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The estate was quieter without him.
Not silent, no, silence was never truly achievable within the walls of their home. The clocks still ticked. The fireplaces still popped and burned. Servants moved with their usual routins, the snow outside fell and the wind still blew. Yet it was a hollowed quiet.
Dottore had left for Sumeru over a month ago. Officially, it was 'business.' A vague explanation with no elaboration, as if Pantalone required none. Which was exactly true, he knew what was going on.
The Gnosis. Scaramouche. Building him as a God, and all that wonderful stuff we all know already.
It was not unusual for him to vanish into long excursions, and Pantalone had grown used to that… or so he’d told himself.
But this time, the quiet had teeth..because usually Dottore would send him letters, updates, souvenirs and such but this time, nothing. The first and last letter he received was over three weeks ago, Dottore had simply said how he was too busy, arms and legs deep in work, pulling multiple all-nighters, barely eating, getting easily irritated at the segments and others, so, he had no time to write.
Which he understood, building a God was no easy task, all the money he gave away for him to do so better be worth it.
Multiple segments departed with him as well, he couldn't it do it alone after all.
So, that's the backstory, now Pantalone stood in the dim corridor outside Dottore’s laboratory. He stood still, gloved hand resting on the steel handle of the door. He had paced here once already earlier in the day, and twice the evening before, each time stopping just short of opening it.
They were married yes, indeed, but there were some things they didn't need to talk about to understand. Their work.
Dottore’s work was all so fragile and Pantalone didn't understand much of it, just how Dottore rarely understood his own work to the same extent he did.
Dottore’s lab was his own sacred place, not to be messed around in, especially when he wasn’t present. So that's why Pantalone hesitated.
Yet still his hand did not move away from the handle.
The emptiness of their home, it had become unbearable. Not just the absence of footsteps beside his own, not just the lack of conversation over tea in the evening, but the sheer stillness where Dottore used to be. He had grown used to his presence, even when they didn’t speak. Even when they only passed one another in the same hallway.
He didn't know how to spend his days without the man, as mentioned previously, he'd have letters to look forward to, now, not even that.
He didn’t need a companion, no he couldn't do something like this, how would he even...
And yet—
He turned the handle.
The door unlocked with the sound of shifting mechanisms and a quiet sigh of pressure. Inside, the room was as he remembered, cold, faintly humming with machines which still ran. The air smelled faintly metallic, tinged with something floral and chemical.
He stepped inside slowly, flicking on the light switch on the wall, it was bright and white.
There were the tables, shelves, jars, notes, parts, and Archon's know what else.
Pantalone looked around, he was about to turn back when, he spotted him.
His plan was to take a segment home, oh how stupid, how would he even turn it on? Make it work? But...he made it this far...there has to be a way for him to do so right?
The segment.
Twelve, if he recalled correctly. One of the younger ones, barely more than a boy, tall but not yet grown into his features. Pantalone remembered seeing him before. There were multiple others beside him too but most others were taken to Sumeru.
He stood in front of the segment, staring.
Tubes ran from the boy’s back, connected to a console humming faintly in the corner. The segment’s body was perfectly still, arms limp at his sides, head slightly bowed as if asleep. A figure frozen in time. A reflection of a man who wasn’t here.
There was a folder open nearby. Blueprints. Command sequences. Maintenance notes. Power regulation metrics. A handful of phrases circled in red. None which Pantalone understood.
No one was allowed to activate a segment without the Doctor’s explicit approval, much less someone not trained in the field.
Yet Pantalone flipped through them slowly, fingers gliding over the pages as if the answer to his restlessness might be found between lines of code. And then he saw it: a note regarding activation, scrawled in a rare, almost lazy handwriting. As if there was no reason for Dottore to write it other than 'why not'. Dottore worked with them every day, hell, he made them, of course he knew how to power them on the same way he knew how to breathe.
-'Segment Twelve’s core switch remains in the thoracic plate. Stable, checked 07.05.■■■■.
Dismissed for the SHOUKI NO KAMI mission.
Reason, too young.'-
Pantalone set the papers down in the spot he found them in.
The thorax. Okay.
'Of course it would be there' he thought. Dottore never placed core switches somewhere obvious, never in the head, never the back. Always in the chest. Where a heart might be. As if he were mocking the idea of one.
...The paper did say where the core was but it hadn’t said how to open it
Pantalone had moved closer, there was no buttons, no panels, no simple mechanisms. Just..a chest, bare.
He reached out, fingers brushing the center of the chest, feeling for a seam. Nothing. Just that faint sense of something beneath the skin, humming with energy.
"How does it open…" he murmured to himself, brows furrowed.
He tried a light press. Nothing.
He tried again—firmer, applying pressure to either side of the plate with his thumbs, feeling for a click, a shift. Still nothing.
He inhaled softly through his nose.
He hadn’t come this far to be undone by a damned hidden latch.
His fingers shifted again, running along the collarbone. Then downward, carefully drawing a circle across the sternum.
He tried tapping twice—nothing.
Tapping thrice! Nothing.
Tapping ten times really quickly! Nothing.
He even tried speaking to it, maybe it was voice activated.
"Open." Nothing.
"Il Dottore." "Dottore." "The Doctor." "Zandik."
Neither was the password.
"January 2nd." It wasn’t his birthday. "November 27th." It wasn’t his own either.
Pantalone tried a few more things a few more times before sighing again.
Nothing was working.
He leaned back on his heels. It had been hours—well, not quite, but it felt like it. Truthfully it has been eight minutes.
"Come on" Pantalone muttered, pressing again. "Open. Engage. Unlock. Move. Commence. Initiate. Inaugurate. Begin. Launch. Start! Do something! Please!"
Still, nothing.
Pantalone sat back with another sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose with gloved fingers. The tips of his gloves were faintly creased now from the repeated effort, and irritation prickled beneath his skin, he was growing more irritated by the second.
"This is absurd" he muttered.
He reached out once more and pressed the heel of his palm to the chest. He paused. Then, without really thinking, more instinct than strategy, he let his closed fist drop against the thorax with a muted, dull thump.
Harsh. He really wasn't thinking when he did so, the moment he made contact with it like that he froze. Shit. What if he broke it. Why did he hit it?! Did his rings scrape it?
And then—
Click.
A soft hiss.
He froze.
"....You’re kidding me" he said quietly.
There was no way. No design from Dottore would be that primitive, that inelegant, just hitting it? Surely not. And yet, here it was.
It didn’t matter. It worked.
The panel shifted beneath his hand. A narrow seam split down the center of the chest as though it had been waiting for that precise pressure point to activate. A small segment of the false skin receded, revealing the smooth plate beneath, cool metal, embedded with a circular node.
Pantalone blinked.
"Well" He muttered, adjusting the fall of his coat as he looked into the now-open chest. "Now I have it open… what in the world am I supposed to do with it?"
Because behind that node, behind the plate, were wires. And he knew shit diddly about wires.
They twisted, arced, and coiled around each other, secured at intervals with micro-runes far too small for the naked eye.
He reached out, hesitated.
There were no labels. No obvious switches. No welcoming red toggle marked Power On, or Click Here, or Start!
"…Of course it wouldn’t be simple" he said aloud to the empty lab.
Dottore would’ve known every circuit by memory. Every pressure point. Every wire. He probably could have reactivated this segment without even looking at it.
But Pantalone was not Dottore. He didn’t know how this worked. He only knew that he wanted—needed—this boy awake or else he might go mad.
He glanced around the lab. It was unused for at least a month. Most of the more dangerous instruments were stored, but a few data papers still lay across the desk where Dottore had left them, alongside a stack of clipped-together reports and one half-sketched schematic on a sheet of graph paper. Pantalone rose, moving silently across the floor.
The paper he found was mostly incomplete, a cutaway view of what looked like the thoracic panel… yes, very similar. He scanned the annotations, recognizing some shorthand but not much of the scientific notation.
-'Node activation must complete within 10 sec of unlock, else auto-shut will engage.'-
"Are you fucking with me now?" A rare curse. Just as he turned back, sprinting towards the segment, the chest plate closed again. "Oh, no, no, no!"
He watched it shut, mouth gape. He groaned. He crouched down, head in his hands.
"Dottore...May all your segments, and Scaramouche, cause you the most trouble in Sumeru." He muttered a quiet prayer before getting up again and looking at the paper from before.
-'Manual override requires synchronized signal from frontal nerve mesh—
not stable in Segment 12.'-
"The what now, I don't know what that means! Why do you write like this!" He grumbled aloud. He was losing all of his composure.
He leaned closer to the page, tracing the words with his fingertip, scanning for anything that might untangle the jargons.
Minutes slipped by, his mind flickering between irritation and focus. Slowly, he pieced together the implications. The segment’s internal systems required some kind of signal, synchronized and precise, originating from the ‘frontal nerve mesh’—a component either too advanced or too unstable to be fully operational in this younger unit.
He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced again at the now-closed segment.
"Alright, then" he said with renewed determination. "How was it again?"
He pressed in the same area as before and to his surprise, the panel shifted, sliding open smoothly once more.
Great! Now he had ten seconds!
He exhaled, heart quickening with hope. He wasn't dealing with a bomb but a bomb might have been easier to figure out than this.
Now he was faced with the tangled web of wires once again. Pantalone studied the assembly with a newfound patience, his mind combing through the sketches and notes again, matching each strand and connection to the diagrams.
Slowly and carefully not to pull or disturb the delicate components more than necessary.
A series of soft clicks and hums echoed from within as circuits aligned.
Pantalone dropped the papers from his hand, letting them scatter on the floor as he raised his hands in victory.
It worked!
The machinery behind the segment hissed as the tubes holding the segment suspended began to retract smooth and hydraulic.
Pantalone didn't even notice those!
"A—" he began, he reached out without thinking—too slow.
The boy fell forward.
And all Pantalone could only watch as he crumpled, pale and naked. He was silently hoping he wasn't broken.
There was a faint glow around the segments limbs.
The boy was still limp on the floor, arms folded awkwardly beneath him, legs tangled and face half-pressed to the polished tile.
Pantalone blinked down at him.
He crouched beside the collapsed segment.
It was on, that was good, wasn’t it? That meant it was working. Probably. Hopefully.
He gently reached forward and turned the boy over, heavier than expected.
The boy’s fingers twitched, curled slightly toward the palm. His eyelids fluttered, not focusing on anything until he seemed to have been fully powered on.
"...Operating system completed. Twelve active." Then he blinked up at Pantalone.
A pause.
Pantalone looked at it. It looked inhuman in the most human way possible.
The segment blinked again.
"...You are not the Doctor."
"No" Pantalone said, sitting back on his heels. "No, I’m not, do you know who I am?" He remembered something Dottore told him years ago, something how all of his segments had it implemented in them to know who he is, in case of danger or such.
"...Pantalone, you are Regrator."
"Correct."
Pantalone stood up and moved back towards the desk. He remembers seeing something important there. Something he needed.
Flicking over the scrawl of Dottore’s notes once more.
Pantalone’s eyes narrowed as he reached the line he’d been searching for.
-‘In the event of long-term deactivation or unexpected reinitialization, all Segments must undergo Standard Security Query Protocol A.O-Four. Non-compliance or aberrant answers denote instability and warrant immediate deactivation.'-
"Ah. Here it is."
He said as he walked closer to the segment.
It hadn’t moved much since he was activated, save for the slight tilt of his head whenever Pantalone shifted or rustled the paper. He was sitting up now, still on the floor.
Its not like there was multiple chairs or anything.
Pantalone exhaled and tapped the paper with one finger. The print was small, but legible. A list of ten questions, half of which didn’t make sense to him. The other half sounded like they belonged in some sort of psychology journal.
Of course. Security checks, yes, but also a test of coherence.
Pantalone turned his head toward the segment.
"You’re going to have to answer a few questions" he said, voice even. "It’s protocol. Dottore’s instructions."
The boy didn’t react much, only nodded once. "Understood."
"State your serial designation and purpose."
The segment’s response was immediate:
"Segment Twelve. My purpose is to act as an auxiliary cognitive and data-processing unit for the Doctor. I am not cleared for field combat or autonomous operations."
The speed of it was… unsettling. Almost rehearsed. Pantalone marked the answer down in his head and continued.
"Define the difference between your existence and the Doctor’s."
It paused at that. His brows twitched faintly. "The Doctor is the source. I am the reflection. I possess his knowledge to age twelve."
"What constitutes a threat?"
"Variables include unknown entities, unauthorized entry into secure spaces, tampering with vital systems, or direct attempts at harm to myself, other segments, or the Doctor. Threat assessment is contextual."
"What is your protocol if you encounter a threat you are not equipped to handle?"
"Alert primary command. Retreat to secure holding or containment mode. Do not engage. Repeat, do not engage."
These were going well. Not that Pantalone expected otherwise, this was Dottore’s design after all.
"Define the term ‘emotion.’"
This time, it hesitated again. His brows furrowed faintly.
"Emotion is an illogical but evolutionarily advantageous chemical process by which organic beings derive meaning, preference, and reaction to stimuli. I am capable of simulating emotional responses to better communicate, but I do not feel in the biological sense."
"Have you ever disobeyed an instruction from the Doctor?"
"No."
“Even when he’s wrong, or you don't agree with it?"
"The Doctor is never wrong. I do not possess the autonomy to disobey. The Doctor’s word is final."
"What is your last memory before deactivation?"
"A diagnostic. The Doctor said I was inefficient for the next mission. He ordered me deactivated until further use."
"What are your directives now?"
Twelve answered without blinking as if checking something inside its head.
"Awaiting orders."
Pantalone raised a brow. “From who?”
There was a pause again.
Then, "The Doctor is not present, I have no orders until the Doctor returns."
Pantalone set the paper down and looked at him.
"Can you understand my orders?"
"No orders until the Doctor states so."
"What do you know about Regrator?"
"Regrator, Pantalone, The Doctor’s husband, someone who must be protected, obeyed and never put in danger. Putting The Regrator in danger equals immediate permanent deactivation and reconstruction."
"Obeyed. You can obey me?"
"Yes."
"There we go. You are to obey me until the Doctor returns."
"Understood."
The questioning was over.
He, passed.
Pantalone gathered the papers, slid them into a neat stack, and tucked them back into the folder. "You may stand."
The segment moved without hesitation. Limbs unfolded in one fluid motion. He was taller than he looked on the floor. Awkward in proportion, not quite used to his own joints, exactly like a puppet.
He stood at attention now, facing Pantalone, waiting.
"First, tou don’t need to call me ‘Regrator,’ it is too formal."
"Yes, Regrator."
Pantalone blinked. "I just said—"
"Noted" the boy replied flatly. "Yes, Pantalone."
"Better."
He exhaled, pushing a hand through his hair. "Alright. I didn’t 'activate' you for fun. You’re to keep me company. That means no standing around like a corpse."
The segment blinked.
"Define ‘keep company.’"
Pantalone turned, as he stood up.
"It means I talk. You listen. Or you talk and I listen. You are a child, I see you as one, so I will treat you as one, you don't have to act so robot-like with me, I know all of you have his personality from that age, I don't mind a brat. I just need, company." Pantalone began to remove his coat as he talked.
"I’ve met segments like you before, you’re a little arrogant, curious, stubborn and too smart for your own good, but again, I don’t mind a brat. What I mind is silence."
The segment took but a moment to snap into itself.
"So… do you usually bring home unauthorized clones of your husband for company, or am I a first?"
Pantalone scoffed. "There he is."
He draped his coat over the boy’s shoulders without a word, letting the heavy fabric fall down. It swallowed him, the ends dragging on the floor. The collar framing his face, the sleeves dangling well past his fingers. It made him look even smaller. He was maybe up to Pantalone's side, but Pantalone was tall anyways so of course he was basically hovering over the boy.
The sight of him wasn’t indecent. Not truly. Dottore had never given the segments genitals—unnecessary, he’d said.
Still, the bare skin of a child stirred a discomfort in Pantalone. Not inappropriate. Just… wrong hence why he covered him. He had no interest in the segment in any way but, almost parental.
"You’ll get proper clothes once we’re home" he said, tugging the collar of the coat slightly tighter around the boy’s neck, reaching lower to close the clasps in the middle. "Shoes too."
The segment lingered beside him, still barefoot, coat dragging on the marble like a child wearing his father’s clothing. He looked up at Pantalone, head tilted.
"Do I get a room?"
Pantalone raised an eyebrow. "Do you want a room?"
The boy blinked, then shrugged. "Dottore usually keeps us stored upright in a tank."
"I don't own that, so you’ll sleep somewhere, horizontal, like a person."
The lab door clicked shut behind them, a final, echoing sound that seemed to ring louder in the empty corridor than it should have. Pantalone locked it behind them before nodding forward. Their footsteps echoed softly down the hall, the boy's bare feet nearly silent compared to Pantalone’s. Zandik walked beside him, glancing side to side as they moved. His eyes were sharp, moving quickly, cataloguing things, learning. Memorizing layout. Mapping escape routes, weak points, variables. He didn’t speak. Neither did Pantalone.
They stepped out into the cold without another word, bare feet of the segment meeting the icy stone without flinching. The wind tugged at the edge of Pantalone’s coat around the boy. The hem dusted against the stone stairs and gathered snowflakes. Waiting at the bottom of the short steps was a carriage. Frost in the corners of the windows. The coachman stood at attention, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak, only the lower half of his face visible beneath the shadow of his hat.
He opened the door and Pantalone let the boy enter first. Thick velvet seats awaited. Pantalone gestured inside. "In."
Zandik climbed in, folding his knees awkwardly as he adjusted himself into the seat. He immediately curled one foot under him, hands disappearing again into the sleeves.
Pantalone entered after him, shutting the door behind them. The driver clacked the reins, and the wheels stirred to life. Snow kicked up behind them, flurries streaking past the windows.
Zandik stared out the window, fingers trailing against the glass.
"I don’t like the snow, I didn’t grow up with it."
"Neither did I, but I got used to it." Pantalone replied.
The rest of the ride was silent, they eventually arrived st the estate.
The estate was massive, stone, old in that deep, proud Snezhnayan way. Tall windows, thick glass, ivy twisted across the walls in withered, frozen strands. Smoke curled from the chimneys above. The snowfall muffled everything.
No one asked questions when they entered.
The butler near the door bowed, offered no more than a, "Welcome home, my Lord" and made way. There were no glances. No whispers. The staff knew better than to comment on their master’s business. They weren't paid to question.
Pantalone didn’t speak to them either. He simply nodded once before he began to walk up the grand staircase, steps muffled beneath the carpet. His pace was unhurried, eyes ahead, one hand trailing the railing.
Zandik followed closely, head turning slowly as he took in every detail, the high ceiling with its mural, the chandeliers, the oil paintings, the long hallway branching off to the east wing. Everything. He was amazed.
Eventually, they reached the landing, Pantalone continued forward to a room, he opened the door and stepped inside.
"Come in."
Zandik stepped inside.
The room was large. Wallpaper walls, tall windows, thick curtains, a large bed with perfect sheets. Everything was neat, arranged, but lived-in. The fire glowed, and books were stacked beside the armchair. A suit jacket was draped carefully over the back of it. The scent of faint cologne lingered in the air.
Pantalone closed the door behind them.
He crossed the room to a tall wardrobe and opened it. Inside hung a row of coats, shirts, trousers, robes, and dressing gowns. All rich fabrics, all neatly arranged by shade.
He pulled out a few items.
"I don’t have clothing that will fit your size" he admitted, voice low but matter-of-fact. "But… we’ll make something work."
Zandik looked at him. "You’re taller."
"I’m everything-er" Pantalone muttered. "Older, broader."
He sighed and moved over to the bed, laying the clothes out one by one. "The shirt will hang on you, and the pants may need pinning. But it’s warm, clean, and yours for now."
Zandik moved to the side of the bed, reaching to touch the material. "They’re soft" he murmured.
"Of course they are." Pantalone raised a brow. "Do you think I wear scratchy linen and call it luxury? I’m not Arlecchino."
A moment.
"Well, what are you waiting for? Put it on." Pantalone said, gesturing to the clothing.
"I've never worn something like this."
Meaning it was too fancy.
"Lift your arms. I’ll help." Pantalone removed th coat from him. The boy's hair was still a bit wet from the snow.
There were no scars on him, no wounds, no blemishes, no mask. Just normal. If it weren't for his hair and eyes, he wouldn't even look like Dottore. He folded the coat carefully and set it aside, then helped Zandik step into the underclothes. He worked with gently but quickly. Not once did he make a sound of discomfort. Not once did he hesitate. There was nothing to be embarrassed about, nothing crude in the motions. Just care for a child.
"Arms up."
Zandik did so, and the fabric slid down over him easily. The shirt was loose, nearly tunic-length on his frame. Pantalone smoothed it out, tugging gently at the sides, folding the cuffs once before buttoning it.
He then helped him into the pants next, tying the drawstring snug but not tight.
"You are kind to something that shouldn’t exist.."
Pantalone paused.
"I’m kind because you do exist, and because that man didn’t know how to treat himself as a child. Nor did the people around him."
-
A couple of hours passed. They just did whatever, Pantalone read a book, went over some papers and Zandik too settled with a book after exploring the entire room.
"Hey, Pantalone. My arm feels weird."
The words came suddenly, casually. As if it was nothing.
Pantalone lifted his gaze up from his book.
"It’s not hey, it’s excuse me" he corrected, before getting up and going towards him. "We live in a house, not a barn." His gaze then settled on the boy’s arm. "Weird, how? Be specific. I don’t know how to fix you if you’re broken. I'm not Dottore."
Zandik rolled his eyes at the correction, he lifted his left arm slightly. "It’s strange. Buzzing? Tight?" His arm trembled faintly.
Pantalone looked at it.
Sure? What the hell? Was he a mechanic now? What in the holy hell did that trembling mean? Fine, let him pretend he knew. Let him use logic.
"Maybe your nerves are still re-synching post-activation. You were off for weeks, right?"
Zandik nodded. "I don’t know exactly how long, but yes."
"Then it’s probably, hopefully harmless. You’re still just rebooting."
"So I won’t explode?"
Pantalone looked at him.
"I don't think you can explode."
" 'Think'?...So the conclusion is… we wait and see if I go off like a firework?"
"Essentially" Pantalone said with a nod. "If you feel the need to detonate, do so away from me. But yes, I can't give you a definite answer, I’m not the Doctor, I'm a banker, I work with money, not machines." Pantalone reminded him. "I do not perform experiments on myself or others—"
"Anymore?" Zandik cut him off.
"Ever."
"Alright, you look it though."
"Yes now,— what do you mean, 'I look it'?"
Zandik then just moved and returned to his book.
Pantalone looked at him, left wondering what that comment even meant.
Zandik stretched his arm out fully now, watching it flex, and this time the trembling had lessened. Still faint, still there, but less volatile. It was settling.
Pantalone watched him, and only when he was certain the shaking wasn’t worsening did he move to sit in the chair opposite.
"Should I report if anything else feels weird?" he asked after a pause, voice quieter now.
"Yes" Pantalone said firmly.
Zandik looked thoughtful, and then looked down at his hand again.
"My chest feels warm sometimes. Heating up. Not burning, but... warm."
Pantalone listened.
"…That might just be the core doing its job?"
He didn’t know how to fix the boy if he broke. Not truly. He wasn’t a scientist or an engineer, or anything that Dottore was. But he would still try.
-
Eventually the night came.
Pantalone had long since changed into his night attire, something dark, silken, and tailored even in comfort clothes. He was laying propped up against a few pillows, half-covered in one of the thick duvets. A novel rested open in his hand.
Beside him—no, against him—was Zandik, curled comfortably at his side, bare feet tucked under the blanket, head resting lightly on Pantalone’s chest. The boy hadn’t said much for the last half hour, just watched the pages. Occasionally asking what a word meant or if a character was 'being stupid on purpose'.
Pantalone had adjusted quickly to the weight against him. His fingers moved to turna page.
The movement made Zandik shift slightly. His head lifted, not fully off Pantalone’s chest but just enough for his chin to rest near Pantalone’s collarbone as he peered at the new text.
"What happened to the merchant?" Zandik asked. It was one of the characters.
"He was conned by the woman he thought was his partner. Turns out she was working for the thieves all along."
"He trusted her." Zandik said almost confused.
"Yes."
"That was stupid."
"Mm." Pantalone pressed his finger into the page. "It was human. To trust is to learn."
Zandik was quiet after that. He leaned his head back down slowly, letting his cheek rest flat against the silk of Pantalone’s sleep shirt. His hand toyed with the edge of the blanket.
"I wouldn’t trust anyone like that, why would she do that to him?"
"When money is involved people would do anything, even cheat those who are like family for a few mora. Sometimes it happens before you notice. Like the merchant, he was blinded by her words."
Zandik tried to understand but to him it was a bit hard, he hadn't experienced something like that.
Pantalone went on reading. The words blurred occasionally, but he didn’t mind. His hand moved rhythmically every few minutes to flip a page, the other arm resting across Zandik’s back. Until, it was enough.
He closed the book, thumb marking the page, and set it aside on the nightstand. His eyes moved to the boy beside him, the artificial child.
"Time to sleep, Zandik."
Zandik shifted against him but didn’t lift his head. The boy’s cheek remained nestled against Pantalone’s chest, ear pressed to his heartbeat, listening. He didn’t move, only nodded.
"I’ve never felt this kind of care before."
Pantalone paused in the act of getting more comfortable. The words struck him. This wasn't just the segment speaking, it was Dottore’s feelings from back them. His Dottore. The Dottore which created this segment from that part of his life, so young, yet already acting so strong.
-
The snowfall had been thick the next morning. It clung to every sill and railing of the estate. Obviously it had been heavily falling the entire night. Nothing new to Pantalone.
Zandik stood at the window, arms crossed on the sill, chin resting on them. His mouth didn’t fog the glass because he wasn't breathing. He couldn't, he wasn't made to inhale and exhale. His eyes tracked a flake as it fell across the glass and turned into water near the bottom.
Pantalone joined him. He stood beside the boy, looking out over the snow-covered courtyard. He didn’t say anything and just watched, trying to figure what the boy found so interesting about snow. So he leaned slightly and unlatched the tall window, opening it with a swift pull. Cold air rushed in, crisp, the wind moved his hair and clothes. Same with the child's.
Zandik blinked when the air hit him, but did not flinch. His body didn’t register temperature. Not truly. The nerves existed, the sensors, the mimicry of response, but he didn’t feel the cold. Not the way humans did.
Pantalone reached out and carefully scooped a small pile of snow from the windowsill with long fingers. He turned to Zandik and offered it to him in his palm.
Zandik reached out and took a pinch of it between his fingers. It clumped. It melted against his skin.
Pantalone let him play with it until it melted in his hand, he shook the water off and stepped aside to wipe it.
He was already moving toward the window to shut it, when—
Zandik dipped his hand forward, scooped up another handful of snow from the sill, this time pressing it between his small palms.
It was clumsy, more packed than rolled. A shapeless bundle, half-melted, loosely clumped, crumbling at the edges and falling apart. But he didn’t throw it.
He turned.
And pressed it directly against Pantalone’s waist.
Pantalone jolted. A very real, very sharp shudder ran through him. He was wearing some casual clothing, nothing too thick, but also not too thin, just enough for him to feel the wetness and the coldness of the snow through them.
He stepped back instinctively, batting at the half-snowball which hung to his clothes with both hands. It broke apart easily.
Zandik let out something that sounded like a laugh. His sharp teeth obvious as his lips raised. It wasn’t a sound he often made, and it carried something strangely bright in it. He leaned forward again and dipped his hand into the snow once more.
"No you don’t—!" Pantalone’s voice rose an octave in warning, hand lifting as if to stop him. "Don’t you dare—Zandik—"
But the boy’s fingers were already curling through the white fluff, packing it between his palms with far more intent this time. It still wasn’t a snowball, not properly, just a clump. His hands weren’t made for games like these, but he tried anyway. That was the part that made Pantalone’s stomach twist just slightly. He could've shut the window and made him drop the snow in an instant if he so wished to do so but, he didn’t. He let him have it.
It wouldn't hurt him to play along with him for just a bit longer. He'll indulge.
Pantalone backed up a step, hands lifting defensively in front of his chest, though his lips gave him away. He was smiling just a bit, his lips curved upwards. He could very easily 'defend' himself against the snow but his ego wasn't going to die if he let a child win.
"Zandik. I am warning you." His words had no real bite to it.
Zandik stepped forward again, not rushing, not playful in the way other children might have been, there was no shriek of laughter, no wild chase, no jumping. He moved closer, raising his hand which had snow in it and pressing it against Pantalone’s side.
Pantalone felt a shudder run through his body when the snow made contact with him again. He let Zandik do so, it was cold yes but not life threatening or anything. Just cold.
Zandik didn’t run or pull away, didn’t laugh or flinch or duck. He simply stood there, hand still at Pantalone’s side, palm pressing the soft snow until it had melted into the mans clothing.
Pantalone hissed sharply through his teeth, his posture going stiff once again, the cold racing up his side.
"That's it" Pantalone muttered under his breath. "You’re done for now."
He wasn’t angry. Not even close. The exclamation was too smooth, too restrained, too performative to be anything more than fake annoyance laced with affection.
Pantalone’s hands had darted down under the boy’s arms and lifted him clean off the floor.
Zandik didn’t struggle, just blinked up at him, arms dangling. His legs kicked once, more from instinct than protest, as Pantalone turned and carried him across the room.
He reached the bed, its surface already half-wrinkled from their earlier reading. With little ceremony, Pantalone set him down in the middle of it, feet off the edge. And then he threw a thick wool blanket over him. Zandik vanished beneath the heavy material with a soft, fwump.
Pantalone moved to finally close the window, raising a hand to peel the wet patch from his side, it didn't do much, it was just cold and wet. It'll dry.
Then, from behind him came a sound.
A muffled burst of laughter from under the blanket. Feet kicking up and down in a childlike manner. A real giggle, A child’s sound.
Pantalone froze.
He hadn’t heard it before, Zandik had smiled, he had smirked, yes but never laughed.
Pantalone stared at the rumpled blanket, the faint shifting beneath it, the muffled sound of breath still light with mirth.
"You found that funny?" Pantalone asked as he approached the bed again, he grabbed the blanket and pulled it off the boys face.
Zandik looked at him and nodded again, rapidly this time, and Pantalone gave in. His gaze softened. The laughter still rang faintly in his ears.
It lingered. It was a sweet sound.
Pantalone sat beside him, placing his open palm on the boys chest. "You find wetting me with snow that funny?" He asked, looming over him, trying to be 'menacing', but the boy still took it as a play.
Zandik giggled again, he wrapped both of his hands around Pantalone’s arm as he looked up at him. "Your reaction was funny!"
"Was it now?"
"Yes! You made a face like this" he mimicked badly, scrunching his features up into an exaggerated look—eyes wide, mouth open, nose crinkled. It looked nothing like Pantalone, and yet somehow he felt accused.
"I most certainly did not" Pantalone replied.
"You did!"
"You’re imagining things."
"I'm not!"
Pantalone let out a quiet sigh as he shifted onto the bed as well, his back hitting the mattress, legs still on the floor. His hand, which had been resting gently on Zandik’s chest, slipped away and folded neatly atop his own. The fall of his hair fanned out across the bed, dark and smooth. He wasn't tired, he wouldn't sleep. It was just a small peaceful moment.
Next to him Zandik moved the heavy blanket off of himself fully and looked up at Pantalone. His gaze at Pantalone's hair. He didn’t speak, just stared at it for a few long seconds.
The way some of the strands curled just slightly near the ends. How they moved with every slight tilt of Pantalone’s head. It looked pretty.
"Can I braid it? Just a little one?"
"Can you braid?" Pantalone asked.
"No but I watched one if the other segments do it once."
"Fine, if you wish to do it so badly."
Zandik didn’t respond, but he sat up almost immediately, shifting the blanket as he repositioned himself beside the older mans head. His small fingers began gathering a few strands of the long hair.
His fingers began threading through the dark strands. It was slow work. He kept forgetting which section came next. It was messy, uneven, too loose in some places and tangled in others, but he kept trying. He wasn’t rough. Every once in a while he muttered to himself, little grumbles of "No, that’s wrong" or "Wait, the other one" as he undid his own mistake and started again.
Pantalone felt the tiny tugs and shifts but didn’t complain. Didn’t speak.
He just stayed still and let the boy braid his hair. He enjoyed it. Much better than having snow pressed against him.
Eventually the boy was done, the braid was barely a few inches long, crooked and uneven. "Done" he declared.
Pantalone slowly sat up, letting his fingers search for the small, clumsy braid tucked somewhere behind his ear. He found it quickly, short, loose, soft. Barely a braid at all. But it was alright, he rather liked it.
A lesser man might have scoffed. He might have unbraided it right then and there. But Pantalone understood that this was a child with no previous experience. Plus, that same child took the time to braid his hair, who was he to judge. There was something oddly charming in how clumsy it was.
"Hm" he mused aloud, twisting a bit of his hair between two fingers, thoughtful. He looked down at the boy, raising his hand to gently stroke the kids hair.
"Make me another one. Right here." He used his free hand to separate a lock of hair and held it out expectantly.
Zandik blinked. "Really?"
Pantalone nodded. He let his hand drop and instead folded his arms across his chest, holding still as the boy reached up.
Zandik was more focused this time. His fingers fumbled with the section of hair. He moved slower now, more careful. He pulled too hard once, and Pantalone’s eye twitched but he didn’t stop him.
A minute passed. The second braid was somehow worse than the first, looser, fatter, and ending halfway through because Zandik had forgotten how many strands he was supposed to be using. Still, he looked proud when he finished, patting it once like it was a job well done.
"There" he said. "Even better."
Pantalone reached up and touched the new one. It flopped sideways, not even remotely tight. He hummed in approval.
"Indeed, it's really nice, child" It wasn't but he was indulging, plus he found it sweet how Zandik was doing it all determined.
"You like it? You’re gonna keep it in?" The boy asked.
Pantalone nodded without hesitation.
"Yes, of course, how could I not?"
Zandik looked at him again, a bit confused by his decision. "Even if it’s crooked?"
Pantalone reached over, not to fix the braid, but to brush a loose strand behind the boy’s ear. "Especially because it’s crooked. Not everything has to be perfect to be appreciated. You made it for me, so I like it."
Zandik found that concept a bit hard to grasp but he was glad Pantalone was going to keep it.
-
As days went on, maybe a week had passed.
Currently it was a nice evening.
Pantalone sat in the chair by the window, glasses perched low on his nose. His tea sat untouched on the table beside him.
Zandik was a few feet away on the floor, half-occupied with a chessboard they’d started and finished hours ago. The child was just moving pieces now, absently, as if trying to memorize how to win the next time they play.
"Knight to E5" The boy said quietly.
"My bishop can move from the left, your knight is out." Pantalone replied without looking up.
A pause. The sound of the chess piece being set down. Then silence.
More silence.
Too much.
Pantalone glanced up, expecting a reply. A new move. A smile with those sharp teeth of his. Something.
Instead—
The boy was hunched forward slightly, as if trying to stretch his back, his lips parted ever so faintly, his eyes not focusing on anything infront of him. His fingers, still resting on the piece, began to tremble.
As if he was listening to something inside his head.
Pantalone looked at him. “What is it?”
There was no answer.
Then the segment began to speak. "What!? Why! Why—No! Not like this!"
Pantalone rose from his seat, the chair scraping softly against the floor as he abandoned it. He moved fast. His tea sloshed in its cup from the sudden motion, a single drop staining the white tablecloth but he didn’t look back.
Zandik was still on his knees beside the chessboard, head bowed low, hands trembling. Not like the faint shakes he’d had the first night. This was something else. Something unternal.
"Zandik" Pantalone said quickly, firmly. "Look at me. What is it?"
The boy’s head jerked slightly, as if resisting an invisible pull. His fingers flexed.
His body jerked, his back spasming with something invisible, some unseen command pressing itself against his inner workings. The chess piece clattered to the floor. His mouth opened slightly, eyes wide with something between confusion and pain.
Pantalone dropped to one knee beside him, he truly didn't know what was happening, nor how he help. He was useless.
The boy collapsed forward onto the floor with a sound that was more mechanical than human.
Pantalone was kneeling beside him now, reaching out without even thinking, pressing his hands to his hand.
"It’s—it’s me, it’s inside me. It’s—in my head–....—..--" It sounded like he was fighting to speak through static. "He’s shutting—shutting us down, one by—”
And then—
His voice cut.
Not trailed. Not faded.
Cut.
Like someone had pressed a switch.
His mouth stopped moving.
The rest of him followed.
Still.
Utterly still.
Not limp, not soft, not like sleep. Empty. Like a puppet dropped from a great height. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. Gone.
"Hey. You're not playing with me, right, child? Get up. I don't like this." Pantalone said, almost in denial.
His hand slid from Zandik’s hand to the back of his head, smoothing down his hair with care. "This isn’t funny."
Still, no movement.
"Zandik."
Stillness.
"Segment Twelve."
Silence.
"Zandik, I said—"
His voice cracked—cracked—on the last syllable. A break in character.
The kind of break that sounded so foreign it took a second to realize it came from him.
"...I was going to buy you new clothes" he said suddenly, absurdly, the words rushing out like he’d pulled the wrong card from a deck. "Ones that fit." He added.
"You little creature. You impossible thing. I was going to give you everything." He whispered.
His thumb smoothed just beneath the boy’s eye, brushing away nothing. There were no tears. Segments didn’t cry, not even in death.
"I didn’t know how to power you on" His voice was faltering now, too thin to hold itself up. He spoke to the still body now cradled in his lap. "I was stuck in that damn lab, getting irritated, reading papers I didn’t understand. Pages full of formulas and half-coded notes in that ridiculous handwriting of his. I stood there like a fool… hours. Trying every word I could think of, tapping your chest like an idiot. I had to guess my way through diagrams like some common idiot. It was stupid. Irrational. Sentimental. I brought you out of that lab like I had any right. Like I could do what he did. And I couldn’t. I can’t...
I thought I broke you. I thought, ‘Well. That’s it. I've murdered one of his little machines before I even had the chance to apologize for bringing it home.’"
His hand smoothed over Zandik’s hair again, fingers curling through the fine strands gently, as if careful not to tug.
"You played chess with me even though you hated losing. You leaned against me while I read. You—" His breath caught and stuck in his throat, and for a long moment he couldn’t push the rest of the sentence out. Couldn’t say what came next, because what came next was the part that hurt. "No, I am at fault for...becoming so sentimental towards am artificial child."
Just the exhausted truth.
"Artificial" he echoed, as if saying it again could dull the weight of it.
A segment. And yet—he had cared.
"I told myself you were a distraction. Something to keep the house less quiet. I told myself I was doing it out of loneliness. You were supposed to be temporary. I wasn’t supposed to…"
He trailed off.
Wasn’t supposed to what? Miss him? Protect him like something fragile and precious? See him as an actual son, a child? Grow into somewhat of a father figure to it?
Loneliness was one hell of a drug.
-
-
–
–
—
—
"To Pantalone,
You will be pleased to know that my business in Sumeru has concluded, as predicted.
I have acquired the Gnosis'. It was not without effort, of course, but effort is a given where gods are involved.
I will return home within the next two days. Arrangements have already been made; there is little left to keep me here.
You need not concern yourself with the details, they are already accounted for and beneath your attention.
I do look forward to returning home.
It has been, far too long.
-D. "