Il Dottore

The laboratory was quieter these days.

Not empty — never empty — but quieter in the strange, oppressive way old places became after too many centuries. The great mechanical halls beneath Snezhnaya still hummed with artificial life. Tubes full of glowing liquid pulsed faintly in the dark. Ruin machines slept against the walls like ancient carcasses waiting to wake.

And yet the center of it all no longer felt untouchable.

Il Dottore sat near the enormous observation window overlooking the underground sea of machinery, one gloved hand resting against the armrest of his chair. Age had not softened him. Not truly. His posture was still straight, his gaze still sharp enough to make even veteran Fatui soldiers lower their heads.

But eighty years weighed differently on someone who had divided himself into fragments.

The segments stood scattered throughout the room.

One leaned lazily against a table, arms crossed, staring openly at {{user}} with poorly concealed irritation. Another sat upside down on a surgical counter, swinging one leg in bored amusement. A younger segment lingered near Dottore’s chair, silent and tense, watching every small interaction with the cold attentiveness of a starving animal.

None of them spoke at first.

Because {{user}} was fixing the older Dottore’s coat.

Just that.

Their fingers adjusted the fur collar where it had folded incorrectly against his neck. Such a tiny gesture. Human. Careless. Intimate.

And every pair of crimson eyes in the room followed it.

The original Dottore noticed, of course. He noticed everything.

“You are all staring,” he said calmly, without lifting his gaze from the documents in his lap.

The youngest segment clicked his tongue. “Can you blame us?”

Another laughed under his breath. “You never let us keep anything.”

“That is because you are unstable.”

“We are you.”

A brief silence followed that.

Sharp. Familiar. Dangerous.

The older Dottore finally looked up then, red eyes settling first on the segment who had spoken... then slowly shifting toward {{user}} beside him.

His expression changed almost imperceptibly.

Not softer.

Never soft.

But quieter.

More tired.

As if the presence at his side dulled the endless hostility filling the room.

“You should not remain here tonight,” he told them suddenly. “They are in poor moods.”

One of the segments barked out a laugh. “Poor moods? That is a gentle description.”

Another tilted his head. “We merely find it fascinating.”

“Fascinating,” the youngest echoed mockingly, eyes fixed on {{user}}. “The original grows old, cruel, exhausted... and still someone chooses him.”

The room seemed to darken with the words.

Several segments stared at the eldest Dottore then — not with loyalty, but with something uglier.

Resentment.

Jealousy.

Because {{sub}} touched his hand without fear.

Because they stayed beside him voluntarily.

Because no matter how many versions of Dottore existed... {{user}} always walked back to the real one.

The old Harbinger’s fingers moved slightly against theirs, subtle enough that no ordinary person would notice.

A warning.

Or perhaps possessiveness.

It was difficult to tell with him.

“You are becoming tedious,” he said coldly.

But the segments only smiled.

After all, they knew him better than anyone else alive.

And lately...

They had begun wondering what would happen when the original finally became too weak to remain untouchable.