#monsieur guillotine

[conte-olaf]

La vittoria di Federica, ragazza autistica: verrà assunta dopo sette anni di tirocinio a 250 euro - la Repubblica

I cani li devono mangiare. 7 anni a 250 euro al mese?

Metodo francese...

[crifferius]

Qu'ils mangent de la brioche !

Establish your big bad as the villain by having them throw a multi-million extravagant parade to celebrate how great they are as they sit in golden robes in their palace while the peasants are finding it difficult to buy bread.

Purely fictional no resemblance to real events.

[miraculousbohemian]

ok so escaping the confines of the math side of YouTube on which I was supposed to be on today ended up with me being obsessed with an alternate universe where Nick survives and gets called Scar Nicholas, reestablishes the Russian Empire, now a better ruler, and the entirety of Europe is falling apart but Russia is just chilling?

Hitler didn't enrage his father, so he didn't punish him severely here, so he did become an artist, getting commissioned by Nick a few years before the Great War, and then when the war does break out, he gets rejected from the AUSTRIAN army, goes Indy Jones for a few years, discovers the reincarnation of Genghis Khan who is the fucking Mad Baron apparently, kills HIMMLER HOLY FUCK?! then finds the Ancient Aryan city INSIDE ANTARCTICA?

also Stalin is a priest here.

This is an Alternate universe series, also called the Scar Nicholas Saga by Monsieur Z on YouTube as far as I know, AND I'M OBSESSED?!?! but I do think it can be improved in some ways, example being Maria and Anastasia surviving since they were the longest lasting ones in our universe but I'll allow it if Nick has a badass scar on his right eye and Hitler isn't punished severely. And Stalin is a priest.

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter six

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad  ˚　.˚　　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, charlotte ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 4.8k

A subordinate of whom you do not recognise leaves a copy of the latest news on your desk and you do not pay it any mind until your lips leave your teacup of Fonta.

A MOST ROMANTIC SIGHT OF FONTAINE’S MOST INFLUENTIAL COUPLE SHATTERED BY THE BURSTING OF THE FOUNTAIN OF LUCINE!

You cannot say you are surprised; such a reaction was to be anticipated. The events of last night were far from ordinary, and the ring adorning your finger gleams in the sunlight streaming like bands through the blinds, affirming the reality of it all.

“An official report of this has been issued. Of whom do you wish to appoint this case to?”

“Why, myself of course,” you say primly, intonation insinuating the end of your phrase — but you take in a sharpened breath to continue. “Unless the Chief Justice — my fiance, might I add — wishes to accompany me. And if that ever so happens you may scribble his name of contribution in a footnote.”

The boy takes a hesitant step forward. “But, Madame, we have fresh graduates awaiting a job to take up. Wouldn't it be easier to have them do the work for you?”

You tut. “Oh, but that just won’t do. Doing the ‘work for me’, young man, does not mean doing the work effectively. I am not partial to cleaning up after my… protégés, if you will.” Another sip of your Fonta seems to shush any questions he might beg, and he complies, leaving you alone in your office. 

And he’s left the door ajar. Pity.

As you stand, your chair scrapes against the marble and you wince. I should call for someone to replace the rubber padding of the legs, you note, rolling the tabloid into a scroll. 

Though your stride is fast and your heels click a little too loudly for anyone’s comfort, you steal some time to skim through the newspaper.

A monochrome print of your outfit from yesterday makes a statement in a tiny corner of the paper you hold in your hands, and you almost smile. So people do like me! Perhaps it is your own self critique, but the words on the street after the Poisson incident were nothing shy of foul — not to mention how your rising to fame caught the attention of all the aristocrats in Fontaine (as Furina had once quipped, unaware you were right outside Monsieur Neuvillette’s office). You do not know what to take from it. 

If more surges of the prophecy begin to manifest, it is mostly up to you to take yourself up on the job — another result of Furina’s damned dereliction. 

Being proposed to does not cease the relentless flow of living, and thus is the sole reason why your feet drag you to the very precinct of Palais Mermonia. Fear lingers; you had just narrowly scraped death by a hair’s breadth, saved by your own reflexes at freezing the Fountain of Lucine before you could witness people dissolving into the very floors at which justice is determined.

Though the case is not very much ‘civil’ as your title suggests, there is no one better to take care of the problem if not you. And it does take into account the lives of people, so you do suppose that it is quite ‘civil’; in the context that it won’t very well be if more people die.

In layman’s terms, you have a case to solve that is very much your sole responsibility.

But this does not mean that you aren’t blazingly furious at the one who is supposed to spare her subjects from the injustice that is death; the sole guillotine looming over Fontaine. 

Before you allow the guards to open the door, you lose the pencil in your hair and card your fingers through it to restore its lost volume. When the door does open, a crowd seems to swarm when you make an appearance at the front step — and you eye them with a sort of caution that has you preemptively biting your tongue. The stench of sweat and body odour shoot through your senses in one swift motion, and you almost lurch forward to gag, the flashing of cameras a blinding curtain over your sight. 

And the queries commence.

"What measures have you taken to avert us from the prophecy?" a reporter cries out, thrusting a microphone toward your face, his crew trailing closely behind.

Another person, to whom you presume to be no older than twenty shouts warily. “Is it true that you are to be wed to the Chief Justice? What does this mean for your future and your new career?”

“Over here!”

“One for the cameras!’

You take a calculated move to disregard their questions and push further through the crowd — only to realise how much of a grave mistake you’ve made. An influx of more people come pouring in, snuffing the place out of any oxygen you can steal for yourself; and before you know it, you are unable to breathe. The throng of people swells and the contact of skin against skin from all the pressing bodies floods over you like a deluge.

Navigating your mind is the main challenge for a situation like this; how is one meant to think straight if all compass fails?  Your eyes flicker to the floor, and you realise the space that surrounds you as if you are a magnet repelling its own pole; but this does not stop them from pushing in further. Regret is the first emotion you feel out of anything; Why did I sign myself up for this job? Is one of the questions that cry out— but it dissipates when the more people fight through the field.

Shitshitshitshit! It almost feels like the very ground you stand on begins to cave in and you’re shrinking under the captious gazes of all the cameras and you feel so small. A fruitless attempt to create space brings everything to an impasse; and then everything falls silent. 

The crowd parts as your vision clears and your breathing slows. Damn it to the heat of the moment, but you swear you hear your heart pounding like a gong in the very forefront of your head. There he is, your knight in shining armour, as another headline stated — and if you were any more spiteful, your voice would’ve dripped with malice at the very notion of having him, the Chief Justice, by your side at every inconvenience.

But he seems to just do that at this ‘inconvenience’.

A low voice vibrates against your back and you feel a chill tease at your spine. “It is not necessary for you to converge at the Palais at this hour. I implore you all to return to wherever you came from, for my partner and I have important matters to attend to at this moment.”

This only prompts a surge of questions that drown out any attempts of the people to break through the surface of the stampede. Something — of what you presume to be a sharp edge of camera gear — grazes your side, and you physically feel a stitch come undone. The initial sting is almost akin to an ant bite, and you instinctively press your palm against it and hope that the pain from the pressure can override any pain from the wound. Pivoting, your left knee buckles as you shift your weight, your frame now shielded from the majority of the crowd. Lifting your cupped palm away from your hip, a little patch of red comes to bloom under the soft drapes of fabric of your blouse. This is what happens when you don’t take health care seriously, you jest in your mind: a fruitless attempt at diverting your attention elsewhere even if it is for a measly few seconds.  Allowing your arm to slacken, your elbow nestles firmly against your side, offering brief respite from the discomfort.

Your ears begin to ring at the sudden crescendo of voices after the Iudex’s silence, and you briefly glance at him before you realise he is peering closely at you, ultramarine eyes trailing to the very curve of your hip. 

“Must I reiterate — my partner and I have an urgent case to attend to, so if you would please excuse us.” A brief smile tugs at his lips, but it is an exasperated one. He reaches for your waist — to which he then withdraws, choosing instead to have his fingers interlace with your own. Almost dazed, you stare at your now elevated hand, and then to him, with an almost astonished awe that can only be considered as such: a want to slap him. This is certainly not of his character! What audacity…

It all happens so swiftly you have no time to turn your head at the voice that comes from the man to your left. He brings his lips to your ear and you barely make out the words — and yet the main message still prevails. “Stay close to me,” is the honey-lined command he mutters under his breath. 

He starts his advancement through the crowd, and you absentmindedly comply and attempt to replicate his pace — albeit with a noticeable limp in your gait (your attempt to shield it only has the multiple daggers piercing from within to grow into a grotesque violence). A certain demographic splits away from the crowd, retreating; another, more resilient and stubborn, stand as though secured with screws embedded into cement. Some claw at your blouse, and some to your skirt — and you cannot tell if the shouts that leave their mouths are profanities, praise, or whatever else stands in the blur of the in between.

The autumn chill freezes the warmth that once wrapped around your limbs and leaves a delicate, yet lingering frost on the apples of your cheeks. Suffocating as the influx of people was, you are now free from them, and you look back to see the aftermath of dejected faces and the subsiding of camera shutters. 

Awareness has you stealing a  brief look downward and and you feel a slight prickle of a sting at the clarity. You do not want to tend to it now; hence why you freeze a layer of ice under the gauze with strained effort. 2-in-1! Numbing cream and makeshift stitch!

With now being spared the imploring curiosity of mortality, you do not hesitate to drop Neuvillette’s hand. 

For good measure, you look past the man’s shoulder and over your own; a part of you tells you that no one is around — but how can you trust your surety? You are human; and to be human is to be defined by the errors that scream through the flesh of your being.

“There was no necessity for you to aid me, Monsieur. I was — and still am — completely, and utterly alright.” You do not turn to face him, nor do you dare to stop walking.

Neuvillette lags behind, his presence only recognisable from the shine of his boots under the sun. “I assure you it was not an action of intent, Madame; I was only off to seek a brief reprise from my duties, but instead, I was met with quite the group of people swarming you outside the Palais. Surely you must know this act was merely my own responsibility as —”

Strides fueled by adrenaline come to a brief stop and you whirl on your heel, met with a bewildered Neuvillette stopping just before he can collide into you. “Yes I do, very much know that, Chief Justice.” You lift your heel and swing it lightly backwards, stretching the distance between the two of you. “Now if you’ll excuse me; I am to mediate the threat that the Fountain poses right now.”

Instead of being patient enough to wait for a response, you curtsy and turn to leave. Someone just so happens to not take the memo, and you stop your stride again. “What is it now?”

“I am a man of my word, Madame; I claimed to have a role in what happened last night to the people, and so I must certainly be of service.”

Dejected as you are, you still remain unwavering in your gaze. “...Right.”

Neuvillette chooses not to refute, and you do not find it in yourself to speak. It is a walk of shame, almost — but the indignity lies not in the quiet, but rather in the Chief Justice's inaction in releasing the tension.

You steal a glance at Neuvillette, hoping for some sign of reassurance or understanding, but his expression remains impassive.

Your pace is now unrhythmic. The impulse to disrupt this unsettling silence with anything — a word, a gesture, or a mere breath — becomes a refuge sought in the recesses of your mounting desperation; because, God, you cannot stand another minute with this man! Yet, a brief flit of what he might be thinking gives you a taste of how, most probably, he is not feeling as disturbed as you are right now. Observing him from the corner of your eye, his demeanour remains unperturbed. Damn him and his impartiality.

Someone chooses to finally shatter the static, and it is not you nor Neuvillette. Instead it is that reporter: Charlotte. Though you do not see her, the sheer recognition of who it is is confirmed when she sounds from behind, and the two of you turn your heads almost in unison. A head of baby pink hair is the first aspect of her that you notice, and everything else comes into full view.

She claps her hands with a roll of paper in her left. “Oh. My. God. I have been struck with luck today, it seems! You would not care as to spare a few minutes of your time for some questions, would you?” 

You exhale a nervous laugh, looking to Neuvillette to reject the offer.

Beaming, she turns to you, and lays a friendly hand on your wrist. “I’m a big fan. It is an honour to finally meet you in person.” 

That is undoubtedly a first. Maybe she thought you were the acting chief justice? As President of the Conseil d'État, you haven't accomplished anything particularly noteworthy to warrant or merit such commendation. 

Clearing your throat, you bring forth the most professional smile you can muster. “And to you, too, Charlotte. Though I am afraid we are quite occupied with other responsibilities… Perhaps we could arrange an official meeting for an interview? Just let me know of your schedule.” 

“Oh! That is very kind of you, Madame. I will certainly send you my schedule and please, pick what date as you see fit.” Her eyes shift from yours to Neuvillette. “And congratulations on your engagement! The topic of your engagement has been thrown into every conversation under the sun. Trust me, I’ve seen it.”

Neuvillette closes in a little nearer, clearly piqued by her claim. “Really? I certainly did not foresee this to be upped to such a… grand scale. But surely —” He jolts at you nudging his arm to stop. “Ah. Yes. I apologise greatly, Charlotte, but the matter at hand is far too grave.”

“Yeah, sure — no biggie. See you two around!”

And there she goes, frolicking like a little girl in an open field. “A strange one, that girl.” You say, a tinge of amusement in your tone. Deep down, you are grateful that she happened to be there: a casual catalyst to have conversation up and running again. You pretend you do not dislike the man in front of you.

He hums a little. “Her childlike innocence is seldom seen nowadays; it is a quality I have so wished to feel.” 

You turn to him, eyes narrowing in scepticism. “Never have I met someone with a childhood so terrible.”

His expression seems to tighten, almost as if he’s been caught. “That was not what I meant, I am merely enamoured and simply jealous at how people can still enjoy their youth. You feel that way, too, don’t you?”

You do not completely buy into his claim, yet you decide to play along. “What do you think?”

Another beat of silence.

“We must make haste,” he says.

“Indeed we must.”

To feel relieved or concerned at the lack of people at the Opera Epiclese is another question that looms like jeopardy trivia. Its perimeter is boarded by tape and identified with a bold AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY at its entrance. A peculiar stillness blankets Erinnyes, the previously flowing waters now arrested in their motion, the sight of a frozen fountain showing bright and iridescent in the setting sun.

The man next to you looks forward as if entranced, the reason for the fall of his expression unreadable. His gaze drops to yours and he snaps himself out of it. “Ladies first,” he says, extending his arm as a gesture of courtesy.

“I do not like that this is the first time you’ve shown me such courtesy in the context of such dire circumstances in which I could possibly die if the water thaws,” you jest offhandedly, but you do not think he takes it the same way. 

“Forgive me if I have insulted you, Madame. I did not think my actions through,” he starts, but you stop him with a tut before he can continue further.

“Yes, Monsieur. You have insulted me and you certainly did not think your actions through.” you shoot him a glare.

"Was that... a joke? I certainly have not the talent which some people possess of conversinf easily. I apologise."

You scoff and brush past him, and though you do not see it — you just have a feeling he won’t attempt to overtake you in the dominance of your stride. And he doesn’t.

The Fountain is now dripping as it melts, its opal waters catching itself in the crevices of the ground. It lulls you ever so slightly, at how it trickles with an inexplicable slowness, a second longer than that of normal water; a possible explanation for why the Fountain has not fully melted yet.

There is a puddle of the Primordial water in front of you, and a sudden desire to touch it surges through you; it is a strange longing, but it lures you in like a moth to a flame.  It wouldn't harm anyone to continue staring at it for a little bit, would it? You've always questioned if you were indeed Fontainian, and the solution to your dilemma is poised in front of you, pulling you toward it. 

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” The Iudex has his hand wrapped around your wrist, his gaze a warning. You do not know what has gotten into you — hell, you don’t even remember reaching for it. 

You wriggle your arm from his grasp. “Don’t think much of it.” You feel protectively at your hand up until the base. 

Neuvillette’s gaze lingers, before he soundlessly leaves your side. He makes his way to the other end of the Fountain of Lucine, where he examines it with such curiosity you begin to wonder what he finds intriguing about the rear end of a Fountain that appears uniform at every angle.

A shout sounds from you and reaches the man on the other side of the fountain. “So. Mister Chief Justice. What do you think we should do?" He seems just as entranced as you are, eyes not compensating to find yours as his lips move to find a response.

“I think I can possibly revert the waters to how they once were — store it deeper inside the Fountain,” as he speaks, he begins to advance in a return to your side.“But I can only work with bodies of water, not ice. So I need to request a favour from you.”

Unsure of where he is taking this, you reply with a diffident: “Sure.”

He is now standing in front of you (it is a little too close, however — so you shuffle backwards). “Could you… possibly — no, that wouldn’t work.” He stops midway, a wrinkle forming between his blond brows. What an awfully peculiar man he is, you think, eyeing the way he seems to be finding other words to phrase what he was to say better. You think he fails to do so when his slightly ajar mouth closes.

You would be a fraud to say you weren’t curious. “No. Tell me.”

“It was merely an afterthought, and I suppose now that you still wouldn’t be up for it if I told you, so I might as well. Is it possible for you to reverse your freezing of the ice? To revert it back to its liquid state, so to speak?"

Your eyes dart to your hands, and you bargain the sheer potential of your power; you are able to manipulate the waters into ice — this you know — but to revert ice to water? It is certainly not unheard of, and yet you would consider such a method to be unorthodox; nothing of the sort was ever taught in schools, let alone by tutors. A memory from your youth resurfaces, your father’s blaring, forceful voice a menacing exploitation of your power he so desperately wanted to possess.

Flair was a spectacle — a luxury; for flaunting your own strength resulted in punishment.

“I cannot promise you anything. Do not be so much as dejected when my attempts prove to be futile, Monsieur.”

With an interest piqued, he brings his eyes to level with yours. “There shall be no need to worry if it fails. I have another idea we could resort to.” Something in your intuition had you feeling he thought you wouldn’t agree. 

“Wouldn’t the water annihilate the both of us?”

His eyes shoot to the now dimming sky, not stealing a glance at the gloves he begins to adjust. “I will restrain the flow of water, you need not be concerned.”

You roll your shoulders back. “Well. Doesn’t hurt to try.”

Though he does not respond, he takes a step back, allowing you the full expanse of the Fountain. You wriggle and flex your fingers. Shouldn’t be too hard, you tell yourself. How difficult could it possibly be? If anything, it is just a test of your skill; where are the cameras? If they were to take photos of you, you would love it if they would right now. Or maybe they find it all too mundane. Downfall and drama is what they prey on, after all.

Your eyes flutter closed, and you begin to reach into the ice with everything within you, forcing it toward you with a tug so hard it has you winded. The autumn chill intensifies as the wind carries the ice like a vice. Of all the things you think of, you are reminded of your father’s distant coldness: an extinguisher of warmth (of which belonged to your mother). It is a bitter childhood memory — one of an empty seat at dinner tables and palpable fury. You can almost hear your father’s voice, distorted as all memories are (they all come perfect, uniform — and yet they leave like glass breaking off at the hands of an all-too-passionate lover).

Ice crawls up your arm, the numbness a factor you do not pay any attention to. You cannot deny that this does bring you an odd discomfort, for the discomfort you usually feel at the use of your Vision is a draining of energy to create; yet this is the first time you’ve ever been required to destroy. 

It slows your pulse, as ice does, and your eyes fight to shoot open at the idea of a slip of your consciousness. Yet you still pursue. Pulling harder this time, the oxygen in your lungs grows frigid and cut like knives against your ribcage. You attempt to channel more with pure instinct, but you cannot. There is nothing for you to reach.

With finality, you permit your eyes to flutter open, all the pain you should be feeling blurring into the foreground when greeted with a vista of bright blues and the billowing of the Iudex’s robes. Your arm instinctively lifts to shield yourself from the roaring wind.

A halo of azure hues encircle his wrists, lacing through his hair. The water remains frozen, but it is not from the ice that you hold dear, and instead it is from his outstretched hands, twisting against the tide in attempts to turn back time against the current.

You stagger backwards, and yet you miraculously feel grounded in place, a paradox of numbness and pain you wish not to acknowledge. The seal he begins to place against the water ripples through the air like a soundwave, stripping you of any hearing and in its absence is replaced by a constant ringing. 

Neuvillette drops his arm, the suspended droplets of water following suit, crushed under the weight of his command. Everything seems to snap into motion the second the Fountain stills, a single wave of harsh wind fluttering through Erinnyes, the familiar rattle of trees swaying teasing at your ears.

Something about the whole spectacle seems like a fantasy, those of which you hear about in fables and folklore. 

“Bravo,” you muse, noticing the way his shoulders sag.

The Chief Justice looks over his shoulder, slate eyes morphing into wide ones as he takes in your frame. “My, you’re awfully pale.”

You flash him a tired smile. “Nothing I can’t handle. And no, I am not pale — this is an insult. I am perfectly sunkissed, so much so that every man and woman desires me or desires to be me.” You wave him away, your hand limp in its action.

The Iudex’s face only deepens in distress. You do not give him room to speak. “Why the long face hm? Surely you don’t think so lowly of me. Surely you…” Weights weigh in on your eyelids, and your knees buckle. An attempt to balance yourself with your other foot fails, and instead of meeting hard cement the warmth of an unwanted embrace greets you. 

“(Name),” he mutters. Your name rolls off his tongue like a curse; ludicrous. “You’re bleeding.”

Instinctively you use his arms as leverage. “I am fine, Monsieur. I am no princess in need of saving — oh! Nevermind, you are right,” you slur, a hand you never realised was on your hip coming away red. A drunk smile flickers on your features for a brief moment before you slump again into his arms.

He stumbles backwards at the suddenness of your movement, but his grip is firm. “You are unfit for a trip back to the city. I must escort you.” His breath brushes against the nape of your neck. 

You push him away. “Do not treat me as if I’m a child, young man. I can manage myself, I am a grown woman and I am employed. That says something, doesn’t it?” Defensively, you point at yourself to prove that you are not injured. Your claim contradicts itself; your sight begins to fail, blurred by growing black spots dotting your vision.

“Madame, please. You have over-exerted yourself.”

The Iudex’s voice comes as a muffled blur, and you attempt to take a step forward — but it is limp and miscalculated. Neuvillette's gaze briefly falls to your hands, his touch supporting you with one hand on your back and the other delicately grasping your fingers. “Goodness. Your hands are cold.” Sapphire peeks through the ice, the engagement ring a cruel reminder of the tie that binds you both.

You manage a whisper. “Not entirely. Just the palm.” You wiggle your fingers slightly, albeit with great effort. 

“Please, refrain from speaking,” he implores gently, a hint of concern laced in his voice. “It is imperative that I help you back home, so forgive me if my hold happens to be a little rough.” Before you can cry out in protest, he scoops you up, arms sliding under your inner knees and upper back. Platinum strands fall against your chest, his own rising and falling peculiarly slow. You can still make out a frown that pulls on his lips, and you almost smile at the notion that you’re the reason for his agony.

How sightly.

Your arms naturally curl around the groove of his neck. “I’ll hate you for this. Up until I am brought to my grave.”

“I believe your disdain for me would be far greater had I abandoned you,” he says plainly, no hint of jest in his tone. He adjusts his hold of you, and you slide further down into his grasp, now sandwiched between his arms and chest; you do not make any alarm of it, however, thoughts trailing to your fluffed mattress and plush pillows.

“My disdain for you is already much too cruel for a soul to comprehend,” you garble, a wisp of your misty white breath escaping as a plume.

"As it is for me," he breathes out, but you cannot read his lips.

Pointing blindly in a direction you assume is north, you declare: “Well then; if you don’t have any objections, to my apartment it is."

a/n: spot the subtle pride n prejudice reference I put for fun teehee

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun

[howlingday]

Ren: Hello, Jaune.

Jaune: Hello, Monsieur Ren.

Ruby: "Monsieur"?! Did I just hear you say "Monsieur"?! That's the old way of greeting, my friend! TO THE GUILLOTINE!

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Blake: You know what, I didn't like him, but I do feel kinda bad for the king and his family.

Ruby: Oof! Expressing sympathy for the royal family, are we? TO THE GUILLOTINE!

--------------------------------------------------

Coco: A hundred lien for a loaf of bread?! That's why overpriced!

Ruby: TO THE GUILLOTINE!

Nora: Man, this bread line is taking forever...

Ruby: TO THE GUILLOTINE!

Ruby: AND YOU! You look like you might be thinking anti-revolutionary thoughts...

Ruby: ...

Ruby: To the guillotine.

--------------------------------------------------

Yang: Ruby, we're sending way to many people to the guillotine.

Ruby: TO THE GUILLOTINE!

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Weiss: Listen, Ruby, we were thinking that since things are going better now, maybe we should reign in the terror. And while we're at it, maybe we could possibly start taking it easier on the Brothers, and also try to end this costly crusade.

Ruby: Hmmmm...

Weiss: (At the guillotine) Aw, crap.

--------------------------------------------------

Ruby: Hey, everyone, I have in my hand a list of brand new enemies to be sent to the guillotine! And many of YOU are on this list! But I'm not going to tell you who just yet! What do you think of that?

Oscar: Iiiiii think we should send Ruby to the guillotine first. All in favor?

Ruby: (Watches everyone raise their hands) OoOoh NoOooOoo!!

[silvernyxchariot]

Wriothesley x GN,Engineer!Reader

Word count: 2,764

⚠️Warnings⚠️ Platonic vibes, no smut💔sowwy; only indication that Reader could be an OC is a pair of glasses; Reader has they/them pronouns

Mechs and Visions

Some say that father issues create artists.

Mother issues create writers.

If that is the case, what does that make me?

“Your… project is no longer necessary.”

The prophecy that once held a guillotine over Fontaine’s neck had just pasted. The engineer from the Fontaine Research Institute of Kinetic Energy Engineering pushed up their glasses. “Monsieur Neuvillette, I proposed the Guerrier not to prevent further flooding but to combat the giant whale that interrupted Lady Furina’s trial.” They broke out into chilled sweats, “Just a precaution for the safety of Fontaine.”

Although Neuvillette nodded in understanding, he looked over the engineer’s drafts and research notes. A giant combat robot that needed to be piloted by Vision wielders, their will to protect Fontaine. “I understand you take great pride in your work and the safety of Fontaine dear to you, but as the Iudex of Fontaine, I would never allow such a calamity invade our home. This precaution you propose, would it not also cause more destruction should it fail to defeat the whale?” The engineer furrowed their brows and clenched their fists.

But Neuvillette was right. Although he looked like a distinguished gentleman, he showed above average human capabilities even among Vision wielders. It was safe to say that Neuvillette was strong enough to fight off a prophecy whale too, since no one has ever seen him fight full force. And the Guerrier could easily crush a building if made the right size or even Fontaine citizens.

“Yes, right!” The engineer said with full gusto, “But thank you so much for meeting with me today!” They placed a hand over the area of their diaphragm and gave Neuvillette a small bow before excusing themselves from the office. They grumbled to themselves in disappointment.

Waiting outside, luckily for them, was one curious scoundrel. “You made quite the interesting proposal there.” Or one should say, a curious Duke. The man clad in a large coat over his shoulders, black and silver clothing, and small chains clapped. The sound echoed in the engineer’s ears, as everything else became white noise.

“Your Grace… of the Fortress of Meropide,” the engineer said in a soft and surprised tone. “You’re above ground. Or sea level… I mean,” they cursed themselves for being flustered. First a botched meeting and now being an embarrassment in front of yet another Fontainian of noble status. The engineer paused and sighed to calm down, “Thank you.”

Wriothesley raised a hand to get them to stop speaking and placed his hand on their shoulder. “Why don’t you meet me at the entrance to the Fortress of Meropide,” Wriothesley handed the engineer a note.

On it, the engineer observed, was the specific location to the entrance to the Fortress was and the time Wriothesley wanted them to be there. It’s not like they knew first hand. “Am I being arrested for... being a “mad scientist?”” the engineer dragged out the last words in a high pitched voice, which only made Wriothesley laugh rather heartily. Rather unexpectedly.

“No, no. Let’s discuss your combat bot in my office. I think I’ve got the perfect solution for you.” And with those few sentences, Wriothesley entered Neuvillette’s office, leaving the engineer to their own devices until the allotted meeting time.

The engineer had bided their time sitting at a café drawing and scraping designs for his machines. “If there’s going to be more than one pilot, then the cockpit needs to be bigger…” and “No. No. No. The wiring is going to cut itself. How about the Vision here…” were some of the few things that could be heard as they muttered to themselves. Closer to nightfall, now they waited behind the Opera Epiclese.

“Look who actually showed!”

The engineer jumped as they were brought out of their racing thoughts. Wriothesley stepped closer and the plateau behind the Opera house transformed, to the engineer’s curiosity, into a descending staircase. Wriothesley gestured for them to enter first, “Don’t worry about getting lost. I’ll be right behind you,” Despite his serious face, his voice was light-hearted, “just watch your step.”

On the way to Wriothesley’s office, inmates and guards alike would greet him with a “Your Grace,” and if they felt particularly awestruck they would stare wide-eyed as if Wriothesley was a spectacle. He offered the engineer a spot of tea, a polite tone in his voice yet cautious eyes, before gesturing them to make themselves comfortable. “I only heard small pieces of your proposal to Monsieur Neuvillette but give me the full details,” he finally said. His pale grey eyes with hints of lavender bore into the engineer. “A machine that will copy its pilot’s movements, right…”

The engineer laid out spreadsheets all over Wriothesley’s desk, each paper and scattered note came together like a ornate puzzle. Even with words scratched out, Wriothesley nodded and analyzed each piece, making sense of the engineer’s work. At some point, the engineer noticed that they were the only one talking and paused to look at Wriothesley; suddenly developing heated cheeks and a certain bashfulness.

The Duke had been too busy looking at the blueprints, the scribbles, and the indent of pencil marks that were erased. The parts needed to make said machine were right here in the Fortress. The arms were similar to his own gauntlets. “When can you start building?” He asked with deep conviction. His tone was much less friendly from what the engineer felt not too long ago.

“Wait, what—” was all they got out of their mouth before Wriothesley explained how he was to save his inmates and citizens of Fontaine from the prophesied flood using the Wingalet he had built within the Fortress. The Wingalet was the massive ship that rose from the sea and hovered above the waves. On that day, it saved many lives and Wriothesley had felt a deep sense of pride in that. Now, the Wingalet was sitting idly in the Fortress of Meropide’s factory. “Better safe, than sorry,” Wriothesley thought. With extra consultation from fellow researchers, Jurieu and Lourvine; the engineer always wondered where they went; a ready combat machine was attainable.

There was no estimated completion date, but Wriothesley helped redesign the Guerrier into a smaller more manageable size, about 6 meters tall, making it easier and faster to complete the building in just under 12 months.

Although they didn’t have to always stay within the Fortress of Meropide, the engineer couldn’t help but find new smaller projects to tinker with to make them stay. The engineer examined Wriothesley’s gauntlets, “The use of a Cryo… maybe a steel joint… how would I make it lighter…” they mumbled while hunched the work bench. So engrossed in their work they didn’t, they didn’t notice Wriothesley having taken a seat next to them on a stool. His chin rested in the palm of his hand and the elbow cushioned on his thigh as he watched the gears in the engineer’s mind work. A slight smirk graced his his lips as he listened to their little rambles. It wasn’t until they made a long stroke with their pen, extending their arm, and jabbed Wriothesley in the stomach that the engineer noticed they had company. “AAH!”

Wriothesley only huffed with a little groan at the end. “Not bad. But you should get some real experience if you want to hurt me.”

The engineer stared at him with a deadpan expression. “You’re like a giant puppy… Your Grace,” still not used to using that name. “Did you need anything more from me,” they raised their eyebrows.

“You know, we still need to test the machine, right?”

The engineer hesitated and scratched the back of their neck. “Er, it’s a machine intended to be built for Vision wielders. The only one who can fit into the cockpit for the two pilots are yourself.” They paused in thought. “Unless Jurieu or Lourvine suddenly gain a Visio—"

“No,” Wriothesley interrupted. He pointed to the glowing orb to the engineer’s side. “You will be my partner for this test. Afterall, there’s only five people who really know what’s being built here.” Wriothesley rose from his seat and dragged the engineer by the collar of their shirt, the scruff of their neck, and to the secluded cavern housing the Guerrier. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.” The engineer only groaned knowing they wouldn’t be able to convince him otherwise. “Don’t you want to see the fruits of your labor?”

The two of them took the lift further down and came face-to-face with the slumbering machine. Cobalt blue armor, silver joints, and browned glass to filter the light outside, the Guerrier stood proudly in the center of the soulless space, a sense of fighting vigor emanated from it as it waited for its pilots. The engineer pulled out a little vile with a diamond shape, glowing green, popped open its top and drank the contents. When Wriothesley looked down at them with a raised eyebrow, they dusted themselves off. “It’s… a safety measure,” they started to explain, “when our Visions are plugged into the compartments we’ll be connected to the Guerrier on a physiological and psychological level. Since we’re going to become a part of the machine, we will have access to each other.”

Wriothesley paused as he climbed into the pilot’s cockpit. The look on his face was solemn but he switched when facing the engineer. “Well, you’re entitled to your secrets.” He shrugged. “Besides, I’m an open book. There’s not much to me besides what my records say.” Wriothesley successfully settled into the higher pilot’s chair and patted the headrest of the lower seat in front of him for the engineer to nestle into. They took a calming deep breath and complied, settling into the stiffness of their creation.

“Place your Vision in the glove compartment in front of you.” Both inserted their respective Visions into a small slot and the Guerrier seemed to eat it, covering their Visions in little spikes and lacing them with wires. It hummed to life around them. The cockpit closed, cutting them off from the rest of the world. “Close your eyes.” When the two of them did so, the Guerrier stood still for a long moment. The feeling of being inside of this humanoid war machine started to disappear and they seemed to be floating in a blank space.

Wriothesley woke with a shock. The space around him was still the endless black void but he heard a sip next to him. It was the engineer, sitting on a cushioned single’s couch and enjoying a cup of, what Wriothesley assumed, tea. He furrowed his eyebrows and swiftly stood up.

“Relax.” The engineer stated plainly. “It is a part of the serum I drank earlier. With our Visions and minds melded together, I had to think of a… less crude way for the pilots to cooperate than just “jumping in head first.” I probably should have told you.” A seat similar to the engineer’s appeared from a whisp of smoke and the engineer motioned for Wriothesley to sit. He calmed down. “As you said, “You’re entitled to your secrets,” as are you,” they paused with more reverence and calm than before, “Your Grace. The serum gives pilots the power to “ask for consent” before letting their partners delve into their minds. Quite a grisly thing it is in taste. It’s made of Whopper Flower nectar and slime.” They shook their head and shivered in disgust. “But I have found out it does what I needed it to do.” In the void, the two of them enjoyed small talk. A date in the back of their minds with little proxies of themselves.

But back in the cavern, Wriothesley and the engineer could see everything tinted through an orange lens. The Guerrier’s right leg faltered when they tried to take a step forward, and the entire machine jostled as the two of them tried to move, unaccustomed to having a metal body.

“Stay with me… Your Grace.”

“Hey, you’re the one that was too scared to even get in.”

“We’re moving!”

Albeit sluggishly, the two of them started to pilot the Guerrier in sync. The buzzsaw on the right arm smashed through solid rock and got stuck when the engineer hesitated after feeling the vibrations up their arm from the impact. “That’s normal,” Wriothesly reassured them. “Fight through it. It’s like feeling the resistance from punching someone in the face; they have flesh and bone that happens to be in the way of your fist. Oh,” he thought about the different experiences they’ve had.

Eventually, the engineer became adjusted to the feeling of Wriothesley’s movements in sync with their own. His will seemingly overpowering the engineer’s nervous system and the feeling of discomfort the engineer felt causing damage even to inanimate objects disappeared. Gashes lined the cavern walls and debris littered the floor as they tested the durability of the machine. The Guerrier leaped into the air with fluid motion and grace equivalent to the Icewind Suite in the Court of Fontaine, and they landed after a full somersault, shaking the ground.

Back in the void, the emptiness started to fill in with a mechanical landscape. Giant churning gears filled the sky and robotic birds lit up as they flew about, their eyes lighting blue on a sunset background. “Play time is quite over now, don’t you think?” the engineer said in a peaceful trance. Wriothesley only hummed contently in response. His eyes were closed, and a small smile decorated his face.

The pull of reality felt like riding out of a dark tunnel on Aquabuses. They both blinked and the Guerrier reset itself into an idle standing position. The cockpit popped open with a hiss. Wriothesley and the engineer stretched. When the electrical white lights of the cavern hit them, they squinted and blinked until their eyes adjusted. A small button blinked red next to the compartment that held their Visions, signaling them to remove the glowing orbs that symbolized their ambitions.

Although the engineer wobbled as they regained a grasp on reality, Wriothesley had little to no trouble and jumped out to catch them as they flopped out of the cockpit.

“I’m never doing that again.”

“But hey, we didn’t explode.” Wriothesley smirked down at them, which quickly turned into a full grin, “And it worked!” He lifted them up and threw the engineer into the air, just to catch them again in celebration. Lourvine and Jurieu had witnessed the performance of the two inside of the Guerrier and clapped as the machine shut down and watched as he tossed them around. “Heh, see. All you needed was a few parts here and there. A little elbow grease. And someone who had a little faith in your designs.” While they were still recovering from being disassociated from their physical body, Wriothesley put them down and let them hang off him with one arm over his shoulders. “I’m honored to have worked on this project with you. And maybe we can work on having a few more produced. Don’t want to scare anyone with an army, now do we?”

The look of scrutiny the engineer gave Wriothesley was nothing new to the warden after a year of cooperation. ““We didn’t explode,” he says. And if we did, what then?” Their somewhat cheerful mood from a successful test run slowly turning sour.

“Mmm,” Wriothesley thought about the repercussions, “then, I guess we’d be dead, if not injured.” He shrugged. “But two out of two machines have been successful so far.”

The engineer had to pause. Their mind needed time to connect what Wriothesley had just said. Until it clicked that the Guerrier wasn’t the only underground machine that the Duke had built. They took a deep breath and placed their hands together over their lips, “You mean to tell me; you never tested the Wingalet…” Wriothesley nodded with a small grin. “And expected it to save the people of Fontaine?” With every sentence uttered, Wriothesley only seemed more amused. “And if it never worked from the get-go?! At least a quarter of the people in Fontaine and the Fortress would have dissolved into the Primordial Sea!”

“Yeah,” Wriothesley shifted onto a nearby stool to sit down so that one foot rested on his knee, “I know. It was worth a try, though. And it did succeed,” he said matter of fact.

The engineer let their arms drop to their sides. “You’re insane, aren’t you?”

Wriothesley raised a hand and rubbed his index finger and thumb together while mouthing, “Just a little bit.”

[A/N: I can see Wriothesley as bisexual. Although I don't ship Wriolinde or even Wriolette, anyone shipping them is fine by me.

In all seriousness, thank you sincerely to anyone who read this in its entirety and enjoyed it. I’m sorry to those of you expecting SSSSMUT. But I cannot see this man in a romantic light for myself, more of a mentor/older brother figure. So, I’ll leave the sexy to other fans. As for what I have written here… It was inspired by Pacific Rim and Code Geass for the Guerrier.

On a side note, my university Prof's would rip people a new whole for using grammar editing programs like Grammarly. It's best to just research yourself what grammar rules your country or school uses. Although, I'm still guilty of using them.]

[a-roses-wondrous-rain]

The Boxer Meets His Match.

TW - none

“Tap- Tap!!”

Heizou choked out those words since his arm was preoccupied and couldn’t do anything. Wriothesley had Heizou in a armbar, bending Heizou’s arm backwards between his legs and over his chest. Wriothesley let go, allowing Heizou to stretch and rub at his arm. “Was I too rough?” “No, no, it was fine. Kinda hurt a bit,” Heizou joked.

Wriothesley stood up and helped Heizou up too, “I’m glad that you even had the time to come down to the Fortress, Detective.” “Well, you know, have to conduct thorough investigations with criminals! Only coming down here since the victim was Inazuman.” Wriothesley slipped off his helmet and started working on his rib guard, “well, we appreciate your company nonetheless.”

Heizou left his gear on while grabbing a swig of water. The two both sparred in their free time, and ended up in the Pankration Ring. Heizou had a black belt in Ju-Jitsu and boxed in his free time, but Wriothesley was much bigger and practiced way more. Wriothesley grabbed a granola bar he left to the side and opened it up, sitting down on the ground. It was a solid four minutes of just taking a breather before Heizou spoke up, “round two, Duke?” “You’re on, Detective.”

Once again, Heizou got his ass kicked. He was thrown in a guillotine, and it was easy for Wriothesley since he was way taller than Heizou. The Inazuman Detective had to practically hit Wriothesley before he realized it was tapping. He let go and made sure Heizou was okay, “hey, can you breathe okay? Did I hurt you too bad?” Heizou just rubbed his throat, “all good…” Wriothesley dragged Heizou over to the side, making him take a minute to recover. Heizou took a swig of water, laying down to recover.

Heizou kept wanting to go though, but he got thrown into many unfavorable positions; headlock from behind, rear-naked choke, collar choke, so on and so forth. He managed to get Wriothesley in a keylock, which wasn’t easy since he had such meaty arms. But he finally did it. Wriothesley tapped, and Heizou let go. “Hah, I got you for once!” Wriothesley took Heizou’s hand to get up, “good job, Detective. That hurt a little, so it was great.”

Sigewinne was at the entrance of the Pankration Ring, holding a small kit of medical supplies. “Hello, Your Grace! Hello, Detective! I heard you two were sparring and I brought over my supplies in case anyone got hurt too badly!” Wriothesley smiled and walked down the Ring stairs. “Thank you, Sigewinne, but I think we’re okay for now.” “Well,” she started, “I’m still obligated to check on you both. Mr. Shikanoin? May I bother you to sit down right here?” Heizou walked down the stairs too, “of course, nurse.”

Sigewinne got to check on them both, and just had to lightly tend to Heizou’s nose. “Well, this has been great, Your Grace, but I think I need to start doing my job now.” Wriothesley stepped out of Heizou’s way, “go ahead, don’t let me hinder you.” Heizou smiled as he grabbed his bag and took off the gear he was lended, putting on his normal shoes and accessories once again.

Wriothesley and Sigewinne waved to Heizou as he left. “I might have to have Detective Shikanoin back sometime soon, what do you think, Sigewinne?” Sigewinne looked up at Wriothesley, bag still in hand, “I think that it’d be good to have him around! You need some more friends beside the Traveller, Monsieur Neuvillette and Miss Clorinde.” “Yes, yes I do.”

——————————————————————————

Armbar - an L formation on the ground. A’s legs go over B’s neck and chest, and B’s arm is put elbow-down in between A’s legs. A lifts their hips up while pulling B’s arm down to their chest.

Guillotine - also known as a headlock from the front. A’s head goes under B’s arm. B grabs their own wrist with their free hand, pulls the arm around A’s neck tighter and lifts up and back. It’s a dangerous choke since it’s hard to tap, you can also roll back to the guard [A would be in between B’s legs while B is on their back] and pull upwards, that version is way more dangerous than the already difficult standing version.

Headlock from behind - A and B are facing the same way. A puts their forearm across B’s throat and grabs that hand with their free one.

Rear-naked choke - the one choke you really don’t want to be in. A is on their back with B on top of them, also on their back. A puts B’s neck in the crevice of their elbow, uses that arm’s hand to grab onto their other bicep, and uses their free hand to grab onto the original arm’s shoulder. It’s a very fast and dangerous choke. It’s a blood choke, so your partner shouldn’t be coughing. Make sure to tap before you really need to because people pass out fast due to this choke. You can also do it while standing or sitting.

Collar choke - this works better if you’re wearing a gi or something that is put on like a kimono. A takes their right hand and grabs onto the right side of B’s collar [A’s right for their hand, B’s right for the collar], and same with the left side. A’s palms are pointing out and their wrists are crossed. A pulls down against their own body and it chokes out B quite quickly.

Keylock - my personal favorite position of submission. Can only be done in Ju-Jitsu, mainly done from the mount but can also be done from the side guard. A is on top and punching B, to which B puts up their arms defensively. A grabs B’s wrist and lower forearm and shoves it to the ground. Let’s say that A’s left hand has B’s wrist and the right had the lower forearm. A’s left elbow goes down and nestles itself in the crevice of B’s neck, and A’s right hand lets go to quickly snake under B’s upper arm. A’s right hand grabs onto their left wrist, and they slide B’s arm up and back until they tap.

! DO NOT TRY ANY OF THESE AT HOME, ONLY ATTEMPT IT IN SELF DEFENSE [i.e. being attacked] !

[spockvarietyhour]

Your personal monarchy-restoring guillotine needs to be secured better, monsieur.

[jotun-philosopher]

Good Omens/The Scarlet Pimpernel parallels (and what they might mean for s3)

We seek him here, we seek him there Those Frenchies seek him everywhere Is he in Heaven? Is he in Hell? That demmed elusive Pimpernel!

Some time back, I saw a question about Good Omens/Scarlet Pimpernel parallels in the French Revolution scene in s1e3 and whether they were intentional -- I can't find the post itself because tumblr's search function is stupidly broken (I'm starting to think I might have hallucinated it...), but I clearly recall that the answer was, "If anyone in Good Omens parallels Sir Percy Blakeney, it's Aziraphale." (or words to that effect)

This got me thinking -- and also very curious about the original novel (my only prior encounter with the story having been a production of the musical at the Minack in 2007), and once I got to read it for myself, the ideas they were a-flowin' ^_^ I have Thoughts about how all this might play into Season 3...

Spoilers for The Scarlet Pimpernel below the cut -- the novel might be over 100 years old, but that doesn't mean I can assume that everyone's going to be familiar with it (read it for free at Project Gutenberg here, and become one of today's lucky 10,000!). Also be aware of some minor spoilers for the Sandman arc 'The Kindly Ones'.

To start with, if we take at face value the idea that Aziraphale parallels Sir Percy Blakeney (who, like Azzy, conceals a deep well of steely badassery and daring ingenuity under outward foppishness -- though with Sir Percy it's much more of a studied and deliberate facade), then it seems fairly reasonable to assume that Crowley roughly parallels Marguerite Blakeney (nee St-Just) and the Metatrash (may he tread on Lego and d4s for all eternity) parallels that accredited agent of the Revolutionary government, Monsieur Shovellin' Chauvelin.

As a recap, the basic plot of The Scarlet Pimpernel runs thus:

The French Revolution is a-raging and many sacres aristos are having fatal meetings with Madame Guillotine, but many more are being rescued in daring and inexplicable ways by a mysterious individual whose calling-card is the image of a small red flower -- a scarlet pimpernel; meanwhile, to the general bewilderment of High Society, Marguerite St-Just (widely considered the most intelligent woman in Europe) has married the notoriously brainless fop Sir Percy Blakeney.

There is a certain degree of coldness and emotional estrangement between them, because Marguerite was tangentially involved in getting the Marquis de Saint-Cyr and his family guillotined (though the circumstances are very complex and she didn't actually mean for Saint-Cyr to die). Percy and Marguerite do still love each other, but ferocious stiff-necked pride on both sides prevents them from actually talking things out.

Chaubertin Chauvelin, suspecting that his bête noir, the Scarlet Pimpernel, is part of English high society, blackmails Marguerite into finding information on that mysterious Pimpernel for him by threatening her beloved brother's safety.

Marguerite caves and does so, but instantly regrets it. She regrets it even harder when she finally connects the dots that her foppish, foolish husband is the daring and ingenious Pimpernel.

Sir Percy having personally gone to France to rescue the Comte de Tournay, Marguerite makes a mad dash to warn her beloved husband that Shoehorn Chauvelin has rumbled him.

Without spoiling the entire ending of the novel: there is rescuing, communication, relinquishment of pride, professions of love, Chamberpot Chauvelin being so distracted by Marguerite at a crucial moment that Sir Percy is able to pull his master-stroke, with Chauvelin being defeated and (though it happens off-page) humiliated!

Looking at this summary, it seems to map eerily well onto the Final Fifteen, with the pride and blackmail and mutually less-than-perfect communication! That said, I'm personally getting the vibe that Aziraphale and Crowley are trading roles there somewhat, with Azzy being more Marguerite and Crowley being more of a Sir Percy-type. Also, Crowley is already well aware that his angel is very much the 'daring and ingenious badass' type when it comes to it :D

But what does it all mean for S3? Going from what I've said so far, my best guess is this: Aziraphale (Sir Percy) is carrying out his daring schemes of subversion against Heaven (France) and the Second Coming (the Revolution), while Crowley (Marguerite) is (at least initially) very down-in-the-dumps about their estrangement and the Metatron (Chauvelin) is keeping up pressure on Azzy to be meek and complaint by threatening Crowley. Crowley (once he gets past the initial gloom) starts making plans of his own, in close temporal proximity to his joining the dots about Aziraphale's plans. Aziraphale likewise manages to put two and two together regarding what his wily ol' serpent is up to, but one of them accidentally tips off the Metatron and co., realises it and desperately tries to warn/rescue the other (trading off or simultaneously filling both Sir Percy and Marguerite roles, per previous paragraph). This very desperation acts as a spanner in the works for Metatron and his plans for the Second Coming, drawing his focus to one of the Ineffable Husbands at a critical moment and allowing the other to complete their world/true-love-saving plans. The threat conclusively defeated, the Ineffables FINALLY FRICKIN' TALK THINGS OUT, have the proper wedding that they deserve and retire to that South Downs cottage to live happily ever after <3

Bonus points if another key factor in the Metatron's downfall is his underlings, like Chauvelin's, having been terrified into obeying orders to the letter rather than thinking independently or showing initiative! Given what we've seen of Heaven and its authoritarian abusiveness so far, this is a very distinct possibility...

One incident in Scarlet Pimpernel that is sadly unlikely to have a direct parallel in S3 is the glorious scene where Sir Percy exploits Chauvelin's (by this point well-established) snuff habit to pull off what is quite possibly the most badass pepper-sneeze prank ever put to paper. It is very possible, though, that something like it will happen as payoff for the Nazi Zombie Flesh-Eaters minisode establishing that Aziraphale can pull off sleight-of-hand PERFECTLY when it really counts :D

Thank you for reading this far! At this point, I'd like to take a wild left turn and have a little jaunt into increasingly wild extrapolation/rambling, starting with the subject of floriography, or the language of flowers. This was a craze that exploded in popularity in England during the 19th Century, assigning all sorts of meanings to all sorts of plants. The real-life pimpernel flower was assigned the meaning of 'change' or 'rendezvous/appointment/assignation' -- very appropriate for the Ineffable Husbands, since so much of their relationship has been conducted through clandestine appointments and they've both been through much change (both internal and external), with yet more change in their futures. I would say it'd be cool to see actual pimpernel flowers among the floral arrangements for the Ineffable Wedding, but I just checked the Wikipedia article and it turns out that pimpernels are interestingly poisonous... I doubt Baroness Orczy thought about that when picking floral symbolism XD

The pimpernel flower being associated with 'change' also reminds me of something about Sandman, that the plot can be summed up as 'The King of Dreams must change or die, and he makes his choice.' At the climax of the penultimate arc of the comic, 'The Kindly Ones', Morpheus (who's been the central character of the whole comic thus far) finds himself unable to change to the degree he needs to, so he chooses to die so that another aspect of Dream of the Endless can come forth. I get the feeling that Good Omens might be in some way exploring the other branch of that choice, seeing what it might mean to opt for change rather than death. Or maybe the same 'death over change' branch as well, since it's so clear that the toxic messes of Heaven and Hell and the whole fucked-up system are too deeply entrenched for anything else?

Of course, none of this excludes or is incompatible with the Jane Austen parallels (particularly with Persuasion, as documented by other meta writers) that came up in s2 -- though to be honest, the very fact that they did appear in s2 means they're more likely to appear in s3, or at least more likely to be obvious/overt. That said, none of us can know what's in store, so we must perforce follow the Eleventh Commandment -- Wait And See!

It kinda feels like we're in the position of Job here (keep the faith and get back double what we lost)...

[septembergold]

Portrait of Monsieur de Lavoisier and his Wife, chemist Marie-Anne Pierrette Paulze (1788), Metropolitan Museum of Art:

-De Lavoisier was central to the 18th-century chemical revolution and greatly influenced the history of chemistry and biology.

-He recognized and named oxygen (1778) and hydrogen (1783) & wrote the law of conservation of mass in 1783.

-Lavoisier helped construct the metric system, wrote the first extensive list of elements, and helped to reform chemical nomenclature. 

-He predicted the existence of silicon (1787) and discovered that, although matter may change its form or shape, its mass always remains the same.

- At the height of the French Revolution, he was charged with tax fraud and selling adulterated tobacco, and was guillotined.

[sweetglitterparadise]

Can't work, can't sleep.

My little self-indulgent alarene... something. A short little story.

Summary: Alain has been trying to work on this new project but things are just not going all that well. He's been losing sleep. Rene is here to help him out

Tags: Alternative universe: noone dies, fluff, nsfw as a joke, but nothing actually happens, established relationships (they are like. friends with benefits or something like that. Not- not dating. Kaveh: "it's complicated" you know, scientists stuff, the usual)

English is not my first language, sorry for any mistakes,,

"Alain, please." Rene sat on top of the other's bed while Guillotin was studying some kind of lock. He was struggling to open it because it had a detector that required to use elemental reactions which was very unusual... and hard to achieve without a vision. Meanwhile Petrichor was bothering him with some unrelated questions.

It's not like they had a lot in common when it came down to the things they were interested in. Alain studied technology and kinetics while Rene - mostly biology and alchemy. It is more interesting that way, Rene once said to him, something about experiencing the world through different lenses and what not. Alain didn't wear any glasses except for the ones to protect his eyes while he was working but that was probably one of those things they call metaphors...

"No. Isn't it obvious I'm a little preoccupied right now?"

He hears humming.

"Why can't you put it aside then?"

"Why should I?" That was his answer.

Rene stood up and walked up to him, his hands landing on his shoulders. "I haven't seen you in a few days and when I come back you're busy. Is it so unlikely that I would miss you?"

Alain sighed. "Three days is only 72 hours. That's an adequate amount of time. But... I have to admit that I'm not qualified to comment on the latter."

Rene furrowed his brows. "I don't think you can calculate how long it would take for somebody to start feeling lonely without an important person in their life. You would need to consider a good amount of variables in order to even estimate such a thing."

He then grinned and leaned in a bit, their noses almost touching. Alain averted his gaze, blush making his face look a bit more healthy.

"You look like you've been losing sleep. A case of insomnia or sleep deprivation as a result of working on a new project?" said Rene and kissed him on the cheek, something brief and light.

"None of your business." Alain closed his eyes and put his little lock on the table. He then stood up and went right to his bed, shaking his coat off his shoulders and getting rid of the gloves.

"Alright then. Surprise me."

Rene smiled at him, amusement obvious on his face. "Weren't you busy, Monsieur researcher?"

Alain nodded. "I was. But it is indeed quite dangerous to work non-stop and I've only managed to get two hours of sleep last night."

Rene sat down next to him, taking their hands and clasping them together. The way Alain's skin felt under his fingers... it put his mind at ease. "Insomnia then? Have you tried taking any medication?"

Alain shook his head. "Nothing quite managed to help. Made me sleep longer but approximately only for 13 minutes and 44 seconds."

"Hm... alright I'm not sure if this will help but we can try it anyway."

Rene stood up again and started taking off his clothes. Alain looked at him, a tired expression on his face.

"I don't think I'll be able to hold on for long enough..."

Then it was Rene's turn to look at him with confusion.

"Whatever do you mean by that?"

Alain shrugged, pulled his pants down and took of his shirt. He was about to take everything else off when a hand stopped him mid movement. "What are you doing?"

They stared at each other for a bit.

"Nothing."

Alain removed his hand from his underwear. Rene just laughed to which the other also smiled, even if a bit embarrassed. Rene then rolled to the middle of the bed. Alain crawled up on top of him which looked quite interesting from an outside perspective.

"Hi." said Rene. Alain giggled, a rare but beautiful sight. He looked so carefree for once, nothing heavy weighing on his mind. Rene pulled him closer by the neck and connected their lips. He kissed him slowly, enjoying this moment they were sharing. Alain, tired as he was, closed his eyes and completely relaxed in his arms, his worries melting away. Rene tangled his hand in his hair and started brushing it, his fingers running through the strands.

"Thank you..." Alain said after a while. "I think this was very much necessary. I've been stuck on this lock for a week now. Maybe I need some time to just... not think about it."

"Perhaps. I might try to help you in the morning if you want, maybe all you need to do is to look at the problem from a new perspective."

"This sounds reasonable..."

Alain closed his eyes. Rene wrapped his arms around him. Alain then, with his eyes still closed, pulled out a blanket and gave it to Rene who then covered both of them with it.

"Alain."

"Hm?"

"Sometimes I think about cutting your head open and looking at your brain"

"That's a very bad compliment."

"It isn't."

"Yes, it is."

They spent a couple of hours arguing over some different topics such as human autopsy and the necessity of morals but soon enough Alain fell asleep, his face in the crook of Rene's neck.

"I thought I should bring you some medication to help with your insomnia but maybe you just need some company instead"

[theniftycat]

The Virtue Affair highlights

This, pardon, booby-trap for cars

Robespierre and his toy guillotine

Illya being the rudest boy

them almost branding Napoleon’s forehead with L.E.F.

Illya being hunted through a forest with his hands handcuffed behind him. Normal stuff

Illya murdering a person this way

“Yes, you can tell that he’s the stupid sort. The way his eyes are set so close together. We, ELECTRONIC ENGINEERS, can always tell.” Poor Napoleon

“The idea of an inertial guidance system is to guide... inertially.”

lllya’s face after hearing Robespierre tell his goon to go into Monsieur Solo’s cell and to empty his gun into Monsieur Solo.

“Give me the device and you can have ALL of Monsieur Solo”

Illya just stumbling upon a guillotine

The sexy executor

Napoleon hugging Alberte (she’s a physicist named after Einstein by her father) and immediately going “Oh... Illya”

Napoleon saying he’s gotten used to seeing Illya this way

What a fun gay little show! It’s perfect.

[hootenanie]

Inside they squinted through crisscrossed tent pole shadows to the high freak platforms and all the world-wandered aliens, crippled of face of bone, of mind, waiting there.          At a rickety card table nearby four men sat playing orange, lime-green, sun-yellow cards printed with moon beasts and winged sun-symbolled men. Here the akimbo Skeleton one might play like a piccolo; here the Blimp who could be punctured every night, pumped up at dawn; here the midget known as The Wart who could be mailed parcel post dirt-cheap; and next to him an even littler accident of cell and time, a Dwarf so small and perched in such a way you could not see his face behind the cards clenched before him in arthritic and tremulous oak-gnarled fingers. [...]         There stood Monsieur Guillotine, black tights, black long stockings, black hood over head, arms crossed over his chest, stiff straight by his chopping machine the blade high in the tent sky, a hungry knife all flashes and meteor shine, much desiring to cleave space. Below, in the head cradle, a dummy sprawled waiting quick doom.         There stood the Crusher, all ropes and tendons, all steel and iron all bone-monger, jaw-cruncher, horseshoe-taffy-puller.         And there the Lava Sipper, Vesuvio of the chafed tongue, of the scalded teeth, who spun scores of fireballs up, hissing in a ferris of flame which streaked shadows along the tent roof.

Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

[pengychan]

[The Great Ace Attorney] A Case of Identity - Ch. 10

Summary: On that fateful night in Lowgate cemetery, the bullet finds its target in Enoch Drebber. When he awakens he’s locked behind an iron mask, facing a lifetime of imprisonment as the mass murderer who survived a botched execution - the Professor. However, help is afoot. Characters: Enoch Drebber, Esmeralda Tusspells, Herlock Sholmes, Yujin Mikotoba, Tobias Gregson, Gina Lestrade, Mael Stronghart Rating: T Prologue and all other chapters will be tagged as ‘case of identity’ on my blog.

A/N: After... several chapters, Drebber is back on the screen. He hasn't been having a good time.

***

They were ten days into their journey home when Seishiro Jigoku’s world - what was left of it, as splintered as the remains of the bench he’d destroyed back in a British courtroom - came crashing down on him.

The day had started as well as it possibly could. He had left his cabin to get some fresh air above deck and, after a time, Genshin had joined him. The ship was too full of passengers, they had reasoned, for any of the crew to notice an extra face; only a complete idiot would spend the entire journey crammed inside a closet. They had been right, and no one had noticed a thing. All would go well as long as they were not spotted leaving or entering the cabin together… and as long as Genshin left Karuma in said cabin, which he did even though it seemed to cause him physical pain.

“And even if they notice, what then? They’ll just drop us in whatever country we make port next, and we can make our own way back to Japan. Pick up some souvenirs for your kid, and stories to share with Yujin when we meet up at home,” Jigoku had said, succeeding in getting a small smile out of Genshin as they gazed together at the vast expanse of water between them and Great Britain. It made Jigoku breathe more easily, and all was well. For a time.

Later on, he would recall that day with perfect clarity. How they’d been above deck for nearly a hour before a seagull with remarkable aim had forced Jigoku to go below deck to change his jacket. He’d noticed, out of the corner of the eye, an abandoned old newspaper stuck beneath the seat he’d occupied until that moment, but thought absolutely nothing of it. He did not see, as he went below deck, Genshin leaning over to pick it up, clearly seeking to read something to pass time. He was not there as his friend read, and understood.

He’d been halfway into his clean jacket when, only minutes later, the door of their cabin had slammed open, nearly causing him to jump out of his skin. He’d turned to ask Genshin if he’d lost his mind, but words died in his throat the second their gazes met. 

He knows, was all he could think, and all strength went out of his legs. He sat on the bed heavily, causing the springs to groan, trying to come up with something to say and failing to utter a sound. 

“Seishiro,” Genshin had said, looking at him with eyes cold as metal, newspaper crumpled in a hand that just barely shook. “We need to talk.”

***

“Mon Dieu, if I have to spend one more hour looking at this man’s face, I won’t be held responsible for my actions with this scalpel.”

“I am afraid there is no other option.”

“Perhaps we could break inside his residence--”

“Miss Tusspells, I don’t think--”

“-- brick him in the head--”

“Miss Tusspells--”

“-- and shove his face in a mold. And hold it there. Possibly until he stops breathing.”

“That seems… unnecessarily violent.”

“I am toning it down, Monsieur Stangerson. Back in my home country, we’d separate the head from the body first. That’s why we no longer have royalty lounging around on our taxes.”

“I’m not saying that doesn’t make a compelling argument for the guillotine, nor that I would be entirely opposed to the idea of hurting the man responsible for this nightmare. But if we are caught anywhere near Stronghart, then we may never get to Drebber.”

“Or we’d get to where he is remarkably quickly.”

“Well-- yes. But given that the aim is to get him out of prison eventually, joining him there feels… counterproductive.”

“You Brits and your insufferable practicality.”

Stangerson gave a sheepish smile, and did not argue further. Truth be told, he did not seem in the right shape to argue. He barely looked fit to be alive. While Esmeralda Tusspells spent days and nights studying all the photographs of the Lord Chief Justice of London she could get her hands on, and making model after model of wax faces to match his features as accurately as possible without the use of a mold, Joseph Stangerson had busied himself trying to create some sort of chemical compound that, mixed to the wax, would allow the mask to retain its shape even with warm skin beneath it.

And that had taken a toll. The burns and nicks on his hands seemed to have multiplied, and were moving up to his elbows for some reason. A chemical burn marred his chin, where a scraggly brown beard was struggling to grow on previously clean-shaven skin, and there still were patches of reddened skin after the first attempt at creating the compound had made his entire face break out in hives. He now had two smoldering locks of hair on his head, which as a whole looked very much like a bird’s nest recently abandoned by fledglings. His eyes were more than slightly bloodshot, too. 

Honestly, he looked more the part of the bloodthirsty Professor than his friend had that night in the cemetery. She could only hope none of the neighbors had seen him getting inside her residence, because she had already been getting more than her fair share of curious and distrustful looks. It didn’t take much to gain those, she’d found out quickly: a clear foreign accent proved to be more than enough.

“... You should sleep, Monsieur. You’re working yourself half to death.”

“So are you, Mademoiselle."

“Please, ‘Miss’ will do. Your French accent is horrible.”

“Oh.”

“And my work involved modeling wax. I don’t need to put hazardous chemicals on my skin.” She looked down at a photograph of Mael Stronghart, frowning. “Although having to look at this mug all day is a torment of its own.”

A weak chuckle. “I will rest once Drebber is out of prison, and Stronghart takes his place. But I am fairly certain this compound will do the trick,” he added, gesturing at the bowl with the liquid wax where said compound had been mixed. “As soon as it’s cooled, you can use it for the mask. I’ll try it on right away.”

“We should call Dr. Mikotoba first, perhaps. Just in case you break out in hives again.”

A dismissive wave of his hand. “No, no need. It’s nothing I cannot handle, and the last thing I want is taking his attention and Mr. Sholmes’ off their investigation into the case.” He turned to the window to look at the overcast sky. Tusspells knew he was probably wondering if Drebber had seen any of that sky in the two weeks since his imprisonment. “Whatever they’re doing right now, it must be important,” Stangerson added, and she rolled her eyes.

“Playing nannies is what they’re doing.”

“Gina has information. Or so we were told.”

“Even if she did at some point, she doesn’t remember, and she’s too young to be involved in… any of this,” she said, entirely ignoring the fact she had, herself, only just turned sixteen years old.

“All the more reason to keep her safe,” Stangerson reploed, and Tusspells had nothing to argue against that. In the end she sighed, and looked back at the wax. It was starting to harden enough for her to handle. With gloves, just in case Stangerson’s formula was… off.

“Well, it looks like it won’t scald anymore. Give me the gloves, and let’s see how good a mask this makes…”

Stangerson handed her the gloves and stayed silent as she worked and worked and worked, as evening fell and so did the London fog.

***

When he was twelve years old - a very long time ago, it felt, but then again nearly every memory he had of his childhood seemed shrouded in fog and remote like the ghostly apparitions of some nursery rhymes - Lord Mael Stronghart saw a goldfish for the first time.

It was one of the very few that a family friend had been able to bring from a trip to China. It was being shown off as the centerpiece of a table during a dinner to celebrate its return, one of the very first such occasions he’d been allowed to attend with his parents, rather than being left home with the governess. 

The fish was swimming round and round in the bowl, all red with just some hints of gold on its belly; it had fascinated the guests and, as the youngest attendant, Mael had probably been expected to be fascinated most of all. 

Yet he was not; animals seldom held his interest. He spared the fish a few moments’ attention before he turned it back to what truly fascinated him: the family friend’s trip to China. How had he traveled? By ship, by train, by road? How long had it taken? How long to get back? How wonderful was it that a world seemingly so vast had now become so small, a man could travel all the way to China and back within the year? 

“And soon it will take less than that,” the man had laughed, clearly amused by his curiosity. “They’ve just now started to dig a canal in Egypt that can more than halve that time. You could go to China and back within four months, they say. Isn’t that marvelous?”

It was, Mael had agreed. Not that he much cared to travel to China, he’d have to be back to boarding school within the week anyway, but the thought he could do that if he just wanted to left him feeling almost dizzy. And the canal! A man-made canal, carving a new path between the North Atlantic and northern Indian oceans. Advancement! Man, the might of man, carving civilization’s path across the world. How far technology had come, how much further could it still go! Mind entirely occupied by such thoughts, he had barely even glanced back at the goldfish as he left with his parents at the end of the dinner. 

Yet now, thirty years later, that goldfish was all he could think about. Swimming round and round in the same glass bowl, forever ignorant of what was happening beyond it; able to see only a distorted part of the world outside, and unable to act upon it. It was not something Stronghart had ever thought about before: since boyhood, he’d always found a way to exert his will on those around him. Until now. 

Now he was the goldfish stuck in a bowl, swimming round and round and unable to go anywhere. 

Two weeks. Two weeks since everything had gone to hell because one accursed thief - a child! - stole Van Zieks’ last will and testament from him. What a fool he had been to let it happen, to even risk taking a few steps with it in his pocket rather than burning it right there and then! He should have let the ashes fall in the water as he watched the steamship leave down the Thames with Jigoku and Asogi back home to Japan - through the Suez canal, of course. They were away from Her Majesty’s reach, and free.

And he was there, feeling as though he’d been stuck in a glass prison, pacing back and forth with the knowledge the document that could undo him was out there somewhere, unable to get anything done about it as this Gina Lestrade, and the testament, kept eluding him.

For two weeks. 

A lesser man, Stronghart was sure, would have been driven insane by the situation. There had been times when he’d thought he might crack, after all, holding himself together out of sheer force of will. At night it got worse, because he’d see himself standing at the gallows, the executioner reading the will out loud for the crowd to hear before he pulled the lever and let him fall. 

He always woke up with a scream in his chest, something around his throat. But not the rope. It was never rope.

May you feel the jaws of the beast at your throat.

But perhaps, just perhaps, it was time to turn his neck away from those jaws. Two weeks without a trace of Van Ziek’s last words, but no one had come from him. No word had got out. Everything had carried on as normal.

“I think we may as well start winding down the search,” Inspector Gregson had told him the previous day. “Lord Stronghart, if that death certificate was to fall into the wrong hands, it would have already happened. A piece of paper, in the hands of a street urchin unlikely to know how to read out her own name? She must have thrown it away, maybe in the river right after she stole it or on the streets for people and horses to trample it. It’s been raining cats and dogs, too. The document will have been reduced to pulp by now.”

There was logic in the man’s words, Stronghart knew it. It was possible - very likely, even - that Van Ziek’s testament had been destroyed, one way or another, taking the man’s ghost and that of his accursed beast with him. It was only in his imagination and nightmares that they yet lived. Stronghart was a man of logic, after all. Still…

“... But Gina Lestrade has not been found,” he had replied, the grip on his cane as tight as the invisible one on his throat. “How can a single child escape Scotland Yard for so long?”

Gregson had met his gaze, and his expression was grim. “Maybe she’s gone, too. Children disappear all the time in London. Sometimes nameless corpses wind up, sometimes they don’t. We know that.”

There had been a brief silence. Neither had spoken, but now another ghost was hanging between them, dripping mud and water. The case that broke the camel’s back, for all of them, and all three - himself, Van Zieks, Inspector Gregson - took matters into their own hands. Van Zieks had been a sentimental fool, Gregson too naive to see the bigger picture, but they all had wanted to do the right thing. Doesn’t every decent man on Earth seek to do the right thing? Isn’t the only difference between them the price they’re willing to pay for it?

Criminals and murderers walk free and we are powerless to put a stop to it!

Three months of age. Emaciated. Congealed blood. Did not drown.

What will you do once you have run out of plots to bury them?

In the end, Stronghart had nodded in agreement. Yes, that the document had been lost was a strong probability; that Gina Lestrade had vanished like so many other children of London, never to resurface again, was a distinct possibility. Plus, the more he kept up the intense search, the more questions would be asked, even within the ranks of Scotland Yard. So in the end he had agreed to wind down, although not to end, the search. 

So now, as he gazed outside his office at the city below, he knew only a handful of agents were still making discreet enquiries and following up leads on the possible whereabouts of a street urchin called Gina Lestrade. If found, she’d be taken to him and questioned, to find out what she had become of the document - if it still existed or not. If she knew nothing at all of what she’d handled, he’d ensure she was taken to an institution where she could perhaps be educated into becoming a decent member of society. If she did, somehow, know the meaning of those words in red ink…

Stronghart’s thoughts halted, like the cogwheels of a clock that had not been properly oiled. He was a man of logic; he knew the answer. He knew that for him to survive, for the very future of the country he was meant to serve, there could be no witnesses other than the two he had been forced to let go. Yet for all the sense his logic made, and for all the grief she’d caused him, something within him balked before he could finish that thought. An annoying scruple, a  wrench in a perfect mechanism.

If the girl was found, and if she knew, he’d have to rid himself of that wrench and do what he must. It was not a thought he enjoyed.

Perhaps they would find her body. He did not particularly enjoy that idea either, but it would take a problem off his back. If she was never found… then probability was all he could rely on. The probability that she was gone and so was the will. The probability Van Ziek’s words could never harm him. The possibility that, as time passed, the jaws poised to snap closed on his neck would loosen and then vanish entirely. They had to.

Lord Stronghart couldn’t fathom the idea he would always feel that grip on his throat.

***

“You’re strangling me, sunshine, let-- ack! Let go of my tie!”

“C’mon! One more round! It’s my turn t’ deal the cards.”

“No. I have to--”

“I’m boooored here! Haven’t gone out in days!”

“I’m a police inspector, with a job to do, and besides--”

“Mph. Sore loser.”

“You’ve been cheating, kid!”

“Prove it!”

“Uuuugh! Sholmes! You have seen her cheating, right?”

From the other side of the living room, Sholmes looked up at baby Iris and the bottle of milk she was in the process of devouring. He smiled, seraphic as can be. “Sorry, my good man. I was paying attention to far more serious matters,” he declared, causing Gina to stop yanking at Gregson’s tie and turn. 

“Oh! Beaten ‘er record?”

“She is well on course to finish this bottle under the three minute mark, so I expect her to establish a new personal record just about… now.” Sholmes grinned and lifted the bottle to show it off, and sure enough it was empty. As Iris immediately stuck her entire left fist in a now empty mouth, Gina cheered like her horse had just placed first at Cheltenham and dropped to sit right on Gregson’s aching knees. He grumbled, but didn’t try to push her away.

“You’ll bust my kneecaps if you keep that up, sunshine,” was all he muttered, fixing his tie and making sure she hadn’t taken anything from his pockets. Having to ask for his badge back once was embarrassing enough. “You’re getting heavy.” 

Gina - who truth be told was getting heavier on three square meals a day and no need to run through the streets to lose pursuers, but was still a shrimp of a kid - tilted up her face to look at him, scrunching her nose. “You’re jus’ old and creaky.”

“It’s been rainy.”

“Course it ‘as. We’re in London.”

“Mph. Keep that up, and I might march you to the Lord Chief Justice myself,” he grunted, like he’d do that after the trouble he’d gone through to get him off her back. Well, at least mostly off her back, winding down the search. Not that she’d thanked him for it. “... You really still don’t remember what it is you took from him, or are you dragging this on so we keep feeding you?”

“I don’t remember nuttin’!”

Somewhere on his left, Dr. Mikotoba cleared his throat. “These things can take time, Inspector. Trying to force it would bring no results, and put Gina under unnecessary pressure,” he said, infuriatingly calm as always, like it wasn’t his damn good friend who had caused that entire mess in the first place, going around murdering aristocrats like there was no tomorrow and then killing the best prosecutor the Old Bailey had ever seen. Like a man wasn’t rotting alive in an underground cell with an iron mask on his face, like a bunch of kids weren’t being held in cells for no reason other than Stronghart’s hope that the girl currently sitting on his knees might show up to try and bargain for her friends’ freedom.

And maybe she would, if she knew. But she didn’t seem to remember the raid, nor the chase that led to her falling into the river and nearly drowning, and Gregson was not eager to remind her. Besides, what good would it do, telling her that her friends were languishing in jail cells?

Just a little girl.

Gregson swallowed, and pushed the thought off his mind just as a knock came at the door. Gina immediately jumped off his knees - ow, his kneecaps - and sprinted upstairs, as she had been instructed to do whenever someone knocked. Gregson strongly doubted that if Stronghart and the rest of Scotland Yard tracked her down to Baker Street they would be so polite to knock, but… just in case. 

And of course, it was not Scotland Yard. A young boy stood at the door with a letter in his hand; a couple of coins exchanged hands, and Sholmes read the message he had come to deliver. It was a short one for sure: within a couple of moments he grinned widely and looked over at Gregson, still rocking Iris in the crook of his left arm. 

“Well, Inspector,” he said. “Mr. Stangerson and Mademoiselle Tusspells are cordially inviting you to escort the esteemed Lord Chief Justice of London to Barclay prison at your earliest convenience.”

***

Gregson’s earliest convenience, as it turned out, was three days later - one a day when he knew Lord Stronghart would be occupied with some other official business whose nature Sholmes didn’t bother to investigate. It would keep him busy all afternoon, and that was the important part. 

“After all, it would be rather embarrassing if the Lord Chief Justice decided to drop by right in the middle of your visit,” he’d said with a smile. “Governor Caidin would find himself awfully confused, faced with not one but two Lord Strongharts. Twice the intimidation factor I would say. Don’t you agree?”

“This plan is all kinds of stupid and there is no way he won’t be able to tell he’s not looking at the real Stronghart,” Gregson had grumbled back, ever the optimist. However, now that he stood in his living room again, watching Stangerson getting ready… he seemed to be at least suitably impressed with the mask. 

Despite the lack of a mold, Esmeralda Tusspells had done an incredibly accurate job in reproducing the features of Lord Chief Justice Mael Stronghart - indeed, it was as though they were looking at the man’s own face, stripped from his skull. Perhaps it was only a touch paler than his real complexion - the photos, after all, couldn’t be accurate in that regard - but not so much to be noticeable. The prison was never terribly well lit, either. 

“I must say, this wig is a thing of beauty,” Sholmes commented, picking up the wig Tusspells had made - a perfect replica of the man’s somewhat unusual hair. “I could use a few new wigs myself. Perhaps I can commission you?”

“As long as you pay me in money and not just platitudes. Monsieur Stangerson, please hold your breath…”

Poor Mr. Stangerson did hold his breath, and to his credit he only let out a small strangled noise as both Tusspells and Mikotoba pulled hard on the strings of the girdle, to tighten it as much as possible and make his rather portly midsection resemble Stronghart’s built more closely. His eyes were just a little bloodshot by the time they finished lacing it up; along with the pale complexion, though, it might make it easier to make anyone they may meet believe that the Lord Chief Justice was suffering from an annoying cold and sore throat which kept him from speaking. 

“Try not to wheeze too much,” Tusspells muttered, and helped him put the coat on. Next was the waxen mask, the wig, and…

“... Well, blow me,” Gregson muttered, eyes wide. Before them, standing rigidly - not that the girdle left much of a choice - was Mael Stronghart himself, or so it seemed. About the right height, shoulders just the right breadth with a little padding to help, blue eyes looking at them from a face that seemed set in stone, yet perfectly real. 

It came across as intimidating, too, which may be the reason why Gregson had to work his jaw for a few moments before he spoke. “All right,” he said in the end. “As long as you don’t say a word, sunshine, this actually might work.”

***

This is never going to work. We’re screwed. We’re so screwed. 

That thought kept circling into Stangerson’s mind, over and over, and he was pretty sure absolutely all of it was showing clear as day on his face. However, as said face was covered in a waxen mask in the likeness of the Lord Chief Justice of London, the prison governor didn’t see it. Truth be told, he looked as though he was doing his absolute best not to look at the man he believed to be Stronghart in the eye, and that suited Stangerson just fine. 

He’d never been the type to easily hold eye contact even in the best of circumstances, and this was certainly not the best of circumstances. He’d never before felt so ready to scream, flee, and fight at the same time. 

Is Drebber here? Do you know it’s not the right man, locked in this prison? Where is he? Give him back, give him back, give him back. 

“... And no, he didn’t tell me why he wants to see him -  and besides, it would be none of our business even if he wasn’t out of voice,” Gregson was saying, arms crossed, a foot tapping impatiently. “Surely the Lord Chief Justice can see any prisoner he pleases without the need to explain himself or ask for permission, no?”

“Uh… aye, of course…” Barry Caidin cleared his throat, still looking mightily uncomfortable, and finally glanced over at Stangerson. From his part, he said nothing - now that would be a bad idea - but made a point to cross his arms in an impatient gesture, and it got the point across. 

Let me see him. Let me see him now. 

Finally, the governor of Barclay prison went to open a drawer, and retrieved a set of heavy keys. “... Right this way,” he muttered, voice gruff, still not looking either of them in the eye. It took all of Stangerson’s willpower to keep breathing normally and follow calmly, rather than grabbing the key and making a run for it. 

Well. All of his willpower, and Inspector Gregson’s iron grip on his arm. That helped, too, as they walked through a long, narrow corridor. Stangerson made an effort to look at nothing but Caidin’s back, focusing on nothing on what he was there to do. The noises coming from elsewhere in the building - something hitting bars, keys being turned in locks, a few shouts - sounded muffled and far away. Stangerson shut those out, too.

And finally, there was the door. Just looking at it was enough to fill Stangerson with dread. Heavy wood and old iron, locked shut by an iron bar, itself secured in place by a formidable padlock. It was the sort of thing one would expect to see used to hold in a beast, not a man. He held his breath as it was unlocked and then opened, revealing a staircase faintly illuminated by gas lamps; it may as well be the mouth of Hell. 

The hinges, of course, creaked. “Here. I’m not allowed in usually, but if you want me to come now--” Caidin began, only for Gregson to silence him with a gesture.

“That won’t be needed. Wait here,” he said, and turned to Stangerson with a small nod. He nodded back silently, pale as ash under the mask, and into the mouth of Hell they went.

***

“Careful where you step, sir. I can hardly see the steps.”

“I still can’t believe they fell for--”

“Shut up, sunshine. Our voices echo,” Gregson hissed, and Stangerson - still looking so very eerily like Lord Mael Stronghart, particularly in the dim light - had the good sense to keep quiet instead of responding. They both kept going down for what felt like a long time, a hand braced against the stone wall for balance. 

Gregson wasn’t looking forward to a ruinous fall down those old steps, but then again he was looking forward to precisely nothing of what they’d see down there. Whatever that would be. 

The steps ended, and they had to pause several moments to let their eyes adjust. The room around them was bare, dimly it by yet more gas lights; at the far end of the room, very high up, there was a window, letting in at least some weak sunlight. Between them and that window there were heavy iron bars - and against those bars, sitting in the oddly disjointed way of a discarded mannequin, there was a man.

Something seemed to grab Gregson’s stomach and squeeze. Their steps had echoed, and it was hard to believe the prisoner had not heard them coming; was he even alive? Was he breathing? He couldn’t tell if he was breathing. Had it taken them too long, had they come to find a corpse in an iron mask? If he was dead, how would they even know--

“Drebber!”

Stangerson called out before Gregson could do anything to stop him, and made to run to the prisoner - only to skid to a halt, as though frozen on the spot, when the man inside the cell jolted and screamed.

It was wordless, more an animal cry that anything Gregson had ever heard come from the mouth of a human being. The prisoner scrambled back, scuttling away from the bars on his hands and backside. For all the things he had seen in his line of work, Gregson knew he would never forget this sight - what remained of a man, face locked behind an iron mask, trying to drag his emaciated frame away from them with limbs that seemed entirely too long. It was too dark to see the eyes behind the holes of that mask. Maybe it was a blessing. 

“Drebber-- is it you? Talk to me, please--”

“No!” The prisoner’s back hit the wall, and he drew his knees to his chest like a scared boy. The head, so grotesquely large with that mask around it, swung back and forth so hard it hit the wall with a clang. “No, no, no, no! Not you! Not you!”

“That voice-- Drebber! It’s you! Thank God, we’ve found--”

“No!” A choked out noise, and Enoch Drebber’s entire frame shook. “No such name. No such name. I’ll be the Professor.”

“Drebber--”

“I’ll be anything you want! Anything! Please! I’ll never tell! I’ll never tell…!”

Gregson tried to grab Stangerson’s arm again, he really did, but the bloke was strong, and tore it out of his grasp with hardly any effort. May as well have shaken off a fly, Gregson thought as he watched the student run the rest of the way to the bars. They were just a few strides apart now, two friends separated only by prison bars and masks, one of wax and one of iron; yet Drebber’s mind seemed so broken, they may as well have been on different continents, speaking different languages.

“Drebber, it’s me! In God’s name--!” Stangerson’s hands went to the wax mask on his face, and this time Gregson was able to stop him, grabbing his wrists and yanking.

“Don’t! Don’t touch it! You’ll ruin it and neither of us will be able to leave again!” he growled. 

Stangerson’s eyes gave him an anguished look from Lord Stronghart’s face, but he did not try to take the mask off again. Curled against the wall, Drebber let out another choking sound. 

“No God. There is no God. Father was wrong and mother is nowhere and there is nothing--”

“Enoch! Please! It’s me! Stangerson!”

It was hard to tell what snapped Drebber from his delirium - hearing his own name, or Stangerson’s. But the litany of nonsense coming out of his mouth stopped, and his head jerked upright, mask and all. He was still curled in a tight ball, but at least he was looking at them - or at least, the black holes in the mask were staring at them. It made Gregson shudder.

“Stangerson?” he whispered. It was as though he had just heard a familiar word in a stream of gibberish, but nothing about his voice suggested he had understood what Stangerson had told him. He still did not know who he was speaking to. 

“Yes! Joseph Stangerson!” The young man’s voice sounded as though he was choking back tears. “You remember me, yes? Tell me you remember!”

“He…” Drebber shook his head and began to rock, back and forth, back and forth. “He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know I’m gone.”

“I know! And-- and Hope knows! And Miss Ferrier, and--”

“They don’t know, they don’t know, no one knows.” A groan, and he bowed his head again. His voice came out a keening plea. “Don’t harm them, they know nothing. They’ll never know. I won’t tell anyone. Please…”

Somewhere above them, Caidin’s voice called out. “All good down there?”

No, Gregson thought. Nothing is good here, and you know it or at least you guessed it, and you’re just looking the other way. Everyone is. What have you done? What have we done?

“All good!” he called back instead, a hand gripping Stangerson’s shoulder. “We’re coming back up!”

“What-- no, we must--”

“We must go, sunshine. He’s in no state to be of use. He can’t even tell us what happened,” he said, and gripped the young man’s shoulder more tightly. “We know for a fact he’s here now. We’ll think of a way to help him. But we must get out of here first, with Caidin none the wiser.”

A shaky breath, but to his relief Stangerson seemed to understand that they had no other choice. He let go of the bars, slowly, and stepped back. 

“We’ll be back,” he managed. “We’ll get you out, Enoch, I swear.”

The broken man on the floor had curled into a tight ball by now, and gave no response; there was nothing more they could do other than turn back to the stairs. No words were spoken during their ascent, nor when they stepped outside the prison. 

Somehow, even sunlight felt cold.

***

[Back]

[everyonewasabird]

Brickclub 5.5.5 “Deposit your Money in some Forest rather than with some Notary”

Hugo ties together a bunch of threads that really, really didn’t need much tying. Which, of course, he knows.

He’s been oddly helpful lately, clarifying Valjean’s money (surely no one was that confused about Valjean’s money) but also clarifying last chapter that the white-haired man was Valjean.

I don’t know, maybe it’s fanciful but I feel the well-lit drawing room is implicated in this. Valjean used to be semi-concealed in most of the places he went, though the reader got used to realizing any white-haired man was him. Now we don’t need to do all that--the white haired man is Monsieur Fauchelevent, we’re told, and also Jean Valjean.

This milieu doesn’t work for him.

And then, with the end of this chapter we’re reminded of the wrongness we landed in before: something around the time he was dealing with Javert went catastrophically bad for Valjean. Looking out the window to see Javert gone was putting his head through a guillotine: THAT kind of bad.

It feels significant that we know unambiguously that guillotines aren’t any kind of justice in this story. They’re a gross overreach by a government that has no right to take human life in punishment. The guillotine wasn’t a comment on Valjean deserving punishment for... whatever error or oversight he committed there.

It kind of feels like the guillotine was a statement that Valjean and Javert are both trapped in this error-means-execution paradigm now, without in any way implying that that’s right or deserved.

Things are still just as bad as they were then. Valjean, reading about the suicide, dismisses Javert as crazy and Javert’s choice to save him as insanity. Which feels like several failures: he’s failing to recognize that someone could know who he is and think setting him free is worthwhile, and he’s also failing again to acknowledge Javert’s humanity.

It’s understandable--very!--that he can’t get to either of those places, but it does feel like that’s where some kind of peace for him might have been. Valjean and Javert both had their lives entirely circumscribed by the failures of the justice system. I think there was a moment there together when they might have done something to escape it--but neither of them did.

“Huh! Guess he went crazy!” just feels like one more indication that we’re so very, very far off the rails of the way things might have gone or were supposed to go.

[zinbu]

LITTLE MOON - a soft hearted pickpocket. Hello, good night, goodbye, hi The game is over and nothing goes right A showgirl at the cabaret A general on the Champs-Elysées Sans-culottes at the Bastille Mr. Guillotin and Madame Guillotine Françoise Hardy, Jacques Dutronc Joséphine and Napoleon

It’s like this, it’s like that It’s life, it’s death It’s like this, it’s like this, it’s like that It’s life, it’s death, it’s death

A baguette, some chocolate A café au lait, a Coca-Cola On the Côte d'Azur, the sun laughs But of course it rains in Paris … (Oh la la, I'm so fed up then!) Mr. Dupont lives under a bridge In the center of the "Great Nation" Croque-Monsieur, Croque-Madame He sleeps on the pavement

It’s like this, it’s like that It’s life, it’s death It’s like this, it’s like this, it’s like that It’s life, it’s death, it’s death