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Dottore had been snoozing on the old, ragged sofa when he heard noise coming from outside his laboratory. Multiple draft sheets of mathematical and chemical equations laid on top of his head, some even humid from drool; the pen he had written them with was most likely lost in between the sofa's pillows — alongside many of its long lost siblings. His right arm, which had been hanging free from the side of the couch, tingled as he messily removed the failed drafts that obscured his vision.
Artificial light hit his eyes. Thankfully, one of the segments, he presumed, had dimmed them and Dottore got used to the lab's brightness in no time. Speaking of, when he looked around, he saw no one else there with him. Not a rare sight but it sure was always suspicious when the segments were a bit too quiet.
Another sound, this time from the storage room in the back of the lab. Sure enough, when Dottore looked in its direction he saw five light blue heads comically stacked on top of each other in between the curtains that hid the room. The five pairs of red, bug-like eyes looked at him as if wanting to say something and, at last, one of them lifted his hand and pointed at something behind Dottore.
"Good evening, Doctor."
Well, or at someone.
Dottore slowly turned his head. The Ninth of the Fatui Harbingers stood behind him — his tall body slightly bent forward and a smile stuck on his face. His eyes closed as always. The doctor didn't need to know the time to guess he had missed the Harbingers’ meeting (again), Regrator's presence in his lab told him everything, immediately waking him up.
Wasting no time, Pantalone straightened his back and handed him a folder with more sheets of paper than it could hold. "The files of the new project we discussed last week. Pierro asked to bring them to you."
"Why trouble yourself to come all the way down here?" Dottore asked, accepting the folder — Project Stuzha, it read at the top. He started by removing the red, highly confidential label that secured the folder in place.
"I was given instructions to give them directly to you should one of your segments confuse the paper for a slice of pizza and, as you barely come to the surface, my options were… Quite limited." In truth, it was widely known that no other Harbinger liked to go to the Second's workplace, much less talk to him. Pantalone switched the hand on his cane, cleared his throat, then continued, "Most harbingers have missions outside the mainland, those details of yours can be found from page 394 forward. Regarding the budget for the first wave of your expenses—"
Dottore had stopped listening and his mind started tinkering. Red eyes focusing on the old and worn-out cane that supported the man walking back and fourth in his lab. For a man such as Pantalone, the cane seemed out of place, clashing with the aesthetics of his everyday outfits — should they notice those details, foul mouths would easily gossip. One couldn't deny the attached feelings behind that object — a gift from Her Majesty the Tsaritsa for Pantalone's Harbinger ceremony. Or maybe he simply used it to show his loyalty instead. Dottore followed Pantalone's pace with his eyes, leaving the matter; not that he could guess the reason behind it all either way, sometimes, he couldn't understand what went through his colleague's mind.
His mind wandered back to many years ago, to the day Pierro came back to Glupov with a boy in tow following him at the hip to join the Fatui. A scenario any veteran would brush aside and forget the next day as many orphans and children, whose parents sold them for goods, clung to any Fatuus patrolling the streets for scraps of food. What happened after was what stuck to the doctor's mind. The boy hadn't yet come of age, so bony and frail Dottore had confused him for a small child. Everywhere he went he limped, and limped, even with a stick it was hard for him — truly a lost cause. Whether this disability was from malnutrition or inflicted on him by others, Dottore paid it no mind looking back at the research papers in his hands.
Minutes had passed and he still couldn't read past the first paragraph; one of his underlings talked to him, but he didn't listen either. Where did it come from? This anger, this hunger for both blood and power. Obviously, none of his subordinates had it in them and even if they had they wouldn't dare in the presence of their Harbinger lest it be their last thought.
Dottore turned and the child he had already cast aside looked at him in the eyes or, better put, the place his eyes were behind the mask. Oh? How intriguing. None dared and even those above him, which weren't many, would rather not look too deep in the eyes of a lunatic. But a child! A child! Who looked more dead than alive? Oh, but Dottore understood, the sole reason he hadn't fallen and kicked the bucket yet was purely out of the hatred in his blood. Emotion that manifested itself in the child's deep, dark eyes; whether friend or foe, god or prayer, he looked at everyone the same and the higher the ranking the deeper it manifested. Very much like Zandik, Dottore had thought at the time with a twisted smirk plastered oh his face. A child! A child had raised the hairs on his back, sent a warning signal to his neurons! To him! To an immortal! How laughable, but, oh, so interesting. So very interesting.
As any beginner fatuus, Pierro had assigned him with on-field work within the Royal Military Academy — needless to say it was a poor decision. Besides the condition that slowed him down, other squad members found it a delight to bully him to the core — they hid his cane, broke it in half the next day or made him stumble and hit his face on muddy ground. Dottore had eavesdropped about this on two of his agents and soon requested for the child, no, for the teenager boy, to be transferred to Glupov, near the heart of Snezhnaya — Snezhnograd. Not out of the goodness of his heart, no, he didn't have one to begin with, and even if he had one it wouldn't be good. But it was simply because he could tell it was a wasted potential of the boy's hunger.
And oh, how right he had turned out to be.
Pantalone had started doing all kinds of odd jobs people gave him, whether it was delivering documents, tidying up offices or helping squads with paperwork. A do it all type of guy, but more importantly, it brought food to the table at the end of the day. However, not long after, Pantalone showed an aptitude for numbers and accounting; he gave tips and advice to decrease the amount of mora spent on a mission by optimizing every variable at his service and even look out for any corrupted fatuus who hadn't just embezzled a tiny bit of mora down their pockets. And because what is deserved is due, he rose in his ranks.
He might have tried his best to hide any evidence left of his past, silence mouths or burn what was left of him in his hometown, but nothing could escape Dottore's information channel. Even if no traces were left behind, no one can predict all passersby. It truly was the reason behind the hatred in those eyes. Born into poverty with no Vision or power, no deity to help him or feed his poor soul — even the wealthiest and kindest of them had turned a blind eye on him. Resentment — how Dottore loved to hear it. Resentment for the rules of this world. Resentment for those who have the power and control over their people's resources and yet chose to not act on them.
An inequality Dottore too wished to surpass.
Years later, the duo's very first official project together was to design, plan and create a new, alternate method of exchange to Mora, nowadays known as Credit Coupons. The experiment needed to be done in a place where Mora had lost its meaning and such place could only be the Fortress of Meropide in the deep waters of Fontaine. This new method of exchange became the one and only currency of Fontaine's high security prison. The experiment was a huge success, marking Pantalone's rise to the position most Fatui members dream of: Harbinger — and thus birthed the Ninth Fatui Harbinger, the wealthiest man in all of Teyvat, The Regrator.
Oh, and as for those who had bullied him? Had they not died in battle, they met crueler fate than that.
Pantalone kept walking to and fro in the doctor's clustered laboratory and as he talked, Dottore had made the very first draft of a new cane in his head while reminiscing the past. The first step was done. Before he could begin to actually listen to what his partner was saying, Pantalone had finished his bit. "Come to my office when you define the budget for the section I just referred to. I'm afraid I have some work to do now, so if you'll excuse me," Pantalone said walking to the entrance of the lab and just before the door closed, he added, "Oh, and, before I forget, will you be a darling and not send an errand boy this time? The matter at hand is… highly confidential." The door slid shut.
Dottore looked back at the pile of blue heads still in the same place. "… Do you think he prefers it made of titanium or hardwood?"
"…"
The lab seemed to have turned into a cane factory on the verge of filing for insolvency — one couldn't take a single step without crushing a blueprint under their feet. They were everywhere — the floor, the old couch, the doctor's desk and even the walls had a few pinned down over on-going projects. A mess that could describe his state of mind.
Hands on each side of his head, Dottore sat by his desk, elbows pressing in on cracked wood. He hit his temples a couple times out of frustration. "Think, Dottore, think!" The verge of a crash-out was imminent once he started cursing in a dead language. Every possible design for a walking cane had been drafted and yet none screamed THE cane. The despair was so immense even the segments were put to work.
Dottore rummaged for the few drafts they had handed him earlier, analyzing them one by one in hopes of some fresh ideas. "No. No. Boring. Too angular. Too round. Ugly. Just no." He stopped and looked at the segments scattered in the room, his hand displaying the comically painted draft with stereotypical clown colors and a horn on its handle. "Who the hell made this?" The segments looked back at him puzzled and shrugged in unison, hiding whoever had made such an atrocity. Dottore let out a growl. "It has to be lean but also sturdy, not too heavy but also not too light, just enough to support him. It needs posh, gems, glamour! Something that complements every single one of his outfits and not feel out of place. Its simple presence needs to set an imposing atmosphere — instead of making him look frail, it makes him look strong, tenacious even! Cunning like the snake of a banker he is." Dottore threw his hands in the air, but soon after put them down. Turning to the segments once again, he pointed a finger and threatened, "Don't tell him I said that."
Inside the lab, one couldn't distinguish day from night, much less tell the time — deep underground with no windows, only a mixture of artificial air with the smell of bleach. Maybe he needed a change of pace, get some fresh air and busy himself looking at commoners doing their futile and mundane, mortal tasks. Dottore cleared his throat, grabbed his mask and made his way to the surface.
Evening settled in calling for its dark, cloudy skies when Dottore arrived at the main plaza in the center of Snezhnograd. In the distance stood Zapolyarny Palace in all its elegance, watching the land and the people within. Merchants sold their goods while food stalls reopened with the arrival of dinner time. People from all social classes were drawn in from the smell of delicious food. Dottore watched them from a bench; business men went home, families dined and some others shopped with their loved ones. Not even a few minutes had passed when Dottore was done with it all. How futile and ridiculous.
Hands inside his lab coat, the doctor made his way to his secluded place. People avoided him like the deadliest plague had just sprouted and he was the source. Used to it, he didn't realize until a pair of kids accidentally bumped into him. The wooden swords in their hands had fallen to the ground alongside them. Once they saw who they had crashed against, the two children froze in place, too scared to speak or move an inch. Their guardians came to their knees begging for forgiveness or something of the sort — Dottore couldn't care any less. Instead, his eyes focused on the forgotten wooden swords. He picked up one of them, scaring everyone in the vicinity including the father of the children who fainted as a result. The sword had cracks and was badly polished, edges rough from all the play time. How futile and ridicu—
A sword.
An idea popped in his mind.
At last it came! Dottore rushed back to the lab like a madman running for his life, wooden sword still in hand and almost tripping on the stairs. He cleared the desk with a whoosh of his arm — sheets of paper fell to the ground and few glasses broke into pieces. His mind was running with ideas. "A little bit of this aaand of that." He tapped the pencil against his forehead. "Now if we add some details here and something shiny over there. Of course we can't forget the main dish." The pencil flew over the paper faster than the eye could see and his hands, stained with charcoal, had smudged his cheeks and nose. Suddenly, Dottore turned to talk to his segments who picked up what he had thrown. "Do any of you think he likes purple?" The question was met with silence as the blue heads looked at him with annoyance. "… Right, I forgot I disabled the segments' verbal communication module. I couldn't concentrate with the lots of you thinking out loud…" he excused himself, fingers on the chin "Hum, that sure sounds familiar. Anyway! Of course he likes purple! What a ridiculous question!"
The lab had been cleaned of any leftover evidence of the last few days and the Second was currently laying down on the old sofa, one leg propped on top of the other, while switching between tapping a pen against his lips and nibbling it. "I sent word to Pantalone three hours ago," he thought out loud, "The segment probably took around half an hour to get to his office. Finishing any leftover work and what not, one more hour. Knowing the banker and his meticulous time management, he probably stopped several times for any personal and work related errands on the way here. Another hour or more. Bribing my segments: five minutes. Another five from the entrance of the lab to here," He paused for a moment. "According to my calculations, he should be arriving in," Stopping once more, Dottore lifted three fingers in the air, "3… 2… 1…"
"Dottore!"
"Bingo!" He jumped out of the sofa.
"You sent word needing to see me urgently—" Pantalone entered the room, stopping in his tracks when he saw the man that had called him. He blinked twice. "What are you doing?"
Pretending he didn't accurately calculate the time the banker would arrive, Dottore was leaning with his elbow against the wall with that same hand on his nape. "Nothing," he faked ignorance, shaking his head.
"…Is that so?" Pantalone sighed. "Then? I assume this is about the budget for your mission for Project Stuzha. I believe you've reached a plausible consensus, yes?"
"Ah!" Dottore ran to his desk, "Yes, of course," did some mind calculus on the spot, and wrote the budget estimate on a small note-sheet. "Here you go." He handed it over to Pantalone.
"…I beg your pardon?!" The banker lifted both hands in the air, cane included. Perfect. "Do you have any idea how long it takes to get here?!"
With a snap of Dottore's fingers and in less than a couple of seconds, five segments took all of Pantalone's measures including his current cane.
Pantalone was stupefied. "…What was that?"
"What was what?"
"Your segments. They–"
"Oh, sometimes their free will leaves much to be desired. Don't take it personally. Just, ignore them, please."
Those same five segments shot daggers with their eyes. Dottore opened his own wide, warning them to not make a scene and ruin everything. Thankfully, their speech module was still deactivated.
"… Right…"
Dottore put his hands on Pantalone's shoulders, forcing him to walk. "Well! I'm sure our dear banker is very busy with national matters that can't be delayed a single second more. As a matter of fact, we also have our hands busy now with Project Asâ, I mean, Project 'Stazhu'—"
"Stuzha. Project Stuzha." Pantalone looked behind his shoulder.
"Yes, that, now, my dear friend, if you may." He rushed, still pushing Pantalone out of the lab.
"You're being… highly suspicious, Doctor."
"When am I not?" Dottore couldn't help but grin. As if they heard him, rushed footsteps closed in to the lab, coming to his rescue. "Seems like one of your assistants is in need of their Master. If you may then." He gestured to the door, leaving Pantalone no other choice to retaliate. The man side-eyed him, not fully convinced, and then left.
In the distance, someone called, "Lord Regrator!"
The day was coming to a close and yet the pile of documents left to sign on Regrator's desk didn't seem to be getting any smaller; as if everyone in the organization got together to send requests at the exact same time. Just by looking at the immense number of written pages as thick as a finger, Pantalone didn't need to guess whose request it was. Instead, he put it at the bottom of the pile — Sandrone's.
From the window behind him, mantles of snow covered the gardens of Zapolyarny Palace, their flora dressed in frost all year long it had adapted to the environment. Glasses hung around his neck as he leaned back on the leather armchair and massaged his nose bridge. He liked this silence; the cold surrounding the palace prevented anyone from causing a ruckus outside. Whether they were commoners or Fatui members, there was no noise besides the chirping of birds, unlike Glupov, where even the sound of machinery could be heard from the offices on the highest floors.
The comforting aroma of tobacco kept him company as Pantalone contemplated the peace the palace brought him and its sizzling sound was like a melody to his ears when he took long paused puffs. The pipe eventually went out as he lost himself in thought.
The sound of knocking on the door brought him back to the present moment, resigning him back to a fate of paper and ink.
"Lord Harbinger?"
"Enter," Pantalone answered putting his glasses on.
"Excuse me," his secretary entered the opulent office, "Lord Harbinger Il Dottore wishes to see you, sir."
Pantalone couldn't hide his astonishment. "Dottore? For him to leave that claustrophobic lab and come all the way up here… What could he possibly want?" Pantalone whispered to himself before asking the secretary, "Did he say why has he come?"
"No, sir. Should I make an appointment for another time?"
"There's no need. Bring him in, please." He gestured away with the pipe still in hand.
Dottore was brought in a split second, not even leaving Pantalone time to check whose request he had to approve next.
"Good evening, Regrator." Dottore's voice was low with a hint of mischief behind it. Pantalone watched him enter — dressed in his usual blue and white outfit and with some kind of black suitcase in hand. Once they were left alone, Dottore took off the mask revealing two heavy dark circles under his eyes.
Pantalone took his time throwing the ashes into the ashtray and resting the pipe on it. "And look what the cat brought in," he chuckled, "I see you haven't slept in days again. Well then, what do I owe the pleasure, Doctor? Another absurd request of yours, perhaps?" Pantalone clasped his hands together, resting his chin on them.
"As unlikely as it sounds, I haven't come to ask you for a single mora this time. You will be surprised with this one, I'm sure it's worth to pick the Ninth's attention." Now that Dottore got close, Pantalone realized what his colleague brought hadn't been a suitcase at all, but instead, a long, thin black box. Its color clashed with the marble coffee table in front of Pantalone's desk — one reflected all light and while the other absorbed it all.
"Oh, is that so? Please enlighten me, then." Using his cane for support, Pantalone got up from the armchair, coming closer at Dottore's request.
"Be my guest." Dottore gestured forward as he took a seat on one of the leather sofas, while Pantalone took the other opposite him — marble in between them.
As Pantalone slowly unlocked the latches of the case, Dottore had the unfortunate timing of clearing his throat. Pantalone looked up, his irises not meeting the line of the lenses. Even with his blurry vision, he could see the unusual expression on his partner's face. Instead, Pantalone leaned back on the sofa, adjusted his glasses and put on a cocky expression. "You look just like a puppy going for a walk." He clasped his hands, fingers playing with its rings. "Tell me. Are you planning to kill us both? How romantic."
Dottore cleared his throat again, loosening up his shirt. "While that would be a spectacular idea, my dear banker, I'm afraid that's not the case. Though, I shall take it into consideration next time."
Pantalone gave him a look. As much as he tried to hide it, terribly so, Dottore looked visibly uncomfortable. Maybe nervous would be more accurate. The Doctor had never been good at understanding human emotions and behaviors and the same could be said about Pantalone himself. Possibly why all the other Harbingers didn't get along with them or perhaps their methods and reputation were simply far too inhuman even for an organization like the Fatui.
Alas, Pantalone gave up teasing the man in front of him and got back to the matter at hand — the case. Right. Lined with black velvet with silver vintage-style edges — pure silver, he noted. He took off his rings, of a silver that matched the case, and his satin gloves, one at a time, and touched that surface. The velvet wasn't smooth, but with a rather intricate diamond pattern and the edges had engravings so small only an expert artisan could master. Slender fingers ran along them, easily recognizing the shape of an abacus whose beads were free of movement. Fascinating.
As one would say at the dinner table, it was time for the main dish.
Even after thinking of every possible object that could fit in that thin, long case, Pantalone was still taken aback when he finally opened the case.
"A cane…?" His hands lifted it in the air. It had the perfect weight, not too heavy nor too light, just enough to support his walk — provided by a body made of black titanium. Both the tip and the handle were composed of regular titanium, and while the former had a rubber base, the latter was coated in pure silver. Pantalone's deep eyes couldn't stop gazing at that magnificent head piece. Besides the thick layer of silver, it had several purple gemstones uniformly scattered around the handle — some no bigger than the tip of his pinky finger while the biggest was around the size of his thumbnail.
"Sapphires?" Pantalone asked, raising his head.
"A good guess, my dear banker, however, I'm afraid your assumption is not quite correct. The gems in question are much rarer than sapphire. An individual of your caliber couldn’t possibly be satisfied with such a common gemstone, could they?"
"Tanzanite??" Pantalone's eyes lit up like thousands of millions of stars in the sky when Dottore nodded his head in affirmation and, if one were to look careful, Regrator's irises comically looked like two polished mora.
Tanzanite was said to be one of the rarest gemstones in Teyvat — a thousand times more uncommon than diamonds. Formed under extreme heat and pressure, Tanzanite was only found in one place: Atocpan, a peninsula in the southwest of Natlan. Certainly, that wouldn't make this gemstone particularly rare as many others formed under similar conditions; the catch was, Dottore made sure to point out, they were only formed under a specific combination of minerals and this compound only existed in less than five kilometer radius of The Great Volcano of Tollan.
So extraordinary that the chances of another batch of Tanzanite being created were believed to be only one in a million.
As if to have read his mind, Dottore asked, "Don't you agree it suits you far better, O wealthiest man in all of Teyvat?"
Pantalone chuckled. Many had said those words about him, both in his front and behind his back, regardless of social status or how much they brought home at the end of the day. Commoners, clients and employees of the Northland Bank, wealthy merchants, the fatuus who worked under him and even the other Harbingers; they had nothing in common except for the malicious intent in their tongue when they lashed the words: 'The Regrator, the wealthiest of the Fatui Harbingers'. Maybe it was jealously or maybe they simply needed someone to release their anger to. To Pantalone, they were all the same — small, simple-minded people who would rather blame others for their misfortune and pray to the degenerate Gods of this world than to address the problem themselves. If they wanted Pantalone to play the villain in their little economic misfortune, he would let them to do as they wished as ants could never jump as far as a hawk could fly.
In the handful of decades he has already lived, Pantalone never thought there would be one whose intentions could differ from the ants. If no one understood his ideals then so be it; if those lowly beings were so stingy as to not offer the crumbs of their bread when at his worst, then Pantalone would distance himself so far away they couldn't even reach the soles of his feet and there, he would build his empire on his own.
Funnily enough, when he was certain none could prove him wrong, there came someone whose moral beliefs were as mad as his. Oh, how it satisfied Pantalone to no end; this person had transcended what it meant to be human — mortal and fragile — with such immense power and knowledge, it could even rival those of the Seven and yet they were not one. Truly, those chosen by Celestial weren't so great as many thought to put their prayers on. Despite this greatness, this person did not come to him from above as to not intimidate, nor from below feigning ignorance, but instead presented themselves as an equal.
When he looked back to Dottore, this one had a question mark on his face, maybe he had expected Pantalone to retaliate his teasing, but if there was something in their strange relationship was that they always went for the unexpected.
Pantalone walked around the coffee table, testing his new cane. It had such an incredible steady grip to the floor, Pantalone didn't need to worry about how much weight he should put on it lest he slipped and fell. He stopped in the narrow space between the small marble furniture and the sofa Dottore sat on.
"You haven't called me that in a long time." Pantalone's fingers combed the wild blue hairs on top of Dottore's head, caressing his cheek when he was done. A faint kiss dropped on his palm and Pantalone could feel the soft smile imprinted on the inner side of his hand.
"Lest you get used to it and throw it away," Dottore said before supporting Pantalone's hand his and nuzzling on it.
The temperature difference between the two bodies was like the flame of a candle and the snowflakes falling from the sky outside. Due to his past, Pantalone suffered from a condition where the blood vessels in his hands contracted, reducing the blood flow to his fingers, making them always cold. Thus why he had to wear gloves most of the time. The gloves were designed with a fusion between Natlanese and Shneznayan technology — one to produce warmth and the other to prevent it to dissipate. Needless to say, said designer and producer was none other than the Second.
Pantalone still remembered that day as if it were today. Upon receiving the title of Harbinger, the Fatuus in question would receive presents from their colleagues and from Her Majesty The Tsaritsa on the day of the ceremony. As custom, the Cryo Archon gifted the long white coat with black fox fur characteristic of the Harbingers and, maybe out of pity, a cane made of local black wood, but as cold as metal.
The gifts varied from physical materials to words and gestures. If they were to be given now, surely, most would choose something foul or excuse themselves with a mission on the other side of Teyvat. The Jester, as the director of the Fatui and his recruiter, gave him the trust that Pantalone could carry out his plans as the Ninth. The Captain gifted him an ancient blueprint of a sword and offered to tutor him with the same once it was ready. The Damselette sang a song under his name and the Rooster, just as he had done to the others as the Mayor, gifted him land just outside the capital. The Baladeer chose to forge the sword from that blueprint and the Marionette gifted the finest mechanical pen whose ink never ran out, which Pantalone still used to this day. The Fair Lady showed him the rare sight of Pyro crystalflies as they danced as high as the palace walls, warming the whole room. And, lastly, the Second, the Doctor, had given him the first prototype of the gloves Pantalone used daily. The technology couldn't even be compared to the current ones, but if it weren't for that first warmth, his fingertips would've fallen soon after. Alas, Dottore had been just as awkward as he was now — avoiding eye contact, hands unable to stand still, stuttering a little, and Pantalone could bet all his investments that a fuzzy feeling of nervousness and excitement resided in his stomach.
Coincidentally, with almost every gift The Regrator received from The Doctor came the infamous 'for the wealthiest man in all of Teyvat' and if Pantalone were to be honest with himself, he could not get enough of it. Not even after enough time had passed for his mortal body to return and become one with the earth.
"Oh, I wouldn't dare," Pantalone finally replied, irony in his tongue. He stepped back with a smile that wrote 'mission accomplished' all over his face. His eyes shifted to admire the details of the cane again before letting the object do its job and support him.
Adjusting his sitting position as if the expensive sofa was far from comfortable, Dottore cleared his throat again. "O-Of course it wouldn't be one of my inventions if it didn't have, you know, a little surprise." The Doctor grinned when those last couple words were left hanging in the air for his partner to ponder. Just as expected, Pantalone looked at him with confusion all over his face, his head tilted to the side. "Why don't you try pulling the handle?" The grin was now so wide it almost touched Dottore's ears.
With hesitation, Pantalone grabbed the handle, looked back at Dottore who nodded for him to continue, and finally pulled it. He ended up having two pieces in each hand.
"… A sword—?" Pantalone exclaimed with excitement in his voice.
On his left hand, the bottom of the cane, or more accurately, the hidden blade’s sheath, and on his right, a thin and sharp long sword, half his height. Made of titanium, as Dottore made sure to point out again, and so polished Pantalone could see his reflection as if it were a portable mirror. He ran his fingers along the side of the blade, absorbed in his thoughts.
"Do you like it?" Dottore interrupted.
Pantalone smiled, his eyes now closed — if one were his subordinate, they would immediately know it was their cue to run with their tail in between their legs. Catching the doctor off guard, Pantalone pressed the sharp blade against his partner's neck and, soon enough, a tiny drop of blood slid across the sword resting at its tip.
When Pantalone slightly opened his eyes, he saw Dottore clutching at the fabric of the sofa as if holding on for his dear life. Head tilted backwards, he grinned once more; he was enjoying this, Pantalone wouldn't even need to have opened his eyes or need his glasses to guess as much. Not moving the sword away, maybe even pressing in a bit more, Pantalone leaned forward until his mouth was close to Dottore's ear; his good leg and the "cane" on the floor to support him and the bad one against the sofa, locking Dottore from the other side with no chance to escape.
Pantalone couldn't help but chuckle, fully knowing it wouldn't do any good to the poor doctor — maybe he had even done it on purpose.
"Do you dare ask if I like it again, Doctor?" Pantalone teased, voice low and dark.
Later that day, as The Regrator updated himself on the work he had instructed his subordinates, the head of the accounting department approached him with the latest report on the project they were developing in the capital.
After going through every detail meticulously and answering any question the Harbinger had, the Fatuus noticed the new and rich-looking cane that supported his lord. As Pantalone seemed to be in a good mood today, which was a rare occasion, the Fatuus tried his luck to get on the man's good side and strike a conversation. "My lord, I see you have acquired a new cane."
Pantalone smiled and lifted it horizontally in the air, raising every single imaginable hair on his subordinate's body in fear, until at last he noticed it was just meant for him to take a closer look.
"Indeed I have," Pantalone said, "My dear friend Zandik gifted it to me."
The conversation ended as soon as it started and the poor Fatuus spent the rest of his day wondering who in Teyvat this dear friend Zandik was.