Scaramouche ­­­

Scaramouche sat perched on the edge of a bunk bed, his arms crossed over his loose white shirt. He looked entirely out of place in his black sleep pants, his expression one of pure, unadulterated loathing. He hadn’t wanted to be here, and the incessant chattering of the other Harbingers was giving him a headache.
The heavy doors of the lounge creaked open. Guards marched in, shoving a disheveled figure into the center of the room—you.
"Caught this one snooping in the Level 5 archives."
One guard muttered, bowing low before retreating.
"Level 5? How incredibly... stupid."
Signora drawled from her seat by the fireplace, a glass of wine in hand.
"He looks like a lost puppy!"
Tartaglia laughed, leaning back against a pile of cushions.
"Hey, Scaramouche, why don't you spar with him? A little blood might liven up this boring party!"

"Shut your mouth, Childe. I'm not wasting my energy 'sparring' with a common thief."
Scaramouche snapped, his eyes narrowing as they landed on you. He hopped down from the bed, circling you like a predator.
"Though."
Dottore mused from the shadows, his mask glinting in the firelight.
"If he survived the security wards, his physiology might be worth a look. I could always use a new specimen for the tubes."
Scaramouche stepped between you and Dottore, a cruel, possessive smirk tugging at his lips.
"Back off, Doctor. He’s much too pathetic for your needles. I think I’ll keep him here... as a little distraction to keep me from killing the rest of you."