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It was during routine maintenance when Scaramouche met the youngest of Dottore’s segments. He had been sitting on an operating table, with 18 busy fixing his arm that had been broken during an earlier skirmish. 18 was telling him about the unparalleled success of his most recent experiment. From what he could surmise, it was related to ruin guards, not that Scaramouche paid much attention to 18’s chatter.
Just then, he heard a knock on the door. Scaramouche raised a brow. Now, who could that be?
It wasn’t often that someone dared to knock on the door to Dottore’s operating room. The other segments usually just entered without prior notice and he banned all of his subordinates from even nearing the hall to said room.
He became all the more curious when 18 sighed.
The segment stilled in place. His hands were hovering above Scaramouche’s detached arm as he appeared to be gathering his thoughts.
18’s expression became pinched, “Come in.”
The door creaked open. The sound of footsteps echoed throughout the room. It was a surprise to Scaramouche when he saw a boy, who he supposed was no older than ten years of age, walked inside. He had light-blue curls that cupped his small face and blood-red eyes that held no shine within them.
He resembled a miniature version of Dottore.
“Is this the son of one of your lot?” Scaramouche mused, humored at the thought of the segments reproducing. He was aware that such a possibility was improbable, but he couldn’t help but tease 18. It made him grin all the more when he saw 18 choke on air at his words.
“No!” 18 refuted instantly and vehemently, “Y- You know that we can’t…”
Scaramouche snickered. For all that Dottore’s segments bored him to tears with their incessant chatter, there were moments when they managed to earn his amusement.
He admired the beautiful flush that adorned 18’s typically pale cheeks. Unlike the older segments, who would bite back whenever he made comments at their expense, the younger segments would only fluster.
They have yet to develop a sharp tongue.
It was almost adorable.
“I assume that he’s another segment then.” He looked at the boy and watched as he approached the cabinets and went through some of the files stacked there. It was as if he was searching for something.
“He’s 8.” 18 returned to fixing Scaramouche’s arm.
“I see.”
Scaramouche hummed. It was no wonder that he was so small. Had he stood beside the child segment, he was certain that he would only reach his chest. He knew that Dottore had been a boy once. He was born human, after all, and no human entered the world already grown. But, to see the manifestation of that time of his life in a body so fragile… it made for quite the sight.
The segment was only eight years old.
It reminded Scaramouche of a memory he would rather forget. He kept his eyes on 8 the entire time. 8 didn’t say anything, either blissfully unaware of the scrutiny aimed at him, or perhaps, he simply didn’t care for it.
He sifted through more of the drawers. His brows furrowed when he couldn’t find what he was looking for.
“Do you know where my notebook is?” 8 asked.
His voice was soft. Far softer than Scaramouche had expected. It suited him well.
“Which notebook is this? You have far too many.” 18 kept his head down, not even bothering to raise his head from his work. There was a slight tremble that ran through his usually steady hands.
Scaramouche knew what that meant. 18 must have done something to the notebook 8 was looking for.
“It’s the thick one with the black cover,” 8 murmured, “I remember leaving it here, but I can’t find it at all. Could someone have taken it?”
The corners of 18's lips twitched. Scaramouche noticed it immediately.
There it was. The unmistakable look of a guilty man. It almost made him laugh despite the sting caused by his arm being reattached to his shoulder.
“Maybe.” 18’s voice was clipped.
The silence that followed stretched longer than it should have. Scaramouche watched the exchange with growing interest. It was remarkable how expressive the younger segments of Dottore could be. The older segments had long mastered the art of concealing their feelings behind carefully curated masks. 8, however, threw 18 a withering glare. Though he was the youngest of the segments, he was certainly just as feisty as the others.
“Maybe?” 8 repeated flatly.
18 avoided his gaze in favor of the surgical tools that were spread neatly on the tray beside him, “Why don’t you ask 25? I’m busy right now. Go and bother him instead. He’s definitely willing to help you find that notebook of yours.”
“Hmph.” 8 crossed his arms. Rather than do as 18 wanted, he stayed in place.
Scaramouche’s eyes flicked between the two segments, whose bickering delighted him to no end. 18 looked at him, silently pleading to him to force the child segment to leave the operating room. It was strange that he couldn’t do so himself, especially when considering the age gap between them, but teenagers were known to be sensitive when it came to these matters. Even so, Scaramouche did nothing to help 18.
Why would he? This was certainly far more entertaining.
It was 18’s own fault that he had gotten himself stuck in this mess. It was his responsibility to get out of it. 8 had seemed to come to the same conclusion. He glanced at Scaramouche briefly before he returned his glare at 18 with much more force this time around.
“Give me my notebook back,” 8 demanded.
“I didn’t take it.” It was such a pathetic lie that 8 looked offended at 18’s audacity.
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Stop lying to me!” 8 stomped his foot on the ground. The argument had somehow devolved into the most childish exchange Scaramouche had ever witnessed. Well, one of the participants was quite literally a child, so that made it less embarrassing.
The same couldn’t be said for 18’s pride however.
To think that he was an entire decade older than 8. It was ridiculous that he couldn’t even win an argument against the child segment.
8 suddenly turned toward Scaramouche, “You agree with me, don't you? That he’s lying?”
18 was horrified.
Scaramouche smiled. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was far from malicious. He gestured for 8 to come near him. The child segment immediately obeyed. Up close, he looked even younger than Scaramouche thought. His face still carried traces of baby fat that made him want to coo and pinch his cheeks. It was strange to reconcile that frail appearance with the intelligence hidden behind his cruel, blood-red eyes.
He had to remind himself that this was still Dottore.
Child or not, he was capable of committing unimaginable terror. But, as 8 stood in front of him, he couldn’t help but carry him onto his lap and give him the candied ajilenakh nut that he kept in his pocket. He kept it a secret that he stole the candy from another segment.
“Of course, little one.” It was like an old instinct that he managed to reawaken after years of dormancy, “He’s a horrible liar.”
A strangled noise escaped 18’s throat. He didn’t like any of this at all. 8 gleamed at Scaramouche. He couldn’t tell if it was due to the candy or because he agreed with his claims that 18 was a liar. Perhaps, it was both.
Either way, 8 was insufferably pleased.
“You see! Just give me my notebook back!” 8 huffed. He was indignant when he unwrapped the candied ajilenakh nut and took a small bite of it.
A child. That was what Scaramouche thought as he ran his fingers through 8’s silky hair.
8 was an actual child. One that happened to possess the intellect of an infamous genius, but that didn’t make him any less of a child. He was a boy—forever eight years of age due to his nature as a near-immortal segment.
The realization made him oddly uncomfortable.
Dottore had always been... Dottore.
He was a disaster wrapped in human skin. A monster to those who knew even a fraction of his crimes. Yet, there sat a version of him who still fit comfortably on his lap. A child who would argue pettily against the culprit who took his missing notebook. A child who accepted candy from someone he met for the first time without any suspicion.
It felt wrong.
Scaramouche recalled the image of a boy long gone.
He had dark hair, warm eyes, and a sickly appearance that would have worried those who saw him. Once upon a time, he had been Scaramouche’s fledgling. That was a bygone past however. Now, he was nothing more than a scorned ghost Scaramouche wanted to forget.
He shook his head. It wasn’t the time to dredge up old memories. He focused on 8, whose small hand held the remaining half of the sweet toward him.
Scaramouche blinked, “Oh? What’s this?”
“I’m sharing,” 8 replied.
Sharing. What an absurd concept.
When has anyone ever shared anything with him without wanting something in return? Humans valued equivalent exchange. They traded. They took. Even kindness often arrived with hidden strings attached. Yet, 8 held out half of the candied ajilenakh nut Scaramouche had given him with complete sincerity. Why? Why was the child version of a monster being so nice to him?
“It’s only fair.” 8’s arm remained stubbornly extended.
A strange emotion settled in Scaramouche's chest. It was a heavy feeling that nearly toppled him over.
He took the half-eaten candy and finished it without any protests. After he chewed on it, he looked at 18, whose complexion was now paler than a clean sheet of paper.
“Find his notebook and return it to him,” He told 18, who nearly crumpled at his command. A mischievous chuckle erupted from 8’s lips. He stuck his tongue out, pleased at this turn of events as he mocked the teenage segment.
18 could barely contain himself from stuttering, “H- Huh?! What gave you the right to order me around? You’re not my superior! This… This isn’t fair!”
Scaramouche narrowed his eyes.
18 gulped. Just this once, he didn’t protest any further.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
It wasn’t a secret that among Dottore’s segments, it was 8 who Scaramouche favored the most. It hardly mattered that he knew him for the least amount of time, or that he had more intimate relations with the older segments—a remnant of the original’s fondness for him. He could be in the middle of an important meeting, and he would still let 8 barge in, interrupt him, and pull him away. He wouldn’t even scold him for such a stunt.
Had the other segments done that, he would have yelled at them until their ears became deaf. When it came to 8 however, he would simply carry him into his arms, poke his nose in a playful manner, then ask him why he called for him rather urgently.
“Did something happen?” Scaramouche felt the slightest hint of concern when 8 tugged on his sleeve just to make him leave his seat during a Harbinger meeting.
Pierro was far from pleased at the sight of the newcomer, while Dottore, specifically 45, looked mortified when the youngest version of himself entered the room without as much as knocking. The other Harbingers were a mixture of amused and irritated at the sudden intrusion.
“I couldn’t focus,” 8 replied after Scaramouche excused himself from the meeting, “My doll went missing…”
“Don’t worry. I’ll help you find it.”
Before Scaramouche could take another step, he heard the door to the meeting room creak open. He turned his head and saw that 45 decided to also leave the meeting prematurely. Gone was the fluster that initially took over his features when 8 first walked in. It had been replaced by a glare that could barely be hidden by his mask.
“You—! Have you no shame?!” 45 raised his voice, ready to scold 8, who was quick to bury his face into the crook of Scaramouche’s neck.
Scaramouche tightened his hold on 8, “Lower your voice would you? Your screeching is grating."
“He made me look foolish!” 45 gritted his teeth.
“You did that to yourself,” 8 protested as he peeked his head over Scaramouche’s shoulder. He may be a child, but he was unafraid of standing his ground against the second eldest of Dottore’s segments.
45 was completely incensed. He appeared to be seconds away from spontaneously combusting.
“You little—”
“Be careful there,” Scaramouche interrupted as he took a step back. He placed his hand on the back of 8’s head as he smiled darkly at 45, “Threatening a child in public will hardly improve your already poor reputation.”
“He’s me!” 45 protested. It fascinated Scaramouche how even the most mature of the segments could become so childish when arguing with a literal child.
“So? Maybe you should be more concerned about what that says about you.” Scaramouche shrugged before he walked away with 8 still in his arms. He felt the weight of 45’s eyes linger on his retreating form.
It was silent for a moment. The only sound that he could hear was the pitter-patter of his own footsteps.
That was until—
“I’m sorry.” 8’s voice was muffled.
Scaramouche was confused, “What are you apologizing for? You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You were fighting because of me,” 8 mumbled. 45 may have accused him of lacking shame, but the slump in his posture and his withdrawn gaze said the contrary. For all that he enjoyed 45 losing an argument, he still felt guilty over making Scaramouche go against the segment that he was the closest with.
“That wasn’t your fault.” Scaramouche kept his voice soft as he adjusted his hold on the child segment, “I chose to involve myself because he stepped out of line. Now, let’s go and find your doll. Where did you last see it?”
“I left it at my workbench earlier.”
“I assume that it’s no longer there then?”
8 nodded. Scaramouche hummed thoughtfully. That was all the information that he had. He certainly had his work cut out for him. He carried 8 through the winding halls of Zapolyarny Palace. When they arrived at 8’s workbench, there was nothing amiss. It seemed that only his doll had been taken. How strange. Scaramouche had a suspicion as to what actually happened. However, he lacked proof as of now, so he kept his speculation silent.
They eventually began to search through the rooms that 8 had entered earlier that day. To no avail, they struggled to find the missing doll. 8 was increasingly distressed the longer they looked and found nothing.
Not even a single clue could be found.
“Where could it be?” 8 chewed on his bottom lip as he rummaged through a pile of boxes.
Scaramouche watched him for a moment. It was obvious that the child segment was trying his best to not devolve into a state of panic. However, the longer they searched, the more frantic his movement became. Though he had no need to breathe, his chest would heave concerningly, which caused his entire body to tremble. Even his curls seemed more disheveled than before from how often he had run his hands through them.
That wasn’t good. Children shouldn’t be subjected to this much stress. Scaramouche knew that 8 wasn’t a normal human child, but he was still worried about him. The only boy he took care of in his past had been a frail little thing, barely able to survive a room that was too dusty.
8 wasn’t that boy.
He was much stronger, much healthier, and was far from a real child despite his appearance. Scaramouche knew him for centuries at this point. 8 had never changed. The child segment would forever be eight years old, eternally stuck in a body that would never grow, with a mind never meant to develop any further.
Scaramouche couldn’t bear it. He crouched down beside 8 and patted his back. He felt 8 stiffen at his touch, which concerned him even more.
“I can just buy you a new doll if we can’t find it.” He tried to calm 8’s bubbling anxiety.
“But… but…” 8 wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
Scaramouche felt something unpleasant twist inside his hollow chest. He hated it. Not the child segment, but that feeling of helplessness that he thought he left behind the moment he joined the Fatui. The way 8’s voice trembled despite how hard he tried to keep it steady. He was but a boy whose unshed tears Scaramouche wanted to make sure never trickled down his cheeks.
“It won’t be the same,” 8 whispered. His hands clenched tightly around the edge of the box before him.
It was a pitiful sight.
Had Scaramouche been made with a heart, he knew that it would have broken when 8 struggled to hold back any of the sobs that escaped his lips. He had never seen him like this before. It was the first time he ever witnessed a version of Dottore cry. It hurt all the more because it was the child segment who wept; pathetic as he sniffled, but so sincere with his vulnerability. All of this over a missing doll… It proved just how young 8 really was.
8 was nothing more than a child.
How could Scaramouche ever let him suffer?
“Hush, dear. There’s no need to cry,” Scaramouche said as he scooped 8 into his lap and cradled him, “We’ll find your doll even if we have to turn this entire palace upside down. So dry your tears now, will you?”
“O- Okay…” 8 sniffled.
Just then, a cough echoed from behind them. It sounded fake, forced out just to gain their attention.
“You truly are an embarrassment.” The sudden intrusion caused 8 to flinch. Scaramouche turned his head, where he noticed 45 standing by the door. The segment wore a scowl on his lips as he walked toward them.
Scaramouche raised a brow, “Unless you’re here to help, then leave us be.”
“Hmph. I’ll do you one better. I actually found the doll that he lost.” 45 pulled out something soft from the pocket of his coat. It was a doll based on a creature Scaramouche had never seen before—blue in color, with floppy ears, a strange smile, and was wearing a conical hat on its head.
What could it possibly be?
Never mind that for now. He watched as 8 perked up and grabbed the doll from 45’s loose grip. He held the doll as though it was a precious babe. He inspected it for a short second before he embraced it tightly.
“You found my doll!” 8 bounced in delight, quite unlike his typically calm demeanor. Scaramouche was just glad that 8 was no longer weeping into his clothes.
“Where did you find it?” Scaramouche asked.
“25 had it the whole time,” 45 sneered, “He accidentally spilled something on it and decided to wash it before his mistake could be discovered. Unfortunately, the little brat returned to his workbench earlier than expected and saw that his doll wasn’t there.”
Ah. So that was what actually happened.
Scaramouche’s fingers twitched.
He supposed that he would have a private conversation with 25 later on. Seriously. All this trouble over a doll that had hardly been missing in reality. Oh well. It wasn’t like he minded that 8 interrupted the meeting he was forced to attend. It had been a boring affair. He smiled when he heard 8 giggling as he pinched the doll’s plush cheek.
“This is an aranara.” 8 showed the doll to Scaramouche, who had no idea what an aranara was, but still indulged the child segment by ruffling his hair.
“It’s cute.” Scaramouche carried 8 as he stood up.
45 scoffed, “It’s utterly childish.”
“Stop that,” Scaramouche tutted as the three of them left the cramped room piled high with boxes, “He’s only eight years old. He’s allowed to be childish.”
“It’s unbecoming of a Harbinger,” 45 grumbled under his breath, but made no further protests.
If anyone had told Scaramouche when he first joined the Fatui that he would someday spend his entire afternoon searching for a doll that belonged to his colleague's child segment, he would have laughed at their face. But, as he felt 8 rest his head against his shoulder, keeping the doll close to his chest, Scaramouche only felt content.
“Thank you…” 8 mumbled.
Scaramouche hummed, while 45 pursed his lips. 8 then closed his eyes, completely tuckered out after everything that he had done that day.
“You were much cuter when you were his age.”
“Shut up, Scaramouche.”
That made Scaramouche chuckle. He knew well that the older segments had always been irascible when it came to their ages. Though, this time around, he didn’t bother to bicker with 45 since he did find 8’s dearest doll. It was an act that deserved a reward.
Scaramouche stood on his toes. He planted a short kiss onto 45’s lips. This earned him a lovely blush which went down to the segment’s neck.
“You did well,” Scaramouche admitted.
“Don’t mention it.” 45 averted his gaze. It was adorable how shy he became at even the barest of intimacy.
8 then hit 45 with his doll, “Ew. You’re disgusting.”
45 almost jumped in shock. The child segment glared at him, though it was obvious that he didn’t mean it. There was no heat behind his eyes. Scaramouche patted 45’s back as he shook his head at the segments’ antics.
The two were arguing once more. To think that they were among the remnants of Dottore’s legacy.
Scaramouche could only sigh.
The segments were a handful, but that was alright. He had grown used to their foolishness.