Chapter Text
Pantalone knew obsession well.
It was draped over his bed in the highest quality silks, threads of gold glittering in the moonlight. It hung on his walls, the rarest paintings and antiques in the land, hand-picked from Liyuean expeditions and Fontainian galleries. It tempted him each evening from the cabinet by his desk, Mondstadt's best wines swirling in his hand-blown crystal glass when he indulged, the crimson seeping into the skin of his lips. It adorned his body, from the glimmering frames of his glasses, forged from Starsilver ores usually reserved for paints not the fire, to the diamond and sapphire rings wrapped around his fingers, to his shoes, more matte than the jewellery but none cheaper for it, handcrafted from Spinocrocodile's leather, cut and shaped and stitched and polished until perfection.
He knew obsession well, for it followed him every day, the coins in his pocket and the cheque paper he rubbed between his gloved fingers, and the hatred he harboured deep enough in his heart for the Tsaritsa to entertain him. It motivated him, pushed him forward, curled the corners of his lips up in pleasant smiles, softened his voice, until he wrapped the foolish investors and debtors alike around his little finger, an extra ring of its own merit.
It wasn't hard for him, then, to see it in Il Dottore. It spilled out of the man in jagged movements, in maniacal chuckles that tended to follow exceptionally bold claims and dangerous theories. It clung to him during Harbinger meetings, when he was forced out of his lab and often present only physically, his mask a perfect veil for his scattered thoughts. Pantalone watched him sometimes, when Pierro spoke of matters unrelated to funding or deicide, thus of no consequence to him. He didn't think the Doctor listened to their Director at all. No, in fact, as Pantalone sat with his fingers woven together beneath his chin, his thumb slowly turning the one free ring of his other thumb, he was rather certain that the Doctor's thoughts were still in his lab, still cutting subjects open, weighing dosages, considering substances best suited for whatever particular results he wanted this time around – still controlled by an obsession of his own.
It followed him in the high hallways much like the rumours, whispers of child experiments and murder pulling Fatui lips down in frowns, be it of disgust or fear. To be deemed vile by fellow Harbingers – none of whom were innocent, their seats carved in bone and painted with blood – surely was an achievement. And yet, none of the segments seemed to carry guilt or grief over that. Every scowl and distrustful look was merely a price the Doctor was willing to pay for his success.
For that reason, in the deep crevices of his mind, Pantalone could admit that he respected Il Dottore. To live with an all-devouring obsession and wield it like a weapon against the world, shape it into a drive stronger than money or fame or love – he felt a kinship, and though he barely interacted with the Omega Build beyond the meetings and semi-regular bargains over research funds, he thought their relationship was civil at least. It wasn't a claim many others could make in regards to their Second.
Any obsession, of course, could easily turn into a threat against someone who decided to pry its owner away from it. So when Pierro had summoned Pantalone and told him to do just that, he was hesitant. He bought himself time with a slow, calm tone and teasing smiles while he scrambled internally for a valid excuse. One that would not expose his weakness.
He could not suggest Capitano as a better fit, someone who could stand a chance at overpowering the Doctor. He could not send Columbina, whose bribe could be of more value, for if she offered Dottore another chance to probe her mysterious power reserves, the Doctor would be willing to bend – no, redirect – his focus. He could not tell Pierro to do it himself, however much he wanted to.
“I realise this is not a request you're delighted to hear,” Pierro cut into his thoughts, preemptively severing any lifelines he might have found. “I don't want it to end in bloodshed, and you are one of the few I could ask with confidence.”
His pride piqued, Pantalone knew he had to agree. He couldn't let go of the opportunity to bargain, however. “It is my responsibility to organise the entirety of the ball,” he settled on, letting a light chuckle fill the room. “Surely you can find someone with more time on their hands to… summon the Doctor.”
Pierro, ever immune to Pantalone's charms and tricks, didn't return the smile. His voice did lose some of its commanding edge, though. They were on the same page. “I'll send Sandrone to help with the venue.”
It took all of Pantalone's wilting patience and composure to not scoff in the Director's face. “Marionette's tastes are not exactly suited for Snezhnayan great balls,” he offered diplomatically. “She'd be more fit to handle the desserts,” he added, already slotting Sandrone's skills into something useful. If he was being offered a Harbinger to help him, he would not dismiss it so easily. “I'm sure she could be encouraged to prepare Fontainian sweets.”
Pierro hummed, a low sound that promised agreement. “Pulcinella, then. He is already overseeing the security for the event. Surely he will understand that the interior needn’t be so rigid for Her Majesty's celebration.” In a rare occurrence, he offered a smirk.
“Do ask him to not sneak in too much Fire-Water. We want the first dance, at least, to look presentable.”
“I'll mention it.”
Pantalone nodded. Two Harbingers at his disposal was a fair price for plummeting into the cold laboratory under the palace to attempt the impossible. “Very well, then.”
While the logistics of it made sense, to isolate the screams and the foul smells, Pantalone felt personally offended by the descent to the Doctor's laboratory. It was akin to climbing into a dungeon, the stairway narrow and cold compared to the great halls above. At least the lights were installed at regular intervals, offering cold but reliable visibility.
He noted the exact step at which the palace's staff decided to turn back, the bloodstains covering the steps and blooming on the walls in an increasing intensity. Pantalone leaned towards one such stain, pushing his glasses up with a grimace, to confirm that yes, it was old and dried, so, yes, he'd have to have a word with the cleaners and encourage them to do their jobs correctly. He didn't frequent the lab often, but he refused to face the inconvenience of slipping on filth due to another's incompetence.
He adjusted his gloves and twisted one of his rings, waiting for one of the segments to open the steel door. He could not see the cameras, but that didn't mean there were none.
Surely enough, the construction hissed and the door slid open.
While Pantalone rarely interacted with Omega, he'd grown accustomed to the other segments. Many were younger and more naive, making them fertile fields for his charms, bribery and manipulation. He'd guaranteed himself access to many locks and safes buried deep within the Zapolyarny Palace's security systems.
Thus, he was delighted to see his first interaction would be with one of his favourites, a younger version of Dottore. One that wore its mask a little crooked, showing more of the face, but still none of the eyes. Its hair was the same pale blue, but shorter, lacking the bangs. This one was as ambitious and mad as the rest of them, but the air of arrogance, while ever-present, hadn't clung to it so heavily yet.
“Regrator,” the segment said with a pleased smile, stepping aside to let him in. Pantalone liked to think this favouritism went both ways.
“Agreeably quiet today,” he said, walking into the lion's den and looking around in feigned indifference. He had only been in the lab twice before, and on both occasions he had stumbled upon some poor fool being dismantled or stitched back together, and refusing to suffer in silence.
Now, it was… not truly quiet, on account of the hum of machinery and the sight of several puppets draped in white coats moving inside. But it wasn't as headache-inducing as his previous visits.
He pulled his elegant coat closer. Partly for extra warmth, but mostly to save the hem from dragging across the floor. The chemical scent filled the space, and he did not want to risk any of it seeping into his clothes.
The segment pressed a finger against a reader by the door and it slid shut, the weight of it shaking the notes pinned to the walls. A new contraption. Pantalone’d need to get his fingerprints into that database.
“Mostly theory today,” the younger Dottore said, leading him through the cluttered workspace and into a room of its own. Two other segments stood in the middle of the hall, locked in a heated, whispered discussion.
Pantalone followed, tucking his hands into the thick sleeves of his coat. The lab was impossibly cold. For pragmatic purposes, he assumed, passing tubes and samples laid out in the open. His breath was the only one in the room leaving a puff of steam in the air, after all.
“Would it be overly hopeful of me to assume it's nothing too critical?” He asked.
The segment leaned against the desk, arms crossed, and tilted its head in thought. “Nothing too close to a breakthrough,” it said with a sharp smirk that revealed the pointed teeth.
Glory be. Pantalone had never considered himself a lucky man; he had to fight tooth and nail for all the wealth and power he'd accumulated, forever pushed aside to the shadows and away from the divine gaze. This, though, was most fortunate. This gave him room for discussion.
“And what of your projects?” He inquired, indulging the segment.
The smirk broke into a grin at that, one that Pantalone imagined would've sent the cleaning staff running. One extra variable for his consideration. Perhaps he could negotiate an hour a day to keep the door closed so the stairway can get cleaned properly. The segment gestured to the table, the white coat fluttering with the motion.
“A prototype,” it said, pushing away from the desk just to turn to it fully and shuffle through the papers. In its haste, it sent some pages flying. Pantalone deftly caught one and scanned its contents. To his dismay, the rough sketches and barely legible marginalia told him nothing. The segment unburied a metallic contraption from the desk and held it up like a trophy. “We're preparing for the Electro Gnosis’ capture.”
“What do you intend to do with it?”
The door opened behind Pantalone; In an instant, his shoulders tensed and he stepped to the side, using the movement to discreetly reach for the pistol in the inner pocket of his coat. A tired-looking segment walked in, offered him a half-hearted nod, grabbed a pile of papers from the desk, and left without a word.
Pantalone repositioned himself to keep both the door and the desk in his line of sight.
“Great things, Regrator,” the segment said with a predatory grin, tapping a finger against the cold metal.
“I should hope so,” he drawled, “considering the amount of Mora I pour into these ventures.”
“These are things you can't put a price tag on!”
Pantalone's smile was thin. “Try me.”
The segment hesitated, its smile faltering. “Well… Say…” It put the prototype down. “Using a Gnosis as a power source?”
Pantalone looked down at the lone page in his hand. “Is this what you are building here? A glorified Delusion?”
The segment snatched the paper back. “That, and so much more,” it hissed. “With the right vessel, a Celestia-approved Archon wouldn't even be necessary. Imagine: the power of the divine, at our disposal.”
What a beautiful image that was. To be on par with the gods would mean having the power to drag them down from their pedestals, one bloodied hook at a time. Until the thrones were all left empty, and everyone walked on the same level ground.
Pantalone regarded the scattered notes with a little more respect.
“It's far from priceless,” he said, rolling his shoulders before he began walking out of the room and towards his true target, “but it could be worth the investment.”
“What, then, would be priceless to you?” The segment demanded, trailing after him.
“The concept won't exist at all,” he said, confidently closing in on the door at the far end of the laboratory, passing the loud, chaotic mess of papers, tubes, vials, syringes and segments. “Not as long as Mora rules the world.”
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
This room was bigger, sporting an empty bed with built-in restraints in the middle of it, an overhead lamp fortunately turned off. The walls were adorned with shelves, some of them filled with books, others with tools or jars; it was best not to dwell on the contents, Pantalone thought.
Omega stood at the desk at the far end of the room, hunched over his work, his back to the entrance. An end of a quill, whipping furiously to the sides, peeked out from behind his arm. Patiently, Pantalone folded his arms together in his sleeves and waited. Civil did not mean friendly, and he knew that if someone interrupted him as he neared finalising a financial report, he'd likely throw a dagger at the bastard's throat.
His companion segment lingered at the threshold, leaning against the door frame. The decision to remain quiet had evidently spread to it as well.
Eventually, Omega scoffed and stilled the quill. “What is it?” He asked without turning.
And thus, the dance began.
“I'm sure you have an idea,” Pantalone said with a smile.
“Got the short straw, hm?” Dottore chuckled.
“I volunteered,” Pantalone sneered back.
Omega clicked his tongue. “How many birthdays have there been? I'm sure Her Majesty wouldn't mind me skipping one.”
“I heard you did, once, and it pained her greatly.”
The Doctor's head turned slightly, bits of his mask visible behind the pale blue curtain. His earring caught the light, revealing the rich hue of the liquid swirling inside. “That was over a century ago. I'd like to believe she has matured since then. But, if not…” He gestured to the side.
Another segment stepped into the light, and Pantalone was taken aback at the resemblance; while other segments were clearly various versions of Dottore, this one simply resembled Omega. It stood with one arm behind its back, wearing a cold smile.
Familiar, yet different.
“Have you not slept recently, perhaps?” Pantalone asked, eyeing the segment up and down as he tried to pinpoint the source of the dichotomy.
His question was rewarded with Omega's full profile. “Pardon?”
“Even I can tell it's different from you. Do you think others won't recognize a cheap copy?”
The cold smile disappeared. “Cheap?” The segment repeated, irked. The fist at its side clenched. Pantalone kept his hand near his pistol and the smile on his face.
Omega waved a dismissive hand. “It emits the same elemental frequencies,” he said, his voice draining of interest. “Enough to make the Tsaritsa believe I was there.”
Even if it was enough to fool the Heavenly Principles themselves, it wasn't enough to fool Pantalone – and he would not let Dottore make it seem otherwise. “Surely you don't expect no one to use their real eyes at the banquet.”
“You underestimate the power of complacency, banker. No one will spare a second glance.”
“I will see,” Pantalone said. “And I will know.”
The sharp edges of the mask glimmered in the cold light when the Doctor tilted his head back with a chuckle. “And why would I care about that?” His amusement lingered for a moment before it was replaced by a sudden frown. A warning. “Surely, you wouldn't cut the funding for world-changing research over a glorified dance party? Set your priorities straight, Regrator. Not everything can be bought with gold.”
A nuanced headache. Pantalone was beginning to understand why Dottore surrounded himself with an ocean of clones. Why no one else was willing to talk to the personified migraine in front of him. Still, he had captured half of the mask, and he would not let the rest go so easily.
“Good,” he said, coating his tone in a fraction of the hatred he felt for that wretched thing, Mora. The Doctor finally turned away from his desk to face him. A victory he had yet to seize. “It's a faulty system, one that reeks of imbalance.”
“Ohhh?” Dottore purred, an open invitation.
However, before more could be said, he pulled the rug out from under Pantalone, by reaching towards the desk and revealing a golden chess piece.
It shimmered like Cor Lapis, hummed with something low and ugly, and caused Pantalone's brows to furrow and jaw to set without his permission. By the time he schooled his features back to neutrality, he knew it was too late.
“Is this what denied you the divine favour, or was it the other way around, I wonder,” Dottore's voice said, yet the smiling lips beneath the mask hadn't moved. Pantalone glanced toward the door, at his favourite segment, and narrowed his eyes.
“Out,” Omega said, a curt command that made the other segment bristle.
“I have the right to be here,” it seethed.
Pantalone wondered briefly if Pierro's no bloodshed rules included the other segments. When Omega jerked forward, though, the door slammed shut.
It was jarring, but not really alien to him, how easily the amusement returned to the Doctor's drawl. “I must admit, I was curious to see how far you would go in your pretend blasphemy, just for me. A favour earned in Jester's eyes, but lost in mine – I wondered, is this the kind of exchange you prefer?”
Pantalone stayed silent, watching the Doctor slowly cross the room, twirling the Gnosis in his hand. Held in a white medical glove, it almost looked like evidence. A murder weapon. How fitting.
“The gambit was on the nose, but rather effective, wouldn't you agree? …It is most delightful to learn that it was not, in fact, pretend.”
“A favour earned doubly, then,” he said flatly, pushing his glasses up to rub the bridge of his nose.
Dottore stood before him, the cold mask assessing him one last time. “I never said I'll go.”
He opened his eyes. The Doctor's mouth pulled into a smirk, but he leaned back slightly. Pantalone glanced at the Gnosis. “You will,” he said, fixing his smile back into place. “And I'll make it worth your time. A fair exchange.”
“Worth my time, how?”
“I'm sure your research has taken you to the Chasm.”
Dottore looked back to the Gnosis, turning it idly between his fingers. “Indeed it has. A lovely place, if one enjoys chasing the shadows of the past. The corrosion, though, is the nail in the coffin…” He chuckled at his own joke. Pantalone managed to not grimace.
“Have you heard of the nation that lived there… before?”
Dottore's mask snapped back to him. Under the Doctor's full attention, Pantalone smiled a little wider. “What of it?”
“Lang-Gan. It is said they worshipped the moons,” Pantalone murmured. “Little is known, of course, but there are traces. Paintings, poems, statuettes. Rare and precious finds, of course.”
“The moons,” Dottore repeated, leaning in. “Plural?”
Pantalone spread his arms out, withstanding the momentary rush of cold. “Now is neither time nor place for such old stories. Ask me again when I have had a glass of wine and witnessed the first dance.”
The silence stretched longer than Pantalone had anticipated. He pulled his coat tighter over himself and waited, the sting of antiseptic filling his nose. It was sterile and clean, and he found he didn't mind at all. One of Dottore's pale bangs lost its fight against gravity and slipped over the mask.
Then, a flash of familiar, sharp teeth. “Clever viper. Very well. I'll attend the silly celebration. What's the dress code?”
That was one step further than Pantalone had expected. “Not a lab coat,” he said, pointedly looking over Dottore's attire. “Do you possess any vests or coats that resemble formal wear?”
The Doctor was already retreating to his desk. “And if not?” he threw over his shoulder. “Would you offer one of yours?”
“No.”
On his way out, he stepped wide of the two segments he had seen earlier; their argument had clearly escalated, as they were currently sparring on the floor, rolling across the white tiles.
Pantalone peeked into the smaller room. His favourite segment glanced up.
“How did it go?”
“Rather well, all things considered.”
It nodded, screwing something small into the metallic contraption on the table. “He hadn't noticed, you know.”
“Hm?”
“That you don't have a Vision.”
The idea struck him as ridiculous, but the implication of assistance quickly drowned out those thoughts. He frowned. “I can handle myself during negotiations.”
The segment shrugged. “Just saying.”
Another screw. “Will you be using it for tests?”
“Partly. Each Gnosis carries a different energy, so it won't give me the perfect data. But I can at least estimate the necessary durability.”
Different energy. It made sense. The rigid, unyielding energy of that golden rook… something strict, unforgiving, yet ultimately ignorant to the consequences of its own power. To flood the world with Mora, shackle its people so, all in the name of contracts – there was nothing fair about such a world.
Pantalone dug his fingers into his forearm, turning to leave to hide the motion. “Good luck, then,” he said, walking out the door.
“Likewise, Regrator.”