Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Break the egg,” the voice demands. For half a second, Scaramouche wonders whether he inhaled too many fumes from the factory. Then he remembers that he’s a puppet, and he probably can’t get hallucinations, and as far as he knows he hasn’t taken enough damage to have any serious malfunctions. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he snaps, static electricity arcing up his shoulders. His hands wrap around the egg in his pocket. 

“Break it,” the voice repeats. 

“Shut up!” Scaramouche hurls the egg at the wall with his inhuman strength. 

The wall splinters. The egg, impossibly, stays mostly intact, save for some spiderweb fractures in its side. After a few seconds, it twitches like it’s alive. The surface stretches and balloons out, some freaky fake of an embryo, or that flesh sac they call a heart. Like all humans, it’s disgusting. 

Scaramouche, despite himself, takes a step back. 

The egg bursts with a wet squelch. A human—or maybe not, because what human would be lying inside an egg—uncurls and looks at Scaramouche with piercing golden eyes.

A bell tolls, heavy and metallic. It almost reminds Scaramouche of the gongs in Inazuma, used to herald some important figure or whatever. 

The maybe-human tumbles out the door. They look both ways, then startle at the sight of Scaramouche. “What are you still doing here? We have to go!” 

Scaramouche pushes off the wall, his hands in fists. He’s not human, so he doesn’t have instincts, but there’s something in the air that reminds him of danger. Some crossed wires or some programming buried deep in his code that’s telling him to run. “Are you even going to bother to explain what this place is?” 

Something flies past Scaramouche’s head. It strikes the person in the elbow. The person staggers and grips their arm. Blood—red, human blood—runs down their fingers and splatters the ground. 

Scaramouche turns. There’s a humanoid with white hair flowing like an ever-burning flame. Black cubes twirl around her fingers. By her feet, hordes of little furry creatures with bunny masks gather around. The humanoid raises an arm, and the furry creatures charge towards them. 

Scaramouche grits his teeth and sinks to a fighting stance, but the person yanks him off his feet. “Watch it!” Scaramouche snarls. 

“Just shut up and run!” 

Scaramouche’s jaw snaps shut. He runs. 

A monster leaps towards Scaramouche. He swings a fist, but it slams its club in his side. He crashes into the wall, bolts upright with a strangled gasp. There’s a sparking pain in his side, where the monster had hit him. He quickly, carefully brushes a hand over his clothes, feels a slight indent in his mechanical body. A curse slips from him like filtered steam. 

“This way!” the person yells. They’re bouncing on their feet, but they’ve slowed their pace—for him, Scaramouche realizes with a flash of disbelief. Behind them is a door with an exit sign. 

Scaramouche grips his side and sprints after the person. They dive through the door. The monsters leap after them, but the person slams the door shut. 

For a few moments, the two sit there in silence. Scaramouche has no need to breathe, but he lets the air cycle through the empty spaces in his body and listens to the other person’s ragged breaths. 

“Your wound,” the person says between breaths, his chest still visibly rising and falling. “You got hit, didn’t you? Are you okay?” 

Scaramouche carefully lifts his shirt, expecting to see wires and circuitry—

There’s nothing. His “skin” is smooth, no ragged tear to be found. 

“Well?” the person asks. 

Scaramouche glares at them. “Would’ve been nice to know that you can heal.” 

The person only smiles and lifts their hand. Blood still drips down from their arm. “It’s not healing. It’s more… the body returning to its natural state.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“For you, this is a dream. You’re still alive, so your wounds will heal. But I’m already dead. Naturally, this means that when I get hurt, my body wants to remember that pain.” 

“You seem to know an awful lot about what's going on here.” Scaramouche stomps over to him. With him standing and the other person still sitting, he looms over them in a way that demands attention and answers. 

“Not much more than you, I'd say. I know those little monsters are hilichurls. And the ringleader is… She resembles someone from my past. I call her the Sustainer.” 

Scaramouche sneers. “What in the world did you do to get her to try to kill you even after you’ve died?” 

The person, for the first time, scowls. “It’s not about what I did. It’s about who I am.” They shake their head. “But anyways. Now that we’ve got all of that out of the way… What’s your name?” 

“Fuck you.” 

“I can’t just say ‘hey, you’ all the time. I’ll need something to call you by.” 

“If you think you can get me to tell you anything, think again.” 

A smile slides onto the person’s face. “You can call me the Traveler.”

“Outlander.” 

The Traveler’s face freezes. Both their smile and their hand fall. 

The Sustainer rises, drifting rather than walking toward the Traveler, her feet hovering off the ground. Hilichurls mill around her in a frenzy. “Your journey ends here.” 

The Traveler lets out a short, frustrated scream and throws themselves into a run. “Damn it, I thought it was over!” 

The hilichurls advance, bloody stains blighting the ground with every step. In the center is the Sustainer, her face and gait unyielding. The gap between them and the Traveler closes, steadily and surely. 

Scaramouche falls back on his heels, turns away, and sprints. The wind howls in his ears and pulls at his back, alive and writhing. He remembers a wildfire raging out of control, casting shadows upon an upright back. Tiny hands, fisted in his shirt, withering away. A crudely made doll half buried by flower petals. 

Downing cup after cup of bitter tea. It had been warm in his hands. It had been warm in his synthetic throat. It had been warm when the soft skin of the people around him pressed up against his hard outer shell, the workers jostling each other casually like they were meant to be one endless, shifting tide. 

He remembers their ashes spilling out from between his fingers. 

Scaramouche spins on his heel and plants his feet. The feather ornament digs into his palm with a metallic, plastic screech. Try as he might, he couldn’t find a hint of a sweet aftertaste within the bitter tea. There is no outrunning suffering. Bitterness is the true flavor of life. 

He is done with covering his eyes and pretending he doesn’t know this. 

With the thin ledge as his runway, he takes a running leap off. The jump launches him into the air, and he flies. Like he’d become some winged creature, his hat a halo behind him. His lips twist at the thought, caught between a laugh and a sneer. 

The ornament burns in his hand, a growing weight dragging him back to earth. Light spirals off of it, growing in size until it’s the length of a club. He grips it with both hands. “Worthless dross—”

The Sustainer pauses and glances at him. 

“—will be purged!” 

He brings the weapon down. 

The Sustainer splits open. Guts and other disgusting fleshy bits splatter everywhere. The roof ruptures under the force. 

Scaramouche lands harshly, the inner artificial framework grinding against the ball joints of his knees. He forces himself upright, feels the Traveler’s stare drill into him, and bares his teeth at them. 

The Traveler, rather than cowering, melts into a smile. “Nice work.”

Chapter Text

“No matter what happens, you’ll be fine as long as your heart remains intact.” 

Scaramouche nearly cackles. What a sick, sick joke. Even this dream seems to assume that everyone has a heart. Then, does that make him, who has nothing but a hollowed out cavity in his chest, indestructible? How ironic—this so-called vital organ becomes a human’s downfall in this world. As if he needs further proof of their inferiority. 

“Besides,” the Traveler continues. “The hilichurls will only chase after me. They won’t go after you if you don’t fight back.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?” 

“I’m sure you’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

Scaramouche raises an eyebrow. “Again, why are they so obsessed with killing you?”

The Traveler’s smile turns stiff. “I existed. That's all.” They curl into themselves a little, staring resolutely at the ground. “I’m not originally from around here. I came with my sibling to explore. You know, travel. It’s in the name.” Their fingers dig into their shoulders. “Then the Sustainer came and took my sibling away. I tried to get them back, but then…”

“How futile,” Scaramouche drawls, covering up the electric buzz in his chest. “You died for nothing.” 

“Maybe it was futile”—and the Traveler’s tone is mild, but their face is steel—“but it wasn’t for nothing. Family is the most important thing there is.”

Scaramouche’s lip curls. Family. How foolish. How absolutely nonsensical. What did it matter? He certainly got by without one. He hasn’t seen his mother in years, and his sister’s disapproval—both silent and not so silent—is a second skin. 

Red speckles the side door, spreading like a virus. Scaramouche bolts to his feet, and the Traveler follows suit, a hand held out in front of him. “We'll be fine,” the Traveler says aloud. “We only have to last until the sun sets.”

Scaramouche scowls. “We? What makes you think I’m going to risk myself for you?” 

The Traveler’s hand drops. After a moment, they plaster a smile on their face, plastic and weak. “My bad. Sorry for assuming.” 

Scaramouche turns away, his hands in fists. He wants to throttle that smile off the Traveler’s face. What was the Traveler’s game, just accepting rejection without a fight? 

The Traveler raises their voice over the growing chanting of the hilichurls. “If that’s what you want, then don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.” 

The Traveler takes off, the hilichurls trailing after him. Scaramouche keeps his guard up, but not a single one casts a glance at him.

The grass is tinted purple. Sakura petals drift in from the open corridor. As if in a trance, Scaramouche follows their trail. His steps echo in his ears, muffled and vacant. The violet light blinds even his artificial vision. He shuts his eyes as he passes through, then opens them again once the light fades. 

There is a cliff. There is a furnace, now deactivated. And then, there is a statue, wearing Inazuman robes, hair tied back with a familiar bandana. 

Scaramouche feels his processors lag. The faulty pieces of his programming cause him to blink—once, twice. 

It’s Niwa, looking exactly as he did when he died. Staring straight into the heart of the furnace, his face set in foolish determination. Niwa, except all the color has drained from his body. His eyes and skin are ashen, and his hair is a solid monochrome, the red streak wiped away without a trace. Lifeless. Mechanical. All too obviously defective. 

Scaramouche’s knees buckle. He grasps fistfuls of sod in tightly clenched fists, grinds his teeth together until his jaw aches. A familiar heat stings his eyes, and he squeezes them shut. The ever-present hollowness in his chest seems to spread, spidery tendrils snaking through the wires of his limbs. 

When he was younger, he used to go to the blacksmiths at Tatarasuna. He spent more time with them than his own family—not like his family would even try to begin with. He can recall their faces with perfect clarity. Katsuragi, the first to find him, leading him with a gentle hand to everyone else. Nagamasa, who taught him to fight and to dance, who shared stories of the yokai under the cover of the stars. Miyazaki, who taught him to read and write, who quietly kept watch over him and rescued him from danger. Nozomu and Kinjirou, who were always friendly with him, who showed him painting and dancing and took him out to explore.

Niwa Hisahide, who taught him blacksmithing, who guided him around town, who always praised him and encouraged him, who promised—while the furnace sparked and sputtered, while the fires roared around them—that he would be fine. That everyone would be fine. 

Liar. 

The infantile part of Scaramouche blindly clambers to Niwa’s side, nestles his head against Niwa’s leg. His jaw unhinges with a creak. “Liar,” he hisses, but he doesn’t move. Not with his limbs glued to Niwa, not with his faulty eyes leaking traitorous tears. Not with the cavity in his chest chaining him down, throbbing, throbbing, throbbing like he really had a heart. He remembers their smiles crumbling to slag, remembers Niwa’s face lit up by the flames, and he—

He will die before he ever admits it, but he loved them. He loved them, he loved them, he loved them. It was enough to make him feel, for once, whole. Like the cracks in him were sealed with liquid gold. Like perhaps he could be reforged by their hands into something beautiful and perfect, something that wouldn’t be cast aside. 

A clap startles Scaramouche from his musing. He hurriedly wipes his face and glances over. Off in the distance, an island away, the Traveler is waving. The setting sun casts a golden glow upon them, lighting up their beaming face. 

Scaramouche stands, pulling away from Niwa’s statue without daring to glance at it. Looks like the Traveler didn’t need him after all. Despite their foolishly soft heart, they were able to evade the hilichurls for this long. 

“You know, I still don’t have a name for you.” 

Scaramouche scoffs. “Does it matter? I’ll never see you again after this.” His voice, against his will, falters near the end. 

The Traveler huffs out a laugh. “Fine then, I’ll do it myself.” Their eyes go soft, like mochi. Disgusting. “Thanks for saving me, Wanderer.”

A gust of wind forces Scaramouche’s eyes shut. When he opens them again, the Traveler is gone, like they never existed. 

Niwa's wrist is slightly warmer. 

“You want your friend back,” the statue speaks, not with Niwa’s voice but something colder, more distant. It’s reminiscent of his mother’s voice, and he smothers the shudder before it can form. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Scaramouche snaps, tearing away from the statue. As if he would ever give anyone, much less this unknown entity, leverage over him. 

“These are special circumstances. If you protect enough people, you can bring your friend back.”

“Not my friend.” Scaramouche plants his feet, like the familiarity of the ground isn’t throwing him off balance. “This is no ordinary dream. Tell me what this place really is.”

“Not just anyone can enter this realm,” the statue explains. “All the beings you are tasked with protecting have fallen to tragedy. Uncontrollable circumstances, an immutable fate… things of that nature.” 

“Are you saying,” Scaramouche begins, his voice steady and unwavering because he is a puppet, he is built to be immovable, “that if I do enough escort missions, he’ll be brought back?” 

The statue is silent. 

Scaramouche scowls. Nothing comes without a catch. “What’s the price?” 

“You risk meeting the same fate as the ones you rescue.” 

He can’t help it. Laughter spills out of him, high-pitched and crackling. He clutches his sides and doubles over, his whole frame shaking with the effort. He’s never been more aware of the gears grinding in his joints, the currents running up and down his spine, the rigidity of his skin. What’s a puppet compared to a human? What is an artificial life compared to a natural one? What is a faulty creation compared to a perfect, beautiful soul? 

Nothing. If he were to be shattered into a hundred porcelain pieces, he is sure his mother would easily replace him. 

Another screaming match with his sister.

Scaramouche is a puppet. No matter how much he yells, his throat can’t get sore, but it feels like the wires inside have fried anyway. He casts a glance at his mother’s room, but the door stays shut. Of course Mother wouldn’t even bother to come out to check on them. She hasn’t the past hundred thousand times, so why does he keep expecting anything different? 

His side throbs. Absent-mindedly, he clutches at it, and startles when his fingers meet exposed wire. 

Suddenly, it burns. He catches a hiss between his teeth, braces against the wall, and forces himself to move. Sparks dance in his vision, but he blinks them away. Under his sister’s relentless watch, the house is too suffocating, so he swipes the repair kit and slips out of the house to patch himself up.

Chapter Text

It starts with a few softly plucked notes, practically drowned out by the hustle and incessant chatter of the crowd. Unbidden, Scaramouche pauses in his maintenance, his eyes trailing off to find the source. 

A young boy perches on a bench, cradling a lyre with his eyes closed. His hair is unkempt and windswept, pulled into two messy braids and dyed teal at the tips. An overturned hat rests beside him. He runs his fingers over the strings again, repeating the pattern from before with more force, more intensity. The people nearby him halt their chatter. Like this, a hush falls over the crowd, spreading out from the epicenter as people adjust their gait or stop in their tracks entirely. With the silence established, the boy begins to sing a wordless, crooning tune. 

On the outskirts of the masses, tucked away in the dark corner of an alley, Scaramouche allows himself to bask in the music. As a puppet, he has no need for sustenance nor mortal necessities, so he has no need for mora nor a job. Unfortunately, this leaves him with far too much time on his hands. This—sitting here, idly plotting the chord progression, calculating the skips and leaps between the notes of the melody—is at least better than stewing in that house or roaming the streets for the 3287th time.

Scaramouche stares at the egg dispenser. In the reflection of the glass, he spies obnoxious teal. “Don’t make me drag you out.” 

“Wow, you’re sharp!” The lyre boy from earlier pops out from behind a bush, a few leaves clinging to his hair. “And here I thought I was doing pretty well.” 

Shameless, Scaramouche thinks with a downturned curl of his mouth. “Why were you following me?” 

“I was curious about you, why else?” The boy strides up next to him and grabs an egg from the dispenser. “I didn’t expect you to be able to come here though.” The boy turns to Scaramouche and winks. “Lucky me. Two birds with one stone, or so they say.” 

Scaramouche leans back and levels a flat look at the statue. Him? Really? 

The statue doesn’t reply; of course it doesn’t.

The boy pockets the egg and turns to Scaramouche. From this close, Scaramouche can see how big those eyes are, how they slide from blue to teal. It makes him look at once too young and too old. “I’m Venti. What’s your name?”

Scaramouche scowls. This feels eerily familiar. “What makes you think I’ll give it to you?” 

“Come on,” Venti whines, “I have to call you something, don’t I?”

And there it is. Why does everyone always insist on names? “I hardly see the point.” Scaramouche starts walking off. “I certainly don’t intend to run into you again.” 

“What are you talking about?” Venti chases after Scaramouche, eventually falling into step beside him. “I’ve never met anyone else here, so of course I have to get to know you!” Venti taps a finger to his chin. “Hm, but if you really don’t want to tell me your name, I can just come up with something myself.” 

Scaramouche speeds up his pace, but Venti doggedly stays on his heels. He rolls his eyes, keeping his gaze locked ahead. “Suit yourself.” 

Venti hums to himself for a bit, then snaps his fingers. “I got it! What about Hat Guy?” 

Scaramouche stops just before they leave the area to glare at Venti. “Is that seriously the best you can come up with?” 

“What? It’s very distinctive! And hey, it’s not like you’re the only one.” Venti tips his own hat with a wink. 

Scaramouche fights down a shudder at the thought of anyone he knows finding out that he willingly let someone call him by such a silly moniker. Well, there are only two people in that category, and they aren’t likely to ever find out, but he would sooner die than even entertain the possibility. “If you must,” he snarls, “then… ” 

When Scaramouche hesitates, Venti tilts his head. In the light of the midday sun, his eyes almost seem golden. 

“Wanderer,” Scaramouche spits out before he can regret it. “If you absolutely must call me something, call me that.” 

“Hey! Can I crash at your place?” 

“Go ahead,” Scaramouche scoffs. “If you die then it’s your own fault.”

Venti blinks his wide eyes. “Is that something you normally worry about…?” 

Scaramouche only shrugs and starts walking. When only his own footsteps follow, he turns back. “Keep up, bard.” 

“Ah, coming, coming!”

“Just keep quiet so my sister doesn’t hear.” 

Venti flops onto the futon. “You have a sister?” 

Scaramouche internally curses himself. Serves him right for letting this bard follow him into the house. Why did he do that again? “Unfortunately. Be glad you didn’t run into her on your way in.” 

“Younger or older?”

“Do I look like the juvenile one?”

“I mean, you do seem pretty young, and it’s not like I’ve seen your sister.” Venti chuckles a bit. “But your attitude totally matches the older brother type.”

“And what makes you think that?” 

“Ah—” Venti’s eyes flick away for half a second. “Well, you seem like someone who would take good care of others.” 

“Excuse me?” Scaramouche nearly sputters. “What on earth makes you think that?” 

Venti turns those too round eyes upon him. “You’re letting me stay here, aren’t you?”

Scaramouche has to look away. He remembers similar round eyes, tiny hands clutching onto his kimono. The hollow cavity in his chest is more prevalent than ever. “Against my better judgment.”

Venti rests his chin on his palm and smirks. His bangs, set loose from the braids, fall limply around his face. “Hiding from family in the dead of night, just the two of us… How nostalgic.”

A thin sliver of a smile cuts across Scaramouche’s face, and he latches onto the word like a hunter’s jaws around prey. “So your own family isn’t all sunshine and roses.”

Venti’s smile freezes. After a moment, his smile falls, and his eyes slide down to the side. “Say,” he begins with a whisper, “who are you trying to bring back?”

Scaramouche’s fingers curl into themselves. “Why are you asking, bard?”

“Just curious, I guess. You were buying eggs too.” Venti huffs out a breath. It could be called a laugh if Scaramouche was willing to bend the truth hard enough. “I wonder if this is the kind of thing you talk about at slumber parties. This’ll be the first time I’ve ever had one.” 

“If you call this a party, I seriously question what you call fun.”

“Don’t be such a spoilsport. I’ve always wanted to do something like this.” 

“Then why haven’t you?” 

When Scaramouche glances over, he finds Venti fiddling with the teal tips in his hair, his lips pressed in a thin line. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “I have… the opposite problem of you, you could say. My father… he cares too much about what I do.” He grips one of his bangs and resolutely stares at the ceiling. “Now your turn. The person you’re trying to bring back—who are they to you?” 

“What does it matter?”

“I want to know what kind of person would drive you to… do all that. To risk so much. You could die, you know. That’s not a small thing.”

In the before—before the furnace went up in flames, before the sickness spread across the island, before all the broken promises—the him who would become Scaramouche idolized Niwa. How could he not? Niwa taught him how to be human, how to be one of them. He would follow Niwa around everywhere, and every time, Niwa would give his smile freely and his hand without hesitation. Looking back on it now, Niwa practically raised him. 

Not like his mother, who had already locked herself away at that point. Not like his sister, who always regarded him with disdain. 

Scaramouche’s hand migrates to the space where his heart would be if he had one. “What makes you think I’ll tell you?”

“...I guess that’s fair.” 

Scaramouche glances over to Venti still staring at the ceiling, his face eerily blank. His mouth opens before he can think. “He was like an older brother.”

Venti grins, his eyes bright. “Ah, so you’re actually a middle child, got it.” 

Scaramouche seizes a pillow and lobs it at Venti. It nails him in the face with a satisfying, meaty thwack.

Chapter Text

Scaramouche awakens in a sprawling city, towering walls of stone and wind blotting out the horizon. The streets are narrow and cramped, littered with posters of a man with his face scratched over. 

“This isn’t…” Scaramouche trails off. Tatarasuna, he can’t bring himself to say. 

“Hey!” Venti calls to the sky. “What’s going on?” 

“It seems you were transported into the dream of whoever’s feelings are strongest,” the voice of the statue answers, echoing sourcelessly around them. 

Scaramouche glares at Venti. “Are you saying that his feelings are stronger? Him? That flighty bard?” 

“Jeez, I’m literally right here.” Venti still has that condescending smirk plastered on his face. 

Venti holds up his egg. “Let’s break them on three! One, two—”

Scaramouche’s fingers move automatically, easily crushing the egg. He drops it and watches it balloon out.

“Kinda freaky, isn’t it,” Venti remarks beside him. 

Both eggs pop, revealing two near-identical blond men. The one before Venti has a black coat with red accents, his hair tied back in a long ponytail reaching down to his mid-back. The other one has an ornate braided half-ponytail, wearing a white lab coat. 

The one in black stirs first, cracking his eyes open and bolting to his feet. Venti holds up his hands in a universal sign of peace. “Hey, I’m Venti, and this guy goes by Wanderer.” 

The one in black frowns suspiciously, but shakes his lookalike awake. The lookalike slowly sits up, blinking his eyes—piercing blue, contrasting the other’s crimson red. When they land on the other, they widen, and he rises to his feet. 

“Durin?” the shorter blond whispers, his voice cracking. 

Durin smiles. It sits on his face like a mangled seesaw, slanted toward one side. “Hey, Albedo. Looks like neither of us made it.” 

Albedo takes a deep, audible breath, dragging a hand across his face. When he drops his hand, his expression is blank and his voice is composed. “What is this place?” he asks Venti and Scaramouche. 

“It’s a dream of sorts,” Venti explains. “Where those who have succumbed to tragedy are given a chance to gain peace with the circumstances that have led them here.” 

“Quit it with the flowery talk, bard,” Scaramouche snaps. “All you need to know is that you’re dead, and there are monsters who will try to kill you again. It’s our job to stop that.”

“Go left!” Venti shouts. 

“Stop telling me what to do!” Scaramouche snaps, but his body is already moving to do as Venti said. His weapon slams into the mask of one hilichurl and severs the head of another. 

Venti runs past him and waves to Durin and Albedo. “Come on, this way!”

The eagle feather sprouts wings and grows into a bow. Venti draws back the string with a grin. “Brace yourselves!” he chirps. 

The arrow blasts through the alley, clearing out all the hilichurls with sweeping gales. The stone walls shudder, and even with Venti’s warning, Scaramouche nearly staggers. “Watch it!” he snaps, clinging tightly to his hat. 

Venti turns to Scaramouche with his tongue out. “Ehe, sorry. This place is a bit too cramped for me.” 

“There’s more coming this way,” Albedo announces, backing towards them with his hand tight on Durin’s sleeve. A horde of hilichurls lumber toward them, clogging the opposite end of the alley. Growls and chants start to swell from the area that Venti just cleared. 

Venti, for once, was right. It was far too easy to get cornered here. Scaramouche takes a running leap, catches the top edge of the wall, and hauls himself onto the roof. “Move it, suckers,” he shouts down to them.  

Venti’s eyes sparkle. “I didn’t know you could scale walls!” 

Scaramouche scowls. He may have forgotten his strength is beyond that of average humans. “Don’t make me tell you twice.” 

Venti laughs and springs up. Scaramouche drags Venti up, Venti’s feet kicking out to gain more height. 

“You squirm too much,” Scaramouche hisses once Venti is safely over. 

Albedo sighs. “This doesn’t exactly inspire confidence,” he mutters, but with a glance at the approaching hilichurls, he also jumps to grab Scaramouche’s hand. 

“We need a more open area.” 

“The entire place is walled off,” Venti says. 

Scaramouche scowls. “And I’m guessing the rest of the place is like this?” He gestures to the narrow alleys and twisting streets below them. “This is your dream, bard.”

“I might know a way.” Venti’s usual smile is completely absent. Without another word, he starts hopping across the rooftops. 

Scaramouche swears under his breath and chases after him. 

They eventually approach a circular courtyard. The cobblestone floor is lined with posters that are dirtied with footprints, and all the windows on the nearby buildings are boarded up. Venti beelines toward the structure in the center, the only thing in the courtyard that’s not dilapidated nor broken down—the only thing in the courtyard that’s upright at all. 

A statue, Scaramouche realizes when he arrives. 

The statue looks just like Venti, arms outstretched as if guiding a bird to flight. His smile is Niwa’s, soft and kind. 

Scaramouche comes to the sudden realization that he has no idea why Venti is buying eggs. “Bard,” he begins, “who are you trying to bring back?” 

Venti places a hand on the back of the statue, and slowly slides down onto his knees. Like this, he looks like a worshiper, clinging onto the coattails of his idol. “I’m actually a younger brother,” he says, hunched into himself. “And my name… isn’t actually Venti.” 

“The statue is your older brother. You took his name.” 

Venti chuckles. “His name, his appearance, his ambition… all of it. You know, it was always his dream to sing. To be a bard roaming the world, like all the fairytales.” 

If Scaramouche was human, maybe he would be kinder, gentler. Maybe he would dance around the topic on tiptoes, pathetically trying not to break this all too fragile heart before him. But he is not, so he asks bluntly, “How did he die?” 

Venti sucks in a breath. “There was a protest,” he whispers. “He was always… passionate about the wrongs in the world. I went with him like I always did. But things got violent.” A tear runs down his face. “Before I knew it, I was on the ground, and he…”

Scaramouche looks at the statue. Upright, extending compassion that his killers wouldn’t care for. A snapshot of the moment before his death. 

Albedo and Durin finally arrive after carefully descending the wall. Albedo eyes the statue with poorly disguised curiosity, but keeps his mouth shut. 

Venti sighs and presses a hand against the floor. There’s a click, and at the statue’s feet, a passageway opens. “We can get outside the wall through here,” he says, not looking up from the ground. 

“This seems questionable,” Albedo says. “Wouldn’t such a passageway be even easier to get trapped in?” 

“Fighting here is not an option,” Scaramouche snaps, then forcefully wipes any trace of surprise off his face. Why did he say that? 

“I, for one, have no objections.” Durin nudges Albedo. “Besides, you may say it’s questionable, but I know you find that fascinating.” He glances at Venti, who still has yet to look up. “Are you okay…?” 

A window shatters. Hilichurls clamber through the gap. Scaramouche spins to face them. “Go!” he snaps at Albedo and Durin, and they run off. 

The first hilichurl lunges. Scaramouche raises his weapon, but an arrow splits open the hilichurl’s skull. 

Venti looses another arrow and stalks forward. There’s a foreign feel to him, his jaw tense and his eyes pinched. It looks wrong on his face, harsh creases marring his usually impossibly smooth skin. “I want him to see his dream realized. So no matter how many of these fuckers keep coming, I’ll blow them all to bits.” 

A hilichurl leaps at him, but Venti snipes it midair. Another slips too close, and he cleaves it with the limb of his bow. More hilichurls charge. Venti raises his bow, but the hilichurls dart past him toward the entrance of the passageway. Venti snarls, clumsily trying to point his bow backwards. 

Scaramouche surges past Venti to chase the runaway hilichurls. He clips one by the leg, but the others stay one or two paces away, just barely out of reach. 

Scaramouche can’t understand Venti. What use is there in fulfilling a dead dream? The original holder of the dream won’t be able to appreciate it anyway. His mother’s wishes, his sister’s demands—all of it is worthless drivel. No matter how many orders he fulfills, it won’t make his mother come out. 

But he remembers Niwa’s fingers tracing pictures in a children’s book, smiling lips chattering away about all the dreams he had for his future child. He remembers tracing those same pictures, reading aloud to a small fledgling of a child nestled by his side. 

He remembers watching, through a half-shut doorway, the mechanic speaking with Niwa in hushed tones. He could only catch a few words: sickness, shutdown, probability of failure. It had been enough. When the mechanic left, Niwa came out and spotted him. Then, resting a hand on his shoulder, he swore that he would protect the dreams of everyone in Tatarasuna. 

“I’ll take care of everything,” Niwa said. Only now can he recognize that Niwa’s eyes were incredibly sad. “So you don’t have to worry, okay?” 

In that bygone past, he had believed him. How naive. How foolishly hopeless. As if a human could withstand the weight of all those dreams so easily. A puppet couldn’t even handle a single one, so what chance did Niwa have? 

What chance will Venti have? Him with his too round eyes and too smooth skin and spindly fingers. Him with nails cut down to the quick, calluses solely from strumming lyre strings. A songbird of a human. Delicate. Fragile.

Scaramouche’s eyes lock onto the hilichurls, and both hands close around the shaft of his weapon. One step. Two. 

Swing. 

A windblade launches from his weapon, slicing the runaway hilichurls to dust. Scaramouche skids to a stop, a feral grin taking over his face. “Don’t take all the fun for yourself, Venti.” He tilts his head just so, taking in Venti’s wide eyes past the brim of his hat. “We’ll blow up these wretched vermin together.”

Chapter Text

There is a woman in the distance, clad in a white cloak with green accents that mimics Albedo’s. Long golden hair is pulled back into a ponytail, exposing a frosty, impassive stare. Slowly, steadily, she advances towards them. 

Venti’s eyes go hard and steely, and Scaramouche feels the static crackle beneath his frame. Nothing is meaningless in this world of dreams, and this woman looks far too much like them for him to be comfortable. 

“Cretaceus, Humus,” the woman greets. 

Both Albedo and Durin stiffen. “Master,” Albedo says, his voice level.   

“Mother,” Durin whimpers. 

The woman’s face does not soften, does not become any less carved from marble. “I believe I taught you not to call me that.” 

Durin bows his head. “Sorry.” A stilted pause. “Master.” 

“Perhaps you may still be of use. Come.” 

Durin lurches forward, but Venti holds him back with an arm. 

The woman’s gaze narrows. “I also believe that I taught you better than to hide behind others.” 

Albedo steps past them both, his face perfectly composed. If not for the mechanical way he moves, puppet-like in its smoothness, Scaramouche would’ve been fooled by his calmness. 

Before Albedo could move out of reach, Scaramouche snags him by the coattail. “You can’t seriously be considering listening to her.”

“She is my master.” Albedo’s voice is still unnaturally calm. 

“Cretaceus is correct,” the woman says, not even deigning to glance at Scaramouche or Venti. “This matter does not concern you.” 

Venti smiles. It stretches too tightly on his face. “Why don’t you ask the other two who are ‘concerned’ in this matter?” 

“It—It’s alright.” Durin lifts a trembling hand to push Venti’s arm down. “Mo—Master won’t hurt us.” 

Albedo tugs himself out of Scaramouche’s grip, and the two halt shoulder to shoulder, their backs facing him and Venti. 

The woman scans them in a silence that stretches beyond human capability. “I trust you carried out your final tasks?” 

Albedo nods, subtly shifting in front of Durin. “Yes, Master.” 

The woman tilts her head languidly. It is the only part of her that moves. “And yet you remain.” 

That is all the warning they get. 

Claws erupt from the ground. In a blink, Venti draws his bow and fires. The claws shatter into crystalline shards. 

More claws lash out. Scaramouche rushes forward. The claws slam into his weapon and refuse to give. He grits his teeth and twists his weight into his thrust, and the claws collapse. 

Albedo yanks Durin back. His blank face is cracked wide open now, terror bleeding all over him. 

The woman pauses. Instead of continuing her assault, she pulls out a thick notebook stuffed full of page tabs. The sight of it is so jarring, Scaramouche has to fight not to immediately stomp it out of existence. “Interesting,” the woman muses, half to herself. “I hadn’t realized you were capable of making such a face.”

Scaramouche’s chest burns. His limbs tremble, the fluid in his veins sizzling and supercharged. 

A click of a pen, crisp and sharp. 

Scaramouche hurls a windblade at the woman. It makes his ears pop, cleaves through the air like a bolt of lightning. 

The woman swats it aside with the notebook. Her lip twists. “Has no one told you not to interrupt experiments in progress?” 

“Down!” Venti shouts. 

His limbs burst into motion, flattening him to the ground. A wraith of a creature leaps from the air, but an arrow crashes into it. 

Venti runs past, snagging Durin and dragging him toward the looming cliffs in the distance. “We have to go!” Venti yells. 

A snarl catches in Scaramouche’s throat, his feet moving against his will. He has just enough presence of mind to grab Albedo before they’re both ducking under the cliffside. 

“I suppose there’s no point in hiding it, seeing as we’re both dead,” Albedo says. There’s a slight pause, the faintest crease in his brow, before he continues. “We’re both artificial creations of our master, Rhinedottir.” 

Scaramouche takes a sharp, silent breath through his teeth. The rest of his reaction, like a blunt force to his chest, is packed away into the trenches. “Who’s Rhinedottir?” he mutters to Venti, unable to tear his eyes away from the star on Albedo’s neck. A birthmark, he had thought at first, given how shamelessly it was displayed. He knows better now. 

“A famous alchemist,” Venti answers. “Well, I suppose ‘infamous’ is a better word. She’s most known for instigating the Cataclysm that destroyed Khaenri’ah and devastated Mondstadt.” 

Scaramouche’s eyes slide to Venti. “I thought that was Alchemist Gold?” 

“That’s her alias.” 

“And you know this how?” 

“A bard never reveals his secrets!” Venti singsongs. 

Scaramouche’s gaze latches back onto the star—the brand. The back of his neck prickles, and his fingers curl. 

Less a blade and more a bludgeon, the feather ornament in his hand was never meant to be subtle. Back then, before everything burned to ash, it had sat on his chest, catching the sun’s rays and magnifying them tenfold. Katsuragi had easily recognized it for what it was, what it meant, who he was—and so did anyone of importance on that island. Niwa, the Armory Officer. Nagamasa, the Inspector. 

It was Nagamasa who had discovered the mark on the back of his neck. A maker’s brand, inaccessible to himself. Unprotected. Exposed. And when Nagamasa’s fingers brushed against it, all his joints stiffened and went numb. 

It had taken seventy four minutes until Nagamasa—and later Niwa—figured out how to release him from his petrified stasis. Once they did, Niwa pressed the feather in his hand, closed his fingers around it, and urged him to keep it hidden. He hadn’t argued. 

Much later, after he’d grown out the back of his hair to cover his neck, after his entire wardrobe had been overhauled with high collars, he snuck into his mother’s abandoned workshop. There, he found schematics of his inner workings—and how to access them. A lock and a key. A mark and a feather. A thousand vulnerabilities his mother had remedied with her next creation. 

But at least, Scaramouche thinks, the four-pointed star seared into his optics, the mark wasn’t right there, where anyone can find it. Where anyone can see. Where anyone can target. If he reached out, would Albedo’s limbs seize too? Would he become the lifeless puppet he knew he was? 

A dial tone clambers up his ears, shrill and incessant. He feels like he does when he’s only half conscious, the roar of the wind fading in and out, like hushed voices from beyond a thin sliding door. His gaze locks onto Venti, and his lips peel back into a snarl. “You.” 

Venti’s eyes are wide and guileless. “Me?” 

His voice drops into a threatening rumble. “When did I ever permit you to issue me orders?” 

“What part of ‘I must follow orders’ do you not understand?” Scaramouche snaps. 

Venti tilts his head. “But… you don’t have to. You can just not do it, right?” 

“There’s no ‘just’ about it.” Scaramouche grits his teeth. He hates spilling his weakness like this, but Venti just did not get it. “I literally, physically do not have a choice.” 

Venti’s breath catches. He blinks—once, twice. Then, he pales. “Oh. Oh my stars. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.” 

“Yes, that’s kinda the point.” Scaramouche scowls. “Now, can we get on with—” 

“I didn’t know,” Venti pleads. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m really—”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Venti flinches. 

Scaramouche pinches the rim of his hat. “You're blowing this out of proportion, bard.”

Venti shakes his head, once, twice. For all his complaints about allergies, he looks remarkably like a cat in the rain, sopping wet and weak. Scaramouche waits for Venti to laugh it off, to spout more and more empty platitudes, but he doesn’t. He refuses to speak. He refuses to look up. 

“Bard.” Even with the barbs in his tone, there’s still nothing. “Venti.” 

“I’m sorry,” Venti repeats. He looks—not miserable, per say, but flat, like all the squishy bits they called a soul was sucked out of him. 

Eventually, Scaramouche sighs. His weapon is heavy in his hand. “We don’t have time for this.” Rhinedottir is still hunting them, and the hilichurls could show up at any moment. He glances at Albedo and Durin, both of whom are doing a remarkable impression of set pieces. “That woman”—he refuses to let the word “master” sully his tongue—“mentioned ‘final tasks.’ What were they?” 

Albedo’s voice hardens. “If you wish to figure out her intentions, I’m afraid we have no conclusions either.” 

“Can’t figure out anything if you keep your pretty mouth shut,” Scaramouche fires back. 

Durin rests a hand on Albedo’s shoulder. “It’s alright. You don’t have to protect me. They deserve to know. I can… I can handle it.” 

Albedo presses his lips together and falls silent. 

“My final task… Well, what she told me was to display my own beauty with pride.” Durin’s eyes grow unfocused. “So I did. I went to a land of lovely songs and green grass, where the people were gentle and danced like jewels. It was only as I lay dying that I realized…” His hand comes up, absentmindedly traces his neck—the scales and scars peeking out from under his collar—and he chokes out the rest. “That beautiful land—I’d been destroying it. Mondstadt had been painted in fire and blood by my own hand.” 

“The Black Dragon,” Venti murmurs, still subdued but his eyes glinting. “That was you, wasn’t it.” 

“It wasn’t his fault,” Albedo interrupts, nudging Durin with the barest touch of his knuckles. “Master had transmuted his blood to be inherently corrosive. His mere presence became destructive, and he became trapped in an illusion in which he did not realize what he was doing.” 

“That’s not an excuse,” Durin rasps. 

“It’s an explanation,” Albedo says, his voice firm. 

Scaramouche scowls, trying to forget how the brothers linger on each other, how their timbres shift when speaking to each other—for each other—becoming more weighty, more layered, more. “Yes, yes, we get it. Moving on. Albedo?’” 

Albedo’s voice, in contrast to Durin’s, is completely even. “Master assigned me to Mondstadt and told me to show her the ‘truth and meaning of this world.’” 

His brow furrows. That couldn’t be all there was to it. Fallen to tragedy, the statue had said, and he recalls how Durin reacted to Albedo when they first met in this world.

“Looks like neither of us made it.” Which meant Durin knew Albedo died. Which meant Albedo had died first.  

“Where were you when the Cataclysm hit?” 

Albedo meets his eyes. The blank expression is back on his face, carved from marble like that woman’s. “I was still in Mondstadt.” 

Scaramouche crosses his arms. The air tastes bitter, and he swallows it down with a sneer. “So, she led you to your death.” 

Albedo shakes his head. “All she did was leave me in Mondstadt.” 

His sneer sharpens. All she did. “And that directly led to you being killed by your own brother.” 

Both Albedo and Durin flinch, Durin hunching into himself and turning away. 

Venti reaches out, catches Scaramouche’s sleeve with the tips of his fingers. “Wanderer,” he whispers, “that was too far.” 

Scaramouche barks out a laugh. “Why avert your eyes from the ugly truth? Call it what it is.” A scheme. A convoluted plot to have the two kill each other. A disaster that could’ve been completely avoided were it not for a single person’s actions.

Chapter Text

Venti’s grip on him tightens. “She’s coming.” 

A claw shoots out and wrests Albedo and Durin off their feet. Albedo is stiff, but Durin thrashes, his fists pounding uselessly at the claws ensnaring them. 

Rhinedottir steps into view, turning an eyebrow at Durin. “Why do you struggle?” She curls her wrist, and the claws tighten. 

Durin chokes, fingers now scrabbling at the claws. Albedo’s mouth parts, but he quickly clamps it shut again. 

Rhinedottir strolls closer, pulling out a different notebook. Albedo physically recoils at it, but Rhinedottir has her eyes fixed solely on Durin. “It seems you require additional modifications.” 

Albedo’s gaze catches Scaramouche. He looks completely unlike himself, eyes sewn wide as a doll’s. Again, his mouth parts, forms a single word. Help. 

Lightning flares in Scaramouche’s chest. As one, he and Venti launch themselves at Rhinedottir. 

Rhinedottir tosses the notebook and stretches out a hand. Vine-like claws tear free from the ground and shoot towards them. 

Scaramouche smashes the claws aside. Venti skids to a halt and fires at Rhinedottir’s face. 

A thicker claw rises to block the arrow. Scaramouche vaults over it. Rhinedottir focuses on him and flicks her fingers. More claws fly up. Scaramouche grits his teeth and slams his weapon down, but the claws refuse to give in. 

An arrow slices through the claws holding Durin and Albedo, and they both start to free fall. “Wanderer!” Venti calls, and leaps to catch Durin. 

Scaramouche rebounds off the flat end of the claws and snatches Albedo from midair. They land hard, Scaramouche’s knee joints creaking when he straightens. Albedo’s grip around his neck is tight enough to choke a human, and it takes a glare until he releases it and can be set down. 

Rhinedottir stares at them. For the first time, her perfectly blank facade is broken by the slightest furrow in her brow. More claws twist in the air behind her, slowly shifting into crimson hues. “You have interfered twice now. Who are you?” 

“We are the protectors of those who dream of happier endings,” Venti says. 

Scaramouche scoffs at Venti’s continued flowery language. “We kill monsters like you. That’s all you need to know.” 

Rhinedottir’s eyes narrow. “I see.” 

The claws flatten and split open. A flower blooms, the pistil pointed at them, sparking red. 

Venti shoves him aside. The air cracks. 

He hits the ground and automatically rolls, blinking the dust and debris out of his vision. “Bard!” he snaps, then stops. 

Venti twitches, curling in on himself. There’s an angry gash in his side, bubbling purple at the edges. He presses an arm to it and laughs shakily. “Sorry. I, uh, don’t think I can go very far like this.” A spasm shakes his entire body, and he bites his tongue until it passes. “That can’t be good…” 

More claws race towards them. Scaramouche starts forward, but Venti plants his feet, raises his bow, and fires. The claws shatter. 

Venti gasps, lines of pain etching onto his face. Still, he forces a trembling smile on his face. “Looks like you’ll have to go on without me.” 

“What—” 

The flower folds into itself, and more claws lash out. Scaramouche, on instinct, jumps away. The claws arc down and burrow into the ground, cutting him off from Venti. Another barrage forces him back, and back, and back, until he’s right in front of Albedo. 

Scaramouche’s eyes flick over to where Venti was standing, only able to see a thick, teeming wall. “We’re leaving.” 

Albedo hesitates. “Durin is still—”

“I said we’re leaving!” 

Scaramouche glances behind him. When all remains silent, he lets himself relax—just a little bit, though. “Looks like we lost her.” 

“Only because she is… presently occupied.” Albedo’s face has returned to that near impenetrable blankness, but his fingers twist the fabric of his lab coat. “No matter how much time passes, Master will come to retrieve me eventually.” 

Scaramouche clicks his tongue. “Like a mutt with a chew toy.” 

Albedo looks away from him sharply. “I meant to ask earlier,” he begins, raising his voice slightly, “but are you also an artificial creation?” 

Scaramouche flinches, then immediately pretends he didn’t. “What makes you think that?” 

Albedo regards him coolly. His gaze is so much like Rhinedottir’s, it makes static crawl up his chest. “When you were arguing with Venti, you mentioned that you were unable to disobey verbal commands.” 

His inner mechanisms freeze. Fuck. This is why his mother never showed her face around him. He was always too emotional, too caught up in the heat of the moment, too much of a thrice-damned fool— 

He blinks, and his hands are around Albedo’s throat, thumbs digging into the star brand. 

Albedo gasps, hands automatically clamping around his wrists. 

Scaramouche grits his teeth. His body wars between two instincts—eliminating the threat, and not endangering his mission to protect this “person.” 

Then again, what does it matter? Albedo is artificial. He knows, better than anyone, the worth in such a so-called life. Meaningless. Expendable. Empty. What was stopping Albedo’s “master” from just rewriting him anew? 

Nothing. 

A soft, pained noise escapes Albedo. His shocked expression slips into something more… vacant. Resigned. 

Slowly, painstakingly, Scaramouche pries his fingers away from Albedo’s neck. 

Albedo immediately doubles over, fighting to regain his breath. 

Scaramouche waits until Albedo finally straightens. “If you ever even think,” he snarls, “about ordering me around, there’ll be more where that came from.” 

Albedo clears his throat, not so subtly rubbing his neck. “Understood,” he croaks. 

Scaramouche stalks ahead, not looking at Albedo’s face. He’s had enough of empty, doll-like expressions, that’s all. 

Careful footsteps follow behind him. They forge ahead in silence for a few moments, until Albedo finally breaks it. “The reason I ask,” he starts, his every word measured, “is because I was hoping to gain some… insight, I suppose, by comparing our circumstances.” 

“Insight,” he repeats flatly. 

“I am an alchemist first and foremost, and investigating unsolved mysteries is fundamental for such a role. It is the first time my inquiries involve a more… personal bent, but I believe discussion with you may prove fruitful.” 

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “You’re almost as bad as the bard.” Hiding behind pretty words, never telling it as it is. “Sure, whatever. Do what you will.” 

“Then…” Albedo quickens his pace to match Scaramouche. “Your creator. What is she like?” 

His creator, his mother… He has only a few scarce memories of her. Most of them are from peeking through the doorway to her workshop, watching her slave away at building his sister. In even fewer, she is fussing over his sister’s specifications with that two-faced fox friend of hers. 

And in the earliest of them—his first memory—her cold, unfeeling gaze looms before him. She sees his tears, and she deems him unworthy. 

He presses his lips together. Truthfully, there isn’t much he can say. The silence stretches, and builds. 

Albedo tilts his head. “Do you not have an answer?” 

His lips curl into a smirk. “I said you could speak. I never said anything about answering.” 

Albedo’s brow creases. “You,” he hisses, “are the single most infuriating man I’ve ever met.” 

His smirk widens. “Tough shit.” 

Albedo seems to catch himself, then, smoothing his face over. 

Scaramouche feels his own smirk drop. “Stop wasting both our time and get to the point.” 

“Your devotion to her is disgusting,” Scaramouche spits. “She threw you away! And for what? Some impossible, never ending mission? News flash, she was never coming back. She was just looking for an excuse to get rid of you.” 

“Even so, I am my master’s creation,” Albedo mutters. “If that is the reason why she created me… then who am I to argue?” 

Scaramouche scoffs. “Don’t delude yourself. The reason you were created means fuck all.” 

“Sometimes, I wonder.” Albedo stares down at his palms, idly tapping his fingers together. “If Durin hadn’t come to Mondstadt first… would I have come to destroy it instead?” 

You hardly look like you can destroy a whole city, Scaramouche almost answers, but holds his tongue. Durin didn’t look like he could destroy Mondstadt either, but Rhinedottir had managed to transform him into the Black Dragon. 

Albedo catches his look, and his lips twitch up. “The alchemy I was studying was extremely dangerous. If I’d ever lost control… Well, I suppose it won’t ever come to that, now.” He sighs. “As much as I would’ve preferred a more peaceful outcome… I am incredibly grateful to Durin for removing that possibility.” 

The air ripples. Scaramouche frowns, his hand instinctively going to his weapon. 

Albedo’s eyes widen. “Look out!” 

A rift tears open midair, and a lupine creature leaps out, claws flashing. 

Scaramouche dodges back. The claws barely miss his jacket. He draws his weapon fully. “What is that?” 

“Alfisol,” Albedo answers. “Don’t let them hit you. Their claws are corrosive.”  

Albedo spins him around and presses their backs together. 

He nearly flinches away. “What—?”

“They will try to teleport behind you.” Albedo scans the air, his hands in fists. “We need to watch each other’s backs.” 

“Incoming!” Albedo shouts, and ducks. 

Scaramouche whirls around and sweeps his weapon wide. The edge slams into the riftwolf’s maw and tears it open. 

The riftwolf shrieks, a harsh, grating noise that turns garbled at the end. With a chaotic, tangled mass of dark matter, it glitches out of existence. 

Scaramouche dismisses the error message overlaying his vision, smacking the side of his head to get his audio devices to start working properly again. “There better not be any more surprise attacks.” 

Albedo’s gaze drifts to the invisible horizon, his pupils dilated. “I told you,” he whispers, as if he didn’t hear him. “She’s coming back for me.” 

“She sent her hound dogs, that’s all. She didn’t even bother to come personally.” 

“The riftwolves are a signal.” Albedo’s hands clench, his gloves creasing from how tight his grip is. “She will come.” 

Scaramouche frowns. With what Albedo was saying before they got ambushed, he would’ve thought that’s a good thing. But the way he’s acting now… “Sounds like you don’t exactly want her to come back.” 

Albedo hesitates, shakes his head. “It’s not that. Of course I want her to return. I am my master’s creation, after all. I have always known she would leave if I failed, so if she is returning, that means I’ve finally fulfilled…” 

“You’re lying,” Scaramouche says flatly. 

“I assure you, I am not in the habit of lying.” 

Scaramouche raises an eyebrow. “If you were telling the truth, then you wouldn’t be so tense right now.” 

Albedo stiffens further, then immediately tries to relax. It’s a laughable attempt. 

“Besides,” Scaramouche continues, “if you really wanted her to come back, why would you help me fight off her hounds?” 

“That’s—” Albedo falls silent. 

“Do you not have an answer?” Scaramouche taunts. 

Albedo averts his eyes. Slowly, his hands unclench, and he stares down at them. “I didn’t want you to get hurt,” he starts. “I didn’t want… anyone… to get hurt.” 

His chest pangs. He fixes his gaze on the rugged bark of a tree. How many times had he thought that, in the fallout of Tatarasuna? Standing in ashes, in black smoke, in still-smoldering embers. “Well, looks like we don’t always get what we want.” 

Scaramouche tackles Albedo to the ground. 

A laser fires above them, slicing tree trunks in half. Rhinedottir ambles out of the underside of a cliff, two riftwolves flanking her and a flower hovering above her. 

Scaramouche gets up and draws his weapon. 

Albedo stays on his knees. When he looks up at Rhinedottir, strands of his hair fall out of his braid. “Where’s Durin?” he whispers. 

With a gesture, the flower withers and morphs into a set of vines holding Durin’s limp body aloft. “I disposed of his self-proclaimed protector and retrieved him.” Rhinedottir meets Albedo’s gaze. “You are the last order of business left to deal with.” 

Albedo lowers his head. Scaramouche steps in front of him. 

Rhinedottir’s expression twists into something far more ugly. “This is your final warning. Do not interfere, or suffer the consequences.” 

Scaramouche smirks. Finally, that impassive facade is broken. “What, can’t handle another deviation from your ‘perfect’ plan?” 

Rhinedottir snaps her fingers. The riftwolves howl. One of them hops into a portal and disappears, while the other springs towards him. 

He blocks the riftwolf, its claws grinding against his weapon with a metallic screech. It bares its teeth at him, but he adjusts his stance and glances back. 

Albedo is still on the ground, motionless, a puppet with its strings snapped. 

“Get up,” he demands. “Or do you want to die?” 

Albedo’s hands tighten, yanking out grass by the roots. “I’m already dead.” 

A distorted noise behind him. Scaramouche forces the riftwolf back and whips around. A windblade flies from his weapon. The second riftwolf bounds out of a portal, and the windblade slams into its face. It recoils, shakes itself off like a drenched mutt. Once it regains itself, the two riftwolves circle him in opposing directions. 

He tracks them warily, using the reflection of his weapon to see behind him. Without looking at Albedo, he asks, “Did you want to die?” 

“I am my master’s creation,” Albedo gasps. “I am…” 

Thunder roars through the crevices in his body. He seizes Albedo and yanks him to his feet. “Fuck that.” 

The riftwolves strike. 

Scaramouche sweeps his weapon skyward. The edge catches one in the jaw and knocks it back. The other lashes out with its claws, just barely missing Albedo. 

Albedo flinches, but then—pauses. His eyes flick between the riftwolves and Rhinedottir. 

Albedo stands in front of him. 

The riftwolves halt their attack. 

“I was right.” Albedo’s voice shakes. The dark claws of the riftwolves refract over his irises, mere meters away from ripping off his face. 

“Of course,” Rhinedottir says. “You are my greatest creation.” 

Albedo swallows. “I see.” His fingers crinkle the fabric of his coat, and he shuffles past the riftwolves. 

Scaramouche grabs him by the sleeve. “What are you doing?” he hisses. 

“Get Durin,” Albedo breathes, barely audible, and advances towards Rhinedottir. 

Scaramouche eyes the riftwolves, but they completely ignore him, instead turning to watch Albedo. Rhinedottir, too, pays him no heed. His chest flares with outrage, but he silences himself and slips away. 

Albedo stops in front of Rhinedottir, head slightly bowed. 

“Have you finally come to your senses?” she asks. 

“Yes, Master.” 

“Good. We have plenty of experiments left to conduct.” Rhinedottir beckons him to follow, and turns to go. 

Albedo doesn’t move. 

Rhinedottir pauses, glancing back at him. “I believe I have made myself clear.” 

“Yes.” Albedo raises his head, his eyes hard. “You have.” 

Rhinedottir’s gaze sharpens. “Durin is one issue. But I did not expect you to follow in his footsteps.” 

“Of course not.” A trace of bitterness laces his tone. “I was your perfect creation, after all.” 

“Was?” Rhinedottir turns back to face him fully. “You are still my masterpiece. That is why this willful disobedience must end.” 

“I will always be grateful to you for creating me and teaching me alchemy,” Albedo starts, his tone even, “but I am not solely your creation. I have a will of my own, and that will—” 

“—is what I created you to do.” Rhinedottir draws closer. She cups Albedo’s cheek in a facsimile of a mother’s touch, stiff and lacking all tenderness. “I created you to unveil all of life’s mysteries. Your inquisitive nature, your natural inclination toward alchemy—they were all within my calculations.” 

Albedo shakes his head and smacks her hand away. “That will is not yours!” His voice rises. “Why else, then, would I question your final assignment, would I sympathize with my brother and all those who came before me, would I side with the city that you intended to destroy? Why else”—his voice cracks—“would I always long to defy you?” 

Rhinedottir raises a single brow. “You have always faithfully followed all my orders.” 

“But I never wanted this!” Albedo yells. “The corruption of my brother, the destruction of Mondstadt—I never wanted any of that! All I wanted was to live peacefully with my brother in the place I managed to make a home—but you’re the one who ruined that wish.” 

Scaramouche slashes through the vines and sets Durin free. 

Rhinedottir freezes, then whirls on him. Her lips curl. “You.” 

At Scaramouche’s feet, Durin begins to stir. Scaramouche steps around him, keeping his gait casual. “Me.” 

Rhinedottir’s gaze slides to Albedo. “You were acting as a distraction.” 

Albedo sets his jaw. “I told you. I never wanted any of this.” 

“I’ll blow you off your feet—”

Scaramouche snaps his head up. 

“—with a shot through the heart!” 

An arrow blasts through the riftwolves surrounding him. Venti jumps down from the cliff and bounces to a stop next to him. His side is clear, no trace of the wound from earlier. 

“Bard,” Scaramouche starts, then stops. 

Venti beams and flashes a victory sign. “This is a dream world, remember? All pains will fade with time.” 

“I wasn’t asking.” 

Venti only turns those big eyes onto him. “I’m taking her down, once and for all. You in?” 

Despite himself, he grins. As one, they raise their weapons to Rhinedottir. 

Rhinedottir raises a hand, and a crimson flower blooms in the sky. “Deviations need to fall in line!” she snarls, and the flower shoots a beam of red light. 

Venti draws back the string, points the arrow, and fires. The arrow splits through the beam and pierces through the flower. Another arrow flares to life between his fingers. “Here we go!” he chirps, and lets it fly. 

Rhinedottir raises her notebook, but the arrow punches through it and lodges in her gut. She staggers, a hand automatically closing around the shaft. 

Scaramouche leaps into the air. His weapon catches the rays of the sun. 

Rhinedottir looks up at him. For the first time, her eyes are wide open—afraid. The ground rises to try to shelter her. 

The back of his neck burns. “Now die!” 

Gravity yanks him back down. His weapon breaks through the feeble defense and flattens Rhinedottir into a crater. 

The earth booms. Albedo clutches Durin to keep his balance, while Venti stumbles and nearly falls flat on his back. As the dust settles, Scaramouche straightens, shaking out his arms. He can still feel phantom reverberations from the final blow, heavy handed and with none of the finesse that his family tried to drill into him. 

“Here.” Venti hands over his hat. It must’ve fallen off at some point while he was in the air. 

Durin is hunched over, curled up like a stone. He hasn’t gotten up since Scaramouche freed him from Rhinedottir’s grasp, has done little else but lift his head to watch the fight. 

Scaramouche and Venti exchange glances. Venti inclines his head toward Durin, and heads off. Scaramouche hangs back with Albedo. 

Albedo is somehow still on his feet, but his whole body trembles. “It’s… really over, isn’t it?” His voice drops to barely more than a wisp. “Everything.” 

So it’s finally hitting him, Scaramouche thinks. 

Albedo sucks in a ragged breath. Then again. “It was cruel, wasn’t it? What she did.” And again. “It wasn’t fair.” 

The noise grates at his ears. He already knows the sound of drowning; he doesn’t need to hear more of it. He tries to tune it out, focusing instead on the low murmurs of Venti and Durin, the ambience of the grass and leaves and this ephemeral dream world. 

Albedo digs his palms into his eyes. No tears come out, but his shoulders heave with gutted, breathless sobs. 

He tips his hat over his face. He has long forgotten how to comfort, to soothe, to wipe away tears without cutting out the glands. But if he sidles closer, hoping that his cold, plastic presence will be enough—

This place is just a dream. All evidence will dissipate once it ends. 

“I realized—we never properly introduced ourselves, have we?” Albedo places his hand over his heart in a salute. “I am Albedo, formerly Chief Alchemist of the Knights of Favonius.” 

“And I’m Durin, his older brother.” Durin mockingly—or maybe jokingly—copies Albedo’s salute. “On behalf of the both of us, thanks for everything.” 

The sunlight shifts, and the two vanish. 

Venti shakes himself and turns to Scaramouche. “Well, I guess it’s about time to wake up.” 

“Wanna know a secret?” Venti leans in until their faces are nearly touching. His breath brushes against his nose. “I’m not human either.” 

Scaramouche recoils. “Why would you tell me this?” He catches himself then, schools his features into a frown. “I could ruin you. If I told anyone…” 

“You could,” Venti acknowledges, leaning back. “But it’s only fair.” 

Scaramouche almost gapes at him, but presses his lips firmly together. Venti could ruin him too with just a few words. He knew. Perhaps he isn’t quite as guileless as he seemed. 

“Mutually assured destruction,” Venti says, and smiles.