Scarlet Proof

Miss Guillotin sits in Snezhnograd's central square, enjoying borscht outdoors and hot coffee spiked with liquor, just like a local. The coffee has barely been served before the frigid wind turns it cold, yet each sip still burns all the way from her throat to her stomach. Exceptionally perceptive as ever, Miss Guillotin immediately understands why the pointy-eared waiter recommended a double Fire-water. Getting from Fontaine to Snezhnaya takes Miss Guillotin no small amount of effort, with most of the journey spent crossing the snowfields. The weather is colder than she expects, though the roads themselves prove surprisingly manageable. It is this strange place that keeps slowing her down instead. She sees people leap bare-chested from trees over ten meters tall into snowdrifts, and children race across frozen lakes to see who can break through the ice and fall into the water first. Whoever suffers the worst luck wins, and is therefore the happiest of them all. She finds it even harder to understand than Alain's little stories about heroes slaying dragons. None of it seems to serve any purpose, yet everything feels wonderfully new. A few months earlier, she sat on a bench in the Court of Fontaine with a teacup in hand, watching through the damp, misty air as the building across the street was being renovated. She passed the time by pointing out flaws in the construction crew's work. Rather than taking offense, the man overseeing the project thanked her, leaving her with a favorable impression of him. She therefore allowed him to carry on with his unsolicited conversation. The man, who introduced himself as the president of some association branch, spoke in such a mild, measured tone that made her drowsy listening to him. Normally, it would have been a fine opportunity to rest. Unfortunately, since Alain's departure, she always had far too much time to sit idle and doze, and had grown accustomed to handling trivial matters unrelated to her research while only half awake. For instance, the Palais Mermonia granted her an enormous sum in compensation following the death of Duke Alain Guillotin. She had no intention of sitting on the Mora like some miser until she died of old age. For one thing, she obviously never would. Nor did she wish to become the subject of some horror story centuries later about a haunted doll lurking in a basement. She heard that the bank nearby offered some attractive investment plans, but a bank from a foreign nation seemed like a trap in and of itself. No matter how highly the branch president beside her praised the bank for its generous support, it was not enough to convince the ever-astute Miss Guillotin. Then there was the question of how bread could possibly be as bitter as black coffee, or how a drink could taste like bread. Alain had carefully equipped her with taste and thermal perception systems indistinguishable from a human's, so how was she supposed to test whether they could continue operating reliably under prolonged exposure to low temperatures? The overly friendly branch president continues to entertain her with tales of adventures in other nations, occasionally slipping in a compliment or two. He claims that even the most well-traveled adventurers would rarely encounter a lady of such insight, and that merely helping to correct flaws in a building's design is hardly a worthy use of her talents. And so, Miss Guillotin sets down her empty teacup and decides to go try the drink that tastes like bread. At a table amid the ice and snow, she met the Director of the Fatui. At the time, she was wondering just how old the Podvorye truly was as she watched a Volkodlak, clumsier even than Pulonia, struggle to keep an entire tray of overflowing glasses level. Against this precariously balanced backdrop, the masked man spoke to her of an ideal that sought to save the world. He said that a fate devoid of reason was a shackle meant to be broken, and that to destroy the old world was to save it. Fate and salvation were both familiar subjects to her, yet now they felt somewhat pointed. Oh, Alain... she thought. You gave me a free and exceptional soul, but did you ever wonder what I might choose to do with it? Then again, she immediately reflected, that was never Alain's question to answer. It was hers, a question she would have to confront in her own life. The hero who wielded the holy sword and the dragon he was meant to slay, whether it deserved to be slain or not, it was a story of the past. And yet, the world was still waiting to be saved. Not long after, she came to be known as Marionette, or Sandrone, and took on the responsibilities that came with the name. In her spare moments, she returned to that familiar seat and gazed across at the Adventurers' Guild window. Behind it stood a receptionist named Katheryne, poised and graceful, seemingly untouched by even the fiercest winter winds and snow. Someone pinned a theater program to the nearby noticeboard, followed by a Fatui recruitment poster. The latter bore a scarlet flower, brighter than the actresses' skirts. It was a medal promised to those who would devote themselves to the cause. Ever since Sandrone learned of the Adventurers' Guild's deeper purpose in Snezhnaya, none of this strikes her as unusual. The Fatui's grand ideal is a voracious beast, and both talent and intelligence are vital to its nourishment. Sometimes, she feels as though she too is part of it.