emboldens

[emboldens]

cissas‌:

She wishes Marlene would stop asking her questions that are clearly posed with barbed edges that are supposed to snag, supposed to pull at imported silk threads which will pucker and tear should they get caught on anything. Narcissa can deal with people wanting to pry– there’s a compliment in there somewhere about others wanting to learn more about her simply because she won’t let them. What she doesn’t like is that everything this woman asks is accompanied by a layer of insincerity that makes it all sound as though it ought to be a joke at her own expense. “You’ve made the mistake of assuming that you know me,” she replies, a hint of warning creeping into her tone. “What makes you think that maintaining my reputation and upholding expectations aren’t precisely what makes me happy?” It’s all too easy to get defensive over a topic like this. It isn’t the first time someone has tried to suggest that she’s trapped in some sort of gilded cage and she very much doubts that it will be the last. If she were to speak truthfully, she’d make a point of saying that she can’t guarantee that other ways of living would make her any happier – but she can, with no small amount of certainty, predict that losing her position of influence and falling into obscurity would make her exceedingly unhappy. She isn’t supposed to exist away from the eyes of others. 

“I already do what I want. Don’t project your desires and past decisions onto me.” Something cold slips down her spine, punctuating the sentence with a chilling thought. Was this the first time Marlene had attempted to convince a member of the Black family to selfishly set aside their responsibilities? Mascara-lined lashes narrow as she assesses the other, attempting to read something on her features which she can’t quite identify. Narcissa takes a single step closer, the light material of her dress tickling against the back of her calves. “How long have you known Sirius for?” It’s a difficult pill to swallow that her family is the cause of his fall from the heights of high society, which is precisely why she doesn’t. There is always someone else to blame; usually Sirius himself. And she stands by that argument, because if she can manage, and Bellatrix can manage, and Andromeda can attempt to manage, and Regulus can– she stops herself there and prevents herself from speculating the reasons for him disappearing ( not that it will prevent others from suggesting that maybe, just maybe, the same family who drove his brother out had done the same to him – they were going to need to deal with that quickly and efficiently, she notes ). 

“It was an idiom,” Narcissa points out, gloss wand wiping a tan-coloured sheen across her lips, gaze fixed squarely on the mirror in her palm, “not an observation. You’ve already proved that you don’t understand a single thing about me, so I highly doubt the way you see me is going to be correct.” She studies her reflection for a heartbeat before clicking the compact shut and slipping her belongings back into her Burberry clutch. The corners of her mouth lift at Marlene’s misconception, presenting her with a falsely sweet smile. “Oh darling, it has absolutely nothing to do with you whatsoever. I care about accuracy. If you – or anyone else, for that matter – are going to dislike me, I’d rather it be for reasons that are true rather than incorrect presumptions. If you want to attempt to annoy me because you wish that you still came from a place of privilege, or because you disagree with my prioritisation of personal appearance, that’s fine. But don’t do it because you think you have the ability to convince me that I could be living an alternative lifestyle where I sleep with you just because my father would disapprove it.” The curve of her lips drops, deeming the point made. “Evidently, me being here any longer isn’t going to achieve anything. Please ensure Sirius gets my message.” 

A shrug rolls off Marlene’s shoulders. “Because that happiness stems from an arbitrary source.” Somehow, a noteworthy realization surfaces from all this useless pettiness, sweeping her being with a wave of gratefulness and relief: however flawed she may be, Marlene has fallen deeply in love with the person she has become. Perhaps some gears might be rusty, and perhaps some components might need repairing, and perhaps whatever deeply buried guilt and irrational loathing she might still harbor against herself requires an active dismantling, but mostly, she has risen from her upbringing, outgrown the need to rearrange every broken shard of herself until her being formed the shape of something worthy of love. Cynical and vulgar and difficult as she may be, Marlene McKinnon has always been worthy of love. Nothing can take that away from her. Marlene’s brow quirks. The lack of sharpness in Narcissa’s question throws her off. “I’ve known him since he started working here,” she says, tone dripping with mild confusion, though she doesn’t deign ask for any explanation. Not many can sympathize with the strife of a poor little rich girl, but more than anyone, Marlene understands that the high society life is not without it’s troubles, contrary to what most people would assume. With the Order’s propaganda shaping her perspective, and the lasting trauma of her abandonment leaving a scar of inerasable cynicism, it’s easy to forget, easy to make assumptions about the likes of Narcissa Black. But perhaps the attempt to correct her predisposed assumptions with attempts at empathy had been dire miscalculation. As similar as their histories might have seemed, it was a mistake to assume their ugliness looked alike at all. The difference, it seems, is that as a child once burdened with the demand for perfection, the core desire that lingered within Marlene was to be accepted for her imperfections. Narcissa would rather everybody and herself pretend that hers did not exist. Even with all the empathy she strives to summon — though Marlene is humble enough to admit that none of her own actions merited any respect — she is dignified enough to acknowledge that the disrespect Narcissa has been hurling at her direction is excessive. Marlene sighs. “If you want to avoid people’s incorrect presumptions, then perhaps you’d make yourself out to be less of a hypocrite if you didn’t go around throwing your own as often as you do.” She understands that this is pointless. The tiredness is evident in Marlene’s dismissive tone, in the way her shoulders hang heavy, her determination to dignify Narcissa’s retorts only motivated by a small, annoying, and useless shred of pride dictating that it is Marlene’s obligation to finish whatever petty squabble she initiates. You got yourself into this mess, she reminds herself. “Accuracy. Right. Perhaps I can draw conclusions from the facts I’ve been given. What offended you the most was that I implied that you beg. Your automatic response to me making a blatantly untrue and easily disprovable jab at your expense was to threaten to tear apart my business, which tells me that you’re both willing to abuse your privilege and entitled enough to believe your bruised ego matters more than the welfare of the human beings that make their livelihood here. You’re constantly making degrading accusations about my personal history and prioritized winning an argument over any other response when I revealed the truth. You assume I envy you, which means you think everyone’s standards of success are the same as yours, that wealth is everything, that status is everything. It’s fair that you accuse me of not caring for your cousin’s situation seeing as I’ve made no attempt to regard it in this conversation, but I’m not endangering anybody else by disclosing a his older brother’s location to a family he doesn’t have a positive relationship with. Provoking you was a an admittedly poor way of gauging whether you were different from my admittedly unfair expectations of you, but I guess even my hastiest of instincts were right. Congratulations. The bar was already low, but you’ve proved to be far more pretentious, petty, and overly self-important than I initially assumed you would be.” Fighting the last fit of exhaustion that threatens to overtake her, Marlene spreads her lips into a small smile. “Thank you for coming to The Leaky Bucket. We hope you were satisfied with our service.”

[emboldens]

cissas‌:

The first question succeeds in making Narcissa grit her teeth further. She knows she’s going to give herself a headache but keeping silent makes it easier to pretend that she doesn’t feel the prickle of irritation at being insulted once again. Being angry makes her tired – the adrenaline-fuelled rush that supposedly tempts some people to crave confrontation never comes, her body seemingly unwilling to process the emotion. Blue eyes unblinking, she watches the peculiarly familiar acquaintance continue to play out her little charade. Body language says a lot, it’s a lesson she learned from a young age. The other woman’s posture is a reminder that this is her territory, that she’s all too comfortable with the current situation. Narcissa counteracts by schooling her expression into something unreadable, disgust at being spoken to in such a manner hidden beneath her tongue. 

By the time the second question hits, she’s steeled herself with enough of an armour that it glances off of her. “That information is private and certainly doesn’t concern you.” She’s well practised at this by now. People had a strange fascination with wanting to coax unexpected responses from her. A part of her thinks that she ought to thank Rabastan for his own efforts, if only because they’ve ensured that she keeps her emotions in check. “Why?” she adds coolly, less interested in the truth than she is the chance to snatch at some power over this conversation. “What answer did you want me to give?” It would have been a trap either way, she thinks. To say recently would be to shatter the image she works hard to maintain. To say never would be to encourage laughter at her expense, or a sneer of disbelief, or pity. She’s not sure which is worse. 

The rise and fall of slender shoulders and the subsequent tragedies that slip from daiquiri-damp lips assembles the pieces of the puzzle that had been missing. “Marlene McKinnon,” Narcissa utters, the name unfolding from somewhere in the back of her mind ( a far greater achievement than simply asking for it ), accompanied by memories decorated in pink satin ribbon and tulle tutus. “You used to count my pirouettes.” Had their interaction been more civil on Marlene’s end, she may have offered her sympathies regarding her parents. Instead, she ignores all else and focuses on the admittedly not inaccurate reading of herself. “At least my bitterness towards you is for valid reasons– one specific valid reason, in particular. Yours is the product of gossip spoken by the least trustworthy, least loyal person in London and a five-minute meeting, during which you decided to make up your mind about me in likely no less than thirty seconds and then mock me for being defensive.” She cares more than she should about that fact, but does well to pretend otherwise as she pulls a compact mirror and tube of lipgloss from her purse, proceeding to apply it in as nonchalant a manner as she can. “So don’t paint me as the villain when you’re the one hindering a potential chance to locate my cousin quicker by valuing attempts to provoke me over useful actions like giving me Sirius’ address or calling him.”

The question is shot down with another question. Marlene tilts her head. “Are you happy like this?” It’s said flatly, the intent behind it unreadable. Perhaps her upbringing never really left her. For someone who prides herself on authenticity, Marlene doesn’t know whether the dullness of her emotions is genuine, or if the shame she carried through her hole life was so potent that any other feeling had been buried beyond reach. Whatever the answer was, something discomforting was surfacing from the depths of her suppression, something like shame, something like pity. It’s discomforting how easy it is to imagine herself in Narcissa’s place. When you stare at a funhouse mirror for too long, something starts to hurt, and being in Narcissa’s presence felt like staring at a distorted reflection, a jagged image of the girl Marlene was and the girl she could have become had abandonment not afforded her the opportunity to finally identify the person she was when nobody was looking.  “A pristine reputation to uphold. All these eyes on you. All these expectations.” Resting her elbow on the counter, Marlene lays the side of her face on a closed fist. “Don’t you just wanna go fuck it? Do what you want?”

Marlene knows that whatever answer she will hear out loud won’t be yes. Freedom looks dirty on women like her. With Narcissa’s last response, it’s evident that the allure of liberation has been sullied by Marlene’s own vulgarity. She doesn’t mention that she’s received four paragraph retorts to single-sentence jabs. She makes no remark about the content of her character being degraded without rebuttal. She doesn’t bring up that a joke, however disgustingly mean-spirited, is met with a genuine threat of the destruction of the only livelihood she has. She most especially doesn’t mention that she has volunteered the little spare time she has to search for a boy she does not know, that a protective instinct stops her from giving away his brother’s personal information to the very family that mistreated him. A younger version of Marlene resurfaces as the urge to explain herself, the need for someone else to confirm the validity of her pain, her actions. But she’s learned to wear apathy as armor, wills indifference into becoming a second skin. It’s easier to pretend to be the fuck-up everybody expects than to seek for an approval she will never receive.  

The brief mention of their shared past stirs another wave of strange grief and pity, but Marlene keeps her face blank. A barely audible scoff escapes her throat, hiding the urge to cringe when the woman brings out a compact mirror - a gesture of feigned nonchalance, a trick Marlene is all too familiar with and has utilized far too many times in the past. “You’re no villain. You’re just fun to annoy. If you think that’s how you think I see you, then maybe you should question your own perception of yourself.” Tucking a stray hair behind her ear, Marlene shrugs. “In your own words, I’m an obnoxious, useless member of society whose sorry excuse of an establishment dissolved what the very little brain matter that existed in this pubescent teenage boy’s skull. You think I amount to nothing, yet you seem very keen on explaining yourself to me. Why bother?” Her sentence punctuated with a soft, dismissive laugh, as if she were taking stride in her flaws. “If I’m nothing, why do you care what I think?”

[emboldens]

She hadn’t expected to spend her twenties like this, hauling suitcase after suitcase of belongings from a dorm she could no longer afford after leaving a home that no longer welcomed her, pouring whatever remained of her energy on a place she wasn’t certain she could keep. Fortunately, Marlene has perfected a technique for dealing with loss. Though an ineffective solution, her method is a substantial distraction, already pulling the corners of her mouth into a wide grin as she turns the volume knob, letting the sound of a woman’s lilting voice reverberate against the walls of the almost empty bar. The trick to dealing with grief, Marlene thinks, is to find something louder than the absence. In this case, it’s Beyonce.

Marlene makes her way to another unpacked box, adding a slight sway to her movements as she hums along to the melody. There’s still a lot left to do before the Leaky Bucket can be considered even halfway functional, but at least the speakers work. That’s the most important thing. Lost in the music, Marlene takes a second to process the new voice entering the room, spins on her heel at the sound of her name and widens her eyes at the surprise kiss, hummed melody falling silent at the taste of another’s lips. A smile splits across her face as she pulls away, meeting Alecto’s soft gaze. Baby, you’re the one that I want, the voice croons from the bar’s new speakers. “I can reach the high parts now. I’ve tried, in the shower. Just wait.” Marlene holds a hand up, readying herself for another chorus. “Hang on. Hang on.  Here — you’re the one I NEE—“ In one grating screech, her voice cracks, bringing a flush of red to her cheeks that drives her to bury her face in Alecto’s shoulder, half amused, half embarassed. “I’m never singing in front of another human being ever again.”

Pulling away, she swings her arms back and presses her palms on the wooden surface to prop herself up, long legs near dangling as she seats herself on the bar counter. Marlene reaches for the carton placed at her side, and smiles. “Pork dumplings? Alec, you absolute saint. I fucking love you.” Arms drape over Alecto’s shoulders. “You have no idea how stressed I am. I set the wrong opening day, y’know. Called up Molly and asked if she wanted to come, and she was like, nah, Arthur’s taking me to see the Avengers. So I asked why she couldn’t just go after the Avengers? And she said the theatre’s too far. And I asked her why she couldn’t just watch on another day and she said, Marlene, it’s the Avengers. Like, fuck off? What’s the point of the Avengers? Nobody gives a shit about superheroes who aren’t Spider-man.” A heavy sigh leaves her throat. “Our business is going to fail because there are heterosexuals who think Robert Downey Jr. is attractive.”

WHEN: 29 March 2012 WHERE: The Leaky Bucket STATUS: Closed | @emboldens​

The evening chill bites into her skin as she steps out onto the pavement, deftly waving off the concierge’s offer to call her a cab. The fresh air is a welcome change from the recycled air of her office—see, Marlene, we do recycle—and it helps to clear her head, makes it easier to take the knowledge of all the despicable things her family is doing—that she is doing—and hide them away in little boxes. There is no room for guilt in business, her father had told her once, when she’d been brave foolish enough to question the ethics of what they were doing. You’ll do well to remember that, he’d said, and Alecto recognises a threat when she hears one. She learns to switch herself off at work after that, existing outside herself, pretends it is not her hand gliding across the papers, not her name on the dotted line approving future exploits. It gets easier over time, but she takes longer to re-learn how to be a person again, after. 

The sun’s just beginning to set when she finally makes it to her destination, and she takes a moment to stand outside, peeking in through the windows. The dying sunlight casts a golden glow on everything within, the tables, the chairs, the woman currently scrubbing down the bar counter. Alecto takes a moment to admire the sight—gaze trailing from the hands on the countertop to the ink winding up her arms to the sliver of bare neck visible from underneath a hastily tied ponytail. I love you, she thinks, choking on the feeling, but I cannot keep you. The truth of the matter wraps itself around her heart like a vice, thorns digging into flesh; it might destroy her when this inevitably ends, but perhaps she should have known from the start that their relationship would be nothing more than mutually assured destruction—two chaoses coming together and leaving a trail of devastation in their wake.

She stands outside for too long; Marlene starts to turn, and she ducks into the bar before she can be caught staring. “Hey Mars,” she calls, walking over to kiss her girlfriend and smiling into it as she registers the song playing, recalling memories of Marlene serenading her—BABY IT’S YOU, YOU’RE THE ONE I LOVE, YOU’RE THE ONE I NEED!—in nothing but her bra and panties as she’d laughed, half-heartedly trying to shush her—baby, you’re going to wake the entire neighbourhood up!—before giving up and joining in instead. “I brought Chinese,” she announces, placing the takeout bags on the counter before unwrapping her scarf, draping the fabric around Marlene’s neck instead and tugging until they’re close enough for Alecto to steal another kiss. “Leaky’s looking great.”

[emboldens]

cissas‌:

Narcissa knows a lost cause when she sees one. Knows when her words are being swatted lazily away like an unwelcome fly, unheeded and wasted. The woman stood before her sipping on a cocktail isn’t the first to pigheadedly refuse to take her seriously and ignore urgent requests; nor, she doubts, will she be the last. The muscles in her jaw are tight as she keeps her chin level and posture poised, shoulders set back in a vision of composed calm. How unsurprising for this establishment to be filled with those so alike to Sirius, lacking in manners and decorum. Like really did call to like. She wonders whether he gets along with this similarly dark-haired, smug-smirking, nerve-grating coworker. Only, the thought turns all too unwanted at the idea of her once-cousin finding comfort and kinship in someone else, a bitter taste left in her mouth as she banishes the emotions that threaten to rear their ugly heads ( to fail at anything unsettles her; to fail at keeping a family member from leaving makes for a sharp knife to a well-disciplined heart ). 

When the other’s lips part to do something other than sip on the drink in her hand, Narcissa makes the mistake of hoping that a few stern words and a far from hollow threat have shaken some common courtesy loose. Instead, she stares at the pub staff member in disbelief, uncharacteristically caught off guard. “That’s–” Her brows knit into an angered frown. “I’m not here for you to lust after like some pubescent teenage boy just because you have some weird sexual attraction to people who refuse to let you attempt to humiliate and mock them.” With a cool glare, she shifts her attention to the bar and draws out a fountain pen from her handbag, sliding a beer mat closer but taking care to only touch it with the tips of her nails. “It disgusts me that you don’t have the decency to tell me where Sirius is or give me his address when such knowledge might help to find a missing teenager, but you do have the crass, unfiltered honesty to let me know you’re aroused by women you falsely call pregnant.” She writes as she speaks in the margin of the circular piece of pale card. S. I need to know when you last saw Reg. Message me. Don’t call. N.

“I know you’re probably unaccustomed to doing good deeds but if you’d care to experience what it feels like to be a useful member of society, please make sure this gets to Sirius.” Sliding the cap back onto her pen, her focus returns to the other woman. Narcissa says nothing as she assesses her, studying familiar features. Echoes of the past lay there but it takes some time to interpret them. “You took ballet.” If she’s pleased with herself for remembering, nobody would be able to tell. “And I know for a fact that my classes at the National Ballet School weren’t cheap, which either means you had an incredibly generous benefactor, or–” She wears a small, secretive smile. “You lost your wealth. What was it? Gambling? Drugs? It certainly explains why you’re so obnoxious; I imagine that amounting to nothing must make people quite bitter.”

Marlene takes the card between two fingers, briefly considers the note with a passing glance, then slides it into her breast pocket, a problem to be dealt with when Sirius’ whereabouts are no longer unknown variables. For now, she keeps her seemingly divided attention on the woman in front of her. A remark about her perceived immaturity makes Marlene raise an eyebrow in amusement. “Pubescent teenage boy and whiny little girl. Match made in heaven, don’t you think?” Marlene slides the daiquiri on the surface of the counter top and leans lazily against the bar. Hands sliding into her pockets, she tilts her head, lip curling, cool eyes meeting Narcissa’s piercing glare. “When was the last time you fucked somebody Daddy didn’t approve of?”

Criticisms of her character roll smoothly off her back, having for years practiced and nearly perfected the art of detachment. True happiness comes once you’ve shed the need to become somebody everyone can respect, because with its loss comes the loss of every perceived scrutiny, every imaginary voice that demands you make yourself smaller, prettier, gentler, to prove you deserved the space you took. A sense of familiarity lingers as she looks at Narcissa — she knows this girl because she was this girl. Meeting her eyes feels too much like staring at a funhouse mirror, and it’s reflection is a glimpse of the girl Marlene could have become had her mother not pried a safer future out of an adolescent Marlene’s already weak grasp. Insecurity, she thinks, is an inherent side effect of womanhood. For someone who is familiar with them, the symptoms are obvious — obsessed with appearances, with winning every argument, with earning everyone’s respect without looking like you were trying to hard at it. She supposes the realization of their similarities should be enough of a reason to offer a little more kindness to the younger woman, the kindness Marlene denied her younger self. 

Except an apology at the moment would feel out of place — Marlene can hardly summon enough feigned sincerity to pretend she at all regrets provoking a reaction to entertain herself, and she can’t imagine that Narcissa would be receptive to a sudden and blatantly bogus display of remorse. Genuine sympathy aside, there’s very little that can sway Marlene into setting aside her mask of flippancy — it’s her shelter, her shield; she’s worn frivolousness as a second skin for so long she no longer knows how to shed it. And anyway, there’s something strangely funny about Narcissa’s insistence in understanding the source of her behavior, as if the woman couldn’t just accept that Marlene was a complete waste of her time and leave it at that. She shrugs. “Dad got cancer,” she says flatly. “Ma’ offed herself. Such losses can make a woman susceptible to a bitterness that competes with yours, but if i’m honest,” she says before manufacturing an obvious lie for the fun of it — “I’ve been straight shooting heroin on the shores of Monaco since the age of twelve.” 

[emboldens]

The breeder said Saint Bernard puppies would be laid back. The claim held true, to a certain extent. At the apartment, Samus scarcely moved, preferring lounging about in Marlene’s bed over any form of playtime, scattering shed furs on the mattress, much to her owner’s dismay. But the park gives Samus a rare taste of open air, igniting a new spark of vigor that has her zipping across the trails, howling and wagging her tail in excitement. Marlene would like to have been productive, but without a leash, it’s hard to keep the five month old puppy from running too far, even if she does always come circling back.

Still, there are more pressing matters to focus on, given the situation they’re in. Already, Marlene can imagine being scolded for irresponsibility, for treating a search for a missing teenage boy as a mere puppy playtime opportunity. They’re at least half right on that account, but Marlene had meant to get some work done, intending this to be a two-birds-one-stone scenario: aid the search, train the dog. What she failed to anticipate was the sheer amount of energy the young dog now seemed to possess, as if she had gained a new temperament overnight. Eyes scan the area for the dog’s trail, which is why it takes her by surprise when something — someone, she realizes — crashes into her without warning. 

It takes a second to process what’s been said. Marlene steadies herself. When she finds the Saint Bernard at her feet, curious puppy eyes fixed on the stranger’s fallen objects, Marlene crouches down to pick her up, slinging the dog’s front legs over her shoulder as she lifts her by the rear with her arm. “We don’t eat people’s makeup, Samus. That’s very rude.” she says, poking the back of the Saint Bernard’s head. An apologetic expression sweeps across her features when she turns to the other woman. “Sorry. She’s not usually this hyper.” 

◇*ﾟmarlene & maya. | hampstead heath park. 06.13.19.

“Where are you, Regulus…”

The question is muttered into the quiet of the tress, the gentle morning breeze blowing through the leaves, carrying her inquiry across the park. Pressing her lips together, she shakes her head, as she runs into yet another dead end of a walking trail. They’ve been at it all morning, officers and detectives and forensics personnel have been sniffing around every tree and overturning every rock for even the slightest clue of the missing boy. Clearly, they were moving in circles, their search continuously fruitless.

And quite frankly, Maya was growing tired of doing this.

Her Valentinos weren’t meant for long time wear, and while her foundation has held up with striking resilience in this pre-summer warmth, she hardly liked that the slope of her nose was sweating. She signaled that as the moment when her searching stopped, and decides to retreat back towards the original meeting spot Alastor had gathered them at. Dipping her hand into her purse, the little bag swinging from a delicate chain as it hung from her shoulder, she rummaged through for a spare napkin she’d gotten with her coffee that morning. She pushes aside lipstick and highlight and a few loose sticks of bubble gum, naturally not looking where she was going. If she had been, perhaps she would have noticed the tree root that protruded from the ground and she definitely would have seen the other woman she’d used as a brace to stop from crashing into the tree itself as she tripped with a little squeal. “Goodness,” Maya laughs breathlessly, loosening her grip on the other’s upper arms, “I’m so sorry.” Noting her lipstick and compact had fallen out, she stoops to pick them back up. “Someone should tell nature not to be so rude.”

@emboldens​

[emboldens]

📱➟ ALECTO

Alecto: You know what I meant.

Alecto: Anyway, the place better be squeaky clean when the inspector gets there. I'll try to find out when exactly he's coming, but be prepared even if you don't hear from me.

Marlene: roger that, senorita.

Marlene: it's always been squeaky clean. if your arse could be bothered to show up every now and then, maybe you'd know that.

Marlene: the squeaky bucket

[emboldens]

📱➟ MARLENE

Alecto: Someone filed a food safety complaint about Leaky. There'll probably be an inspector dropping by in the next week to follow up on that.

Alecto: Who'd you piss off?

Marlene: i'll make an itemized list. would you prefer it chronological, or alphabetical?

[emboldens]

ofandromedas‌:

It surprises no one in the department when Andromeda shows up at the hospital after searching for her missing cousin. She is suddenly glaringly thankful that her job requires so little personal discussion; most of her time is spent either behind the oak door of her office in peace, with an unconscious body on a table, or exchanging surface-level niceties with patients. “Go home,” her supervisor delegates, not unkindly as Andromeda washes her hands in the surgical sink, fresh from a run-of-the-mill hip replacement. And sure, Andromeda could go home. But reality begs otherwise.

Sirius hasn’t been answering her texts all afternoon. Normally she’s the one who takes forever, and normally she would chalk it up to her cousin losing his phone somewhere (undoubtedly consumed by a stranger’s dingy couch that smells of weed and spilt whiskey), but she knows firsthand how complicated his relationship with Regulus is. Strained, nearly entirely evaporated, a wound perhaps ripped freshly open by the news that his brother was missing. Sirius speaks very little of his past life, and Andromeda knows that he’s probably gone off the grid to avoid the news as much as possible. Still, she can’t help herself. All Andromeda needs is to confirm that he’s in one piece. 

And so Andromeda makes her way to the Leaky Bucket. It’s actually not a terribly far walk from the hospital, and she enjoys the fresh air though her thoughts are consumed moreso with current events and less with the weather. A part of her knows that Sirius won’t be working, but she also knows that herself and her cousin are more alike than expected. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop - is that the saying? Before she can think it through further she’s reached the entrance of the bar and been addressed. The greeting is unexpected, and Andromeda’s reaction is delayed as she comes to a stop. Damnit - she doesn’t remember the girl’s name, though she recognizes her. Sirius has mentioned her at least a handful of times. “Maybe,” she supplies, offering a small, wry smile. “I was wondering if Sirius was in tonight.” She pauses for a beat, assuming that the bar owner hasn’t the faintest idea who Andromeda is. “I’m Andy, his cousin. Just verifying he’s still upright and hasn’t set anything on fire as a coping mechanism.” 

Lowering her cigarette, Marlene takes a moment to study the woman before her. She raises an eyebrow, mildly bemused, as everything of the little she knows about the Black family is contradicted by the simplicity of a medical scrub suit. “From how the media talks of his family, I’d have expected you to have more Gucci products on you.” It’s said amiably, with a faint half-smile, as if she’s amused. First impressions shouldn’t be everything, Marlene tells herself, but the uniform offers a small glimpse of what the Black heiress might be like as a person — privilege without the pretentious bullshit, no evidence of flaunting that hard-inherited wealth. Something deep in Marlene’s gut tells her that other than the obvious lack of materialism, there’s more to discover about the woman’s character that would merit respect, and as Marlene opens her mouth to speak, she hopes her intuition is right. “Marlene. Sirius’ boss.” A small laugh escapes as air through her nose. “At least until the kid finds something better to do.” 

Sirius Black comes from a place of privilege. Marlene knows from firsthand experience that a fall from grace is never easy, but once the body rises to its feet and drags itself across the floorboards, one learns that being on the ground is a lot more goddamned freeing. There’s a temptation, then, to ask for Andromeda story, because she seems put-together enough that it looks less like she’s fallen and more like she’s taken the stairs. The curiosity is impossible to voice, so Marlene opts, instead, for a reply. “Gave him a week off. Don’t know where he went, didn’t think it was my place to ask.” Pausing to consider their situation once more, Marlene furrows her eyebrows, setting aside her natural instinct to address every statement with an air of flippancy — at least a little bit. With a small smile, she offers words of reassurance. “The fucker’s a troublemaker, but he’s a tough kid. Besides, ever since I let him and his friends borrow my copy of Smash Bros, they’ve been doing a lot less arson and a lot more virtual punching.”

They take care of him, Marlene doesn’t say. The boys have a camraderie she can only envy from afar. She supposes it’s her own fault that this same sort of closeness is unattainable; the want is there, but it’s too obstructed by her own denial of that want, by walls of facetiousness constructed to protect a heart that feared being known. Inhaling another drag of her cigarette, she strives to not let the night sway her thoughts back to the negative, focusing instead on her not-so-guest. With her free hand, she reaches for a box in her pocket. “Since you went through all the trouble of getting here, would you like to set things on fire as a coping mechanism?” The Lucky Strike pack is placed flatly over her palm: an offering. “Or do doctors not do that?”

[emboldens]

Hypotheticals don’t scare Marlene unless they’re coming from the Duolingo Owl, especially when they’re instead coming from a girl too old to be playing Regina George. They don’t scare her because Marlene has for years cultivated a wall of seeming indifference and self-possession, built from having heard harsher words from kinder people. They don’t scare her because she knows that if anyone dares tear down this establishment, the first enemy they will make isn’t Marlene. It isn’t even the Order. A lesser known fact that she’s ashamed to admit is that half the Leaky Bucket’s revenues swim back into the pockets of the Sacred, and there is little they can exploit from her without it. Though enabling alcoholics is an evil that is hardly as profitable as the likes of war-mongering or environtal destruction, it is valuable in a different way to Marlene, and more importantly, to Alecto. Marlene imagines the fallout. Imagines being Alecto, witnessing the ridiculousness of having the biggest bit of leverage she had over the woman that ruined her life, taken away from her by some child who thought being called pregnant merited a three paragraph scolding and a personalized gentrification threat. 

She tells Narcissa none of this as one of her employees passes Marlene the mango daiquiri she had requested prior to having the Black heiress intrude her space. If Narcissa knew about Alecto, then these were all empty threats. If she hadn’t? The fallout would be amusing to watch, then. Antagonizing a demon is leagues harder than loving one, and this is coming from a woman that’s done both. Marlene smiles at the prospect of this chaotic future, where her demise is the catalyst for new catastrophes, new wars waged between women she had effortlessly pissed off. It’s all funny, how things work. Still, Marlene’s impish smile falls for the briefest second when her mind lingers on an unwelcome and unnerving truth — that the vitriolic hatred of a woman she once loved is the sole force that protects her. 

She doesn’t break her gaze away, quietly sipping her daiquiri as she mentally responds to the amusingly long verbal assault hurled at her, letting Narcissa speak freely, because it’s the polite thing to do when someone is speaking, and because Narcissa’s overlong response is the exact overreaction Marlene wanted to earn to entertain herself this evening. Inhaling cheap alcohol fumes has dissolved whatever brain matter you were born with — correction: the Lush bath oils did that. Even a single-celled amoeba that has spent the entirety of its existence in an underwater sea vent would know that someone who looks like me doesn’t beg anyone for anything — with a rant this long for an offense so small, you’re begging for a shithead’s respect, it seems like. You’re incredibly slow — college dropout, baby. You think your funny and it’s sad — my therapist said the same thing! If you’re even capable of keeping up with an argument — oh, an argument, is that what this is?

The sad truth is that people don’t lose arguments when they’re wrong. People lose arguments when they’re the first to lose their shit. Marlene faces Narcissa with irresolute calm, smug expression never faltering as she tilts her head, twirling  a length of hair to better play the role of the incredibly slow single-celled amoeba the Black family heiress would like to believe Marlene is. She wants to make a pointed remark about how all this pent-up tension is going to make Narcissa’s nonexistent baby abort itself, but when the icy glare piercing through her eyes and sends a sharp chill down her spine, Marlene settles, instead, for truth.

“Congratulations,” she says. A small, nonchalant smirk forms on her lips. “You’ve made me very horny.” 

Marlene;

“Sirius Black?” Marlene scoffs, wide grin spreading across her face. “That stupid hipster?”

Despite the constant threat of having her establishment set on fire by the boy’s inclination to arson, Marlene was strangely protective of the elder Black brother, seeing her own past reflected in his current situation — the distaste for pretentious upper class traditions, the adolescent rebellion, and the familial abandonment that succeeded it. Though Marlene herself feels no real anger for the family that deserted her, she can empathize with a man who does. Dysfunctional as the Order might sometimes be, they’ve constructed a better definition of that cursed word, deciding that the bond is forged less by blood and traditions and more by values — chosen, not indoctrinated — and a genuine enjoyment of each other’s company. As such, she believes any enemy of Sirius is an enemy of hers. “It’s his week off,” she tells Narcissa. “Says he has a family thing.”

To Marlene’s knowledge, there were three heirs to the House of Black: Bellatrix, who made Marlene feel better about occasionally calling herself a feminist, because if a person whose company allegedly sat on the exploitation of sweatshop workers could make pointed remarks about inequality in interviews without guilt, Marlene could excuse herself for still feeling bad when her leg hairs grew. Next was Andromeda, whose name Marlene often forgot when the Order deemed her irrelevant due to her apparent lack of participation in the family business, and then proved herself to be rather pleasant when they met on the night of Regulus’ search party. The last Black heir was… this creature. 

The first thing Marlene notices is that she looks familiar, but that’s a can of worms to open later, with Marlene being unwilling to dig up her history of brushing elbows with the upper class. The second thing Marlene notices is that the she’s too rich to be here. Even if her one year of working for Lush near permanently fucked up her ability to pick up scents, Marlene could practically smell the woman’s distaste for her establishment. It doesn’t offend her, no — in fact, she takes delight in knowing people find her repulsive. Years of trying to be perfect in the eyes of people who only scrutinized her shortcomings or otherwise ignored her entirely have driven her to relish the freedom of being imperfect, driving away those who didn’t matter and letting in only the people capable of accepting her for her flawed authenticity. 

But now’s not the time to be authentic. Now’s the time to be a massive cunt.

Marlene has her mother’s smile. Not inherited, but practiced — a pleasant, camera-ready curl of the lips. “It’s money you want, right? I can just take it out of his paycheck.” She delivers her words with an almost motherly sweetness. The gaze she offers Narcissa glimmers with feigned sympathy, enough to make the sincerity of her faux-concern more convincing. Having an actress for a mother and a shithead for a father was a bad combination, she thinks as she draws closer to the blonde woman’s face, sliding her fingers into the spaces between Narcissa’s. Marlene doesn’t break her gaze away, lets her eyes rest softly on the other woman’s. “You’re not the first, you know.” Her words are no louder than a whisper. “I’ve had so many women come here begging him for abortion funds. So, so many.” Marlene shakes her head. “It’s quite tragic, what a slag that boy is. A beautiful girl like you deserves better. Lucky for you, you don’t look that pregnant yet.”

Narcissa has spun her life in such a way that silken threads of reputation pulled together with decorum and a general awareness of precisely how she comes across in the eyes of others ( most importantly, those who matter ) has formed something of a protective cocoon. She is to be observed and admired; a pretty, valuable trinket in her family’s collection, polished and poised for display. She doesn’t dare wear anything that isn’t from the House of Black label or a similarly respectable fashion house. She keeps her hair in immaculate condition. She gets her nails done and her legs waxed and her brows sculpted and her teeth whitened and not once has she ever skipped an appointment. The point is not that she is vain– the point is that she is the benchmark of the Sacred 28. Appearance is everything. It tells anyone who even so much as glances in her direction that she’s born and bred from the creme de la creme of high society. Which is why the gently cooed offer of money that drops from the bartender’s lips receives a long, cold stare.

Narcissa’s lips part to respond, but before she can turn unloving thoughts into audible words the warm fingers of the other interlock themselves with her own. Every inch of her body freezes, horror turning her blood cold. She inhales, expression forced to remain neutral, and allows the woman to continue to make one mistake after another whilst her teeth press together until her jaw aches. When silence finally falls, the blonde takes a moment to gather her anger-sharpened thoughts before speaking. “Firstly,” she begins calmly, syllables clipped, pulling her hand away from the other’s grip, “if you ever, ever, dare to touch me again without asking permission, I will pepper spray you in the face with a ghost chilli blend that has a high chance of blinding you. And don’t assume that asking means I will say yes– I won’t. Secondly, I can only assume that inhaling cheap alcohol fumes has dissolved what little brain matter you were born with in the first place, because even a single-celled amoeba that has spent the entirety of its existence in an underwater sea vent would know that someone who looks like me doesn’t beg anyone for anything. Especially not money. Which means you’re either incredibly slow or you think you’re funny. And quite frankly, that latter option is the sadder one.”

She allows a diamond-cut smile to etch itself across her mouth, lashes narrowed as she considers the oddly familiar stranger. Perhaps the woman had thought her an easy target. Perhaps she’d mistakenly assumed that the youngest Black daughter would be softer than her siblings and more prone to passively allowing others to disrespect her. It was a foolish mistake to make. “Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, if you’re even capable of keeping up with an argument that counts beyond the number three, should you decide to try and offend me – or call even a disowned member of the Black family a slag – ever again, I will have this laughable excuse for an establishment shut down before you can even so much as think about letting another word leave your foul mouth.” She tilts her head expectantly, deeming her point made. “Are we crystal clear on that, darling? Let’s not waste any more time. Where is Sirius?”

[emboldens]

The simple truth was that Marlene McKinnon existed in a constant state of wanting ramen. She found it comically ironic that many of the things she liked ended with men: women, ramen, effective skincare regimens, and Amazon Studios’ Good Omens. “Amen,” she finds herself replying — because it’s the word her train of thought drags her to — and Marlene offers the woman a small smile, ever grateful that her Tinder date is blissfully unaware of her brain’s cheesy Dr. Seussisms. “I came from some volunteer work and let me tell you —“ A deep sigh leaves her throat as she grips the head of the chair, pulling it backwards to leave her some space to sit — “I am exhausted. I need a gyoza.”

What she needs is to keep her mind on less serious, and more importantly, something less Sirius. ( Damn the fucking Seussisms. ) The date is a relief, both from the looming thought of a young boy’s disappearance and from the disappointment of her actual love ( though this was too strong a word ) life. It’s hard to take dating apps seriously, especially when the women-only options still present her hoards and hoards of heterosexual girls looking for a third party to appease their boyfriends’ desires to “spice up their relationship in the bedroom.” Even without technology, she isn’t faring much better. The biggest blight her heritage inflicted upon her was how she inevitably attracted lonely American men who dressed terribly and, for whatever reason (Naruto, perhaps), spoke more Japanese that she could, and struggled to hide their obvious desires to obtain living, breathing replacements for the Hatsune Miku body pillows they kept in their lewdly decorated basement bedrooms. 

Marlene seats herself before her date — Emma, she reminds herself her name is — grabbing a menu a passing waitress had offered her in the middle of her internal monologue. She flips the pages open but sets her gaze not on the images of food but the eyes of her date. A certain tension radiates from the woman, which makes Marlene wonder if the recent news has anything to do with it; after all, Emma’s work is directly tied to crime. She makes it a point not to ask her about it, not wanting any unnecessary stress to ruin what could potentially be a perfectly peaceful evening. The smile she offers is warm. Her hand drifts to a menu item that she’s all too familiar with, index finger pointing at the image of the dish. “You should try this,” she says. “They separate the noodles so they don’t get soggy, and you use the broth as a dipping sauce. It’s really good — just so thick and full of flavour.”

WHEN: June 14th, 18:37 WHERE: Mendokoro Ramen WHO: @emboldens

It’s not the first thing Emma needs this week, but it’s also certainly not the last. The plans were made before all this Regulus shit brought a swirling storm of chaos to her world (she thinks – the past week had been such a swirling storm that all the days blurred into one inseparable timeline), and there wasn’t much of a thought to cancel them. Emma didn’t want to cancel them. Besides, it was probably good to step away from her work and get a taste of a normal life for a few hours, plus the taste of ramen and the inside of someone else’s mouth. 

Only, it would be good to step away if she hadn’t been rushing to get to the address she’d been given. Rushing was also not exactly the right choice of word, when what she was really doing was sitting in traffic and cursing whoever invented cars and roads and roundabouts and lights and whatever else caused her to be late. It wasn’t like first impressions were her strong suit, but it wouldn’t hurt to be on time, at the very least. Thankfully, there wasn’t much pressure going into this. Both parties had expressed their desire for nothing serious to come from this, and it was obvious they were two souls looking for a bit of company for the evening – and Emma certainly needed the stress-relieving kind. She didn’t even know much about her date, save for a few facts not mentioned in her Tinder bio and the notion that she must have been fond of this place to recommend it so quickly when the idea of grabbing dinner was brought up.

Thankfully, she also knew what she looked like, and it wasn’t hard to spot Marlene among the dinner crowd, a beauty nobody in the room could really compare to. There was no use in attempting to soften her look, and Emma never truly hid from being anything but her authentic self, even when that was not the most pleasant thing, as she’d learned growing up. But there was a slight huff of tension that left her body upon approaching the table and running a hand through her hair, and she still held some semblance of manners and apologized as she sat down. “Sorry, traffic was a fucking nightmare.” The key word in that last sentence was some. This was always the odd part, trying to strike up a conversation with someone you only know through suggestive texts and an app where you see what they believe to be their best photos and maybe a song off Spotify that they like. “This place looks amazing,” was what she settled on. She didn’t hold too much creativity, she was afraid.

[emboldens]

“Sirius Black?” Marlene scoffs, wide grin spreading across her face. “That stupid hipster?”

Despite the constant threat of having her establishment set on fire by the boy’s inclination to arson, Marlene was strangely protective of the elder Black brother, seeing her own past reflected in his current situation — the distaste for pretentious upper class traditions, the adolescent rebellion, and the familial abandonment that succeeded it. Though Marlene herself feels no real anger for the family that deserted her, she can empathize with a man who does. Dysfunctional as the Order might sometimes be, they’ve constructed a better definition of that cursed word, deciding that the bond is forged less by blood and traditions and more by values — chosen, not indoctrinated — and a genuine enjoyment of each other’s company. As such, she believes any enemy of Sirius is an enemy of hers. “It’s his week off,” she tells Narcissa. “Says he has a family thing.”

To Marlene’s knowledge, there were three heirs to the House of Black: Bellatrix, who made Marlene feel better about occasionally calling herself a feminist, because if a person whose company allegedly sat on the exploitation of sweatshop workers could make pointed remarks about inequality in interviews without guilt, Marlene could excuse herself for still feeling bad when her leg hairs grew. Next was Andromeda, whose name Marlene often forgot when the Order deemed her irrelevant due to her apparent lack of participation in the family business, and then proved herself to be rather pleasant when they met on the night of Regulus’ search party. The last Black heir was... this creature. 

The first thing Marlene notices is that she looks familiar, but that’s a can of worms to open later, with Marlene being unwilling to dig up her history of brushing elbows with the upper class. The second thing Marlene notices is that the she’s too rich to be here. Even if her one year of working for Lush near permanently fucked up her ability to pick up scents, Marlene could practically smell the woman’s distaste for her establishment. It doesn’t offend her, no — in fact, she takes delight in knowing people find her repulsive. Years of trying to be perfect in the eyes of people who only scrutinized her shortcomings or otherwise ignored her entirely have driven her to relish the freedom of being imperfect, driving away those who didn’t matter and letting in only the people capable of accepting her for her flawed authenticity. 

But now’s not the time to be authentic. Now’s the time to be a massive cunt.

Marlene has her mother’s smile. Not inherited, but practiced — a pleasant, camera-ready curl of the lips. “It’s money you want, right? I can just take it out of his paycheck.” She delivers her words with an almost motherly sweetness. The gaze she offers Narcissa glimmers with feigned sympathy, enough to make the sincerity of her faux-concern more convincing. Having an actress for a mother and a shithead for a father was a bad combination, she thinks as she draws closer to the blonde woman’s face, sliding her fingers into the spaces between Narcissa’s. Marlene doesn’t break her gaze away, lets her eyes rest softly on the other woman’s. “You’re not the first, you know.” Her words are no louder than a whisper. “I’ve had so many women come here begging him for abortion funds. So, so many.” Marlene shakes her head. “It’s quite tragic, what a slag that boy is. A beautiful girl like you deserves better. Lucky for you, you don’t look that pregnant yet.”

Notes; Tuesday 11th June 2019, 10:17. The Leaky Bucket. Narcissa & Marlene. @emboldens.

                                                                          ♢

Sirius has blocked her on social media which tells Narcissa two things: firstly, that he doesn’t want her to disturb his life, which would be insulting if not for the fact that she’d simply be wasting her time on a lost cause, and secondly that he underestimates just how easy it is to find someone with access to his private account and persuade them to let her see his feed in exchange for a swift, sizeable ( in their opinion ) venmo transaction. Mascara-lined lashes narrow at the location that features as a garish backdrop to most of his photos, following the link with a tap of a manicured nail to be assaulted by images of drunken looking youths lazing about with pints half-spilt down their t-shirts and pointing in reverence to what looks like a framed picture of Riz Ahmed. Narcissa passes the borrowed phone back, squirts hand sanitizer into her palms and hails a cab to take her to the pitifully named Leaky Bucket.

Something uncomfortable unfolds itself in her stomach as soon as she walks through the heavy pub door. The interior smells of beer and cheap furniture cleaner, the air inside too warm for her to find any sort of reassurance that Regulus would be hiding out here. Only someone who had lowered their standards to Sirius’ level would find sanctuary in a place like this and his younger brother ( no, she mentally corrects herself– blood ties have been erased; Sirius means as much to them as a rat who once dwelt in the basement before the exterminators were called in ) certainly had better taste than that. She approaches the bar calmly, moving to rest a hand atop the surface only to hesitate and curl her fingers into her palm that drops to her side. Narcissa waits, patient, quiet, until someone steps through the doorway lined with shelves of alcohol labels she doesn’t know.

Familiarity hovers around the dark-haired woman like a mirage. They’ve met before, Narcissa thinks but, rather than disturb carefully stored away memories, she pushes past the feeling. “I’d like to speak to Sirius please.” She holds her chin high, a sense of authority sewn into the very fibre of her being like an intricate embroidery pattern. “Tell him it’s,” his cousin, “Narcissa. He’ll probably say that he doesn’t want to see me, but he doesn’t get a choice. As surprising as this may be for him to hear, the world does not revolve around him.” A cold smile slips briefly across her lips. “It’s urgent.”

[emboldens]

@ofandromedas | the leaky bucket

It’s hard to pin which side of the binary she belongs to — neither glass half-full nor half-empty ever seem to be the case. Her perspectives flow freely, as if all idealism she pours into the metaphorical glass comes spilling out with depressing immediacy. Leaky, Marlene once explained, head rested against the shoulder of a girl she once loved. I think my worldview’s all leaky. Fingers running through the other’s sleek black hair, Alecto replied, Wouldn’t that make for a cute bar name?

The bar in question had one less employee manning the counter. She gave Sirius a week off, leaving James and Remus attend to their friend’s newfound grievances. When the boys’ familiar laughter does not ring across the Leaky Bucket’s walls for once, the reality Marlene has willed herself to ignore finally sinks in, settling as an unwanted stirring in her chest — a child is missing. 

Glass half full: Experience tells her that upper class brats are inclined to dramatic teenage rebellions. Marlene herself and the missing boy’s brother are evidence of this. Sometimes, getting lost is a deliberate and unstated plea to be found. Glass half empty: Cynicism flushes her hypotheses out, leaving only worst of thoughts to survive the drainage. Maybe the Order’s right. Maybe the urban legends tossed around after meetings were more fact than fiction, and the organization’s opposition dabbled in things darker than one could comfortably believe. It’s a hasty conclusion to jump to, especially when there’s scarcely enough evidence to back their claims, but pessimism tends to glare brighter in the dark. Under the dim glow of the half-moon, Marlene lays her back against her bar’s brick-laden wall, shoulders slumping down before she plucks a cigarette from the box in her pocket, flicking her lighter open to set the tail end ablaze. Marlene presses the light to her lips. She closes her eyes as she inhales, sighing off the persistent, looming feeling that something awful was about to happen.

It seems she’s not alone in her worries, because a woman she recognizes as one of the search volunteers and a member of the House of Black — Sirius’ cousin — seems to be approaching her bar. Similarly to how Marlene refuses to learn which Kardashian sister was Khloe and which Kardashian sister was the Kardashian sister whose name began with K and was neither Khloe nor Kim, Marlene fails to remember what the Black heiress’ name is, but the Sacred 28 families should be predictable enough that at least one of her first ten guesses would be correct, as Marlene operated under the assumption that England’s elite families were lawfully required to christen their children with names pretentious enough to brand them as protagonists of forgotten Shakespeare tragedies. Aquaria? No, that’s a drag queen. The woman in her path is far less flashy, sporting white scrubs and sensible pair of shoes as she made her way to the bar’s entrance. Unsure of what not-Aquaria needs, Marlene lowers her cigarette and greets the woman with a slight tilt of the head and an amiable curl of the lip that almost resembles a smile. “What’s up, Doc?” Andromeda, she remembers. Her name is Andromeda. “Can I help you?”

[emboldens]

@bigassmoody | hampstead heath park

Crouching to Samus’s level, Marlene palms the freshly mowed park grass, feeling the barky surface of a small fallen branch beneath her skin. As she curls her fingers around the stick, she sees the Saint Bernard tense up at her side, knees bent, readying her young body for the lunge. Marlene smiles. “Maybe we’re doing it wrong. Maybe we have to think less like cops and more like teenagers.” A light swing of the arm sends the branch flying. “Yeet.” Samus kicks her feet against the ground and sprints toward the propelling object, letting a howl ring through the air before she catches the stick in her mouth and turns to her owner, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. Marlene returns her enthusiasm, matching the dog’s expression with a small grin of her own.

Truth be told, it’s hard to imagine Moody in his adolescence. Having one too many missing parts makes it difficult to picture the that child was once there — not that he’s defined by his disabilities, but one has to wonder what the man had been like before his losses inevitably shaped him. Marlene supposes she’s the opposite. Cheeky smiles and frivolousness can translate as immaturity, for some, an assumption that is only exacerbated by the stains of teenage rebellion sprawling across her skin. Moody’s done the same, but the man’s body art proves less a history of revolutions and more a history of wars — literal ones, Marlene assumes. It’s a grounding reminder that for however much she distrusts him, Moody’s background is one bloodier and heavier than hers, a fact that should merit him at least some modicum of respect.

Except Marlene’s had far too many unsavory experiences with men, cops, and natural blondes. Sexy eyepatch and mysterious backstory aside, Alastor Moody lies at the dead center of Marlene’s Venn Diagram of unfavourably generalized people-categories, and though the rational part of her knows deep within that the man has good intentions, gut instinct dictates she should ride on the singular impulse that surges through her being whenever they cross paths: piss him off. 

Samus drops the stick at Marlene’s feet. Marlene smiles, rubbing at the dog’s head before rising up to meet Moody’s height and address him once more. “You think shithead runs in the family?” she asks. Marlene hurls the stick upward and watches it do a measly flip before falling into her grasp once again. “He’s Sirius’s brother. I wouldn’t put past their lot to pull all of London’s dicks for a TikTok, or whatever it is fifteen-year-olds use nowadays.”

[emboldens]

            “when I ask you about your first love i am always secretly hoping that you will say your own name. now, wouldn’t that be beautiful – to above else have a heart that was proud of itself.”

BASIC INFORMATION

Full name: Marlene McKinnon Pronunciation: Nickname(s): Mars, Mack, Lena Birthdate: 05/27/89 Age: 30 Zodiac: Gemini Gender: Female Pronouns: she/her Romantic orientation: Lesbian Sexual orientation: Lesbian Nationality: British Ethnicity: Japanese on her mother’s side, Irish and English on her father’s side Current location: London Living conditions: Living in the moment! 

BACKGROUND

Birthplace: London Hometown: Wiltshire, England Social Class: Middle, formerly upper Educational achievements: Graduated secondary school with honors Father:  Brian McKinnon was a smalltime character actor and BBC show runner infamous for his divisive, often politically incorrect dark comedies. Although his personality found popularity within the small niche of cynics and unsuccessful satirists, having his wife’s career overshadow his own tore away at his insecruties. These frustrations were never explicitly expressed, but glimmers of his envy more often than not took form through the mean-spirited “jokes” and the occasional arguments he subjected his wife and child to. He passed away in 2008 after a year-long battle with pancreatic cancer. He once claimed that his biggest dream was to play James Bond. Up until his death, this statement was believed to be part of his comedy routine. It was not. Mother:  Midori McKinnon (nee Iizuka) born into family of wealthy hotel owners who’d moved to London for better business prospects. Their wealth gave her access to the theatre world, where she slowly and steadily thrived, landing supporting roles in West End productions of Miss Saigon, Les Miserables, and Jesus Christ Superstar, in addition to her occasional stints at the Globe Theatre. By her mid-to late thirties, her career made a breakthrough in Hollywood, where she gained international renown for her grace, beauty, and intelligence. However, the poise she carried herself with did not translate as well off-camera, as she was subject to bouts of deep melancholy, stemming from an allegedly troubled childhood, a dissatisfaction with her marriage and her later estrangement from her daughter, and a family history of mental illness. She took the world by surprise when she took her own life at the young age of 45. Today, her performance as Ophelia in a 1991 production of Shakespeare’s Hamlet is considered legendary. Her biggest dream was also to play James Bond. Sibling(s): None Birth order: Only child Pets: Two cats, Vita and Virginia, and a St. Bernard named Samus Previous relationships: Alecto Carrow, TBD Arrests: 3 Prison time: None

OCCUPATION AND INCOME

Current occupation: Bar owner Dream occupation: Wife of a lesbian Alpaca breeder Past job(s): Prior to opening a bar, she was a saleslady at Lush. Spending habits: Mostly thrifty, but occasionally makes large transactions for things she sees as investments for her business. In debt?: Yes Most valuable possession: Sentimentally? Her copy of Matilda, which was the first novel she ever read.

SKILLS AND ABILITIES

Physical strength: Average  Speed: Average Intelligence: Above Average Accuracy: Average Agility: Average Stamina: Average Teamwork: Prefers to work alone, as her issues with authority mostly get in the way. Talents/hobbies: With over eleven years of vocal training and the fortune of having a musical actress for a mother, Marlene can sing surprisingly well, boasting a four-octave mezzo-soprano range. She doesn’t tell anyone about it, because she likes surprising people at karaoke nights. Shortcomings: Fears vulnerability and commitment, has a tendency to appear frivolous due to her cheeky demeanor, occasionally self-destructive Languages spoken: English, some Japanese. Drive?: Yes Jump-start a car?: No Change a flat tyre?: Yes Ride a bicycle?: Yes Swim?: Yes Play an instrument?: Yes Play chess?: No Braid hair?: Yes Tie a tie?: Yes. Pick a lock?: Yes Cook?: Debatable

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE AND CHARACTERISTICS

Faceclaim: Sonoya Mizuno Eye colour: Brown Hair colour: Black Hair type/style/length: Long, sleek, and straight Glasses/contacts?: Yes Dominant hand: Left Height: 5′7 Weight: 56 kg Build: Lean and fit Exercise habits: Weekly gym visits, jogging regularly Skin tone: Fair Tattoos:  Butterfly with shadow ( Right shoulder, 2007 ), Moon cycle band ( Left arm, 2007 ), Velociraptor skull ( Right hand, 2008 ), Pterodactyl skeleton ( Chest, 2009 ), Apatosaurus skeleton ( Left leg, 2010 ), Spiderweb ( Elbow, 2010 ), Van Gogh skull smoking ( Collarbone, 2011 ), Floral sleeve ( Right arm, 2012 ), Floral design ( Neck, 2012 ), Marlene Dietrich smoking ( Right arm, 2013 ), Semicolon ( Left wrist, 2015 ), Band-aid ( Above the heart, 2016 ), “It’s chaos. Be kind.” ( Above the left elbow crease, 2016 ), The Star and The Moon tarot cards ( Left arm, 2017 ), Junji Ito comic panel ( Upper back, 2017 ), Phoenix ( Thigh, 2018 ) Piercings: Outer conch, labret, and brow Marks/scars: None Clothing style: Casual, monochromatic. Not a big fan of dresses or shorts. Allergies: None Diet: Mostly, but not exclusively vegetarian Physical ailments: TERRIBLE period cramps

PSYCHOLOGY

MBTI type: INFP - A (64% introverted, 66% intuiive, 57% feeling, 69% prospecting) Enneagram type: Type 9 Moral Alignment: Chaotic neutral Temperament: Sanguine Element: Water Emotional stability: Marlene appears to be stable on the surface, but her repressed feelings of guilt, anger and grief over her broken relationship with her mother still linger within, making her prone to bouts of extreme despondency. Introvert or Extrovert?: Introvert Obsession(s): The Leaky Bucket will know when Marlene is on her period because on the first two days, the pub’s radio will exclusively play a single female artist’s discography on repeat. Last month, it was Mitski. The month before, it was Regina Spektor. On a month she denies existed, it was Taylor Swift. Compulsion(s): Humor as a coping mechanism, repressing negative feelings, self-awareness without self-improvement Phobia(s): None Addiction(s): Nicotine Drug use: When she was younger Alcohol use: Occasionally Prone to violence?: No Prone to crying?: On her monthly cycle, yes. Believe in love at first sight?: Yes, but to her, this is very, very rare.

MANNERISMS

Accent: English, London dialect Speech quirks: None Hobbies: Casual video gaming, interior design, music curation Habits: Sitting on surfaces that aren’t meant to be sat on, smoking Nervous ticks: Lip biting, staring at the ground, blinking, diverting the subject with crass humor Drives/motivations: Maintaining her current lifestyle. Fears: Cockroaches Sense of humour?: Almost anything goes. Puns are her guilty pleasure, though she won’t admit it. Prefers subtle humor over loud, straightforward jokes, but either is fine. Enjoys vulgarity. Loves banter. Do they curse often?: Moderately.

FAVOURITES

Animal: Wolf Beverage: Bubble tea Book: Mr. Penumbra’s 24 Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan Colour: Red Food: Pork dumplings Flower: Plumeria Gem: Emerald Mode of transportation: Train Scent: Petrichor Sport: Gymnastics Weather: Sunny & breezy Vacation destination: Reykjavík

ATTITUDES

Greatest dream: Slow life. She aspires for nothing more than a peaceful existence with a person who understands her and her values. Greatest fear: the Duolingo Owl Most at ease when: Curating playlists for the Leaky Bucket Least as ease when: Somebody ( namely, certain Black family cousins ) threatens the security of her bar. Worst possible thing that could happen: For the Order to dismantle, or lose their ideals Biggest achievement: The Leaky Bucket! Biggest regret: Not reaching out to her mother before it was too late.

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the order of the phoenix + textposts

@bigassmood

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“I love dance, but acting was always an inner ambition. The ballet world is so closed, and there was so much more I wanted to do. The thing about being a dancer turned actor is that you know what hard work is. It’s true. And I’m so fucking grateful for that. In dancing, you can work hard and improve and see the results. With acting, you can work hard and it’s still luck of the draw.” — Sonoya Mizuno.