacuate, comrade, your left side’s all fire.” See? He could be a good teammate! If only his vision had more range to it…if only he wasn’t going as fast as he was, but too soon, his little car was swallowed by the same circular object that the other racers were going into. “This is new,” he says. “What-…!” Whatever he means to say is lost in a vacuum.

Because Childe wouldn’t shout with surprise (refused to admit that he is shocked), white-knuckling the controls until the metal begins to bend and the blinding lights of his sudden warp has long faded.

A water bottle bursts in his hands, squeezing plastic too tightly where metal had once been.

He tilts forward, momentarily unbalanced, as if his body believes it’s still being propelled forward rather than having both feet planted on the ground.

Such as this Harbinger, whose invisible slash had nevertheless raised the hair at Wriothesley's nape when the imagined breeze from a blade that wasn't there grazed his skin. A guard standing near the central tower of the floor noticed and drew his gun, but the Duke merely stared back at his would-be killer with the same placid calm he'd had when the young man had been seated across from him. It was in part the strength of will, and in part a display of power not to flinch before a threat. Wriothesley had learned that technique many years ago, back when he had half the strength he had now and found himself in Sigewinne's infirmary more often than not. Never let them see your resolve waver; you would lose the battle before it even began.

But Childe, despite all appearances, was more familiar than he was an enemy. The decrying of a corrupt justice system had been echoed by the very Duke himself before he'd seized a part of it. Beneath his ice-cold gaze, a smirk had fissured across his face.

And was wiped clean in the next instant. Like Childe, he blinked and turned his attention toward the light fixtures along the walls, then to the criss-crossing metal beams overhead that supported the upper floor. The guard by the central tower was looking upward as well, and the inmates who'd been trying so hard to pretend that they were in deep conversation now chattered loudly about what they'd just felt. An anxious buzz began to hum through the underwater Fortress.

Childe remained as flippant as ever, so Wriothesley couldn't rule out the possibility that this all had been his doing.

"It seems like we'll have to cut the catchup short," he answered the Harbinger distractedly and rose to his feet as well, leaving their meals half-finished in the dark. For now, he'd let Childe wander as he pleased. One guard jogged up to their table.

"Your Grace." She placed her hand over her heart in greeting, glanced curiously toward Childe but once, before Wriothesley snapped her attention back to him.

Unless it did. But it wouldn’t, because no one was stupid enough to sound the alarm by taking unsanctioned injury in front of the facility’s healer.

“Better luck next time,” Childe called, tone bright despite where he presses a knuckle to his bleeding lip. The prisoner doesn’t respond – because he’d have to be conscious to do that – and the Harbinger emerged in the coupon cafeteria to a meal paid for by others. You earned that one, is the quiet message.

His mother would be undeniably distraught to know that he gets along with convicts better than most other people. Some are more upstanding than you’d give them credit for, he’d argue, which would just turn the tears on him faster. Oh well.

Whatever status the harbinger was earning during his stay, eventually he’s given a wider berth. Those participating in Pankration Ring matches were still eager to go against him, even if he had the benefit of better training. None could compare. What once offered thrill was running stale too quickly, and the Administrator hadn’t shown his face in days. Weeks?

Childe couldn’t blame him. The sudden blackouts created chaos, happening more and more frequently. Inmates went missing. The men sat around their work and horror stories of real happenings – like a wrench that shifted into a blade in the blink of an eye. Like hallways that lead to places that didn’t exist. The lists grew by the day, and the little healer was likely up to her ears with patients to treat.

Despite the warnings, Childe had been beginning to think that it was all made up. Even when the first lightbulb in the hallways shattered. Then the second. By the third, he could see the outline of a person. A creeping silhouette that seemed to draw closer with every flash of light. He pulled a grimace, readying a fighting stance. “Come on, I think I’ve already proved that I’m not afraid of the dark.” On the contrary, adrenaline brought new sharpness as the thing came closer, revealing blood-tinged eyes and barred fangs. It barreled into him with the force of twenty people. Grappling with the faceless enemy in rapidly circling darkness, Childe kicked, rolled, shifted away from the feral hiss that followed.

They collide again, again, again.  

This hallway shouldn’t feel so long. The Fortress of Meropide was as uniform as anything else in Fontaine, and instinct made him count the paces until it was memory especially given the rolling blackouts. Whatever latched onto him seemed to be doing just that, intent to keep him close over do damage. A good thing…even if he couldn’t make sense of it.

Then, with a gentle click of whirring mechanical gears overhead, the lights returned. Momentarily blind, Childe brought a hand to shield against even the dimmest of lights, lunging the second his shoulder bumped something solid.

Someone. Someone solid – and Childe had been right about one thing. The hallway hadn’t been that long. More like he’d somehow traveled half of the fortress with one tussle in the dark. Faraway, a heavy door slammed shut, but he was more focused on where his grip dug into Wriothesley’s shoulder. “Heya.” Letting go was harder than he wanted to admit, still caught between the fight or fight response that illogically painted the Administrator as the enemy that’d been slapping him around in the dark.

instead, it felt empty.

cold from a lack of sunlight, on a planet too far away to truly feel the warmth it orbits: cold like the emptiness, nothingness, pointlessness. the voice calling his name is not one he knows, not one of the countless knights who relied on him to do his best before they'd set off into that unforgiving, cold emptiness once more. do you hear that? can you get rid of this fog? --- it asks after his name. but his hands can do so little, except to mend and send away towards death once more, only...

The hand that extends to him is a bit withered. As he considers taking it, he has the creeping suspicion that his hand might look the same if he were to inspect himself any further. Spidery, purple veins weave where normal ones would be. The other man’s eyes are open but unfocused. Dazed or unseeing.

It was trickery. Deceit. The sudden flare of flame that threatened to sear his skin with the invisible thread that connected them. Childe didn’t need this kind of training.

(Maybe he did.)

His hydro vision reacts in time to save him from the worst of it, steam hissing around his ears as he twists to shatter a connection made fragile. It still burns, but he’s unwilling to assess the damage just yet. “Come on, if I wanted to dance around-“ He wouldn’t have invited Arlecchino. “We could have gone someplace else!” It’s all he can say before plummeting into the water below.

By circumstance or by some sixth sense, Flins had a way of being just where the line between two worlds thinned, drawn to the supernatural like a moth to a flame. Or more appropriately, a fish to water. He weaved around overturned trash cans and half-fallen clothing lines as he criss-crossed Belobog’s back alleys like a bloodhound on the scent. The lantern in his hand flickered with unobtrusive blue light, hardly reaching the windows that faced this side of the street or calling attention to himself. A few taverns were still rowdy with the night’s patrons, but other than that, there should have been no one else wandering the streets. Yet the air thickened with each passing second.

”Please… please bloom…”

A small voice came from down a side street nearly at the heart of this labyrinth of alleyways. It brought Flins around on his heel and he lifted his lamp to throw its light over barrels and crates. Yellow eyes well-suited for dusky gloom peered intently through the darkness, yet whoever was choking softly on their own sobs was nowhere to be seen.

”Ah!” Her voice cracked with surprise, and Flins darted toward an overflowing dumpster. Suddenly a deep indigo smoke began to roll out across the street and sent him back two startled steps. The Wild Hunt? Surely not. There was something just as dark and obsessive to this mist though, a kind of evil that preyed on the good intentions of the heart - then he saw her: a young girl in rags knocked on her backside on the other side of the dumpster, a plant in a pot in front of her growing taller by the second until it finally unfurled one lacy, blood-red flower.

The mist had thickened until it was nearly as physical as the stone walls surrounding them, and resisted Flins’ attempts to get any closer. He could try to vault over the dumpster but—

His eyes caught sight of a gangly redhead peering over the iron fencing of a balcony a couple of floors above where the girl sat dumbstruck.

”Young man up there,” Flins called, forcing a suitable note of panic into his voice. Humans couldn't often resist the pleas of another in dire straits. “This ritual must be interrupted by any means.”

The man that called to him. Shrouded on all sides in a fog so thick it must have been tangible, desperate silver slivers acting as talons that tried to pierce through the blue fire that provided a barrier.

…and the flower.

Brighter and more beautiful than blood with this ashen backdrop. His gaze cut to the sight of it, expression faltering for precious seconds as his mind screeched to a quick halt. Dozens of voices called at once. Even the scent of the new bloom floated through his limbs, better than any scent his memory could muster. “Ritual…” He breathed the syllables, uncomprehending as he leaned further over the balcony. Dangerously, with only the strength in his iron grip keeping him from plummeting head first to the ground below – a vain effort to get closer to the beautiful flower.

Bloom. Life. Death. Life. Blood-

Huh. It did look like blood, the syrupy liquid that seemed to flow like a fountain, feeding into the steadily growing fog. The little girl’s shrill scream brings him back at once – he can’t see her anymore, the fog having swallowed her. With a last glance to the man, he vaults over the railing, bow drawn for a first hydro-charged shot.

Steam bubbles on contact, a haze of red fog that chokes him by proximity. “What ritual is this?” He shouts, shivering while the steam burns his eyes. At all costs, the other man had said, and Childe was no stranger to these kinds of disruptions. Unfortunately for all involved…only has one way to solve these kinds of problems. Through the steam, his free hand finally finds the pot, then the soft and silky stem of the flower itself.

Hydro blades shred the leaf. The world slid sideways—

marked eyes glance back to find no one there; arlecchino considers possible explanations only briefly, and decides to head inside to see what the young master childe has found himself involved in now. posters depicting various successful shows throughout the year line a dimly-lit corridor that heads around the main audience gallery; she can hear the hum of voices within, not customers watching, but castmates observing and crew members preparing.

a theater such as this... she's never been one for taking center-stage, but it does feel familiar, a reminder different place that was also never quite home. once backstage, she observes the scene being rehearsed a few times... and spots another strange shadow moving somewhere in railings far overhead. perhaps it would be worthwhile to take a closer look.

arlecchino has already ascended partway up to the next floor when she hears a snap and a violent crash, followed by a shocked murmur of voices inside the theater --- heels move a beat faster, now determined to see what eyes may have only caught a brief glimpse of moments before. once up there, she's close enough to access the stage's system of overhead props... there is nothing, no one, except herself. his voice follows moments later: arlecchino turns, a flat and unreadable look greeting the beloved star of the show who had been acting on the stage below. "... of course: not that sloppy, nor that imprecise. furthermore, if I had tried to kill you, I would've done it myself... not relied on a plausible accident." a slight twitch comes to the corner of lips --- almost a smile, trying to indicate that her statement is made in jest.

It gives them time. “Haha, that’s nice of you to say, but it’s not just me. You’re here too.” He says, placing his hands on his hips while he gives that real thought. If trouble was drawn to Childe, then he had no complaints. It gave him something to do. “As far as anything out of the ordinary…it’s all a little off here.” One of his castmates gives a scoff. He shrugs back, because if anything, this was an understatement. Belobog was no Teyvat, but the people seemed conditioned to work against all the odd little instances that made the harbinger do a double take.

As the crew begins dismantling the ruined set, Childe pulls them further to the side. “Everyone’s being casual about it, but there have been a few near-fatal deaths so far…” Letting his tone trail off, he shakes his head. It’s not that he doesn’t understand. He does! In fact, the small and tightknit crew have grown on him for their ability to look at these things and simply shove forward. A little blood doesn’t mean the world ends. “Running theory is that it’s a former cast member. Someone who might be a little jealous that the theater gets to be appreciated by a wider audience.”

“I suppose I was,” The Twilight Sword sighs softly, “I used to be a swordsman, but I haven’t truly wielded a sword in a long time.”

A true knight he had been, right down to the sword in his hands and the honor in his heart. Perhaps then he had been a knight nearly out of a storybook, worthy of having his tales told. He had long since not been that man though, and the homeland that he had sought to protect was nothing more than rubble and dust these days.

Not that Childe has discovered anything just yet, head tilted with interest as the blonde elaborates. There are plenty of people he’s come across whose face doesn’t match age. Dainsleif must be one of these scarce people, to talk about his past as if it’s ancient. Archons…wind spirits…fae - It had been shocking once upon a time…even if he can’t be bothered to remember his once wide-eyed innocence.

He thinks it doesn’t even feel like the same lifetime. The before and after of falling into the abyss, and his answering laugh is warm. Welcoming. “If it isn’t too much trouble…” They’re no longer completing the task, but the basket the harbinger has is more than double the ones that he’d seen others bringing in earlier. Edging closer, Childe slips into a sitting position, legs crossed. The rolling field of tea leaves makes for a good story spot even if Liyue’s bright midday sun can be a little bit unbearable. "If it's too gruesome, I'll have to edit some of it out. Don't wanna give anybody nightmares."

Flashing a smile, he gestures for the other to do the same. “A swordsman, too? I’ve been known to have a pretty good form. Think I could hold my own?”

Sampo’s still reeling, but he’s righted himself and back on his way, so he supposes he’ll pardon his buddy this time around. That would be the gentlemanly thing to do, no? And Sampo’s generosity, as ever, knows no bounds.

“Yeah, yeah, just try an’ hit the other guys instead next time, all right?”

It’s always interesting to Sampo to consider the vast differences in tech when it comes to different planets and lands. Teyvat’s only recently been on his radar - heck, everywhere has only recently been on his radar, really, courtesy of Belobog bein’ isolated for so long and all - but what it might lack in high speed racing it makes up for in other ways.

Anyway!

He’d better focus, huh? This might just be a lil warmup, but he’s far from being pro enough to slack (and he suspects much of the same from his partner, haha!)

He zips along, enjoying the thrill of the speed, the smug feeling of passing someone by and then darting around one of their projectiles, only to see the next car in front of him go up in flames…

All right, so: he’s been lucky. He’ll admit it.

(Not to his partner though.)

The break is nice.

Sampo runs a hand through his hair and sighs, inhales, composing himself. Head tilts to the side as he finally meets his racing partner in the flesh.

“Sampo’s your guy, yeah! And Childe, was it?” At least, that’s what the lil name tag says, so Sampo just has to trust it, no? Would a name tag lie to him??

He grins and settles, hands on hips. “Anyway, what do ya meaaaan I don’t look the part? Surely I look it as much as you do.” Tall, handsome, and keen-eyed - that’s Sampo! What else might a popular racer need? Hm??

Idly, he rolls his shoulder. Wouldn't do to go be getting stiff in between rounds, yeah?

“By the way, you sure Teyvat doesn’t have tech like this? I’ve been shot at by some funny little constructs during my time there, didn’t seem tooooo archaic." And Sampo's a certified ancient relics expert, so you can trust him! "If anything, the buggers quite packed a wallop.”

In the spirit of the competition, he offers a small salute to his parter (and maybe something more mocking toward the competitors that have their eyes fixed on him).

“Okay friend,” The engine clicks to life. It’s easier to talk to his companion now that he’s got fresh features to match the outlandish name. Not that Childe is one to judge, but hey- “Let’s do some damage.” Hadn’t Sampo promised that he and Childe looked similar parts? It couldn’t be true by half, but he found his accelerator in the first few seconds – braced for impact as he crashed another car against the rail in a bid to turn without braking.

"Since it's been a while, I'll remind you that fighting outside of the designated Pankration ring is strictly against the rules." He sidestepped the question. Was he threatening this man? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Ambiguity though was among the Duke's many tools when it came to what some of his guards often called his "soft" interrogations. Usually prisoners let their paranoia get the better of them, or they'd sound out exactly what they were thinking by attributing it to the unreadable wall that sat across from them.

For Childe, however, it was his eyes that gave him away. They'd been fixed on Wriothesley's arms, or his neck, even his cheek, but never quite reaching his own. Without a doubt, it was his many scar that had transfixed him, but whether this were a Harbinger's way of sizing up his prey, he couldn't be sure quite yet.

"If you have a problem with your sentence, you'll have to take it up with the Court." Wriothesley's shrug, coupled with that unwavering smile, said more than enough to anyone who'd spent any time within Fontaine: that was a futile endeavor. The Iudex's judgement was final.

"But, if you ask me, it sounds like you won't have any trouble passing the time while you wait. The Pankration ring is always looking for new combatants, and the friends you made the last time you were here are certainly eager to see you back again. I'm sure they'd love to hear about all the details of your first escape," he glanced in the direction of a few boxes stacked up next to the wall, where two men in labor uniforms tried to pretend like they were caught up in a conversation with each other, "and your heroic efforts in saving Fontaine."

Wriothesley unfolded his arms to gesture with one hand to the boxes before them.

It tracked – the Duke did strike that kind of figure – the ring of finality that grated Childe’s nerves, igniting the fuse of his patience. Wriothesley spoke just like anyone would when they had the upper hand, when they were comfortable. “Heh,” The food was good enough. From where he sat, he could see the edges of a body peeking from where the kitchen must have been, so he took another bite for nothing other than to pass the time. “You sure you aren’t a Harbinger?”

A poor joke, but Childe found himself laughing to it anyway. The Duke acted like one, and Childe would know, had spent more hours than he’d care to count wasting time with people who never said what they meant.

As if life couldn’t just be easy all around!

“Well, if you’re going to be the bearer of bad news, might as well soften the blow with a good meal, is that right?” His mother had always said that too, thoughts drifting towards nostalgia before he reeled them in by force, standing in one fluid motion. “Not that it’d matter either way. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, Mister Administrator,” Luckier that he had nowhere to be, no missions to see through. “I can afford to play by your corrupt justice system for a little while! ‘Cause otherwise-“

Had his vision been active, the vicious slash he mimicked might have even taken off the other’s head.