Chapter Text
Barely a minute passes before the storms start again, pattering down onto the streets. For most of the population this is a cause for concern: waterproof or not, drying mechanical parts is a right pain in the arse.
The first crack of thunder sends them all scattering: into nearby shops, and under the awnings of the largest building on the street. Lightning flashes across the sky, and several pedestrians jump when a bell rings from within the building, rebounding out into the streets.
A sleek car parked in front of the school rolls its windows up.
Inside, a hand with nails more alike to claws turns a dial on the dashboard. Slowly, as if sifting through the sand of static the driver has been listening to, the frequency lands on a low voice, narrating its usual beats with the same amount of emotion it always holds.
‘ …the last cases of Deluge have been successfully cured. A spokesman from the Court of Fontaine says it is unlikely that the disease will ever resurface, even in androids. The Iudex has since normalised relations with the Fatui, promising diplomatic relations for the time being. May the Tsaritsa’s will reign forevermore.
‘Fourth Harbinger Arlecchino and Eleventh Harbinger Tartaglia are due to receive the highest recognition of honour from Her Majesty. The Fourth has declined to comment on the situation, while there is still no news on the Eleventh’s condition. Some sources claim that he is in recovery from the injuries sustained during his mission. Tsaritsa’s blessing be upon them.
‘The House of the Hearth is once again back in the spotlight—’
The radio is switched off at the exact moment the car door opens. A bedraggled, blond teenager stumbles in, followed by his morose-looking, equally blonde sister. The boy removes a bowler hat from his head, wincing when he realises how much water has gotten into the brim.
‘I’m not going to say “I told you so”,’ says his sister, monotone.
The boy sighs.
The car’s headlights switch on, piercing through the dark heralded by the ever-thickening layer of storm clouds. Cumulonimbus clouds, the driver muses, her clawed hands gripping the wheel with bruising force.
‘Did the teachers give you any trouble?’ she asks.
‘I think they know by now,’ says the boy called Lyney. ‘It’s kind of obvious. You can only attribute so much to coincidence, after all… isn’t that right, Lynette?’
Lynette, leaning against the window of the car, nods sleepily before letting out a loud, fake snore.
‘I wish they hadn’t started covering calculus right when we had to leave,’ says Lyney. ‘And it’s not like I can catch up—it’s either the chip or nothing.’
‘Trust me, half the things you learn here will never see practical usage.’
Her voice slides over the air like a spider’s legs tapping on fallen leaves. Just enough force to be weighty. Lyney runs his hands through his wet hair. ‘I know. You’ve told me that before, Father. It is merely a useful environment for me to hone other, subtler skills. Were they not useful in Fontaine?’
Rain patters onto the car’s roof, deafening. Through the din, Arlecchino’s voice remains clear. ‘You were an irreplaceable piece in that operation. If you simply wish to stay and accompany the other children, I can arrange for missions closer to home.’
‘That’s not—never mind.’
‘Should I drop you off at the usual spot?’
‘Are you going somewhere?’
‘I have a visit to make,’ says Arlecchino. She’s pressing on the brakes more often now, listening for the tell-tale sloshing of water around the wheels. Half an hour later, this street will fall to the floods. She seeks out the neon signboard at the end of the street, slowing down as she approaches. ‘Tell Freminet to come home early.’
‘Yes, Father. Come on, Lynette.’
As the car rolls to a stop, the door opens. The twins tumble out, Lynette somehow managing to overcome her sleepiness to regain her footing on the slippery sidewalk. Arlecchino waits for the door to slam before reversing, aligning with a barely noticeable side street before turning sharply, the side mirrors missing the bricks by a hair’s breadth.
The hospital’s lights flicker when she enters, accompanied by the faint smell of cigarette smoke. She toys with the idea of complaining to management, though she supposes it wouldn’t be worth having the lobby’s sickly bright lights functioning again.
There is no one at the reception counter, so she scrolls through the registry herself, finding her target on the high priority list. Fifth floor. She can afford to ignore the elevators then, with their mildew smell and barely functioning buttons.
The only person she runs into on the stairs is an intern who squeaks and drops his syringe when he sees her. Arlecchino ignores him. Finding the fire exit door unlocked, she shields her eyes when she enters the corridor. She turns to the floor-length windows to her right for reprieve from the blindingly bright lights. There she stands for a moment, watching rain lash against reinforced glass, the distant pinpricks of streetlights beyond the hospital’s dark compound. You would be forgiven for thinking her a statue: the only motion on her person remains the light movements of her long ponytail in a nonexistent wind.
Then, as if struck by an electrical shock, she turns on her heel and heads to the end of the corridor. Room 511. The door is locked, but she finds that old-fashioned padlocks work better against her than the newer digital variants.
With a click of her nails on the touchpad, she enters the room. The curtains are drawn, the window looking out onto a lake, its fathomless depths reflecting the myriad lights of the city in the distance. Silhouetted against the faint glow is a figure sitting up in its bed, fiddling with the sheets drawn up around its legs. A cybernetic arm, detached from its owner, rests on the nearby table. Arlecchino moves to stand beside him.
The man’s ginger hair almost glows in the night.
‘Come here to mock me?’ he says, the attempted flippance in his voice falling flat. He reaches for his prosthesis, firmly attaching it to his shoulder with a resounding ‘click’.
‘The Tsaritsa sends her regards,’ says Arlecchino. ‘Did you know? Everyone thinks you’re dead.’
‘Let them think what they want,’ says Tartaglia, Eleventh Harbinger. ‘Did you get my letter to my family?’
‘Sealed and delivered this morning.’
He sighs and sinks back into his cushions, attempting to draw his knees to his chest. He flinches when his hands close around nothing below his thighs. Arlecchino watches him shift slowly and painfully back onto his centre of gravity, gingerly placing the remains of his legs back onto the mattress.
‘Don’t tell me you’re going to follow through with the Good Doctor’s deal.’
‘What choice do I have?’ Tartaglia reaches for his table lamp, stopping himself from tipping over with a strategically placed arm. A warm orange glow fills the room, illuminating Tartaglia’s pale face, pinched and worn with exhaustion. ‘Foul Legacy needs intact limbs.’
‘We do have a generous severance package.’
‘It’s not a matter of money,’ he snaps. ‘I—you won’t understand.’
‘You are not the first to say that very same thing to me today,’ says Arlecchino. ‘Tell me, then. Is it purpose you crave? Or your humanity?’
‘So terribly cliched,’ says Tartaglia. His dull blue eyes meet hers. ‘Purpose I can find. And no matter what I do to myself, I will always be human.’
She notes down the bitterness in the last word. Tartaglia leans back on his elbows, examining what remains of his legs with a sort of morbid fascination. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he says. ‘Il Dottore left you a message.’
Arlecchino feels her hackles rise, but pushes it down, back into the watery abyss. Smooth as a mirror. ‘If he wants another assistant, tell him he can either personally make a request or give up entirely. The House of the Hearth asks a high price.’
‘Ah, no, it’s got nothing to do with your kids. It’s from Pierro, and he says it’s from the Tsaritsa. Fun game of telephone they’ve got going on here,’ says Tartaglia, the shadow of his youth peeking through as he props himself up on his side. ‘He says to meet him in his office by tomorrow morning, between seven to nine.’
‘Did he say what for?’
‘Hm, not exactly. If I had to hazard a guess, though, it’s probably Fontaine again. Some kind of wrap-up. Wish I could go,’ he adds grouchily. ‘I’ve got some unfinished business with that Iudex.’
‘You’re not going anywhere without your prostheses,’ says Arlecchino. ‘Thank you for passing the message along. Speaking of which…’
She reaches into her coat and pulls out an envelope, its format five years out of date. Tartaglia’s eyes widen at the chicken-scratch handwriting on the cover, and he swipes it out of Arlecchino’s hands as soon as she gets close enough.
‘Teucer… what did he do this time?’
‘Your parents need to start keeping your brother on a leash,’ says Arlecchino, watching Tartaglia extract the contents of the envelope with shaking hands. ‘He was at the post office this morning. Thankfully, his sister saved me the trouble of getting him home myself. Count your blessings, Tartaglia. Your entire family is a beacon for disaster.’
She wonders if he even heard her, his attention fixed on the neon pink origami cranes that tumble out of the envelope into his lap. He freezes at the sight, reaching out to touch one of the cranes with the tip of his finger, as if afraid he might tear it.
Arlecchino gives him one final nod before leaving, making sure to re-lock the door behind her.
Notes:
hi chat i said i'd deliver. tell me if i did.
find me on tumblr
Chapter Text
The first thing she notices upon entering Pierro’s office is the aroma of a floral tea. She cannot pin down the exact combination of flowers, but she decides that she dislikes it.
The man himself sits behind his mahogany desk, half-shrouded in shadow. He has never stepped out of his shadow, not for a very long time. The curtains behind him are drawn, though Arlecchino knows that it still rains. A light drizzle, calmer than last night’s thunderstorm.
The carpet muffles the click of her heels as she heads towards the solitary chair before the table. The piece of furniture is absurdly large, enough for Pierro to need to learn forward, pushing a cup of tea towards her. She catches sight of the glint of a mechanical eye, newly replaced. She sits up straight, casting a glance over the bookcases that line the walls of the room.
‘I see you have procured more old world memorabilia.’
Pierro sinks back into his seat, though the shadow does not mask the narrowing of his eye. ‘Knave of the Tsaritsa. I am sure you know what you are here for.’
Put it up to him to ignore one of her more obvious jabs. She crosses one leg over the other, sitting with her back straight. ‘Has Fontaine given us any more trouble?’
‘One more stepping stone to Her Majesty’s goal. For that, the Fatui owe you our eternal gratitude.’ She feels his gaze track her hand, bringing the teacup to her lips. ‘However, one loose end has made itself known.’
‘Oh?’ The tea is over-sweetened. She drinks it anyway.
‘Focalors, known as Furina de Fontaine to the masses, has remained in a catatonic state for an unusual amount of time. Though to her own people, she is simply… predisposed.’
‘Hm? And here I thought I’d managed to absolve myself of all responsibility pertaining to her well-being.’
‘Even you do not have the ability to affect her to this degree,’ says Pierro. He pours himself his own cup of tea, which Arlecchino hears rather than sees. Her ghost has left her body.’
‘And you are quite certain?’ says Arlecchino.
‘A body of her make does not permit the separation of the soul and the shell. Things are getting interesting indeed.’
‘And I just so happen to share that interest, director.’
Pierro stares ahead, unblinking.
‘I can’t imagine the border of non-existence being a highly rated vacation spot,’ Arlecchino prods.
Pierro pauses to drop a couple of sugar cubes into his drink, stirring slowly. Only a singular, soft clink is heard by the time he is done.
‘I called you here to entrust this highly delicate matter to you, Knave. Find Furina de Fontaine and bring whatever is left of her back.’
Arlecchino nods mechanically. ‘It is an honour.’
She uncrosses her legs. Pierro’s singular white eyebrow lifts. ‘Are you not going to ask why?’
‘Since you’ve offered to tell me, do.’
Pierro pauses, then removes his hands from the table. In that moment, the shadows seem to consume him.
‘She is one of a kind,’ says Pierro, mechanical eye glittering. ‘A success at an incredible scale. One must marvel at the code woven into her very being, all to hide just enough from the general populace. A pity that it was fated to be used for something so trivial.’
‘I see,’ says Arlecchino. ‘I presume you want her data here as soon as possible?’
‘We are in no rush,’ says the Jester. His own teacup is untouched. ‘However, leaving a memetic entity of that magnitude running amok could be disastrous. Especially if she remembers you, and if she is more capable of harbouring grudges than we previously thought. Well,’ he says. ‘It does us no good to underestimate her more than once. You may go now.’
Arlecchino rises from her seat, bowing slightly to her senior. The man’s shock of white hair is briefly illuminated as she opens his office door. She is one of the few who know how old he actually is, and she turns the idea over in her head, trying to fathom the weight of all those years, far more than his body could originally sustain. Buried under rebuilt silicone skin and a depthless abyss.
Sometimes she thinks they could be more alike than he realises.
Her own office is located in an apartment building on the edge of Snezhnaya city, taking up multiple floors. Once they had neighbours, but over the years they’d moved out one by one, complaining of the strange, unruly children that would return home at unholy hours of the night, and who all seemed to know each other. Some of the children had been sad to see them go, but Arlecchino deems it a convenience. The House of the Hearth needs no more prying eyes than it already has within it.
The patches of algae on the lobby’s walls have begun to grow again, courtesy of the rainy season. Snezhnaya is a city of rain and rebirth, welcoming purifying waters and new beginnings with each blessing from the heavens. And new patches of mould too, apparently, growing on the handlebars of the elevator. She will need to intimidate the management into doing their jobs, as per their monthly routine. Sometimes she wonders if money would be a more effective bargaining chip than her display of status, but that would require working with the Ninth, of whom she is not particularly fond.
The elevator doors open with twin squeaks at the topmost floor. Arlecchino steps out, producing a set of keys from within the pockets of her coat. That turns out to be unnecessary, however. The only door not barred by nailed planks and fading yellow warning tape is the one at the end of the hall, and it is, at the moment, wide open.
Arlecchino feels herself frown. Light spills down the corridor, the faint streams of sunlight from outside not nearly enough to illuminate the resident darkness. She follows that streak of sodium-yellow light to the door, stepping into the foyer without much ceremony.
From within the living room, she hears a small ‘shush’, then the pattering of retreating feet. She allows them enough time to return to their rooms before entering.
The lightbulb, though recently changed, flickers once. Lyney, leaning over the couch, flinches slightly. His sister sits on the floor beside him, digging through a box of bandages. From between the cage of Lyney’s arms, a shock of wet blond hair peeks through.
‘Did I not tell you to come home early?’ says Arlecchino. Lyney stands closer to his brother on instinct.
‘None of us could get in touch with him,’ says Lyney. Lynette hands him a roll of surgical tape, which he takes. From the couch, Freminet mumbled something inaudible.
‘Speak up.’
Hands shaking, Freminet attempts to right himself, but tumbles back to the seat. His right sleeve is torn away, revealing an angry branched pattern, and near his wrist, a deep cut. Arlecchino feels herself breathe out with more force than necessary.
‘I told you to stay near the canyon.’
Freminet attempts to speak again, clearer this time. ‘Saw… shipwreck. Old world… Father is interested…’
‘I would have told you if I had wanted you to stray from your usual path.’ She tries to tone down her voice, but what comes out is an emotionless monotone. ‘Find me when you can move again. We have much to discuss.’
‘Father,’ says Lyney. Arlecchino turns, and he thinks better of it, going back to tend to his brother. She passes Lynette, sitting cross-legged beside the coffee table, wiping a diving helmet dry.
The rest of the apartment is clean, if aged. The peeling paint will need a touch-up soon, and the wires that buzz and whirr at her in her sleep will need to be replaced. Wireless is the new way to go, apparently, though she places less faith in things she cannot observe plainly for herself. Still, the world moves on.
Her heels click against the tiled floor. The room at the end of the corridor buzzes with noise, though it quiets down when she approaches, turning to the left to find her office. There, a plain desk sits in the middle of the room, accompanied by a red carpet. Apart from the reclining chair in the corner, beside a sterile metal table with a small lamp, the rest of the room is sparsely decorated. Not much point in waiting, so she fishes an earpiece out of her desk drawer, fixing it to her collar. She’d always thought it terribly ticklish.
The unread messages can wait. Il Dottore has texted her for one reason or another, and she sends that notification to the very bottom of the waiting list. Others are status reports from her children, nothing in particular standing out to her. Though she might need to deploy some more capable combatants to Inazuma city: the local guards are becoming less and less friendly, all thanks to the interference of one La Signora.
Arlecchino holds back a sigh. It’s been two years, and that old woman’s reputation still haunts her House. Sometimes, she misses the bastard. The children do too, though it might just be due to her generosity with gifts.
Old world shipwreck, northern Fontaine. She thinks of training more children to salvage. So far Freminet is the only one who specialises in this field. Though she will have to find a way to circumvent the oxygen issue without being too invasive…
Speaking of Freminet, she hears several pairs of footsteps outside her door, accompanied by the soft drag of booted feet. She waits for the creak of a door and the quick tap-tapping of retreating back to the living room. Let them think they’ve won, even for a while.
Arlecchino makes her way to the room opposite. The small space holds four beds, three of which are currently unoccupied. In the last one closest to the window, Freminet sits up, alerted to her presence.
‘At ease,’ she says. Freminet holds his head and sinks slowly back down, wincing when he hits his elbow.
‘Father,’ says Freminet blearily. His arm is neatly bandaged, with a pink ribbon tied over his wrist for good measure. Arlecchino seats herself down on a nearby chair, folding her hands over her knees.
‘Speak.’
‘I was staying in the canyon, until I saw… that shipwreck.’ Freminet stares up at the ceiling, avoiding Arlecchino’s gaze. ‘Close to the plains. The cloaking was down, and I thought, for a shield to have lasted that long, the technology must have been very well-preserved… I approached, found a hole in the hull, and…’
His brows twitch. Arlecchino waits.
‘I… must have entered,’ he murmurs. ‘I must have. I scanned everything outside the ship, but I had to get inside…’
‘What did you see?’
‘I… I don’t remember.’
‘You don’t remember.’
‘I don’t…’ Freminet shakes his head, immediately whining and holding a hand to his temple. Arlecchino peels his shaky fingers away, tapping the side of his skull with a nail.
‘Electromagnetic pulse. That was not just an old world ship, Freminet. The only kind of EMPs that can affect your current brain were not engineered until after the first flood. I will access your black box records soon.’
‘What are you going to do, Father?’
‘I want your exact coordinates. Whatever it is you came across, it does not wish to be found. That is of my concern.’
‘Don’t go now. They’ll be on guard—’
‘There are very few things in this world that can truly hurt me,’ says Arlecchino, standing up. ‘Fret not,’ she adds at the crease between the boy’s eyebrows. ‘Efficiency is my top priority. An ambush is infinitely better in that department. For now, I will have Foltz look after you. Your siblings may stay, if they wish.’
Freminet is silent. Arlecchino has no better answer to it. Neither of them are particularly good at talking. She simply nods her head and leaves, closing the door gently behind her.
Outside, Lynette leans against the wall next to her office door, an embroidery hoop in hand. Her ears, in their extended form, twitch once. Her hand on the doorknob, Arlecchino stops.
‘A word of advice,’ she says. Lynette’s ears twitch again as she tries and fails to thread a needle. ‘Your hearing has more range than you think it has. You could probably take Lyney’s place and face little to no difficulties.’ At the end of a corridor, the brim of a bowler hat quickly pops out of view. ‘If you are going to eavesdrop this blatantly, you are better off sitting in the same room as the two of us.’
Lynette nods gently. Arlecchino heads into her office, towards the window behind her seat. Drawing them, she watches the rain outside, slowly clearing up as the sky gradually returns to its usual blue.
She finds the earpiece hooked onto the shell of her ear and presses a button.
‘Yseut,’ she says. ‘You know where to find me.’
Notes:
hyv you had one job making natlan
anyway this fic will be pretty slow going since school and finals and such but trust me it will get finished. they will not leave my head. help me. please feel free to scream about arlefuri in the comments. i wish to collect thoughts on them
Chapter Text
The metro barely functions these days, but the line that leads downtown persists regardless of turbulent management. The lights in the train car flicker the whole time, and Arlecchino thinks back to her colleague the Ninth, muttering about the state of things and scribbling non-stop on that clipboard (they would never, never allow this back in his city).
The rain has stopped, but the puddles still serve as effective obstacles. She steps around most of them, though the height of her heels save her from the rest. A group of children, laughing and throwing a rubber ball, run past her in a particularly narrow alley, splashing muddy droplets onto her coat. The children freeze in their tracks, watching the tall, pale-haired woman brush off her immaculate suit, before retreating into a nearby corner.
She ignores them and moves on.
The slight chill in the air is at odds with the noon sun already starting to beat down on the streets. This imitation of warmth begins to draw out pedestrians, umbrellas hanging on their wrists as they all but rush in the direction of the park near the suburbs, hoping to take advantage of the weather. Arlecchino walks against the tide, sights set on the enormous tree at the end of the main road. Its gnarled branches curve downwards, as if reaching for the puddles on the ground. She nods to it, paying her respects to something that has been here before most of the people in this city, and will be here long after they are gone. Then she shoves aside the branches and heads for the store nestled between its buttress roots.
The locals call it a store, but in reality, it is closer to a bar. The bouncer at the door tips his hat at her, offering to take her coat. She declines wordlessly, opening the door without much ceremony.
A light jingling echoes throughout the store. The inside is dark, though Arlecchino makes a sweep of the patrons immediately. There is nobody at the counter, the only part of the building that is brightly lit. In the corner, an old man with a beanie stirs his drink, the mechanical whirring of his replaced wrist grating on her ears. Another man, this one middle-aged, is collapsed behind the door, legs sprawled out in front of him, hiccuping gently as he gives Arlecchino a wobbly salute.
The sole window on her right holds a candle on its windowsill, and silhouetted against it is a woman with light blonde hair. Any other distinguishing features are obscured behind a mask with a long snout, calling into mind a dog or a wolf. Arlecchino pulls up a chair opposite her, seating herself at the table.
‘The usual,’ says Arlecchino, seeing the bartender’s frazzled head pop up from behind the counter out of the corner of her eye. The bartender nods frantically and gets to work, conjuring a cacophony of clinking and swishing. Arlecchino turns her gaze back to the woman.
Yseut holds a hand to her chest and bows her head.
‘At ease,’ says Arlecchino. Yseut nods, returning to her usual straight-backed position.
‘It pleases me to see you in good health, Father.’
Arlecchino twines her hands over her knee. ‘How did you find Fontaine?’
‘Eh? High-stakes, but it didn’t—it was—I mean, I liked it. Not that I wasn’t playing my part, but…’
‘I find the scenery quite agreeable myself,’ says Arlecchino as the woman splutters. ‘But I believe you wish for me to get straight to the point.’
Yseut looks over her shoulder nervously, at the old man in the corner stirring his drink, staring into space; at the other man behind the door, now passed out cold. She lowers her voice regardless.
‘The mission report will be ready in a day or two, I assure you.’
‘At the moment, I only require one small detail from that report,’ says Arlecchino. ‘You have been keeping an eye on the Palais Mermonia, yes?’
‘I—uh, yeah. I’ve never left my post,’ says Yseut, dabbing underneath her mask. She doesn’t sweat anymore, not after she’d replaced half her skull, but habits are hard to break.
‘Have you ever seen Furina de Fontaine physically leave?’
Yseut wipes underneath her mask again. To an outsider, it might appear to be a repeat of her nervous habit, but with a few more discreet clicks, a holographic screen appears in front of her, hovering. She scrolls through page after unfinished page, too deep in thought to pay even her new drink any mind. The bartender slinks away with his empty tray and a sour look on his face, but neither woman acknowledges him.
‘Here,’ says Yseut. ‘The last time she left was for her trial. She returned to the Palais Mermonia the same night, and has not left afterwards.’ She dismisses the screen with a wave of her hand.
Arlecchino reaches for her drink, brings it up to her lips, and takes a sip. It’s too thin, as usual, but she drinks anyway. ‘I see.’
‘I’ve been in touch with the other operatives, even after the mission, and none of them have seen her leave after that. We suspect she’s under house arrest.’
‘That’s interesting,’ says Arlecchino.
Yseut’s expression is inscrutable underneath her mask, but Arlecchino can feel pleading eyes on her regardless. She watches Yseut fiddle with the buttons on her suit jacket before saying in a low voice, ‘Furina is missing.’
To her credit, Yseut only inhales sharply. ‘But that’s—that’s not—‘
‘We were ignorant of a great many things about her,’ says Arlecchino. ‘But you do not need to concern yourself with them. This falls entirely under my jurisdiction.’
One last check to make, Arlecchino thinks. Then her theory could be confirmed. But for now, she has a drink to finish.
Yseut makes to pick up her drink but seemingly changes her mind at the last second, choosing to lean forward and say in a low voice, ‘Father, I’ve been meaning to ask. The medics say you haven’t been at the clinics in a while. Are you sure you don’t need—uh—‘
She falters when Arlecchino looks directly at her.
‘Thank you for the concern,’ she says. ‘But minor maintenance I can do myself. None of my tasks require combat just yet, and I will be sure to make the fitting adjustments if the need for it should ever arise.’
‘Glad to see you’re fine.’ Yseut’s voice is still too high. She reaches for her drink, stance visibly relaxing.
Arlecchino downs the rest of her drink and stands up. The bartender frowns, looking at the canned fruits sitting in her empty glass, but she is already stepping over the drunk man behind the door, hand reaching for the doorknob.
Behind her, she thinks Yseut waves goodbye.
‘Is there anything I can help you with?’
‘Iudex Neuvillette. Of course, I require only transparency, as usual. This time regarding the well-being of one Furina de Fontaine.’
‘… I cannot promise to tell you everything.’
‘And I do not expect you to. I am a foreign entity, after all. I simply need to know: is she well?’
‘Her physical condition appears to be excellent. However…’
‘Hm?’
‘She’s still asleep. The medics have tried diving, but none can get through to her.’
‘Very well. Thank you, Iudex.’
‘Lord Arlecchino.’
‘Yes?’
‘I know of beings such as her. Her very existence forbids unconsciousness. Whatever she’s managed to do to herself…’
‘I am afraid she is beyond both of our reaches for now.’
‘Forgive me for reminiscing, but when you find her—for old times’ sake—please keep her safe.’
‘I will.’
Arlecchino turns to the window in her office. Outside, droplets of rain begin to fall again, painting her window panes in light streaks. The setting sun appears distorted through the rain, red skies composed of a paintbrush’s clumsy strokes.
She squares her shoulders and heads to her office door, making for the room directly opposite.
Notes:
i directly based the giantass tree off the rain tree (or the monkey pod tree). they can get really huge and if planted near a road, they make excellent tunnels. also the perpetual rain and humidity is incredibly annoying to deal with irl but whatever. it's just here for the aesthetic
Chapter 4: bad news guys… (announcement)
Chapter Text
When I wrote this AU I did not account for the fact that I am tech illiterate. Now that I’m writing past the first encounter with Furina it’s becoming apparent how big of a problem it is in a cyberpunk AU. Not that you need in depth knowledge of something to write it well, but for me it’s getting more and more painful for me to utilise the genre to its full potential. I can only throw the few buzzwords I know a couple times before I get tired of them and start wanting to write something else.
I’ll still upload the chapters I have already completed, but rest assured, I’ll still be writing arlefuri, just in a setting I’m more interested in writing. Don’t be surprised if you see some concepts here used in future fics: call that recycling, baby. I’m still hooked on the themes of identity and the self and I’m still going to write those as long as I draw breath.
With love,
Hubris
grasshopperfandom on Chapter 2 Wed 14 Aug 2024 05:03AM UTC
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a_seagulls_hubris on Chapter 2 Wed 14 Aug 2024 03:11PM UTC
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