Slay Bells in the Snow
Posted: Wed Nov 12, 2014 8:56 am
September had been a month of initiations and October one of trials by fire. November introduced tedium, while December carried aloft the promise of banked vacation days being spent. That is, if you had some seniority... With Holden Hall's division being so young, there wouldn't be much chestnut-roasting going on, except perhaps on the very eve of Christmas. They'd all get one free holiday and would have to work on the other one. It helped that working in an English manor afforded more passive distractions, but the group also had one ace up its sleeve of which it didn't suspect the existence yet.
Archie had been in a steady relationship with Deputy Chief Lowell for some time, now. The amorous pair worked swimmingly both personally and professionally, and that afforded the Clank the opportunity to plead for a tiny bit of special treatment. The Holden family had its traditions, after all, and he'd be remiss if work prevented him from living up to his obligations as a host.
So, while Christmas was still two weeks away, Archie had managed to schedule for a bit of an early party at the Hall. The lads and lasses would have their peer-bonding moments, Crystal and himself would later have some time by the crackling fireplace in his room - and he'd be able to live up to the expectations held by the rest of the family by briefly serving as host for his uncle.
Considering all this, he'd been conspiring with Gubbin for a while, bringing up boxes of decorations from the old coal cellar and stashing them in the servants' quarters. With a place as big as the Hall, it stood to reason that the amount of ornaments to place were fairly considerable - but two Clanks and a Malk seemed to pull the job off well enough, concealing the efforts of their labor by carefully choosing which rooms to garnish first. The end result was what Drake had taken to calling the Christmas Infection, a kind of creeping mass of holly, magically preserved pine wreaths, mistletoe and old-fashioned freshly cut Christmas trees. From the kitchen, the Yuletide Morass skipped around entire sections of the manor, creeping into the vigilantes' field of view progressively rather than assaulting them en masse right after Halloween.
Gathering everyone under his roof for the pretext of one last pre-vacation push had been quite the ordeal. He knew he could afford to clue Crystal in early on, but Francis and Zebediah knew him so well as to make it difficult for him to lie to them. It'd been even harder to convince Silas and Aspasia to close their restaurant earlier and to join them for the evening; but he'd pulled it off.
If they had been his family, he wouldn't have put together this much of an artifice. He would've told them he planned on hosting them for the evening and would have mentioned the imminent arrival of their respective families. His young coworkers, however, seemed deserving of a tiny bit of drama. Considering, he'd worked in one of his usual copper and forest-green clothing combinations, trying his best to stop himself from humming Christmas carols under his breath. An intentional accident with one of his fountain pens was all the excuse he needed to excuse himself to his bedroom, where he pulled out his Yuletide regalia.
To be fair, he didn't look all that different after putting it on; he'd simply switched his pants for a black pair and otherwise dressed in red, golden and green variations on his usual dress code, with the filligree on his waistcoat artfully reproducing the more joyful John Tenniel engravings for Dickens' original edition of A Christmas Carol. The only thing that could possibly bring his mood down, all things considered, was Forsythe's unannounced arrival. Every year, he'd prayed for a telegram or a phone call telling him the mouse would be staying at a hotel, instead. Every year, he'd crossed his fingers and hoped for a stated date and time of arrival.
It had never happened.
That, however, wasn't his concern at present. He made his way back down to the main hall, cane twirling every now and then, having carefully timed his return with the staff's usual time of departure. Aidan was the first to approach the front door and, as planned, he didn't know his parents and Nigel were coming over for dinner.
Waxed floors and spats being what they were, he didn't need to do much to catch up to the soldier. Just as Aidan opened the door and called out one last "Bye, guys! Merry Christmas!" he planted his cane's tip on the door's panel and pushed it shut.
Aidan scanned the Clank from head to toe and scoffed incredulously. "What gives, Arch?!"
Giving a chipper and defiant little smirk, Holden slipped between Drake and the door and locked it shut behind his back. "None of you are leaving this house until very late in the evening, I'm afraid. Crystal's figures are quite clear; last month's reports were unsatisfactory."
Archie's mask of rigid professionalism felt like cracking, and it hurt. He felt like sniggering so hard, and keeping it in was making him feel terrible. "Tut, tut!" he managed to say on a chiding tone, "Go put that coat back on your rack, young man; you'll have time aplenty for Hallmark Channel specials after midnight.
- Midnight?!"
Oh, that was so cruel! Aidan's tone was so distraught, his look had flashed from one of quiet relief to one of seething anger - and he seemingly hadn't caught on to the significance of his dress change, either. Repressing the urge to sock the poor lad on the shoulder with a smirk and a wink, he instead pointed a gloved hand towards the Eastern reading room's corridor.
"Go on, now," he said, "and warn the others. I shan't see a single feather from a single coat, nor a single boot track in this front hall until the witching hour! Off you pop, Drake!"
Looking for all the world like he was about to take a pipe wrench to one of the automaton's more sensitive parts, Aidan stalked off and started rapping on doors, settling with a despondent call of "Overtime!" as an explanation.
He didn't feel like this often, but Archie almost felt like a kid who'd have managed the very perilous act of sneaking a comic book into the groceries bill. A fluttering butterfly of exhilaration frantically moving around in his chest as he walked in the other direction, he returned to his office and closed the door, locking it. He pressed his back against the wall, intently listening for any shouts of displeasure and various other curses that were sure to follow, and couldn't keep himself from casting nervous glances at his office's broom closet. He'd hidden a very special black trash bag in it after discovering the sheer wonderment of Nerf guns. Parting from a thousand dollars or so in his own reserves had felt a bit irresponsible, but he'd quickly latched onto the idea of thanking his newfound colleagues for their services in the most original way he could think of.
What did he owe those youths, he'd wondered. For long evenings, he'd tried to figure out what would go along nicely with the expected minuscule State-sanctioned pay grade bump. He'd sometimes been a harsh instructor and a difficult supervisor and had tested many a local technophile's patience with his inability to handle their new equipment. He hadn't always been pleasant to be around with, although Crystal had never suffered for it. She'd actually been his sounding board, the one person he could talk to when he resented having to push former civilians as hard as he did.
What he owed them, it seemed, was a breach of character. If he'd trained them in the art of subtlety and public relations, then he had to be as unsubtle as he could be. If he'd always been that discreet watchdog looming over their shoulder, then he had to give them one big and blessedly obvious fright. If he'd been the old stick in the mud who didn't allow himself to see the fun parts of their work, he had to compress all that denied joviality in one big explosion.
Two auto-loaded Nerf shotguns, one oversized rifle-like model and two rotating-chamber pistols ought to do the trick, he'd reasoned. A small storm's worth of foam darts would work perfectly - if he managed to catch them by surprise.
What better way to do this than to play the part of the strict employer for a few minutes longer?
He gave himself a look in the broom closet's little mirror. He felt ridiculous with all those bright orange plastic straps, all that simplified alien tech being used to pinch someone in the back of the head with a few inches of hollow foam.
He felt ridiculous, and he loved every moment of it.
* * *
Little did Archie know, however, that Arthur had brewed plans of his own.
One of the least serious examples of magic and technology intermingling involved tabletop gaming and roleplaying. In decades prior, you'd have found Murder Mystery kits on sale in any decent tabletop shop and, essentially, nearly any common toy-related superstore. They'd usually consisted of a tape, a few guidelines, some catering and ambiance-related suggestions and maybe a few ancillary materials like notepads and a few cheaply sharpened pencils. Today, however, intricate enchantments could transform any ordinary home into an oppressive and dramatic environment, providing nearly everything needed to establish the mood and tone with the power of entertainment industry-graded disposable Veils. Insert one arcane hologram of a pre-recorded and costumed narrator delivering some starting bits of exposition, and you had everything needed to turn an ordinary cocktail afternoon into a late-night Whodunnit set in the middle of a raging storm.
Of course, some outlets offered à la carte packages for restaurants or other sizable venues. All you had to do was pay a visit to a kit-seller's website - Arthur had connections in Triton Games - and fill out a fairly standard form: how many guests there'd be, if the game had to be a planned event or could be allowed to spring into place, or if anyone had strong aversions to the sight of blood or suggested dismemberment, among other juicy details. They'd provide the story, the music and the setting - right down to costumes - and all you had to offer would be alcohol and food.
If nobody knew Gubbin had helped Archie with his planned party, then Archie didn't know Gubbin had helped Arthur with his own project...
Sneaking the game's box under the first stealthily-erected Christmas tree had been child's play. For now, all Arthur had to do was play the part of the conscientious objector, first acting as the opposing force to Archibald the Stickler. Then, he'd need to direct the Nerfpocalypse to have it suit his own ends, ideally by helping one of the "victims" of Archie's rampage to hide in one particularly fortuitous room.
All they had to do was find the unmarked and unwrapped wooden box under that poor little tree that was sitting in Archie's old exhibition hall and bring it to a central location.
Oh how terrible it was, to be repressing such glorious laughter! In the meantime, however, he played along. "It's not that bad, Aidan," he said, "Think on that as a chance to close the books. Preston and I haven't been able to go over the last couple months and we've still got a few kinks to work out in our info distribution methods. At least we'll be able to let you leave for Christmas with a clear head instead of a half-empty To Do list.
- You're being supportive and rational," opposed the soldier. "This isn't like you.
- Oops?" replied the younger Holden, shrugging comically for effect. "Um, Insert Creepy Innuendo Here, maybe?"
Archie had been in a steady relationship with Deputy Chief Lowell for some time, now. The amorous pair worked swimmingly both personally and professionally, and that afforded the Clank the opportunity to plead for a tiny bit of special treatment. The Holden family had its traditions, after all, and he'd be remiss if work prevented him from living up to his obligations as a host.
So, while Christmas was still two weeks away, Archie had managed to schedule for a bit of an early party at the Hall. The lads and lasses would have their peer-bonding moments, Crystal and himself would later have some time by the crackling fireplace in his room - and he'd be able to live up to the expectations held by the rest of the family by briefly serving as host for his uncle.
Considering all this, he'd been conspiring with Gubbin for a while, bringing up boxes of decorations from the old coal cellar and stashing them in the servants' quarters. With a place as big as the Hall, it stood to reason that the amount of ornaments to place were fairly considerable - but two Clanks and a Malk seemed to pull the job off well enough, concealing the efforts of their labor by carefully choosing which rooms to garnish first. The end result was what Drake had taken to calling the Christmas Infection, a kind of creeping mass of holly, magically preserved pine wreaths, mistletoe and old-fashioned freshly cut Christmas trees. From the kitchen, the Yuletide Morass skipped around entire sections of the manor, creeping into the vigilantes' field of view progressively rather than assaulting them en masse right after Halloween.
Gathering everyone under his roof for the pretext of one last pre-vacation push had been quite the ordeal. He knew he could afford to clue Crystal in early on, but Francis and Zebediah knew him so well as to make it difficult for him to lie to them. It'd been even harder to convince Silas and Aspasia to close their restaurant earlier and to join them for the evening; but he'd pulled it off.
If they had been his family, he wouldn't have put together this much of an artifice. He would've told them he planned on hosting them for the evening and would have mentioned the imminent arrival of their respective families. His young coworkers, however, seemed deserving of a tiny bit of drama. Considering, he'd worked in one of his usual copper and forest-green clothing combinations, trying his best to stop himself from humming Christmas carols under his breath. An intentional accident with one of his fountain pens was all the excuse he needed to excuse himself to his bedroom, where he pulled out his Yuletide regalia.
To be fair, he didn't look all that different after putting it on; he'd simply switched his pants for a black pair and otherwise dressed in red, golden and green variations on his usual dress code, with the filligree on his waistcoat artfully reproducing the more joyful John Tenniel engravings for Dickens' original edition of A Christmas Carol. The only thing that could possibly bring his mood down, all things considered, was Forsythe's unannounced arrival. Every year, he'd prayed for a telegram or a phone call telling him the mouse would be staying at a hotel, instead. Every year, he'd crossed his fingers and hoped for a stated date and time of arrival.
It had never happened.
That, however, wasn't his concern at present. He made his way back down to the main hall, cane twirling every now and then, having carefully timed his return with the staff's usual time of departure. Aidan was the first to approach the front door and, as planned, he didn't know his parents and Nigel were coming over for dinner.
Waxed floors and spats being what they were, he didn't need to do much to catch up to the soldier. Just as Aidan opened the door and called out one last "Bye, guys! Merry Christmas!" he planted his cane's tip on the door's panel and pushed it shut.
Aidan scanned the Clank from head to toe and scoffed incredulously. "What gives, Arch?!"
Giving a chipper and defiant little smirk, Holden slipped between Drake and the door and locked it shut behind his back. "None of you are leaving this house until very late in the evening, I'm afraid. Crystal's figures are quite clear; last month's reports were unsatisfactory."
Archie's mask of rigid professionalism felt like cracking, and it hurt. He felt like sniggering so hard, and keeping it in was making him feel terrible. "Tut, tut!" he managed to say on a chiding tone, "Go put that coat back on your rack, young man; you'll have time aplenty for Hallmark Channel specials after midnight.
- Midnight?!"
Oh, that was so cruel! Aidan's tone was so distraught, his look had flashed from one of quiet relief to one of seething anger - and he seemingly hadn't caught on to the significance of his dress change, either. Repressing the urge to sock the poor lad on the shoulder with a smirk and a wink, he instead pointed a gloved hand towards the Eastern reading room's corridor.
"Go on, now," he said, "and warn the others. I shan't see a single feather from a single coat, nor a single boot track in this front hall until the witching hour! Off you pop, Drake!"
Looking for all the world like he was about to take a pipe wrench to one of the automaton's more sensitive parts, Aidan stalked off and started rapping on doors, settling with a despondent call of "Overtime!" as an explanation.
He didn't feel like this often, but Archie almost felt like a kid who'd have managed the very perilous act of sneaking a comic book into the groceries bill. A fluttering butterfly of exhilaration frantically moving around in his chest as he walked in the other direction, he returned to his office and closed the door, locking it. He pressed his back against the wall, intently listening for any shouts of displeasure and various other curses that were sure to follow, and couldn't keep himself from casting nervous glances at his office's broom closet. He'd hidden a very special black trash bag in it after discovering the sheer wonderment of Nerf guns. Parting from a thousand dollars or so in his own reserves had felt a bit irresponsible, but he'd quickly latched onto the idea of thanking his newfound colleagues for their services in the most original way he could think of.
What did he owe those youths, he'd wondered. For long evenings, he'd tried to figure out what would go along nicely with the expected minuscule State-sanctioned pay grade bump. He'd sometimes been a harsh instructor and a difficult supervisor and had tested many a local technophile's patience with his inability to handle their new equipment. He hadn't always been pleasant to be around with, although Crystal had never suffered for it. She'd actually been his sounding board, the one person he could talk to when he resented having to push former civilians as hard as he did.
What he owed them, it seemed, was a breach of character. If he'd trained them in the art of subtlety and public relations, then he had to be as unsubtle as he could be. If he'd always been that discreet watchdog looming over their shoulder, then he had to give them one big and blessedly obvious fright. If he'd been the old stick in the mud who didn't allow himself to see the fun parts of their work, he had to compress all that denied joviality in one big explosion.
Two auto-loaded Nerf shotguns, one oversized rifle-like model and two rotating-chamber pistols ought to do the trick, he'd reasoned. A small storm's worth of foam darts would work perfectly - if he managed to catch them by surprise.
What better way to do this than to play the part of the strict employer for a few minutes longer?
He gave himself a look in the broom closet's little mirror. He felt ridiculous with all those bright orange plastic straps, all that simplified alien tech being used to pinch someone in the back of the head with a few inches of hollow foam.
He felt ridiculous, and he loved every moment of it.
* * *
Little did Archie know, however, that Arthur had brewed plans of his own.
One of the least serious examples of magic and technology intermingling involved tabletop gaming and roleplaying. In decades prior, you'd have found Murder Mystery kits on sale in any decent tabletop shop and, essentially, nearly any common toy-related superstore. They'd usually consisted of a tape, a few guidelines, some catering and ambiance-related suggestions and maybe a few ancillary materials like notepads and a few cheaply sharpened pencils. Today, however, intricate enchantments could transform any ordinary home into an oppressive and dramatic environment, providing nearly everything needed to establish the mood and tone with the power of entertainment industry-graded disposable Veils. Insert one arcane hologram of a pre-recorded and costumed narrator delivering some starting bits of exposition, and you had everything needed to turn an ordinary cocktail afternoon into a late-night Whodunnit set in the middle of a raging storm.
Of course, some outlets offered à la carte packages for restaurants or other sizable venues. All you had to do was pay a visit to a kit-seller's website - Arthur had connections in Triton Games - and fill out a fairly standard form: how many guests there'd be, if the game had to be a planned event or could be allowed to spring into place, or if anyone had strong aversions to the sight of blood or suggested dismemberment, among other juicy details. They'd provide the story, the music and the setting - right down to costumes - and all you had to offer would be alcohol and food.
If nobody knew Gubbin had helped Archie with his planned party, then Archie didn't know Gubbin had helped Arthur with his own project...
Sneaking the game's box under the first stealthily-erected Christmas tree had been child's play. For now, all Arthur had to do was play the part of the conscientious objector, first acting as the opposing force to Archibald the Stickler. Then, he'd need to direct the Nerfpocalypse to have it suit his own ends, ideally by helping one of the "victims" of Archie's rampage to hide in one particularly fortuitous room.
All they had to do was find the unmarked and unwrapped wooden box under that poor little tree that was sitting in Archie's old exhibition hall and bring it to a central location.
Oh how terrible it was, to be repressing such glorious laughter! In the meantime, however, he played along. "It's not that bad, Aidan," he said, "Think on that as a chance to close the books. Preston and I haven't been able to go over the last couple months and we've still got a few kinks to work out in our info distribution methods. At least we'll be able to let you leave for Christmas with a clear head instead of a half-empty To Do list.
- You're being supportive and rational," opposed the soldier. "This isn't like you.
- Oops?" replied the younger Holden, shrugging comically for effect. "Um, Insert Creepy Innuendo Here, maybe?"