Chapter Text
Isolation has never bothered Zandik. Not when he was chased from his own village, not when his peers deliberately avoided him, not when he was exiled to death in the desert, not even when he was recruited amongst the Tsarista’s harbingers. Not ever. To be Zandik was to be isolated. It never was an issue. By the same token, Il Dottore should be the same. So why, why had he been feeling so indescribably as of late?
The clipboard in his hand creaked a bit under his unrelenting grip as he stared at the patients resting fitfully in their cots. Zandik was the only “doctor” currently in the hospital at this hour. Technically, it was against protocol to have less than two staff present no matter the amount or condition of patients. Technicalities. What did it matter to him? Second of the Fatui Harbingers. Il Dottore. This… project of sorts only existed because of his desire. This hospital had long been abandoned by the Akademiya. What rules and protocols did he have to abide by?
His body felt restless. Ignoring it, he evaluated the currents states of the three patients he had been monitoring for the last 8 weeks or so. There had been four initially… six if you counted who hadn’t made it to Dar al-Shifa in the first place. The loss of test subjects had him grinding his teeth- it severely limited the amount of tests he could conduct, greatly hindering his progress. Eleazar was a damning equation, Zandik decided, seeing specimen II’s condition show no improvement. Truly, he thought that his newest dose would’ve been the cure. He wrote down all of his observations regardless.
Specimen III didn’t seem to be reacting well to his serum, Type 3B. Pity, he took a few creative liberties on that one. On closer inspection, it seemed that III’s condition was actually declining at a faster pace than II or IV. “Interesting indeed… what had been the main factor in causing that?” He pondered to himself. Despite putting most of his talent on Speciman II’s serum, it was IV who he had the most faith in. The taint had settled horribly in his upper extremities especially. Though, he was still far more coherent than the others, not to say that his mental state was good, but better. Certainly better.
Perhaps the new formula he’d jotted in his notes a few days ago wound show promising results. Gathering each of the patient records in a neat stack, Zandik’s eyebrows furrowed. The idea of the other doctors seeing his notes made his skin crawl, even if they were merely simple findings. Setting the patient documents aside in the shared office of all the present doctors, Zandik left soundlessly as he pondered his new concoction. The early morning shift should be coming in approximately an hour or so. Leaving the test subjects didn’t pose any worry to the young man. Their ailments were all too severe for them to do something as frivolous as endangering themselves or fleeing.
The sand beneath his feet hardly made a noise as he exited the hospital. He would’ve recognized how lovely of a night it was if he’d only bothered to get out of his head for even a second. What could a peaceful night tell him that was worth far more than his notes? Research was incredibly important, that, none could dispute. It stood as the basis of all discoveries... the ones that mattered most to him at least. Nothing new could ever be “found” if none bothered to look, to analyze, to comprehend. Arriving at his temporary residence, which truly wasn’t far from the hospital at all, Zandik found himself going straight to his desk. Typically, he never minded what the results of his experiments were- the process was always much more important to him. However, this time, he felt an unrelenting urge to find a concise answer. It felt like an ugly desire to prove something. But to what? To whom exactly? Zandik hadn’t a clue and maybe that bothered him the most.
Taking a small leather bound journal, he flipped to some of his older notes. He’d already gathered that Eleazar stemmed from the taint of Irminsul- The Withering. And how it transferred to humans? Forbidden knowledge. The concept almost made the doctor want to laugh. It felt rather hypocritical, the Nation of Wisdom, having a form of knowledge that could not be comprehended. It- it… Zandik swallowed, feeling an odd sensation deep in his chest.
The formulas he’d used varied drastically. He’d lost count of how many had came to Dar al-Shifa only to become another baseless death. It was only by this variety of testing that he’d been able to slowly start working towards a perfect result. So far, the most reliable formulas could help mitigate the symptoms for some while doing nothing for others. This time, he’d get it. Zandik grabbed some basic material in addition to the main factor: Archon residue. Gathering such a thing was no easy feat. It was only logical to fight the anti-divine with the divine. Yes, this would be it. A sick sense of elation came over him as he fixed the serum.
Despite his displeasure of Specimen II’s condition, Specimen IV was quite promising, all factors considered. Zandik hummed in satisfaction. He was quite certain that both specimens II and III would perish, yet that had a high chance of working to his benefit. While IV’s physical condition seemed worse, he figured to simply replace the tainted limbs with II’s and III’s. A seamless plan flowed through his mind as he carefully finished his creation. Satisfied, he let it sit on the desk as he changed out of his medical garb.
It didn’t take long for him to be sat back down at the desk- notebook open, already sketching plans for the surgery he’d need to conduct. The benefit of having so many specimen die was having the luxury of dissecting them. It was ironic, Zandik thought, this is what he should’ve been doing in the Akademiya. If only the sages weren’t such cowards focused on “ethics” or “morality.” If it were up to him, he’d take whatever measures necessary. What would be a few casualties in the greater pursuit of knowledge? Of course they would never achieve the cure to Eleazar when they all hid behind rules and guidelines. Disgusting. Any appetite he had for a late dinner had been completely soured. At least his notes were there, perfect, concise, and straight to the point. It eased the knot in his chest a bit.
Once minutes bled into hours, Zandik closed his notebook to try and at least capture a few hours of rest. Tomorrow would certainly be a busy day. Laying down on his cot, Zandik let his mind wander. Being back in Sumeru after his exile was… well it certainly wasn’t what he’d expected. Then again, he wasn’t sure what he had expected from the land that had rejected him twice. Her Majesty The Tsaritsa was truly benevolent. (Could it truly be benevolence if it’s caused him to spiral this far?) She graciously allowed him to pursue his own interests, away from Sneznhaya, the Fatui, and from the name Il Dottore. It had been years, yet he still hadn’t adapted to the frigid cold of the nation or the position he held. Considering the role he was given… Zandik felt as if he hadn’t truly achieved anything for The Cause. His fingers twitched, gripping the sheets below him tightly. Few years have passed since his exile, since his recruitment into the Fatui, to him, it had all passed rather incomprehensibly. Did who he was even hold a significant value anymore? Had it ever at all?
Zandik, no matter where he was, never belonged. In the Akademiya, his sole drive was to learn and create. Creating social bonds wasn’t important. It was a place where he could put his intellect to use with all the provided resources. He was driven by obsession. Rumors circulated of what the “pale one with the red eyes” was doing in the library in late nights or why he never talked to anyone beside himself. The other students were rightfully wary, except for her… Soreh. He never knew why she had sought him out. They had a shared class with an assignment that required student collaboration. For the grade, he accepted her offer, anticipating nothing good. He had greatly misjudged her character. Soreh was kind. She always offered to study together after that project, he never said no. She never prodded into his life or research, she admired his dedication, she always stuck close even when he pushed away.
He was one to never wholly regret, though Zandik does regret letting the kindest girl he’d ever met approach him that day. He sometimes wondered how his life would’ve changed. Perhaps then she wouldn’t be dead. It was pure foolishness on his part, to trust that the sages who detested him so heartily, wouldn’t find a way to sabotage him. His “taboo” research already put him dangerously close to the edge. It’s no wonder they took advantage of the only person he’d grown to care about. He hadn’t murdered Soreh that day, not that anyone would believe him. No one would care to listen to his side of the story, so he never bothered. The only person who did was dead and the accusation laid at his feet.
His resentment for the gods was always apart of who he was. Their hypocrisy. The inequality each common individual faced agaisnt those “blessed” with visions. He’d always hated it. And now, being held under scrutiny for a murder he did not commit, he cursed the gods for their false ideals of justice. They too, hid behind the falsehoods of guidelines just as the sages and students did, he was certain. The proclaimed “gods” were nothing but… nothing. They were nothing.
It was while awaiting his inevitable exile from the Akademiya (because of course the kind sages would never send anyone to death no matter their crimes…even if the exile was a death sentence itself) that the roots of the hate and pain in his heart took over the rationale of his own mind. It was the start of a long fascination over his own body.
Zandik turned on his cot, back toward the window of his residence. His skin itched. His forearm still throbbed from the ghost of a rather deep flesh wound he inflicted on himself one night, deep in his lab in Sneznhaya. He examined himself clinically, slicing methodically through layers of skin, to fat, to tissue, down to bone. At the time, pain hadn’t really registered. He was more concerned on finding something wrong within himself that the searing ache didn’t settle in until after he stitched the wound. Perhaps if he kept searching, cutting, slicing, prying, he’d find his answer. Truly he couldn’t remember how he cut so precisely or how he managed to put himself back together with little ailment. Admittedly, he had felt dizzy. As of right now, his fingers twitched, yearning for the feel of sleek metal between his fingers. From the corner of his eye, he could see his desk where his tools lie, waiting.
The first few days of his exile were… manageable at best. The sun was truly an unrelenting force, though that never deterred him. Zandik accepted death with open arms. If he were to die, he may as well do it researching his greatest passion: Khaenri’ah’s technology. Regardless of the sunburn, abrasion from the sandstorms, and scarcity of food and drink, he examined each ruin carefully. This routine kept up until the concept of time was lost on him. Delirium began to take root. He found himself wandering aimlessly for a long time up until his body finally gave up on him. Zandik didn’t fear. He’d long accepted this.
Laying in the scorching sands, he felt his consciousness fade, until a shadow blocked the brutal heat of the sun. At first, nothing registered, except for the stray thought a rare cloud being what sent him off.
“Are you the proclaimed Heretic?” A low, gravelly voice asked from above him. Zandik’s body didn’t even have the energy to react or the capacity to comprehend what was going on. All he could do was open his eyes. What or who rather he saw before him made no sense either. That man looked old, far too old in a way that didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. The man’s attire… it didn’t seem befitting of a desert.
His own mouth moved before he could process what he was doing, “And if I am?” His own voice sounded unfamiliar.
If the odd man thought anything amiss with the teenager, asides the obvious emaciation, he said nothing.
“If you are,” there was something oddly soothing about that voice, Zandik decided, “Given the benevolence of Her Majesty and the abundant resources of Sneznhaya, would you have the capability to design an enhanced human?” Apparently, that man seemed to think the one lying on the desert floor had to capacity to understand what he was getting at.
That, somehow, had managed to get Zandik out of his stupor, somewhat, if being on death’s doorstep counted as such, “Merely an enhanced human? If your great nation can furnish me with sufficient resources and ample time, I could even manufacture that which you call a god. What say you?” The man merely analyzed him, carefully calculating. Staring deep into those ancient eyes, the heretic went on questioning the Sneznhayan man, “Will you treat me like the Akademiya did? Will you call me a monster, a madman?” He coughed a bit, throat dry from lack of water and disuse, “Or will you treat me as my hometown did, and chase me away with pitchforks and clubs…?”
There was a long drawn silence, none said anything until the diploment shattered the silence, “Good. Then, we are now in partnership… as for the matter of your title-“
The Director, Jester, or Pierro as Zandik came to find out as he somehow had awakened on a cot in a tent, (he surely must have passed out at some point) was watching over him. He didn’t have the desire to put up any defenses. The next couple hours passed in a blur. His current state prevented him from being able to properly care for himself. The Jester took that role upon himself. Zandik could at least eat prepared meals himself. When it came to cleaning his wounds, Pierro had his subordinates prepare a bath. The other was too exhausted to object as he was cleansed from weeks of exposure to sandstorms. His hand was comforting in the oddest sense of the term. Wounds were cleaned and salve applied in accordance with the type of injury. When Pierro’s gaze fell up the thin pales scars that ran up Zandik’s inner arm, he said nothing of such. They were healed, after all.
Zandik couldn’t keep himself from his temptations any longer. If he hadn’t been so lost in his head, the humanness of such desperation would’ve disgusted him. Fingers wrapping around one of his scalpels, he once again found himself seated at his desk. The ache his right forearm made him feel incredibly unbalanced. He needed to even the sensations once more. Maybe then his mind could just stop. Additionally, it would be good practice to cut precisely with his non-dominant hand. Grabbing a discarded shirt to place under his arm to collect the majority of the mess, Zandik made his first slice.
This time was different than the last. The pain registered immediately. Zandik couldn’t help the flare of anger he felt as that cut hadn’t even been as deep as what he did before. His body felt on edge. His skin crawled. Irrationality took over. He hadn’t even realized the mess he made of his arm until he looked down at the blood dripping from several cuts. Some were shallow, some were mildly concerning in depth, one needed stitches. He ground his teeth as blood dripped all over his desk and floor.
This was not how it was supposed to end up.
His entrance into Sneznhaya was no special matter. For that, he had been grateful. The boat ride went without much fanfare, not counting the occasional sea sickness he endured. Pierro had informed him of the important details to take note of. How to properly act with the Tsaritsa, what was expected of him, who the only other Harbinger was. Zandik took careful note of it all. Though, no amount of words could prepare him for the sheer cold that would overtake his body. The Jester silently gave his Second his own cloak. Zandik would never admit it, but he found comfort in his superior. All the unnecessary visits to his office made that apparent even without the use of words.
Meeting the Tsaritsa wasn’t nearly as horrific as what he’d anticipated. She was cold in all aspects, yet her words were earnest in their sincerity. It was odd to be openly welcomed somewhere. Doing work in the name of The Tsaritsa, not cryo archon, was something he could do with little reluctance. Her coldness truly felt too human for a god. The one thing that unsettled him was his only coworker: The Captain. It wasn’t his personality, he acted incredibly polite, perhaps too polite given his position. It was his stature that was intimidating. Even if there were only two of them, he already felt out of place. Watching Capitano simply train military forces was daunting enough. When the Fair Lady was recruited, that feeling intensified. He was up against something more than human, in a sense. He felt every bit the former, famished student he was. It must’ve been then when he decided he needed to push beyond the limits. While his physical strength may be minimal, his mind surpassed most. He had grand ideas and was bound to see them take root from his own self.
Dottore spent most of his time in his lab. The first thing he created for the Fatui had been delusions. When he “gifted” the cryo delusion to La Signora. In all truth, all Harbingers were required to have one. Perhaps it was from the remainder of his own humanity that he gave Rosalyne one to quell her flames. He wasn’t sure what to do when she gave him a hug and invited him to stay for tea. When she mentioned going to the Akademiya in her youth, he felt a bitter taste creep up on his tongue. Though, she never pried about his expirience. It reminded him a bit of a long dead girl with the kindest smile. After that encounter, he decidedly didn’t mind her. As long as he never revealed his true “self.” Certainly the Fair Lady would be horrified to see how he’d mutilated his own body.
In his newly acquired free time, Dottore found an interest in examining the human body. He found himself wanted to know how each bit functioned. Initially, he used test subjects taken from who knows where.There were no sages to force any guidelines barring him from anything. Nothing was taboo in his own lab. Truly, it was a liberty that felt more freeing than anything he could’ve ever imagined. It wasn’t long before even that was no longer enough. Dottore began getting bored of the frailness of his specimens. He needed more. Instead of seeing the limits of the human body, Dottore wished to surpass them. However, he needed to find the perfect subject. Who would be a better candidate than himself? It didn’t take long for him to develop a method of being able to perform surgeries on himself. Mainly, his goal was to create the “enhanced humans” Pierro spoke of the day of their first meeting. If he could enhance the physical capabilities of common soldiers… surely that would have a great benefit. Only Dottore himself was able to carry out this research on himself. It would be beneficial to have more versions of himself… However, he would have to make do for now. Of course, the only bother was planning each of his procedures on a date where he’d have enough time to recover. After many countless trials, this was his second overall success for the Fatui.
Zandik awoke on the floor. He didn’t even recall passing out- additionally, his mouth felt dry. Gazing at his newly wounded arm, there had certainly been a misjudgment as he had been assessing the severity of each cut. Some had already begun to clot… others. He could only sigh. That restlessness which had been plaguing him for the past few days was finally gone. He hardly had the desire to pull himself up from the floor. It was occasions like these where Zandik completely forgot who he was. Maybe he enjoyed this sort of “afterglow” where titles held no weight. He was neither Zandik or Il Dottore. Even his body felt weightless.
Alas, the overwhelming need to test out his new serum overtook everything even the weightlessness of all senses of himself. Making sutures with his non-dominant hand posed a delightful challenge: close all the wounds before passing out again. True to his own stubbornness, Zandik lost consciousness only seconds after sealing the final wound. When he came to again, most of the day must have passed. The sunset was most certainly gleaming through the window. It was a struggle to sit up in his chair. The frequency of these… episodes made him learn to prepare in advance- hence the two jars of salve in the top drawer of his desk. Only, he’d severely underestimated the amount of bandages he’d go through. Raiding the hospital’s supply closet would be a must.
For now, his arm would simply stick to the fabric of his shirt. The sensation was rather disgusting, but that didn’t matter. Today was very important. He cared little for the bloodied mess on his floor and desk. Putting his serum in his satchel along with his notes, he made his was back over to the hospital. The walk was short, yet each step had him feeling as though lead was holding him down. It didn’t matter. He was “late” for his “shift” anyway. He always preferred to work alone, especially in times like these. He despised the reactions held receive if anyone saw him in this state. For whatever reason, his mind drifted to The Director, only for a moment.
He cared not for what the specimens saw of him, they weren’t coherent enough to understand it anyways. The hospital was probably one of the least welcoming places anyone could happen to come across. Setting his stuff down, Zandik gathered the patient records to do some initial assessments. After so many weeks, this process became routine. As expected, examining specimen II and III, they were hardly alive. To inject each with a small dosage of poison would easily do them in. Truly, this was all falling perfectly in line. He turned around to his satchel, grabbing two small vials and syringes before grabbing an unlabeled vial from the corner of one the cabinets. Preparing the first syringe, Zandik had to ponder.
Was this not an instance of his own ideals? A few lives in exchange for several more. This is why the Akademiya was below him. None of the sages had the gall to go this far, even if it would be for the greater good. Specimen II and III were simply just… sacrifices for this cause. After measuring each dose to the proper amount, he went back into the room. This was merciful, really.
Dottore had found himself at a stalemate. For no reason other than he had nothing to do. Typically, he had many projects that he found bounce back and forth to, which he would do if he could. In fact, he had perfected his strength serum, he just needed to get Capitano to offer up some of his troops to test it out. He would be doing that right now if he weren’t in Pierro’s office. He wasn’t sure why he’d been summoned up here, but he knew better than to question and order from his superior.
Despite there being work that he needed to complete, he wasn’t feeling restless. Pierro’s presence just had a way of making him feel a little more normal. He wasn’t so blind as to not realize the Director was more lax on him. Not by much of course, just in little ways. He found turn in papers late or no-show certain meetings with nothing more than a stiff reminder.
As for right now, the Jester was writing on some papers. Zandik wasn’t sure what they were for, still, he kept silent and watched.
His fingers twitched.
The extraction of organs and removal of limbs was easy enough on deceased patients. The tricky bit will be specimen IV, though Zandik wasn’t concerned at all. Some hefty restraints should do the trick, simple.
When another new harbinger was introduced into the ranks, Dottore felt that he couldn’t care less. He was okay with Capitano and Signora. They were familiar variables. A new addition would add a new layer of uncertainty. He completely forwent the inauguration. Whoever the new addition was, he couldn’t care less.
After three days of meticulous work and barring all the other doctors from the hospital- Zandik had succeeded. The cure for Eleazar was finally his. Satisfied, Zandik began to pack up. Whatever happened to specimen IV from here on out mattered little to him. Just like the blood that seeped into the floor of his former residence. He had forgotten about that incident entirely. The last few days he spent were only inside the hospital.
The last nine weeks of relentless research had finally been made worthwhile. And now? He’d return to Sneznhaya with his cure as Il Dottore once more, with blood crusted on his inner sleeve.