#'you've got some guts' YEAH NO SHIT THEY'RE DOTTORES ASSISTANT THEY NEED GUTS OR THEY'D BE DISMEMBERED BY NOW

[stellar-skyy]

ADDI. ADDI.

MORAL INJURY — a non-romance genshin impact series. ♫

       act i, chapter iii        "the crow, the mouse, and the doll."

➤ CHAPTER SYNOPSIS :: the mouse bites and gets bitten.

➤ CONTENT WARNINGS :: trauma and recollections of trauma, references to self-harm (briefly mentioned, and not done intentionally—moreso done in the panic of a stressful moment), crying, reader acts like dottore in scaramouche's eyes, choking, burns, bruises, implied broken bones, dissection, general gore/graphic warning, dehumanization/non-sexual objectification (both the reader and scaramouche), reader is fucking MEAN and feels guilty about it later, blood, prescription pills. generally, tread carefully when reading this chapter.

➤ WORD COUNT :: 4.0k.

➤ AUTHOR'S THOUGHTS :: HELLO MORAL INJURY NATION!!! CHAPTER 3 IS FINALLY HERE and it is horrible and terrible. because i love angst <3 a little note, be sure to click around on the words and symbols that are underlined at the top of this post! the word MORAL INJURY will take you to the series masterlist/navigation post, and the music note will take you to the spotify playlist.

➤ TAGLIST :: @zeldadou, @umgatochamadopercyval, @starryshinyskies, @www-songbird, @pookiebearcave, @lesanyanyas, @francisnyx. contact me through messages/asks/etc non-anonymously to be added.

       After speaking to Collei—poor thing, they absently mused to themselves—they made haste in leaving Haeresys and returning to the main lab. Had they lingered even slightly too long, they were certain they’d run into its ruling segment, and they simply did not have the time to entertain his… antics.

       (‘Antics’ meaning anything from standing next to him and listening to him explain the intricacies of his work with ancient Khaenri’ahn technology and entertaining him with the occasional question to being thrown into an active battle with a Ruin Guard. He insisted that it was to keep their skills with their delusion sharp, but they personally thought he just wanted to see them bleed a little bit. Though they always emerged victoriously, they did not always emerge unscathed. They’re certain their suffering brings him some kind of satisfaction.)

       Thankfully, by the time they returned, the Sixth Harbinger was already waiting impatiently.

       "Good afternoon, Lord Sixth."

       "Hurry up," he scoffed, shooting them a wicked glare. Of course, they reacted naught. Being looked at like some kind of lab rat by Dottore was significantly worse than whatever glare Scaramouche sent their way. "I don't have all day."

       "I understand," they reassured, gently setting down their bag on the very same counter that they cleaned of blood a few hours prior. "If you would, please remove your shirt, and describe the issues you are encountering to me."

       His eyes followed their motions precisely. They wondered if it was some kind of trauma response. Nonetheless, he—shockingly—obliged their request, nimble fingers working to shed his upper layers as they snapped a pair of disposable gloves on.

       "...The issues, sir?" they gently reminded, gloved thumbs gingerly pressing into his ribs to check briefly for any wounds or areas of tenderness they'd need to be mindful of. It wouldn't be unexpected for him, a Harbinger, to be injured, so they figured it would be best to check beforehand. "Would you mind telling me—"

       A vague stinging sensation ran vertically across their lips, and they stopped. 

       "Reflexes." He smirked at the way their hand slowly raised to their now-bloodied lip. The pain didn't hit them for a few seconds, but even once it did, their expression remained boringly the same. The only indication they gave of having felt anything at all was a slight twitch of their lip. "My reflexes have been poor lately."

       A surge of rage flowed through their veins. They did their best to suppress it.

       "Lord Sixth, please take this seriously."

       "Are you implying that I'm not?"

       Agitation bubbled in their throat, but they again did their best to swallow it down and ignore it.

       "I am not..." Their jaw clenched slightly as they let out a shallow breath. They had hoped their irritance would leave with it; unfortunately, their emotions did not dissipate even a little bit. If anything, the Balladeer's smug look just made them feel worse. "I am not implying anything, Lord Sixth, but I'm sure we both have better things to be doing rather than bickering like children over your necessary bodily maintenance. Would you rather Lord Dottore do this? If so, I will gladly take my leave for the day. I will tell you this once only—I am immeasurably kinder than he is."

       "Are you threatening me?"

       "I don't know. Do you want it to be a threat?"

       His hands were wrapped around their throat in an instant. Within just those few brief seconds, they could already feel bruises beginning to bloom and burns beginning to boil their skin from his electro alignment.

       They gathered all the strength they could manage in their legs and kicked him off, forcing all of the air—not that he really needed to breathe—out of his lungs. He remained relatively unfazed, but didn't lurch at them again. Their chest heaved as they shot him a dirty look from beneath their Fatui mask, which had been knocked slightly out of position.

       (It wasn't often that they wore it. Honestly, around any of the Harbingers, they would usually just take it off. Both their name and face were well-known by now. Yet, they had diligently put it on before coming to see the Sixth.

       They could not be certain as to why. It was only inconveniencing their work.

       ...Maybe they were trying to hide, as fruitless as that endeavor was and would always be.)

       A deep, tired sigh left their aching throat. They turned away from him and laid their face against the icy wall, the bite of the cold much welcomed against the heat that had built under their skin from both anger and the recent struggle.

       "Hah, what? Are you going to cry?"

       "Do you want me to be honest, Lord Sixth?"

       The monotone exasperation in their voice surprised him a bit. Nonetheless, an amused look settled on his face.

       "Oh? If you so dare, you may speak freely, then."

       "I wasn't asking for your permission," they scoffed, standing up straight again and removing their mask mandated by the Fatui. They turned back to him, meeting his eyes with such immovable nonchalance, such tiredness that only someone who worked with Dottore for years could possibly display. "I was asking whether you wanted to hear the truth or not. You want to? Fine. First of all, you wouldn't be the first to try and strangle me, so don't fucking do it again. Try something else if you really want to kill me. You think I haven't been nearly choked to death by Lord Beta or Lord Delta? Do you honestly believe that? Secondly, you are acting like a goddamn brat. Either let me do your maintenance, or be Lord Second's science experiment again. Your choice. I have not met a single person who would rather be at Lord Dottore's mercy rather than mine, so choose, and do it fast. I don't have all day either."

       Silence. Then, a response came:

       "...Hah. You've got some guts, talking to a Harbinger like that."

       Static tingled along their flesh and danced in the air, waiting for the right moment to strike, waiting for them to say something wrong, waiting for them to cross that invisible thin line from being firm to committing insubordination.

       ...As if they already hadn't. They couldn't be bothered to care. He was acting like a child. How were they supposed to be patient with him when they'd already been spread so thinly? Either way, it was a lose-lose scenario, because surely the Balladeer would accuse them of pitying him or infantilizing him if they did continue to be patient. Being frank was simply the better option.

       Unbothered, they rolled their eyes. "I have no respect for anyone who makes my job more difficult than it already is. You aren't the only one with a hard job. You think I've got it easy? You wouldn't last a day in this position. Make up your mind, Scaramouche. Now."

       "Tch."

       "You want to be a test subject again? Fine by me. Have a good day, Lord Sixth."

       But of course, that was not the end of the Sixth Harbinger's bite. No. It never was, for as they reached for their bag, his sneer reached their ears and made their fingers twitch with rage.

       "What, like you were?"

       The tattoo on their wrist throbbed with the ache of distant, blotted out memories.

       All the nights they spent crying, wailing, hyperventilating, scratching at that foul tattoo on their wrist until their own blood coated their nails and oozed out of their raw flesh to blend with the scorching tears sliding down their cheeks and landing elsewhere...

       All of that for a useless little brat to comment on the situation like it was nothing?

       No. His Harbinger status be damned—no-one would disrespect them like that and get away with it.

       "Don't you ever"—in a swift movement that even the Sixth Harbinger did not expect nor predict, they whirled around and pressed their foot into his chest further and further until they felt something crack under the pressure—"speak of my experiences in such a foul way ever again. It was one time. You have been here, in this very same position, for five hundred years. I was in that position one time. Do not speak in such a manner ever again. I will break you beyond fucking repair."

       The Balladeer's porcelain skin burned. It was now his turn to be at the receiving end of elemental fury.

       "Fuck you," he rasped. They put their foot flat on the floor again, shooting him a harsh glare.

       "Fuck you too. Get back on the table or I'm leaving. How many times to I have to tell you? What are you, five? Are your listening ears off?"

       "...Fine."

       He begrudgingly stood up, hoisting himself up onto the examination table.

       "By the seven," they cursed under their breath. "Finally... You want painkillers or not?" They somehow still found it in them to offer some kind of pain management, though they already knew he would deny it, claiming he 'didn't need it.' "There is no shame in saying yes, Lord Sixth."

       "Don't you dare presume to patronize me. You really believe I'm so weak and—"

       As expected.

       As always.

       "Whatever. I offered, so don't go around telling people I didn't give you options."

       With that, they adjusted their grip on their sterilized scalpel and made the first of many cuts. If he wouldn't tell them what was really wrong, then they would just have to figure it out themselves—it would take longer, and likely be more painful and uncomfortable, but really...

       He did this to himself.

       The Balladeer was always a fascinating being to work on. If they were any less bitter, they would earnestly admit to being honored to have an opportunity to peer inside of him and poke around at his artificial systems, satiating whatever curiosity they might have had about him and how he functioned and—because of his creation being the work of an Archon—how one of the Seven's minds worked. As much as they may have disliked him, disliked his uncooperative nature, he was fascinating in his own right.

       (It was like they viewed him as less of a person, less of a coworker, and more of a subject to be studied. As more of a thing, a creature. Hm.)

       Scaramouche didn't bleed much. He bled, but never enough to inconvenience them. They were always able to simply pat away any blood with a tissue or a cotton pad when it began interfering with their work. He bled, but not like a human. Never like a human.

       He wasn't one, so...

       A soft whimper, a hitch of breath unnoticeable to the untrained ear drew them out of their thoughts. Their gaze briefly flickered to the Balladeer's face, fingers halting all motion. All the muscles in their abdomen tightened with an overwhelming sense of guilt and frustration.

       A stray tear rolled down his cheek. If he noticed, he didn't acknowledge it. They chose to pay it as little mind as possible, if not for anyone's sake but theirs. His eyes were hazy and vacant, as if he were recalling some other event such as this one—as if, above him, he saw someone else.

       They shook that thought off before it could spiral into something worse.

       Whatever he was recalling was not their fault, and certainly not their business. It had nothing to do with them. It was no concern of theirs. It wasn't their fault. It was absolutely not their fault... right?

       Were they being rougher than usual? Surely not, they thought, but upon shifting their eyes back to what they were actively working on... it became clear that they were.

       He was bleeding more than usual. Their incisions were deeper than usual. Either way, they would have to peel him open eventually to get better access to his systems, but... generally, they were very gentle about it. As gentle as one could be about something so grotesque, anyway. Even so, for some reason they couldn't really place, he was bleeding more than usual. Their incisions were deeper than usual.

       Oh.

       As much as they wanted to apologize, the words only stuck to the sides of their dry throat. Their hands trembled a little at the realization of what they had done to him, of how cruel they had been to him the entire time. How could their cruelty outmatch a Harbinger's? How could their cruelty outmatch the Sixth's, of all people's?

       Of course, in a job such as theirs, dissociation was a hell of a skill.

       There was nothing they could do except grit their teeth, continue, and—ideally—wrap it up as soon as possible. 

             — flower of the universe !! 🌸

       "Are you done yet?"

       He sounded so vacant, voice lacking any of the bite, enmity, or sarcasm it should have held towards them. He should've sounded different, not... like this.

       He sounded so broken.

       ...Did they really hurt him that bad? They'd hardly done anything different at all. It was always the same, they swore it was. It was the same as any other maintenance day in the lab.

       Deep down, they knew that wasn't true, that they were only lying to make themselves feel better, but there was nothing to be done about it now. They wordlessly cut the last stitch, patting away the little bit of blood that remained.

       "...I am, sir. If you don't heal properly, please come see me or Lord Dottore."

       He didn't reply.

       They reached up wordlessly, shutting the overhead surgical lighting off, hoping that the motion might snap him out of whatever daze he was trapped in. He hardly flinched.

       Wordlessly, they pulled back from him, snapping their surgical gloves off. They absentmindedly found themselves a bit thankful that there wasn't much to clean up when it came to him.

       "...Um. You can leave." They cleared their throat. "If— if you want to. I don't know when Lord Second will be back, so I would... leave. If I were you. I also need to sterilize the table, so... if you would..?"

       He didn't respond. 

       "Right. Um... I suppose I'll leave it for one of the segments, then... I'm heading out for the day, Lord Sixth."

       Guilt nagged at their conscience, and they wanted to apologize, but somehow the words got stuck in their throat and, no matter how hard they tried, could not be dislodged. So, they nodded in polite acknowledgement before quietly grabbing their things and heading out.

       A weight settled in their gut as they swallowed thickly, stumbling out of the lab and closing the door behind them. A chill immediately settled into their bones; however, they paid it no mind, keeping their head tilted down as they walked down the halls and giving no response other than a hum to any other Fatui agents that nodded their way respectfully.

       In their daze, they did not notice the looming presence they were about to run head-first into.

       Run head-first into him, they certainly did.

       A sharp gasp was inhaled through their nose, and their instinctive response was to snap at whoever it was they bumped into; before they could, however, they caught a glimpse of the person's footwear.

       Il Dottore. One of his older segments, if they had to guess based on shoes alone. They did not get the chance to apologize. In fact, they barely even had the chance to process who they were looking at and how they should go about their apology; should it have been short and to the point accompanied only by a polite nod, or should they have gone as far as to bow at the waist level? The answer would slightly vary depending on what segment it was (there was surprisingly little variance overall, but they did need to express a bit more guilt with some segments for their apology to be accepted without punishment), but they had no time to even think about how to apologize before he began to speak.

       "My, [Surname]"—they could hear the entertained smile in his voice, and in an instant, the gears in their head clicked together in recognition of what segment in particular they had run into—"terribly distracted, aren't you?"

       "I'm..." They did not raise their head. Instead, they simply stepped back, hands fidgeting somewhat with the handle of the bag they held. "I'm sorry, Lord Psi. I wasn't watching where I was going."

       Psi, twenty-third of Il Dottore's twenty-four segments, and—fortunately or unfortunately, depending on who one asked—the one who seemed to like them the most. A polite, straightforward apology without any excessive expressions of fear and respect would do.

       He was no different than any of the other segments in that he was an oddity and an enigma, someone who was not easily understood, but he was more personable than most. Oftentimes, it was him who attended publicity events in the place of the man himself. The original Il Dottore was generally not known for patience or grace. Therefore, the most logical action would be to send someone more… agreeable to such events. Psi was the only candidate for that kind of responsibility. He was no less of a threat than the others—he was simply harder to anger and easier to get along with.

       They supposed it was preferable to run into him instead of someone else.

       "Well, that much, I can certainly see."

       "Ah. Yes..." It was then that they finally straightened up and dared to peer at his face. "I should be going, sir. If you'll excuse me—"

       "Wait just a moment, mouse."

       Mouse. Mouse. He always called them that, if not their first or last name, and it made their stomach twist sickly every single time (they faintly recalled the first time he addressed them in such a way, but with that memory, they also recalled scalpels and cold metal digging into their skin that made their throat close up anxiously). It was demeaning and cruel and belittling. They expected no less from him.

       ...Yet somehow, he also made it sound fond, but not... fond. Fond, as one would speak to a pet—not fond in the way one might speak to a loved one.

       And really, they supposed that to him, they were a pet. They were most certainly not a loved one; they were simply a favored little mouse. Small, docile, and fragile in a way that was endearingly cute—a thing that could be grabbed by the tail and dragged around against its will with nothing to say in opposition for fear of angering its captor. It was disgustingly fitting.

       If they were a mouse—the prey—then they supposed that would make him a crow, the opportunistic predator who may not normally eat mice such as them, but could and undoubtedly would if he was given the chance to.

       A mouse trapped in a cage, constantly circled by crows threatening to finally kill them at any given point without warning…

       …Yes, that was accurate indeed.

       The leather of his gloves brushed against their neck, tilting their chin up to get a better look at their throat. They tried not to swallow too harshly—he'd know if they did, and then he would know that they were nervous. Then again, he would know regardless, since their pulse was ringing loud in their ears and his thumb pressed into their neck dangerously near to where he would be able to feel their heartbeat.

       He knew, and they were sure he was thriving on it.

       "...Sir?"

       "That is quite the nasty wound you've attained," he mused, withdrawing his hands from their neck, much to their relief. "I assume that the doll gave it to you?"

       "Yes. Lord Sixth and I got into an... altercation."

       "An altercation," he echoed, the very same amused tone seeping back into his voice. "I see. In that case, before you go, shall we treat this wound of yours? You would hate to worry your dear parents by returning in such a poor state, I'm sure."

       It was clear that he was not asking. They had no choice but to wordlessly nod and follow him back to the lab. 

       Upon entering, gently shutting the door behind themselves, they were relieved to find that Scaramouche had left. They really weren’t sure if they were relieved for him or themselves. Were they relieved knowing he would not have to face one of the segments in such a vulnerable state of being (though, somehow they were sure that he had done so multiple times in the past), or were they relieved knowing they did not have to face him again? It was truly anyone’s guess.

       Psi turned away from them, shedding his leather gloves and replacing them with disposable ones. They did not need to be told where to go nor what to do.

       They hoisted themselves up onto the cold, metal table (they could not manage to fully ignore the pounding of their heart against their ribcage—being on the one on the table for any reason was exceedingly uncomfortable) effortlessly, though not before leaving their bag by the door to grab on their way out.

       “Are you wounded elsewhere?”

       Their heart leapt somewhat in surprise of the voice cutting through the silence, and they chided themselves for being so tense. “No, sir. Only around my neck.”

       He hummed in a wordless acknowledgement.

       As he turned back towards them, the click of his shoes echoing eerily as he got closer and only ceasing once he stood directly in front of them, they straightened their spine somewhat. When his hands reached out to them, they tilted their chin upwards.

       They were not particularly interested in knowing what exactly he was doing; they only wanted it to be over as soon as possible so that they could leave for the day and return to the one place they dared to feel perfectly safe.

       “I hear that Beta was quite upset upon learning that you’d been to Haeresys today, yet left without seeing him.”

       They did not doubt it. Beta, the second of Il Dottore’s twenty-four segments… no, they did not doubt it whatsoever. He was very easily amused but equally volatile, and they knew he particularly liked the agents that were intelligent enough to understand even a little bit of his research; they were very possibly the first agent that would come to mind when thinking of someone who fit that criterion, unfortunately. They also knew that he was far more prone to anger than some of the others.

       They very much hoped that he was only mildly upset. If he was extremely bothered, however, he might just decide to hold them hostage the next time they visit—it was certainly not above him to do so.

       “Is that so?” they murmured, flinching somewhat upon feeling a gel’s cold bite against their wounded skin. “...I’ll make it up to him. Since I had to perform routine maintenance on the Sixth, I could not have stayed for long. Perhaps I’ll return to Haeresys on one of the lab’s less busy days.”

       “Well, he will most definitely hold you to it. Don’t make promises you cannot keep.”

       Somehow, they just knew that was a threat… a threat on Beta’s behalf, no doubt. They had long assumed that all the segments were connected mentally, though they had no real proof of that claim. They never cared to ask; it was simply always implied, a silent fact that they had been consciously aware of for quite a long time now. Moments such as these made them certain that it was true.

       They did not reply, opting for a simple hum instead.

       Moments passed in silence. Then, Psi spoke up once again after withdrawing from their body a final time:

       “You are dismissed, mouse. Take these”—he placed a small pill bottle at their side—”for the next week. One pill twice a day, in the morning and at night. We cannot afford to let your wounds get infected.’

       “Yes, sir.” They nodded. Only when he turned away from them did they get off of the table, taking the pills with them. Fear, more or less irrational in its nature yet nonetheless deeply ingrained into their instincts, still coursed through their veins. The racing of their heart had yet to settle down, and their hands trembled somewhat.

       It was with quick footsteps that they darted towards the door, snatching up their bag, before making a quick departure.

please consider reblogging, it helps me out quite a lot! written by aphelion & banner by @www-songbird. do not plagiarize, copy, ai train, or otherwise use my work -☆