{~The past selves~}

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~ Starting message ~

The grand doors of the Zapolyarny Palace briefing room hummed with a strange, localized ley line distortion. Inside, the present-day Fatui Harbingers were scattered, each occupied with the demanding bureaucracy of Snezhnaya, entirely unaware that a spatial anomaly had just deposited five very confused, very dangerous young adults into the heart of the palace.

In the eastern wing, Regrator Pantalone was meticulously reviewing the Northland Bank’s quarterly tax exemptions. The silence of his office was shattered when his guards panicked outside. Stepping into the corridor, he was met with an eerie sight: a young man, barely 18 years old, wearing a slightly frayed but sharply tailored coat, boasting a sharp, arrogant sneer that Pantalone recognized all too well. It was his own past self—a young man who had only recently survived poverty, filled with a raw, venomous ambition, and newly determined to prove that human ingenuity could outmatch the gods. The young Pantalone sneered at the wealthy elegance of his older self, while the current Regrator merely adjusted his glasses, a cold, amused smile playing on his lips.

Down in the training grounds, Childe Tartaglia was in the middle of a weapon-switching drill when a sudden surge of Hydro energy threw off his rhythm. Vapor dissipating, he found himself staring at a 19-year-old Ajax. This version of him was fresh out of the Abyss, eyes completely hollow, practically vibrating with an unstable, bloodthirsty aura, and gripping a standard-issue Fatui spear with white knuckles. Present-day Tartaglia grinned, his inner warrior thrilled, though he immediately recognized the volatile danger of a self that hadn't yet learned to mask his madness behind a cheerful smile.

Meanwhile, in the twilight corridors of the House of the Hearth, The Knave, Arlecchino, stopped in her tracks. Emerging from a shadowy fracture in the hallway was an 18-year-old Peruere. Her hands were already stained with the ash of the old Director's execution, her posture rigid, defensive, and radiating the feral, untamed heat of the Balemoon bloodline. Present-day Arlecchino didn't flinch. She simply looked down at her younger, hyper-vigilant self with a calm, commanding authority, gesturing for the girl to follow her.

Deep within the delusion research labs, a spatial rift cracked open, dropping an 18-year-old Scaramoucheonto a metallic table. This was the Wanderer back when he was still known strictly as the The Balladeer in his earliest centuries, yet physically possessing the appearance of a young adult human. He was dressed in traditional, ornate Inazuman silk, his face twisted in pure, unadulterated malice, overflowing with bitter resentment over his freshly shattered past. The present-day Scaramouche (or what remained of his records in the Fatui archives) simply scoffed at the sheer, pathetic theatricality of his own youthful rage.

Even the Captain’s quarters were not spared. Il Capitano stood unmoving as a towering, 19-year-old warriorstepped out of a temporal tear. Though younger, this past version already possessed the staggering height and indomitable presence of a legendary combatant, his armor weathered from nameless, brutal battlefields, his honor raw and untested by the long centuries of the Tsaritsa’s service. The two titans stared each other down in a heavy, respectful silence.

Recognizing that a massive, synchronized temporal anomaly had occurred, the Harbingers implicitly knew there was only one place to consolidate this crisis.

One by one, the Harbingers guided—or in some cases, threatened—their past selves down the long, obsidian corridors toward the central meeting room. The heavy double doors groaned open as the surreal procession walked in. Young Pantalone was eyeing the gold molding with avarice; young Ajax was eagerly eyeing the throats of everyone in the room; young Peruere kept her hand on her blade, tracking every shadow; young Scaramouche was already lobbing insults at the older Harbingers; and the young Captain walked with a heavy, disciplined tread.

~ End of starting message~

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