A miasma of expensive-looking, cheap-tasting champagne and too-strong perfume circled around the ballroom, adding a uniquely artificial twist to the gathering that was taking place there. It was fitting, given the nature of the whole affair. Dozens of wealthy husks puppeted by greed and bigotry filled the room, yammering on about stocks and politics, trying their best to appeal to their even richer compatriots without ever actually saying things they meant. Each one of them was adorned with an intricate decorative mask, as per the theme of the party. Scrapjack hated places like this. Rented rooms in what used to be Canterlot Castle, painted with crystal dust and furnished with thousand-thred-count sofas, as if anyone actually knew what that meant. A space perfectly emblematic of everything that was wrong with the people who occupied it. If she had ever cared enough to give it meaning, it would’ve probably been poetic.

No, Scrapjack did not like these sorts of parties. But then again, there was no Scrapjack tonight.

A large, wide woman with curly pink hair entered the ex-castle’s main hall with surprising grace. At her side was a comparatively shorter man with deep purple hair, wrapped in a suit of a similar hue. They had an air of elegance about them, and it was clear they were very important people. Of course, nobody really bothered to learn the ins and outs of royal politics in distant countries, especially if they weren’t forking over money for one reason or another, so most of the room’s inhabitants couldn’t have named them, gun to their head. One man in the disgustingly well-groomed crowd did, however, recognize them.

“Ah, Lord and Lady Fairweather!” He called, waddling over to the pair. Behind their masks, two pairs of eyes squinted at the man. He was short and stumpy, like his body had tried to grow but had been stopped at his wrists and neck and ankles, leaving his skin bunched up in a way that honestly looked uncomfortable. His hair was combed over his liver-spotted head in an effort to hide a bald spot that was still painfully obvious. The mask covering his face looked like it was meant to be a cat, but it had gotten hit by a few garden rakes on its way. Depending on who you asked, he was either pathetic or infuriating.

“It’s wonderful to see you both. I do so hope the trip from Hoofington was as pleasant as it could be,” he drawled, hands tucked neatly behind his back.

Lord Windrunner Fairweather—who, behind the beaked mask that obscured his face, bore a striking resemblance to a certain blue-haired outlaw—nodded at the man in front of him.

“It was bearable,” he said, feigning a smile. “Though the train station is always crowded this time of year.”

“Oh, I know,” the stranger replied. “All the commoners running about, trying to find work anywhere they can during the summer months. It really is a shame, is it not? How I wish they could all join us in elegance. But alas, work ethic like ours simply doesn’t come naturally to everyone.”

“Windrunner” noticed a slight shift in the woman next to him, the tiniest clench of fingers around a comically small champagne flute. He kept his eyes firmly on the man, who, with one hundred percent certainty, had never worked a day in his life.

“Yes, it’s quite a shame,” Fairweather said after a moment, teeth clenched.

“You know, I myself have actually fiddled with a few concepts that would… eradicate that particular problem.”

“Oh?” Windrunner said with something between disgust and interest.

“Why, yes! If we could only build a separate community to house all those poor folk, it would be much more sustainable to the economy. I bet it would even encourage some of them to work a little harder and make their way up the ladder, as it were! They would be much more manageable if they were all in the same place, you know? Less trouble for the ones who are really making the world turn.”

Silently, the lord and lady agreed that this was going to be a long and painful conversation. Luckily, they were interrupted after only a few minutes by a woman who wanted to talk to the man about his collection of rare animal skulls. She dragged him away with a plastic grin on her face, and relief washed over them. After they’d gone, Lord Fairweather took his companion—Lady Featherfly Fairweather, of course—by the arm and led her to a small, secluded balcony at the far end of the room. Once they were out of sight, he lifted his mask and gave her a smile.

“Well, I owe ya dinner, Rottie,” Scrapjack chuckled. “First one we meet and he’s even worse than I expected. And that’s saying a lot. Gotta be some kinda record for being that shitty. The fuck was he goin’ on about, “building a community for the poor folks?” What a joke.”

She fiddled with the sleeve of her suit that concealed a small rectangular box, featureless except for a single red button and an extendable antenna. The detonator only needed to be within a one-mile radius of its connected explosive to work, but it was always better to be certain, even if its counterparts were tucked safely in the nearby walls.

“Still can’t get over these getups,” she continued. “I love ya, darl’, but the pink hair is throwin’ me fer a loop. Ya hardly look like yeself!”

This was true. A bit of stolen makeup had made short work of the huge woman’s scars, and some pink hair dye—also stolen—ensured that she fit the description of the late Lady Featherfly Fairweather. Scrapjack herself had gotten the same treatment, along with binding her chest to sell the whole “Lord” thing—though she’d joked that there wasn’t much to hide anyway. They had made short work of the couple a few days prior, any hesitance they may have had long gone after a cursory search into their pasts. It was hard to feel bad about offing nobles these days considering what you had to do to become one.

Rotgut tilted her head, face still covered.

“True, true. ‘Ats the whole point. You get what ya needed?”

The whole point of the endeavor was to gather information on the party’s attendees. The good stuff—illegitimate children, double lives, affairs, assassination attempts, and anything else that would make the news. If a silk didn’t want it getting to the public, it was valuable.

“Almost. I need one more look at the chancellor of Tales.”

“What for?”

“I believe his necklace matches the duchess of Trottingham’s.”

Scrapjack raised an eyebrow. “Necklace? I never saw one. Wait, did I?” her face scrunched in thought.

“It is transparent, except for a vein of gold through the center,” Rotgut explained. “A symbol of love that I have only ever seen exchanged between people who are already spoken for.”

Jack laughed, not missing a beat at her partner’s cryptic explanation. “So he’s cheatin’ on his wife with somebody else’s. Typical. He’ll probably piss himself when he realizes somebody figured him out. His wife’s the one with the money, ain’t she? Poor bastard. How much ya think that’s worth?”

Though she couldn’t see it, Scrapjack knew Rotgut was smiling.

“As much as we want it to be. I need to be sure, though.”

The shorter woman pulled her mask back over her face and resumed proper posture, something that did not come naturally to her. It did wonders to sell the noble act.

“Alright,” Lord Fairweather said, voice dripping with forced regality. “Shall we, m’lady?” He extended a hand to the woman, and she took it daintily. The scrappers had to take a moment to compose themselves after the display, lest their iconic laughter give away their identities.

Once they were back on the ballroom floor, Featherfly’s eyes scanned the room in silence. Like before, various specimens of the one percent were milling about, trading boasts and exaggerations and downright lies, each determined to make themselves the most interesting person in the room. The stout man they’d spoken to a few minutes prior was now in a deep conversation with three tall, pale, thin women who were practically indiscernible from one another. Most everyone seemed to be occupied, which was good news to anyone who might want to go unnoticed.

“There,” Featherfly said quietly, speaking in Russian to ensure she wasn’t overheard. “The man by the arch covered in roses.” Windrunner followed her gaze until he saw it, too—a tiny, almost imperceptible line of gold around the chancellor’s neck.

“Holy hell, Rot,” Windrunner replied, matching the woman’s choice of language. “Your eyes are incredible.”

“I know.”

He smiled as the pair settled with their backs to an oddly sparkly wall. From there’ they’d have a perfect view of the chaos that was about to ensue. “Have we gathered all the information we require, my lady?” he asked.

“It is certainly sufficient.”

“Wonderful.” Maintaining her cadence and posture, Scrapjack pulled her sleeve all the way down, revealing the device strapped to her forearm. Two of her dexterous fingers traced the edges of the red button, anticipation sparking in her eyes. She grinned.

“Let’s see how fast this place burns.”

CHAOS REIGNS and the girls are having a fun time fuckin it up! This was absolutely an excuse to draw them all fancied up and also put rottie in a roadhog-esque mask just to see how it hits alsdfnladfldj
Jack could’ve easily put that detonator in her pocket but yknow what ya gotta be a dramatic bitch sometimes