Work Text:
“Omega wants to kill us.” 8 says quietly as Pantalone finishes his paperwork.
“Again? What happened this time?” Pantalone asks, only half paying attention. It seems like every other day, one of the segments is threatening the rest with murder.
Still, the timing of this particular outburst does seem a little odd. 35 should be in Sumeru right now, working on his personal project and Gnosis retrieval. If he's threatening any of the segments using the mindscape, something must have gone terribly wrong.
“He wants to trade us for the Gnosis. He gave it to Balladeer, and Balladeer failed.” 8 says, casually flipping through his latest notebook. “The others seem really angry with him. I think he's actually going to do it.”
“8, you know that's absurd. You segments are too valuable a resource to him to just give away.”
He's lying. They both know it. If 35 really thought the Gnosis was worth it, he'd sacrifice his fellow segments in a heartbeat. He's always been the most like Zandik. It's why Pantalone loves him, and Feofan hates him. Two sides of the same coin, spinning in place to create one creature.
Pantalone has been spending too much time around the segments. Clearly, their fractured sense of self has started to rub off on him.
“Feofan?” 8 calls out quietly, so quiet that Pantalone almost doesn't hear him. “Come sit with me.”
8 rarely asks for company, so Pantalone obliges, scooping up the reports he has to read and settling onto the sofa with a cup of coffee. 8 rests his head in Pantalone's lap, which is surprising– he usually abhors physical contact. Something in Pantalone's stomach sinks, a gaping maw of dread dropping open inside of him. Whatever 35 is doing, it's actually scaring 8. Maybe even the rest of the segments, too.
“Do you think dying hurts?” 8 whispers.
“I wouldn't know. I've never died before.” Pantalone reasons. “I imagine it depends on the cause of death. Certain methods are completely painless, to the best of our knowledge. Many cultures describe it as going to sleep and simply not waking up.”
“Speculation is useless to me.” 8 mutters, displaying all the usual sass of Zandik's younger self. “I need evidence. I need facts.”
Reason has always been the most calming tool in 8's arsenal, but even Pantalone cannot reason with death. It is called "The Great Equalizer” for a reason, after all. Everything dies eventually, even gods. And 8 knows this. Pantalone has heard him describe hunting sparrows and finches and “dissecting” them at the kitchen table, has seen him up to his elbows in a deer carcass twice his size. 8 knows that things die, and more importantly, he knows the many ways how they die.
But he's never seen death pointed at him before. In theory, the segments can die. Omega helped Zandik build the protocol. But none of them have ever come this close to it. And now…
“He's going to do it.” 8 whimpers, burying his face against Pantalone's leg. “Even me. He's going to kill us.”
Pantalone sighs, his heart sinking as 8 clings to him. When Omega makes up his mind about something, there's no dissuading him from his conclusions. They all know this, especially 8. So, if the segments are slated for death, all Pantalone can do is sit back and watch. He can hear 18 and 25 swearing from down the hall, can hear the sound of glass shattering as they break things in retribution. But his attention is on 8.
Slowly, he reaches out his hand and ruffles 8's hair, singing softly in Snehznayan as 8 takes labored, shuddering breaths. Clearly, the kill switch isn't as immediate as Omega had planned for. Still, he remains calm, singing softly as 8's whines grow steadily quieter, until he finally goes limp in Feofan's arms. The poor boy is tiny, still and pale and almost doll-like in the waning light of the day.
For one brief moment, Feofan is alone with the corpse of a child he never agreed to loving.
A sharp rapping at his door startles him back to himself, and he turns to the door as Sandrone barges in, huffing and puffing and pouting as she storms up to him. Feofan isn't particularly in the mood to deal with her, so he almost resolves to ignore her. But then she opens her mouth, and he realizes he can't avoid this confrontation.
“Feofan, a couple of Dottore's stupid segments are passed out in the hallway! They listen to you, can you get them–”
“They're dead.” Feofan says icily.
Sandrone stops dead in her tracks, her frown unfurling into an obviously befuddled stare. She looks at Feofan as if he's grown a second head, or suggested that the moon might be made of cheese, or told her that clockwork dragons used to roam ancient Fontaine. He can't exactly blame her for her confusion, but the staring is getting under his skin.
Gods, he needs a cigarette.
“What?” Sandrone squawks, her voice going shrill as she steps backwards. “That's not– What do you– Is that even– What?”
“They're. Dead.” Feofan grits out, his hands shaking slightly as he picks up 8's limp body. “All of them.”
“Wha– what do you mean, “all of them”? That's not…”
She trails off, her eyes landing on 8's body for the first time since she barged in, and her gears make a sound that Feofan has never heard before. Her eyes go wide as he strides past her, cradling 8 as if he were just asleep, just taking a nap and being carried to bed like the child he is. Feofan pointedly ignores Sandrone– she's not important right now.
He steps over the bodies of 18 and 25, idly musing that 8 seems lighter than the last time he carried him. Of course, the last time Feofan carried 8, it was because he had tripped and hurt his ankle playing in the snow. 8 had pointedly refused to call it playing, said it had been “a study in human relaxation techniques”. Omega had just rolled his eyes and bandaged the ankle, sternly warning 8 to not run until it was healed.
Feofan had laughed when 8 pouted and squirmed during the appointment. A week later, 8 tried to poison him as revenge.
How strange, that a body once so full of life could go so still. Even his beloved Zandik had been a more colorful corpse.
Feofan reaches the far end of the lab and fumbles with the keypad on the door. The segments don't need sleep, exactly, but they do require maintenance, and so a period of controlled unconsciousness is mandatory for them. 8 never liked the stasis pods, and always declared that they were too cold and hard. 25 eventually got sick of hearing 8 complain every time he needed a diagnostic done, and built the bedroom. According to Omega, it was an exact recreation of their childhood bedroom in Sumeru.
Feofan expected that kind of sentimentality from Zandik, so it was nice to hear Omega say something so human. In all actuality, it was probably just another fact to him– 25 had made the bedroom, after all, and Omega barely went in there if he wasn't conducting maintenance on 8.
But there were moments, usually in the winter, where Omega would stand outside the door and just stare at it. Where the other segments, the other Harbingers, even Feofan, would catch him with his hand on the doorknob, as if he were frozen in place just as he started to turn it.
None of the segments have ever liked the cold.
The door swings open faster than Feofan expects it to, and so he grimaces when it smacks into the dresser with a loud crack. He braces for the inevitable scolding from 47 and 65, prepares for the mocking laughter of 18 and 25, even waits for the disappointed sigh from 8.
But 8 doesn't make any noise, still in his arms. And Feofan slowly realizes that his muscle memory is stronger than his sense of mind at the moment. No segments can call out to scold him, because no segments here have any air in their lungs. And the lab remains silent, with only the gentle whirring of a lone centrifuge somewhere on the other side of the room.
Feofan steps into 8's room and gently pulls back the covers from the bed. He set 8 down gently, carefully removing his shoes and coat and putting them in their proper place, followed by his student's hat. It was Zandik's once, before 8 existed, but Zandik had always said it suited 8 better. And Feofan has to agree. 8 is certainly the most studious of all the segments, constantly grasping for new things to explore. Just like Zandik was.
Outside of Omega, 8 is probably the closest to the original Zandik, though 8 has the confidence of neither. He's quiet, observant, and rarely speaks to anyone he doesn't trust. It took nearly 3 years before 8 ever said a single word to Feofan.
Feofan's hands shake as he tucks 8 in, making sure that the covers can't possibly be moved by drafts of wind or 8 stirring in his sleep. But he's not asleep. He hasn't been asleep, and he'll never wake up again.
Rage bubbles up in Feofan's throat, and he quickly excuses himself from the room, so as not to break any of 8's things. He's always been a collector of odd trinkets, a sentiment shared by all the other segments, though his preferences veer more towards the mechanical than those of the older segments. His collection is a good degree more fragile as a consequence.
Feofan breaks into a sprint, running through the palace until he finds a balcony that is unattended. The second the door shuts behind him, he grips the railing and roars, screaming until his throat begins to tighten and ache, until he tastes blood in the back of his mouth, until his teeth hurt from the cold air. He screams, not sure if he's angry or heartbroken or something in between, but unwilling to sit with the tragedy for a second more than he has to. Omega made a decision. That decision had consequences. The segments aren't Zandik, they're static and cold and rarely consider anything outside their own specific worldview. That's what they're meant to do.
But not Omega. Omega was made to change, to learn, to be something other than what the segments were originally designed for. Omega was meant to be Zandik, before Zandik died prematurely of a heart attack no one could prove was unnatural.
Feofan slumps to his knees, coughing as blood runs down the back of his throat. He's screamed himself hoarse, completely spent from his ridiculous tantrum. The segments aren't people. They aren't even really Zandik. He knows that. He's known that for centuries.
That knowledge does nothing to quiet the shuddering gasps of 8's last breath in his ears.
“I hope you're happy.” Feofan rasps, nearly choking on the blood in his mouth. “You destroyed your maker's legacy. The closest thing you will ever have to family is dead. I hope you're proud of yourself. I hope it was worth it.”
The words are nonsense. Omega won't care, and neither would any of the other segments. It's natural for things that are alive to want to remain that way, that's why they screamed and howled and broke every beaker in the lab trying to talk Omega out of his choice. That's why 8 clung to Feofan's leg as his body failed and shut down, second by agonizing second. That's why everyone is so unnerved by the segments’ casual attitude towards death. Things that are alive want to stay alive.
“They weren't people.” Feofan grunts. “No, god forbid you lose sleep over something that was barely alive.”
He can hear guards panicking inside, can hear Sandrone snapping and barking orders, can hear Her Majesty striding around the room and checking each lifeless body. Except he can't, because the lab is two floors down and on the other side of the palace. And he's sitting outside, freezing his ass off on a balcony he's pretty certain is supposed to be locked.
He fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and digs around his coat for his lighter. He can't find it, and gives up after a few moments of searching. 8 probably took it again. Out of all the segments, 8 has always had the most negative reaction to his vice of choice. The stubborn boy has even gone so far as to sell Feofan's imported cigarettes to unsuspecting guards and soldiers.
“Fuck.” Feofan mutters, hanging his head. “This is ridiculous.”
“I agree. You'll catch cold, standing out in the snow.” A soft voice replies.
Feofan jumps– almost everyone in the palace has been startled by Columbina at least once, including Her Majesty. It still doesn't make his reaction of swearing like a sailor any less embarrassing. Columbina herself doesn't seem to notice, instead tilting her head and staring at him. Well, not staring, per se– with her eyes closed and that ridiculous mask on, Feofan doubts she can see anything. But it feels like staring.
“Something's wrong with the segments, by the way.” Columbina hums softly as she sways in the doorway. “I went for my checkup, and the lab was all smashed to bits. Their bodies are all over the floor, and they don't seem to be moving. I went and told a guardsman, but they don't seem worried.”
“They're dead, Columbina.” Feofan coughs. “Segment Omega killed them in exchange for the Dendro Gnosis.”
“Oh.” Columbina sighs. “That's not very nice of him.”
“No. It's not.” Feofan agrees quietly. “I don't suppose you have a lighter on your person?”
“Smoking is bad for you.” Columbina chastises him bluntly. “There should be one in the lab somewhere. Even if they don't like you smoking, the segments want to make you happy. They told me so.”
Feofan has nothing to say to that, so he says nothing at all. Columbina finally gets the hint that he's not in a conversational mood and wanders off, but forgets to close the door behind her, as usual. Feofan grumbles, hoisting himself upright and staggering back through the door before kicking it shut behind him.
“What a rotten day it's been.” He mutters, glaring at the gray, autumn sky. “I'm going to bed.”