Chapter Text
‘The first Daguerreotypes will soon be available outside the cinema business ! Coming straight from Fontaine, get yours soon-’
‘-e frontlines seem frozen again. The imperial palace remains quiet regarding the advancement of the war against-’
‘-y Street ! Two new people went missing this week. The gendarmerie did not make any official statement yet. The missing cases are stacking, six in one month-’
‘-ming back from Liyue, the Korolevski troupe returned to Snezhnograd to perform their new opera hosted by the palace’s playhouse ! In less than two days, they already hit the headli-’
‘The line is not fixed yet.’ The banker absently noted, his focus drifting away the dusty microphone of the omnibus radio. His purple pupils absently stared out, beyond the dirty windows flanking his seat. He couldn’t discern the shape of the building outside. Moonlight barely reached the narrow boulevard; the roofs were too high, too wide.
His fingers fiddled with the fake gemstones adorning his rings.
Evenings never differed.
They never had, and never will.
The routine of a bank clerk hardly ever did so either. He was always exiting his shabby office at the exact same hour; eating the same cheap dinner in a crowded bouillon, spending the exact same amount of money on it before returning to his place; and eventually tread the old rug of his door at 22.04 p.m. Like clockwork. Weather could not impact his meticulous schedule. Like an automaton following the commands with his well-oiled gear, he played the script that had been written for him. Flawlessly.
Strong gusts of an icy wind were charging at the rusty bus.
The banker lived in a foggy street. A foggy, nameless street.
Where it was difficult to see pedestrians' faces. Where it was impossible to feel the time pass save the few seconds one would look at a corroded pocketwatch. Where nobody knew anyone else's name - he was convinced those people didn't have a striking one. Just as he himself didn't have one either.
Yet.
Names were as delicate as coins; the more one was minting gold, the finer it became. Until one day, this purposeless piece of ore morphed into the deadliest form of power humans could reach for.
He would mint himself a name worth remembering, worth weaponizing. And carve it in the foul mist of this city.
This nameless banker lived in a foggy street.
Where everyone survived on scraps, with just the right amount of mora tucked in worn pouches. Just the amount needed to afford one meal a day and mend their old, ragged raincoat once a year.
He lived in a nameless, foggy street where good people were never rewarded for their good deeds. It did not matter. The banker had never been inclined to perform those.
The bus stopped. Everything froze as motion halted, and the banker waited slightly more. The device recoiled, making its innards shake and tremble. It pressed on the rusty rails supporting the wagon; when would they finally give in ?
He finally stood up, disturbing the odd stillness of the worn, empty inside. The sound of his steps echoed in the hollow omnibus, bouncing on its metallic walls and ragged leather seats.
They had reached the last stop.
Walking out, his heels clicked on the shaky step. He pulled a filthy mora out of his new pouch, and slid it through the window of the conductor’s cabin. Void, as always.
Everyone was eager to leave this side of the city; he had never caught a glimpse of the driver’s face. But omnibuses did not move by themselves.
The banker would always pay his ride before sinking deeper into the entrails of the sleepless capital. Tonight was no exception. His grip on his cane tightened as he engulfed in the maze of narrow alleys.
Rain was pouring over the rooftops; he didn't feel the drops hit his skin, but could still hear the clatter of water crashing on the dilapidated tiles over his head. Those alleys were too cramped for the flurry to slip in - only drizzle passed through.
Sneznayan capital was always shaken by floods. Except during winter, when harsh drops would be replaced by sharp snowflakes or hailstones. But those cramped passages were hardly ever impacted by this climate change. Fog was always littering the filthy, damp ground. And the darkness of the late hours only served its opaqueness.
The banker was not intimidated. He had taken this exact same way for the past five years. For a bit more than 1823 days.
His worn boots landed in a muddy puddle, stomping on the old, drenched newspaper.
'Four New People Went Missing in One Month' said the fading ink of the headlines. The banker took the street to his left when he hit the first crossroads.
Right, left, left, left, right-
His steps froze. Not because the biting cold of the street had finally made its way to his bones, but because the dim lighting of the venue suddenly intensified; casting its shadow farther away.
Today, the lamps of this odd shop were lit up.
A surprising occurrence, rare enough to be worth mentioning. His eyes lingered on the display, where glass was caging strange dolls. Strange, because they looked almost real. Alive. With their glass eyes and proportionate, wooden bodies. They were not unsightly per se - quite the opposite, actually. Crafted with an odd, ugly care.
The banker pulled out his pocket watch, and had the displeasant surprise to find the clock hand twitching over the same glided digit. How troublesome.
When he tucked the device back in his inner pocket, his purple pupils caught on a special piece. A small playhouse, where eleven little dolls were lined up. Amongst them stood one, dressed in black and purple shades and matching the puffy coats of the others. This one seemed a bit more detailed than the others, a pair of glasses glued to its face, tiny rings adorning its fingers. The banker absently readjust the cheap ones adorning his left hand, not taking his gaze away. He could not tear his eyes away from the vitrine. Not yet.
The lantern dangling over the entrance casted a gloomy light over the glass of the display, mirroring in the banker’s eyes. He could see the reflection of his own face loom over the purple doll. Over the silver plaque where the character’s name was engraved.
The resemblance was amusing.
This mirth and mild curiosity convinced him to go in and take a look. Just for a couple of minutes - he would walk faster to make up for his lateness.
His gloved hand pulled down the old handle, pushing the door open. No bell rang. The man easily spotted what was left of the broken bronze item on the floor nearby. This place was truly ancient.
And yet, the location would be rather appropriate for any type of business that demanded discretion. Lost in a maze of misty alleys.
"Good evening." He mechanically uttered when passing through the threshold. His polite words were greeted by a loud silence. The buzz of the light filled the room. What a surprise. He wasn’t aware any of those decrepit buildings had electricity. The aisle of the bank he was working in did not have it installed yet.
Dolls littered each shelf, cornering the old, wooden counter. The silver cashier was full of red stains. Rust.
The banker paid it no mind.
His purple eyes took in the room once more. The upper floor seemed connected to the shop; steep stairs stood in the background, near what seemed to be a storage.
The entire place was dilapidated. And cheap ornaments only helped emphasizing how old the shop truly was. Given the location, the price would be rather affordable. And a good spot to start a business. Any form of business.
Yet, the owner bought it and decided to sell dolls.
How intriguing.
His eyes trailed calmly over the ceramic shapes crowding the place. Most of the dolls had purple eyes. An odd color. And those glassy orbs looked wider than their eyesockets, stretching the wax around their corners and teardrops.
He leaned in.
“Has anything caught your interest so far?” A low voice suddenly rose to his left. The banker did not flinch, but still glanced sideways.
Someone had walked down the stairs, and the figure was now standing by the uneven counter; right hand neatly tucked behind his back, unreadable red eyes zeroed in on the banker. Given the unknown man’s posture, he seemed to have been waiting for quite some time already.
The banker hadn't heard him arrive. Hadn’t felt the minutes fading away.
He hadn’t felt his crimson gaze on him either. Now that he was fully aware of those two sharp pupils resting on him, the skin of his face scratched a little. His fingers held onto the cane tighter. This had to be the shop owner - this had to be the dollmaker. Given the type of business this was and the cheap state of the place, he doubted the doll fabrikant could afford employees.
He straightened his back, away from the shelf. An affable smile wrinkled his smooth wax-like skin.
“Ah, good evening.” The banker repeated vainly - the man had probably caught it the first time. He wouldn’t have returned to the shop if not. Silence welcomed his greeting once more, as the newcomer stood quietly before him. He did not mind. The banker proceeded to answer the lingering query. “All of your pieces are remarkable. It would be dishonest to state I considered buying any of the models so far, however the shop itself is located in a rather appealing spot.”
He had given up on finding a new facility for his side business long ago. About two or three years before, and had used the save up money to buy a cheap apartment in this foggy alley instead.
The man’s grayish eyebrow twitched slightly, curling upwards as he processed the banker’s words. He did not look offended. He did not look anything at all.
“What kind of business would cause a proper-looking man such as yourself to take interest in this dilapidated place ?”
The banker’s smile almost widened. ‘Proper-looking’.
“Who knows.” He fiddled with the pommel of his cane; the seller’s eyes sharpened. The bank clerk felt those burning pupils size him up - more intense than a hundred glassy doll eyes. Something was wrong with his right one. He couldn’t quite put words on what exactly felt off. “I take it this place is not for sale ?”
“Indeed, it’s not. I am not in such dire straits that would render me vulnerable to the false pity of a regrator.” The words easily came out, and the sharp tone was discouraging. Yet, it held no spite nor harshness. And it was not as even and hollow as those poor people the banker kept on encountering at work. Colleagues, patrons. As the passerbys’ of his foggy street. As the flawed, mechanic voice of the radio in the rusty omnibus.
The smile cracked further up through his cheeks.
“Now, do not misinterpret my intentions here. I am merely curious, as I wasn’t aware people bought a lot of dolls these days.” The other’s eyes narrowed; seeing someone smile was a rarity lately. The banker’s affable expression screamed deceit and mischief. “But if the market is good, I could consider investing in this place.”
His worn pouch was painfully light. Tucked in his inner pocket, next to his broken pocketwatch and above his heart; it burnt. The banker was indeed an inhabitant of this foggy street, without names, titles nor enough money. ‘There was no such a thing as ‘enough money’’.
The proper-looking banker could not buy this place. He could invest in it so much the shop would one day belong to him. It would be slow and wasteful. And he was not a patient man.
But a nameless bank clerk could not decide whether or not he was willing to wait. Hence, he would. It couldn’t be helped.
He would not learn patience. But let his greed ease his vexation.
It seemed like a viable plan for now. But-
“You do not strike me as someone who would sell dolls.” Silence stretched. Their watchers were as quiet as they were, waiting wordlessly for another word to shake this prison of wax and glass. The owner of the shop yielded first. “Nor as someone who would stop by a shop like mine and show off filthy money.”
The banker did not take offense. He maybe should have.
“I meant no harm with that genuine proposal of mine. Plus, you don’t quite fit the picture yourself.” The last bit had been added in sheer defiance and boredom. His interest had been piqued. A senseless interest in this place. In this strange, weary-looking dollmaker. In his intriguing, purple-eyed creations.
Time was passing; night grew older. Fatigue was clouding his mind.
“.... The shop is closed.” The dollmaker finally retorted, his left hand sliding away from behind his back. Straight behind the counter. It abandoned a metal item there; the banker heard its clank against the steel of the cashier.
“The door was not.” The banker offered, his focus returning on the odd display the shop was giving him. His fingertips burnt with the need to touch the face of one of the models. The wax looked soft. Maybe too soft. The only thing that prevented him from reaching out was those purple eyes staring through its head. He could see the details of the groves and collarette painted with soft strokes inside. The words spilled from his lips, no longer watching his host.“I also meant no harm walking here.”
“Ah, no. It seems to be my mistake then.” Steps approached, making the dusty wooden floor crack under the man’s weight. “The rain is harsh this evening. You should consider staying here until it ceases. However, I would not advise wandering around at late hours. Those streets are the ideal setting to stumble across unpleasant encounters. And the alleys are full of rats.”
The banker eyed the outside. Droplets barely made it to the ground, crashing vainly against the muddy cobblestones. Disappearing under the mist. The filthy display of the dollshop was not wet either. It had been a very long time since rain had reached its glass. It showed.
The banker lived in a foggy street. Where the roofs were so high and cramped rain hardly passed through.
“I will gladly take the proposal then.” His eyes returned to the dollmaker. Staring straight into the man’s. “Thank you, Mister…?”
“... Dottore.” The accent was unexpected. It rolled on the other’s tongue smoothly, and wrapped around this foreign name, smothering it with a deceiving softness. Soft, because it sounded familiar.
He could not say from where it was. Nor where he had heard it before. The banker had never left Snezhnograd. He was born in its bloody snow. And he would die in its opaque mist.
The accent was unknown. The noun itself was not. His eyes drifted back to the little playhouse standing proudly in the shop window. His purple eyes narrowed behind his glasses, as if vainly trying to spot those little plaque names adorning the display.
"Il Dottore." The banker uttered to himself; it felt like the most natural thing in the world. His voice was not touched by this accent he had never heard before, but he felt like he had somehow got it right. An odd sense of satisfaction passed through his left eye.
The dollmaker looked almost pleased hearing the faint recognition in the banker’s voice.
“And to whom do I have the honor ?”
"Pantalone." He vomited easily. Maybe he should have thought it over a bit more. Maybe he should not have entered this shop. Maybe he should not have stopped by this vitrine first.
Maybe, maybe, maybe…
The odd contentment in Dottore’s look intensified. Its glinting brought life to that dull crimson pupil.
"Ha!” Pantalone had not expected this thoughtless response of his to be what would break through the dollmaker’s frozen composure. His sudden laugh took Pantalone off guard. Unpredictable people were not common. But Dottore paid no mind to the banker’s surprised reaction. “A peculiar pick, I must say.”
“Is it ?” His tight smile forced its way back on his smooth features. Its lack of warmth or honesty didn’t seem to disturb his host. How irritating. “I’d say yours seems more unconventional for a dollmaker.”
“Dollmaking is nothing but studying human anatomy to the point of being able to replicate them with wood and wax.” Dottore pointed out. His voice still even; his eyes still zeroing on Pantalone’s figure. The banker’s purple eyes had yet to look away from the glass display of the shop.
The answer seemed reasonable enough. It only served to increase Pantalone’s annoyance. His lips tightened over his smile. The location was worth putting on with this infuriatingly mysterious host.
“Are you looking for anything in particular ? Aside from acquiring the building ?”
“No.” The answer spilled out Pantalone’s cold lips too fast. But the other did not pick up on it. Of course not. Yet, Dottore’s disturbing, undying attention was still on him. His piercing eyes were fathoming his soul, looking for something Pantalone knew he couldn’t bestow upon him. He wasn’t exactly sure why. He didn’t care why.
Snezhnograd was full of people like this. Of people like him and Dottore. Relentlessly yearning for something unreachable. Pantalone was not about to question this either.
“If not, why did you walk in ?” Dottore leaned against the oak counter, approaching the thick candle burning down its rusty silver plate. With the fire lighting up his face, the abnormality of his right eye was left exposed. The glassy pupil did not stir under the eyelid moves. And its red was of a lighter hue than the other one. When Dottore looked back up at him, its jagged motion caught Pantalone’s attention.
Staring could be viewed as rude.
He did not care.
His reply to the man’s troublesome questioning was not gentle either.
“Is it a habit of yours to treat all your potential customers so harshly?” Troublesome, because bound to be left without answers. Pantalone had no idea why he had stopped by this shop. Why he had wasted his fleeing time watching wax dolls displayed in the vitrine.
Why he had walked in this dilapidated shop.
Why he had decided tonight was fitting to try concluding a business collaboration with this odd-looking dollmaker.
Why he had accepted his proposal to stay.
Why he had decided not to walk away while no raindrops were crashing down the alleys.
Why he was replying to Dottore’s questions.
It just felt like the wrong thing to do.
Hence, Pantalone would keep on humoring his senseless desires.
“You are no customer.”
Dottore was right. He was not here to buy anything. But the familiarity of this unknown place retained him in the old shop. Retained him in this purposeless conversation with that stranger.
“I could have been looking for a gift for a daughter or a distant niece.” He retorted. He answered; instead of turning his heels and walking away.
This reply made Dottore pause. He considered his next words for a bit longer this time.
“Do you have any ?”
Pantalone hummed, letting his gloved fingers trace the edges of ancient music boxes displayed on the table at the center of the shop. He could not understand how exactly his answer would be relevant, but enjoyed the subtle impatience growing on Dottore’s facial features.
“No, I was merely evoking a hypothetical scenario. To encourage you to rethink your customer service entirely.” He could not let the dollmaker go bankrupt after having proposed to him a partnership. Not so soon. Later on, when Pantalone would have gathered enough money to buy this place from him; at a demoted price of course. A failed shop was much cheaper.
The conflicted look on Dottore’s face was easily washed away. Once his composure was regained, his mismatched eyes returned to this unreadable appearance. It was troublesome - Pantalone prided himself on being good at reading others’ minds. It was the prerogative of a banker to know his clients' motivations, after all.
“I should have guessed. It is rare to see families move to this side of the city. Those streets are not cut out for children to play.” Dottore had not struck him as a talkative person. Even when he was entertaining a conversation with him, Pantalone could feel how forced most of the words were.
The banker still indulged him with answers. And did not let the talk die down. Not yet.
“Do you happen to live nearby?”
“Upstairs.” Silence followed this laconic answer.
Candlewax leaked on the oak counter as the flame consumed it. Pantalone had not realized the stick was so close to the end. He could have sworn it had looked new and thick when he had walked in. Dottore seemed to realize where the banker’s eyes were focusing. His glass eyeball rolled to the side, landing on the flame in a jerk. He promptly spoke again, drafting Pantalone’s attention away. “It is a prodigious gain of time, and allows me to react in case anyone decides to break in.”
Pantalone’s expression eased up a little; the previous, usual smile frozen on his traits morphing into a mirthful grin when he heard the jab.
“Aside from lost pedestrians, I doubt anyone would trespass in a dollshop.” The dollmaker scoffed. It sounded odd and weary. It wasn’t an ugly sound. Merely unexpected; seeing someone smile was a rarity lately. Ghosts of laughter were infrequent. And Dottore’s was uncanny.
“You would be surprised by the amount of rats and other nuisances that pass by this crossroads.” It was Dottore’s turn to sound almost amused now. Almost. His eyes narrowed once more. “People with scammy business offers are rarer.”
It was not uncommon for people to use this term to qualify his work. Scammy. Pantalone did not take offense. Of course not.
“I’m not a scammer. I’m a banker.” He evenly responded. His voice was as smooth and deceiving as the one he would use anytime he was dealing with a difficult patron at work. Affable, bordering on obsequious. Nobody had ever commented on it. He had always been good with words.
Yet, Dottore did not seem charmed.
“I wasn’t aware those two words were not synonyms.”
Again, Pantalone did not feel offended. He definitely should have. But the cold, deadpan answer earnt a laugh out of him instead. When was the last time he laughed genuinely ? This dollmaker, this Doctor was truly one of a kind. Pantalone could not decide whether it was a good or a bad thing. Unpredictability could be entertaining, and very useful. But dangerous too.
What he was certain of however, was that he either despised or enjoyed this stranger’s company.
“My offer is genuine.” He still reminded, walking back to the counter. As if to prove his goodwill, Pantalone rummaged through the inner pocket of his lapelled jacket to pull out a card. The edges were dog-eared, and the ink of the calligraphed letters had started to fade away.
“I know.” Dottore sounded convinced. More convinced than Pantalone actually was. The banker’s brows faintly furrowed - he still did not dwell on it any further. He couldn’t have either way; Dottore’s voice rose in the silent shop after a moment. “...I will contact you.”
Pantalone simply nodded. It was satisfying for now.
His fingers tightened around the pommel of his cane as he turned away from the counter.
“I will be on my way now.”
“It is still raining.” Dottore remarked. He remained perfectly still as he observed the banker walk away.
“Yes.” ‘And in one hour, it will still be raining.’ Pantalone’s steps made the wooden floor crack as he was heading towards the entrance of the shop. Towards the exit. Hundreds of glassy eyes followed his track. He felt Dottore’s own pierce holes in his back. “I would feel bad wasting more of your precious time.”
Pantalone did not turn away as he crossed the threshold. Fog greeted him outside; as if it had been waiting for him. It swallowed his last words.
“Have a nice evening, Doctor.”
Inside the shop, the dollmaker kept his gaze on the old, stained door for a few seconds more. His gloved fingers closed on the flame of the now fully consummate candle, smothering the light between his thumb and index.
“Goodbye, Regrator.”
The lamp outside went out.