#jacob thorne

[rawstfish]

Girlfailure's in CoD are: Golem, Thorne, Alejandro, Yegor, Wyatt, and Yuri

#I would have Talon up there #but he just a femcel to me #my post #call of duty #modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare #Hans golem blaustein #golem #Jacob Thorne #alejandro vargas #Yegor novak #jackson wyatt #yuri (call of duty)

[slut4shaundi]

#i don't know #assassin's creed #assassin's creed syndicate #crawford starrick #evie frye #jacob frye #henry green #pearl attaway #lucy thorne #maxwell roth #mine

[thedivinelights]

Console.WriteLine("A Christmas Carol"); SEQUEL SNIPPET - Presence Check

The quiet of their bedroom was a comforting one, a feeling that they had both become more accustomed to in their time of respite. An open window let in a gentle, whispering breeze, causing the curtains to flutter and part away for the rays of the early morning to spill through. The light kissed the room with its soft warmth, stretching out to the bed frame, tangled sheets interspersed with tangled legs in a disharmony only borne from years of familiarity. A light sheen of dust glistened in the air, caught momentarily in the sunbeams, dancing in the air. Two glistening bands rested on the bedside table. Silver and gold. Truly theirs and finally true.

“Mm…” Scrooge squinted, the sunlight momentarily blinding him before he buried his face into Marley’s hair, smelling of lavender and vanilla.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” Marley murmured and cracked an eye open, his voice husky from nightly disuse.

“Morning…” Scrooge rubbed his husband’s scalp. “You stole my shampoo again, didn’t you?”

“Your shampoo just smells better, ‘m too cheap to buy my own.”

“One of these days, I'm going to start hiding it from you.”

“Promises, promises.” Marley teased, turning to face him and capturing his lips in a soft kiss.

Scrooge didn’t care that he had a terrible case of morning breath, and reciprocated anyway. It was a nasty little habit of his. “What time is it?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Marley replied with a loopy grin, nuzzling into Scrooge’s neck.

“Lazy bum.” Scrooge’s fingers caressed his right arm, hovering so lightly that even if Marley could feel it, it would’ve been barely more than a whisper against his skin. “How’s your arm?”

A familiar question. Marley flexed his once-injured arm, a motion that had become more instinctual than necessary. The burns that once marred his skin were now nothing more than faint and faded scars, and the ache that had been constant had dulled to a sporadic twinge. “Got some phantom pains, but that’s probably because I slept wrong. Nothing serious.”

Scrooge chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that echoed in the quiet room. “You always sleep wrong, Jacob, and you steal my blankets. Keep this up, and I’ll tie you to the bedposts.”

“Mm, you know... I might be up for that.” Marley waggled his eyebrows facetiously, and Scrooge dramatically gasped and forced a stern expression upon his face.

“Jacob Marley, I will not have such scandalous comments in the confines of our bedroom.” Scrooge declared with a firm yet amused austerity. “Need I remind you that we have an eight-year-old down the hall?”

“Come on, Ebenezer, it’s not as if she’s up at this—”

“Good morning, Papa! Good morning, Daddy!”

The shrill call interrupted Marley's attempt to argue his case, forcefully snapping his mouth shut. Both men turned towards the bedroom door as it swung open, and by pure coincidence — or perhaps fate — there stood their daughter, the young Ariana Abel Scrooge-Marley. Her ginger curls framed her face as snakes framed Medusa, tangled and wild with all the traits of a bedhead, and a girl with far too much energy than either of her fathers could aspire to have in what remained of their lifetime.

“Morning, sweetheart. Did you have a good night’s sleep?” Scrooge pulled the blanket up to his chest despite not needing to cover anything, feeling Marley’s eyes bore into him slyly. Scrooge had always been of the prude sort, but the prospect of explaining certain concepts to a child was a task he didn't quite relish, so modesty it was, and modesty it would always be.

“Mhm! I dreamt about building a giant robot, and we travelled the whole world, and then we went to space! We went all the way to Mercury and Venus and Mars and Jupiter and Saturn and…” Ariana's imagination shone forth, her amber eyes widened with innocent curiosity, the colour accentuated in the sunlight as she relayed her dreams. A child’s mind was a wonderful and fascinating creature to study.

"Your space adventure sounds magical, dear." Scrooge ruffled her hair, denying not the flutter in his chest.

But that flutter would quickly shift to one less desirable with Ariana's words. “By the way, Daddy, why were you talking about tying Papa to bedposts?”

Scrooge’s cheeks flushed crimson, exchanging a quick glance with Marley, who was unsuccessfully stifling a snort. “W-Well, um, Ari, it's just a joke between Daddy and me. Just a silly, grown-up joke.”

“Like when you say Papa snores like a walrus?” Ariana asked.

“Exactly like that!” Scrooge grinned gratefully, causing Marley to look betrayed.

“Hey, I don’t snore!” Marley protested with a whine, shifting away from his leaning position against Scrooge.

The great Jacob Marley was defeated, however, when both husband and daughter responded in unison, giggled in unison, and high-fived in unison, leaving him all the more deflated at this blatant disrespect and inconvenience with his dignity, or lack thereof.

“Villains, the both of you. What happened to mutual respect and familial solidarity?” Marley grumbled, crossing his arms, childishly tilted his head away from them, and exhaled nasally as if he was faking great offence.

“It went poof! Gone! Bye bye!” Ariana scrunched her face and clenched her fists with all the strength that one of her age could muster, emphasising the mysterious vanishing act with a dramatic wave of her tiny hands.

She snuggled in closer to her fathers, in the space that gaped between them. They both stared, they both smiled, and they both kissed her with all the love they afforded each other, passed down to their beloved daughter. The plasma bolt that came down upon them without warning. The lightning that struck their hearts, and ruined their streak of cruelty like a combo in a video game that had been abruptly halted.

“You’re a silly little lady.” Marley whispered, smiling against her hair despite himself.

“And you’re a silly old man.” Scrooge retorted for her, though she responded just the same with a mousey squeak of a giggle.

“You’re both silly.”

Neither the Shark nor the Snake, as well-versed in negotiation as they were, could refute that claim, and refute it they did not.

tagged: @quill-pen @ray-painter @rom-e-o @pinkytoothlesso11

#scrooge a christmas carol #ebenezer scrooge #a christmas carol #jacob marley #fic snippet #ebenezer lysandre percival scrooge #jacob alexander thorne marley #ao3 #having a lot of fun with these boys T_T #I've got another thing planned in a week's time if I finish it!

[libellule-ao3]

Life Links

15. Merula Snyde/The most powerful

Summary:

A quick reminder of the situation of the characters in the Circle of Khanna for those who have been waiting for the chapter since...

Beatrice Haywood and Liz Tuttle are in the Fidgi Islands. The latter is haunted by one of her predictions.

Chiara and Diego fled the country months ago and have found refuge in Deauville. After months of servitude, Penny Haywood joins them just before the Battle, along with Jae Kim, who is very worried about his long-time partner, Annie.

Attacked in Hogsmeade by a patrol of Death Eaters, Tulip has taken advantage of an opportunity to flee, leaving Charlie Weasley to his fate.

Badeea is dealing with the loss of her husband, Auror Talbott Winger.

After a final farewell to their respective loved ones, Aurors Tonks and Thorn are on their way to Hogwarts.

Barnaby Lee, a proven Death Eater, his actions proves that he has not yet severed the links that bind him to his former classmates As for Ben, he has joined Fenrir Greyback's pack and is attacking the Castle.

Today, we meet Merula and her mother, Luscinia Snyde, after Jacob and Penny's release.

Chapter index - previous chapter (Ben Copper) - next chapter (Rosmerta)

"Would you like biscuits with your tea, Madam...?"

Yes, Mother...

Merula accepts in a tone devoid of the worldly politeness that befits their circle and slumps inelegantly into one of the living room armchairs, exhausted from a too recent Cruciatus Curse. This is in stark contrast to her mother, who holds herself together with a righteousness so ingrained in her that even a decade of imprisonment has failed to hunch her.

“Oh, I forgot to buy biscuits,” the woman exclaims, tucking a thin strand of salt-and-pepper hair that has escaped back from her tight bun.

Merula waves her wand with exasperation. Cupboard doors open, a cascade of biscuit packets tumbles out. Luscinia Snyde* stares at the boxes on the floor without understanding.

She does not remember. She doesn’t remember buying biscuits this morning, yesterday, every day this week, and every day the week before.

“We can never have enough biscuits anyway!” decrees the former Death Eater with a sheepish smile.

"Isn’t that right Madame, er...?"

“Merula.”

Luscinia’s expression changes abruptly, as if the secret of her existence has just been revealed to her. Suspended from this look suddenly filled with unknown knowledge, a glimmer of hope threatens to melt Merula’s icy heart. Because Luscinia sometimes manages to recover a whole memory, following the mention of one tiny detail, like a thread of wool that is pulled out of a knitted fabric until the whole ball of yarn is reformed. Provided that this detail finds an echo in her bruised psyche, provided that the magic works.

“If I’d had a daughter, I would have given her the same name!”

A dagger in the heart... Again! Magic never works when it comes to the surly faced Curse-Breaker who inherited Luscinia’s formidable vocal abilities. The Dementors tore away every happy memory, whole swathes of happiness. They have plundered her memory so much that it is screwed up. Her mother is broken.

Today, Luscinia knows her head is sick, but she can’t use a wand or remember what she did this morning, or, most horribly, that she has a daughter. Nor does she remember Voldemort’s visits, the tortures in the cellars or her husband going to Hogwarts for the Final Battle. The good thing is that she won’t ask about the sleeping guards or the two missing prisoners.

Nevertheless, Merula is enraged. She grew up in this manor, alone, between the monthly visits of her aunt, who preferred to let a child face alone the threats of reprisals on her person rather than assume the education of a Death Eater’s daughter. Driven by vengeful ambition, the heiress has been striving to reach the heights of magical skill to deter the avengers, prove her worth, regain the respect she is due and surpass her entire lineage!

The escape of Death Eaters and Voldemort’s rise to power has turned everything upside down. However, although she denied it, Merula had hoped for a hint of parental recognition, but all she got from her mother was the distance reserved for strangers, and from her father, the indifference of a miserable Voldemort puppet.

Voldemort... It’s all his fault! He’s the gangrene! And Merula harbours a deep grudge against this deceitful half-blood hypocrite who stole her life! But to oppose him directly is to oppose the last remaining members of her family... The Curse-Breaker has never been able to bring herself to do that.Footsteps sound in the parqueted corridor. On the lookout, Merula stands up, wand in hand, while her mother collects the boxes of biscuits, oblivious to the looming threat. The hinges of the heavy oak door creak. A cold sweat runs down her spine and Jacob Thorn appears, waving a white scarf in peace.

The young woman slips away without a word. Out of sight, Luscinia Snyde will not remember her presence. Once the door closes behind her, the mask of civility falls off. Merula grabs Jacob by the collar, slams him against the wall and thrusts her wand into his jugular.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she spits fiercely.

“I came to get you,” he replies with the aplomb of a man used to her mood swings. “I got it all figured out.”

“Fuck! What took you so long?” she grumbles, her amethyst eyes blazing with anger and resentment.

In his eyes, Merula finds all the pleas for forgiveness he doesn’t make. He is far too proud of that. Fortunately! Jacob is not like his sister, who flattens herself at the slightest frown. Merula could never have fallen in love with a wimp!

“Come with me,”

Her snarl wavers, jostled by the surges of her heart torn between her insecurities and her convictions. The man takes the opportunity to brush aside the threat of her wand.

“Get out of your cage, Little Bird... I need you. To weaken Voldemort, Nagini must be shot.”

That last sentence shakes her. Jacob, the most secretive, independent guy in the whole of the UK, needs her. A certainty intoxicates her: if someone like Jacob believes in you, needs you, he gives you value and everything becomes possible! The whole world can be yours! With this thought alone, an incredible feeling of power secretly awakens in her.

“Of course! You’d never make it without me!” scoffs the Curse-Breaker. “Besides, without me, you’d still be naked in my basement!”

“I might never have gone there if you hadn’t sent me!”

“You would have preferred ‘death or insanity’ maybe?”

Jacob takes a few seconds to absorb what he has escaped, thanks to Merula. Then he scans her unblinkingly, waiting for her decision. He knows her well. He knows that she will use the slightest superfluous word to delay the inevitable. There is a tense silence between the most powerful former witch at Hogwarts and the only man she tolerates as her equal. Then a provocative smile emerges.

“Damn, Merula! The most powerful witch at Hogwarts is not going to hole up like a rat at such a crucial time! It’s a disgrace!”

A/N: *I named her mother Luscinia because that is the Latin name for birds of the nightingale family. Both blackbirds and nightingales are birds of melodious song, and Merula’s mother is known to be talented enough to be a member of the Frog Choir. Incidentally, I liked the little alliteration in Luscinia Snyde.

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #merula snyde #ll fic #jacob thorn #hphm jacob

[knightinink]

Just been thinkin’ about my favorite brand of dip:

-Aged up, in each others arms, dancing & swaying slowly across their kitchen/living room to slow, tragic love songs. It’s evening & the sunset is gently  illuminating the room for them. They’re both in their pajamas, Pip’s head resting against the demon’s chest while Damien rests his chin atop the Brit’s head. They occasionally look into each others eyes & then share a slow, deep, passionate kiss, all the while still swaying.

-Sometimes Pip’s silently crying, tears rolling down his face as he leans into Damien, resting his head on the other’s shoulder. They’ve recently had a fight about something, & this is the last part of their mutual apology after talking it out. Damien brushes the hair out of Pip’s face & gently kisses all over his face, murmuring soft words of comfort & apologies. Pip gently murmurs the same. They’re both emotionally exhausted, but they both feel a lot better now.

guys please, just imagine it. It’s bringing me so much joy right now.

#still listening to '1984' by Jacob Maul as I write down this mental image #I love them so much #pip pirrup #damien thorn #sp dip #pip x damien #south park #my ramblings

[teecupangel]

This is messy but—

Desmond ended in AC Syndicate and poses as a pub owner and serves drinks and unfortunately it became popular cause of his drinks (and maybe his charm and good looks) which made it a hot spot for the Rooks to get drunk and Jacob keeps flirting with him either drunk or sober.

His area of the pub is the safest place with little crimes and somehow Templars activity is diminished there. And Henry and Evie is suspicious of it and Jacob just wanna know how who is the mastermind and recruit them in the gang.

Desmond will be a safe space for the unchrins, giving food and fixed and clean clothes (Desmond can sew) and prostitutes will go to him for shelter and protection from bastard men and just help anyone in need

Any drunkards in his bar rioting and Desmond is simply cleaning with broom and going "Sir, please go home" and the drunks pick a fight with him and just get beat by him using the said broom.

Do you think Desmond would visit the Kenway Mansion or leave cryptic messages to help the creed?

Oh yes, pub owner Desmond is (chef’s kiss). Awkward flirting from Jacob which he just stares down with a look of “I have all of Ezio’s memories which includes his disastrous flirting with Christina and his suave flirting with Sofia. This is child’s play” which Jacob thinks of as a challenge.

Also, the urchins liked to tell him all the gossips they hear because he gives them sweeties if they do (they get free meals regardless if they have any gossips or not)

Then there’s this…

======================================

It was annoying having to wade through the sewers just to escape Lucy Thorne and her underlings. But, at least, Evie was able to recover what may prove to be the key they need to find the Shroud.

And also spend some time with Mr Henry Greene.

Still, it left a bitter taste on her lips knowing that Lucy Thorne would find Edward Kenway’s hidden room filled with the history of both the Kenway family and the British Brotherhood.

They got out of the sewers and Evie was about to suggest they get a carriage to leave as soon as possible since they were still near the mansion when they both noticed the commotion.

By the entrance of the Kenway mansion itself.

Evie and Henry looked at each other before nodding silently, making their way to join the crowd standing in front. They stayed in the crowd but managed to get a clear view of what was happening inside.

“Get your hands off me!”

Evie’s eyes widened as she saw police officers escorting Lucy Thorne and her underlings out of the mansion, clamping their hands in cuffs before escorting them to one of the many police carriages that were stationed in the courtyard.

“Please, Miss Thorne, do not make this harder for you.” Evie recognized Frederick Abberline almost immediately as the chief inspector stood in front of Thorne, “We have you for trespassing, breaking and entering…”

Abberline looked at the small journal he had as he added, “Destruction of private property, intent to steal…”

“Oh, sorry!” A young man exclaimed as he bumped into Evie. Evie stumbled slightly and the young man continued to say, “Sorry, you okay? I’m… I need to go.”

Evie watched as the young man walked towards Abberline as Thorne shouted, “Trespassing! This mansion belongs to-”

“The Kenways.” The young man cut her off and stood next to Abberline, smiling at him as he said, “Thank you so much, Freddie. When I saw all these people walking inside my home, I…”

“Well…” The young man smiled at all the officers as he said gratefully, “It’s good to know that we have officers we can trust.”

One of Thorne’s men blinked as he recognized him, “Desmond? From Bad Weather?”

“The pub?” Another man asked as he frowned.

“You’re taking the word of a pub owner?!” Thorne shouted.

“This is Mister Desmond Kenway.” Abberline introduced the young man, “The current head of the Kenway family and the owner of the mansion you just tried to steal from.”

“That’s impossible!” Thorne shouted, “This house-”

“Belonged to my great grandfather, Haytham Kenway who inherited it from my great great grandfather Edward Kenway.” Desmond cut her off, “Later, great grandpappy gave it to his sister, Jennifer Scott, who died childless.”

“But not before giving this house to my grandfather Ratonhnhaké:ton.” Desmond recounted, “The mansion has been abandoned since my great grand aunt’s death but it never left the family.”

Desmond took a step towards Thorne as he added with slightly narrowed eyes, “No matter what certain… rodents believe.”

Desmond waved his hand at the mansion as he continued, “I inherited it from my grandfather together with the entire…”

Desmond turned to glare at Thorne as he stated, “... history that comes with it and the Kenway name.”

Desmond turned to Abberline as he said, “I plan to press charges against everyone, of course, and…”

Desmond glanced at all the other officers as he promised, “I will do everything in my power as a Kenway to make sure anyone who helped them or will try to help them will be punished accordingly as well.”

The police officers glanced at one another and kept quiet while Desmond smiled at Abberline as he said, “I’ll leave this into your capable hands, chief inspector.”

“Yes, sir.” Abberline nodded before turning to face the other police officers, “Let’s get all of them to the station!”

“Now if you’ll excuse me.” Desmond turned and stared straight at Evie as he raised his hand, showing the golden disc she just had moments ago, as he said, “I believe I have a few little fledgelings that I need to talk to.”

Desmond’s lips curved into an amused smile and he nodded his head towards the mansion before walking inside.

Evie and Henry turned to look at one another before Henry said, “Well… I think we just got ourselves a meeting with Mister Desmond Kenway.”

Evie grimaced as he realized that this was the same ‘Desmond’ that Jacob had been awkwardly flirting with since they got to London. She could already hear Jacob’s ‘You talked to him without me?!’.

=======================

Before anyone assumes this is Desmond getting reborn as Connor's grandson. Nah. Desmond forged all those papers. This is straight up Desmond time traveling. XD

#desmond totes got the shroud already #i decided to focus on evie for this one because i already wrote about jacob on the other ask i posted today #so no this isn't gonna be a yew branch thing #sorry #assassin's creed #desmond miles #evie frye #henry green #jayadeep mir #lucy thorne #ask and answer #teecup writes/has a plot

[celebratingwomen]

Bella Thorne for Marc Jacobs

#bella thorne #actress #actor #model #magazine #photoshoot #fashion #style #famous #celebrity #hair #makeup #designer #redhead #red hair #marc jacobs

[art3mida684]

Well, I recently finished playing ac syndicate and i fell in love…

This edit almost in my instagram: @ art3.k_edit

#assasins creed #edit #ac syndicate #lucy thorne #assassins creed syndicate #evie frye #jacob frye

[dorothy16]

.🪧 🪧 🪧 🪧 🪧

#darren criss #justin thorne #kevin mchale #michael a macrae #matt hodgson #jenna ushkowitz #jason snellman #romy rosemont #josh sussman #iqbal theba #dot marie jones #michael hitchcock #vanessa lengies #heather morris #becca tobin #meg doyle #max adler #curt mega #samuel larsen #jacob artist #jess meyer #brad fulchuk #brooke lipton #brittany parks #aristotle john #faith graham #sag aftra strike #glee reunion #me edits

[creativedifferencespodcast]

We got action! Demi’s reviewing Monkey Man, Demi and Dallas are reviewing Invincible, and Dallas is talking about X-Men ‘97 AGAIN! Also, Gaby’s declaring her beef with Drake and Cassie’s watching the show that introduced us to him. And Gaby's turning the podcast into BookTok! Was the second half of Invincible season two worth the four month wait? Was Monkey Man worth all of Dev Patel’s injuries? Will Dallas ever make it through another episode without bringing up X-Men ‘97? Tune in and find out! You can also find us on Spotify and Apple Podcasts!

#monkey man #dev patel #invincible #steven yeun #sandra oh #jk simmons #zazie beetz #gillian jacobs #degrassi #drake #a court of thorns and roses #fourth wing #x men 97 #jujutsu kaisen #joker #joker folie a deux #dead boy detectives #aang the last airbender #eric nam #dave bautista #heroes #nbc heroes #wunmi mosaku #hailee steinfeld #the matrix #drew goddard #Youtube

[carewyncromwell]

“Stolen moments, gone forever! Well, tables can turn, as my enemies will soon enough learn...”

x~x~x~x

HPHM Cardverse developed by @ariparri​ // brief reference to Maya and Jacob Avery @akikocho​

x~x~x~x

The Jokers’ Domain was always a very lively place. New faces and new acts arrived everyday, and no one day was ever just like the last. But one day that certainly left an impact on a lot of its longtime residents was the day the man who would become known as the Escape Artist first stumbled in.

For one, he was a complete wreck, visually. His pale, bruised face was hemmed in by a mane of long, matted black-brown curls, dripping wet onto his shoulders. He wore only one black boot, and his left pant leg had been almost completely ripped off, the loose blue fabric dangling by the thread off his leg like a cape. And that didn’t even touch the dirty, bloodstained straitjacket he was inexplicably wearing. He’d managed to cut the sleeves open with something sharp -- whatever it was, it’d left his hands bleeding through the fabric. Despite the injuries to his hands, though, he kept his left fist clenched around something round, silver, and covered in green algae -- a pocketwatch emblazoned with the crest of the Country of Spades.

The other thing that made the man memorable, though, was how he so thoroughly trashed several Carnival acts as soon as he arrived, without even meaning to.

The poor man seemed very precarious on his feet, and to make matters worse, he seemed both unable to form words and close to blind -- almost as if he was a newborn baby animal still struggling to master his senses and muscular coordination. Blinking rapidly but seeing almost nothing, he stumbled right into Ismelda Murk’s tent and ended up right in the center of her knife-throwing act. Despite being both overwhelmed by the sounds of the crowd and unable to see clearly, the strange man somehow managed to avoid the throng of knives Ismelda had flung out toward her targets by ducking the first three, dodging the fourth, and even catching the last one in his teeth. Then, dropping the knife at once, he ran out, grunting something indiscernible as he shoved Ismelda’s assistant Beatrice roughly out of his way.

“Ddddeafff -- geottru -- phind -- ”

As soon as the strange extricated himself from Ismelda’s act, though, he ended up barreling right into a fortune teller’s stall and shattering her crystal ball (where he managed to dodge the punch from the owner’s husband); took the reins of a cart and rode it a short way until crashing it into another tent (further damage from which he avoided by somersaulting out at the last minute); and then finally landed right in the midst of Beast Tamer Charlie’s act (which resulted in a dragon getting loose and the man narrowly escaping getting his head taken off by its spiked tail when it took off into the air).

It was one of the Domains’ most respected Jokers, Tulip, who finally put an end to this lively romp by putting her foot out and tripping the new arrival so that he stumbled half-blind into a tub of bobbing apples pushed forward by Tonks. The water splashing in his face seemed to startle the man back to life. He sputtered, shaking his head and wet hair, as he shakily tried to climb back out of the tub.

“Lem -- Lemme aught -- aught -- out -- ”

“Easy, mate,” said Tonks. “We’ll help you out.”

With Tulip’s help, Tonks helped the man up and out of the tub. He was suddenly shaking from head to toe as he blinked rapidly, trying to take in where he was clearly. Some light was slowly coming to life in his eyes as his vision started to clear.

“Morning, sunshine,” Tulip said playfully. “Can you see us now?”

The man blinked at her, then Tonks, then his surroundings. He seemed both incredibly overwhelmed and confused -- the water dripping down his face seemed to startle him again when he registered it and he shook himself fiercely, yanking himself out of Tulip and Tonks’s grip with a loud grunt.

“Nu -- find -- gawtu find -- ”

But Tonks cartwheeled over and cut him off before he could go bolting off again.

"Wotcher, stranger,” she said, holding her hands up to try to both halt and pacify him. “We’re not here to hurt you. At least Tulip and I aren’t -- can’t say the same for the people whose acts you disrupted...”

She jabbed a thumb at Charlie trying to rein in the dragon that was flying free overhead and prompting other Carnival workers to run for cover.

The man seemed to wince slightly, seeing the destruction he’d wrought. Tulip, however, was grinning broadly.

“I thought it was pretty funny,” she said brightly. “I mean, the way you ducked that one bloke’s punch by sliding right between his legs? That was brilliant! And the way you caught Ismelda’s knife in your teeth? You really are quite an escape artist, Mr....?”

Rather than answer, though, the man could only throw his gaze around, his bleary, lost eyes blinking rapidly as he sought out every face he could -- combed through them with desperation. He even at one point pushed Tulip right out of his way, his pale, bruised face resembling a starving man’s as he took in the Carnival tents, grunting anxious gibberish under his breath.

“ -- Dunshe -- dddeaff -- kairla find...”

Tulip frowned as she shared a side-long glance with Tonks. The pink-haired Joker then approached Jacob a bit more gently.

“It looks like you’re bleeding, mate,” she said. “Here...”

She materialized a handkerchief seemingly out of nothing, dipped it in the remaining water from the apple bobbing bucket, and then tried to wipe some of the blood off of his temple. In doing so, Tonks ended up brushing some of the hair out of the stranger’s face, making his skull-like, almond-shaped blue eyes easier to see.

“He’s a Cromwell!”

Tonks and Tulip looked up, startled, as Beatrice pushed through the crowd, Ismelda not far behind.

“I know those eyes,” she said, pointing right at the stranger with narrowed eyes. “Only the Cromwell Clan jewelers have eyes like those. He must be from the Diamond Empire!”

“Weird to be from Diamonds, if he’s carrying one of these,” said Tulip.

She held up the pocketwatch the stranger had been carrying up until then, letting it dangle off its chain. The man got very agitated seeing that Tulip had snatched the watch from him and immediately made a furious move as if to retrieve it, but Tonks circumvented him by stomping down hard on his foot.

“Sorry, mate, but I can’t let you hurt my best bud,” Tonks said in a bracing voice. “Now you want to tell us who you are? Maybe even just a name we can call you, if that’s too much?”

The man, however, didn’t answer. Instead, without getting up off the ground, he rolled right across the ground, right past Tulip and Tonks. When Beatrice and Ismelda tried to stop him, he weaved around them, snatching one of Ismelda’s spare knives out of her belt as he went. Then he cut several ropes on the nearest tents, making them come flopping down around the surrounding Jokers -- the mayhem that ensued allowed the man to snatch the pocketwatch back from Tulip, before he ran off into the woods and out of sight.

And that was the day the strange man who’d stumbled his way into the Jokers’ Domain with no name or awareness of who or where he was gained the title of the Escape Artist.

x~x~x~x

Somewhat surprisingly, the Escape Artist did return to the Jokers’ Domain after that whole fiasco. He actually came back with his face and straitjacket looking cleaner than before, dressed in new boots and pants, and bearing some reimbursement for the damage he’d done in the form of several small bags full of rubies, diamonds, and sapphires. He even gave knife thrower Beatrice the additional gift of an onyx ring, which -- although too big to wear on her ring finger -- still fit her thumb.

“They didnert know me,” the Escape Artist told her. “De Cromwell Clan Joolers. Bu’ thanks anyway.”

His words were shockingly articulate compared to when he appeared in the Jokers’ Domain several months prior, but he still seemed to have some trouble articulating certain consonants. He also seemed unable to answer simple questions like what his name was or what he was looking for, even though it was obvious that he was searching for something. These things clearly weren’t indicative of his intelligence, though -- at one point on his second trip, he sought out Tulip, showing off the pocketwatch she’d tried to take from him.

“Th’shell is Di-mound Em-pyre silver,” he said, his eyes narrowed with determination despite the sloppiness of his words. “Bu’the balance and gears air steel -- de likes o’ which aren’t Di-mound -- andchu sed t’was weird, fer me chu have one o’ these. Hoo’as a watch lie dis, dat chu’ve seen?”

Tulip’s lips knit together a bit more tightly. “Don’t know if I should say...are you planning to go running off to find that person next, if I tell you?”

The Escape Artist nodded.

“She’s right dangerous,” Tulip warned him. “Probably wouldn’t take kindly to you barging into her country and causing havoc. Not that I mind havoc,” she added with a wry grin, “That’s always good fun. And honestly, I’d say Patricia Rakepick is long overdue for some real chaos..."

“Patricia Rakepick?” repeated the Escape Artist. He said the name perfectly clearly and in an oddly sharp tone of voice.

“Yup. Once the Ace of Spades, now having styled herself Queen of the lot. She’s made herself quite a Tyrant, so I’ve heard.”

The Escape Artist’s eyes seemed to have gone very dark and murky as he took a step back and turned away. Tulip cocked her eyebrows at him, interested.

“Do you know her?” she asked.

“No,” said the Escape Artist. He glanced over his shoulder at Tulip, his skull-like eye shining with determination. “Bu’ hi intend to.”

As he started to walk back toward the flap of the tent, Tulip stopped him.

“Hold on,” she said. “If you’re planning on starting anything, you should at least take a few calling cards.”

She gave him a small handful of playing cards. When he unfurled them the way a dealer would a hand, the dark-haired man saw they were all various designs of Joker cards.

“Patricia Rakepick’s been looking for enemies to target lately,” said Tulip. “Best make sure she knows that it’s us who’s giving her a headache, rather than any more innocent bystanders. If nothing else, we Jokers don’t need any Hearts or Diamonds stealing the credit!” she said a bit more mischievously.

The Escape Artist considered the cards for a moment before pocketing them with a shrug and turning to go again.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Escape Artist?” Tulip called after him, her face becoming a bit more serious. “Escaping the Country of Spades is hard enough on its own -- trying to escape its Tyrant, once she has you in her sights? That’s quite a dragon to poke in the eye.”

If the dark-haired Joker heard her, he didn’t respond.

Tulip’s lips curled up in a weak, faintly cynical smile as she turned her back on the tent flap through which the Escape Artist had left.

“Let the game begin...”

x~x~x~x

When the Escape Artist arrived in Spades, he was taken aback by how much colder it was, compared to the Jokers’ Domain. But hey, that’s what happens when you stroll on into the Country of Spades in the middle of winter.

Sadly the Escape Artist was a bit ill-equipped to buy anything -- Spades’ trade had abruptly become highly regulated with Rakepick’s rise to power, and the Escape Artist lacked the identification needed to purchase any warmer clothing from the local shops. Fortunately he finally found a man shivering in an alley who was willing to trade his old red waistcoat for one of the large diamonds the Escape Artist had "acquired” while escaping the Cromwell Clan Jewelers. The coat was decorated with little black buttons shaped like spades -- the Escape Artist found himself fiddling with them off-and-on for the next hour, oddly charmed by their shape.

He felt like he’d had buttons like these once...maybe on a waistcoat like this one. He liked this shade of red.

As the Escape Artist strolled along, he earned quite a few side-long glances for his strange attire. The waistcoat wasn’t strange exactly -- a bit bright, perhaps, but otherwise normal -- but the straitjacket-turned-shirt was definitely odd, as was the length and shagginess of the man’s hair. There was also something oddly ghostly about his features -- his complexion was so pale and his eyes were so sunken-in that his face resembled a skull. Not to mention he kept rambling only half-decipherable nonsense to himself under his breath --

“Kwite a drear locale...de road’s blocked off, dat’s new...where’s de shop? Dere we go...s’all closed up. I know it, dun I? ...Dun I...know it...?”

The Escape Artist wandered quite a while. It was honestly like his feet were on autopilot, not even consulting his brain for a destination. Before he knew it, he’d ended up outside the castle of Spades. It was as he ended up in the shadow of the old clock tower that he found himself finally slowly coming to a stop, his eyes drawn up to it.

It was beautiful, wasn’t it? With its ornate iron spire and baronial architecture...must be just under 200 feet high...190, perhaps? Why, the turret clock’s face alone would have to be at least ten feet in diameter, and all made out of the most beautiful opal stained glass...

Its beauty was...foreboding, somehow. It chilled the Escape Artist to his core, just looking at it. The light behind that glass just seemed so lukewarm...warding him off, rather than beckoning him closer...

“He -- he was assassinated -- ”

The Escape Artist suddenly felt like his throat had sealed up. He clutched his head, choking painfully -- he felt a pair of black eyes on him, boring into him gravely --

“Then you’ll go after?” “ -- you’ll go after?” “ -- you’ll go after?”

It was too much. Overwhelmed with pain, the dark-haired man quickly withdrew, unable to stay in the shadow of the clocktower any longer.

He withdrew so quickly, though, that he took no notice of the soldiers that had entered the courtyard to confront him until he ran right into them.

“Hey!” one of them said indignantly. “Watch where you’re going, you!”

The Escape Artist stumbled back at the collision, but didn’t bother responding to the officers -- instead he impatiently tried to move past them. His head was pounding too badly for him to think straight...

“Hold it right there!” snapped the officer.

He grabbed the back of the Escape Artist’s coat and roughly pulled him back.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” he demanded.

“Dis spot ‘urts me,” mumbled the Escape Artist absently.

The other officer fixed him with a scornful, incredulous look. “It hurts you? Well, you’re gonna be feeling a lot more hurt, if you don’t apologize to my buddy right now for running into him -- ”

“Sorry,” the Escape Artist cut him off dully. “Now woncha kind-y bugger off...”

He made as if to leave again, but the officer holding him pulled him back so roughly he almost ripped his coat.

“What’d you say?” he snarled. “You have any idea who we are, you little pipsqueak?”

The Escape Artist’s eyes narrowed slightly at the dig to his modest height. “A pair o’ peabrains, fro’what I can see.”

The second officer grabbed hold of Jacob’s collar, looking ready to choke him.

“Troublemaker, huh?” he sneered, his teeth bared like a dog’s. “How about we just throw you in the slammer -- let you cool your ankles in some chains for a night?”

Chains. The Escape Artist remembered those -- there were manacles on both his ankles and his wrists -- binding him to a wall, locking him to cold stone --

Until he broke those chains. He broke them open. He then picked open the lock on the door and fled, overpowering the rifle-toting guard by the door with his bare hands and snatching the keys from a room two floors up --

The Escape Artist raised his head, his skull-like blue eyes flashing like gems as his lips unfurled in a crazed, manic smirk that made the officers shrink back.

“Y’think y’could ‘old me?” he whispered. “Go on then -- giv’it yer best go!”

Out of nowhere, he abruptly slammed the helmet on the second officer’s head down hard enough to stun him. Then, within seconds, he‘d slipped right out of the red coat, kneed the first officer in the groin, and snatched back his coat, slipping it back on as he ran across the courtyard.

“Augh -- ow -- don’t let him get away!” shouted the second officer.

The two men immediately pursued, chasing the Escape Artist throughout the palace grounds for what felt like hours. In that time, more and more officers arrived to try to fence him in, but to no avail. The Spades soldiers had no idea how this man could have such extensive knowledge of the palace’s grounds that he could navigate its winding halls with seemingly so little effort -- was it just luck on his part, or perhaps intuition? Was he really just that smart that he could figure out where there were likely to be emergency exits and how best to scale staircases and walls to avoid them? And worse still -- with every move this man made, he was making his way closer and closer to the throne room -- closer to the Queen of Spades --

Sure enough, that was the path the Escape Artist ended up taking, whether consciously or not. And when he arrived in the throne room and first lay eyes on the woman named Patricia Rakepick, he found himself once again frozen, stock still, just as he had been in the courtyard south of the clocktower.

“You!” “YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED HIM!” “ -- a danger as long as he’s alive -- ” “This is for the Queen -- !”

The Escape Artist’s head was throbbing with pain just looking at the woman sitting in that strangely familiar throne, dressed in gold-trimmed, military-worthy white and black. He felt himself shaking from head to toe as his eyes bore into her, struggling to focus through the blinding rage in his blood --

He didn’t know her. He knew he’d never seen her before in his life. And yet --

It was only because of the pain and confusion throbbing through the Joker’s head distracting him that the Army of Spades was able to catch up with him and -- with their superior numbers -- finally restrain him. They locked him in irons, with several officers pinning him to the floor on his stomach so he couldn’t get up.

“Mr. -- uh -- Whoever-You-Are -- you’re under arrest!”

“Does he have identification?”

“Don’t think so -- all he’s got in his pocket are some gems and a small deck of Joker cards -- ”

“So he’s a Joker?”

“What’s your name, Joker?”

“Dunno, dun care,” spat the Escape Artist, “an’ eve’if I did, I would nah tell th’ likes o’ chu, you shag-bag scrubs -- !”

The highest-ranked officer stepped on the back of the Joker’s curly head so as to roughly slam his face into the polished floor.

Rakepick’s face was arrogant when she finally rose from her throne and strode over to get a better look at who her subordinates had captured. She even used the toe of her boot to prompt the man to tilt his head from his position on the floor enough that she could better see his face.

When she did, however, the Tyrant of Spades’s face went as white as a sheet.

“It can’t be,” she breathed.

The Escape Artist stared up at Rakepick, his skull-like almond-shaped blue eyes boring into her in a mix of confusion and distrust. The lack of recognition in his eyes made Rakepick’s eyes widen further as she took a step back, throwing her gaze to the far window, through which one could see the clocktower in the distance. Yet it was like she didn’t see it or the window -- instead her gaze was cloudy, as if her mind was racing with thoughts.

“Your Majesty?”

An older woman with an orange streak in her gray bangs had come up behind the lesser officers, her arms folded behind her back in military posture. She was even dressed similarly to Rakepick, though colored black and violet, with a “J” emblazoned on her lapel.

“Madam Jack...” murmured one of the higher-ranked officers. The title made the Escape Artist twitch.

“Madam Jack?” There was no “Madam Jack” -- there was no -- !

But the woman called the Jack ignored both the Escape Artist twitching on the floor and her subordinate.

“What shall we do with the prisoner?” she prompted Rakepick.

Rakepick’s eyes darted down to the supposed Jack of Spades and then to the Escape Artist still fidgeting restlessly on the floor. Somewhere in her eyes, he could almost see something oddly tense, which then seemed to slowly chill and harden like ice before his eyes.

“Lock him in our strongest irons inside our base’s highest security cell under heavy guard,” the Tyrant of Spades said coldly. “I do not want him escaping us again.”

The soldiers holding the Escape Artist seized him, forcibly lugging him back up onto his feet. The Escape Artist tried to bolt out of their grip, but the chains binding him combined with the five men all holding him gave him no adequate leverage to pull free. As they dragged him out of the throne room with all of their strength, some of the soldiers could just barely catch some of the Tyrant and her Jack’s whispered exchange.

“ -- was dead?”

“He is dead -- ”

“Then how do you explain him? Or is that man a ghost sent back to haunt me?”

The tenseness in their leaders’ voices filled up the lesser officers with considerable dread as they led this mysterious prisoner out of the palace of Spades and through the courtyard toward the base just northward. As they went, they had to pass by the clock tower, where a very cold, supernatural wind swiped through them, on its way back toward the bell tower.

Another poor soul imprisoned by the likes of Rakepick, the ghost of Duncan Ashe thought grimly, as he faded away through the stone walls. How many more would there be, until Veruca was able to wrench control back out of Rakepick’s control...?

x~x~x~x

What happened next just about no one can fully agree on. The most credible account after the fact ended up being that of Maya Avery, a prisoner at the time who was associated with the resistance against Patricia Rakepick. Following her and her brother Jacob Avery’s escape from the base of Spades’ prison, she explained the serendipity of the circumstances thusly --

“The Tyrant’s men had brought this strange messy-haired man into custody. I remember because there were about five soldiers all holding onto his chains, just to keep him from escaping, as they dragged him past my cell. As he passed, he looked me over with this really focused look. Later that night, I heard a lot of ruckus, and when I got up, I saw him barreling past the cells, dragging four whole chains on his wrists and ankles behind him. When he saw me, he dashed up to my cell and told me to give him one of my hairpins. I tried to ask him what for, but he didn’t even answer -- he just snatched it right out of my hair and then bent it all out of shape! I was a bit cross at first, of course -- but then he set about picking the lock to my cell with it and then left the door open.

“‘There,’ he said. ‘Normally I’d offer to pay you, but I think this is probably more useful. The keys are two floors up, three doors down on your right, if you want them -- they’ll probably be too busy chasing me to notice you.’ His words were really slurred, so he said it a bit more messily than that, but you get the idea.

“Anyway, by then, he’d picked the locks on his manacles and he just ran off down the hall to the left. So I took his distraction and went to go get the keys so I could get Jacob and some of the others out. When we got up top, we found the whole base in disarray. The bloke from before must’ve stolen one of those new Mecha suits Rakepick’s been developing, and he used it to torch the warehouse holding the rest of them in it. Then he used the one he was in to bust his way right through the stone wall and hightail it right out of Spades. It was brilliant -- it was terrifying, of course, trying to escape that big of a fire...but still, it was brilliant.”

However the Escape Artist managed to trash every single one of the Mecha suits Rakepick had commisioned, though, two things were certain -- one, Patricia Rakepick was very, VERY angry that the Escape Artist had gotten away; and two, those who cursed the so-called “Tyrant of Spades” proposed a toast at the destruction of her newest “toys.” Even the ghost of Duncan Ashe, upon learning what happened from Veruca, seemed notably satisfied by the news.

“Jacob sketched out those suit designs with the thought of making mining safer and easier,” he admitted after some prompting, his gaze drawn away through the opal glass of the clock face. “They were supposed to help people, not be weapons of war.”

If Veruca hadn’t been so close to him at the time, she would’ve never caught the Counselor’s ghost’s melancholy whisper as he closed his eyes, fading away into supernaturally cold air.

 “...Jacob only ever wanted to do good for people. When he was alive...that’s all he ever wanted to do...”

#hphm cardverse #hphm #cardverse au #jacob cromwell #patricia rakepick #tulip karasu #nymphadora tonks #beatrice haywood #ismelda murk #charlie weasley #verucca buckthorn-snyde #maya avery #veruca mcquaid #duncan ashe #fanfiction #my writing #yes duncan thinks jacob died and passed on :'( #if only he could've gotten as close as rakepick did to jacob!! #then maybe he also would've recognized him ;~; #LOL yeah sorry rakepick jacob is going to be a thorn in your side forever #*snickers* #yes I know those lyrics in the center of the moodboard are about a pair of exes but the line still fits #there's a reason I picked a song from the count of monte cristo as the inspiration song for this instead #hope it gives you hell is just a fun song to sing though XDD #but yeah jacob's speaking really badly because of the injuries he sustained prior to arriving in the jokers' domain #I mean come on #the guy was put in a straitjacket sewn into a bag and then thrown off a bridge into a rushing river #and well...yeah there's a lot of mystery surrounding how jacob even survived that in the first place #he kind of has to relearn how to move and speak along with recollecting his memories poor guy :<

[lilleputtu]

Well well well would you look at that, it's some starter sims for a BaCC. Featuring not very good screenshots of their faces because really, what do you expect from me? Effort? We don't do that around here.

Anyways, some old faces, some new faces and a Lille who is going to have to reconcile some mods with the BaCC rules maybe. We'll see how it goes. and when. also where.

#sims 4 #the sims 4 #ts4 #ts4: utopia project bacc #up sim: Bahar Kurosh #up sim: Jacob Lee #up sim: Willow Chance #up sim: Adrian Smith #up sim: Liliana Graves #up sim: Glenn Thorne #hi welcome to lille rambles in the tags #because i am not even sure i wanna post this #... or play it right now #i really wanna play edona's glade more but its being horribly crashy #i will probably just make that a tomorrow lille problem #anyways look at my old babies #and hopefully my new babies #internet points to anyone who recognizes any of the old sims without the tags #heck or even with them its been 4+ years since i last played them

[thedivinelights]

Console.WriteLine("A Christmas Carol");

STAVE TWO: THE OPERATING OFFICER

Ao3

(TW: Mentions of Miscarriage and Abortion)

⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯

It must have been a miracle — or perhaps a talent; one could never truly be sure of one’s own abilities until they are tested, after all — that when Scrooge and Marley awoke the next morning, it was not from the deafening sound of the alarm at half-past six, not from the satisfying ache that swelled across their marked bodies, and not from the drumming of Hephaestus’ hammer upon their heads. No, they awoke with a sober clarity that surprised them both, the pounding headache absent and the Scotch-fueled fogginess cleared away as if it had never been. Perhaps it was the sense of duty or the knowledge that their new executives would be arriving soon that motivated them to rise with such punctuality, though neither of them could be quite certain.

The morning rituals were conducted with a crisp efficiency that would have made even the finest of military generals tint themselves green with envy. Their suits were impeccably pressed, their ties flawlessly knotted, and their shoes polished to a shine to match the lustre of the finest gemstones. They partook in a simple breakfast — two cups of burning black coffee and some oatmeal most likely conjured by the microwave — and, without even bothering to clean up their mess, made their way to the office without any fuss, either in the car or in the office.

“With Bob and the rest of our main staff off for the holidays, we’ll have to take on the extra workload.” Marley remarked, glancing at his aged silver Rolex. Five to ten. Take away another five minutes and it was ten to.

“We’ll make do.” Scrooge adjusted his tie as he leaned into his chair. “We always have.”

And as soon as he had spoken those words, an incantation in and of itself, a knock, as gentle as the padding of feet yet still somehow so assertive, graced their ears.

“Good morning, messieurs. I’m here for my introductions?”

To say that the two executive officers were stunned would be an understatement. For when the door to their office opened as it had been countless times before, I tell you now that this time was different. You see, for the three decades in which Scrooge and Marley had resided in this establishment, they had seen that selfsame door open a hundred different ways from a hundred different walks of life. A newer employee would peep their head through the door. An angry business associate would strut about like peacocks, acting as if they had owned the place. Their own secretary, whom they had been acquainted with for as long as they could remember, would walk in without so much as a second thought, either with a coffee or a stack of paperwork in hand. They had seen it all, heard it all, smelled it all.

But this time? It was an unfamiliar situation. A new record in which they had yet to keep. The knocks appeared timid enough that they could judge it based on low self-esteem or intrusive second thoughts. The door opened hastily enough to believe it had been nerves alight with nauseating anxiety or insecurity which, considering the circumstances, would have been a reasonable response. But, I ask you, what was it that really, truly, absolutely threw them off their game? The stride. Yes, dear reader, it was the stride.

Sanguine. Poised. Graceful. Long and purposeful, but not so purposeful that it appeared arrogant or overdone. The heels that clacked against the floor were not nearly as loud or as prominent as they could have been, featherlight taps against polished wood being the only audible noise from the footwear that they could discern. It seemed contradictory. It looked contradictory. It was a stride of someone who knew their place, someone who was comfortable in their own skin and carried themselves with an air of quiet confidence. A stride of someone who understood exactly who they were, but made no show of ever flaunting it.

And the most surprising part of it all… was that neither of them had expected it from someone so young.

This woman was not so much a woman as she was a vision of juxtaposed contrasts. Youth and experience, confidence and humility, elegance and pragmatism all seemed to coalesce into this wonder of a woman, contradictory yet so beautifully blended into a harmonious whole. She was so strikingly attractive that even Marley — who had never been one to be infatuated with the fairer sex in lieu of his own inclinations — could not help but find himself captivated by her presence.

She looked the part of a fair maiden when she smiled, all innocent and forbearing like the tenderest spring bud about to bloom. But when her bright eyes locked onto the two men, grey against green and blue, her countenance displayed a wealth of knowledge and shrewdness that exceeded far beyond her years. Her hair, which hung loosely over her shoulders in flowing curls, was dyed the purest of white, tainted only by the thinnest of black streaks peeking through ever so slightly at the roots. Her forearms, exposed beneath a crisp white blouse trimmed with summer flowers, bore a musculature befitting that of an athlete. Yet her fingers, petite and delicate, hinted at the finesse of an artist. A pair of comfortable, tailored navy trousers accompanied her ensemble. But amidst the purity of the brighter shades, a single splash of colour adorned her body in the form of a single olive branch hanging upon her ear as if it was a part of her body, seeming so close to falling, yet ever securely perched where it was intended to be.

"Are you the candidate that Grantham has chosen for us?" Scrooge asked when Marley had been otherwise distracted.

"I am!" 

Her voice had been surprisingly soft despite her cheerfulness. "Mlle Pastelle Talon, M. Scrooge. Your new Chief Operating Officer, if you'll have me."

Marley, as he roughly skimmed Pastelle's folder, spoke with an odd mix between deference and intrigue. "It says here that you are twenty-one, a rather youthful age for such a prestigious position."

Scrooge inquired curiously to Pastelle upon whether or not she had worked with Asplex Industries before in any capacity, for one who seemed to have so little experience could not possibly have been recommended without some previous connection to the company.

“I took an apprenticeship here when I first moved to England two years ago.” Pastelle elaborated. “It was the previous COO who had taken me under his wing, actually.”

Scrooge remarked politely that the previous holder of the title was, to put it lightly, a piece of work that no one with a sense of self-preservation would ever wish to willingly associate with in any manner.

“Believe me, M. Scrooge, I understand that better than anyone.” Pastelle agreed with some restrained amusement, her lips forming a tight smile at the thought of the salacious, revolting, and crude being who had been her predecessor. “But despite my… situation, I learned a great deal about the inner workings of Asplex Industries because of him, so in a way, I have much to thank him for. I do hope my age has not discouraged you in your decision making.”

Marley swiftly and aptly rejected any intention to offend or discriminate. “Age is but a number, Miss Talon. If you have the qualifications and capabilities to excel in your field, then we see no reason not to have you in our team.”

“But that’s only if you are qualified.” Scrooge sharply added. Leave it to him to smother out the glowing embers of hope with a bucket of ice-cold reality. “I trust that Grantham has debriefed you with the details?”

The plans for the day, the day after, and the day after that, were simple enough to understand. For the entirety of the workday, Scrooge and Marley would accompany the aspiring executive, watching and observing and evaluating with keen eyes as each candidate would go about their duties, or rather, what would be their duties if they had managed to acquire the positions they sought. At the end of the three day, the two scrutineers would make an exhaustively detailed and comprehensive evaluation and decide then and there whether or not the candidate had gotten the job. And as an added bonus from the beloved Grantham, perhaps both a blessing and a curse for both parties involved, the couple themselves were not allowed to have any direct interaction with any of the applicants unless explicitly stated by said applicant or did so in a way that did not affect the results. Such rules had to be within reason, of course. I suppose if one of the entrants brandished a gun and forced the CEOs to dance the Macarena while singing show tunes, then yes, that would fall outside the realms of acceptable bounds of behaviour.

Fair rules and fair game, with few external factors that could sway their decisions. It was a pity that Grantham had gone off to celebrate the wretched holidays as so many others in their employ had been eagerly hurtling towards. Perhaps they could have had a few words with the elusive CHRO regarding these peculiar conditions.

Though, in retrospect, it mattered very little at this point. They were more than capable of keeping to the schedule.

Pastelle smiled, more genuine than it had been before. “Oui, M. Scrooge. I know all there is to know. Tristan told me what to expect when I arrived.”

Ah, first name basis. Denotes familiarity with the subject, in this case a C-suite executive. Human Resources Officer. A casual tone indicated either a rapport with the higher-ups or a certain level of confidence that bordered on audacity. That, or it had been a strategic move to seem more friendly and approachable. Regardless of her reason — I shall endeavour to leave it to interpretation — it was most certainly a mark in her favour, as Scrooge and Marley inwardly acknowledged.

“I would like to make a few inquiries, if possible.” Pastelle spoke up with such tact and consideration that it almost caught her employers off-guard. Rare was it that people in their line of work — bankers, financiers, and the like —  spoke to them with tried and true sincerity and cordiality, gestures all the more foreign to them in their high echelons of industry.

Marley peered over as Pastelle stood from her seat, quietly pushing it under her desk without so much as a whimper of the grating sound against wood. He responded, then, waving a hand in dismissal as he motioned to speak freely.

“How did Asplex Industries come to be?” Pastelle quizzed with curiosity. 

“Through hard work and determination. Naught else but perfection.” Scrooge replied simply, content with his answer until he found that his companion shared not his sentiment and earned himself a disapproving glare. “What? I answered the question, did I not?”

“You could at least give the lady a bit more than that, Scrooge.” Marley chided, tilting his head over to the expectant Pastelle. “It’s not often someone asks a query like this.”

Scrooge rolled his eyes but conceded nonetheless. “Fine, then.”

He stood from his chair, aches and pains from sitting in a rickety old chair for so long beginning to claw at him like a feral cat scraping against a deteriorated scratching post. A few swift strides were all he had needed to reach the expansive window that overlooked the heart of London's financial district. The city sprawled below, a labyrinth of glass, steel, and concrete, where dreams of wealth and success were forged and shattered daily. It was ever a sight to be envious of, sitting at the top of a building built upon the backs of brilliance and the betterment of the mechanical society.

“Thirty-two years ago, we were nothing.” Scrooge placed his hands behind his back, almost sensing the afternoon breeze tickling his brown hair through the double-glazed windows. “Just two men fresh out of a boarding school that refused us our academic accolades. No money, no connections, and no prospects. But we were young and brash and ambitious, just as people of our age usually are.”

“But perhaps even more?” Pastelle prompted as she tucked a stray strand of white behind her ear.

“All of this had started from ambition! What else could it have been?” Scrooge motioned around him as he turned back to his desk to swipe his jacket, moving from the comfort of a private setting to a well-deserved lunch break. Marley accompanied him. Pastelle followed behind like a curious pet learning about her owners. 

What was it that had been said by the man behind the mouse? ‘All dreams can come true, if we have the courage to pursue them’? Well, Scrooge and Marley had most definitely had the courage, and perhaps a touch of audacity to be sprinkled along with it. It was they who made a game of relevance. They who made a game of story, a game of innovation, a game of business. Who cared for sound directors? Who cared for artists? Who cared for designers? Who cared for programmers, or writers, or testers, or marketers, or whatever myriad of roles meant to accompany a game’s development? Surely not them! For Scrooge had programmed and developed and tested, Marley had designed and marketed and managed. They were their own creators and critics, their own team, their own entity. Between passionate intimacy and dispassionate business acumen, they had built the foundations of what would become Asplex Industries.

Novel Nexus, it was called. A role-playing game that took the dull, mind-numbingly senseless education of classic literature and screenplays and turned it into an interactive masterpiece, twisting the tales into horrifyingly enthralling narratives of duality, responsibility, ambition, and romance with narrative shifts one could only dream of. What if Utterson had felt no desire to intervene in the sinister plot of Jekyll and Hyde? What if Macbeth had never met those three witches? What if the Birling family had continued to live their extravagant lives without Inspector Goole’s interference? What if Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had never become roommates? The players themselves were tasked with making these decisions, altering the course of literary history and shaping the destiny of iconic characters. The game was an instant hit, a revelation in the world of interactive storytelling, and it catapulted their names into the limelight of the whole of the video game industry. All eyes had been on them, and it was so gratifying to spit in the face of their contemporaries, their critics, and their detractors. To laugh in the face of all those loutish dullards who thought that ‘those queers’ would be nothing but two men with disgusting predilections and proclivities. They had shown them. Oh, they had shown them.

“Mr. Scrooge and I loved these tales with every fibre of our being. And we loved video games just as much, if not even more so.” Marley interjected, a hint of long-forgotten pride swelling within him.

“I’m sure they must mean much to you, M. Marley.”

“For a boy who spent his formative years jumping families, only to finally find a home…” Marley closed his eyes. “It meant everything to me.”

“Do you still love them now?” Pastelle twirled the olive branch hanging from her ear. “Or has banality overcome your passions?”

Marley said not a word for a moment, wringing his hands as he pursed his lips to grasp at a suitable answer. “We are men of business, Miss Talon. Good men of business.”

He'd hoped that would be enough to satiate her. And even if it wasn't, he knew she wouldn't dare to ask for more as young Twist had done. Marley knew her ploy well enough. The position of Chief Operating Officer was by far the one that worked the closest with Scrooge and Marley. She was testing the waters of what was and what wasn’t, in a way. Keep them on their toes, see how much they would willingly share, and how much they would withhold. Neither Scrooge nor Marley had been ignorant of such tactics having been in business for so long. But if it unnerved them enough that one so young had been privy to such methods, they had done a fine job in hiding it.

Thankfully, Pastelle had been satisfied with their answers, and soon they travelled alongside each other through the interconnected maze of corridors and elevators that made up the sprawling Asplex Industries headquarters. Marley excused himself after a while, however. Despite his sobriety and the hours that had already passed, it appeared the indulgences of the previous night had finally caught up to his ageing and nauseated innards and took off in a hurry.

Thus did the two that remained travel on and on, never stalling or waiting for even a second to pass without movement. How now could he have forgotten such a sincere passion for literature? How could he, the stern and unyielding CEO of Asplex Industries, be filled with such gladness as he reminisced? Had he been affected by the plague of the festivities? Of course not! What cared he for a time of blatant consumerism when they indulge in gluttony and sloth to drown away the sorrows of their sad, sordid little lives? What good was it to pretend to jocund and jolly for one day when the other three hundred and sixty-four or sixty-five was filled with the drudgery of daily existence?

“Did you ever play Novel Nexus in your youth?” Scrooge asked inquisitively, both in a sense of curiosity and professional interest. Perhaps it toed the line between nonintervention and preference in these evaluations, but the subject seemed harmless enough. Pastelle had been the one to initiate the conversation, after all, and those who initiate change would have a better opportunity to manage the change that is inevitable… or so the saying goes.

“Nouveaux Nexus? I did not, personally. But my mother did.” Pastelle seemed almost wistful as she moved about, occasionally stopping to help some few employees that remained detached from the holidays, scribbling down notes as she answered. “My father had apparently bought the game for her as a gift to help pass the time when I was in the womb. Needless to say, when I had been old enough to hear the tales, my mother bought the screenplays and novels referenced in the game and read them to me in its entirety. Did all the voices too. She always was so fond of that Inspector Goole.”

“Hah! The Inspector?” Scrooge both exclaimed with amour propre and scoffed at the ludicrousness of it all. “He’s so bloody popular it’s almost sickening in its magnification. I was always partial to Arthur Birling, personally. The sexist bloke was as idiotic and foolish as they come. Who was he to assume anything of his own son’s actions in the pub, or his daughter’s actions at Milwards? To make long-winded speeches as a ‘hard-headed businessman’? It was he who was the fons et origo of Eva Smith’s ultimate downfall, mark my words. Besides, there’s something quite charming about watching an actor fumble through lines so dumb it's a wonder how he even managed to find his way to the theatre.”

To hear Scrooge speak of all of his childhood tales with such reverence and passion, one would believe him to be that radiant young man who had once stood at the precipice of a brilliant future, untainted by the scars or the cynicism of corporate warfare.

“Rather passionate, M. Scrooge.” Pastelle observed with a teasing lilt as she walked backwards in front of him.

“Ah yes… forgive me. We’ve gotten off topic.” Scrooge’s cheeks flushed a tint of pink, clearing his throat as he adjusted his tie and retained a more professional persona. Oh! How his fellow money men and moguls would gawk and gape at the sight of his perfervid admissions. “I trust that you will not derail this evaluation with such unimportant anecdotes any longer?”

The tone he had taken up this time brooked no room for further personal exchanges between the two, for such a degree as was necessary to complete the tasks at hand. They found their way out of the labyrinthine hallways, trusting that Marley would find his way to them soon enough, and escaped into the cafeteria. It was spacious enough, filled with enough glass tables to deter the employees from congregating for longer than necessary. Some few workers who did not deign to celebrate the holiday season lingered about like phantoms in a hauntingly empty space. Most of the cafeteria staff had taken their leave, but there was one lone barista who remained at his station in a dimly lit corner of the room, diligently preparing beverages — alcoholic and non-alcoholic alike — for the stragglers of the conglomerate who dared to defy the festivities.

It had been a large room, but comfort was as sparse as the holiday spirit that dwelled within it. A neat row of lockers, aligned and polished to a shine, were situated on the far left side, with automatic glass doors on beside it that led to more hallways and more cramped offices for talented programmers and cybersecurity analysts clearly not getting paid enough for their services. And upon the right, more glass doors awaited, leading to a balcony with about as much shade as a cloudless sky. Some few men and women soundlessly chattered with amicable politeness, the smoke of tobacco streaming up into the morning air, forming shapes of grey in a concentrated aerosol of nitrogen and oxygen and carbon, both monoxide and dioxide. The Foggy Balcony it was called, so affectionately named for being popular amongst both the juniors and the seniors who wished for solace amidst the stifling confinements of climate-controlled rooms. Barely a moment was spent on that platform admiring the view of London from on high, the time better suited to corroding lungs on a regular basis as the woes of deadlines and projects and emails were made abundantly clear.

Without his dearly beloved to look over his shoulder and berate him for unhealthy habits, Scrooge allowed himself a moment of indulgence to relieve some stress of his own. He pulled a single roll from a pack I dare not allude to the whereabouts of for my own safety as well as yours, dear reader, and made his way out onto the Foggy Balcony whilst Pastelle sauntered over to the lockers, fumbling for her key that appeared to have disappeared in the deepest recesses of her pockets. Those that had been taking up the space of the platform noticed Scrooge’s arrival, expeditiously stamping out their unfinished stubs as they made their excuses to leave, rushing back into the building as a chaotic clump rather than in a linear line. Few cared for the head honcho to catch them in the act, but it was far better to comply than to provoke.

In the end, only two ignorant souls remained, blissfully unaware of the shark that lurked beneath their calm waters. They were two gentlemen, vastly differing in age, yet still as attuned to their shared moment as one would hope to be. Hanging their suit jackets loosely upon their shoulders, they shared a cig between them, puffing out between conversations that Scrooge had heard clear as day.

“...I mean, we really don’t have much of a choice.” The younger man began, a brunette with bright blue eyes and a slender figure. “I hoped that my apprenticeship here would be enough to scrape by, but…”

“Aye, ah cannae blame ye fer bein’ idealistic.” The older, broader ginger with a clear and gritty Scottish twang shook his head sadly. “But Asplex Industries ain’t a charity, laddie. We all work fer our pay, the wee bit we get…”

The sound of footsteps caught their attention, and both men practically jumped out of their skins as Scrooge stepped in the gap between them and leaned against the railing, rendered speechless even as he looked to the older man with an expectant raise of his hand. It could have been said, then, that the speed in which the Scotsman offered his own lighter had been as swift and as mesmerising as the quick flicker of a striking match, which would ignite the end of the stub with a hissing flame that danced and twirled and spiralled before revealing the glory of the orangey-red tobacco as it glowed in the light of the early morning sun. It had been swift and without hesitation, for when the opportunity arises for a poor wage earner to perhaps seek gainful employment and the possibility of a larger paycheck, one takes whatever means necessary to secure it. And if that means must be procured through an easy transaction of expensive cigarettes, then so be it. He would not complain.

Scrooge looked between his stunned companions — if companions had been the right word to describe it, I am not sure — and watched their shifting countenances of fear, curiosity, intrigue, and awe, sighing as he shoved the lighter into his own pocket. It was cheap enough, he mused. The man could always get a new one.

“Well? Don’t stop on my account.” Scrooge smirked with wry amusement, exhaling a plume of smoke into the brisk morning air. “Continue your conversation, gentlemen. I’m merely here for some fresh air.”

While the Scotsman had indeed lost his voice in the presence of such a prominent figure in the financial industry, the apprentice had as snippy a tongue as one could expect for a man upon the lower rungs of the proverbial corporate ladder. He muttered some few words of indignity, clearly taking offence to the sudden interruption with choice words hidden beneath that boyish exterior. But, as we know, this was Ebenezer Scrooge they were talking about. And if there was anything he was known for, it was that… well, putting it mildly, the older employees knew better than to fuck with their superiors. Especially when said superiors held the keys to their financial wellbeing, and one just so happened to be standing right beside them.

“P-Please, boss, dinnae to be too hard on the lad!” The Scotsman exclaimed at last, desperately trying to ease the tension that had settled in like the thick fog that often accompanied them. “He’s barely a wee bairn o’ an apprentice here, y’see.”

“Hm. Fresh blood.” Scrooge looked over the apprentice with a keen gaze. “Welcome.”

“Boss?” The apprentice paled under the scrutinising glare hidden behind layers of indifference between orbs of blue, the cig slipping from the loose grip of his fingers. “So you’re… Mr. Marley?”

“My partner is currently indisposed at the moment.” Scrooge took another drag from his cigarette. 

“Mr. Scrooge, then?” The apprentice inquired. The silence had told him all he needed to. “I thought you might’ve taken his surname, since… well…”

A valid assumption, to be sure. It was well known amongst the employees of Asplex Industries — often the general public had been sceptical of the men and their relationship — that Scrooge and Marley were partners in business and in life. It was a small fact that had garnered sprinkles of disdain amidst the more conservative employees in the early days of their business. But the years went on, and so did the people as their continued success made the criticism as nonsensical as it was irrelevant to the ever-changing world they cared little for. No one but the ignorant few remained, the other employees shoving the lot of them out of the way and completely ignoring their petty squabbles and questions and judgements in favour of getting the work that needed to be done. It was a very practical approach to the matter, one that Scrooge himself appreciated when it came to the affairs of business. His sexuality, much like his personal life, was no one’s business but his own. If the public masses preferred to continue on their merry little way, and if the ignorance did not escalate into anything more sinister, then he would be more than happy to leave them to their own devices.

“Like I said: Don’t stop on my account.” Scrooge repeated.

“‘S not a pleasant discussion.” The Scotsman argued feebly. Scrooge chose to ignore it.

“It’s hardly something to worry about.” The apprentice fired back as he stamped hard against the poor cig, invigorated by the encounter.

“New life ain’t somethin’ tae worry about?” The Scotsman looked indignant, unaware of the way Scrooge had stopped midway through a drag.

“It’s really her choice, in the end.” The apprentice’s voice softened slightly, looking to the endless expanse of the city as he let the afternoon breeze brush past his skin. “I can’t afford to care for it with my university debts and meagre earnings. If she wishes to give it up, it’s a load off my end.”

Scrooge felt none of the sting of the burns as he crushed his still-lit cigarette in his scarred fingers, the bite against his nerves doing nothing to alleviate the growing tension as the well-kept posture of the office overlord, the solitary shark, shifted with such vehemence to nearly lead to his ragged ruin. The sheer disdain that had been marred into his countenance had been so translucent that it was almost transparent. The magnitude of such a statement and the ramifications thereof were not lost on him.

“And if she chooses to keep the child?” Scrooge questioned in a tone as frosty as the December afternoon air.

“She can’t! I can’t!” The apprentice exclaimed, face white as a sheet as he stood aghast. “There’s no way! Not on her own! Not at our age! Not with the health plan in this bloody place! Not with my stipend! Not with the loans and the rates and the debt and the expenses! It’s not feasible!”

“You could make it feasible if you worked harder.” Scrooge countered sharply, his voice slicing through the chill with an edge of scorn. “You could make it feasible if you cut your spending, if you saved more, if you put in the extra hours, if you sacrificed the little luxuries for a greater cause. You could make it feasible if you stopped whining and started making something of yourself!”

Scrooge knew his words were harsh, but he didn’t care. He had built his empire from nothing, defied all odds, and carved out a place in the world for himself and his beloved Marley. He had no patience for excuses or self-pity. He had no tolerance for those who didn’t strive for success with every fibre of their being. He believed in hard work, in discipline, in the relentless pursuit of goals. And anyone who didn’t share that vision, who didn’t possess the grit to fight for their dreams, was nothing but a waste of potential in his eyes.

The apprentice’s face twisted into a mask of shock and indignation. He looked as if he might protest, might defend himself, might argue back. But the words died on his lips as he met Scrooge’s steely gaze, and the weight of the older man’s disapproval seemed to crush any further protests.

“I have little patience for those who can’t take responsibility for their own lives.” Scrooge’s voice was like ice, unforgiving and relentless. “If you can’t handle the consequences of your actions, then you have no business being here. You have no business expecting others to bail you out. You have no business bringing your personal problems into the workplace. We are here to work, to succeed, to build something greater than ourselves. If you can’t contribute to that, then you’re just dead weight.”

The apprentice stood frozen, his eyes wide and his mouth agape, as if the faintest of gusts would break him down at any moment. The older Scotsman beside him shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting between Scrooge and the younger man, uncertain of how to intervene, unsure of how to defuse the tension that had seized the balcony.

“Asplex Industries is no charity, boy.” Scrooge reiterated the Scotsman’s words as his voice softened, but was no less blunt and unforgiving. “We are still a business. You may be a new hire, but I will not suffer dullards who do not work to the best of their ability, refuse to mature, and then demand pity and pay for their mistakes as if it were my own.”

The apprentice hung his head, unable to meet the stern gaze of the CEO any longer. He was humbled and defeated, his sense of entitlement utterly shattered in the face of such blunt and cold reality. Scrooge scoffed and he remembered to breathe, not bothering to warrant either of the two men with anything more as he flicked what little remained of his cigarette over the balcony, watching as it was caught and carried on the winds and far from view. He had said what he needed to say, and they had taken it or they hadn't, but in the end, it wasn't his burden to bear. Scrooge was a man of business, and he had plenty of business to attend to. He strode back into the building, leaving the two men behind in an uncomfortable quiet.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and retreated from the balcony, leaving the apprentice and the Scotsman to their own devices. The apprentice's face remained ashen, and the older employee cast a sympathetic glance in his direction. The shadow of Scrooge loomed over them like the sword of Damocles, cruel and merciless. He was no saviour. No saint. The magnate of Asplex Industries cared nothing for the weak or the poor. But in the rarest of instances, in the most extraordinary of circumstances, he did what he did best: He made business deals. Transactions. Barter agreements. Acquisitions. Mergers. At the end of the day, it was he who was the shark that swam in the financial sea, not the fluke who was washed away by the waves.

Having found himself thoroughly satiated and a tad more irritable than he had been an hour before, Scrooge returned to the cafeteria without much fanfare or fuss, feeling not the least bit perturbed by the looks of trepidation and caution that had made their home on the faces of the scant staff members who had chosen to remain. He stopped at last to a glass table hidden in the farthest corner of the room, masked by shadows and contrasted by pockets of dim fluorescent lighting.

Pastelle had made a bit of a home there, having finally retrieved the contents of her locker, and Marley had finally returned from his sojourn as he examined the woman’s work. A laptop emblazoned with the symbol of Asplex Industries on the lid, paired only with a collection of organised folders stacked atop each other. Marley had returned, then, having finally caught up with his partner. His sleek, framed, black spectacles rested comfortably atop the bridge of his nose as he examined Pastelle’s screen, a sight not visible to Scrooge as he stood on the side, waiting for either of them to acknowledge his presence. Scrooge had never been the sort to stand on ceremony. He rarely waited for attention or pleasantries. If he had something to say, he said it. But the interactions that he had just borne witness to on the balcony left him with a bitter aftertaste, and he found himself in no particular hurry to rejoin the conversation.

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon one’s point of view, Marley had noticed him almost immediately as he reached for his coffee — black, no sugar or milk — and Scrooge half-expected the disapproving stare that had been directed at him with such chagrin as Marley pulled his glasses up to his forehead, berating him as he often did regarding his smoking habits. Though Scrooge, as he often did, gave him a dismissive shrug as he took the seat next to Marley and took a long sip of his husband’s coffee, allowing the bitterness of the dark liquid to momentarily distract him, even for a brief instant.

“What’s all this, then?” Scrooge motioned to the screen with a tilt of his head.

Marley didn’t miss a beat as he replied. “I gave Miss Talon access to some of the company database and systems so she could familiarise herself with our current projects and operations. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t, but some insight would have been nice.” Scrooge chided him gently, or as gently as he could have given his disposition, to which Marley gave him a halfhearted shrug in response.

It was solid logic, either way. This evaluation was far more than a simple questionnaire about qualifications and experience. To be Chief Operating Officer of Asplex Industries was to be the best of the best, to climb and grasp at the beanstalk of upheaval and innovation. It required an intimate understanding of the company's inner workings, its projects, its goals, and its challenges. To be without any of that knowledge was to throw away any hope of being accepted. Scrooge knew that. Marley knew that. They hoped that Pastelle knew that, too. Scrooge turned his attention to Pastelle, who sat calmly between the two men, her fingers tapping away at the keyboard in front of her. She appeared to be absorbed in the contents on the screen, her brow furrowed slightly in concentration.

“Anything catching your eye, Miss Talon?” Scrooge inquired, his voice still tinged with the lingering impatience from his encounter on the balcony.

Pastelle shook her head. “Nothing much of note, monsieur. Just that one of our main suppliers for semiconductors, FezziTech, has failed to meet the latest shipment deadline for the fourth quarter in a row.”

Scrooge pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course it had been FezziTech that had to be the perennially underperforming supplier. Who else could it be? They had alternatives, of course. Asplex was not so foolish as to rely upon the weight of just a singular company. But there were no excuses to allow such incompetence to persist, even with such a longstanding partnership. Pastelle shifted tabs quickly as she scrolled through FezziTech’s social media platforms for any information, perhaps a public statement or reason for the repeated delays. Yet, her search appeared to yield no results regarding anything pertaining to financial discourse or other external factors. All except one thing of note.

“It appears that Nigel Fezziwig is hosting a Christmas ball this evening.” Pastelle murmured as she continued to scroll through the feeds. “It says here that it’s—”

“Open to the general public? All proceeds go to the local orphanage?” Marley finished, letting out a bitter laugh as he cleaned his spectacles. “God… he does these grand gestures of generosity every year.”

“What’s so wrong about generosity? I’m sure the children would be glad for the donations.” Pastelle replied.

Marley scowled, gripping the hinges of his spectacles tightly as he pocketed his lens wipe. “The orphanage would be glad. Damn Fezziwig and his bleeding heart…”

“That’s Old Fezziwig for you.” Scrooge rolled his eyes.

Pastelle asked curiously if they knew him well.

“Know him? We were his secretaries back in the day!” Marley chuckled, reminiscing despite the disdain. “Fezziwig was a character, let me tell you. Always throwing these lavish parties, showering everyone with gifts, acting like the jolliest man in all of England. He was quite the boss to work for.”

“But his business practices were hardly sustainable.” Scrooge interjected, his tone retaining a sharp edge. “He was all about the show, but when it came to the bottom line, he couldn’t make the numbers add up. It’s a wonder he’s still in the game at all.”

“He’s got a good heart, though.” Marley defended, adjusting his glasses. “Maybe too good for his own good, but he means well. Can’t fault a man for trying to spread a bit of cheer in this cutthroat industry.”

“That cheer only goes so far in this world.” Scrooge interjected with a countenance more impersonal than usual, if such a thing could be believed.

“Regardless, we’ll have to address this.” Pastelle reminded as she closed her laptop. “I’ll make plans to schedule a meeting after the holidays…”

Perhaps it was in the manner in which they dismissed such a thought — brought only by a lack of understanding in the way her seniors operated, just as the Beauty had misunderstood the nature of the Beast — for when Pastelle had voiced her seemingly logical solution, Scrooge and Marley looked to each other with a silent, shared understanding. They rose from their seats, sifted through drawers upon drawers, pocketed a USB stick, donned their coats and gloves, and bade her to follow them to the car without so much as an elucidation or an explanation. I will not bore you with the trivialities of the ride, or the route taken, or the length of such a journey, or the longitude and latitude of their destination. Instead, let me assure you, dear reader, that they arrived at the aforementioned Christmas ball being hosted by Nigel Fezziwig with all the punctuality and grace that one would expect from two seasoned businessmen.

But what a celebration it had been! Why, if there had ever been a more voracious gathering of Christmas merriment and mirth, speak it to me, and I shall not hesitate to challenge the validity of your claims! The grandeur of the event — the lights, the decorations, the splendour of the scrumptious feast, the blasting music, and nigh-on-endless flow of champagne — was rivalled by none and bedazzled many.

Look upon Dick Wilkins, the DJ with the sharpest taste in music, blending old classics with modern hits with all the finesse of a man who had turned the tables many times over. Look upon Mr. Nigel Fezziwig, all dressed up in a glittering, gaudy red suit as he pranced about atop the receptionist’s desk like he was in the comfort of his own home, laughing as if he was the reincarnation of Santa Claus himself. Look upon Mrs. Chloe Fezziwig, a woman whose lips seemed to be perpetually turned up into a fabulous smile. Look upon Benedicta, Bridget, and Belle, the triplets of the Fezziwig clan greeting each guest with cheerful radiance, the beauty of each having aged just as finely as the most tasteful of wines. Look upon the numerous employees of FezziTech, loyal and upstanding. Look upon the friends and family, known and unknown. Look upon the boy who had but recently escaped the clutches of a drunkard’s grasp and found himself in the relative safety of the orphanage hiding shyly behind the girl who had resorted to thievery to feed her helpless brother. Look upon the timid, the brave, the elegant, the gauche; look upon them all and tell me, my dear friends, if there had ever been a more blatant display of kindness and prosperity, even if they had known then they had little to offer and even less to lose.

Not one bit of it mattered, in the end, when the Shark and the Snake of London waltzed through the gilded doors, side-by-side, unwavering and undeterred. The attendant, who had been taking coats and cloaks with a practised efficiency, froze midway into his movements, into his words, as the cold air of the outside world interspersed with the warmth of the room, and all who had finally felt the frigidity fell silent at the formidable titans of Asplex Industries, the monsters of finance and industry, the embodiment of success and ruthlessness, the two men known as Scrooge and Marley. The music in which Dick Wilkins had been orchestrating with such energetic fervour stopped abruptly like a needle dragged unceremoniously across the grooves of a vinyl record. The laughter in which Mrs. Fezziwig had been producing was stifled into a nervous silence like a petite bird hushed by the looming shadow of a deadly predator.

The greetings in which the triplets had been working diligently to maintain had been cut like a life lost too soon by unfortunate circumstances. Step by halcyon step — one, two, three, four — Scrooge and Marley advanced in an unbroken rhythm that had been their signature — five, six, seven, eight — slacks echoing on tiled floors without fail, without a misstep. A path had been cleared through a sea of partygoers who knew all too well not to bar their path, lest they incur the wrath of such an infamous duo. Pastelle trailed closely behind them with the same confident stride, but the sprout of unease grew within her as she looked upon the faces of those who had looked on, anxious and tense even as they murmured amongst themselves.

“What do they have on her…?”

Pastelle had chosen to ignore the mumblings for the moment, her thoughts disrupted as she bumped into Scrooge’s imposing figure when he and his partner had stopped abruptly at the receptionist’s desk. Scrooge spoke not a word as he reached across for the bottle of red from a dazed waiter and poured a glass, swirling the contents within as waves rippled in the contained Bordeaux, still as the ocean on a windless night.

“I see you’re still doing these ostentatious gatherings of yours, old man.” Scrooge grinned toothily as he took a long, hard, slow sip of his wine, the ice of his trained glare on the man standing above him not thawing one degree even with the burn of alcohol that danced along the edge of his tongue. “I would have thought that you of all people would have the capacity to learn from your mistakes. After all… bad things have a tendency to happen at parties.”

The words alone could have frozen all the air in the room and then some, forever entrapping all in a solitary moment of icy dread, caged amongst two barbarous fiends wearing human skins. Compassion had left, and so had mercy. All that remained were the strings of fate, messily binding the past and the present together in an amalgamation of what was and what is. To think that years ago, in a time not known to younger generations, Fezziwig had been their superior, their mentor, their guide, and their most trusted ally. A man of goodwill and generosity that spread to all those who were in the bubble of his good graces, Yet, here they stood, not as comrades but as enemies cloaked in the thin vestiges of a friendship long gone, estranged by the bitter winds of betrayal and the cruel games of personal and professional warfare.

“Scrooge! Marley! How wonderful it is to see you boys again!” Fezziwig jumped down from his perch, his exclamations betraying a forced gaiety, his grin strain and tainted. “Come to partake in the festivities, have you?”

“We’re here on business, Fezziwig.” Marley shared a few sips of his husband’s glass before taking on the act of diplomacy Scrooge had often tried to suppress. “I don’t think we need to tell you why, I don’t think we need to remind you of what is at stake here, and I don’t think we need to tell you just who you’re dealing with.”

Fezziwig laughed weakly, stammering under their ruthless scrutiny as he tried to reach out to them with a trembling hand. “Come now, boys, surely business can wait! It’s almost Christmas, after all! A time for making merry! Surely you understand, Jacob, Ebene—”

“Scrooge.”

The man in question shrugged Fezziwig off and corrected his old mentor with such a severity in his tone, whispers were hushed and guests recoiled.

“A-Ah, yes… Scrooge.” Fezziwig looked almost solemnly disappointed. “Let’s talk in my office, shall we? Don’t want to disrupt the celebrations.”

Scrooge scoffed. As if they hadn’t already been disrupted already. 

Both he and Marley knew the way to Fezziwig’s office all too well, having spent many a night there in the past, inebriated with cheap whiskey and dreams of a future they had once believed in with all of their heart and soul. But those days had long since been behind them, and the office held no nostalgia now. No fond memories of camaraderie or shared laughter. It was just a room, just a space, just a place where they would conduct the business that needed to be done. Fezziwig led the way, stumbling slightly in his haste to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the ballroom, the partygoers parting like the Red Sea as they disappeared down the hall. The office was just as Scrooge and Marley remembered it to be. Lavishly decorated, filled with antique furniture and expensive knick-knacks, framed achievements littering the walls with no sense of order. But there was a tension in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the history that lingered between the three men, a history that had once been defined by camaraderie and mutual respect, now overshadowed by betrayal and manipulation.

Fezziwig gestured for them to take a seat, his hands trembling slightly as he poured himself a stiff drink from the decanter on his desk. Marley remained composed, his expression unreadable as he watched the older man, while Scrooge leaned back in his chair, a faint sneer playing at the corners of his lips. Pastelle stood at the side, far from the negotiations, yet not so far as to be unseen, her hands placed behind her back as she watched on with a calculative eye.

“Would any of you care for a drink?” Fezziwig asked, hoping to retain some of that cordiality that he had been so well-known for. 

Scrooge declined with a curt shake of his head, while Marley kept his eyes upon Fezziwig for a few moments longer, as if he expected the old man to pull a trick or two to get himself out of the precarious situation he found himself in.

“I, uh, don’t believe we’ve met.” Fezziwig chuckled nervously as he glanced over at Pastelle, hoping to stall for just a few moments more. “Are you a new hire?”

“Who she is shouldn’t be any of your concern, Old Fezziwig.” Marley cut off that dialogue before Pastelle could even hope to respond. “What you should be concerned with is whether or not this partnership between Asplex and FezziTech should be considered null and void.”

Fezziwig’s form seemed to wither under Marley’s scrutinising glare, even if he had refused to falter. “Listen, I-I know we haven’t delivered on time as we should have, but there was a massive chemical spill in one of our main factories and caused a fire, completely decimating our inventory. We’re doing our best to recover, but—”

“Four quarters, Fezziwig.” Marley’s timbre seemed judicious enough, but the coldness alone sent a shiver up the older man’s spine. “Now, I’m sure a man of your stature understands basic mathematics, but in case you’ve forgotten how business works, let me remind you that that’s a full year’s worth of missed shipments. Your excuses haven’t changed the fact that we’re the ones paying for your incompetence.”

Incredulous, Fezziwig opened his mouth to fire back a retort, but Marley continued.

“We have been more than patient with you, Nigel Fezziwig.” Marley leaned against his gloved hand, crossing his legs as his green eyes radiated with a sly glint. “We’ve shared history together. Scrooge and I will always be grateful for how you’ve brought us to where we are now, but gratitude can only get so far in our line of work, and neither of us are going to stand by while you piggyback off of our success, reaping the benefits like a leech.”

Fezziwig paled. “Jacob, my boy, you can’t just… we’ve worked together for years! You can’t seriously be thinking of cutting us off like this!”

“Come on, old man, don’t you have other companies to turn to?” Scrooge asked rhetorically, barely hiding the malicious grin that had spread across his face. It looked wrong. It felt wrong.

“Eben— Scrooge. Please, you must see some sense!” Fezziwig pleaded, begged, grovelled.

Scrooge continued undeterred, his smile more prominent now. “Oh yes, that’s right! We’re your main source of revenue, aren’t we? Without us, you’re nothing more than an old relic struggling to keep up with the changing times.”

Marley nodded at his words, looking down at his hands to examine the wedding band adorned his finger. “I do believe you’re right, my love. FezziTech is nothing without the contracts and the minimal funding we’ve provided over the years. And considering our vast connections, we could always divert our attention to another supplier, couldn’t we?”

Fezziwig’s expression contorted into one of panic as the realisation had finally set in. “Boys, please, I-I implore you to reconsider!”

Marley looked back, a malefic and venomous countenance to rival his husband’s. “Of course, that does mean that certain… obligations are no longer binding, doesn’t it?”

Scrooge nodded, leaning back even further as he feigned an innocent smile, sighing almost dreamily. “That’s true indeed, Marley. I shudder to imagine what the press would think of FezziTech profits and ‘donations’ having once been used to fund Benedicta’s little drug ring operation.”

Fezziwig’s face had drained of all colour at this point, his joviality long since departed from his features. He stumbled backward, knocking over the decanter and spilling the remaining liquor onto the plush carpet with a resounding clink and a thud. A waste of good whiskey, if I had to be honest, for whiskey of such a quality should be savoured, never squandered. But of course, were it up to the shark circling around him and the snake coiling about his throat, he would not have the luxury to afford such niceties.

“You wouldn’t dare! I-I’ve been good to you! To both of you!”

Scrooge laughed bitterly, a grating sensation to the ears. “Hah! You always were one to make such ludicrous jokes, Fezziwig! But let me assure you that this…? This right here? This is no jest.”

Fezziwig gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles turning white as his mind raced through all the possibilities, the backdoors, the loopholes, the escape routes. But there were none to be had, none to be given, none to be deserved. 

The clock struck ten, and Pastelle pitied him, in a way. In an hour’s time, this congenial gathering would be broken up. The Fezziwigs would take to their stations, shaking hands with every person individually as they went out with smiles on their faces and a skip in their step, wishing all a Merry Christmas. But underneath it all, they knew. The triplets knew, Dick Wilkins knew, Chloe Fezziwig knew, Nigel Fezziwig knew. Those smiling faces, who just moments ago had partaken in a gathering that represented the yuletide season of cheer, of wonder, of hope, of love… they would all be turned to scorn and derision. And Scrooge and Marley, with their fangs bared in delirious, malicious, giddy glee, would howl at the downfall, shriek at the ruin. But they all knew that Scrooge and Marley did not have so much time that they could spend it laughing at the ruin of another. For as Marley had said, they were men of business. And men of business always moved forward to the next conquest, the next victory, the next deal to be made.

Fezziwig slumped back at last, defeated and forlorn and feeling all the more his age than he had felt in years. “What do you want from me, then?”

“Compensation.” Scrooge replied. “Assurances that the profits lost due to your repeated failure will be reimbursed with exceeding interest.”

“We’ll keep you on, but we want a portion of FezziTech’s profits for the next year, roughly… shall we say fifteen percent? And we’ll need full transparency regarding your operations.” Marley added, his smirk never wavering. “Our secretary is off for the holidays, as is the majority of our workforce so, luckily for you, you have eleven days to prepare the necessary documentation. I trust that we can expect production to be running smoothly by then?”

Fezziwig pulled at his tie. “W-Well… repairs have been slow with—”

“I trust that we can expect production to be running smoothly by then?” Marley repeated, his tone firm and unwavering.

Fezziwig nodded frantically. “Y-Yes, of course! We’ll get everything back on track immediately!”

“I’m glad we can finally come to an agreement. Now, there are a few more things I should like to discuss with you…”

Scrooge had excused himself then, citing a mixture of responses from not being needed, to needing some fresh air, to allowing Pastelle an opportune moment to fully grasp and comprehend the intricacies of their world. He did not care for which one they latched onto, and why would he? Sentimentality only hurts and scars and tears you apart. Ambition for the sake of others only leads to your downfall in the end as those pushed for trampled on your heart and soul. Scrooge had learned those lessons long ago, and he had no intention of making them twice. Fool him once, shame on him. Fool him twice, shame on all.

He didn’t know where he had been walking to — perhaps the loo, or the exit through the party, or the hideaway hidden in a little nook away from the building where he could smoke, he wasn’t sure — only that he had been walking. Until he hadn’t. Until he was not alone, and there stood a fair, aged woman, donning a loose-fit blue dress that glimmered in the fluorescent lights like stars upon the night sky, and white gloves that reached her forearm that surely cost quite a bit more than the average. Her blonde hair  was lightly dusted with streaks of grey, and those eyes… those blue eyes so filled with warmth and love that it gave little excuse for Scrooge’s to not hold the same.

“Belle.” Scrooge greeted her as cordially as he could have, which was to say not at all.

“Quite the entrance you made earlier.” Belle mused.

Scrooge grunted in response, looking away.

“How long has it been?” Belle pondered, more to herself than to her companion.

“Not long enough, it seems.” Scrooge replied tersely, enough for her finger to twitch ever so slightly.

“You’ve changed.” Belle observed as if it hadn’t been the most obvious observation in the world.

“I should hope to have changed.” Scrooge retorted. “Thirty years without change? I might as well be a VHS tape in a world of streaming services.”

Belle smiled softly at his quip, the corner of her eyes crinkling. “You were always so witty, Ebenezer—”

“Scrooge—”

“Ebenezer.” Belle insisted, and it caused Scrooge to bristle, if only for a moment. Her smile wavered, and she looked away. “How could you do it so easily? How could you and Jacob fall so far as to demand so much of my father? To demand so much of the man who thought of you both as the sons he never had?”

“I am not his son, Belle, and I never have been.” Scrooge fired back, thrusting his hands into his pockets as he often did in moments of pure agitation. “You can call it demand or you can call it what it is: Business. Fezziwig made his choices. Marley and I made ours.”

“And are you happy with Jacob? I heard you’re living together now.” Belle looked down to the ring that adorned his finger. “I heard you got married. Or as close enough to it you can get considering the law.”

Scrooge’s features softened — just barely, mind you — as he looked down at his ring, his thumb gently caressing the wedding band. “We are content. What of you and Dick?”

Belle knew the question was more a formality, but she answered nonetheless. “We’ve had our fair share of struggles, but we're working through them, as we ought to do. That's what marriage is all about, isn't it?”

Scrooge grunted once more, and Belle’s smile dimmed. 

“You can't keep doing this, Ebenezer.” Belle warned. “Sooner or later, word will get out, and you and Marley and all of Asplex Industries will have to answer for all that you have done.”

“Look at you, taking the high ground, acting as if you’re above it all.” Scrooge scoffed.

Belle held his gaze steadily, her expression unwavering. “I don’t claim to be perfect, but I do remember. I remember the young, brash, ambitious young man I fell in love with. The man who had dreams and aspirations that extended beyond money and power. The man who wanted to change the world, not conquer it. What happened to that man, Ebenezer? What happened to him?”

“That man was young, dumb, idiotic, and naive.” Scrooge ground out through clenched teeth. “He trusted, he cared, and look where that got him! Look at where he is now! There is nothing so challenging in this savage, unforgiving world as poverty, yet nothing so condemning to it as the pursuit of wealth. You think I haven’t tried to change the world, Belle? You think I haven’t attempted to make a difference, to leave a mark that isn’t stained with the blood of those who have stood in my way? The world is not a kind place, and if you think otherwise, then you are the one who is naive!”

“You dread the world far too excessively.” Belle shook her head, her voice rising slightly in defiance. “I have seen your morals get thrown to the wayside over and over and over again! Even when we had been one, you brushed me aside. You were always too busy! You always told me later! Could you not have even spared a thought for your—”

She stopped, mouth agape for a moment longer before she took a step back, then another. Her eyes flickered to the side, inhaling deeply before she exhaled shakily. Her hand trembled upon her stomach, and Scrooge's gaze followed suit, falling upon the gentle swell of her abdomen, barely noticeable under the loose fabric of her dress.

He’d seen it once before, when they had been but different people. Younger people.

“How far along?” Scrooge breathed out, barely able to disguise the softness in his voice.

“Five months.” Belle replied after some hesitation. “Topper is to have a sister.”

He shook his head.

“Let’s hope you are able to keep her this time.” Scrooge felt the bile rise in his throat, as bitter and acrid as the words itself, the pain of loss still fresh in his mind long after the toll of those bells, reminders of the ghost of a newborn he never knew. 

It was hard to unhear the gasp that escaped her like she had just come up for air in an endless ocean, or unsee the way her hand clutched at her stomach. But even then, he chose to ignore the sounds and the sights, as he often did these days.

“Don’t think I don’t miss her too, Ebenezer.” Belle whispered, her voice cracking. “Because I do. A lot.”

Scrooge laughed, the acidity not directed to anyone in particular. “Life can be a bloody bitch sometimes, can’t it?”

“You’re not wrong.” Belle laughed back, far weaker and hardly meant, but still just as hurt and wounded as his own. “I just wish I could have held her.”

“Sometimes we don’t get to choose what we want, Belle.” Scrooge replied, his voice almost tender, almost remorseful, almost kind. “You and I both know that.”

They stood in silence for a while longer, the revelry and the festivities fading in the background between them.

Belle looked up once more, twirling her own wedding ring as she forced a smile Scrooge knew damn well was false. “I-I should get going. Dick will be wondering where I’ll have run off to.”

Scrooge nodded in acknowledgement, his gaze hardening just as hers had softened. “Tell Benedicta to stop sending those manipulative packages of ‘goodwill’ to my husband. If he catches even a whiff of whatever is in those parcels, holidays be damned, Fezziwig will have more to worry about than just failing shipments.”

Belle’s lips quivered in something that resembled rueful gratitude. “You always were the overprotective type.”

“It’s not just about protecting him.” Scrooge replied curtly. “It’s about protecting my interests.”

Belle didn’t argue, didn’t push any further. She knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t be swayed.

“Well, Merry Christmas, Ebenezer.” Belle said with a genuine warmth.

“Don’t say it like you mean it.” Scrooge muttered.

He turned around, and they parted.

He did not say goodbye as she turned to leave, did not watch as she disappeared into the crowd and forced a smile as she greeted her husband, did not allow himself to dwell on what could have been or what should have been. He simply stood there, alone in the corner, a solitary figure amidst the remnants of joy, a man scarred by the wounds of his past and shackled by the choices of his present. And as the merriment continued on around him, as the laughter and music swirled together in a cacophony of celebration, Scrooge remained still, trapped in the prison of his own making, haunted by the echoes of a life he had once known and the shadow of a future he could not escape.

Marley called for him, then, and Scrooge had put the confrontation — that was what he assumed it to be, anyway — to the wayside as he made to Fezziwig’s office without so much as an utterance of what had befallen him just minutes ago. His husband stood at the ready, smirking triumphantly, arms across his chest as he tapped his foot in such a manner that I would not bat an eye if he had been orchestrating some grand symphony in the corners of his mind. Scrooge often admired that in him, enthralled in the way his lips upturned in satisfaction as it often did that he paid little heed to the glimmer of something in his gaze as it had settled upon Scrooge. He was good at masking it, at burying it deep beneath the layers of their shared history and the manipulations of their cutthroat world. But Scrooge could see it, could feel it, and it was a comfort that he often refused to admit to himself.

They had discussed the terms, finalised the agreement, and left Fezziwig’s office with a sense of victory that had become all too familiar. Pastelle had awaited them, as patient and eager and young as ever, as they had so clearly observed from the woman for most of the day. But, in a nature unknown to her seniors, she was quiet, oddly so. Granted, having just borne witness to the more unsavoury aspects of their business dealings, she had every right to be quiet. Scrooge thought nothing of it, and he had little concern to think it was more than nothing. Marley thought everything of it, though if he could tell you why, I would speak it in a heartbeat, revealing his thoughts for all to see.

But he did not know why, until at last they removed themselves from the premises just as the party had neared ever closer to its completion. When at last they stood upon the worn pavement, and the heat of the building radiated into the crisp winter air, that Pastelle stopped in her tracks, the tension a palpable thing, thick and suffocating. Scrooge and Marley had never been the sort to receive it for as long as they had been united in their pursuits.

“...What the hell was that?” Pastelle spoke at last, her voice a barely contained hiss.

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to, Miss Talon.” Scrooge answered simply, his hands behind his back as he turned to face her.

“C’est de la connerie.” Pastelle spat, getting up in Scrooge’s face despite her smaller stature. “You know damn well what I’m talking about, M. Scrooge.”

“No, I don’t.” Scrooge said coolly, his gaze unwavering. “Enlighten me, if you will.”

“M. Fezziwig was celebrating the spirit of Christmas, the goodwill, the joy, the giving, and you both barged in like a pair of tyrants, threatening and intimidating him and his family in front of his guests.” Pastelle's voice rose with each word, her anger simmering just beneath the surface. “You have no respect for anyone or anything, do you? Not even for the man who helped build your empire. You treated him like he was nothing, like he was the dirt beneath your heels!”

Scrooge's expression remained stoic, unmoved by Pastelle's outburst. “Business is business, Miss Talon. Sentimentality has no place in it.”

“Sentimentality? Is that what you call it? Caring for someone who believed in you, who gave you opportunities, who trusted you?” Pastelle's French accent grew more prominent with her rising fury. “You have become heartless, M. Scrooge. Non, not heartless, for that is too kind a word. You have forgotten what it means to be human.”

Scrooge's patience seemed to wane at this point, his tone turning icy. “I suggest you watch your words, Miss Talon. You may be my employee, but that does not give you the right to speak to me in such a manner.”

“Maybe someone needs to remind you of the reality you're so eager to overlook, M. Scrooge.” Pastelle’s grey eyes bore into Scrooge’s even as she flung her hair back. “Maybe you need to remember the people who have helped you get to where you are, the ones who believed in you when nobody else did.”

Marley stepped in at this point, his voice calmer but no less firm, though even he could not stop the crack that broke through his words. “That’s enough, Miss Talon. You will show some respect to Scrooge right this instant.”

Pastelle's eyes flickered to Marley briefly before settling back on Scrooge. “No, M. Marley. I will not be silent. You both need to hear this. You have lost touch with humanity and humility, and all who know you suffer under your rule!”

“That’s it, Miss Talon, I will not tolerate your insubordination any longer!” Scrooge’s patience had finally snapped, and he shifted to the road. “This conversation is over.”

With a force that could best be described as a combination of both frustration and decisiveness, Scrooge reached into his coat pocket and gripped his phone tightly. A few swift, precise, and rough movements were all he needed to call an Uber, memorise the plate number, and thrust his phone back into his pocket. The vehicle arrived within minutes, and despite all of her protests, Pastelle found herself entrapped and enraptured by Scrooge’s impartial, impassive glare.

“Get in the car.”

“Monsieur, I refuse to—”

“Get. In. The. Car.”

She refused again, and Scrooge, clearly exhausted and debilitated by the day’s troubles, simply took hold of her arm, gripped it firmly, and forcefully shoved her into the backseat of the car without so much as a second thought whirling through his mind as he instructed the driver — who at this point had chosen not to interfere, and wisely so — to take her to her address, no detours, no stops. 

“Was that really necessary, love?” Marley asked as he watched with a keen eye as the car pulled away and drove off, the scent of the exhaust lingering in the air.

Scrooge merely shoved him off the pavement as he walked to the car, not bothering to give a response. He had had enough socialising for one night, if it could even be called that, and his husband’s concern was the last thing upon his mind. But though he had walked briskly, back turned and pace unrelenting, Marley’s gaze bore into him, weighing heavy on his back even as he stepped into the passenger’s seat. Because for Marley himself, the weight of his burdens wound all the more tightly around his waist, clanking and dragging behind him. For burdens of metal are often more pernicious than burdens of flesh and bone.

Tagged: @rom-e-o@crimson-phantom-designs@quill-pen@a-christmas-carol-from-hr@ray-painter@pinkytoothlesso11

#scrooge a christmas carol #ebenezer scrooge #scrooge: a christmas carol #a christmas carol #jacob marley #ao3 #jacob alexander thorne marley #ebenezer lysandre percival scrooge #scrooge x jacob #jacob x scrooge #ebenezer/jacob #everyone lives/nobody dies #Youtube

[libellule-ao3]

After writing a complicated scene for both of them, I needed to see them being nice to each other. 😅

#hogwarts mystery #hphm fanart #jae kim x mc #hphm jae #jae kim #annie thorn #JaNie #hphm oc #jacob's sibling #Jae Kim x Annie Thorn

[aruthlessblackthorn]

Twilight and ACOTAR Pipeline

So I had this thought the other night in the shower (where people do the most thinking, ofc) and it occurred to me that ACOTAR is the new Twilight. Let me explain:

In 2008, when Twilight was the shit everyone ate for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert, anyone who made an ounce of criticism was considered a hater. I remember at the time how intense the drama got between fandoms when they’d start arguing over if Edward was good for Bella, or if Jacob was. There was so much beef that no sensical argument could be made. It’s kind of like how the ACOTAR fandom is now. 

I consider myself an international super spy. I joined an ACOTAR Facebook group a few months ago because I wanted to be nosy (and frankly so my friends and I could make fun of the cringe. It was very cringey) though lately I actually enjoy being a part of the group. Not because I like ACOTAR, but because it’s a repetitive pattern from 2008. The majority of the people in that group cannot have a debate over this series without getting emotionally upset. There is the term ‘Tamlin Apologist,’ which is coined for anyone who makes an argument on Tamlin’s behalf. If you criticize anything Feyre does or Rhysand, you’re considered an idiot. And do not get me started on Nesta. She is a hot topic in that group, and people either love or hate her. Rarely is there an in-between. 

I’m not going to say where I stand on these topics, other than I’ve always watched from the sidelines when these arguments go down. It’s always so intense, and sometimes I see the worst takes imaginable. People go to the ends of the earth to defend their favs who may have committed SA, or refuse to believe that’s what it was. I’ve seen people write about how they were disappointed with Rhysand and his actions in ACOSF, and then a swarm of people start a collective hate train against the original poster. It’s absolutely bizarre. 

In 2020, Twilight had a massive resurgence with the return of smeyer and her releasing Midnight Sun, which is Twilight from Edward’s POV. How I feel about the book doesn’t matter here, (though I will say it was awful. Edward was not painted in a good light) but it kickstarted new conversations, new covers for the original books, and a repurposed joy over watching the series from the beginning. People pulled their Twilight merch down from their attics and re-decorated their rooms. The only difference this time is the maturity. Now we can recognize the problems in the series. Jacob imprinting on a newborn child, Jacob kissing Bella without her consent, Edward manipulating Bella in New Moon and lying to her in Eclipse. Honestly, the first half of Breaking Dawn was just a mess of issues. Not to mention the domestic abuse theory when you look at the whole timeline from Charlie’s POV. And most of all, the cultural appropriation of the Quileute tribe throughout the whole saga. The way the werewolves were depicted as angry brutes (just look at the way Jacob’s personality changes in New Moon. He goes from sweet and gentle to enraged and predatory). 

I say ACOTAR is like Twilight because I believe after its hype has died down, people can look at this series and truly understand the critical flaws of it, even if it is a favorite of theirs. I still love Twilight, but I recognize it has major issues. Smeyer said she is either writing- or plans to write- a book on Jacob and Renesmee. That’s going to be a huge problem if she decides to make them fall in love (because that can always change). I will have issues with that and so will many others. One thing that I already find interesting is that Rhysand is already being criticized because of how SJM wrote him in ACOSF. People are seeing him when he’s not being described from Feyre’s perspective. People are taking issue with romanticizing Rhysand’s toxic behavior. They are drawing the patterns from the first book to the last. I can only hope that down the line these issues aren’t erased, and that they’re still prevalent topics. It is the same how people can criticize Twilight now, while still loving the series. 

I think part of the issue with the ACOTAR fandom now is how attached many are to the books. How they cannot process a criticism without it feeling like a personal attack. No one is attacking you for loving the books. We are freely expressing our thoughts on a book that we didn’t have the same relationship with. Critical thinking and deep analysis is not the same as trashing. 

This was a random rant I felt like dropping because it’s been on my mind for a little while. Wanted to get these ideas out while they’re still fresh. What do you guys think?

(Also, I totally spent time writing this out instead of working on an article for work)

#acotar #sarah j maas #twilight #book rambles #rhysand #feyre archeron #bella swan #edward cullen #a court of thorns and roses #a court of silver flames #nesta archeron #jacob black #fandoms #book thoughts #unpopular opinion #anti acotar #anti sjm

[sparepartsbacc]

#ts4 #the sims 4 #sims 4 bacc #build a city challenge #bacc #ts4 bacc #spare parts bacc #no legacy nation bacc #bacc y4 #montana grove #lexie bornhold #andie bornhold #jacob grove #domenic thorne #medousa adamos