Dottoscara
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“Is your life so sad that you have nothing better to do than assault people?” To Kunikuzushi’s surprise, the man in the ocean fired back. “Maybe you shouldn’t judge me for not knowing what things are before apologizing for throwing rocks at me twice.”
Kunikuzushi snorted. “Maybe you,” he spat, “shouldn’t have been in the way of my rocks.”
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Shaking his head to clear it, Scaramouche set off down the hallway. He only made it a few steps, however, before he slowed and stopped, frowning. He took a couple of deep breaths with his artificial lungs, and a shiver travelled up his spine.
Something was in his lungs.
Title from The Masochism Tango (Tom Lehrer)
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“I am Dottore.” The voice outside sounded exasperated. As if he had the audacity to feel that way at all. Scaramouche felt the windowsill snap in his grip, sending a spray of wood chips through the air.
“No,” he growled, fighting back a scream, “you’re not.”
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Dottore, barely over 60 years old, dies. Scaramouche doesn’t know how to cope, and Dottore’s clones aren’t helping. Especially the newest model.