Scaramouche found himself in Hana's workshop for their weekly meeting.
From the corner of his eye, he looked at the one-eyed fox. It kept following him, even after he left Sethos's room. However, once he reached Hana's workshop, only then did it abandon Scaramouche. It jumped to its pet bed and started napping. Traitor, he thought.
He watched as Hana expertly removed the last of his modifications. The sight of his mechanical parts spread out on her tray made him feel queasy. It was unsettling to see pieces of himself detached and displayed in such a clinical manner. It reminded him of this new vulnerability of his own body. They were just mechanical parts, sure. But was it any different than a human seeing their liver removed and twitching on some cold surface?
As he tried to distract himself from the discomfort, he busied himself with other topics. His mind wandered to memories of Dottore, the doctor who had performed countless surgeries on him to enhance his abilities. Each time he returned from a dangerous mission, Dottore would be waiting with his tools, ready to make him stronger. Each procedure was painful, for obvious reasons, but Scaramouche never hesitated to undergo them. The rush of power that came with each new modification was addictive, and he craved the feeling of invincibility that it brought.
But now, as he watched Hana delicately dismantling his parts, he couldn't help but feel a sense of loss again. Was he ever going to stop mourning them, now when he never had to visit Hana's shop starting today? These modifications had become a part of him, a source of strength and identity. Seeing them taken apart felt like a betrayal, a stripping away of his very essence.
His original body, though self-sufficient, was merely a simple, foolish puppet compared to the powerful being he had become thanks to Dottore's upgrades. No longer just a beautiful puppet, he had become a creature dwelling in the Abyss. Scaramouche bore the semblance of a God, all thanks to the skilled hands and ''upgrades'' gifted to him by Il Dottore.
Countless nights were spent watching Dottore carefully tinker with his joints, transforming him into something greater than he could have ever imagined. How many times had he watched that man work on his joints, while gossiping about their coworkers together? Despite their differences and the distaste he sometimes felt towards the man, the ''understanding'' that developed over centuries of working together could not be denied. They may not have been friends–Archons knew they barely tolerated each other. But they maintained a civil relationship when necessary.
In contrast to Dottore's precise touch, Hana's ageing fingers brought a different kind of warmth. Though her hands showed the effects of time, they exuded a comforting energy that Dottore's could not replicate. Her hands were not as warm as Sethos's but... He stopped himself, the mere thought of that man sent shivers down Scaramouche's spine.
He hadn't slept after meeting him a few hours ago and he was doing his best to not think about him. He didn't even want to meet or talk to him that day. The more distance they had between them, the better. He hadn't recovered enough brain power to deal with his weird antics.
Scaramouche was caught off guard by the sudden hush that had descended upon the room, his brow furrowing in confusion as he realised that a question had been directed at him. He blinked, his gaze shifting to Hana with a sheepish expression.
"Huh? Sorry, can you repeat that?" he stammered, feeling a bit flustered at being so seemingly out of the loop.
Hana gave him a careful, weird look; as though she were trying to decipher the inner workings of his mind.
"Bamoun wishes to see you after this," she repeated, her words carrying a weight that drew his attention.
It took Scaramouche a few moments to recall just who Bamoun was; his thoughts had been preoccupied with other matters. His focus was lodged firmly in the past, but it lasted less than a few seconds.
