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Contrary to what most believed, Zandik was one of—if not the most humane among the Fatui Harbingers. He understood humanity. He knew what it meant to be human. After all, he was a complete human being, made of flesh and blood, with all 206 bones intact.
But he also knew what it meant to be a monster. Perhaps that was why no one understood humanity more deeply than he did. To him, humanity was never defined by kindness or morality, but by its endless potential. Humanity's greatest trait was not its capacity for good, but its limitless possibilities—for brilliance, cruelty, creation, and destruction alike.
Dottore knew many things. He knew how to create life. He knew how to turn suffering into knowledge and knowledge into power. He knew how to imitate gods.
He knew how to dissect the mind, the body, and the soul. He knew how to reshape flesh, preserve life, and defy death itself.
There were answers to almost every question he had ever asked.Except one.
For all his knowledge, all his brilliance, and all the lives he had torn apart in pursuit of understanding, there remained one thing forever beyond his grasp. The one thing his scalpels could not expose and his experiments could not replicate was how it felt to be the Regrator's.
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Omega's gaze remained fixed on the twenty year old before him, pupils contracting as he analyzed the specimen. A flicker of genuine confusion stirred beneath his cold exterior why would the original choose an adult for this endeavor when children were so much more pliable?
Children were malleable clay, easily broken and shaped. Adults, however, possessed a stubborn incomprehension that made experimentation tedious.
Yet, as Omega slide the needle beneath his skin drawing a slow, crimson rivulet across the man's skin, there was no satisfying cry of pain, no desperate flinch. The subject simply endured, accepting his fate with a stillness that defied all logic.
How interesting, Omega mused, tilting his head as he watched the blood pool.
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The bitter sting of resentment burned sharper than any alchemical concoction in Dottore's throat. From the shadows of the laboratory, he observed the way Pantalone leaned into Zandik's space, their lips meeting in a kiss of forbidden intimacy.
Dottore felt a venomous hatred for that smile. It was a soft, unguarded thing that made Pantalone's calculating features into something so human.Dottore knew he would never be able to replicate. No matter how many layers of artifice he constructed, no matter how many times he donned the mask of the Doctor, he remained incapable of the simple warmth that seemed to flow from Pantalone so effortlessly. It was a warmth he could never replicate, a light that refused to reflect off his own sterile, constructed existence.
Why is it that he can find solace in someone else, yet cannot bear to look at me with anything resembling affection? The question gnawed at his sanity.
A twisted spiral of inadequacy clawed at his consciousness. Was he not Zandik enough? He was more than a mere imitation; he was a continuation, a piece of flesh harvested from the same original blueprint. They shared the same face, the same razor sharp intellect, the same haunting memories that lined their minds like parallel grooves. Yet, Pantalone looked at Zandik with a hunger that Dottore could never provoke.
He was jealous of his own self, trapped in the cruel irony of being a perfect copy that still lacked the soul required to be loved. Dottore's fingers curled around the edge of a scalpel, the cold metal biting into his palm as he watched the silhouette of their embrace deepen.
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It had never been a secret that Zandik loved Feofan.Nor had it ever been a secret that Feofan loved Zandik.
So why did his patient look so horrified?
Dottore glanced down at his gloved hands. A surgeon's hands were destined to be the bloodiest, that much was true. There was nothing unusual about that.
Pantalone stood perfectly still, his eyes were fixed on the operating table, impossibly wide, as though refusing to blink would somehow change what lay before him.
Segment Eight reached toward the still form of the Original and tore Zandik's heart from its cavity. After a quiet moment, he lifted Zandik's heart into his hands offered the wet, pulsing prize to Pantalone.
"He died of a heart attack," he said matter-of-factly, holding it out. "See?" Segment Eight looked up expectantly, seeking nothing more than a nod of approval for his efficiency. When the silence stretched too long, Segment Eight's brow furrowed in genuine confusion.
They were all Zandik. Every Segment carried the Original's memories, his intellect, his mannerisms. But they had inherited something else as well. Every single one of them carried the same burden of affection; the love Zandik harbored for Pantalone was too vast, too volatile for a single mortal vessel to contain. Every segment loved him to some degree, each one unaware that their devotion was the very thing fracturing their shared soul. Each of them loved Pantalone in their own way, never questioning why—only accepting it as instinct.
Segment Eight simply wanted to comfort him. Surely returning something so precious would help. Segment Eight couldn't understand why Pantalone looked as though his own heart had been taken too.
"Thank you," Pantalone finally rasped, his voice breaking as he took the slick, crimson organ. He pulled it close to his own chest, cradling it against his ribs as blood seeped through his expensive gloves and stained his pristine clothes.
The metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the sterile air, mingling with the suffocating tension between them. Pantalone's breathing came in shallow, ragged gasps as he pressed the warm muscle against his sternum, feeling the fading echoes of a heartbeat that should never have been severed.
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The operation had taken hours. One by one, the Segments examined every part of the Original, nothing was overlooked. Every observation was recorded, every conclusion debated, every discovery meticulously preserved. They worked not as mourners, but as scholars fulfilling the final lesson their creator had left behind.
Zandik had always believed that knowledge demanded sacrifice. In the end, he had offered himself. The laboratory became a monument to that belief.
Glass vials lined the workbench, each containing fragments of months of painstaking research. Equations covered every spare page. Notes, annotations, corrections. Every Segment contributed, each recognizing a pattern the others had missed until, at last, the pieces aligned.
Omega poured the last reagent into the waiting flask. The pale solution remained perfectly still. Then, as if awakened by an unseen hand, it shimmered. Cyan threaded through the liquid in delicate spirals before settling into a light blue.
Every Segment stared at the vial. Years of failures, countless experiments and a lifetime spent pursuing the impossible had been reduced to a single bottle no larger than the palm of a hand.
"The Elixir of Immortality," Omega murmured. The Original had been right, mortality was not absolute. The one person who should have witnessed their success was no longer there to see it.
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Every other Archon he had encountered offered a love laced with barbed wire and unspoken conditions; a transactional affection that required constant performance. The Tsaritsa was the sole exception, a cold sanctuary that accepted his fractured nature without demanding he mend it first. Dottore couldn't quite classify her feelings as conventional love, but her quiet indifference felt infinitely more merciful than the sanctimonious disgust and righteous hostility he drew from the rest of the divine pantheon.
If the only being who truly saw him without flinching asked him to unravel the very fabric of fate, he would comply without hesitation. He would secure the gnosis, he would brew the elixir of immortality to fuel Pantalone's ambitions and his own twisted experiments, and he would force the world to witness that change need not be feared. He would prove that evolution could be carved from the bones of the old world, all to satisfy the one who didn't turn away.
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"Why," Dottore murmured, turning the glass vial over in his hand, "must my future be confined to words someone else has already written?"
The pale elixir caught the light, shimmering like liquid starlight. It promised centuries. Perhaps millennia. A future that would outlive kingdoms and gods alike. He placed the vial into Pantalone's waiting hand.
"The world insists that fate is immutable," Dottore continued. "That every triumph, every failure, every death has already been decided." A faint, disdainful smile tugged at his lips. "I refuse to believe that."
Pantalone lowered his gaze to the elixir. It was impossibly beautiful.
"And if destiny refuses to yield?" he asked.
"Then I'll make it." There wasn't a trace of hesitation in Dottore's voice. "I'll rewrite every law it was built upon if I have to. Destiny has always struck me as little more than a story people tell themselves to justify surrender."
His conviction was infectious, for one dangerous moment, Pantalone almost believed him.
His fingers tightened around the vial. For all of Dottore's brilliance, for all his impossible ambitions, there were some truths that neither science nor stubbornness could erase.
Deep within his heart, Pantalone already knew the ending to the story they were trying so desperately to rewrite. They were never destined to save each other. They were only ever destined to fall.
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"I thought I told you to stop smoking." Dottore's voice was a sharp, cutting through the the room as he snatched the half lit cigarette from Pantalone's fingers, crushing it beneath his boot with unnecessary force.
Pantalone merely offered a languid chuckle, the sound smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "What's the harm in indulging, just a little?"
Dottore's scowl deepened, something sharp and clinical flickering in his eyes. "You're not the one who has to perform corrective lung surgery twice a year, are you?"
With a resigned sigh that suggested theatrical martyrdom, Pantalone reached for his silver case. His fingers hovered over the velvet lining until he found it; the final cigarette, lying upside down. With careful, wanton motions, he extracted it and pressed it into Dottore's palm.
"Make a wish," Pantalone murmured, his gaze unreadable behind his spectacles.
For a heartbeat, Dottore considered crushing the fragile thing between his fingers, to annihilate the temptation entirely. But the impulse died. Instead, he closed his eyes, and a silent, desperate prayer clawed at his throat.
I wish for you to be mine.
When he opened his eyes, he handed the cigarette back.
"What did you wish for?" Pantalone asked, tilting his head.
"For you to quit smoking," Dottore lied smoothly, the deception tasting like sand.
Pantalone's smile widened, something knowing and cruel dancing in his expression. "Ah, but you said it aloud. Now your wish can never come true."
Dottore scoffed, turning away to hide the bitter tightness in his chest. "As if it were ever going to be fulfilled."
Some wishes were impossible from the moment they were made. To long for something forever beyond your reach was, perhaps, the most human instinct of all. To want something unattainable was a human flaw a desperate, aching need. And even Zandik's clones were more human than most.
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"You claim everything in this world carries a price tag," Dottore mused, tilting his head as he watched Pantalone, sharp and probing. "So tell me, Regrator what is mine?"
Pantalone pursed his lips. "You are irreplaceable, Doctor. Even ten thousand gold would fail to balance the scales."
A slow smirk tugged at the corner of Dottore's mouth. "And what if we increased the stakes? What if the offer rose to a hundred thousand?"
Pantalone let out a low chuckle that resonated through the quiet study, leaning forward until the scent of expensive cologne and old parchment filled the space between them. "You misunderstand the nature of my investments," he purred, his gaze dropping to Dottore's lips before snapping back up. "You, my dear Doctor, are something gold cannot touch and that makes you the only thing worth more than the currency itself."
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"Someday I know you'll come to your senses and leave me alone" Dottore murmurs, his voice clinical despite the tremor beneath the surface. The glass clinks against glass as he mixes another concoction in a flask, the liquid swirling like poisoned mercury.
"And why would I do something so foolish?" Pantalone asks, his tone smooth, though his eyes remain fixed on the doctor's unsteady hands.
Dottore falters, the silence stretching thin between them. "Because I cannot give you more, Regrator. Eventually, I will provide no further use to you, and you will inevitably walk away."
"Is that truly how little you think of me, Doctor?" Pantalone muses, tilting his head with a wounded smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I find myself unexpectedly hurt."
"Is that not the truth of it?" Dottore finally looks up, his gaze sharp enough to cut.
"Of course not. You are the closest thing to my heart in this wretched world," Pantalone counters softly. "Why this sudden descent into sentimentality?"
Dottore sets the flask down with unnecessary force and begins to close the distance between them. His voice cracks, "You long for a feeling that died years ago, and I am terrified of the moment you finally wake up and give up on me."
He stops mere inches from where Pantalone sits, his shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. "I am never enough the person you wanted, perhaps, but never the one you could truly love. Tell me, Pantalone... am I not enough as Zandik?" The question comes on the precipice of tears, stripping away the Harbinger to reveal the broken man beneath.
The question hung suspended in the air, poisonous and pathetic. Without waiting for an answer, Dottore collapsed Dottore collapses to his knees, his forehead nearly touching the other man's lap. "I know you will never truly be mine, but I will always be yours."
Pantalone felt the instinctive urge to reach out, to steady the man crumbling before him, but his fingers remained frozen. A bitter truth coiled in his gut, Dottore was right. The connection they shared was built on necessity, not devotion.
"If I am destined to suffer, let it be by your hand," Dottore whispered, looking up through lashes wet with unshed tears, his eyes burning with a terrifying intensity. "You have no idea what kind of person I could become if you simply asked it of me."
Pantalone looked down as Dottore rested his head against his lap, crimson eyes searching his face with a vulnerability that felt almost foreign on him. His blue hair spilled across Pantalone's knees, and for the first time in what in forever, the man who challenged gods looked at him as though he were simply asking to be loved.
Dottore was his doctor.
His confidant. His accomplice. His companion. His sanctuary. His reckoning. His undoing. His god. His greatest investment and his greatest liability. He was everything.
But he wasn't Zandik.
And perhaps that was the cruelest truth of all.