Chapter Text
"Ow! What the fuck?"
"Hmm? My apologies, young lady. Are you alright?"
"Not a lady, and do I fucking look like I'm alr..."
Scaramouche...was in Sumeru. And yet, he was not in Sumeru. He had just been peeking into Irminsul, which had given him a peek into the Abyss, and suddenly he was now back in Sumeru...but not. Something wasn’t quite right.
The fresh, crisp wind gently swaying the trees blew in a direction that wasn't quite right. The full, green leaves on the trees themselves settled in a manner that wasn't quite right. Even the hideous diamond paving lining Treasures Street--something about it just wasn't quite right. Moss wasn't growing there before. That tile wasn't cracked before. Gross, was that a puddle of piss over there to the left?
None of those things mattered, though. Not right now, at least. Perhaps at a later date, he'd make a journal of all these small differences to share with Lesser Lord Kusanali during their afternoon tea time. She would surely be interested. Right now, however, there was only one thing that mattered to Scaramouche, and that thing--that fucker--was standing directly in front of him.
Like everything else in this Sumeru, he wasn't quite right, wasn't quite as Scaramouche remembered him. And yet, it was undoubtedly him. Younger and with way fewer wrinkles for sure, but undoubtedly him. Him, with his wispy, blue hair. He, with his garnet, snake-like eyes. He, with his sickly, never-gets-out-of-the-house-nor-touches-grass pale skin. And who could ever forget that haughty air with which he constantly carries himself? Only that ugly mask and disgusting lab coat of his were missing. Instead, he was draped in a set of silky green robes, ones that only scholars from the Akademiya were given to wear. He was...
Time around him seemed to stop, and amidst the rampant chaos and pounding of his head, Scaramouche recalled a conversation he'd just had with Buer a few days ago.
• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·
"...Wanderer, do you ever think about who you would be right now had Beelzebul not discarded you in the Shakkei Pavilion?"
Wanderer choked, nearly regurgitating his tea. It left a stinging sensation in his throat, and his eyes widened at the sudden question. Callous wording aside, what the hell was Buer expecting the answer to be?
After taking a moment to recover from the shock (and a couple of wet coughs), he responded curtly: "I would be a god right now."
"Hmmm..." Nahida looked up at the glass-stained dome of the Sanctuary, a curious expression forming on her face. She half-crossed her arms, lifting one of her tiny fists to rest her chin on. Oh, no. This was her thinking pose, and Wanderer's artificial stomach sank the instant he recognized it.
When Buer began to think, she began to ask questions, and when she began to ask questions, he was usually the unfortunate victim forced to answer them. And, more often than not, they were loaded questions he had to answer, ones that made him think--and usually of things he'd rather not, to be quite honest. His growing dread was proven right when Nahida next spoke.
"Certainly, that is what you would be, but it still leaves the original question unanswered. Who would you, Wanderer, be?" She went on. "What would you look like? What would you sound like? What would your day look like? What would your personality look like? What would your hobbies look like? What would the people with whom you surround yourself look li--"
"Does it really matter?" Wanderer snapped. God, his fucking head hurt already and it hadn't even been two minutes since this conversation began. "Of course, I think--used to," he quickly corrected, "--think about all of those things. None of it matters now, though, because I'm not a god. I won't ever be a god. Why would I torture myself by pondering over such inane fantasies when they'll never again be within my reach?"
It was only after he spit out that last sentence did Wanderer realized how heavily he was breathing. His chest, with its damned man-made (god-made?) lungs, rose up and down like a labored seesaw, even though he really didn't need oxygen at all. He couldn't be out of breath because he was not human, and yet he also was not a god. Every facet of his body was just another cruel reminder that it was his cursed fate to eternally ride that fine line between.
Nahida did not respond immediately, opting instead to let Wanderer's words simply hang in the air between them. Her eyebrows were just barely furrowed together in concentration, but the rest of her remained unmoved. With a slightly trembling hand, Wanderer took a slow sip of his now-lukewarm tea, allowing his mind to be cleared by the bitter notes that spread across his tongue.
"...I apologize if I upset you with my question," Buer finally spoke. Question?! More like questions. She had enough of them to make a goddamn pop quiz. "You are correct in that it is generally unproductive to ponder what could have been."
Wanderer cut her off before she could finish speaking. "Why the fuck did you ask me all of that, then?!"
Unphased by his crude language, she continued. "It is an intriguing thought experiment, no? I recently touched upon a book that described the concept of parallel universes. It was a rather fascinating read. To think that there could be hundreds--millions, perhaps--of different Teyvats, all playing out around us right now...and the only reason why neither of us is the Nahida or Wanderer of those worlds is because of a single difference. A difference that maybe I made, or that maybe you made, or that maybe neither of us made at all. Is that not intriguing?"
"Sounds like fairy tale garbage to me," Wanderer retorted. Despite saying that, however, a tiny, annoying part of him wondered how the god version of him might be doing in one of those universes. Was he happy there? Were...were they still...? Gah, no! He was falling right into Buer's conniving little thought experiment, and he would drop dead before giving her (or anyone else for that matter) that kind of satisfaction. Wanderer shook his head furiously, willing the ruminations to go away.
"Maybe," Nahida nodded. If she'd noticed his brief inner turmoil, she thankfully pretended not to notice. "But such 'fairy tale garbage' is what feeds the mind's appetite, and allows humans to continue exploring the world around them. One could say curiosity is the spice of life." Finished with the topic, she finally uncrossed her arms to pick up her own lukewarm cup of tea. Unlike Wanderer's, it was loaded with creamer and sugar. At this point, it was more like half-and-half with some tea, rather than the other way around. He found the sight a bit revolting but held his tongue.
They spent the rest of their time together in silence, but it was a comfortable silence. Nahida, much like Wanderer, had no interest in talking just to talk. There were no vapid pleasantries, no meaningless words ever exchanged between them. In this way (and potentially in others he would absolutely never acknowledge), they had some weird understanding of one another.
...Things were too late, though. As much as Wanderer tried to ignore it, that tiny, annoying seed of "What if?" had already been planted deep into his head, and it would refuse to cease its incessant gnawing even after he closed his eyes for the day. God-fucking-damn it, Buer; thanks a lot.
• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·
"...D-Dottore?" Scaramouche whispered.
A typhoon of feelings swept through his body as he locked eyes with the man standing above him. All at once, he felt shock, fear, rage, hurt, disgust, longing, and something else he couldn't quite put a name to. Oh, right: murderous intent. He was going to end this motherfucker.
Scaramouche's eyes flickered dangerously. He had been waiting for this moment. No, waiting didn't even begin to cover it. He had practically been salivating, foaming at the mouth in anticipation of this opportunity. A blinding, searing hatred lit his nerves alight, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. With pinpoint precision, Scaramouche channeled all of the world's elemental energy into his fist, raising and rearing it back to deliver the killing blow when--
"Who?" the blue-haired man simply replied. He raised an eyebrow. "Disoriented by your little tumble, are you?" Before Scaramouche can reply, a cold hand grabs him by the arm, swiftly pulling him back up to his feet. He recoiled at the disgusting touch, but the reaction seemed to go unnoticed.
"Treasures Street is busy," the youth drawled. "...so try not to get run over by any more pedestrians, hmm?" Fuck, he's so incredibly unlikeable, even as a dumb twenty-something.
"Uh, yeah. Than--...cool, okay." There was no way in hell he would ever be caught saying "thank you" to this asshole. At that, a heavy silence fell between them. Unlike his silences with Buer, however, this silence was unbearably awkward.
Though he'd just made up his mind to kill him a second ago, Scaramouche suddenly felt...deflated, as if someone had promptly stuck a needle in his fiery, revenge-fueled hot air balloon. ...Ugh, he needed to stop hanging around Buer so much. Her tedious similes and analogies were beginning to plague the formation of his thoughts. Actually, speaking of her, he really needed to find her, even if the Buer here wasn't his Buer. He needed to--
"Well, then. Good day." Sensing that their encounter had come to an end, "Dottore" gave Scaramouche one last uninterested glance before stepping aside to walk past him. One step, two steps...and then, before he could even begin to realize what he was doing, Scaramouche quickly whipped around, his hand shooting out to grab the other man's wrist.
"Wait!" The word came out with a little too much desperation for his liking. He would definitely be taking some time to groan and rip his hair out over that later. The blue-haired youth turned back around, his dark, scarlet eyes seeming to bore right through his skull. Scaramouche resisted the urge to shrink away from his piercing gaze.
"W-What's your name?" He already knew the answer, of course, but he needed to hear it for himself. With bated breath, Scaramouche traced the shapes and movements of the wretched man's lips, bile building in his throat as they formed--
"...Zandik." The young scholar flashed Scaramouche a small but unnerving smile. It definitely didn’t reach his eyes. Speaking of, he despised the way they scanned him up and down as if he was just taking notice of him for the first time. Actually, knowing Dottore, Scaramouche wouldn't be surprised if that was the case and Zandik had just perceived him as a giant purple traffic cone he'd accidentally mowed down up until right now.
"And you?" Oh, shit. Think, puppet, think! Zandik stared at Scaramouche expectantly, his eyes twinkling with something that the latter clocked immediately and very much did not like. It was the leer of degeneracy curiosity, the same kind that had taken him apart countless times as he was laid bare on the Doctor's operating table. A shudder danced down his spine at the recollections.
"Kuni," he finally answered flatly. Fuck, seriously? Was that the best he could come up with? Obviously, he couldn't answer with any of his previous titles, and certainly not "Wanderer" (for fear of looking insane and/or raising suspicion), but Kuni of all things was... "Kunikuzushi, but my...friends call me 'Kuni' for short." Great save, Balladeer.
"Pleasure to meet you, Kunikuzushi," Zandik said with perhaps the least amount of sincerity possible. Scaramouche wanted to deck him across the face. "Alas, I am in somewhat of a hurry, so I must bid you farewell here. Take care, and do try to avoid taking another fall." With that, he shook his arm free of the puppet's grip and walked away.
"Wha--...you knocked me over, asshole!" Scaramouche screamed after him. He received naught but a dismissive wave in return and holy shit was he really regretting not following through on his earlier conviction to beat him to death.
Yet, although Wanderer considered going after him and finishing the job, his feet remained planted in the concrete. Deep down, he knew that killing this guy wouldn't mean anything. It wouldn't be the same as killing his Zandik. He needed the head of the Dottore who ruined his life starting all the way in Tatarasuna, not...this smug little bitch boy who's probably in some lame undergraduate program or something. He didn't know, and he didn't care!
Now that his initial surprise/repulsion/whatever he would label it later had worn off, though, Wanderer realized that he had a bit of a problem on his hands: he didn't know how the hell he was even supposed to get back to the world with his Dottore.