Chapter Text
Scaramouche was used to many things when it came to Fatui and their inner staff policy. It never ceased to amaze him that although they were essentially a militant semi-terrorist deep state organization composed primarily of death squads controlled directly by the orders of the country's PM, their bureaucratic machinery legitimately corresponded to those used by actual embassies. In other words, the obsession of Snezhnaya's management staff with paperwork and unnecessary complication of things that should be quite simple, reached at some point of their pretense an absolute perfection, elevating them to the level of a real political bureau.
It would be funny if it wasn't so tiring. Ten minutes ago, Dottore's table banter had been amusing, but now Scaramouche wished the asshole would finally sign the papers for their mission, because his wait was beginning to feel like an infinity.
"I don't understand what you don't understand!" hollered the blue-haired man at the expressionless clerk, gesticulating wildly. "I realize this is hard for someone with a double-digit intelligence quotient to understand, but I can't leave my lab in the middle of research."
They had been doing this for several minutes straight. In Scaramouche’s opinion the only one who didn't understand was Dottore, who apparently still hadn't figured out that the clerk wasn't going to abort their mission, nor was he approved to do so. The whole conversation was clearly going to keep going in circles.
Tired and annoyed, Scaramouche leaned against the wall in boredom and let his head fall back. From the other side of the partition came the muffled beeping of a printing press. His body seemed to affect the machine despite the presence of the obstruction. Testily, he leaned his head against the wall again to see if he could cause the printing machine to short-circuit. To his satisfaction, the beeping sounded again. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Meanwhile, Dottore was raging at the table. But the clerk was not to be dissuaded. He looked like a shabby puppet, really. He had no expression, his hair was gray despite the fact that he could not have been over forty, and his complexion was closest to a corpse. Maybe that's how top clerks were made. They just died on their papers from boredom and their souls didn't even notice that they should pass. So they remained trapped in their bodies forever, forging out their monotonous work over and over again.
"It's an order from the top," the ashen-haired clerk said calmly with his arms linked, creating an almost artistic contrast to how much Dottore was trying to crush his desk. Clearly his own anger was boiling him from the inside. If he'd had a vision, the curtains would have been on fire by now, but haha, thought Scaramouche, he didn't have one.
"What top, who is my top, I have no goddamn superior here!"
"It's an order," repeated the human machine. "From the top."
"From who! Tsaritsa herself?!"
"I cannot say."
Scaramouche had to admit he was impressed by that man. He had the expressiveness of a rock. Scaramouche would almost have thought that this fellow had been trained in the cellars of the Security Service Headquarters. If he hadn't known there was no way out of them. Unless this guy was a former employee or something. Paperwork was a form of torture, after all.
Meanwhile, Dottore looked like he was going to piss himself in rage.
"I have research to run and facilities to supervise, I am not a goddamn babysitter."
"Just fucking sign it already," murmured Scaramouche, absently pressing the back of his head to the wall. Beep. Beep.
Angry voices began to come from the next room. Scaramouche didn't know the local Snezhnaya dialect very well, but he recognized the curses when he heard them. He felt his lips curl in a satisfied grin when he heard the hollow sound of someone hitting the printing machine.
"What's up with that thing again!" A muffled voice echoed each hit into the metal plates, and Scaramouche leaned against the wall again, smiling. Beep.
"AAAGGH!"
Of course, no one seemed to care about some unfortunate coworker's breakdown in the next room.
"Dottore, Sir," said the man who apparently had even less living matter in him than Scaramouche because a human person would surely die of frustration at this point, "from my understanding, you asked for this opportunity directly. Scaramouche's journey is Della Ragion di Stato, but you requested a visit to Inazuma a while ago. We decided to spare the expenses and send you both at once. Signora is successfully working on the vision hunt degree, so we are ready to start the second phase, but we still cannot get you to Inazuma without a supervision from the locals."
Ah, so the fair-haired, wax-skinned humanoid has entered the negotiation phase. Disappointing. Scaramouche was almost starting to respect him for the sheer stubbornness he was showing.
Dottore slouched, which added an even greater touch of caricature to his tall, lab-coat-clad figure. "Explain yourself."
"You are not the babysitter. Scaramouche is babysitting you."
Ooooooooo-!
"What the fuck!"
Scaramouche had to fight an urgent need to burst into a maniac laugh. As he jerked himself with excitement the printer behind the wall made another high-pitched beeping sound followed by a shout and a sound of a loud impact of a heavy object being thrown on the ground.
"We need as much discretion as possible and after your numerous oversteps on the continent, we decided to leave the matter of delusion distribution to Scaramouche," delivered the clerk, utterly deadpan, and this shit was turning into the funniest fucking suicide attempt Scaramouche has ever seen because if Dottore wouldn't physically combust from the sheer rage, he was definitely going to murder that man. What a shame. Scaramouche already missed him.
"You'll be there to start the factory and then the whole production will transfer to the Balladeer," explained the clerk, completely obvious to the danger. He even showed some papers in front of Dottore’s face, showing off signatures of people who approved that plan. "Then you will have enough time to explore the ruins you requested, until we will pick you up again. Scaramouche is going to be your legal superior, because you are going to Inazuma undercover and under the new degree, all visitors need to have a local escort."
Dottore remained silent, clearly too shocked to speak, or simply planning some horribly violent death for the clerk. Meanwhile Scaramouche almost choked himself laughing. He was only snapped out of his fit of laughter by Dottore's neurotic flick of the wrist, which suggested that the gray-haired fellow behind the desk really had only his last seconds to live unless someone intervened.
“Alright,” he stepped in, probably saving the man’s life. Honestly, he always liked to see a nice bloodbath, but losing an office cockroach like this bureaucrat would be a shame. Plus, he probably had someone's protection, and Scaramouche wasn't exactly in the mood to be summoned to the disciplinary carpet in front of Pantalone or worse, just because Dottore burned someone’s favorite subordinate alive. “We're taking the mission. He just needs to complain before he packs.”
Dottore finally turned to him, his expression obviously sour even under his mask. He was one of the people who had to wear it for his own sake. His control of facial mimics was stuck on the level of a three-year-old. Scaramouche thought it was pathetic.
"You can't decide for me-!"
Annoyed, Scaramouche picked up the first mission description sheet and looked at the signatures of the people who had authorized it. Then, without further comment, he shoved the last of the signatures right in front of the doctor's eyes. Dottore's face deflated like an inflated balloon. He flicked his still pissed-off eyes between Scaramouche, the paper and the clerical rat for a moment longer before finally hissing a few curses in resignation and picking up his pen from the desk.
“I’m going to tear that prick in half,” he murmured but obediently signed the corresponding paperwork.
The still-living corpse of the clerk sat up, an obvious sign of enthusiasm. “Thank you, Mr. Balladeer.”
Scaramouche didn't even bother with a nod of acknowledgement. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. Not that he was particularly looking forward to seeing his former homeland again, but anything was better than this frozen hell where a man's ass froze when he accidentally leaned on something outside.
"One more thing,” said the clerk, putting the papers in a large dark folder with the Fatui military detachment emblem. It didn't escape Scaramouche's notice that he had arranged them all alphabetically and micrometer-accurately. “Mr. Balladeer doesn't need an entrance visa as a citizen, you Dottore, however, are a different case.” He shut the file in a drawer along with Dottore's honorific. Scaramouche's tongue lolled mischievously. “We decided to send you to Inazuma on a research visa.”
If it was at all possible, Dottore's already rigid form stiffened. Scaramouche looked at him curiously, expecting another burst of rage, but for once the doctor's face was stone hard. Not as professional as the clerk's, but still solid.
“It will be more logistically convenient,” explained the gray rat, staring straight into Dottore’s eyes, “because scientists from Sumeru are still accepted as free movers. As the name suggests, it will help you move freely around the islands. Most of our agents with work visas cannot leave their workplace and are confined to their cities of posting. Which I'm sure you don't want to do.” He paused for a long moment, obviously waiting for Dottore's reaction. When it never came, he continued, “We have arranged a contact in Sumeru to help you with the necessary paperwork to officially cross the borders of the islands. Unfortunately, you have to pick it up yourself. I'm sure it'll be nice nostalgia for you, it was your alma mater after all. The ship will be waiting for you off the west coast nine days from today. ”
With that, he clasped his hands together again, as if he'd automatically switched to stand-by after finishing his work. A professionally fake and fawning smile appeared on his face.
“Well then. I wish you both the best of luck and enjoy the trip. Long live to Tsaritsa."
With that he felt silent, and his eyes went inhumanly dull. He could have just shut the door in their faces. Dottore's teeth squeaked as he clenched his jaw, but he didn't say anything. Scaramouche had to grin when the man turned on his heel so quickly his coat floated and then stormed out of the room.
He followed soon after, not bothering to say goodbye.
The mission briefing he got, was about as basic as it could be; go there, get the visa, escort Dottore's ass to Inazuma, get the delusion distribution working and if anything goes wrong, don't hesitate to kill them all. Scaramouche liked simple missions. He also liked that beside being a supervisor, he wasn't obliged to do shit. It gave him enough freedom and time to think about his own, personal goals. A few hobbies there and there. The ones he didn't care to consult with anyone.
Fortunately, the Fatui were all business and keen to focus on their own reality, not even considering that someone in their own ranks might not be completely brainwashed and have motivations other than cultishly following their idea of the greater good.
Since his duties for the day ended with his own signature, he didn't have to witness Dottore's attempt to rage his way up to the harbinger committee in an attempt to find people who designed this mission. From what he had heard, this was not only an undignified excess, but also completely unnecessary, because in the end the doctor had to accept. Scaramouche wondered if the mission really came from the Tsaritsa, that even Dottore's stubbornness would do nothing about it. But it was unlikely.
More out of sheer curiosity than any real interest, he wondered why the self-proclaimed scientist was making such a fuss. Of course, he wasn’t so naive as to hope that Dottore's theatrics in the Sneznaya’s Central offices would be the end of it and they would actually leave this snowy hole, within the next few hours. And sure, none of them liked being sent on missions they hadn't chosen themselves, but whatever the idiot was doing in his lair he called a lab couldn't possibly be as interesting as his field research in Inazuma. Dottore was not known for being able to concentrate on one thing for more than a few days at a time. Scaramouche was actually pretty sure he held the record for holding Dottore's attention span the longest. It took months of work on his body, and fortunately Dottore was so excited about every little thing he found on it that he didn't actually leave him lying around unfinished like most of his projects.
It was long past dark when he went to Dottore's lab to see what the situation was, but then, Scaramouche didn't need to sleep. Dottore practically didn't either, though in his case it wasn't entirely natural.
Without bothering to knock, Scaramouche pushed open the sliding door to the inner laboratory. He could practically feel his pupils constrict in the harsh, unnaturally sterile light of the lab. Among the many machines that were humming softly with electricity and the smell of death, sat Dottore. He was not working anymore. With one leg crossed over his thigh, he stared into the wall, cigarette at hand, in a middle of gruesome fucking mess.
A pitiful image of utter depression, really. A cynical modern art piece.
Scaramouche snorted at its sheer ridiculousness.
"I suppose the negotiation didn't work out."
He didn't really have to make it a question; it was pretty obvious from the butchered body parts that laid randomly on the digestion table.
"I talked to Sandrone," the doctor said, bringing the cigarette to his lips, effectively smearing more blood on his face. He looked like he was trying on some kind of fucked up facial mask. The blood of virgins to prevent wrinkles, or some shit like that. "The best she can do is to give us eleven days instead of fucking nine. Like three more fucking days would give me enough time to finish months of fucking work."
For a good measure Scaramouche glanced at the bloodstained paperwork that laid along all that gore. The records were hastily written, excuses clumsy and results inconclusive at best. He raised an eyebrow at the man. Apparently, Dottore was not even pretending to do any actual research at this point. The disgusting mess on that table could hardly bring any information except perhaps, what was the last food of that unfortunate bastard and perhaps their blood group. It was nothing more than just the old good stress relieving dissection. But then, Dottore wouldn't ever smoke at his lab if he had real research to do.
"What are you working on?"
The irony in his voice was maybe a bit too apparent, because Dottore shot him a sharp look.
"Something that needs more than three fucking days."
"Bullshit."
Dottore responded by an annoyed ‘Tsk’ and Scaramouche rolled his eyes to the backside of his head.
"Listen, you're always pathetic, but when you are whining like a brat it's unbearable."
The unlicensed doctor just blew out another cloud of burned tobacco, critically sizing up Scaramouche's body. "You're one to talk."
The only reason that remark didn't earn him an electric shock was the lingering sentiment. Bite him in the ass, Scaramouche still felt remnants of gratitude, if not respect, for the man who managed to rip him from catatonia default settings and basically gave him his personality. He would never admit it aloud of course. He was well aware that Dottore was a dangerous manchild more than anything else. Which, Scaramouche thought, was probably a recruiting requirement for harbingers.
Thinking about it, the whole babysitting thing was probably all too real. Coming to terms with the fact that apparently their trip wasn't going to be easy, he poked the bloody mass on the table in disgust.
"You know you're just wasting both our time," he accused and made a point of wiping his bloody finger into the lab coat that was thrown over the chair Dottore tested his feet on.
He hoped it belonged to that assistant the doctor seemed to favor lately. Kuroobaa was his name? No, Krupp? Wait, Krupp was that last one with black hair and Scaramouche actually found him tolerable. The current model was much more annoying and had suspiciously huge tits that made up for the lack of brain. But then Scaramouche was pretty sure he'd heard Dottore call this one Krupp, too.
Well, who cared. This wasn't time for a fucking lab simulated family play or whatever. They needed to act.
"I don't know what's stopping you,” he told the doctor. “We can just go to Sumeru, grab that visa, get to the islands and after you get the factory going, you can just go back. It's a week at best. With your workaholism, I bet you can make it in five days or so."
Dottore snorted and tapped his cigarette against Erlenmeyer's flask. Whatever was in it hissed and turned a murky gray. "By Her tits, I fucking wish it was easy like that."
"Since when is there something that can stop your gigantic brain?"
He used to wonder how quickly Dottore would figure out that his comments about his intellect were sarcastic. After a few years, he gave up. The man was so utterly convinced of his superiority that it did not occur to him, not even once, that the remarks about his superior intellect were not meant seriously.
Apparently, he didn't think twice about it this time either. He took another drag from his cigarette and stared at nothing; his eyes blank.
"True genius can't do anything at the Akademiya."
His theatrics were ridiculous. Scaramouche was beginning to understand why they had given him this mission, and normally he would gladly have laughed very hard at it, but it pissed him off that they had to drag him into Dottore's humiliation. Unlike the doctor, he had no fuck ups that wouldjustify dragging him into this.
Unless someone didn't like his self-inflicted cuts in troops.
But shit, Signora had even more losses, so fuck the management. It was their fault for sending him bumbling idiots instead of real soldiers anyway.
He crossed his arms in annoyance. “Stop wallowing in self-pity and pack your bags, you have no choice anyway.”
Dottore gave him an angry look but made no attempt to refute it. Sandrone must have done something terrible to him during their little operation briefing. Scaramouche made a mental note that he had to question the soldiers who were guarding the meeting office, because that had to be some fucking jam. But he had to do it fast, because if it was as hot as he thought, Sandrone might have already gotten rid of them.
“Get ready to leave in three days,” he announced to the doctor, allowing no further discussion.
“No.”
“No?” Scaramouche raised his eyebrows in warning, but Dottore didn’t even blink.
“We will leave tomorrow,” he said like he had the right to make any decisions after all that whining. “In the morning. I’ll freeze my research. Three days won’t change shit.”
That was an unexpected plot twist. Scaramouche measured the man sitting on the table from head to feet that were still leaning against the back of the chair and staining the upholstery with blood and some kind of gunk. But then he concluded, as surprising as it was, that it was indeed Il Dottore sitting in front of him. No doppelganger could possibly replicate his shitty haircut.
As if he knew what Scaramouche was thinking, the other harbinger frowned at him with a grimace that revealed his upper gums in addition to his sharp teeth and whined once again.
“Don't look at me like that, you know I can be reasoned with. I am a sensible man.”
Scaramouche’s tongue clicked on its own. “I haven't noticed it in the last century, but if you say so.”
The doctor snorted, the rest of the cigarette back between his lips. It looked like he was going to smoke the filter too.
"I think we'll be surprised how much time we'll need."
Scaramouche didn't quite understand how long it could take to pick up a pre-arranged visa and jump on a damn ship, but he decided not to comment. That Dottore was able to accept the inevitability of having to go to work after several days of fretting was an achievement in itself.
“Should I get us an escort?" he asked, and the blue haired scientist took one last drag and dropped the cigarette into the contaminated flask.
"No. We will go on our own. A diplomatic delegation would only slow us down and general politics means nothing at the academic grounds."
Scaramouche seriously doubted it, but universities and fucking up the diplomatic missions were Dottore's expertise, so he decided to trust his judgment for once.
"If you say so."
"If we admit we are politicians it'll only slow us down."
Ah, a personal experience then. A mocking grin simmered on Scaramouche's face. "No respect for executive officers either? Did you also try to shoot them in the face during diplomatic talks?"
"Oh, if the Akademiya hates something more than politicians, it's cops and soldiers. At best we would end up locked in some drug den and they would let us go only after we would be too out of our minds to remember our mission. At worst they would probably just shit in our shoes, but I'd rather skip that experience."
Though his statement was pure comedy, he seemed to be serious. Scaramouche laughed at the absurdity of Dottore's obviously fragile ego.
"Are you seriously scared of the students?” he grinned. “Or are you afraid you might meet competition?"
Surprisingly, his bait didn't work. Whatever was going through Dottore's mind that night kept him entertained enough to forgive his usual emotional outbursts. If Scaramouche were to be completely honest, it was quite disappointing. He preferred to be the more reasonable of the two.
Dottore just pulled another cigarette out of his coat and lit it with one of his beam machines.
"You'll come to understand that the Akademiya is hell."