|| The Harbinger's Guest ||

|| Part 10 ||

Author's note:

That moment when you remember that I'm still gonna make Scaramouche lose his identity once this is all over. 😈😈

Also Arlecchino... my goodness.

~

Scaramouche stood behind the door, waiting.

He had been down here enough times to create the regular routine of stopping for a moment before walking inside. Before he inevitably met with Dottore. It was strange- he really didn't care about these meetings, yet his body still stopped every time, without fail. Usually he would find this silly. This time, he stared at the metal, and the metal stared back at him. His body was stiffer.

He reached for the door handle and twisted it open, walking inside with the same motion as always. Right foot forward first, his hands at his sides. He made sure not to cross his arms during these meetings. He made sure not to show any annoyance or discomfort in his expressions. He wanted to appear in control, because that was what he was. In control. He decided to be here.

The second Harbinger stood within the left side of the room, where some sort of monitor was placed. Scaramouche had never asked about it, because he supposed he never needed to. This room was different to the one the Traveler had been taken to- that one had been larger, and used for a multitude of purposes. This room was created especially for the Balladeer.

"Sit down," Dottore instructed simply. His typical preying was cut short within these sorts of meetings. In a way, Scaramouche was grateful for this.

Scaramouche walked over to the operating table and took a seat, his back facing Dottore. He felt the other harbinger approaching behind him, and felt him pause, the air in the room completely still. Scaramouche realised what he had forgotten. He sighed, and began pulling off his clothing, leaving his back and chest bare for Dottore to observe. He lightly tilted Scaramouche's head forward and brushed away some of his hair, his finger grazing over the electro emblem on the back of Scaramouche's neck. Scaramouche tensed.

Dottore attached a device to the back of his neck, a tube connecting to another machine. This was the first test since their experiment became a failure. The first examination, Scaramouche could say. Scaramouche guessed, or rather hoped, that this was simply an observation rather than an experiment. It would be a lot quicker if it were the former.

Scaramouche remembered the question he had told himself to ask. He continued to stare straight ahead at the blank wall. "Where are you keeping the Gnosis?"

Dottore was quiet for a moment. "It is kept safe somewhere."

That's not an answer, Scaramouche wanted to say. He didn't speak, though. He stared at the wall in front of him, focusing on a specific spot just to keep his mind occupied. Dottore wouldn't tell him where the Gnosis was kept. That bothered him, but he had no room to argue. No right to argue anything at all.

"I have gone over the experiment with some others, and we've decided that the project will be put aside," Dottore explained, his voice like a knife slicing into the silence.

Scaramouche's head twitched, a second thought keeping it in place. Scaramouche wondered what he meant by 'others'. His voice became softer, only for a moment. "For... how long?"

"Until the project is deemed suitable to continue..." Dottore answered plainly.

Not anytime soon, Scaramouche put together. Dottore started to place more of the pumps and the wires into Scaramouche's back, his sides, his arms. Scaramouche sat limply. He didn't feel anything yet. This was not normal.

"I am going to do something different," Dottore explained, his hand lingering on Scaramouche's back, his finger stroking down the indents of Scaramouche's spine. "I want to see how your body has recovered since the experiment."

"How is that different?" Scaramouche questioned, his voice returning to its usual tone.

"I will drain the electro energy from your body," Dottore answered.

Scaramouche eyes widened in alert. His head turned towards The Doctor. "Is this some kind of punishment?"

Dottore, for a moment, was silent, yet there was no hint of any guilt written on his face. "Is that your first instinct? To call this a punishment?"

Scaramouche went silent, straightening himself. His palms became fists around the edge of the table.

"If you believe you deserve punishment, there are better ways I can provide that. More efficient ways," Dottore states. He steps away from the Balladeer. "I suppose, failing at your own purpose must feel quite... devastating. If pain is what you seek, I wouldn't blame you."

Scaramouche took in a sharp breath, as if he were about to say something. He didn't. His eyes were somewhat widened, fixated on Dottore's actions as his attention was turned to the monitor Scaramouche was now attached to. He felt the wires piercing his skin, along with the ache in Scaramouche's chest becoming more recognisable. His thoughts lingered on Dottore's words. Your own purpose.

His mind was brought back to when he had occasionally heard some specific childish debates in his lifetime- arguments of which body part of theirs was most important. Arms. Legs. Brains. Some said hearts, an opinion that had made Scaramouche chuckle at those times. Humans could not function with only one organ, yet for someone like him, Scaramouche had a valid reason to voice his answer without a second thought. The space between his ribs and, funnily enough, where a heart would fit inside a human, was Scaramouche's most purposeful body part. The place where a Gnosis was meant to be carried. Scaramouche had no difficulty admitting what he had been created for- it was only fact he had not fulfilled that purpose, even after coming so close. That was what had created that feeling of a gaping hole in his chest, where a human's heart would normally reside.

He turned his head back to the empty wall in front of him, forcing himself to feel that failure burn within his skin. His chest continued to cave in, as it had been doing for years. Centuries, even. He awaited this new pain, and decided he would welcome it. It was impossible to deny that Scaramouche's purpose would, most likely, never be fulfilled again. His attempt at reaching divinity had failed. He could sit, and he could go over who to blame, cursing the golden haired hero as he once would have. Scaramouche knew, deep in that gaping hole in his chest, the only one he could blame was himself. It had always been himself. Perhaps if he had gone with the fool's choice, and prioritised his heart, he would have been wiped from this land long before he had the chance to fail so many times.

As he finished that thought, he felt his body become shocked by a sudden jolt. His limbs began to go numb. His mind went blank. Waves of strange senses crashed over him. Needles piercing into every part of his body. A strange tightness within his muscles. Every inch of his body aching intensely as the electro energy was extracted from deep within himself. His lips pursed in an attempt to keep himself from making any noise.

Amidst the pain, and amidst the Balladeer's attempt at recovering from the initial shock, a slight laugh came from his lips.