Barely a minute passes before the storms start again, pattering down onto the streets. For most of the population this is a cause for concern: waterproof or not, drying mechanical parts is a right pain in the arse.
The first crack of thunder sends them all scattering: into nearby shops, and under the awnings of the largest building on the street. Lightning flashes across the sky, and several pedestrians jump when a bell rings from within the building, rebounding out into the streets.
A sleek car parked in front of the school rolls its windows up.
Inside, a hand with nails more alike to claws turns a dial on the dashboard. Slowly, as if sifting through the sand of static the driver has been listening to, the frequency lands on a low voice, narrating its usual beats with the same amount of emotion it always holds.
‘ …the last cases of Deluge have been successfully cured. A spokesman from the Court of Fontaine says it is unlikely that the disease will ever resurface, even in androids. The Iudex has since normalised relations with the Fatui, promising diplomatic relations for the time being. May the Tsaritsa’s will reign forevermore.
‘Fourth Harbinger Arlecchino and Eleventh Harbinger Tartaglia are due to receive the highest recognition of honour from Her Majesty. The Fourth has declined to comment on the situation, while there is still no news on the Eleventh’s condition. Some sources claim that he is in recovery from the injuries sustained during his mission. Tsaritsa’s blessing be upon them.
‘The House of the Hearth is once again back in the spotlight—’
The radio is switched off at the exact moment the car door opens. A bedraggled, blond teenager stumbles in, followed by his morose-looking, equally blonde sister. The boy removes a bowler hat from his head, wincing when he realises how much water has gotten into the brim.
‘I’m not going to say “I told you so”,’ says his sister, monotone.
The boy sighs.
The car’s headlights switch on, piercing through the dark heralded by the ever-thickening layer of storm clouds. Cumulonimbus clouds, the driver muses, her clawed hands gripping the wheel with bruising force.
‘Did the teachers give you any trouble?’ she asks.
‘I think they know by now,’ says the boy called Lyney. ‘It’s kind of obvious. You can only attribute so much to coincidence, after all… isn’t that right, Lynette?’
Lynette, leaning against the window of the car, nods sleepily before letting out a loud, fake snore.
‘I wish they hadn’t started covering calculus right when we had to leave,’ says Lyney. ‘And it’s not like I can catch up—it’s either the chip or nothing.’
‘Trust me, half the things you learn here will never see practical usage.’
Her voice slides over the air like a spider’s legs tapping on fallen leaves. Just enough force to be weighty. Lyney runs his hands through his wet hair. ‘I know. You’ve told me that before, Father. It is merely a useful environment for me to hone other, subtler skills. Were they not useful in Fontaine?’
Rain patters onto the car’s roof, deafening. Through the din, Arlecchino’s voice remains clear. ‘You were an irreplaceable piece in that operation. If you simply wish to stay and accompany the other children, I can arrange for missions closer to home.’
‘That’s not—never mind.’
‘Should I drop you off at the usual spot?’
‘Are you going somewhere?’
‘I have a visit to make,’ says Arlecchino. She’s pressing on the brakes more often now, listening for the tell-tale sloshing of water around the wheels. Half an hour later, this street will fall to the floods. She seeks out the neon signboard at the end of the street, slowing down as she approaches. ‘Tell Freminet to come home early.’
‘Yes, Father. Come on, Lynette.’
As the car rolls to a stop, the door opens. The twins tumble out, Lynette somehow managing to overcome her sleepiness to regain her footing on the slippery sidewalk. Arlecchino waits for the door to slam before reversing, aligning with a barely noticeable side street before turning sharply, the side mirrors missing the bricks by a hair’s breadth.
~~~
The hospital’s lights flicker when she enters, accompanied by the faint smell of cigarette smoke. She toys with the idea of complaining to management, though she supposes it wouldn’t be worth having the lobby’s sickly bright lights functioning again.
There is no one at the reception counter, so she scrolls through the registry herself, finding her target on the high priority list. Fifth floor. She can afford to ignore the elevators then, with their mildew smell and barely functioning buttons.
The only person she runs into on the stairs is an intern who squeaks and drops his syringe when he sees her. Arlecchino ignores him. Finding the fire exit door unlocked, she shields her eyes when she enters the corridor. She turns to the floor-length windows to her right for reprieve from the blindingly bright lights. There she stands for a moment, watching rain lash against reinforced glass, the distant pinpricks of streetlights beyond the hospital’s dark compound. You would be forgiven for thinking her a statue: the only motion on her person remains the light movements of her long ponytail in a nonexistent wind.
Then, as if struck by an electrical shock, she turns on her heel and heads to the end of the corridor. Room 511. The door is locked, but she finds that old-fashioned padlocks work better against her than the newer digital variants.
With a click of her nails on the touchpad, she enters the room. The curtains are drawn, the window looking out onto a lake, its fathomless depths reflecting the myriad lights of the city in the distance. Silhouetted against the faint glow is a figure sitting up in its bed, fiddling with the sheets drawn up around its legs. A cybernetic arm, detached from its owner, rests on the nearby table. Arlecchino moves to stand beside him.
The man’s ginger hair almost glows in the night.
‘Come here to mock me?’ he says, the attempted flippance in his voice falling flat. He reaches for his prosthesis, firmly attaching it to his shoulder with a resounding ‘click’.
‘The Tsaritsa sends her regards,’ says Arlecchino. ‘Did you know? Everyone thinks you’re dead.’
‘Let them think what they want,’ says Tartaglia, Eleventh Harbinger. ‘Did you get my letter to my family?’
‘Sealed and delivered this morning.’
He sighs and sinks back into his cushions, attempting to draw his knees to his chest. He flinches when his hands close around nothing below his thighs. Arlecchino watches him shift slowly and painfully back onto his centre of gravity, gingerly placing the remains of his legs back onto the mattress.
‘Don’t tell me you’re going to follow through with the Good Doctor’s deal.’
‘What choice do I have?’ Tartaglia reaches for his table lamp, stopping himself from tipping over with a strategically placed arm. A warm orange glow fills the room, illuminating Tartaglia’s pale face, pinched and worn with exhaustion. ‘Foul Legacy needs intact limbs.’
‘We do have a generous severance package.’
‘It’s not a matter of money,’ he snaps. ‘I—you won’t understand.’
‘You are not the first to say that very same thing to me today,’ says Arlecchino. ‘Tell me, then. Is it purpose you crave? Or your humanity?’
‘So terribly cliched,’ says Tartaglia. His dull blue eyes meet hers. ‘Purpose I can find. And no matter what I do to myself, I will always be human.’
She notes down the bitterness in the last word. Tartaglia leans back on his elbows, examining what remains of his legs with a sort of morbid fascination. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he says. ‘Il Dottore left you a message.’
Arlecchino feels her hackles rise, but pushes it down, back into the watery abyss. Smooth as a mirror. ‘If he wants another assistant, tell him he can either personally make a request or give up entirely. The House of the Hearth asks a high price.’
‘Ah, no, it’s got nothing to do with your kids. It’s from Pierro, and he says it’s from the Tsaritsa. Fun game of telephone they’ve got going on here,’ says Tartaglia, the shadow of his youth peeking through as he props himself up on his side. ‘He says to meet him in his office by tomorrow morning, between seven to nine.’
‘Did he say what for?’
‘Hm, not exactly. If I had to hazard a guess, though, it’s probably Fontaine again. Some kind of wrap-up. Wish I could go,’ he adds grouchily. ‘I’ve got some unfinished business with that Iudex.’
‘You’re not going anywhere without your prostheses,’ says Arlecchino. ‘Thank you for passing the message along. Speaking of which…’
She reaches into her coat and pulls out an envelope, its format five years out of date. Tartaglia’s eyes widen at the chicken-scratch handwriting on the cover, and he swipes it out of Arlecchino’s hands as soon as she gets close enough.
‘Teucer… what did he do this time?’
‘Your parents need to start keeping your brother on a leash,’ says Arlecchino, watching Tartaglia extract the contents of the envelope with shaking hands. ‘He was at the post office this morning. Thankfully, his sister saved me the trouble of getting him home myself. Count your blessings, Tartaglia. Your entire family is a beacon for disaster.’
She wonders if he even heard her, his attention fixed on the neon pink origami cranes that tumble out of the envelope into his lap. He freezes at the sight, reaching out to touch one of the cranes with the tip of his finger, as if afraid he might tear it.
Arlecchino gives him one final nod before leaving, making sure to re-lock the door behind her.
hi chat i said i'd deliver. tell me if i did.
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