“It is a time-honored tradition,” she squeaked.
And for the first time in centuries, he felt understood. scaramouche x debate club image
But then he remembered the Doctor’s smug face. Dottore, that preening collection of scarves and scalpels, always going on about “efficiency” and “clinical precision.” He remembered Signora’s cold, condescending smile. He remembered the Raiden Shogun— her —and her immutable, divine perfection. “It is a time-honored tradition,” she squeaked
He smiled. It was the most unnerving thing the agent had ever seen. “It is a time-honored tradition
And in the center of it all, sitting daintily on an overturned crate, was Scaramouche. He was polishing the Debate Club with a silk cloth. A single drop of something that was probably rain glistened on its iron face.