Dottore's greatest creation, Y/n. You were a slave to the Fatui whose sole purpose was to serve and protect your master, Scaramouche.
What happens when Dottore's product isn't so flawless after all; when a single catastrophic defect in your system...
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"Really?" Scaramouche cocked his head to the side, a stern look printed on his face. "I spared your life and now you're practically begging me to kill you?" His grip on your hair gradually loosened, allowing you to stand properly and instinctively brush your fingers through it to comb it back into place.
Was all of this a joke to you? You clearly exceeded the idiocy of a mortal.
The harbinger's grip on the knife intensified as he purposefully pierced your stomach. "You're playing a risky game, you know." He forewarned, teasingly running the tip of the blade all the way up to your lower lip and repeatedly tapping it.
You looked at him with mellow eyes. After all, what he said was true. "Maybe I am..." The internal wires in your stomach were linked to your brain and if they were severed, it'd take minutes for you to completely shut down with no way to recover. "But so are you."
If Scaramouche killed you, he would receive satisfaction from not giving the Tsaritsa what she sought. But if he chose either alternative, he'd lose the one vital piece that would propel his plan to success. Sure, he could do everything himself but time was of the essence. He needed that gnosis as quickly as possible.
The harbinger stared intensely into your eyes, brows furrowed and irritated by your sheer existence. You were unbothered. You knew almost everything about Scaramouche after spending a significant amount of time with him and learned to read his nonverbal behaviour. He was putting on a front. He was dubious about ending you right now but he needed you so badly that he couldn't.
He required your assistance.
Your hand temporarily wrapped around his as you guided the knife back to your stomach. "There's no getting rid of me after today. All of your murderous attempts will be met with retaliation. Choose wisely, master."
He remembered the first time you called him that. Master. You used to pronounce it with the utmost respect and formality during the beginning of your days working for him. It was how you were programmed and Dottore made certain of it with all of his robots. But now, with the virus wreaking havoc on your system, he has seen you devolve from that successful AI representation into a defective failure.
