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musings-of-miss-j · 2 months

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no rest for the wicked (nor the foolish)

part six: in which you wrangle out information about the doctor's segments, discover a library and obtain the favour of its obscenely wealthy resident

a harbingers x gn reader series!! (includes dottore, childe, arlecchino and pantalone x reader. the rest of the harbingers will most likely not be romantic interests)

notes: is the burn even burning. slow burn, gn neutral reader who is occasionally referred to as 'miss', smart-ass reader with just a sprinkle of social anxiety and a healthy dose of skepticism

warnings: blood and organs. are we even surprised at this point

series masterlist

as always, let me know if you find any pronoun slips!! oh, and friendly reminder that reblogs help circulate my work much better than likes <3

word count: 4628 words

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“They are not clones,” he replied dismissively. “Have you nothing to say to explain yourself?”

“In that case, how precisely do you define them?” You prodded, all anxiety at your lateness forgotten in the face of this engrossing new mystery. “I’m assuming you created them. How, if not by cloning?”

The Doctor crossed his arms and stared you down. You gazed back up at him, resolute and unmoving in your curiosity. You looked different today, he noted; you apparently still hadn’t found your cloak judging from the fact you were wearing Childe’s, damn him,and the shadows under your eyes were more pronounced than usual. He frowned behind his mask. Had you not gotten enough sleep? Perhaps he shouldn’t have kept you in the lab so late; after all, sleep deprivation would make you more prone to committing foolish blunders in the vicinity of his precious experiments. He couldn’t have that.

“My segments are none of your concern,” he said with an air of finality.

“Doctor, as your apprentice, am I not entitled to having any questions outside my realm of expertise answered by you?”

Oh, you devious thing.

With a dismissive wave of his gloved hand, the Doctor swept past you towards the reflux apparatus he set up the night before.

“Provide an acceptable excuse for your tardiness, and perhaps then I’ll be more accommodating.”

You huffed and rolled your eyes, unsurprised by his persistent give-and-take mentality, and made your way to your array of petri dishes. Under different conditions, the fungi growing within them developed a multitude of characteristics; under direct sunlight, tendrils of green plantlife snaked through the mycelium, when submerged in water the fungi formed tiny yet distinctive fins, and many other such phenomena.

“I had an encounter with Lady Eight and Lord Eleven after the lab session.”

“One that lasted well past midnight?” He asked, stealing glances at you as he set up the next step of his current experiment.

“Yes,” you confirmed with a disdainful roll of your eyes. “Hence my lack of punctuality. I had to entertain guests.”

Outrage flared in Dottore’s chest. How dare they intrude upon you at such an inopportune time? Of course, he conveniently dismissed the fact that he was the one who kept you so late in the first place; as far as he was concerned, he was entitled to your company. You were his apprentice, after all.

“Understandable enough,” he conceded.

You shot him a look. “Well? Your… segments? What are they, precisely?”

He muttered something unintelligible before responding. “Iterations of myself at various ages.”

“I counted seven of them. Are there any more? What purpose does their existence serve? How did you create them?”

“You’re terribly inquisitive today, dear student,” he drawled, holding a test tube to the light and swirling the contents. You frowned. Did he intend to leave your questions unanswered? You really were awfully curious. “Count yourself lucky that I’m in fine spirits today.”

Visibly brightening, you rested your chin in your hands and your elbows on the workbench as you waited for him to go on. You never did seem to notice that he was always in a good mood whenever it came to you and your ceaseless inquiries.

“You counted correctly, there are indeed only seven of them,” he began, preparing a solution for the day’s work with the various test tubes in front of him. “I created them using techniques similar to those utilised in ancient ruin guards, but imbedded with my consciousness and the ideals I held at different phases of my life. This allows me to approach any problem from multiple perspectives, and prevents me from becoming restricted to familiar cognitive patterns.”

You hummed thoughtfully, brow furrowed as you mulled over his answer.

“But how did you ensure that the segment’s outlooks are exactly the same as the ones you used to have? Does your current personality not create some sort of bias and alter the way in which you view your… past self?”

The Doctor nodded his approval; you were asking the right questions.

“I am not heralded as a genius for nothing,” came his amused reply.

“That is a wholly unsatisfactory answer,” you grumbled, but let it slide. “Why haven’t I seen them before now?”

He elected to ignore that.

You managed to wriggle out of the Doctor’s snide remarks that you were getting lazy and make your way to the dining hall on time, for once. A restock was absolutely necessary; you’d run out of food in your dorm, and considering the sizeable journey you had to make to reach the dining hall it was a much easier endeavour to just hoard quick meals like an animal going into hibernation. Besides, you didn’t want to leave Arlie waiting, either. While you still didn’t know what kind of power she held, nor to what extent it would affect you, you were far from excited to have her demonstrate that power if you somehow managed to displease her. Even the Doctor, Childe and Signora appeared more manageable; at the very least, you knew exactly how they could make your life miserable if they wished, while Arlie was shrouded in mystery save for her dizzying, razor-sharp grace. Her special brand of courtesy felt like it would leave you scarred and bleeding out if you didn’t watch your step; a knife’s edge you had to dance around and an irresistible enigma for someone as relentlessly inquisitive as you.

After loading up a plate and sliding one of the chefs a tidy stack of mora to have packaged meals sent to your dorm, you slid into the seat across from Arlie at the table by the window you were somehow consistently lucky enough to snag (luck had nothing to do with it, really. She made damn sure no one else would sit there). Clearly she’d arrived some time ago, judging from the empty pot of coffee in front of her, and she offered you a nod of acknowledgment as you sat down. After your first meeting, she’d abandoned the purple robes that had were meant to serve the purpose of disguising her as an electro cicin mage, and now whenever you saw her she donned sleek, finely-tailored suits. You couldn’t say they didn’t look marvellous on her.

“I was expecting to see you at dinner, not this early.”

“The doctor was an in amicable mood,” you replied, buttering your roll and slathering on a layer of too-sweet jam. Mona had perfected both the art of astrology and jams; you missed her and the flawlessly balanced confections she’d make during the rare instances she had the mora to spare.

“Why are you staring at that bread roll as though it made you an orphan before your very eyes?” Arlie’s silky voice took on a bemused edge, snapping you out of your reverie. You were more than a little surprised by her question; you liked to think of yourself as somewhat difficult to read. Perhaps you were, but nothing escaped her searching gaze.

“I was just ruminating over my research.” It no longer unsettled you how smoothly the lie flowed from your tongue.

Annoyance spiked in her chest. Inconceivable, that you would entertain any thoughts that didn’t involve her. You smiled slightly. “And your ever-cryptic identity.”

She shook her head, laughing quietly. The previous frustration quickly dissipated. “Cheeky, aren’t you?”

“Tastefully curious,” you corrected with a laugh of your own.

“It’s hardly as if you’re the most comprehensible of people, either.”

You grinned. “I’m inclined to disagree, Arlie. Why, I’m an open book!”

“I’m having trouble translating your pages, then.”

“Linguistics isn’t your area of expertise, I take it?” You teased, lifting your fork to your lips. Casual conversation with Arlie felt less like balancing on a tightrope over a clearing swarming with tigers and more like finding that one of the tigers was actually quite civil and pleasant company, if you overlooked the teeth and claws and minded your manners.

“I’ll gladly learn if it means understanding you better.” Her silver-tongued reply and suave smile had you blushing and taking a moment to collect yourself.

“And you have the unprecedented confidence to call me cheeky,” you quipped.

Savouring the lapse in your composure, she replied bracingly. “Being timid doesn’t get you anywhere. Listen. Request forms will be issued later today. Make sure to submit yours before midnight.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Ah, I see. To restock any necessities we might have exhausted, yes?”

“Precisely.”

Fantastic. You needed a new turtleneck sweater after the eventful dissection with the Doctor left if bloodstained beyond repair.

“I assume the Regrator is the one responsible for overseeing such matters?”

She frowned behind her mask. Just what did he have to do with anything? Why would you bring him into the conversation? Or anyone, for that matter? “Yes, that’s right.”

You shot her a puzzled glance at the sudden frigidity in her voice. Maybe she held a grudge against him, you reasoned; it was entirely possible that she was one of his higher-ranking subordinates. Or maybe she was a Harbinger who held contempt for one of her colleagues.

“The palace truly is a self-sustaining community,” you remarked. “Do soldiers and recruits ever leave for anything besides missions?”

“No. Snezhnaya is far from a forgiving place, and there’s safety to be had between these walls.”

So the Fatui were effectively isolated from the rest of Snezhnayan society, then. You vaguely remembered from an introductory politics lecture that such physical separation between civilians and the ruling body could easily cause unrest and eventually conflict, tearing the nation apart. Oh, well. Hopefully your diploma would be complete long before that happened.

With food in your stomach and the usual vague wonderings about Arlie in your head, you returned to the lab.

“Oh, good,” Dottore remarked without looking up from organ modification he was performing. He insisted that it was enhancement, optimisation, and you firmly maintained that it was nothing but needless meddling. “You’ve finally returned. Come here and help me locate the damned tricuspid valve.”

“Surely you’re not so old that your eyesight is failing, doctor?” You asked, removing your leather gloves in favour of the horrible yellow plasticky pair. With a contemplative hum, you leaned over the countertop to survey the bleeding heart (ha, ha) more closely. Remarkable, really, how precise the Doctor’s incisions were; even you had to swallow your pride and admit that he truly was the best of the best, the epitome of perfection so highly sought after by any academic. Noting the blood dripping onto the floor, you winced. Perfection tampered by a thorough indifference to anything that wasn’t his research would be a more accurate description. You batted away his hands and took the scalpel the two of you were always fighting over, making a clean cut through the right atrium and gently peeling away the torn muscle until you could see the flimsy tissue you were looking for.

“There’s your valve,” you said, handing him back the scalpel with no small measure of reluctance. The rules dictated that he’d get to use it for the rest of the day since he got it first, after all.

He ran his bloodied thumb along the edge of his mask before going back to poking delicately at the tissue. You grimaced, watching the white leather of his mask stain crimson where he touched it.

“Flawless,” he murmured.

“Yes, quite,” you agreed, surveying the heart over his shoulder. It had clearly been removed by someone exceptionally skilled, every slice through the tender flesh perfectly made.

Ironically, Dottore was referring to your work. And you, in general.

You left the lab tired but satisfied. The day’s experiment had involved lifting several heavy mechanical components; ruin guard’s remains, to be precise. To your eternal chagrin the Doctor hadn’t struggled in the slightest, although you knew for a fact his sleep schedule was deplorable and he so rarely ate anything at all; in fact, you’d made a habit of discreetly leaving plates of food around the lab for him. A dish of vegetable stir fry you’d made in a sleep-deprived haze when your stomach rumbled loud enough to wake you and most likely every one of the castle’s inhabitants, a bowl of fruit, an exquisite chocolate mousse Anya had whipped up for you, and other such snacks scattered throughout the lab far away from any dangerous chemicals. Not that you’d admit to bringing them for him, much like how he’d deny having eaten any. What a strange, prideful pair the two of you made.

Your (well. Childe’s) coat snagged on something as you walked back to the dorm, yanking you back and forcing an obscene curse from your mouth. You crouched to inspect the source, and to your surprise found it to be the edge of a door that was left cracked. It would’ve been invisible if it were closed, and hooking your fingers into the narrow gap and pulling yielded no results. The door didn’t budge. Intrigued, you knelt fully to inspect the wedge; upon running your fingers up and down the seam you discovered a series of tiny, circular indents in the wood.

“Eureka,” you whispered softly. A similar mechanism could be found in several other places in the palace after careful inspection, and to your amusement they all required the same pattern to unlock. Terrible security. You tapped the indents in the order you’d long since memorised, and allowed a tiny, smug smile to overtake your lips when the door swung dutifully open. You slipped inside. The sheer height of hundreds of rows of bookshelves made itself known, and you let out a tiny ‘oh’ of astonishment. A library. The most beautiful one you’d ever stepped foot in, at that; even the House of Daena with its towering arches and marble couldn’t compare to the soft, weathered charm of this place, all hand-woven rugs and big windows framed by velvet curtains, plush armchairs and an array of tasteful stationery littered across every surface, cream paper and deeply coloured quills and ebony ink. You stood frozen in the doorway, taking it all in. If only you’d discovered this place long ago. A quick inspection of the books on the shelves revealed a myriad of genres and topics, even a few analyses bound in leather of subjects you’d itched to study but couldn’t because they were forbidden by the Akademiya. You glanced furtively around. Silent as the grave. Before you could lose your nerve, you quickly began pulling tomes from the shelves and stowing them in your leather satchel; surely no one would complain if you borrowed a few until the next time you could visit this miraculous place. Looking back, you were appalled by your own bravado.

“Oh? And what have we here?”

You froze, a book on the intricacies of destroying Visions halfway in your satchel. Oh, curses.

“Nothing but a curious student, sir,” you replied as smoothly as you could, turning to face the owner of the voice: a well-groomed man dressed entirely in black, from his raven hair to the shimmering jewels studded on the high collar of his shirt. Nauseatingly wealthy, that much was obvious from the fineness of the fur he wore and what seemed to be a diamond ring on his finger. The part of your brain that wasn’t panicking at being caught wondered if he’d let you test whether it was real or not; a simple and visually pleasing procedure to determine the refractive index was all it would take.

The stranger picked at his gloves, watching you over the rim of a rather excellent pair of glasses (you could tell from the set of the lenses in the frames; seamless as the door you’d unlocked to get into the library.)

“Really, now? A thirst for knowledge is all that drove you here, then?”

You swallowed nervously. Just how would you get yourself out of this predicament?

“The door was ajar, and I couldn’t help but wonder what might be inside.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“And how did you manage to open the door all the way?”

You bit back the smug smile that was threatening to appear. Best to downplay yourself so as not to seem too clever; a man this rich would obviously be powerful too, and nothing good could come of revealing your assets to him.

“I don’t know, sir,” you replied, injecting as much cluelessness into your voice as you could. “I just pulled it open. My apologies for intruding, it wasn’t my intention.”

“That would be believable if I were just a touch more foolish. Unfortunately for you, I’m not convinced by your innocent act.” He smiled. “At all.”

Rich and intelligent. What a bothersome combination.

“I suppose my only defence is that I was unaware this was a private library,” you conceded, re-shelving the tome. The wistful look in your eyes as you did so was quite amusing, he thought.

“And how do you plan on earning my forgiveness?”

“What are my options?” You countered without missing a beat.

Hm. Not bad, he thought approvingly.

“Why not introduce yourself? I’d quite like to know the name of the thief who knows how to break into a library I thought impenetrable.”

You cleared your throat, embarrassed, and fidgeted discreetly with your gloves.

“I wouldn’t call myself a thief, sir. I fully intended on returning these once I had read them,” you protested, then gave him your name. “I’m an apprentice of the Doctor’s.”

Subtle realisation dawned on the man’s face.

“Oh, I see. The infamous ‘Trixy,’ no?”

“That… is indeed the nickname Lord Eleven insists on calling me by.” You were going to kill him, you really were.

He smiled. “I thought Dottore was exaggerating when he referred to you as ‘overly cunning.’ It looks like I was wrong.”

You frowned slightly at the casual use of the Doctor’s name. Archons. Just my luck, being caught nicking books from a Harbinger’s library.

“I am the Regrator.” Reaching towards you, he took hold of your hand and kissed the back of it. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise, sir- my lord,” you replied, flustered by his greeting and your mistake. “Truly an honour. Allow me to once again extend my apologies for imposing myself on your property.”

“Not to worry, one apology was quite enough,” he replied with another smile. How quickly he changed his tune; a moment ago you were quite worried he’d do much worse than throw you out, but now he was all class and geniality. These two-faced Harbingers really would be the death of you, forcing you to switch between subtle defensiveness and gracefully accepting compliments.

“I’ll see myself out,” you said, breaking the impending silence. “Thank you for your hospitality, my lord.”

“No, no. Stay, I insist. In fact…” He took hold of your shoulders and steered you towards the fireplace, nudging you into a chair. “Why not take a seat? If my memory serves, today you’re to receive the requests forms, is that right?”

He grinned, satisfied, when you nodded in confirmation.

“Lovely. Tell me what it is you were going to have brought to the palace, and I’ll ensure its timely delivery.”

Your eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch.

“And what do you gain from providing me this assistance?”

“Your favour,” he replied promptly, so matter-of-fact that you thought you’d misheard. Well. If he was going to take the first shot and be such a flatterer, then you could certainly play along.

“Why, you’ve already gained it by extending your cordiality,” you said, lifting a gloved hand to your mouth to hide the grin threatening to overtake your features.

Regrator laughed, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. The flickering glow of the fireplace threw the planes of his face into sharp relief, all razor-sharp angles that could cut through diamond. Unsettled, you took to pulling at the fingertips of your gloves for a moment’s respite from his eerie black gaze, glinting like the surface of a bottomless lake at night. Maybe, just maybe, masks were preferable.

“You’re something of a smooth talker,” he remarked. “Perhaps I’ve met my match.”

“I couldn’t hope to live up to your articulacy, my lord, though I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be so humble. I understand that you’re quite the genius in your own field, no?”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Whatever gave you such an impression?”

“It’s not often Dottore goes larking about others’ intelligence,” he replied with equal amusement, watching the swirling clouds of snow outside the stained glass window. Now that caught you by surprise. Surely the Doctor, legend of the Akademiya and one of the arrogant men you ever had the displeasure of meeting, wouldn’t bestow you with such praise.

“I’m clever enough to get by,” you settled on saying, fingers itching to check your pocket watch. It had to be late, but the Regrator imposed a strange aura that compelled you to follow what little etiquette you knew of. The moment you realised this, however, you made a point of taking your watch out and checking the time. The only nonsensical rules you would allow to influence your behaviour were those that could eventually be explained; the laws of science.

“Terribly humble,” he murmured, repeating his previous statement with a touch more gratification.

“It never pays to be egotistical without good reason,” you concluded, making to get up. “It’s been a pleasure, my lord”-

“Sit, sit,” he said firmly, cutting you off. “You won’t have time to submit the request form now,” he pointed out. ‘You might as well stay and tell me what it is you need so I can take care of it.”

You cursed softly under your breath. He was right, unfortunately, and you really were in dire need of several necessities. Resignedly, you sat back down. The Regrator’s pleased twitch of his lips didn’t escape your notice; clearly he’d planned this out. Sneak.

“Much obliged,” you muttered, not without a healthy amount of resentment you didn’t bother hiding.

“But of course.”

He stared at you expectantly, that maddeningly unbothered half-smile never budging from his lips. You bit back a sigh. Best get this over with.

“Well, for starters, I need at least seventy grams each of qingxin, violetgrass, mourning flowers and lumidouce bells. Oh, and ten grams of sunsettia seeds. Other than that, one kilogram each of copper, crystal marrow and white iron, and as many chaos devices and spectral husks as you can afford.”

“That sounds similar to Dottore’s usual order, yes,” he mused. “But forgive me for asking… why the sunsettia seeds?”

“Sunsettia trees can be coaxed into growing under very harsh conditions, and I happen to quite like the fruit,” you answered with a shrug.

The half-smile widened just a touch.

“I see. Everything else on your list seems to pertain to laboratory work. Are you certain you won’t require any… more personal items?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. Although, the doctor did say you would know why I didn’t receive the standard uniform for Fatui recruits,” you added as an afterthought. He blinked, as if caught by surprise.

“Why, it’s quite simple. You’re not considered a recruit at all.”

You stared unabashedly at him. “What?”

“It’s true,” he continued, toying with the fine silver chain of his glasses. “Your file simply has 'scholar' written as the rank.”

“How ambiguous,” you bit out, dragging a hand down your face. For all their bluster and pomp, you’d decided that the Fatui were a ragtag group of disorderly misfits with no sense of how to run such a large and influential organisation. ‘Rank: Scholar? Seriously? Keqing’s voice in your head pointedly asked if you thought you would me more up to the task of filing accurate records on thousands of people. You mentally grumbled.

“Quite fitting for a mysterious person like you.”

You lifted your head to shoot him an incredulous glance. “Yes, absolutely, my lord,” you muttered sarcastically under your breath. “My every action is so veiled in mystique, I can hardly see a metre in front of me from all the smoke and mirrors.”

The Regrator chuckled quietly.

“Clearly you understand that brevity is the soul of wit.”

“Just bursting with wisecracks, my lord,” you deadpanned. “It’s time I should be going.” Rising from your chair, you cast a longing glance across the library. “…Would it be too presumptuous of me to ask for permission to visit your library now and again?”

“Permission granted,” he conceded with a nod and twinkle in his fathomless eyes. “You’d be a welcome guest at any time.”

With a grateful ‘thank you’ and a brief smile, you hurried out of the secret door and back to your dorm.

As far as you were concerned, morning had yet to begin if it was almost noon. The sky was completely clouded over, not a glimpse of the tenuous blue visible through the layers upon layers of cottony white. In your professional opinion, if the sun wasn’t visible then the day hadn’t even started; hence why you were still in bed savouring your only day off of the week.

With a contented sigh, you pulled the blankets up to your chin and settled in a more comfortable positon, the battering of the wind against your window and the distant crowing of ravens forming a lulling symphony. Sleep was just around the corner.

A crash startled you out of your pleasant half-awake reverie, the suddenness of the movement quite effectively acquainting your skull with the wooden headboard. You muttered a string of curses, electing to ignore whoever had the unparalleled audacity to make such a noise and go back to sleep. The intruder wasn’t as agreeable about your plan, unfortunately.

“Rise and shine, Trixy!” An all too familiar voice rang out. You groaned and buried your head beneath the covers. Maybe it was a hallucination that would disappear if you ignored it. Hallucinations weren’t tangible, however, but Childe very much was, judging from how he shook your shoulder and prevented you from slipping back into your slumber. You made a half-hearted attempt to bat his hand away.

“Heavens’ sake, Childe,” you rasped, curling up tighter and willing him to go away. The use of his name rather than a snidely bit out title, or worse still, just his rank, gave him pause. You congratulated yourself on managing to shock him long enough to allow yourself to settle back into the mattress. Not even a moment later you felt a freezing pair of hands grab your ankles and pull.

“H-hey!” You kicked and thrashed, but Childe just laughed and tugged you out of bed. You could’ve sobbed. “What do you want?” You grumbled, crossing your arms.

“Awww, it’s almost as if you don’t want me here,” he said with a pout, watching you rub your eyes and push the hair out of your face. You were softer around the edges like this, he thought, hackles lowered slightly and the suspicion in your eyes worn away by sleep.

“You’re slow on the uptake, but know that I’m proud of you for finally coming to a correct conclusion,” you deadpanned. “Now tell me what’s so bloody important that you saw it fit to wake me.”

He grinned brightly. “It’s your day off, isn’t it? I wanted to take you to the city!”

You opened your mouth to snap out a scathing retort that would probably have him leaving the room in a huff, then closed it again. He looked so hopeful, all wide eyes wrinkling at the corners from the wideness of his boyish grin. You wanted to kick yourself for going so soft on him.

“Alright,” you conceded. “Let’s go to the city.”

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