Chapter Text
A Day Before the Widow’s Murder Mystery Club
“Alfred,” he declared, “I need a robe.”
Alfred, who had been polishing the silver, raised a single eyebrow. “A robe, Master Tim?”
“Not just any robe,” Tim said gravely, his voice dipping into melodrama. “One with feathers. The kind a glamorous woman wears in an old movie after her rich husband dies under mysterious circumstances. And she says things like, ‘I just don’t know what happened, darling. I turned my back for one second and… he was gone.’”
Alfred blinked once. “Color preference?”
“Black. With tragedy.”
Two hours later, Tim sat at the head of the dining room table, finishing his demand for a feathered widow’s robe and the event worthy of it. Around him, Alfred listened with his usual, measured patience, Bernard practically vibrated with excitement, and Ives rubbed his temples like he already regretted agreeing to this.
“So,” Ives said slowly, “let me make sure I’ve got this right. You want me to create a role-playing game with multiple plot twists, subgenres, costume changes, and props… in less than ten hours?”
Tim beamed, undeterred. “Yes. Exactly.”
Ives groaned. “That’s not a plan, that’s a breakdown waiting to happen.”
“Well, you won't be on your own,” Tim said cheerfully, as if this were the most reasonable request in the world. “That’s why Alfred and Bernard are here.”
Alfred inclined his head.
Bernard, however, brightened. “Don’t worry, I came prepared,” already rummaging in his backpack. He slammed a binder onto the table, flipping it open with a flourish. Charts, sticky notes, and color coded tabs, “Behold!”
Bernard pointed proudly. “Option one: a cursed yacht party and an Atlantean conspiracy. Option two: a wife possesses her husband to solve her own murder and manage her bakery. Option three: alien body-snatchers crash a funeral under diplomatic immunity. Lasers are optional.”
Tim’s grin widened with each suggestion. “Yes. Perfect. All of them.”
“Three seconds in, and Master Bernard had already derailed the meeting,” Alfred remarked, amused.
Ives, sketching, didn’t miss a beat. “That’s how it always goes. I let him and Tim burn energy on each other, then later I take one or two of their ideas so they think they built the plot.”
Alfred arched his eyebrow. “Efficient.”
“Necessary,” Ives replied.
On cue, Bernard started doodling a spaceship in the margin of his notes. Tim started adding his own characters to Bernard’s plots. And Alfred and Ives only traded a resigned look before settling back into the real work of shaping the game.