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Clarabelle was only fifteen when her parents died, and only sixteen when all the money they had saved was gone. Horace repeatedly offered his home as a place for her to stay, and she would repeatedly deny the offer, citing different reasons for every approach, be it pride or not wanting to use him. She knew what she was – an ugly girl of the lower class that nobody wanted around, and such girls could only hope to have some line of work in order to pay taxes. Instead of begging on the streets for a coin or a job, Clarabelle had marched right up to the local steel factory and demanded a job, knowing it would pay well. She was kicked out five minutes later.

After all, she was a woman, and delicate little creatures such as the class of 'female' didn't belong in jobs involving muscle and mechanics. Yet she continued to come in every day, trying to prove her worth not only to the men in the factory, but herself. She faced ridicule from her neighbors, and harassment from the steel workers. When it became obvious she wasn't going without a fight, the workers decided to give her one, and when Horace saw her black eye the following day, she had to physically restrain him from going to the factory and using his new police gun to return the favor. Even then, she wouldn't hear of his offer to live with him. It was becoming more important to prove her worth than to ensure she had a roof over her head.

So she continued to come in every day, even as the men threw their lunches at her face, as they called her the worst names a woman can hear, and as they grabbed her wrists and let her cry against the wall. Surely, someday, someone would find worth in her, if she kept trying. Surely someone in this world had use for an ugly girl of the lower class. She was eighteen when she was on her hands and knees in the factory, begging for the job that would be refused again. She wasn't halfway through her plea when the nearby workers began to shout at her, using those vile names, describing what they'd do to her if they got the chance, but then, to her surprise, silence swept the factory, save for the machines' continuous courses.

She dared to lift her hand, and saw an elegant looking dog with a thin mustache looking down at her. He was dressed entirely in black, with fabric and jewels highlighting just how above her he really was. It was as if she had been swallowed up his shadow as he observed her thoughtfully, rubbing the end of his mustache. "Well now… and here I thought visiting one of my investments was going to be a complete bore." He smiled, the muscles in his face moving slowly as ideas were connecting. "What are you doing, miss?"

Shaking, she began to sit on her knees, still in awe that someone – especially someone clearly so better than her – had finally taken notice of her. "I… I want a job here. I know I can do it, If they give me a chance!"

"I don't think there's any job that requires you to sit on the floor." He offered his gloved hand down to her, and after a second of disbelief, she grasped it, staggering as she went to her feet. "Much better. I prefer my employees to have some sense of decorum."

"Y… Your employees?" She repeated slowly, still holding onto his hand until he pulled back and wiped it with a handkerchief.

"I get my fair share of say when it comes to working here." Finished, he stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. "Everyone is meant to do something. You have your uses, and if no one else is smart enough to think of a way, then I will. You can start here tomorrow." He then turned away, looking at the employees who had been watching this exchange.   "Do try to act like gentlemen. I have an image to maintain." He nodded once to them, once to Clarabelle, and then began to walk away, having other parts of the factory to inspect.

Clarabelle kept her eyes on him until he completely disappeared from her vision. She wouldn't know who he was until she described to Horace, and when she learned that Duke Fantome had given her the validation she had clawed for after all those years of resistance, she hugged her dear friend and sobbed gratefully into his chest. From that moment on, she swore she would follow Fantome to the ends of the earth. A man like that, an angel in black, he had come to save her and give her what she deserved. Never did she notice Horace's scowl as he calmly returned her embrace, and was still unaware that Horace would follow her in the very same way.

It was with this devotion that when she and Horace had cornered the Scarlet, the man who Fantome wanted out of the way, she raised her pipe high again. "I'm not done with him, Horace! We gotta make sure he can't escape!"

"I know what I'm doing!" Horace kept his gun steadily aimed at the injured mouse, keeping his eyes locked on the heroic crusader. "If I arrest him, he becomes a common criminal and no one will listen to him anymore!"

"Then we really need to make him look bad, and make sure he never bothers the Duke again!" Clarabelle tried to make another swing at the Scarlet, but Horace shoved her with his shoulder, and the argument escalated in yells.

Though the Scarlet was still suffering from his injuries, he managed to hear the helpers in his ear. "Open the first bag on your belt!" This was Gyro, trying and failing not to sound as panicked as he was. "There should be at least three smokebombs in there! Just press your thumb down and let it roll!"

He carefully began to reach down, and felt three small balls in the bag, no bigger than marbles. He knew very little about the smokebombs, but he needed an escape before he lost consciousness. He held his arm still, as Horace was still watching him, but as the argument got worse, the horse finally looked away to snap at the cow – perfect. Mickey grabbed onto one of the balls, yanked it out, pressed down, and threw it. It bounced once on the stone road before an absolute fog erupted from the marble, immediately clouding the area. Clarabelle and Horace stopped shouting at each other and began shouting at their predicament, trying to find the Scarlet among the mist. Horace fired his weapon, but only managed to nick the feather on Mickey's hat. Clarabelle had better luck, hitting Mickey roughly in his side, but when she swung again, she only hit the air.

"He must have gone this way!" Clarabelle coughed through the mess, trying to grab Horace's wrist to put him in the right direction. "I know I hit him! Come on!" she never would have guessed that Mickey allowed her to hit him, in order to fool them about which way he went. As the opposing forces went their separate ways, it only took a few steps for Mickey to realize that he wasn't going to make it back to the headquarters. Not when blood was beginning to roll down the side of his head, and it hurt every muscle as he fell to the ground. He still crawled forward, grunting as his body screamed in pain.

He closed his eyes as he tried to breathe, laying in the street as the black of night cast him the same as every other useless shadow. The world was quiet, though even in quiet, there can still be sounds. The occasional footstep of the bystander ignoring everything around them, the cries of hungry children in cold homes, and the clip-clop of hooves as a carriage made its way across the cobblestones.

"Driver, pull over! Pull over, now!"

~*~

Good luck can only take a man so far. Duke Gladstone Gander had been followed by good luck all of his life, no matter what problem he had landed in. If his carriage broke down, it would be in front of wealthy family who was more than happy to give him lodging for the night. If he accidentally dropped a priceless heirloom, he'd find an even more valuable treasure inside of it. If he blinked during a photograph, he looked ten times more handsome for his 'mysterious' appeal. Gladstone's life was almost annoyingly lucky for outsiders, but the one place where his luck never seemed to catch on was in the presence of Duke Fantome.

"It's always tea with you, Fantome." Gladstone frowned at the cup in his hands, unwilling to taste the brown concoction inside. "Don't you have a winery or even a bottle of champagne?" Gladstone and the other Dukes were gathered in Fantome's dining room, and so far the only complaint about the late night meeting was the tea.

"You clearly haven't had a good cup yet, if you can even compare it to wine." Fantome waved his hand around his cup, taking in the deep scent. "You need to take the time to appreciate the aroma and the texture. The perfect additions, the right temperature… it must make every drop count."

Gladstone snorted, and though he knew the effort was fruitless, he looked to the other Dukes for agreement. Duke Roger Rabbit was nervously tugging one of his long white ears, a habit he had developed ever since he had inherited his title and made it clear he was in no way ready to handle such a position. "… C-Could use some more sugar?" He added just for the sake of not having silence, and even his smile was an awkward mess. Duke Fou Medecin was no better, hunched over in his wheelchair where old age was keeping him in a thin line between sleep and obliviousness.

"Speaking of sweet things," Fantome glanced over at the one empty chair at his table. "It's a shame that Duchess Minerva is running so late. I can't fathom what's keeping her."

"I don't think she'd appreciate the conversation." Gladstone gave up on his cup, carefully setting it back down on the table on its doily. "She's always been such a bleeding heart for the lesser folk. I thought that Mortimer fellow was finally going to make her shut up."

"Patience, my friend." Fantome replied after a deliberately long sip. "Taming wild animals is never done in a night. He'll wear her out soon enough. In fact…" His smile curled in a wicked direction, and Gladstone could almost feel his good luck draining from him. "If you'd like to show Mortimer how it's done, I have a similar assignment, if you're interested."

Whenever Gladstone was with Fantome, his good luck vanished without a trace. Fantome was always a dominating presence even when he was being civil, so it was as if he had taken control of Gladstone's luck, choking it until he was ready to let it go for his own uses. Gladstone felt that choke now, and consciously rubbed his neck. "I'm not really into mice. Those giant ears are hideous."

Roger stopped tugging on his ears, and instead sunk into his seat. Fantome chuckled, partially amused, but shook his head. "I can't fault a man who is true to his tastes. But, no, I trust Mortimer can handle the duchess. The woman I want you to take is the leader of the revolutionaries. My eyes and ears in the group have told me enough about her, and I think you're the perfect choice."

"A commoner." Gladstone's tone couldn't be more displeased. He felt he should take another drink of tea just to get the taste of the word out of his mouth. "Are you sure? There must be an easier way of getting rid of her."

"You mean kill her." Fantome placed his hands together on the table. Gladstone stopped talking for the moment, startled. He hadn't meant something so drastic, but at the same time, didn't oppose it. It more surprised him that Fantome could speak of such a morbid way of handling deals so casually. Roger was sinking so low in his seat at the darkness of the subject that he was almost under the table. Fou merely continued to stare on, not here or there. "Easy, yes, but would make her a martyr figure in the eyes of her group. They'd fight even harder for the sake of their fallen idol. If we simply court her off, we reveal she's just another leech, and the group will lose faith and dissolve on its own. You will single handedly prevent the revolution, and another Bloody Sunday."

Fantome knew how to work Gladstone's pride, as the duck eased back into his chair with those temptations. "… I suppose it couldn't hurt to try. A girl like that probably won't take too much effort."

"I knew I could count on you.  And with the revolutionaries gone, and no Bloody Sunday to occur, we'll never have to trouble the Queen." As a sign of a respect when her name was mentioned, the men bowed their heads for a second, save for Fou, who in his senility probably hadn't heard. "Bless her for putting up with all of this nonsense so far." The Dukes and Duchess were all related in a very thin bloodline to the Queen of France, Noelle Odette Isabella Xyrisse. No one dared to make fun of such a ridiculous name, but for everyone's sake to take her seriously, she was usually called only Queen Noelle. She rarely left her home and usually sent out diplomats to do her speaking for her. Most of France hadn't seen her face in years, but her power and influence still reigned. Even Fantome didn't dare go against any orders of hers. But there could be ways of going about those orders.

With his cup empty, Fantome began to rise from his seat. "I hate to cut this meeting short, but there is a play I wanted to catch, and I'd absolutely hate to miss the final act."

"Th-thanks for having us." Roger mumbled as he pushed his chair out, wanting to get out of this disturbing gathering as fast as his big feet could take him. "I-I'll just help Fou get home, and-"

"Nonsense, you're always helping him." Fantome walked up behind Fou's wheelchair, and began to wheel him out. "Allow me. I'm sure I can make my show in time, but helping the elderly always comes first." Gladstone thought he saw Fou's eyes flicker with movement, but it must have been a trick of the lights above. "Goodnight, gentleman." Fantome and Fou left on squeaky wheels, and like a breath of fresh air, Gladstone's luck returned to him.

"Gee," Roger spoke out loud, also feeling looser without Fantome around. "I didn't know he could be such a nice guy."

"Roger, I didn't know you could be that dumb."

~*~

Minnie never looked forward to meeting with Fantome Tache, and always looked for any excuse not to attend. She saw him as a puppeteer with the other Dukes, always finding a way to make them do as he pleased, and she was terrified of the day he planned to wrap one of those strings around her. She didn't understand why so many people blindly followed him, and the constricting crush his bank had on the poor made her distrust him all the more. That night as she pulled back the curtain on the carriage window, she hoped that maybe her carriage could have a wheel break down to avoid meeting such an awful man. She got her wish, of sorts, but nowhere near the way she wanted it.

"Driver, pull over!" She shouted the moment she saw the stumbling body collapse into the street. She had no way of knowing who it was, but they needed her help, and that was more important than anything else. "Pull over, now!" The driver reluctantly obeyed, and when it came to stop, Minnie slammed the door open, picking up her dress in her hands to rush over to the wounded citizen. "You poor thing! Here, let me…" She knelt down to lift his head, and almost dropped it in shock. "The Scarlet!" She whipped her head around, expecting to see robbers or other criminals around, but for now, he was alone. "… Driver, help me get him inside! We're going home!"

"N-No!" The Scarlet breathed out as the Driver grabbed one of his arms, helping drag the red mess to the carriage. "N-not your home, please…"

"You're hardly in any position to argue about it!" Minnie grabbed his other arm to help lift him, and they gently sat him down on the floor of the carriage. Once he was inside, Minnie climbed in after and closed the door behind her. As the driver took back his spot and urged the horses on, Minnie sat on the hero's legs, brushing off dirt and debris from his body. "Getting back into getting yourself hurt, are you?" She took off his hat, and winced to see the line of blood going down his head.

"Still mad… at me?" He took his time breathing, now that he felt marginally safer.

Minnie blinked. "How did you know- " That wasn't the important part! She cleared her throat, and began using the sleeve of her dress to wipe his blood away. "… What you do with your women is your business." She avoided eye contact with him, but she knew he was smirking sloppily, taking pleasure in her jealousy. "Maybe one of them can help you, if my home isn't good enough."

"I just don't want you… in harm's way." Now that he was feeling strong enough to say more words in one breath, maybe he could clear a few things up. "The life of the Duchess has a much higher value than mine."

"Now that's what I'm really mad about!" She poked his nose before he could say anything more romantic or ridiculous. "My life is not worth more than yours! Nobody can place and value lives like that! That is what I strive for, and I won't have you say otherwise. Now lift your head." She didn't give him the chance to do so, and grabbed his chin, lifting his head up to clean his neck. "You're coming home with me whether you like it or not."

"Stubborn." He said under his breath, and she dropped his chin.

"I heard that! And so are you, monsieur!" She crossed her arms, glaring at him, though she did feel a bit of guilt for starting a fight with an injured man. "This is the second time I've seen you hurt! You need to start taking better care of yourself! Your life has just as much meaning and worth as my own, so start acting like it!"

"If my life has meaning… then certainly, I get a choice in it?" He sat up straighter, and managed to take his hat back. "This is how I choose to live it."

"That's still a very stubborn and selfish way to think about things!" She tried to snatch his hat back, but he wouldn't let it go. "If something worse should ever happen to you… Don't you ever think about those you'll leave behind?"

"Constantly." He had that look in his eyes again – the burning blaze of passion that always swept Minnie over in familiar ways. She released the hat to him, and after he placed it where it belonged, he urged her to sit on the carriage seat. "And now… I ask forgiveness." She expected an explanation for the newspaper announcement, but instead she got a lapful of hero, as the Scarlet rested his head on top of her legs. "Please… let me just… stay like this. For a little while."

She decided not to object. He had become so small now, so vulnerable, a little boy needing love and care. She stroked his cheek, and his mouth curled up, almost nestled into her dress. She leaned over to get a better look at him, and they watched each other, faces close… very close. He smirked. "Don't tempt me."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about." Minnie sat with her back straight at once, embarrassed. "You're about to pass out, and you say such things…"

"I owe you my life, most precious." He kissed her dress instead, enjoying that lovely hue radiating off from Minnie's cheeks. "I will do my best to thank you properly next time."

"Next time?" Minnie looked down – suddenly the Scarlet kicked the door open, and rolled out. She yelled his name, and a second smokebomb erupted under the carriage. The driver pulled to a stop as the horses whinnied in confusion, and neither the horses, the driver, nor the duchess saw the Scarlet escape to the monument entrance to Champs Elysees, the headquarters where his birds were ready to tend to him. The route home for the Duchess had proved profitable in more ways than one.

When the smoke settled, the driver gave up and resumed the way home. When the Duchess arrived, her servants happily greeted her, but she rushed by every single one of them in order to get to her room, slamming the door behind her. Many fancy gifts from her parents covered the dainty place, but she headed for the cheap and partially broken toy that was on top of her desk drawer next to her bed. She snatched it, pressed it to her heart, and then fell on her bed. "I wasn't going to do anything." She said out loud in a desperate hope to believe it. "I wasn't. I wasn't. I wasn't." Once more, she had come away from the Scarlet with a feeling she had done an unforgivable betrayal. When she felt tears come, she held the toy up to her eye, wanting to escape to sweet memories.

The kaleidoscope moved under her fingers, mixing faded colors in her dark room.

~*~

The servants at the Medecin home were surprised to see Duke Fantome Tache, but they didn't dare bother him as he wheeled Fou Medecin to his bedroom. Fantome looked delightfully cheery as he strolled throughout the mansion, occasionally speaking to the old man who wouldn't speak back. "It's always a pleasure to see you, Fou. I really wish you'd show up more often. You really have such a calming presence around Roger… but then, rabbits have always been your specialty. Let's get you some peace and quiet, I imagine your schedule is full."

He entered the bedroom, and locked the door behind him. "This mansion is a really lovely place. I shudder to think of what will become of it when you're gone… it's a shame you never settled down." His fingers touched Fou's shoulders, and then began to dig their way into him. "Yes… there are so many things you really ought to be ashamed of." His other hand met the other shoulder with the same force. "There's only a select number of people who knew about my carriage ride before the second Bloody Sunday. You're the only one left… that's alive." He lowered his head, hissing directly into Fou's ear. "So I suggest you drop the senility act and tell me what you know."

Fou took his time to move his head back, breathing heavily and far more awake now than most knew him to be.  "How did you find out?"

"Because unlike the rest of our royal family, I'm not so easily fooled." He had caught onto the same flickers that Gladstone had, but didn't take the route of 'just my imagination'. "You thought that if you played dumb, I'd let you out of my sight? Everyone in France has a role to play under my hands, and those who don't…" He speedily grabbed a hold of the wheelchair, and shoved it with such strength that Fou fell onto the floor with the chair on top of him.

Fou groaned, trying to lean on his arms, genuinely terrified of the man who he was trapped with. "Listen! The only ones I told are dead! There's no way the Scarlet could have known!"

"But you still let your mouth run." Fantome placed a foot on the wheelchair, keeping Fou pinned down underneath it. "I think your family line has run on long enough. You're of no use to me, and if you're of no use to me, you're of no use to yourself." He reached over to grab a pillow from the old man's bed, pleased he had found a way around this situation without getting his clothes dirty. "Like I told Roger… helping the elderly always comes first."

~*~

Max decided to work at home that night since it was so late, instead of going to his usual place for his inventions. Otherwise his father would worry, and then he'd barge in, and make a mess, and then make the mess worse by trying to clean it up… it was less stressful this way.  Their shaky wooden home had only three rooms – Max's, Goofy's, and the pitiful excuse for a bathroom. The house was small and thin enough that standing in the 'hallway' allowed you to see two rooms at once. Max sat in his excuse of a room, twisting small gears under a screwdriver to make it fit correctly.

"Whatcha doin' this time, Max?" Goofy looked into the room, trying to respect Max's privacy by not entering but having enough curiosity to peek in anyway.

"Nothing you'd get, Dad." Max shifted his shoulders in an attempt to block Goofy's view, but his father's height allowed him to sneak a glance. Max sighed, deciding to relent for now. "… Earrings. They're earrings."

"Yer makin' yerself a pair of earrin's?" Goofy tilted his head, confused as to why Max was tinkering with jewelry of all things. "Yer ears ain't even pierced."

"They're not for my ears." Max snapped, not even bothering to look at his father. The frustration flowing through him made him chip the paint on the gear, and he swore in a mumble.

"But if they ain't fer yer ears…" Even if Goofy wasn't the brightest bulbs, he still shone, and his buck teeth especially stuck out as he caught on. "Aw, it's fer the little missy, huh! I thought ya were pretty sweet on her!"

"You don't know what you're talking about. You never do." Why only now did his father show a trace of intelligence? Of course it would have to be at Max's expense. "I'm trying to work, so if you don't mind…"

"I bet she's gunna love 'em!" Goofy didn't pick up the hint as he was too excited for the possible happiness his son had found. "And it's a real sweet thing of ya ta do, too! Girls love gestures like that! Yer mom always did! Why, I remember the one time yer mom said she wanted a garden, 'course we couldn't afford ta get nothin' fancy like that, so-"

"So you worked your butt off to buy a bouquet and lined her window with them so she could see them every day, like an itty bitty garden all for herself." Max finished, lacking Goofy's enthusiasm for the story.

"… Shucks, did I tell ya that one before?"

"Seven hundred and twenty-two times, to be exact."

"Huh! Well!" He jumped back into the good mood, determined to bond with Max over something at last. "If ya need any help with the little lady, ya can always come ta me! I know one or two things about gettin' the girl!" He proudly stuck a thumb to his chest. "Won yer mom over! Course, she won me over too! Pretty as a picture, she was… prettier! Why, I remember the first day we met, it was rainin', and-"

"Do you have any idea how hard you make it to concentrate!" Max finally faced his father, but it was with fury, almost crushing the earrings in his hand. "I'm trying to do precise work here, but you keep prattling on with stories I've heard my entire life! Yes, I know, you and mom loved each other, you were perfect for each other, she'd be so proud of me if she was around now, but she's not around, so can you stop talking about her?!"

Almost exactly after the words left his mouth, Max bit the inside of his cheek. Even with his dad's annoyances, that was over the line. Goofy's entire body appeared to sag with sadness, and his hand slid off of the doorway. "… Sorry, Max." Even his voice contained sagginess, and he walked back into his room, closing the door behind him.

Max stared at the empty doorway, and ached to apologize, despite his pride telling him he had done nothing wrong. It was Goofy's own fault for bringing up such a painful subject. Everything was always Goofy's fault because he never thought before he said anything. Max tried to return to his work, turning the gear earrings in his hand. Though he knew he was in the right, he believed if Roxanne had heard this exchange, she'd definitely see him in a dark way. It settled sourly in his stomach, and he placed the projects down for now.

He remembered very little of his mother, as he had been a young pup. What little he could remember was filled with warmth and happiness, of being held in fragile arms as a cough-filled lullaby tried to ease him to sleep. He didn't know her real personality or thoughts, and had only Goofy to rely on. Considering how wrong Goofy was on… well, everything, Max felt he didn't really know his mother. She was a warm feeling and nothing more. So what were these guilty feelings over?

They couldn't afford bedposts, but they could afford mattresses, so Max laid down on his and placed an arm over his eyes. Would his mother have been proud of him? Would she approve of his plans and aide with the revolutionaries? Would she want Max to try and win a smile off a socialite like Roxanne? Oh, what was the point – she wasn't there, and these what ifs wouldn't help him. He turned over in bed, the feeling in his stomach welling up and clawing at his throat. She had died because they couldn't afford to get her the medicine she needed, and couldn't get her to a place that would treat her. It was all because of the wealthy and their continuous boot pressing down on the backs of the poor. Yes, they were all to blame, they all… No, not all. There was Roxanne, again, who would surely help the sick if she knew of them.

That gave him pause, and he lifted his arm. Did she know? She had to at least see the wide array of differences whenever she so much as looked out the window. But that didn't mean she really understood how much the lesser man was suffering. The gears in Max's head turned, going faster and faster as he connected causes to heart. If he told her of their plights, if he showed her the work they planned to do, could she lend a hand – and more importantly, lend the influence and lend the money? She liked him, at the very least as a companion, and seemed eager to speak with him more. This wasn't too far from what Katarina was making Daisy do! Yes, he could land them potential allies! Learn the insides of the wealthy! Make the revolutionaries even stronger in their fight against the unfair!

"Yes, that's it!" Max sprang as he sat back up, forgetting the fact that his father could probably hear him perfectly. "I'll do just what Daisy's doing! I'll seduce a member of the wealthy elite!" It took him about three seconds to realize exactly what he said, and his brain promptly fizzled out.

Goofy just as promptly stuck his head in the doorway again, rather surprised. "Yer gunna do what now?"

"N-Nothing! Get out of my room!"

~*~

Donald Duck was also burning the midnight oil, and also a candle, since his cheap Uncle had demanded a certain time limit for using electricity. He was writing in his room, trying not to waste any of the ink that he knew Scrooge wouldn't replace, so every word had to be precise. Donald had gotten little sleep, still unused to his bed. He thumbed the feathered quill pen in his hands, and then mused to himself that perhaps Scrooge was so finicky that perhaps this feather belonged to the old miser. He wouldn't put it past his relative.

Speaking of his benefactor, Donald heard the sound of Scrooge's cane lightly thumping against the floor in the hallway, and when Donald looked over, he saw his uncle looking at him in contempt. "What are you doing up so late?"

"I'm just writin' a letter." Since he was in the company of family, Donald hoped he was allowed to slip back into his home dialect. Judging by the glare Scrooge was giving him, that was a no. "For Mom and Dad and Della…"

"You promised me limited contact with them when you joined me." Scrooge now cast his glare toward the paper, and Donald defensively tried to cover it with his hands.

"Limited, sure, but I didn't day I'd cut them out completely." Donald rolled the paper up, knowing he wouldn't get anything done with Scrooge's brooding presence around. "I just want to let them know what's going on. I want to tell them all about…" He trailed off, originally intending to end the sentence with 'about Daisy', but he hadn't really told Scrooge about her either. Scrooge had brought Donald to the city to make him a gentleman worthy of his inheritance, and befriending a commoner probably didn't fit under that criteria. Ducksworth thankfully hadn't said a word about her yet, but just how far did his loyalty extend? "… Everything." Donald decided to finish, making it seem like his hesitance had just been a lack of finding the right vocabulary. "I mean, I've only been here a little while, and there have been parties, and meeting with the dukes and the duchess, and then the whole Scarlet deal…"

"Bah!" Scrooge slammed his cane down, ready to force his opinions where they weren't wanted. "The Scarlet! What a load of nonsense! A crazy man goes flying around in a cape trying to do police work, and we're supposed to applaud him? Just you wait and see, all these fancy heroics will just land him a stronger jail sentence."

"And he's a womanizer." Donald had also seen the declaration in the paper, and it had made him fume. How dare the Scarlet toy with Daisy's feelings like that? If the hero wanted to ruin his own life, then so be it, but he had no business dragging Daisy along for the ride. "If you're not careful, you could lose your girlfriends to him."

"If he wants them, I'll gift-wrap them for him." Scrooge sneered, and it earned a little laugh out of his nephew. Even when the laughter had stopped, Donald remained oddly cheerful, and Scrooge defensively leaned away from the pleasant demeanor. "…What are you so happy about?"

"We've finally got something we agree on." Donald beamed, delighted at the small footstep they had made toward each other. "And it's that we both hate the same guy." He continued to smile, expecting to be returned.

Instead, Scrooge unsteadily tapped his fingers on his cane, and pulled away from the room. "… Don't stay up too late. You're wasting my candles." Then he was gone, his cane thump-thump-thumping down the hallway, and an exasperated Donald blew out the candle.

Scrooge was known for being a cranky old man, but this was ridiculous. It was almost as if he was running away from the slightest hint of affection from his family. Why was Scrooge so afraid of having emotional connections to anyone, especially one who shared his blood? Donald twirled the feathered quill in his hand, recalling the mystery of his aunt Matilda. Did her death have anything to do with the separation of their families? He contemplated writing home about it, since he knew Scrooge wasn't going to say a word about it. Ducksworth was still troublesome when it came to trust.

He got out of his chair and decided to open the window, resting his arms on the sill and gazed out into the remains of the black night. The sun was beginning to peak out, and the paper boys were bright and early in getting their materials ready. Donald had seen these boys before, but now he was getting an actual look at them. He frowned as he saw how unhealthily thin many were, and how desperately they called out for any chance for a coin. One in particular, a little mouse, even seemed like he had trouble walking. Yet there he was, hollering and waving his papers about, despite wincing here and there. Donald admired his spirit. Maybe he'd buy a paper from the little guy later.

Perhaps the paper would have something about the Scarlet inside, and he and Scrooge could have a family rant together. Even if the attempt before had failed, Donald felt he should still keep trying to bring them together. As Donald thought about it, he noticed that suddenly one of the paperboys was scrambling to grab the attention of the others. The mouse had winced when his arm was tugged, but soon became rapt in the attention of the others. Donald couldn't hear what was being said, but the boys were gasping and talking wildly in shock. Curious, Donald leaned outward, and yelled with a hand to his beak. "Hey! What's all the ruckus?"

The boys continued to talk to themselves, except for the mouse, who heard the call. "It's Duke Fou Medecin!" He shouted right back, unsure of how to handle the information personally. "One of his butlers just ran outta the mansion … the duke is dead!"

End of Chapter Seven.

Description
Clarabelle was only fifteen when her parents died, and only sixteen when all the money they had saved was gone. Horace repeatedly offered his home as a place for her to stay, and she would repeatedly deny the offer, citing different reasons for every approach, be it pride or not wanting to use him. She knew what she was – an ugly girl of the lower class that nobody wanted around, and such girls could only hope to have some line of work in order to pay taxes. Instead of begging on the streets for a coin or a job, Clarabelle had marched right up to the local steel factory and demanded a job, knowing it would pay well. She was kicked out five minutes later.

After all, she was a woman, and delicate little creatures such as the class of 'female' didn't belong in jobs involving muscle and mechanics. Yet she continued to come in every day, trying to prove her worth not only to the men in the factory, but herself. She faced ridicule from her neighbors, and harassment from the steel workers. When it became obvious she wasn't going without a fight, the workers decided to give her one, and when Horace saw her black eye the following day, she had to physically restrain him from going to the factory and using his new police gun to return the favor. Even then, she wouldn't hear of his offer to live with him. It was becoming more important to prove her worth than to ensure she had a roof over her head.

So she continued to come in every day, even as the men threw their lunches at her face, as they called her the worst names a woman can hear, and as they grabbed her wrists and let her cry against the wall. Surely, someday, someone would find worth in her, if she kept trying. Surely someone in this world had use for an ugly girl of the lower class. She was eighteen when she was on her hands and knees in the factory, begging for the job that would be refused again. She wasn't halfway through her plea when the nearby workers began to shout at her, using those vile names, describing what they'd do to her if they got the chance, but then, to her surprise, silence swept the factory, save for the machines' continuous courses.

She dared to lift her hand, and saw an elegant looking dog with a thin mustache looking down at her. He was dressed entirely in black, with fabric and jewels highlighting just how above her he really was. It was as if she had been swallowed up his shadow as he observed her thoughtfully, rubbing the end of his mustache. "Well now… and here I thought visiting one of my investments was going to be a complete bore." He smiled, the muscles in his face moving slowly as ideas were connecting. "What are you doing, miss?"

Shaking, she began to sit on her knees, still in awe that someone – especially someone clearly so better than her – had finally taken notice of her. "I… I want a job here. I know I can do it, If they give me a chance!"

"I don't think there's any job that requires you to sit on the floor." He offered his gloved hand down to her, and after a second of disbelief, she grasped it, staggering as she went to her feet. "Much better. I prefer my employees to have some sense of decorum."

"Y… Your employees?" She repeated slowly, still holding onto his hand until he pulled back and wiped it with a handkerchief.

"I get my fair share of say when it comes to working here." Finished, he stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. "Everyone is meant to do something. You have your uses, and if no one else is smart enough to think of a way, then I will. You can start here tomorrow." He then turned away, looking at the employees who had been watching this exchange.   "Do try to act like gentlemen. I have an image to maintain." He nodded once to them, once to Clarabelle, and then began to walk away, having other parts of the factory to inspect.

Clarabelle kept her eyes on him until he completely disappeared from her vision. She wouldn't know who he was until she described to Horace, and when she learned that Duke Fantome had given her the validation she had clawed for after all those years of resistance, she hugged her dear friend and sobbed gratefully into his chest. From that moment on, she swore she would follow Fantome to the ends of the earth. A man like that, an angel in black, he had come to save her and give her what she deserved. Never did she notice Horace's scowl as he calmly returned her embrace, and was still unaware that Horace would follow her in the very same way.

It was with this devotion that when she and Horace had cornered the Scarlet, the man who Fantome wanted out of the way, she raised her pipe high again. "I'm not done with him, Horace! We gotta make sure he can't escape!"

"I know what I'm doing!" Horace kept his gun steadily aimed at the injured mouse, keeping his eyes locked on the heroic crusader. "If I arrest him, he becomes a common criminal and no one will listen to him anymore!"

"Then we really need to make him look bad, and make sure he never bothers the Duke again!" Clarabelle tried to make another swing at the Scarlet, but Horace shoved her with his shoulder, and the argument escalated in yells.

Though the Scarlet was still suffering from his injuries, he managed to hear the helpers in his ear. "Open the first bag on your belt!" This was Gyro, trying and failing not to sound as panicked as he was. "There should be at least three smokebombs in there! Just press your thumb down and let it roll!"

He carefully began to reach down, and felt three small balls in the bag, no bigger than marbles. He knew very little about the smokebombs, but he needed an escape before he lost consciousness. He held his arm still, as Horace was still watching him, but as the argument got worse, the horse finally looked away to snap at the cow – perfect. Mickey grabbed onto one of the balls, yanked it out, pressed down, and threw it. It bounced once on the stone road before an absolute fog erupted from the marble, immediately clouding the area. Clarabelle and Horace stopped shouting at each other and began shouting at their predicament, trying to find the Scarlet among the mist. Horace fired his weapon, but only managed to nick the feather on Mickey's hat. Clarabelle had better luck, hitting Mickey roughly in his side, but when she swung again, she only hit the air.

"He must have gone this way!" Clarabelle coughed through the mess, trying to grab Horace's wrist to put him in the right direction. "I know I hit him! Come on!" she never would have guessed that Mickey allowed her to hit him, in order to fool them about which way he went. As the opposing forces went their separate ways, it only took a few steps for Mickey to realize that he wasn't going to make it back to the headquarters. Not when blood was beginning to roll down the side of his head, and it hurt every muscle as he fell to the ground. He still crawled forward, grunting as his body screamed in pain.

He closed his eyes as he tried to breathe, laying in the street as the black of night cast him the same as every other useless shadow. The world was quiet, though even in quiet, there can still be sounds. The occasional footstep of the bystander ignoring everything around them, the cries of hungry children in cold homes, and the clip-clop of hooves as a carriage made its way across the cobblestones.

"Driver, pull over! Pull over, now!"

~*~

Good luck can only take a man so far. Duke Gladstone Gander had been followed by good luck all of his life, no matter what problem he had landed in. If his carriage broke down, it would be in front of wealthy family who was more than happy to give him lodging for the night. If he accidentally dropped a priceless heirloom, he'd find an even more valuable treasure inside of it. If he blinked during a photograph, he looked ten times more handsome for his 'mysterious' appeal. Gladstone's life was almost annoyingly lucky for outsiders, but the one place where his luck never seemed to catch on was in the presence of Duke Fantome.

"It's always tea with you, Fantome." Gladstone frowned at the cup in his hands, unwilling to taste the brown concoction inside. "Don't you have a winery or even a bottle of champagne?" Gladstone and the other Dukes were gathered in Fantome's dining room, and so far the only complaint about the late night meeting was the tea.

"You clearly haven't had a good cup yet, if you can even compare it to wine." Fantome waved his hand around his cup, taking in the deep scent. "You need to take the time to appreciate the aroma and the texture. The perfect additions, the right temperature… it must make every drop count."

Gladstone snorted, and though he knew the effort was fruitless, he looked to the other Dukes for agreement. Duke Roger Rabbit was nervously tugging one of his long white ears, a habit he had developed ever since he had inherited his title and made it clear he was in no way ready to handle such a position. "… C-Could use some more sugar?" He added just for the sake of not having silence, and even his smile was an awkward mess. Duke Fou Medecin was no better, hunched over in his wheelchair where old age was keeping him in a thin line between sleep and obliviousness.

"Speaking of sweet things," Fantome glanced over at the one empty chair at his table. "It's a shame that Duchess Minerva is running so late. I can't fathom what's keeping her."

"I don't think she'd appreciate the conversation." Gladstone gave up on his cup, carefully setting it back down on the table on its doily. "She's always been such a bleeding heart for the lesser folk. I thought that Mortimer fellow was finally going to make her shut up."

"Patience, my friend." Fantome replied after a deliberately long sip. "Taming wild animals is never done in a night. He'll wear her out soon enough. In fact…" His smile curled in a wicked direction, and Gladstone could almost feel his good luck draining from him. "If you'd like to show Mortimer how it's done, I have a similar assignment, if you're interested."

Whenever Gladstone was with Fantome, his good luck vanished without a trace. Fantome was always a dominating presence even when he was being civil, so it was as if he had taken control of Gladstone's luck, choking it until he was ready to let it go for his own uses. Gladstone felt that choke now, and consciously rubbed his neck. "I'm not really into mice. Those giant ears are hideous."

Roger stopped tugging on his ears, and instead sunk into his seat. Fantome chuckled, partially amused, but shook his head. "I can't fault a man who is true to his tastes. But, no, I trust Mortimer can handle the duchess. The woman I want you to take is the leader of the revolutionaries. My eyes and ears in the group have told me enough about her, and I think you're the perfect choice."

"A commoner." Gladstone's tone couldn't be more displeased. He felt he should take another drink of tea just to get the taste of the word out of his mouth. "Are you sure? There must be an easier way of getting rid of her."

"You mean kill her." Fantome placed his hands together on the table. Gladstone stopped talking for the moment, startled. He hadn't meant something so drastic, but at the same time, didn't oppose it. It more surprised him that Fantome could speak of such a morbid way of handling deals so casually. Roger was sinking so low in his seat at the darkness of the subject that he was almost under the table. Fou merely continued to stare on, not here or there. "Easy, yes, but would make her a martyr figure in the eyes of her group. They'd fight even harder for the sake of their fallen idol. If we simply court her off, we reveal she's just another leech, and the group will lose faith and dissolve on its own. You will single handedly prevent the revolution, and another Bloody Sunday."

Fantome knew how to work Gladstone's pride, as the duck eased back into his chair with those temptations. "… I suppose it couldn't hurt to try. A girl like that probably won't take too much effort."

"I knew I could count on you.  And with the revolutionaries gone, and no Bloody Sunday to occur, we'll never have to trouble the Queen." As a sign of a respect when her name was mentioned, the men bowed their heads for a second, save for Fou, who in his senility probably hadn't heard. "Bless her for putting up with all of this nonsense so far." The Dukes and Duchess were all related in a very thin bloodline to the Queen of France, Noelle Odette Isabella Xyrisse. No one dared to make fun of such a ridiculous name, but for everyone's sake to take her seriously, she was usually called only Queen Noelle. She rarely left her home and usually sent out diplomats to do her speaking for her. Most of France hadn't seen her face in years, but her power and influence still reigned. Even Fantome didn't dare go against any orders of hers. But there could be ways of going about those orders.

With his cup empty, Fantome began to rise from his seat. "I hate to cut this meeting short, but there is a play I wanted to catch, and I'd absolutely hate to miss the final act."

"Th-thanks for having us." Roger mumbled as he pushed his chair out, wanting to get out of this disturbing gathering as fast as his big feet could take him. "I-I'll just help Fou get home, and-"

"Nonsense, you're always helping him." Fantome walked up behind Fou's wheelchair, and began to wheel him out. "Allow me. I'm sure I can make my show in time, but helping the elderly always comes first." Gladstone thought he saw Fou's eyes flicker with movement, but it must have been a trick of the lights above. "Goodnight, gentleman." Fantome and Fou left on squeaky wheels, and like a breath of fresh air, Gladstone's luck returned to him.

"Gee," Roger spoke out loud, also feeling looser without Fantome around. "I didn't know he could be such a nice guy."

"Roger, I didn't know you could be that dumb."

~*~

Minnie never looked forward to meeting with Fantome Tache, and always looked for any excuse not to attend. She saw him as a puppeteer with the other Dukes, always finding a way to make them do as he pleased, and she was terrified of the day he planned to wrap one of those strings around her. She didn't understand why so many people blindly followed him, and the constricting crush his bank had on the poor made her distrust him all the more. That night as she pulled back the curtain on the carriage window, she hoped that maybe her carriage could have a wheel break down to avoid meeting such an awful man. She got her wish, of sorts, but nowhere near the way she wanted it.

"Driver, pull over!" She shouted the moment she saw the stumbling body collapse into the street. She had no way of knowing who it was, but they needed her help, and that was more important than anything else. "Pull over, now!" The driver reluctantly obeyed, and when it came to stop, Minnie slammed the door open, picking up her dress in her hands to rush over to the wounded citizen. "You poor thing! Here, let me…" She knelt down to lift his head, and almost dropped it in shock. "The Scarlet!" She whipped her head around, expecting to see robbers or other criminals around, but for now, he was alone. "… Driver, help me get him inside! We're going home!"

"N-No!" The Scarlet breathed out as the Driver grabbed one of his arms, helping drag the red mess to the carriage. "N-not your home, please…"

"You're hardly in any position to argue about it!" Minnie grabbed his other arm to help lift him, and they gently sat him down on the floor of the carriage. Once he was inside, Minnie climbed in after and closed the door behind her. As the driver took back his spot and urged the horses on, Minnie sat on the hero's legs, brushing off dirt and debris from his body. "Getting back into getting yourself hurt, are you?" She took off his hat, and winced to see the line of blood going down his head.

"Still mad… at me?" He took his time breathing, now that he felt marginally safer.

Minnie blinked. "How did you know- " That wasn't the important part! She cleared her throat, and began using the sleeve of her dress to wipe his blood away. "… What you do with your women is your business." She avoided eye contact with him, but she knew he was smirking sloppily, taking pleasure in her jealousy. "Maybe one of them can help you, if my home isn't good enough."

"I just don't want you… in harm's way." Now that he was feeling strong enough to say more words in one breath, maybe he could clear a few things up. "The life of the Duchess has a much higher value than mine."

"Now that's what I'm really mad about!" She poked his nose before he could say anything more romantic or ridiculous. "My life is not worth more than yours! Nobody can place and value lives like that! That is what I strive for, and I won't have you say otherwise. Now lift your head." She didn't give him the chance to do so, and grabbed his chin, lifting his head up to clean his neck. "You're coming home with me whether you like it or not."

"Stubborn." He said under his breath, and she dropped his chin.

"I heard that! And so are you, monsieur!" She crossed her arms, glaring at him, though she did feel a bit of guilt for starting a fight with an injured man. "This is the second time I've seen you hurt! You need to start taking better care of yourself! Your life has just as much meaning and worth as my own, so start acting like it!"

"If my life has meaning… then certainly, I get a choice in it?" He sat up straighter, and managed to take his hat back. "This is how I choose to live it."

"That's still a very stubborn and selfish way to think about things!" She tried to snatch his hat back, but he wouldn't let it go. "If something worse should ever happen to you… Don't you ever think about those you'll leave behind?"

"Constantly." He had that look in his eyes again – the burning blaze of passion that always swept Minnie over in familiar ways. She released the hat to him, and after he placed it where it belonged, he urged her to sit on the carriage seat. "And now… I ask forgiveness." She expected an explanation for the newspaper announcement, but instead she got a lapful of hero, as the Scarlet rested his head on top of her legs. "Please… let me just… stay like this. For a little while."

She decided not to object. He had become so small now, so vulnerable, a little boy needing love and care. She stroked his cheek, and his mouth curled up, almost nestled into her dress. She leaned over to get a better look at him, and they watched each other, faces close… very close. He smirked. "Don't tempt me."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about." Minnie sat with her back straight at once, embarrassed. "You're about to pass out, and you say such things…"

"I owe you my life, most precious." He kissed her dress instead, enjoying that lovely hue radiating off from Minnie's cheeks. "I will do my best to thank you properly next time."

"Next time?" Minnie looked down – suddenly the Scarlet kicked the door open, and rolled out. She yelled his name, and a second smokebomb erupted under the carriage. The driver pulled to a stop as the horses whinnied in confusion, and neither the horses, the driver, nor the duchess saw the Scarlet escape to the monument entrance to Champs Elysees, the headquarters where his birds were ready to tend to him. The route home for the Duchess had proved profitable in more ways than one.

When the smoke settled, the driver gave up and resumed the way home. When the Duchess arrived, her servants happily greeted her, but she rushed by every single one of them in order to get to her room, slamming the door behind her. Many fancy gifts from her parents covered the dainty place, but she headed for the cheap and partially broken toy that was on top of her desk drawer next to her bed. She snatched it, pressed it to her heart, and then fell on her bed. "I wasn't going to do anything." She said out loud in a desperate hope to believe it. "I wasn't. I wasn't. I wasn't." Once more, she had come away from the Scarlet with a feeling she had done an unforgivable betrayal. When she felt tears come, she held the toy up to her eye, wanting to escape to sweet memories.

The kaleidoscope moved under her fingers, mixing faded colors in her dark room.

~*~

The servants at the Medecin home were surprised to see Duke Fantome Tache, but they didn't dare bother him as he wheeled Fou Medecin to his bedroom. Fantome looked delightfully cheery as he strolled throughout the mansion, occasionally speaking to the old man who wouldn't speak back. "It's always a pleasure to see you, Fou. I really wish you'd show up more often. You really have such a calming presence around Roger… but then, rabbits have always been your specialty. Let's get you some peace and quiet, I imagine your schedule is full."

He entered the bedroom, and locked the door behind him. "This mansion is a really lovely place. I shudder to think of what will become of it when you're gone… it's a shame you never settled down." His fingers touched Fou's shoulders, and then began to dig their way into him. "Yes… there are so many things you really ought to be ashamed of." His other hand met the other shoulder with the same force. "There's only a select number of people who knew about my carriage ride before the second Bloody Sunday. You're the only one left… that's alive." He lowered his head, hissing directly into Fou's ear. "So I suggest you drop the senility act and tell me what you know."

Fou took his time to move his head back, breathing heavily and far more awake now than most knew him to be.  "How did you find out?"

"Because unlike the rest of our royal family, I'm not so easily fooled." He had caught onto the same flickers that Gladstone had, but didn't take the route of 'just my imagination'. "You thought that if you played dumb, I'd let you out of my sight? Everyone in France has a role to play under my hands, and those who don't…" He speedily grabbed a hold of the wheelchair, and shoved it with such strength that Fou fell onto the floor with the chair on top of him.

Fou groaned, trying to lean on his arms, genuinely terrified of the man who he was trapped with. "Listen! The only ones I told are dead! There's no way the Scarlet could have known!"

"But you still let your mouth run." Fantome placed a foot on the wheelchair, keeping Fou pinned down underneath it. "I think your family line has run on long enough. You're of no use to me, and if you're of no use to me, you're of no use to yourself." He reached over to grab a pillow from the old man's bed, pleased he had found a way around this situation without getting his clothes dirty. "Like I told Roger… helping the elderly always comes first."

~*~

Max decided to work at home that night since it was so late, instead of going to his usual place for his inventions. Otherwise his father would worry, and then he'd barge in, and make a mess, and then make the mess worse by trying to clean it up… it was less stressful this way.  Their shaky wooden home had only three rooms – Max's, Goofy's, and the pitiful excuse for a bathroom. The house was small and thin enough that standing in the 'hallway' allowed you to see two rooms at once. Max sat in his excuse of a room, twisting small gears under a screwdriver to make it fit correctly.

"Whatcha doin' this time, Max?" Goofy looked into the room, trying to respect Max's privacy by not entering but having enough curiosity to peek in anyway.

"Nothing you'd get, Dad." Max shifted his shoulders in an attempt to block Goofy's view, but his father's height allowed him to sneak a glance. Max sighed, deciding to relent for now. "… Earrings. They're earrings."

"Yer makin' yerself a pair of earrin's?" Goofy tilted his head, confused as to why Max was tinkering with jewelry of all things. "Yer ears ain't even pierced."

"They're not for my ears." Max snapped, not even bothering to look at his father. The frustration flowing through him made him chip the paint on the gear, and he swore in a mumble.

"But if they ain't fer yer ears…" Even if Goofy wasn't the brightest bulbs, he still shone, and his buck teeth especially stuck out as he caught on. "Aw, it's fer the little missy, huh! I thought ya were pretty sweet on her!"

"You don't know what you're talking about. You never do." Why only now did his father show a trace of intelligence? Of course it would have to be at Max's expense. "I'm trying to work, so if you don't mind…"

"I bet she's gunna love 'em!" Goofy didn't pick up the hint as he was too excited for the possible happiness his son had found. "And it's a real sweet thing of ya ta do, too! Girls love gestures like that! Yer mom always did! Why, I remember the one time yer mom said she wanted a garden, 'course we couldn't afford ta get nothin' fancy like that, so-"

"So you worked your butt off to buy a bouquet and lined her window with them so she could see them every day, like an itty bitty garden all for herself." Max finished, lacking Goofy's enthusiasm for the story.

"… Shucks, did I tell ya that one before?"

"Seven hundred and twenty-two times, to be exact."

"Huh! Well!" He jumped back into the good mood, determined to bond with Max over something at last. "If ya need any help with the little lady, ya can always come ta me! I know one or two things about gettin' the girl!" He proudly stuck a thumb to his chest. "Won yer mom over! Course, she won me over too! Pretty as a picture, she was… prettier! Why, I remember the first day we met, it was rainin', and-"

"Do you have any idea how hard you make it to concentrate!" Max finally faced his father, but it was with fury, almost crushing the earrings in his hand. "I'm trying to do precise work here, but you keep prattling on with stories I've heard my entire life! Yes, I know, you and mom loved each other, you were perfect for each other, she'd be so proud of me if she was around now, but she's not around, so can you stop talking about her?!"

Almost exactly after the words left his mouth, Max bit the inside of his cheek. Even with his dad's annoyances, that was over the line. Goofy's entire body appeared to sag with sadness, and his hand slid off of the doorway. "… Sorry, Max." Even his voice contained sagginess, and he walked back into his room, closing the door behind him.

Max stared at the empty doorway, and ached to apologize, despite his pride telling him he had done nothing wrong. It was Goofy's own fault for bringing up such a painful subject. Everything was always Goofy's fault because he never thought before he said anything. Max tried to return to his work, turning the gear earrings in his hand. Though he knew he was in the right, he believed if Roxanne had heard this exchange, she'd definitely see him in a dark way. It settled sourly in his stomach, and he placed the projects down for now.

He remembered very little of his mother, as he had been a young pup. What little he could remember was filled with warmth and happiness, of being held in fragile arms as a cough-filled lullaby tried to ease him to sleep. He didn't know her real personality or thoughts, and had only Goofy to rely on. Considering how wrong Goofy was on… well, everything, Max felt he didn't really know his mother. She was a warm feeling and nothing more. So what were these guilty feelings over?

They couldn't afford bedposts, but they could afford mattresses, so Max laid down on his and placed an arm over his eyes. Would his mother have been proud of him? Would she approve of his plans and aide with the revolutionaries? Would she want Max to try and win a smile off a socialite like Roxanne? Oh, what was the point – she wasn't there, and these what ifs wouldn't help him. He turned over in bed, the feeling in his stomach welling up and clawing at his throat. She had died because they couldn't afford to get her the medicine she needed, and couldn't get her to a place that would treat her. It was all because of the wealthy and their continuous boot pressing down on the backs of the poor. Yes, they were all to blame, they all… No, not all. There was Roxanne, again, who would surely help the sick if she knew of them.

That gave him pause, and he lifted his arm. Did she know? She had to at least see the wide array of differences whenever she so much as looked out the window. But that didn't mean she really understood how much the lesser man was suffering. The gears in Max's head turned, going faster and faster as he connected causes to heart. If he told her of their plights, if he showed her the work they planned to do, could she lend a hand – and more importantly, lend the influence and lend the money? She liked him, at the very least as a companion, and seemed eager to speak with him more. This wasn't too far from what Katarina was making Daisy do! Yes, he could land them potential allies! Learn the insides of the wealthy! Make the revolutionaries even stronger in their fight against the unfair!

"Yes, that's it!" Max sprang as he sat back up, forgetting the fact that his father could probably hear him perfectly. "I'll do just what Daisy's doing! I'll seduce a member of the wealthy elite!" It took him about three seconds to realize exactly what he said, and his brain promptly fizzled out.

Goofy just as promptly stuck his head in the doorway again, rather surprised. "Yer gunna do what now?"

"N-Nothing! Get out of my room!"

~*~

Donald Duck was also burning the midnight oil, and also a candle, since his cheap Uncle had demanded a certain time limit for using electricity. He was writing in his room, trying not to waste any of the ink that he knew Scrooge wouldn't replace, so every word had to be precise. Donald had gotten little sleep, still unused to his bed. He thumbed the feathered quill pen in his hands, and then mused to himself that perhaps Scrooge was so finicky that perhaps this feather belonged to the old miser. He wouldn't put it past his relative.

Speaking of his benefactor, Donald heard the sound of Scrooge's cane lightly thumping against the floor in the hallway, and when Donald looked over, he saw his uncle looking at him in contempt. "What are you doing up so late?"

"I'm just writin' a letter." Since he was in the company of family, Donald hoped he was allowed to slip back into his home dialect. Judging by the glare Scrooge was giving him, that was a no. "For Mom and Dad and Della…"

"You promised me limited contact with them when you joined me." Scrooge now cast his glare toward the paper, and Donald defensively tried to cover it with his hands.

"Limited, sure, but I didn't day I'd cut them out completely." Donald rolled the paper up, knowing he wouldn't get anything done with Scrooge's brooding presence around. "I just want to let them know what's going on. I want to tell them all about…" He trailed off, originally intending to end the sentence with 'about Daisy', but he hadn't really told Scrooge about her either. Scrooge had brought Donald to the city to make him a gentleman worthy of his inheritance, and befriending a commoner probably didn't fit under that criteria. Ducksworth thankfully hadn't said a word about her yet, but just how far did his loyalty extend? "… Everything." Donald decided to finish, making it seem like his hesitance had just been a lack of finding the right vocabulary. "I mean, I've only been here a little while, and there have been parties, and meeting with the dukes and the duchess, and then the whole Scarlet deal…"

"Bah!" Scrooge slammed his cane down, ready to force his opinions where they weren't wanted. "The Scarlet! What a load of nonsense! A crazy man goes flying around in a cape trying to do police work, and we're supposed to applaud him? Just you wait and see, all these fancy heroics will just land him a stronger jail sentence."

"And he's a womanizer." Donald had also seen the declaration in the paper, and it had made him fume. How dare the Scarlet toy with Daisy's feelings like that? If the hero wanted to ruin his own life, then so be it, but he had no business dragging Daisy along for the ride. "If you're not careful, you could lose your girlfriends to him."

"If he wants them, I'll gift-wrap them for him." Scrooge sneered, and it earned a little laugh out of his nephew. Even when the laughter had stopped, Donald remained oddly cheerful, and Scrooge defensively leaned away from the pleasant demeanor. "…What are you so happy about?"

"We've finally got something we agree on." Donald beamed, delighted at the small footstep they had made toward each other. "And it's that we both hate the same guy." He continued to smile, expecting to be returned.

Instead, Scrooge unsteadily tapped his fingers on his cane, and pulled away from the room. "… Don't stay up too late. You're wasting my candles." Then he was gone, his cane thump-thump-thumping down the hallway, and an exasperated Donald blew out the candle.

Scrooge was known for being a cranky old man, but this was ridiculous. It was almost as if he was running away from the slightest hint of affection from his family. Why was Scrooge so afraid of having emotional connections to anyone, especially one who shared his blood? Donald twirled the feathered quill in his hand, recalling the mystery of his aunt Matilda. Did her death have anything to do with the separation of their families? He contemplated writing home about it, since he knew Scrooge wasn't going to say a word about it. Ducksworth was still troublesome when it came to trust.

He got out of his chair and decided to open the window, resting his arms on the sill and gazed out into the remains of the black night. The sun was beginning to peak out, and the paper boys were bright and early in getting their materials ready. Donald had seen these boys before, but now he was getting an actual look at them. He frowned as he saw how unhealthily thin many were, and how desperately they called out for any chance for a coin. One in particular, a little mouse, even seemed like he had trouble walking. Yet there he was, hollering and waving his papers about, despite wincing here and there. Donald admired his spirit. Maybe he'd buy a paper from the little guy later.

Perhaps the paper would have something about the Scarlet inside, and he and Scrooge could have a family rant together. Even if the attempt before had failed, Donald felt he should still keep trying to bring them together. As Donald thought about it, he noticed that suddenly one of the paperboys was scrambling to grab the attention of the others. The mouse had winced when his arm was tugged, but soon became rapt in the attention of the others. Donald couldn't hear what was being said, but the boys were gasping and talking wildly in shock. Curious, Donald leaned outward, and yelled with a hand to his beak. "Hey! What's all the ruckus?"

The boys continued to talk to themselves, except for the mouse, who heard the call. "It's Duke Fou Medecin!" He shouted right back, unsure of how to handle the information personally. "One of his butlers just ran outta the mansion … the duke is dead!"

End of Chapter Seven.