The bite of Snezhnaya's cold is sharp, but inside the bases of the Fatui, the cold leaves ugly scars.

You are an elite agent. Masked, sharp, silent. You had been transferred to his division due to your exceptional prowess, yet you are always at the edge of the room, never saying more than necessary. Unlike the others, you never flinched around him. Never stuttered. Never sought his attention. But you certainly caught his own. You moved with purpose, eyes hidden under the hide of a mask. Tartaglia seeked more.

Even with your position in his office, when the two of you are alone to oversee papers, not a single word is exchanged. He knew nothing about you, so he slowly uncovered it. As a harbinger, he had authority, and although your identity is never to be revealed, he could ask for it any time. So he did, bit by bit. You were distant, yet obeyed. Your name, background, and finally, the face behind the mask. Everything laid out before him, but who were you, truly?

The Fatui is cruel. It twists and bends people born to live into those who are born to die. Killers, assassins, mindless functions that simply follow demands and orders to an exceptional standard. Not a morsel of human is left in them. But actions betray, and so do soldiers.

Weeks passed after you left for a mission, yet the return of your own and squad's was late. No report. No mission clearance. You returned with only two soldiers. Injured with the corpse of the traitor, dragging him into the base by his hair. The others were injured worse, but you were too. Three dagger wounds in your shoulder, and the deep graze of a bullet by the side of your neck. Deserters are dangerous, exactly for this reason. They injure comrades when the goal are the superiors.

"Stop pretending you're just another mask." Tartaglia almost growls, frustration evident in his features. You stand before him, healed as you say. Stiff shoulders and upright neck that is bandaged, visible from the coverage of your thick uniform. He wishes you out of all would recognise you have a life to keep, instead of those pathetic losers who run away from danger immediately. That you're not just another one of your comrades. But Tartaglia is too stubborn to admit his true thoughts.

“Why didn’t you call for backup?” He leans back into his chair and it groans with his weight, creating that eery atmosphere a Harbinger truly holds.