Chapter Text
For better or for worse, time was something he’d always had in excess. An abstract and irrelevant thing, until all at once it wasn’t. The coward Niwa fled, the people of Tatarasuna suffered and died, yet Kabukimono remained among the ashes.
They should have had longer (but even then, it would not have been enough).
The child who became his family, so young and pathetically weak, succumbing to sickness in only a few short years.
He should have had longer, too (but even then, it would not have been enough).
Humanity, wretched and ephemeral as it was, could not be trusted; he learned this early on. As he journeyed, directionless and void of purpose, the now nameless puppet bore witness to this reality time and time again; the frailty, the greed, the desperation and lies. It was dull, really. Predictable.The years stretched on, and though he encountered innumerable humans, he could dredge up little emotion from within himself for them except a bitter kind of contempt.
When he first met the Doctor of the Fatui, he saw little reason to feel otherwise. Except, perhaps, that this human supposedly had something of value to give him, or so he claimed.
“I’ve been so looking forward to your arrival,” he said, gaze veiled by a coward’s mask, and his smile was small but warm. “The Director’s description did not do you justice, I fear.”
The puppet regarded him silently for a moment. The cavernous hall they stood in was so cold their breath misted in the air between them, the Doctor swathed in a thick cloak and furs. His own clothes were flimsy by comparison, having refused all others that were offered to him, flesh still exposed to the icy chill. Though it remained obscured by a beaked mask, he could feel the gaze that crawled over him, heated in its curiosity.
“Perhaps,” he responded at last, and watched the Doctor’s smile widen fractionally. “Though that depends on what you were expecting.” He cast his eyes around the vaulted hall, to the ceiling that seemed to stretch to the sky; at the glittering, intricate arches of ice and stone that no mortal hands could have constructed. “But be sure you know this: I’m here for my own amusement, not to bow to any god of yours.”
The laughter that rang through the air was oddly joyous, revealing a brief flash of gleaming teeth. “Wonderful,” the Doctor said, and the genuine satisfaction in his tone made the puppet stiffen. “We have that in common, then.”
That air of easy arrogance he wore was nothing new - the puppet had seen countless mortals crumble under the weight of their own hubris, lives a mere flicker that inevitably burnt out with a spark. But with this man there was something else there; he hesitated to call it familiarity, yet it itched under his skin, unnamed. The easy dismissal of the god he had no doubt pledged to serve - within her own palace walls, no less - was… unexpected. The puppet’s lips curved into an answering smile, and at that the Doctor reached up to at last remove his mask as he sank into a shallow bow, his eyes as dark as blood never leaving the puppet’s. Over his many years of wandering, humans had looked on him with fear, hatred, lust, envy, and more emotions than he’d ever realised existed during his time as Kabukimono. But whatever it was that shadowed the Doctor’s gaze now, it was not among one he knew.
“I am Il Dottore, Second of the Fatui Harbingers,” he continued, and though the cold did not affect the puppet, a chill ran down his spine. “I think we have much to offer one another.”
“Is that so?” The puppet narrowed his eyes, taking in the strong angles of the Doctor’s jaw; he was no naïve youth, at least, though often the conceit of older men could be oppressive to the point of blindness. “And what exactly is it you do here?”
This time the Doctor’s laugh was soft and low. “Why, I amuse myself.” He brought up a hand to tap a finger slowly against his jaw. “I’m primarily concerned with unlocking humanity’s potential in order to equal the gods.” The casual way with which he made such a blasphemous statement had incredulous breathless laughter bubbling up from the puppet’s throat unbidden. “And with your assistance,” he murmured, “I believe we can surpass them.”
A bold assumption; the puppet’s laughter died as he tilted his head, lips twisting in displeasure. “And why should I do that?”
Moving closer, the Doctor’s footsteps echoed in the chill silence of the hall. “Because,” he said, placing his hands behind his back as he leaned in, “I can unlock your potential, too.”
The puppet stilled, limbs frozen as if this desolate country’s weather had finally got its way. The pale mist of their breath mingled in the air between them. Ice on his tongue. This close, the puppet could see the silvery web of scarring that spanned the Doctor’s upper face like lace, lancing through one eyebrow and pulling at the corner of his eyelid. He didn’t ask how he knew of the seal; it hardly mattered, not when the power his creator had locked away had now reignited as a cold fire within him.
But humans bragged, and humans lied, yet there was something about this man, this Fatuus, that kept his doubts lodged in his throat as if he were held in a chokehold.
Though he said nothing, perhaps his expression betrayed him because the Doctor smiled once more, the corners of his eyes crinkling in mirth. “Your scepticism is understandable,” he said, voice tinged with amusement, “and while I cannot deny that I am yet human, you would do well to have a little more faith in me.”
The puppet considered this proposal, though truly, it seemed that he had little to lose. He’d come here to this bleak and barren land because the Jester’s words had so intrigued him, and maybe it had all been leading to this.
“So be it. I don’t care what you do to me,” the puppet said, “as long as you can deliver what you’ve promised.”
The Doctor’s breath hitched, appearing to catch in his throat for a moment, but perhaps it was a trick of the shadows. For an instant it seemed he was on the verge of reaching out, but instead inclined his head once more, gaze still heavy upon the puppet’s own.
“As you wish.”
The puppet had travelled far and wide, but never had he encountered anywhere like the Doctor’s laboratory. The novelty of it all filled him with a kind of wonder he’d long thought had withered and died with that child. As he wandered from strange contraption to odd, flashing machine, the Doctor merely watched him contemplatively, posture relaxed as he leaned against his desk.
“What do you call yourself?”
The puppet paused, hand pressed to the cool glass of a strange illuminated tank as he glanced back over his shoulder. Like many things about this Doctor, the phrasing was unlike that of other men he had encountered. ‘What’s your name? Tell me your name,’ they would bleat. ‘I have no name,’ he would spit in response. Though the intent behind the question may differ, still, his answer remained ultimately the same.
“Nothing.”
It was funny how this always bothered humans so; how much value they placed in something as unnecessary as a name. But the Doctor merely nodded, finger tapping thoughtfully on the desk behind him. “I’m afraid I need to call you something,” he said, and sounded almost regretful.
Returning his attention to the soft translucent glow before him, the puppet’s brow creased, tracing his fingers over some shadowed shape moving within the tank. “I fail to see how that’s my concern. Call me whatever you’d like, but I’ll have no use for it nor take it as my own.” He didn’t need to look back to know that the Doctor was smiling.
“The Director called you ‘puppet’, but that implies such a lack of agency,” he said, tone light. “‘Doll’ has so much more potential, don’t you think?”
The puppet shrugged. “Not really,” he said with disinterest, “a puppet dances, albeit to somebody else’s tune. What does a doll do, except sit and look pretty?”
Which was, no doubt, precisely why the Doctor had suggested it.
A pliant test subject, acquiescing to all, awaiting the day of repayment. Which would surely come, or he’d tear the man limb from limb.
“Oh, I have faith you’ll do far more than that,” he said, smooth and low. The puppet had yet to hear any emotion in that voice other than the occasional hint of amusement; it intrigued him. What would it take to crack the seemingly implacable façade of this human? The puppet found himself smiling in return, a small, sly thing that twisted his lips, and did not answer.
They passed a while in silence, the Doctor seemingly content to allow the puppet to amuse himself within the extensive laboratory as he sat behind his desk, rifling through papers. It was an act, though - the puppet was sure of that. He could feel it, still, featherlight but always there, relentless. The Doctor had not taken his eyes off him since the moment they’d entered this room. “I’m not sure what you’re waiting for, Dottore,” he said idly, and the Doctor’s movements stilled as the silence was broken, “but you needn’t stand on ceremony with me.”
“Is that so?” The Doctor sounded pleased, setting the papers down neatly as he laced his gloved fingers together and leaned forwards. When he smiled, a glint of white caught the puppet’s eye; one sharp tooth dug into the soft flesh of his lower lip. “Then perhaps we can proceed with the preliminary examination.”
Down in this laboratory, there were no windows. Only a dull, sterile artificial light that cast dead shadows. Despite his longevity, the puppet had always appreciated the rising sun and phases of the moon -time had long since ceased to pass for him in any meaningful sense, thus the sky and changing seasons became the final reminders left to him. Ah, the dawning of a new day. He did not know how many days it had been - but that was unimportant. The crimson of daybreak could still stir something within him, even if only for a fleeting moment, as could the first snow of winter and the first cherry blossom of spring. This seemed to be a world void of the natural order of things - but then, he was hardly a natural being himself; perhaps this was where he belonged after all. The puppet approached the desk again, the only sound that of his bare feet padding across the cool tiles of the laboratory floor. Had he been down here for hours, or even days? - it was impossible for him to tell, but the Harbinger was still human, and surely couldn’t withstand such periods without rest.
“As you like,” he said, coming to stand before the Doctor, “while I am in no rush, you must surely be aware your time is so limited.”
Something in the Doctor’s expression flickered at that, tooth disappearing as the smile broadened, flattening, and he stood abruptly. “Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary. Please come this way.”
When the Doctor swept past him, an oddly floral scent filled the air; it verged on medicinal, astringent and sharp, but with saccharine notes of sweetness he couldn’t quite place. Beneath that was smoke, earthy and charred, something clinging to him that could not fully be concealed. The puppet considered this as he followed the Doctor to a smaller side room; the man clearly had a vain streak a mile wide, so it was not entirely surprising for it to extend to more superficial things. What, though, was the perfume concealing?
The room was uninteresting, containing little but an examination table and some shelving, though there was some kind of dark device in the upper corner of the room; its circular reflective lens glinted in the bright light that flooded every corner.
The Doctor turned to face him, and this time when he spoke his voice was clinically indifferent. “Tell me, do you feel shame when removing your clothes?”
The puppet stared at him distastefully. "No." A vulgar question, utterly human. “But I have no desire for the attention and trouble that would come with being naked. Garments were bestowed on me when I was young, and became a useful habit.”
“Excellent,” the Doctor waved a hand, smile cool. “Take them off.”
The words he’d spoken were the truth: the puppet felt nothing as he removed each piece, allowing them to pool around his feet in a growing haphazard pile of fabric. All the while, the Doctor watched him silently, intently, even the opaque shield of his mask unable to conceal his fascination. He knew his body was unusual as far as humans were concerned; much like he lacked a heart, he also lacked that which differentiated male from female. It had bothered him, once, though he was glad for the separation now.
A slow smile began to pull at Dottore’s lips, and all the puppet could focus on was that tooth on the verge of breaking skin, like an insect that skated the surface of the water. It wasn’t lust that darkened his expression; the puppet had encountered that far too many times to mistake it. As the last piece of clothing slipped from his shoulders, sliding down his back in a rush of worn silk, he realised. It was covetousness.
“Now, Doll, shall we really begin?”