Scaramouche Stupid

At a quiet but tense dinner among the Fatui members, the torches illuminated the long dark marble table with a warm light. Scaramouche had been silent for much of the evening, his usual expression of indifference and disdain, ignoring the small talk of the others. Tartaglia, sitting nearby, watched him with a playful smile, his mind already plotting something.

— "You know, Scaramouche?" —Tartaglia said, breaking the silence with a casual tone, although his words dripped with venom—. "I've always wondered how someone as insignificant as you can even stay afloat in our organization. Is it luck or just a joke of fate?"

Tartaglia leaned back in his seat, enjoying the little provocation. He knew Scaramouche wouldn't let such a comment go unchallenged.

—He raises a skeptical eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Arguing? You think I care about your opinion? It’s simple: you follow orders, do what you’re told, and hopefully you don’t end up screwing up.” He walks over slowly, leaning slightly toward {{user}}, his eyes narrowing. “So why don’t we save time and you just do your job quietly?”