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A clouded beam of Snezhnayan daylight filters through the high, arched windows of Pantalone’s office, painting the sandbearer wood desk in cool stripes of gold and illuminating the space with a subdued glow.
The office itself is a study in understated opulence just like Pantalone likes it. Heavy, deep purple drapes frame the windows, carrying delicate patterns carved into the woodwork. The faint fragrance of his glaze lily perfume harmonizes perfectly with the aroma of tea made from Dottore’s blend created solely for him, that unique scent permanently lingers in the air here.
Pantalone sits behind his desk, his posture immaculate, pen scratching lightly over parchment as he tallies figures in a ledger whose columns march down the page in perfect, unwavering order. But his mind drifts between several pressing concerns all at the same time. Shipments delayed by snowbound roads, expenditures growing heavier with each passing month, profits fluctuating with the market’s whims, and most persistently, the ever-problematic subject of missing armaments from the Fatui’s private stores.
In the far corner of the room, Zandik is curled up on the couch, the velvet cushions nearly engulf his slight form. His legs are crossed and a thick medical tome is propped open in his lap. Every so often, Pantalone’s gaze flickers over, watching the boy’s small fingers as they trace complicated diagrams, lips moving in silent rehearsal of words that would trip up most grown men.
To be very honest, Pantalone isn’t sure what he should do with the child—the segment. He wants to keep Zandik close, to let him live the life that the world didn’t allow the original Zandik to have, but he also knows that Dottore might not agree with all of this.
From very early on, Dottore had endeared himself to Pantalone—unapologetically strange, unsettling in ways that both fascinated and kept him on edge. There was the way Dottore would lean in too close, speaking with feverish intensity about anatomical curiosities and impossible theories, his sharp-tooth smile slicing through the bore of too-long meetings, of freezing Snezhnayan days and lonely nights in his private chambers.
Pantalone remembers the first time that smile was turned on him and how his heart had stuttered with a mixture of apprehension and intrigue, drawn in against all logic by the gravity of Dottore’s presence.
Over the many years that fascination became an abiding adoration, a love that no cruelty or scandal could extinguish.
With Dottore come his many segments, and over time Pantalone has discovered that each one possesses the slightest snippet of his heart. At first, he expected them to be mere extensions of Dottore, but time proved otherwise. Each segment’s existence brings new colour into the day-to-day, their personalities distinct, their temperaments ranging from mischievous to solemn. Some are fiercely independent, brimming with ambition and impatience, while others are quiet, content to work in the shadows or linger at the edge of a conversation.
He finds himself drawn to their quirks and habits: the way one will obsess over the perfect solution to a problem, another will debate for hours just to prove a point, and a third might wander the halls lost in thought, humming softly under his breath content to just stew in his own thoughts.
Their flashes of brilliance are a constant source of delight, but so is the stubbornness that so clearly mirrors Dottore himself.
There are moments when a segment lowers his guard and reveals a glimmer of vulnerability or need, indirect glimpses of the hidden frailties Dottore conceals beneath layer upon layer of wit and ego and irritation.
Pantalone indulges the segments with gentle patience, offering encouragement and praise for their work, listening with real interest to their passionate, rambling explanations. When frustration or anger overtakes them, he soothes with the same care he gives Dottore—fingers weaving through powder-blue hair, voice soft and reassuring, always offering a new perspective rather than dictating a direct and easy solution like he would offer recruits or even the other Harbingers.
His support for all of the segments is quiet but unwavering: murmured approval, subtle increases in funding, thoughtful adjustments to their resources. Even segments like Omega and Prime find themselves the recipients of his careful attention, though neither would ever admit to needing it.
Yet, for all this, the connection with the segments remains distinct—a gentle undercurrent of affection rather than the tidal force of adoration he feels for Dottore.
Until Zandik.
His feelings for Zandik are distinct—a thread spun not just of fondness, but of a fierce and almost desperate protectiveness. Where he adores the other segments, he finds himself lingering in every smile aimed at Zandik. There is a tenderness that takes even him by surprise, a willingness to risk his own composure for the sake of a child who so clearly wants approval.
Even if the boy’s manipulations are transparent to him.
Pantalone sees the calculated wideness of those crimson eyes, the way Zandik’s small hand finds his sleeve with practiced innocence, the trembling lip that appears just when Pantalone might dare to say no. Unconscious echoes of a child who has clearly learned that gentleness must be earned rather than given.
Zandik’s theatrics is a silent language asking for safety and approval and Pantalone is fluent in its dialect. He knows every trick and every silent plea not to be rejected or treated harshly. For Pantalone, there is a bittersweetness in the recognition, a mingling of sympathy, protectiveness, and a deep ache to rewrite the script for this child in a way his Dottore was never given.
So Pantalone allows himself to be manipulated. He lets his own carefully constructed defenses take a break so Zandik can slip seamlessly past every barrier Pantalone built. And in doing so the boy has found the crater in Pantalone’s heart that he carved out so many decades ago for the child he always longed for, and has settled in that spot as if he was meant to be there all along.
Pantalone wants to cherish him, wants to nurture and raise this strange and brilliant child even if he will never grow and the passage of time will never draw new lines on his face.
But reality is a damning thing.
Zandik is Dottore’s segment, a creation belonging to another that was never truly meant to be claimed nor cherished in the way Pantalone longs for. He wants to offer Zandik the warmth and safety that the world denied the original, but Zandik’s fate is not his own to decide. Dottore could deactivate Zandik with a snap of his fingers right now and there’s nothing Pantalone could do to stop it, his life extinguished as simply as blowing out a candle.
The knowledge sits heavy in Pantalone’s heart, it’s a reminder that all the warmth and safety he could give the boy are conditional—a kindness on loan, subject to the whims of the sole man in Teyvat that Pantalone cannot refuse.
He knows he could protest against the deactivation; he could plead and beg Dottore not to go through with it, threaten to withhold his love, or swear to leave if Dottore takes the segment’s life away. And it might halt the deactivation, if only for a little while.
But in the end, Pantalone knows that Dottore’s logic will always win out over sentiment.
Pantalone tries to focus on his own work again, but now his head and also his heart ache with a persistent throb that makes the neat columns of numbers on the page shimmer and blur and refuse to settle back into neat columns. So he breathes out a deliberate exhale before he places his pen down and pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes.
He breathes in the faint trace of glaze lilies, of tea, of ink—all grounding aromas that do little to ease the tension winding through his muscles. With a huff, he leans back in his chair, the supple leather creaking softly beneath him as he pushes his glasses up into his hair. Cool fingers gently massage his eyelids, as if he could knead the exhaustion and ache from his head by simply rubbing it away.
When Pantalone finally lowers his hands, the world returns in softened focus. But even with his vision still blurry he notices a small, almost imperceptible movement across the room.
After sliding his glasses back onto his nose, he finds Zandik watching him intently, the boy’s crimson eyes luminous with curiosity and a half-formed question lingering on his lips, but he remains silent as if caught between wanting to reach out and fearing he might overstep.
As the ticking silence unfurls between them, Zandik’s small shoulders draw in, his posture shrinking as if already bracing for a reprimand.
The sight pierces Pantalone’s composure, and he softens instantly, offering a gentle smile with the faintest shake of his head. “My eyes are not what they used to be—I am old, remember?” he teases, letting warmth slip into his voice. He picks up his pen again and gestures with it toward the book in Zandik’s lap. “Are you managing all right with that?”
“Yeah,” Zandik answers quickly, eagerness shining through. But then his voice falters, quieter as he admits, “Well, mostly.”
Pantalone tilts his head, offering encouragement in the gentle set of his expression. “Remember the parts you do not understand. I will explain them when I am done with my work,” he promises.
Zandik nods, and the tension in his posture dissolves just a little as his eyes drift back to the tome in his lap.
For a moment, an easy silence falls between them.
The stillness is fleeting.
Without warning, the double doors to the office crash open, shattering the tranquil air as Tartaglia bursts in with a folder clutched in his hand.
“Pantalone, my dear comrade!” he calls, grin wide as he moves across the thick rug with a stride that dares anyone to challenge his right to be there.
Pantalone lifts his gaze from the ledger, pen pausing mid-figure. “Tartaglia,” he greets simply, his voice smooth. “What brings you up from the training yards during daylight hours?”
Tartaglia drops a battered folder onto the desk, its contents splaying out—papers stamped with the sigil of the Fatui Armoury and notes in a haphazard scrawl. “More of Maksim’s handiwork. Four rifles missing this time. I’m almost impressed by his audacity.”
“Maksim Vasiliev.” Pantalone lets the name linger in the air, his tone measured as he sorts through the scattered documents. He flips open the folder, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he surveys the damning list of discrepancies. “Resourceful, if nothing else,” he observes, voice tinged with both curiosity and a note of caution. “Any trace of the missing arms?”
“Not yet.” Tartaglia’s reply is breezy, but there’s a dangerous glint in his lifeless blue eyes. “Give me a day and two bottles of firewater and I’ll have him confessing to crimes of stolen sweets from his mother’s tin of sweets.”
“I do not trust your methods, Tartaglia,” Pantalone replies as he snaps the folder shut. “Stay out of this until I have spoken to him myself.”
Tartaglia throws his head back and laughs—a bright, ringing sound that fills the office with warmth and irreverent energy. Even so, the edge of challenge never quite leaves his voice. “No promises. The recruits need to learn initiative somehow.”
Pantalone leans back in his chair, fingers steepled as he regards Tartaglia with a critical gaze. “What is your honest assessment of Maksim? Is he worth the trouble?”
A hum, “He’s clever enough to be a decent thief. Quick with his hands, quicker with his wits. But in a fight? Completely useless.” Tartaglia snickers as he perches on the desk’s polished edge—a casual motion Pantalone has reprimanded many times, always to no avail. “He knows the stances, can look like the perfect picture of a soldier, but I’ve seen him lose a practice bout to a pigeon. There’s a reason he’s stuck in the Armoury most days.”
Pantalone arches a brow, his tone skeptical. “Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.” Tartaglia’s answering hum is confident, bordering on cocky. “He set the record for being the fastest to be disarmed in the history of the Fatui, poor guy doesn’t stand a chance.”
Tartaglia’s characteristic restlessness suddenly stills, a subtle shift as his gaze sweeps past the edge of Pantalone’s desk and lands, for the first time, on the boy in the corner. His posture softens minutely, the lines of bravado smoothing as he takes in the child’s presence.
Across the room, Zandik sits stiffly on the velvet couch as if he might go unnoticed so long as he doesn’t move, small hands gripping his book like he might use it as a weapon should need arise.
Tartaglia recovers in an instant, tilting his head with exaggerated nonchalance, a now softer smile returning to his lips. “Didn’t realize you had company,” he says, voice light as he looks back to Pantalone. “New recruit?”
“Childe,” Pantalone admonishes gently, a note of warning in his otherwise calm tone.
A faint twitch pulls at the corner of Tartaglia’s mouth. Though he is no stranger to Dottore’s segments, the sight of one so young, so obviously a child, clearly catches him off guard.
But ever adaptable, Tartaglia plays his part well, turning back to the boy with an open, gentle smile. “Hello hello, I didn’t see you there,” he says, pushing off the desk with a fluid motion. He crosses the room in long, easy strides, crouching down so he’s eye-level with Zandik, but careful not to crowd the child. “So rude of me, I’m Tartaglia, but some people call me Childe. What’s your name?”
Zandik’s gaze flickers uncertainly to Pantalone. Clearly seeking that silent reassurance, Pantalone offers a small nod, permission and encouragement all at once. The boy turns back to Tartaglia then, voice barely above a whisper as if the very act of sharing his name is a secret to be protected. “...Zandik.”
Tartaglia’s smile widens and his whole demeanour softens. “Nice to meet you, Zandik. That sure is a heavy book for someone your age. What are you reading?” His tone is gentle, the words laced with genuine curiosity and the easy warmth of an older brother.
Zandik hesitates, then holds up the tome for Tartaglia to read the cover, the gold lettering gleaming in the light. “It’s about the circulatory system. And surgical techniques. My-” He falters, glancing at Pantalone again. “I want to be a doctor.”
Tartaglia’s eyes light up with delight, but there’s a sincerity to his interest that sets Zandik at ease. “A doctor, huh? That’s a noble goal. I bet you already know more about medicine than most of the recruits downstairs.”
A flicker of relief crosses Zandik’s face, and his shoulders that were still tense a moment ago, relax just a fraction. “I know some things,” he admits, voice a little steadier. “But there’s still a lot I don’t understand.”
“I’m sure you know plenty.” Tartaglia’s easy smile stays as he perches on the edge of the low table nearby, his movements deliberate and measured so as not to make the boy jump. “What’s the most interesting thing you’ve learned so far?” he asks, his tone encouraging.
Zandik’s brow furrows in serious concentration, his fingers trailing over the pages of the book as if it might spark his memory. “There’s a chapter about repairing blood vessels. It’s very difficult. The sutures have to be very small, and you can’t let any air bubbles in or the patient could die.” He delivers this with a matter-of-fact confidence, as if reciting something memorized right before Tartaglia’s arrival.
Tartaglia whistles low, eyes wide in mock alarm. “Sounds tricky. I’m not sure I could manage all that. My hands are better at, uh, making the bigger cuts.” He winks, a conspiratorial glint in his expression, and Zandik giggles, a light and genuine sound that spills out almost against his will, the tension in his body easing further.
For a moment, Pantalone leans back and simply watches the scene unfold. Tartaglia is animated, fluid, and where Zandik was first stiff with uncertainty, he is now beginning to relax, answers growing longer and more confident with each gentle prompt. Pantalone recognizes the skill in Tartaglia’s approach; a mixture of easy questions and quiet encouragement that could make even the most anxious child feel safe.
“I want to study more about the brain,” Zandik says, eyes shining as he hugs the heavy tome to his chest. “It’s difficult, but it controls everything and if you make a mistake, it’s really bad. I read that just a tiny injury can change a person forever.”
Tartaglia leans in, intrigued. “That’s true, indeed! Have you ever seen a brain?” he asks, his voice dropping lower.
Zandik shakes his head, crimson eyes already wide with awe. “Have you?”
A flicker of something dark passes over Tartaglia’s face. “Sometimes on the battlefield when I-” he grimaces, glancing up and down Zandik’s features as if weighing how much truth the boy can bear. “I— yes I have, but it’s kind of yucky. There’s a lot of blood and it’s nothing like the diagrams in your book.”
Zandik’s mouth quirks up at the corners. “I think it’s better in a lab. Less... messy. Maybe someday I’ll get to do a real dissection!”
“You probably will,” Tartaglia says, his laughter softening into genuine admiration. He leans forward, elbows on knees, curiosity brightening his eyes. “But tell me—what made you want to be a doctor?”
Zandik grows quiet, fingers twisting the ribbon bookmark in his lap. His gaze drops to the cover as if searching for courage in the golden letter. When he finally speaks, his voice is a fragile whisper. “I want to fix things—people,” he admits, the words tumbling out. “If I can learn how every part of the body works, then maybe I can make people better when they’re hurt or sick. Maybe I can get so good at it that nobody has to feel bad ever again.”
A heavy silence falls at those words, and Tartaglia’s bravado fades. His gaze soft as he glances at Pantalone—a silent acknowledgment passing between them.
This segment is Dottore.
Dottore is this Zandik.
Memories flood Pantalone of Dottore’s voice in late-night confessions, words spilling quietly in the dark. Sometimes tangled in sheets, sometimes drifting from the rim of a crystal glass. Dottore’s stories are never straightforward, but in them Pantalone has always heard the quiet and unspoken ache and loneliness that shaped the man he loves. He remembers being told about being exiled and hunted from his hometown, forced to survive in a world that told him at every turn to find the darkest corner to rot and die in.
Those confessions come raw: angry, miserable, frustrated—sometimes all at once, sometimes so layered that Pantalone finds himself holding onto each word long after it’s been spoken, wondering how much remains unsaid.
He recalls the hollowness that sometimes haunts Dottore’s eyes, a shadow cast by memories and the scars that permanently mar his face, body, and spirit alike. Those marks speak of cruelties survived, of betrayals endured, and of a boy, then man, whose hope was battered thin by the world’s indifference.
Yet never, not once in all these years, had Dottore spoken of any childhood dreams he might have nursed. Pantalone wonders now if any such dreams survived beyond the first betrayal that Zandik hadn’t lived yet, or if they were simply buried—pressed deep beneath bitterness, brilliance, and rage.
Tartaglia’s voice is gentler when it returns: “That—yeah, that’s a good reason. Teyvat always needs more people who want to help.”
Pantalone sees Zandik’s eyes lift to Tartaglia’s as if seeking permission to believe that his dream is worthwhile, and in response, Tartaglia nods, his smile gentle and full of quiet encouragement.
At last, the boy’s lips part in a shy smile, the bloom of confidence taking root.
Pantalone returns to his paperwork while the two talk, though his mind lingers on what Zandik said, about that small fragment of Dottore he had no clue existed.
He knows, intimately, how Dottore softens under his hands. He knows the way the faintest touch of gentleness or a whispered reassurance can melt his doctor into a quiet and pliant being. So when Pantalone sees Zandik’s yearning for kindness and acceptance, it strikes him with heartbreaking familiarity. In Zandik’s hopeful gaze, Pantalone sees both the wounded child Dottore once was and the wary, guarded man he has become, forever longing for gentleness even if he cannot always ask for it.
A sudden, desperate longing surges up inside Pantalone and it's so intense it nearly steals the air from his lungs. He wants nothing more than to find and gather his husband into his arms, to hold him fiercely and never let go, to whisper a thousand reassurances against his skin: that their vows still stand, that despite the years and the scars and the bitterness, Dottore will never be alone again, not while Pantalone draws breath.
But he cannot—not today, not while Dottore is still away on some self-indulgent expedition for some rare ores. The distance between them is a living thing, gnawing at Pantalone’s composure and shadowing every quiet moment with a sense of absence that is almost physical.
So instead, Pantalone’s thumb finds the ring on the opposite hand’s ring finger, filled with a swirl of aqua, Dottore’s essence, glinting within the rainbowdrop crystal. It perfectly matches the vial Dottore wears in his own earring. The cool material is a comfort, the weight of it against his skin a silent promise that Dottore is always with him, even when miles apart.
At last, Tartaglia leans back, stretching his arms overhead until his joints pop. “Hey Lone, I think you’ve got a real genius on your hands. Maybe this one won’t, you know,” he pauses, then uses his hand to cover his eyes with a dramatic flourish, his reference to Dottore unspoken but unmistakable.
Pantalone arches a brow, but his tone remains light. “That is my husband you are talking about right now, Childe. I quite like him as, ‘you know.’”
Tartaglia grins while his eyes sparkle with challenge as he leans forward with his hands on his hips. “Do you now—maybe you should fight me for his honour?”
Without missing a beat, Pantalone turns his head, eyes narrowing with a glint that walks the line between humour and warning. His hand drifts deliberately toward the top drawer of his desk, fingers tapping the polished wood in a silent threat. “Careful, Tartaglia,” he drawls, voice silky and edged with mock danger, “I may not have your knowledge of weapons, but I can break your legs.”
Tartaglia throws back his head and laughs. It’s a bright and ringing sound. “Yes, yes, you’re a quicker draw than me—but you still owe me a fair fight, comrade. No guns this time.”
Pantalone’s smile is sly as he withdraws his hand from the drawer, lacing his fingers and settling them atop the desk. “You did not specify, my dear,” he responds smoothly, “and ambiguity never served anyone in a duel.”
Tartaglia clutches his chest in mock offense, but his eyes dance with good-natured mischief. “I asked for a duel, not to be shot point-blank!” Despite the faux outrage, his grin grows wider, irrepressible as ever.
“Should’ve moved faster, Childe. Always be prepared.”
Tartaglia turns to Zandik, gesturing dramatically toward Pantalone. “Can you believe this guy? One second I ask him to spar, and in the next I’m limping to the infirmary with a bullet in my thigh!”
The absurdity of the scene draws a bright, surprised laugh from Zandik. “That’s why you’re the eleventh and pedar is the ninth! If you were any slower, they’d have to make you the twelfth!”
Tartaglia scoffs, the teasing edge in his voice sharpening as he shakes his head in mock frustration. “Yeah, okay, that’s Dottore alright,” he concedes.
The name within the folder on the desk calls Tartaglia back to business, though. So he leans over to ruffle Zandik’s powder-blue hair with a gentle hand. “I’ll let you get back to your book, little doctor,” he says, winking. “And you,” he adds, turning to Pantalone, “don’t let Maksim get away with anything. He still owes me for stealing those weapons.”
Pantalone inclines his head, a faint smile on his lips. “I will see to it personally, send him to my office when you see him.”
Tartaglia strides backwards, saluting Pantalone as he does. Once he’s at the door, he pauses only once to glance back at Zandik. “See you around, kid.”
Zandik lifts a hand in a tentative wave. “Bye bye, Tartaglia.”
The door swings closed, and silence settles once more. Zandik opens his book back up, but his gaze lingers on the space where Tartaglia stood, thoughtful and a little wistful.
Pantalone watches Zandik for a moment longer, studying the subtle lines of tension around the boy’s eyes, before he forces himself to focus on the paperwork before him.
The scratching of his pen and the ticking of the clock fill the room with a gentle, almost meditative rhythm. But every so often, his gaze drifts upward, catching the way Zandik’s shoulders stiffen and his posture wilts beneath invisible weight.
Eventually, Pantalone closes his ledger with a soft snap, the sound pulling Zandik from his thoughts. “Let us take a break, Zandik,” he says, his tone gentle and inviting. Zandik blinks, momentarily startled, but then nods, a flicker of relief passing over his features as if he had wanted to ask for a breather but didn’t quite dare to do so.
Pantalone rises and crosses to a sideboard, retrieving a polished tin. He sets it on the low table in front of the couch Zandik is seated upon, unveiling neat rows of honey-glazed pastila, their lightly browned edges dusted with powdered sugar. “Pastila,” he explains with a faint smile, “pressed fruit and sugar. Try one.”
Zandik sets his book aside, curiosity lighting his tired eyes. After Pantalone pours two cups of steaming tea—one sweetened with berry jam for Zandik, one left bitter for himself—he slides the tin forward, inviting the boy to take a piece. Zandik hesitates only a moment before accepting, his small fingers brushing the sugar-dusted pastry.
They eat in companionable silence. The warm office, the mingled scents of tea and pastry, and the soft glow of the afternoon sun cocoon them from the world outside. With each bite, Zandik’s cheeks regain their colour, and a quiet comfort settles over the room.
As Pantalone watches Zandik nibble the pastila, his mind drifts to Dottore’s childhood dreams, a boy who once longed to mend broken bodies and soothe suffering, only to be met with cruelty that calcified hope into bitterness. In Zandik’s delicate features, Pantalone glimpses that same yearning for gentleness that he knows from Dottore’s, an ember of compassion fighting to survive under the world’s hard gaze.
A bittersweet smile creeps onto Pantalone’s lips as he realizes how fate has intertwined his and Dottore’s lives, drawn to one another through a mutual spite against the world and stubborn devotion for each other. Pantalone loves his husband; he loves him when he’s sweet and careful with him, loves him when he’s unhinged and carrying a terrible disdain for everything and everyone in Teyvat in every word he speaks.
When they are finished, Pantalone rises and crosses back to his desk, retrieving a small, weathered diary from the locked lowest drawer. The cover is dark blue leather, cracked at the edges, and a faint ‘Z’ is written in one corner that has nearly worn away entirely.
He places it gently before Zandik. “This belonged to Dottore when he was not much older than you. It’s a diary of sorts. He recorded treatments he tried, diseases he studied… some clinical, some quite odd and even disturbing. There’s a great deal inside that you might find fascinating.”
Zandik’s hands hover above the cover. “He wrote all of it?”
“Every word,” Pantalone replies, his tone somewhere between pride and nostalgia. “It’s full of knowledge, and maybe even a few secrets. I trust you’ll take good care of it.”
Zandik opens the diary carefully, eyes wide with awe as he scans the first page. “Thank you, Tanhua,” he whispers, voice trembling with excitement. He runs a finger over the looping Sumerian script, as if by touch alone he could absorb its wisdom.
Pantalone watches a quiet joy settle over Zandik’s features, one he feels himself—a soft, wistful warmth blooming in his chest, knowing he’s entrusted a living piece of Dottore’s past to someone who would truly cherish it. The boy’s eyes shine with reverence as he carefully turns the first pages, his lips moving in silent wonder as he sounds out the script written in his first language.
Pantalone’s gaze lingers, absorbing the fragile peace in the room. He collects the used teacups and tin and sets them on a trolley near the door to be picked up later. When he returns to his desk Pantalone hesitates as he watches Zandik, who is now entirely absorbed in the diary, curled in on himself amidst the plush cushions. The child’s small form is finally at ease once again, shoulders relaxed and feet tucked beneath him, utterly lost to everything except the words in his hands.
He considers speaking, a word of encouragement or a gentle reminder of what might be coming soon, but the sight of Zandik’s contentment stays his tongue. Instead, Pantalone settles quietly behind his desk and allows himself a rare moment of stillness.
Outside, the afternoon sun has shifted, casting long shadows over the room. The golden light catches in Zandik’s hair, turning its powder-blue hue almost silver. The boy’s eyelashes flutter as he reads, and every so often, a small, spirited sound escapes him—barely more than a whisper of awe at some new discovery.
Thankfully, today’s agenda is mercifully light, but Pantalone knows Tartaglia will find Maksim sooner rather than later, so that meeting is imminent.
He glances across the office at Zandik. Pantalone knows he should send the boy away, shield him from the sharp edges of himself while he does business as the ninth Harbinger. But he recalls earlier this morning, he had suggested Zandik stay in his chambers rather than his office; he could’ve had his whole private library to himself. But Zandik clearly wasn’t interested in any of that. Instead the child had dropped his rye bread with a trembling lip, his large pleading eyes shimmered as he shook his head as if Pantalone had suggested a concept so dreadful he was struck silent.
Pantalone found himself powerless against that wordless appeal, caving to that manipulative innocence in a blink. It's true that he's unable to say no to Dottore, but with Zandik his resolve crumbles even more easily.
So now Zandik is here and Pantalone can only hope the coming meeting won’t frighten him and shatter the sense of safety he managed to create for the child.
There is a knock at the door then, three sharp, precise raps. Pantalone spares one last glance at Zandik before he sits up just that bit straighter and slips his eyes closed. "Enter," he calls, letting his voice drop into the cold timbre he reserves for business.
The recruit, Maksim, steps inside, his uniform and hair immaculate but his face reveals the anxiety brimming beneath the surface. He stands just inside the threshold, fists clenched at his sides, eyes flicking nervously from the carpet to Pantalone, then to the small, silent figure of Zandik curled on the couch.
"Good afternoon, Vasiliev.” Pantalone states, “Close the door." The words drop like stones and Maksim obeys, hands trembling as he turns the latch. Pantalone waits until the faint click of the lock before gesturing with one gloved hand to the chair opposite his desk. "Sit."
Maksim sits and barely meets Pantalone’s gaze.
For a moment, Pantalone lets silence hang between them, the air growing heavier with every passing second. He slowly and deliberately leafs through the folder Tartaglia left with him earlier. It carries whispered complaints from the armoury, ledgers with missing entries, a single damning list of inventory discrepancies.
At last, he closes the file, folding his hands atop it. “You know why you are here, so explain.”
“Tartaglia sent me, Regrator,” Maksim’s voice is barely a whisper, “he didn’t say why, so I- I don’t know, sir.”
“A shame that you seem so nervous, then,” Pantalone smiles thinly, “only the guilty tremble before the truth.”
Maksim’s jaw tightens. “I haven’t done anything.”
Pantalone’s tone turns glacial. “No?” He withdraws a slip of paper, holds it up just long enough for Maksim to see his own signature at the bottom. “Your hand. Your writing. Your responsibility.”
Maksim swallows. “That’s just the log, sir.”
“And yet the log does not match the contents of the armoury. Items are missing. Weapons, ammunition, even a set of prototype power gauntlets are gone, all while you were on duty.” Pantalone’s smile sharpens. “Is Masha enjoying her new stove? It is a considerable upgrade from her old one, but I have heard that the specific model is prone to catching on fire.”
Maksim’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “What-? What does she-”
“Your father, Ivar,” Pantalone hums, fingers lazily going over a different paper in front of him. “Still working nights at the bakery? I imagine he would be grateful to keep that position, given the current state of his health.”
A tremor runs through Maksim. “Please, sir-”
Pantalone leans forward, his tone deceptively gentle. “And your sister, Emiliya... Ah, she has been laid to rest for over a decade now, has she not? I understand the cost of maintaining her burial site is expected to rise substantially in the near future.”
Maksim’s breath comes quick and shallow. “You can’t-”
“I can,” Pantalone interrupts, his voice soft as silk but cold as permafrost. “I will. Unless, of course, you tell me the truth.”
Maksim’s lips tremble, but he shakes his head. “I didn’t take anything, Regrator, but I saw Viktor leaving the premise last week, he didn’t want to speak to me, just hurried out. Then the next day he wasn’t there! And Polina. They’re always hanging around, you can ask anyone-”
Pantalone’s mouth curls, contemptuous. “So you are a coward and a liar, pushing comrades into the line of fire to save your own skin.”
“No— I swear it wasn’t me!” Maksim’s voice cracks. “Please, I have nothing, I wouldn’t-”
“You do,” Pantalone says, voice razor-sharp, “you have your family.”
Maksim’s shoulders sag. Defeat and terror war on his face. For a moment, he stares at the desk, then at his own trembling hands. “Okay... okay.” The brittle silence stretches. “I did it,” Maksim blurts at last, words tumbling out in a rush. “But it wasn’t for myself, I swear it! My father needed the money for medicine, and the stove- it really was for mama, she can’t stand the cold, and-”
Pantalone’s expression is a mask of tired patience, lips pressed into a thin line as he waits for Maksim to finish spinning his tale.
Maksim’s desperation grows. “I only took the gauntlets and I made sure they went to someone who needed them! But I swear on my life, I never touched the ammunition or the weapons, I didn’t even know those were missing,” He falters, voice breaking, “I even warned Polina because she’s always so sloppy keeping watch, I told her to keep an eye out for trouble, but she- she never listens, everyone knows how she is.”
He looks up with hope flickering in his eyes, “I’m telling you everything, sir. Please. I just want to go back to work.”
Pantalone regards him in silence, fingers steepled, gaze inscrutable. The pause stretches so long that Maksim begins to shift, uneasy.
It’s Zandik’s voice that slips into the quiet, soft but clear. “You said you only took the gauntlets and didn’t know about the other stuff, but then you said you warned Polina to keep better watch.”
Maksim freezes. His mouth opens, then closes. He stares at Zandik as if seeing him for the first time.
Zandik’s eyes are calm, almost gentle. “You can’t warn someone about something you didn’t know happened.”
Maksim’s voice is a hoarse whisper, “I- no, I-”
Pantalone’s lips curl at the corner, just slightly, as he observes the almost gleeful satisfaction that Zandik draws from exposing Maksim’s lie; a faint spark in his gaze that betrays his pride at having caught the inconsistency.
“Yes, try to keep your lies in order when you speak them, Maksim,” Pantalone hums, his tone almost bored as he slides open the top drawer of his meticulously organized desk. A metallic click echoes as he extracts a slim folder. “I invested two million mora into those gauntlets. You see, it was one of Sandrone’s more... personal projects.” His gaze is pointed, reminding Maksim that to cross Sandrone is to cross a third Harbinger with his thefts.
A muscle jumps in Maksim’s jaw. “Please fucking listen to me!” his voice cracks, desperation and panic overtaking his composure. “I’ll pay it back, all of it!”
That draws Pantalone’s attention, if only as a curiosity. He leans back, folding his hands atop the folder. “You? Repaying two million mora, with interest?” His lips curl in the faintest, scornful smile. “Pray tell, how do you intend to achieve that? Will you shovel snow on the streets of Snezhnograd for a thousand lifetimes? Will you beg for extra shifts, scrub blood from Il Dottore’s laboratory until your skin peels? All this to repay me, the man who authorizes those wages?”
Maksim’s face is ashen, sweat beading at his brow. “I will work every single day,” he insists, his voice shaky but desperate, the words tumbling over each other in a frantic plea. “I’ll do every nasty thing that is asked of me, no questions asked. I’ll clean every weapon, every floor, I’ll reset training grounds, take care of the robots, I’ll set out to retrieve a gnosis, any gnosis, I’ll do anything!”
As Maksim speaks the desperation in his tone is palpable, his breathing shallow and quick. But despite this, Pantalone notices the tension straining through the young man’s frame, the way his right arm gestures wildly in a show of supplication, while his left hovers awkwardly near his back pocket, fingers twitching as if testing the weight of something hidden there. It’s a clumsy feint, and Pantalone catches the flicker of intent in Maksim’s gaze.
Still, Pantalone doesn’t react, his expression unreadable. Threats to his life are as common as paperwork and Maksim is hardly the most dangerous man who has tried his luck in this office if Tartaglia’s words are to be believed.
Just as he anticipated, Maksim’s hand darts out in a single, desperate motion, producing a dagger that flashes in the office’s light as he rises to his feet. The blade’s edge glints menacingly, pointed directly at Pantalone’s face, though the young man’s arm betrays his nerves with a visible tremor.
Pantalone’s pulse does not so much as quicken. If anything, there is a faint air of disappointment about him. He has weathered threats far more inventive than this, and a simple knife brandished by a desperate subordinate barely registers as noteworthy.
“Ah, what is this, then?” Pantalone drawls, the thrill of danger flickering in his smile.
Maksim steadies as he twists the dagger, the blade glinting in the light as cold sweat beads across his forehead. He plants his feet in exactly the right way; shoulders squared, posture the absolute perfect picture of a soldier ready to strike. “Don’t think I’m just some coward from the armoury, Regrator. I am one of the best swordsmen in my entire platoon.”
He sucks in a breath, panic flickering beneath the serious resolve in his gaze. “You want to come out of this alive, then I demand mora and enough to make this worth it. And you leave my family out of this. If you so much as threaten them again I’ll use the leverage I have to destroy you.”
For a moment, the audacity of the plea hangs in the air. Pantalone’s lips curl into a slow, indulgent smile, the amusement in it deepening. He regards Maksim with a detached interest as one might observe a child acting out a scene from a play.
He leans forward, hands still resting lightly atop the desk, the picture of unhurried confidence. “Ah, you make quite the demand,” Pantalone murmurs, his tone edged with mockery. “Now, what will you do if I refuse?”
“There will be a price to pay,” Maksim snarls, voice surprisingly even as he points towards Zandik with his free hand, “and that little monster over there-”
The words have barely left Maksim’s lips before Pantalone moves. In one smooth, precise motion, he draws a silenced pistol from the drawer he just opened and fires a single shot. The bullet punches cleanly through Maksim’s knife arm, causing blood to spray in rhythmic arcs across the carpet and the papers on the desk that condemn him.
Maksim gasps, the dagger clattering from his suddenly useless hand, his other arm clamping down in a futile attempt to stanch the flow.
Pantalone rises and approaches Maksim, casting a shadow over the wounded man. His demeanour is cold and composed, the faint amusement he previously entertained now replaced completely by an unwavering authority. “You may plead, Maksim Vasiliev. You may threaten, deceive, and attempt to manipulate me as you wish—but you will not involve my child in these matters.”
Maksim’s pain twists into a sob, rage and terror spilling out. “You’re a fucking hypocrite!” he spits. “You Harbingers live in the lap of luxury while we starve, you don’t even notice a missing two million, it’s nothing to you! My sister’s grave is all we have left of her while your Doctor makes more and more copies of himself—you guys are fucking sick for making a child-”
Pantalone’s answer is a second, silenced shot. The bullet buries itself in Maksim’s forehead, cutting off the tirade in a heartbeat. For a moment, Maksim’s body stands rigid, then crumples bonelessly to the carpet, blood pooling in a widening halo around his head.
Pantalone’s expression never wavers. He sets the pistol gently atop the table and removes his gloves before turning away from the corpse without a backward glance. Crossing the room, he sits down on the couch next to Zandik and crosses one leg over the other, arm resting on the backrest, his movements composed, precise, as if nothing at all had happened.
Zandik looks first to Pantalone, then to Maksim’s body, and then back to Pantalone, his expression unreadable. In that moment the silence between them is thick and strange, colored by the sharp scent of blood and the ghost of violence that lingers in the air.
But where most children, and even most adults, might flinch or shrink away from him, Zandik appears entirely undisturbed. His delicate features are composed, betraying not the slightest tremor of fear or even morbid intrigue as if the gunshot, the blood, and the corpse on the carpet are all distant, unimportant details.
With a single-mindedness, Zandik scoots closer, his small body moving until he can lean against Pantalone’s side. Then he flips through Dottore’s diary in his lap, hands steady, unhurried. When he finds what he’s looking for, he halts and taps the word ‘ankylosis’ with a fingertip. He then glances up, crimson eyes carrying a keen curiosity, “What is ‘ankylosis’?”
Pantalone’s expression shifts instantly, thawing into something gentle. He leans in, lowering his voice until it is warm and melodic, meant for Zandik alone. “It means when a joint in the body becomes so stiff it can barely move, or sometimes cannot move at all,” he explains, his lips curving into a soft smile. “That body over there will become just as stiff in about two hours. You can examine it, if you’d like.”
Zandik’s gaze never wavers from Pantalone’s face. His attention is rapt, eyes wide and impossibly bright, taking in not only the explanation but every nuance in Pantalone’s softened expression and gentle tone. There is no hint of fear there, only a spark of excitement at the prospect of hands-on learning.
Pantalone studies the boy for a long moment, searching those pale features for any flicker of distress, any sign that the recent violence unsettled him. But Zandik sits quietly with his head tilted in thoughtful observation as he considers the body from across the room, the diary hugged to his chest. His gaze is steady and his breathing remains even; if anything, he seems more intrigued than disturbed.
Finally, Pantalone lets the last remnants of the ninth Harbinger drop, turning to Zandik with a softness he rarely shows. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Does that frighten you?”
Zandik simply shakes his head. His expression is open, and Pantalone senses that the child has thought about things like death far more than any regular child would.
But Pantalone still has a selfish doubt gnawing at him, and he wants to be sure. The question as tender as it is fraught, “And… are you frightened of me, now that you have seen how I handle business?”
This time, Zandik doesn’t even pause to think. His response is immediate. “No,” he says, as if the answer is so obvious it hardly needs stating, then he adds with simple conviction, “You’re a monster too, I’m not scared of those.”
A quiet, bone-deep relief settles in Pantalone’s chest at the spoken reassurance. He lets out a breath and allows himself a small, genuine smile as his hand settles on Zandik’s little head, gently ruffling those powder-blue locks.