Chapter Text
Cover art by endnraa on twitter and ig!
The tavern was quiet and reasonably so, as the fatui had rented the whole place specifically for this occasion. Only the sound of the bartender wiping tables could be heard, along with the soft music that echoed from a music box. He sat on one of the cleaned tables meant for two, with a fatui underling sitting across from him. A slip of parchment slid across it and stopped in front of him. Scaramouche looked down his nose at it, hands not moving from being crossed across his chest. He tutted.
“I'm not touching that. Read it for me.”
“Y-yes, my lord,” the underling scrambled, voice strained as he picked up the parchment, unrolling it. He cleared his throat before reading. “The poison can be bought in Liyue Harbor. There is a store on the second-floor deck by the east, and an Inazuman man staffs it. It is only open during the evening, and it uses-”
He had got what he wanted. Scaramouche brought a hand up, silencing the underling. He reached up to fix his hat, the ominous sound of his humming mixed with the slight jingle of the ornaments that hung from it, overpowering the soft music played in the background. He paused for a moment to listen to what the music box was actually playing. Ah, Ludovico Einaudi, quite fitting, he thought. Resuming to fixing his hat, he stood up to leave once he deemed himself presentable, but the underling stood up abruptly.
“Wait!” the underling exclaimed, “m-my lord, there is still more-”
He snapped his fingers, and quicker than lightning, a bolt of electricity struck through the underling’s forehead. The rotten smell of burnt flesh began to fill the tavern as the dead man rolled to the floor. Scaramouche scrunched his nose; it smelled awful now. He stepped over the body and strutted straight to the doors.
Four attendants met him outside. One of them, Val, stepped forward to bow. “Lord Harbinger, your transportation is ready.”
Scaramouche nodded, satisfied with the fast work. If only he could be the one to recruit the Fatui’s informants, then they wouldn’t be dealing with such a mess. Most of the time (all of the time), he questioned Capitano’s standards.
“Burn the tavern down and leave my mark,” Scaramouche said, wearing a smirk on his lips as he headed to his carriage. “We’re going to Liyue Harbor.”
Scaramouche sent his attendants away to look more normal. They were now lurking from a distance, wearing stereotypical fur Snezhnayan coats to act as a group of tourists, chatting to one another at a decent volume. He did not send them a glance when even the receptionist couldn't help but look at the group of foreigners when they passed by.
He strutted to the main desk, posture open and confident yet humble as he waited behind a man talking to the receptionist. Scaramouche’s eyes landed on light blue hair sticking out from under the man’s hat, and suddenly, he felt like committing murder.
He smiled sickeningly sweet, showing his palms and wrinkling his eyes into crescents as he pushed the man aside to look at the receptionist.
“Hi! I would like to book a room for my friends and me,” he pouted, “We’re new here, so I don’t know much about how inns here work.”
Beside him, he felt the man go taut. Fucking idiot.
“And Dottore!” Scaramouche exclaimed, “So sorry I’m late. Liyue food just tasted so good I had to eat some more. But worry not, I’m here now, friend. Let me handle our rooms.”
“Y-yeah!” Dottore stumbled on his words. “Thank you, Balladeer. I appreciate your efforts.”
“Of course,” Scaramouche purred, placing a hand on his chest, and he watched as Dottore’s eye twitched. “Anything for such a dear friend.”
The receptionist smiled, although it looked forced. He could not blame her; today, the inn was jampacked with visitors (most of them disguised fatui). Scaramouche grinned lopsidedly, flashing pearl white teeth as he thanked the woman for the several room keys she gave him.
“C’mon, Dottore-chan!” Scaramouche waved a hand as a goodbye to the receptionist and walked straight to the path of their rooms. He counted the keys on his hand, fingers shuffling through them to conclude the other harbinger booked a whole floor. Clicking his tongue, he huffed. An entire floor to himself would be preferable. He beckoned one of his attendants over, and Val came immediately, already bent over to bow.
“Book another floor,” Scaramouche said, not sparing him a glance as he continued to walk beside Dottore. Although now, he pointedly makes it so that he’s walking in front of Dottore.
It took another minute of heavy silence and footsteps for them to reach the master suite of the floor, Scaramouche unlocking it with precision and locking it again once Dottore entered too. From the corner of his eye, he saw the doctor tense up, probably realizing how his attendants were out of reach. It was only them now.
“Balladeer-”
“Would you like to tell me,” Scaramouche’s voice was low, the sweet and pleasant tone from earlier gone. He made violet lines of lightning dance around his arms. “Why you're here?”
Dottore spoke in a tone much too condescending for his liking. The doctor lifted his chin before he said, “Contrary to what you may think, I am here on my own business given by the Queen Tsaritsa. You, on the other hand-”
“You slimy fuck!” Scaramouche grabbed Dottore’s collar, making sure electricity climbed its way up to his arms and onto Dottore’s chest, burning the tips of his coat. The doctor flinched, obviously not one for brawn. “Scram out of here. I do not care what business you have. I’m not fucking working with you on the same perimeter as me.”
Dottore’s eye twitched, grabbing onto Scaramouche’s arm hard, the one holding his collar. “I said it’s the Queen Tsaritsa’s order. Are you defying our archon? I’ve always known we had a traitor in our-”
A loud zap burned through Dottore’s coat, creating a large hole in his clothes and a first-degree burn forming on the center of Dottore’s chest. The doctor cried out, clawing his arms to be released. The room began to smell like burnt cotton and flesh. Scaramouche stopped himself from gagging, the ugly stench always so unpleasant to his nose.
“Listen, you lying piece of fuck,” Scaramouche began, voice low and guttural. “I know the Tsaritsa didn’t order you to do shit. If she did, I would have known before you did. Fuck off Liyue, and I’m never giving you my shit, so fuck off me too. If I see you near me without authorization from the Queen, I will start a war with your faction. Do not test me, you will lose.”
It was fascinating how Dottore still had to nerve to look at him as if he were a pile of shit under his shoe, all while being held up by the collar, burnt and humiliated. Another reason to hate humans, they’re prideful even in their worse. It was something about the defiant look in his eyes that made his blood boil. The way Dottore still had the unreasonable will to fight after putting him in his place made him want to wretch.
He could never understand them. Humans.
He isn’t one, after all.
“Fine,” Dottore gritted. He struggled, and Scaramouche loosened his grip, letting him stumble to the ground, clothes torn and chest in pain. The suite’s floor was littered with the ashes of the poor coat and the smell, archons the fucking smell.
“Your coat. What’s it made of,” Scaramouche demanded.
Dottore paused, face forming a sneer before answering, “Hydro slime condensate. I bathed the cotton in-”
“So that’s why it smells like shit,” scrunching his nose, Scaramouche made a show of waving his hand as if to shoo the scent away. In the corner of his eye, he saw Dottore go for the door, limping, and Scaramouche quickly shoved his way past him to get out first. He did not bother unlocking it with the key because why would he when he could just blast it away with a thunder of lightning. Dottore would have to pay for the damages anyway.
Both their attendants stood outside the suite, all nervous looking and shit. He searched for Val and was glad to see his personal attendant without an ounce of worry on his face, confident in his Lord. Scaramouche strutted to the elevators, Val automatically walking behind him.
“Book two floors for one night. We’re leaving for the harbor tomorrow.”
“Yes, Lord Harbinger.”
They made it to the elevator, waiting for it. Scaramouche recalled to the suite he was in earlier, was that the best Wangshu Inn had? He huffed.
“Val,” Scaramouche called again.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Book the penthouse for me instead. If it’s occupied, then kill the inhabitant. And… Actually- no, I forgot we need a low profile,” Scaramouche pondered, “bribe the inhabitant and then disinfect the whole floor.”
“As you wish, my lord. I can finish everything up in an hour.”
“Good. I’ll be dining then.”
The food offered by the Inn was decent at best. It was bland compared to what his personal chef made and to what he was used to, which was his usual palette of exotic foods heavily drowsed in spice, enlighting sweet burns to his tongue. Sadly, the cuisine given to him did not fulfill his craving, leaving his attendants to suffer from his terrible mood the rest of the evening.
It did not go away either the next day. Scaramouche emanated such a negative aura that even Val, his personal attendant for years who was used to his moods, hesitated when answering him.
“Y-yes, Lord Harbinger,” Val bowed, spine ramrod straight. “Everything is set. We will depart at your word.”
Scaramouche grunted, pushing past him to enter the carriage, whose doors were already held open. Dottore’s appearance from yesterday did not help his mood either. When he had woken up that morning, he immediately scanned his arms and legs, checking for suspicious nicks in paranoia. It was not like before when he would allow the doctor to meddle with his body, making adjustments here and there because he wasn’t human, and back then, Scaramouche used to be none the wiser.
Now that he had risen in power and gained more knowledge of the world, he began to sense the malicious intent from others and began to isolate himself. More power, my ass, Scaramouche thought.
After hours of brooding and scheming as he sat, the carriage had come to a stop. Val slid open the doors, and the noise of children crying, shop vendors vying for customers, and basically, a busy shopping street filled his ears. Stepping out of the carriage, Scaramouche winced at the sudden light. Although the bright light quickly became the least of his worries, when an irritatingly cheerful voice stood out from the crowd.
“Hey, hey, Scaramouche!” Childe, the motherfucker, waved as he approached. A false flowery aura surrounded him as he moved, obviously a show for the crowd beginning to form around them. After all, it wasn’t everyday you see a Snezhayan approach someone from Inazuma in the middle of Liyue Harbor.
Scaramouche chuckled at his own joke, although it was dropped immediately to glare at the other harbinger.
“Fuck off,” he made to side-step Childe, but the shit blocked his way, arms open wide in peace.
“No can do. You see, I’m kind of cleaning things up here right now. And I was told about all your cool adventures in Inazuma,” Childe’s eyes clouded over. “Y’know, stealing a gnosis, leaving Signora off to die, and all the cool stuff harbingers do in their daily lives. It’s kinda rough for us right now, so I’m hoping that y’know.”
“I know what.”
“That you don’t kill people here.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Scaramouche said, voice flat.
“Actually, it’s the Tsaritsa telling you what to do,” Childe corrected, a smug smile forming on his lips; he knew he already won. The fucker brought out a scroll, unrolling it to show its contents to him. “She sent an order just last night, telling me of your arrival and to tell you no killing.”
Sighing as if he were being harassed, Scaramouche hissed, “ Fine. Surprises me how the Queen still trusts you after your failure.”
And, of course, Childe took the bait because what is an encounter between them without a near-death-inducing experience. He let lighting crawl his arms like a tattoo, snaking its way and bouncing it on his fingers as if it were excited to strike at any moment. Scaramouche grinned. Tartaglia was a nuisance but a delight to fight in battle. He raised his arm, ready to zap, but faltered.
Childe had both his arms up in surrender. His face was calm, a contrast from the battle lust Scaramouche saw just a few seconds ago. He said diplomatically, “I won’t fight you here, comrade.”
Scaramouche raised a brow, eyes zeroing on the tense muscles of Tartaglia's face and the dark rings under his eyes. He said, “What? Don’t tell me you’ve got nerves?”
“Don’t tell me you’ll attack an unarmed Harbinger?”
They both knew the answer to that, but he let the lightning on his arms fade. Scaramouche strutted to the man, taking hold of his collar. “The fuck’s your problem?”
The height difference was evident now; having Childe look down on him only managed to dampen his already foul mood even more.
“I just have better things to do, that’s all.”
“No, you don’t,” Scaramouche frowned. Childe was currently in charge of overseeing financial transactions in Liyue, which had been going on for six months and was ready to wrap up in a few weeks. Nothing was stopping him from a fight; the citizens be damned.
He paused. Weeks ago, he distantly recalled one of his men informing him of Tartaglia’s brother disappearing from Snezhnaya. It was useless information at that time, as he was too busy in Inazuma to hyper analyze Childe’s actions. But now, Scaramouche smirked, letting go of Childe’s collar.
“Okay.”
Childe raised a brow as if surprised by the compliancy. “Okay?”
“Yeah, I don’t give a shit,” Scaramouche strolled past him, pushing through the Millelith guards that had their spears raised in case of a fight. It seemed that Childe had no intention of following him in case of another fight, so he lazily raised an arm in goodbye.
Scaramouche settled down in his hotel room, grunting as he took his hat off. He scrunched his nose at the dirt sticking to his socks and took them off quickly. After doing the same with his other clothes, he stepped into the restroom and took a shower, not liking how filthy he had gotten in such a short amount of time. When he finished, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out, a set of clothes already laid out in the walk-in closet.
The clothes were not flashy, a complete opposite to his usual attire. Although they both had the same color scheme: black, red, white, and gold. This one was less flamboyant, more inconspicuous. He didn’t quite like it that much, but he guessed it was for the best. The shopkeeper was less likely to sell to him if they were scared shitless, after all. Typically, he would have just threatened them, killed them maybe if he was in a bad mood, but new orders prevented him from doing so.
Grudgingly, he wore the clothes and called for Val.
“Yes, my lord?”
“I want eyes and ears on Tartaglia,” Scaramouche smirked, excited by the concept of having leverage on the little shit. “Keep track of his whereabouts and track down his brother. I want to know what the fuck he’s hiding from me.”
Val nodded. “Anything else, my lord?”
He thought for a second before saying, “Have no one follow me to the shop. I’m going alone.”
It was evening. The sun was gradually sinking into the wild waves of the harbor, and even more people were strolling the streets. Lanterns have been lightened up, soft music playing from an open restaurant, and soon, the Liyue nightlife began.
Scaramouche scrunched his nose a little, fighting for his life to avoid being touched by any of these mortals. He was currently making his way through a tough crowd, hands shooting out to grab onto him, to lead him to dance, but he evaded them as if they were infected. Fucking filthy. He even had to stop himself from zapping a young man who thought it was a good idea to offer him a drink, flirtatious eyes, and lingering touches that made Scaramouche want to fucking murder something.
But since orders prevented him from doing so, he settled on letting trails of electricity roam his fingers; the control of not letting it go haywire sufficient in directing his anger somewhere. Although it was still shit. He would rather exile a hopeful fatui recruit to see that fear he so craved than just letting electricity crawl around him to manage his anger issues.
It worked though, the electric barrier he placed in between himself and others was effective in making sure no one stepped in his way. If they got near and touched him, then it wouldn’t be his fault they’d die.
He made it to the deck of the harbor, where the boats and ships reside. According to Val, who had scouted the area earlier, the shop was the farthest to the right on the lower deck, not grand in size but inconspicuous.
Scaramouche walked down the path, the electricity on his arms gone. He made his steps light, relaxing his face into an innocent smile as he passed by other shop owners and slowed his pace. The merchants around here probably speak to one another, telling each other about potential customers roaming by.
The shops became smaller as he walked, but the quality of the furnishing stayed the same. Liyue was a wealthy country, after all. It wasn’t long when he finally reached the last shop, tucked in the corner of the second deck. Scaramouche paused for a second, taking it in.
It was small, as expected. Probably the size of Scaramouche’s bedroom in the hotel. From what he could see, the shop’s inside was full of dark oak shelves, each containing different kinds of glass bottles within them. What caught him off guard the most, though, was the pleasant scent that reached his nose.
It was strange, a scent he had never smelt before. Green tea leaves, bathing in the sun, drying rain; it was new, but he found it pleasant. Scaramouche inhaled, taking it in once more. He schooled his expression once again, plastering a sweet smile on his lips before entering the shop.
A soft chime sounded as he went through the door. No other customer was in the shop, and inside, the foreign scent only became more evident. He scanned the place and saw a mop of white hair behind the counter. Walking closer, he slowly saw a figure of a man polishing a glass bottle shaped like a pear, doing it so delicately as if a single wrong move would break it.
“Hi!” Scaramouche waved, letting his perfected smile grace his lips. He let his shoulders relax, opening the palm of his other hand and crinkling his eyes in display. Scaramouche was in front of the counter now and watched as the shopkeeper raised his head.
He almost faltered. Almost, meaning he didn’t. The man was, in simple words, quite beautiful. He was met with fine features. The white mop of hair was cut choppily in medium length, a portion of it tied to the right of his head. Although a noticeable red streak was mixed in it, somehow completing the look.
What added more were his eyes. His fucking eyes. It was red, the color of maple leaves, and Scaramouche could not help but gulp because what the fuck. He knew other people with red eyes, but none of them wore red like him. Maybe it was the expression the shopkeeper had, gentle to its core, a serene aura coming off him that made the look in his eyes so soft and pretty. Maybe it was the fucking scent in the shop, muddling his thoughts to think of weird shit.
“Good evening,” the shopkeeper said slowly.
And there. It was minuscule, a change of expression that lasted less than a second, but Scaramouche caught it. The shopkeeper had narrowed his eyes but was quick in concealing his features back into the serene look he once had. Shit. He was Inazuman. Does he know him?
Scaramouche continued his charade, leaning against the counter, voice sweet as honey. “Evening to you, too! This shop is gorgeous. The little trinkets here and there, along with the scents from the perfumes,” he giggled, “It all makes me feel so at home!”
The shopkeeper only nodded, his face framed with a neutral expression now. Scaramouche could feel his eyes on him, and he knew this feeling. He was being scrutinized, analyzed.
“Do you need assistance with your perfume?” the shopkeeper asked, tone polite even though his face was void of any emotion.
“I need your assistance with something else,” Scaramouche leaned in. “I’m here to buy your… poison.”
The expression on the shopkeeper’s face turned hard, eyes now narrowing at Scaramouche. The gentle air around him was gone. “My apologies, I do not sell such things.”
The smile plastered on Scaramouche’s face fell in an instant, now replaced with an annoyed frown. Was he at the wrong shop? He wasn’t. As Val had stated, this was the last shop on the deck, right at the very corner. He felt electricity bubble underneath his skin. Of course, even Val could be incompetent; mortals would always fail him at the end of the day. Fucking hell.
“I don't sell to people like you,” the shopkeeper continued.
Scaramouche paused.
“Excuse me?”
“I said,” the man repeated. “I do not sell such things to people like you.”
The electricity bubbling under his skin was now floating along his body, snaking its way around him. Scaramouche narrowed his eyes at the man and watched as he met his gaze evenly, causing his irritation to flare.
“Fuck you mean people like me? I’m a customer,” Scaramouche said, “I’m buying your shit!”
“And this so-called shit,” the shopkeeper replied, voice flat, “is not meant to be sold to people like you.”
Scaramouche scoffed, the electricity on his arms wildly jumping around him. This fucking guy probably knows he’s fatui. Explains the suspicious attitude, at least, but does not explain why he won’t sell to him. He sold poison; who else would buy poison if not people like Scaramouche? What kind of fucking business management did he have in mind, selling illegal substances and refusing to sell to its most probable bidder. Stupid fucking asshole.
“Are you dumb?” Scaramouche frowned, crossing his arms.
The shopkeeper met his gaze evenly, crimson eyes scrutinizing him. “No, I just have a code of honor.”
“You literally sell illegal substances. You fucking sell poison. What kind of fucked up code of honor are you talking about-”
“You don’t know the password,” the shopkeeper simply stated, interrupting Scaramouche.
Luckily for the shopkeeper, that statement stopped Scaramouche from zapping him right then and there. He paused. He was never told about a password. None of his informants ever mentioned a password. Then he remembered.
The underling Scaramouche killed before he got to finish his report. Holy fucking shit.
“Only trusted people who know the password are allowed to buy from my other… business,” the shopkeeper continued. “You not knowing it only means you aren’t to be trusted.”
“Fucking shit,” Scaramouche muttered, grabbing the collar of the man, who did not look fazed, and that only irritated him even more. “I don’t give a flying fuck about your code of honor.”
The man didn’t even look scared. He just looked as if he were being inconvenienced by him. He sighed, “No password, no poison.”
Scaramouche pulled his collar closer so that they were nose to nose. From this proximity, he could see how spots of yellow dusted the shopkeeper’s eyes. He said, his voice low, “Then tell me, shopkeeper. How do I obtain this password?”
“My name is Kazuha. Don’t call me shopkeeper.”
“I don’t give a shit, Kazuha. The password.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said no,” Kazuha pulled back, releasing himself from Scaramouche’s grip. “You’ve already proven your corrupted resolve.”
“Corrupted resolve?” Scaramouche repeated in disbelief. “What kind of honorable person would buy fucking poison. Did you even think about your target demographic when you started your shitty business?”
Scaramouche wanted to see the facade of this calm and collected motherfucker break, but unfortunately, like the rest of his day, things didn't go as he wanted. The blank expression on Kazuha's face broke, a small laugh escaping his lips. Scaramouche stared, dumbfounded because the shopkeeper had the fucking nerve to laugh heartily at his threats as if it was a joke- as if he was a joke.
“Even I agree with your sentiments. It is quite flawed but...” Kazuha’s eyes dazed over as if he were reminiscing something, looking at something beyond reality. “It is the way it is.”
Not liking the blatant disrespect, Scaramouche snapped his fingers in front of Kazuha’s face, smirking when the other rested his eyes back on him. “If you don’t agree, then just give me the poison.”
He must have said something wrong because Kazuha’s eyes went hard again, narrowing on him. The traces of laughter and sereneness on him were gone entirely.
“Leave.”
“No,” Scaramouche stood firmly.
“Stubbornness is of no use to you. I won’t sell my poisons.”
“I don’t give a shit,” he said. His eyes roamed the shop, catching sight of a purple bottle and grabbing it. Scaramouche placed it on the counter with a loud thud. “I’m buying this.”
Kazuha made a show of raising a brow.
“What? Need a password to buy perfume? A code of fucking honor?”
“No…” Kazuha slowly placed the perfume in a bag, skeptical. “Why do you need poison so much?”
“For world domination,” Scaramouche said bluntly, snatching the bag from his fingers.
“Funny,” Kazuha’s voice was dry. “Five thousand mora.”
He had the mora ready, but before he handed it over, he held it away, like an owner dangling treats from a dog. “How do I obtain the password?”
“You have to earn my trust. So I know you won’t use it for evil,” Kazuha said. “But I believe we already know…”
“Fuck off,” Scaramouche scoffed, handing over the money. “I’ll earn your damn trust if that’s all I need.”
Kazuha raised a brow, “It’s not as easy as you think. Now that I know you’re fatui.”
“Then why haven’t you called the guards on me?”
The shopkeeper hummed, storing the mora inside a cotton bag. He looked to be pondering for a moment before he said with a sheepish grin that accentuated his eyes, “I’m not quite sure either.”
Scaramouche faltered, but he internally slapped himself out of it. He frowned, muttering as he left the shop. “Whatever, weirdo."