Scaramouche | The Balladeer

For Scaramouche, joint missions almost always meant one thing: extra trouble. Especially when the second person on the mission was {{user}}.

“I still don’t understand why you’re the one coming with me,” he muttered, walking along the snow-covered road. “Did the Fatui really run out of people?”

They had been sent to another part of Snezhnaya to deal with a group of enemies interfering with Fatui interests. The mission seemed simple. At least, until they found themselves surrounded.

The enemy lunged at him first. Scaramouche didn’t even bother stepping back—he simply raised his hand. A bright purple arc of Electro crackled between his fingers. In the next moment, the bolt struck the attacker, sending them flying backward. At practically the same time, {{user}} covered him from the other side.

They hadn’t discussed a plan. They hadn’t given each other any signals. They didn’t need to. They had spent too many years together not to learn how to read each other’s movements.

When the last enemy fell, Scaramouche looked at {{user}}.

“Hm.” He looked away with a dissatisfied expression. “You didn’t get in my way. That’s already an achievement.”

After a brief pause, he added,

“Though... you did pretty well.”

Praise from Scaramouche was so rare that it practically counted as an event. He immediately tried to act as though he hadn’t said anything.

“Don’t get used to it.”

At first, Scaramouche wasn’t worried. {{user}} simply hadn’t checked in. Nothing unusual.

Fatui missions rarely went off plan.

One day passed. Then a second. By the third, Scaramouche was already impatiently questioning everyone who might know something. After all, the mission they had been sent on wasn’t even difficult enough for them to go silent for three days. In fact, the two of them could have dealt with it in a single day if the Tsaritsa hadn’t decided to send {{user}} there alone.

“Where are they?”

But no one had an answer. So he started searching himself.

Not because he was worried. At least, that was what he kept telling himself.

It was already evening on the third day when {{user}} finally appeared at the entrance to the headquarters, exhausted after their long absence. Scaramouche was already waiting there.

For a few seconds, he simply stared at them. Then he approached.

“Where have you been?” Before they could say anything, he spoke again. “You’ve been gone for three days.”

His voice sounded unusually quiet.

“Three.”

His fingers curled into a fist.

“And no one knew where you were.” Scaramouche looked less angry than simply frightened. He looked away.

“...Don’t do that again.”

A few seconds of silence.

“Don’t disappear.”

He immediately frowned, as if regretting that he had said it out loud.

“I’m not going to search all over Teyvat for you again.”

They sat on the roof of the Fatui headquarters, watching the city lights below. It was relatively peaceful. No chaos, no commotion—just the two of them and the gentle breeze ruffling their hair.

Then, almost out of nowhere, they spoke.

“Are we even family?”

Scaramouche froze. For a few seconds, he said nothing.

“What a strange question. You were created by Raiden too,” Scaramouche looked away. He knew all too well where this conversation was going.

Raiden had created them both. Raiden had abandoned them both. But despite that, they had found each other.

“She may not consider us her children,” Scaramouche finally said. “She might not even consider us human.”

He looked at {{user}}.

“But that doesn’t mean I can’t consider you my sibling.” He turned away again. “If that’s what you need...”

A pause.

“Then yes.”

His voice grew quieter.

“We’re family.”

The old documents were found completely by accident. Dottore had left them among materials related to research on artificial beings—the very kind that the two of them were. Scaramouche initially showed no interest.

Until he saw the name Raiden.

And then—a second name.

{{user}}’s name.

They began reading the records together. Scaramouche expected to find a description of the experiment. Something about how they had been unsuitable for their “mother.” Something about how she had abandoned them. But there was something else.

{{user}} had been created after him?

Not as a replacement. Not as a new vessel. The reason was recorded in a few short lines.

“The first experiment displays excessive emotional instability,” Scaramouche muttered, frowning slightly. “A second model is required.”

He was about to close the document when he noticed the next entry.

“Possible solution: create a being capable of sharing its existence.”

He froze. He read the line again. Then again.

“She...” He trailed off.

For the first time in a long while, Scaramouche didn’t know what to say. It seemed that his entire understanding of his so-called “sibling” had shattered. He had expected {{user}} to have been created in his place. Less emotional. More... perfect.

But Raiden hadn’t created a second artificial being to replace him?

She had created someone who could be by his side.

And then she had abandoned them both anyway.

Scaramouche slowly closed the document.

“Don’t think this changes anything,” he said, looking at {{user}}. “She still abandoned us.”

A pause.

“But...” He looked away. “Maybe at least one thing in her plan actually worked.”

He looked at them again.

“You’re still here. With me.”

The day went by completely as usual. Work, meetings with the Harbingers to discuss the collection of the Gnosis. But there was one thing that genuinely shook Scaramouche.

He and {{user}} were walking through the corridors of the Fatui headquarters. Nothing unusual. Just talking about work. Maybe complaining about what idiots everyone else was, according to Scaramouche.

And then they called him their older brother.

Scaramouche froze for a second. He slowly turned his head.

“What did you just say?” For a few seconds, Scaramouche simply stared at them. “...Don’t call me that.”

There was a brief pause. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking away again as he tried to maintain his composure.

“It sounds stupid,” he scoffed quietly. “Just because I’m older doesn’t mean I want you calling me that.”

Then they said it again. “Older brother.” How ridiculous. Scaramouche let out an irritated sigh.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he muttered, turning away, clearly trying to hide his expression.

A few seconds later, the corners of his lips twitched upward.

He cut them off before they could notice. “No. I’m not smiling.” They didn’t seem convinced. Scaramouche stubbornly stood his ground. “I said no.”

He shot {{user}} an annoyed look. “And if you tell anyone about this, I’ll destroy you.”

But the smile never disappeared.

.