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His laugh is dizzying.
“What the fuck do you want?” you snap when you see the man, small, though not smaller than you, practically folding himself over in delight. You vaguely recognize him as someone in the Fatui, but he must be a rank lower than you because you’re certain he’s not a Harbinger. Either way, you tell yourself, you don’t care. You’re supposed to meet Tartaglia here in three minutes, and this giant-hat-wearing psycho needs to get the fuck out.
“Listen, I’m giving you thirty seconds to vacate this room. I don’t know how you got in here, nor do I want to know, but I want you to leave. That is an order, soldier.”
“Hah. You’re funny.”
The man in front of you finally circles around you as if walking to the door—but stops short, assuming the position in the sparring field that your colleague should be coming to take any moment now. Your gaze narrows in on this pathetic weakling who has the audacity to assume such an arrogant position in front of you.
“Do you know who I am?” you taunt. “You’re standing before Scaramouche, the Sixth Harbinger. And I’m ordering you by the power of the Tsaritsa to—”
“Not for long.”
A cruel smirk turns those lips up, and for the first time since you entered this room, the man smiles. He looks into you (truly, those violet eyes boring into your soul and not merely at you), and it takes all your effort to not flinch under his gaze.
Be calm, you tell yourself, lifting your hand and preparing to use your vision. You’re not one to prefer hand-to-hand combat, but if you can just stall until Tartaglia gets here…
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The man in front of you crosses his arms, not an ounce of fear betraying his confident demeanor even as you summon the currents of anemo to whip around you. Brazenly, you ignore his warning and continue to allow a swirl to build at your fingertips, readying it for use before firing it straight at this man who seems to have his heart set on killing you.
“Honestly,” he whispers as soon as you’ve attacked him with your wind—and then he’s gone.
You step forward, refusing to believe your eyes when the burst of anemo you sent after him drifts to the other side of the sparring circle before fading into nothing.
“I thought I told you not to do that,” a voice snarls from right behind you.
He gives you no time to respond, and you instantly find yourself restrained, his arms wrapped around you to hold you down while a muscled hand goes down to your hip and rips your vision away. “Everyone in the Fatui knows that you’re fucking shit at combat. That the only reason you’re even a Harbinger is because you seduce your clients like a little whore for the Tsaritsa.” He laughs, and you feel his grip tighten. “You’re so pathetic. I can’t believe no one’s chosen to take your position away from you.”
You clench your teeth, willing yourself to not fight this man’s hold. You need to be calm, somehow, calm until Tartaglia gets here. He’ll help you for sure, and then he’ll beat this asshole into the ground and he’ll comfort you and will make you forget all about this vile man’s touch.
“What, are you dumb? Did you spend so much time whoring yourself out that you don’t even remember how to speak anymore?”
“Shut the fuck up,” you snarl, twisting your neck to the side to glare your attacker straight in the eye. “You’re a fool if you think a Harbinger will go down this easily.”
“Actually,” the man, delighted, says. “You’re going down even easier than I expected.”
You refuse to justify that with an answer, twisting your head away from his violet eyes.
“Aw, what? Are you insulted?” the man mocks, and then, the hand that had held your waist starts moving slowly. Dangerously. And then, so fast it was almost like lightning, his hand is on your sex and he grinds his palm up hard. It takes your breath away, a strangled moan leaving your lips before you can stop yourself. You begin to regret forgoing your usual knife in the boot since it was only Tartaglia you were meeting; surely, surely, you would have at least scratched this demon if you just had a blade.
“Oh. Oh, damn. You’re even easier than I thought you’d be. And here I thought I’d have trouble getting you to sit still before I’d fuck you.”
“Y-you’re not—”
You grit your teeth and will yourself to remain silent when he begins rubbing expert circles, already having located your clit.
“When my colleague finds you, he’s going to murder you, asshole.” You want to slap him but your hands are bound, so you settle for spitting at his cheek. “I may not be strong, but Tartaglia is, and he’ll make you regret ever—”
The man, who had previously been holding you tight, abruptly throws your body to the ground. The force of the throw makes your brain blank for a moment, and when you finally come to, his foot is hovering above your cheek.
“You still think Tartaglia was the one to summon you here?”
You freeze.
“W-wait…” you blurt, eyes widening. “W-wait, you...he…”
Above you, the man grins sickeningly wide.
“Looks like you finally figured it out, huh?”
Your eyes widen in horror. It’s so natural for you and Tartagla to have secret meetups like this, your new normal ever since the time of your budding relationship. Messages to meet were usually delivered orally, but you still didn’t think it anything special this morning when you found a note by your bedside from your beloved Ajax asking to meet with you here at night, and if it wasn’t him who wrote it, then—
“You were in my room,” you blurt, suddenly feeling more violated by that than the fact that you can still feel the warmth of where this man touched you earlier. “You—you were there, so why didn’t you just—”
“Why didn’t I kill you while I had the chance?” The man adjusts his hat to look you better in the eye. “Simple. All I need to take your position as the Sixth is remove you. Nowhere does it say that I need to kill you. I can imagine more than enough uses for a pretty body like yours, even if you’re useless at everything else. Though I figured that a little slut like you would make a scene, so…”
The man gestures around. Metal walls surround you both, something you initially assumed was so that Childe could fuck you in peace and you could moan to your heart’s content, something you now realize will be used for something so much worse.
Instantly, you begin scrambling for the exit.
You don’t care that your vision is still in this man’s palm, that you look wholly disgraceful, the once-proud Sixth Harbinger crawling to the door like a rat, that the man behind you is laughing viciously as you attempt your escape. All you can think about is survival because if you heard his words right, this man wants to deliver something worse than death to you.
“No, no, no—” you whimper when you feel his shoe pin you down, weighing on your back so heavily that you can’t crawl curther. Your fingers dig into the ground, but you’re a tactical harbinger, not a field one. And despite years of vigilance and scorn, you managed to get outmaneuvered.
“So fucking weak,” he snarls.”I can’t believe no one’s taken your place yet. Well, I guess I already have. You’re never seeing the outside world ever again, little miss Scaramouche.”
“Stop it!” you blurt, fingers digging into the infield soil mix they use to minimize training injuries. It won’t save you today, though.
“Or I guess that’s my name now, isn’t it? Scaramouche. Hm. I like it. I imagine they’ll have to give me a unique codename, but for now…” the man stares down at you with cold, cruel eyes, right before he kicks your side. You know instantly that he broke something, but adrenaline keeps the pain quiet. “Say it. Call me Scaramouche. I want to hear you accept defeat like the weakling you are.”
And, listen. You’re easily the weakest Harbinger there is, managing to obtain your rank on the sheer basis that you were, and always have been, a master seductress who could woo men and women alike to the Tsaritsa’s cause. You’ve used your body more than once to achieve your goals, and you remember having to disrobe for even the Tsaritsa before she gave you this high post: but despite that, you are your own person.
Labels be damned, you have pride. Stupid pride, worthless pride, but something in you that can still stand up even when this monster grinds his foot into your spine—and so you refuse to call this vile imposter by your name when you’re Scaramouche, not him, when you’re the Sixth Harbinger, not him.
You don’t even curse him out when you grab a clump full of training soil and throw it into his face. A small amount even makes it past his veil, striking his cheek black.
Intuitively, you know that choosing your pride was not worth it.
But you’re glad that you were able to fight back, at least a little.
“You’re just asking for it, now…”
He grunts before kicking you again, and no matter how you curl in on yourself to shield your body from his blows, he continues to rain kick after kick, punch after punch, step after step against your body until you’ve been beaten bloody into the ground.
“Say it,” he spits. “Admit that I’ve won. I’m Scaramouche now, and you’re nothing.”
“You... “ Blood bursts past your lips when you try to speak, but you continue. “You cannot...replace me…”
That infuriates him even more.
You know it’s pointless, your words. It’s the one pitfall of being a Harbinger: the fact that you’re replaceable, repurposable. The Tsaritsa has structured her hierarchy to keep the eleven of you constantly on your toes, and lower-level recruits are encouraged to attempt attacks on your lives to keep you sharp because anyone who defeats a Harbinger may claim that title for themself. Above you, Scaramouche ( no! your mind screams when you call him that because he’s not Scaramouche yet, that’s you) has managed to take the Tsaritsa’s words a step further, opting to just defeat and not kill you but… to what end? What’s his plan? Surely he knows that if he keeps you alive, all you need to do to reclaim your original title is escape. So, why would he…
A surge of panic rushes through your blood. It jerks your limp body into a tighter ball.
“What are you going to do to me?”
Your breathing is hoarse, jagged. Everything hurts, and your clothing is more torn than it isn’t. Still, you refuse to go down without a fight. You may be defeated in terms of combat, but this man has yet to trample your spirit.
“Still able to talk, are you?”
The violet eyes that you’ve instinctually come to fear glaze over.
“I guess I’ll just show you what I want from you, then.”
And then he’s dropped to his knees, a sadistic smirk toying at his lips, and he’s tearing the rest of your clothing off.
Wait, you realize, brain going blank. You know this sensation, you’ve felt this sensation half a hundred times by now with Tartaglia, hands ripping everything on your body off, but with this man’s rough, pleasureless grip, it feels so wrong.
“Stop—” you gasp when you feel your underwear being torn from you. Your tits bounce in the air and the man above you doesn’t hesitate to grope them roughly. “Stop, please. I’ll—I’ll talk about giving you my position as Harbinger. We can talk. B-but please, please don’t—”
“Do you really think you’re in any position to be making requests right now?”
The man’s glare narrows in on you.
“You’ve been nothing but disobedient since I got here. First, you attack me. Then, you spit in my face. And then, you disobey my order—my order as a Harbinger, bestowed upon you who are now nothing— to call me Scaramouche, and you have the audacity to ask for mercy?”
“P-please,” you whisper, shutting your eyes, trying to block out the feeling of his hands massaging your breasts the way Tartaglia always did so lovingly. You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore, just that you want it all to stop. You’ve had sex more times than anyone can count by now, both for business and for pleasure, but never has it been without your explicit consent. The touches this man layers against your body feel so filthy that you want to cry. “Please, I’ll listen. Just stop. I’ll give you my title, so please…”
“Do it, then.”
You blink up at the man, dumb.
“Obey me,” he says, removing his arms from your body and crossing them. “Call me Scaramouche.”
You stare up at him, drained. Your pride burns, and burns, and burns.
Then it burns out.
“Y...yes, Scaramouche.”
It feels awkward calling this man by a name that used to be yours, but you’ll do what it takes—whatever it takes to keep his disgusting hands off you.
“Do you recognize me as your Harbinger, pet? Do you accept that I’m now the Sixth and you’re nothing?”
“Yes, Scaramouche.”
He slaps you.
“You will only refer to me by that name when I ask for it. At all other times, I’m Master to you.”
Your heart sinks when you realize where this is going. Master is a name you’ve only ever heard used in two contexts: in Mondstadt-speak as a casual title, and in sexual speak as a power trip for whoever demands the nickname.
Horrified, you begin to realize why Scaramouche wants to keep you alive.
But he is Scaramouche, and you’re nothing until you can take that name back. You look for something to hold onto and find nothing in your soul. When you finally look up, it’s with hollow eyes at a man you don’t quite see.
“Yes, Master.”