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Scaramouche stared out his office window. The cold, winter wind battered at the glass, wailing an elegy that only he seemed to be able to understand. Snezhnayan winters were always harsh, but lately, things seemed to be much, much worse than usual.
He didn’t know how much time had passed. A week, a month, a year, five. Time had little meaning for him to begin with, but lately, it seemed to matter even less. Scaramouche would never age, never die. As the world turned around him, he would remain stuck in place until his gears and pistons broke down. He looked forward to that day when it came.
A knock came at his office door. A knock the Balladeer had heard countless times before. Three perfectly rhythmic, insufferably jaunty raps that each drove a spike into Scaramouche’s artificial heart. He felt no pain, but he might as well have.
He gripped the windowsill so hard, the wood splintered beneath his fingers. “Go away,” Scaramouche barked harshly. His voice cracked. Months ago— years? Decades?— he would have been embarrassed. Now, all he felt was a deep, hollow despair that carved a pit in his stomach as another voice sounded in the hallway outside.
“Absolutely not.” The voice was deep, cutting deep into Scaramouche’s heart like a dull blade. “Kuni, you’ve missed the past six checkups. Come outside right now, and let me cut you open.”
Six checkups. Six months. That couldn’t be right. It felt like so much longer than that, yet so much shorter. When had so much time passed? How had it gone by so quickly?
Scaramouche wished he could have laughed at what he knew to be a lighthearted joke. Yes, he was going to be cut open, but he didn’t take any of it seriously. He hadn’t for decades, and he still didn’t, but it felt wrong now. Off.
The Balladeer sucked in a deep, artificial breath. “Do not,” he choked, “call me Kuni. Only Dottore can call me that.”
“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.”
The Dottore outside— the fake one that didn’t breathe, or bleed, or die— sighed heavily. It was the exact same sigh Scaramouche had heard countless times before over the decades, one that only made his situation all the more real. That sigh was not pushed out of human lungs. And Kunikuzushi would never hear the real thing again.
Scaramouche used to love the sound of Dottore’s voice. Well… “used to” wasn’t quite right. He still loved it. He longed to hear it, even. When he was lying awake at night, no longer able to sleep due to the nightmares that had begun to creep back into his head, he wished for nothing more than to hear his partner’s voice grouchily telling him to go to sleep.
Now, though, the researcher’s voice was nothing but a reminder of what Kunikuzushi would never have again. The robotic clone sounded exactly the same as the real thing. Earlier versions had different vocal tics, and they even glitched occasionally. But not this one. Not the final copy. The last copy Dottore had ever made before he…
Before he…
Scaramouche blinked back tears as another knock came at the door. “If you don’t open the door,” Dottore said coolly, “then I’ll have to force my way in. This has gone on for too long, Kunikuzushi.”
The Balladeer choked on his protests, knowing they would come out with a sob. He heard the doorknob rattle, and the Dottore-clone cursed loudly. It was unlike the prostheses to lose their temper like this— at least, the later versions. This sort of outburst was expected of One and Two. Dottore’s first two clones.
A loud, shrill buzzing sound began on the other side of the door. An electric saw. Scaramouche laughed bitterly to himself has he listened to his door get dismantled from the outside in. Each clone of Dottore was different, and one could track his progress as he mellowed out and became more elegant and tactful. The one thing they all had in common, however, was his determination.
Minutes later, the door fell backwards off its hinges, slamming loudly on the hallway floor. The buzzing stopped, and footsteps sounded behind Scaramouche. The Sixth listened to them, his heart sinking with every step. He barely had time to wipe his tears before a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around roughly.
It still hurt to look at the familiar face before him. Even when hidden behind a bird-like mask, Scaramouche knew Dottore’s face by heart. The deep lines on his face that came from his manic smile, now pulled into a scowl. The slightly long, pale blue hair streaked with white. The deep voice that had somehow withstood the test of time, even as the decades slipped Dottore by.
My greatest creation, the original had said to Scaramouche when introducing him to his final clone. My greatest creation, besides you.
Kunikuzushi despised this clone. He had always hated it, since the moment he met it. He hated that Dottore had created this abomination, and he hated the reason he had given for doing so. ”Because my time is running out,” Dottore had explained. No matter how many times Scaramouche protested that it wasn’t true, that he was barely over sixty years old, Dottore would not budge.
Most of all, Scaramouche hated that the original Dottore had been right.
Now, Dottore stared down at him with artificial eyes, lifting the edge of his mask just enough to expose a hint of red. The gnarled scars on the top half of the clone’s face were exactly the same as Kunikuzushi remembered. It was almost like art, the level of detail that went into the illusion of skin.
Kunikuzushi glared at the clone, hoping that it wasn’t obvious he had been crying. “Those stupid fucking checkups can’t possibly be this important,” he snapped, violently slapping the Dottore-clone’s hand away. The man flinched. The madman even gave this thing pain receptors, Scaramouche thought hysterically.
Dottore heaved a sigh that was closer to a growl. “Really, Kunikuzushi,” he said, tilting his head and rubbing his face under his mask. “There’s no need to be so stubborn. You never know when something could go wrong, so I have to prepare for every eventuality. You know this.”
Scaramouche did. He knew it better than anyone. Too often had he gotten comfortable, allowing himself to relax. To expect anything but tragedy from the hell that was eternal life. So many people had died, far earlier than what should have been their time. Kunikuzushi expected it, even with Dottore, but the universe had still found a way to pull the rug from beneath his feet.
“…That didn’t help the real you,” Kunikuzushi spat. He craned his neck to look at Dottore, pouring as much venom as he could into his voice and eyes. “You talk a lot of shit about ‘being prepared,’” he hissed, “but you still fucking died.”
“It was an accident! You can never truly be prepared for that kind of thing, you just have to try and reduce the margin of error as much as possible, and—“
“Shut up!” Scaramouche screamed, reaching out and shoving Dottore violently. The clone stumbled, but recovered quickly. An advanced gyroscopic stabilizer, Dottore’s voice whispered in Scaramouche’s ear.
The puppet choked, eyes filling with tears he couldn’t stop. Not this time. “Shut up,” he repeated hoarsely. “Stop… stop trying to sound like him. Stop trying to be him! You don’t breathe, you don’t eat, you— you aren’t—“
Kunikuzushi sobbed. He had never wanted to die more in his life. Not when he realized that his creator had abandoned him. Not when Katsuragi, his friend, his first love, had died. At least then, Katsuragi had been securely buried underground. There hadn’t been six other versions of him, masquerading as the real thing, reminding him at every turn that the man he loved was gone forever.
A gloved hand touched Scaramouche’s shoulder, and he shrugged it off. Wiping his tears frantically, he shook and let out sobs he wished would stay inside. He cursed his creator for giving him the ability to cry. The ability to love. He used to think he was the lucky one between him and the final version of himself. Now, he figured he would have been better off as an emotionless husk like the Raiden Shogun.
Kunikuzushi sniffled. “Just go away,” he demanded weakly. “If you— if you love me like he did… you’ll leave me alone.”
”He will love you.” That was the promise Dottore had made. ”He’ll be exactly like me, only better.” That was one thing that Kunikuzushi had never been able to get used to. For all of Dottore’s genius, he had always struggled more with human emotions than Kunikuzushi. He could never have understood what Scaramouche meant when he said that it wasn’t the same.
“Scaramouche, I do love you,” Dottore was saying. “That’s why I won’t leave you here.” He sighed, then without a second thought, removed his mask fully. Kunikuzushi looked away, only to have his chin gently grabbed and tilted to look back up.
The Dottore-clone’s scars and eyes stared Scaramouche down. To anyone else, he would look angry. Kunikuzushi knew that scowl better than anyone, though, and he knew that it was one of concern. That, perhaps, was the worst part of all of this. The Dottore-clone cared.
“I don’t understand why you insist on grieving like this.” Dottore’s voice was filled with desperation, a plea for Kunikuzushi to listen. He bent down to the Balladeer’s height, resting his hands on the puppet’s shoulders. He offered a strained smile, a pathetic attempt at comfort. Even after decades together, Dottore had never gotten better at showing his softer side.
Scaramouche scoffed, though he didn’t pull away this time. “You’re smarter than this,” he said with a humorless laugh, though he knew it wasn’t true. “You have his brain. You can figure it out.” He would have an eternity to do so, after all.
Dottore gripped Kunikuzushi’s shoulders tighter. “Kuni—“
“I told you not to call me that.”
“—Kunikuzushi.” Dottore sighed heavily, exhaustion washing over his eyes for a split second before he recovered. “We can make this work. Like you said, I don’t breathe or eat, but that’s good! I’m that much harder to kill now, and I won’t age! I’m exactly like Prime, but I’m better! I can always be by your side, and—
“That’s exactly what’s wrong with you.” Scaramouche reached up with one hand, taking one of Dottore’s and threading their fingers together. It felt like coming home, and fresh tears pricked the back of Kunikuzushi’s eyes.
He stared into Dottore’s crimson irises, the image of the man he loved blurring with tears. “You won’t die,” he said through sniffles. “But I’ll always know that the original you did. I’ll never be able to erase the fact that you… the other five… are not real.”
Dottore glanced at his hand, entwined with Scaramouche’s. He then looked back at Kunikuzushi, audibly swallowing. His expression was unreadable as he spoke, and his tone was even. “If I am not real,” he said, “then what does that make you?”
Kunikuzushi bristled, his face falling in shock. “That—“ He blinked rapidly, his artificial heart performing somersaults. “That’s different,” he protested, unable to keep himself from shaking. His voice rose to a high pitch and volume, and he didn’t even care as he began to scream.
“Y-you don’t know shit about me,” he roared, tears spilling down his cheeks. He could feel his internal cooling system working at a fevered pace in an effort to keep up with his rapidly heating system. “I’m the only one of me there is, you two-bit piece of trash! I—“
“And we both know who you were meant to replace!” Dottore’s grip on Scaramouche’s shoulder tightened until the puppet was locked in place. His expression twisted into a wild snarl that usually showed up on One, Two, and Three’s faces. “You may be unique now, but don’t forget whose image you were built in. And you aren’t unique. There’s a copy of you out there, Kunikuzushi. So get off of your fucking high horse and accept that you and I are in the exact same boat!”
Scaramouche was silent now, though fat tears still spilled from his eyes. He shook and sobbed, but he said nothing. He did remember where he had come from. He wished he didn’t. Perhaps then, he wouldn’t feel so useless. No wonder he had been discarded— he couldn’t even save the one person he wanted to save most in the world.
Dottore was breathing heavily— rather, imitating the motions of breathing. His eyes were slightly unfocused in that way they always got when he was particularly angry. Kunikuzushi watched as the Doctor let go of him entirely and ran a hand through his tousled bangs.
“I’m sorry,” Dottore said after a moment, unusually calm for a man who had just been screaming his throat raw. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” It had taken Kunikuzushi so long to get Dottore to learn how to apologize properly. Some part of him was glad he wouldn’t have to reteach that particular skill.
The Balladeer laughed bitterly. “Save your words,” he croaked, hugging his arms to his chest tightly. “We both know they won’t do anything.”
Dottore sighed, face still flushed with the anger he’d felt mere seconds earlier. The original had thought of everything— artificial blood vessels, and their responses to emotions. Kunikuzushi’s partner was— had been— a true artist.
Scaramouche remembered receiving the report. It had been a sunny day. That was the fucked-up cherry on top of the world’s shittiest cake. The sky couldn’t even be bothered to cry with Kunikuzushi as he read the cruel, heartless words printed lifelessly on glaringly white stationary.
Today, a great tragedy occurred. Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa’s, Fourth Harbinger, Il Dottore, has passed due to an unplanned explosion in his laboratory based in Fontaine. All Harbingers are required to attend the funeral hearing in five days when his remains have been identified.
A lab accident. The love of Kunikuzushi’s life— and he had long since gotten over using such sappy terms— had been killed in a fucking lab accident. A misplaced wire, a rookie mistake that had ended his life. He couldn’t have prepared for it, and yet he had a clone at the ready. Like he had accepted it long ago, and was just tying up the final loose ends in his life.
Kunikuzushi wiped his tears futilely. “…Why did he make you,” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked into the Dottore-clone’s eyes with more sorrow than he could ever remember feeling, aside from the day he had first heard the news of his partner’s death. The clone swallowed, his hands fidgeting in a way Scaramouche knew so well.
Dottore sucked in a deep breath, eyes glazing over as he fell into contemplation. “He ordered me not to tell you,” he muttered.
Kunikuzushi blinked. “What,” he said, his voice rising to a strained whine. Hurt stung his chest as he thought of Dottore— his Dottore— keeping a secret from him in his final days. “Why… why would he…?”
The clone shifted on his feet, wringing his hands nervously. His face was as professional-looking as ever, however, even as he began to speak. “I… think I’ll disobey that order,” he said carefully. “You’ll see why he wanted me to keep it a secret, of course, but… I think we both need this.”
Dottore would have known that his clone would disobey the order. It was just like him to resist any and all authority, even if it was himself. Scaramouche let out a shaky noise that was less of a laugh than a sob. “Of course,” he muttered. He wiped his eyes for the umpteenth time, and nodded curtly at the Dottore-clone.
The clone groaned, pivoting and beginning to pace back and forth. None of the Dottore clones, even the original human version, could ever stand still. Especially if they were anxious.
Dottore sighed, stopping after a minute or two of pacing. His voice lowered to almost a whisper, and his eyes took on an odd sense of solemnity as he spoke. “Kunikuzushi…” He exhaled slowly. “I’m… not a perfect copy.”
Scaramouche rolled his eyes sardonically. “I know that,” he snapped. “Get to the—“
“Get to the point, I know!” Dottore crossed his arms, staring into Kunikuzushi’s eyes sadly. “I… I mean that Prime deliberately eliminated a flaw when he created me. He… his hands were… He was losing coordination in his age, so…”
Oh.
Kunikuzushi covered his mouth with his hands, and sobbed hard. He could no longer restrain himself as he processed what the clone was implying. His mind raced to Dottore’s final months, searching for evidence of a tremor in his hands. He found nothing. Dottore, as it turned out, was very good at hiding things that were wrong with him. Defects.
Dottore’s hands had begun to shake. Scaramouche had never known. He should have known. If he had known, he would have stopped his partner from going to work. He would have forced Dottore to let his clones take on more dangerous tasks that required coordination. A misplaced wire. A rookie mistake. Oh, Celestia.
Large arms wrapped around Kunikuzushi, and for the first time in months, the Balladeer did not push the Dottore-clone away. Instead, he wailed. He clung to Dottore, pounding the man’s chest with one fist.
“Why didn’t he tell me,” he screamed, barely able to understand himself through his tears and the heavy blanket of despair that settled over him. “Wh-why didn’t…”
“I don’t know.” Dottore’s voice was a whisper. “Pride, maybe? Perhaps he didn’t want you to keep him away from work?” It was certainty disguised as ignorance, an answer masquerading as a question.
Kunikuzushi cried harder than he had in centuries. ”Idiot,” he wailed, burying his face in Dottore’s chest. He didn’t care if he stained the man’s shirt with his tears.
“…Yes,” Dottore whispered hoarsely. “Idiot.” Kunikuzushi felt drops of water hit the top of his head, and he dimly registered the tiny sobs that wracked Dottore’s chest.
“I’m sorry,” the researcher said through his tears. “I shouldn’t have… he shouldn’t have…”
“Shut the fuck up.” Kunikuzushi hugged the clone tighter, feeling steady hands rest on his back. Steady hands that his partner had worked so hard to create. Hands that could not, would not make a mistake again. Preparing for every eventuality.
Scaramouche did not let go of Dottore for hours. He longed to hear a human heartbeat in the man’s chest, but he knew he never would. This, however… the mechanical chug of pistons and gears, pumping ancient energy through Dottore’s body… It was close enough. For now, Kunikuzushi would allow himself to be grateful that he had something of his partner.
Dottore’s last gift to him. A version of him that was almost a perfect replica. Just like him, but better.
Better. The word did nothing to ease the pain in Kunikuzushi’s heart. “Better” would never be enough. For now, though… he could at least pretend that it would be.