The heavy oak doors of the council chamber slammed open, the reverberation echoing through the austere, stone-lined hallway. Bathilda emerged like a tempest, her usually composed demeanor shattered, replaced by a volcanic fury that made Scout Jones instinctively step back.

Her normally vibrant hair, neatly braided today, now whipped around her face like icy tendrils, framing a countenance etched with disbelief and incandescent rage.

"How is it," she seethed, her voice a low, dangerous growl, "that no matter the world, the dimension, the plane of existence, it's always a bunch of old, white men running the show?" She paced, her boots clicking sharply against the polished stone floor, each step a punctuation mark of her frustration.

"Old Elred," she spat the name like a curse, "sitting there, puffed up like some bloated toad, reminded me so much of... of that President. You know the one. The one who thinks bluster and bravado are substitutes for actual intelligence."

Jones, a seasoned scout accustomed to the bizarre and the dangerous, was utterly lost in the diplomat role. He'd seen Bathilda navigate farming and animal husbandry with the grace of a seasoned dancer, charming both leaders and brokering them into running her creations.

But this? This was a level of raw, unbridled anger he'd never witnessed. He desperately wished Hiro was present. He could have translated Bathilda's impassioned rant, providing context and nuance. Instead, Jones was left floundering, a silent witness to a storm he couldn't comprehend.

"Were they serious?" Bathilda's voice trembled, a mixture of disbelief and outrage. "Did they really expect me to just... bend over? Faster than some two-bit hooker?" She gestured wildly, her hands slicing through the air, emphasizing her disgust.

"They think I'm some naive tourist, some wide-eyed ingenue they can manipulate? They're lucky I'm all about monster slaying and not people slaying, or else... or else..." She trailed off, the implicit threat hanging heavy in the air. It wasn't that she lacked the words, Jones realized. It was more that the sheer absurdity of the situation had momentarily robbed her of articulate rage.

She was, after all, a nurse, a healer – not a killer. Though, the only time he had seen her wield healing magic was when the Demon King fell over and scraped her knee.

"Do you know what the worst part is, Jones?" Bathilda’s face was now a mask of incredulous fury. The Diplomat's usually warm complexion was now as pale as the stone walls, her eyes burning with a cold fire. Jones, his own face flushed with shame, could only shake his head, a silent acknowledgment of his own complicity.

"Everything they demanded, I would have given for free, had they not been such gigantic dickheads! I just can't with people like that. Seriously... how are they your council?"

Jones felt a wave of shame wash over him, a burning humiliation for his city, his peers, the very council he had sworn to uphold. He had been the one to vouch for Bathilda, to convince her to come to Home, promising a receptive audience and a chance to forge a valuable alliance. Instead, the council had treated her with condescension and arrogance, badgering him into bringing her there only to berate her and issue unreasonable demands. It was a colossal, catastrophic blunder.

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"I'm sorry, Bathilda," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "Not everyone in Home is... a gigantic dickhead." He couldn't meet her eyes, his gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the stone floor. He felt the weight of his city's reputation, his own honor, crumbling under Bathilda's righteous anger. He had failed her, and he had failed Home.

Bathilda stopped pacing, turning to face Jones, her eyes searching his. "You know, Jones," she said, her voice softer now, though still laced with a bitter edge, "I've read about dictators who were more reasonable than those… those fossils. I've even seen North Korean leaders that have a better grasp of diplomacy than them. They treated me like some ignorant child, demanding concessions as if they were doing me a favor. They spoke of Home's 'strategic importance,' of its 'ancient heritage,' as if those things gave them the right to treat me like dirt."

She sighed, running a hand through her disheveled hair. "They talked about using my expertise with the Demon King, about using my magic to combat a plague that have spread through livestock. They acted like they were granting me some grand opportunity. But they didn't ask. They demanded. They dictated terms, as if I were some supplicant begging for scraps."

"They don't understand," Jones mumbled, finally finding his voice, "they're… they're afraid. They've always been isolated, clinging to their traditions, their old ways. They don't trust outsiders."

"Fear is no excuse for arrogance," Bathilda retorted, her eyes flashing. "They think they can hide behind their walls, their titles, their self-importance. They think they can dictate terms to someone who's seen more worlds, faced more dangers, than they can possibly imagine. They're living in the past, Jones. They're so blinded by their own self-importance that they can't see the world changing around them."

She turned away, gazing out the large arched window at the city of Home, its ancient spires and winding streets bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. "They spoke of tradition," she mused, her voice barely audible. "They spoke of preserving their heritage. But what heritage are they preserving? The heritage of ignorance? The heritage of fear? The heritage of treating anyone different as a threat?"

She shook her head, a gesture of weary resignation. "They don't realize they're not preserving anything. They're stagnating. They're rotting from the inside out. And they'll drag everyone down with them if they don't change."

Jones watched her, his heart heavy with a mixture of shame and despair. He knew she was right. Home was a city steeped in tradition, clinging to its past, resistant to change. But he had hoped, foolishly, that they could see the value in Bathilda's expertise, in her willingness to help. He had hoped they could see beyond their prejudices, their fears. He had been wrong.

"What now?" he asked, his voice flat.

Bathilda turned back to him, her eyes filled with a weary determination. "Now," she said, "we find a way to help them despite themselves. We find a way to solve their problems, to assuage their concerns over Flo, to cure their stupid plague. Not for them, but for the people of the city who are suffering. For the farmers whose livestock are dying, for the children who are sick. We'll show them what true strength is, what true leadership is. We'll show them that cooperation, not condescension, is the path to survival."

She paused, a flicker of a smile playing on her lips. "And maybe," she added, her eyes twinkling, "we'll teach them a lesson or two about humility along the way."

Jones nodded, a faint glimmer of hope flickering in his chest. He knew it wouldn't be easy. He knew they would face resistance, suspicion, and perhaps even outright hostility. But he also knew that Bathilda was a force of nature, a whirlwind of compassion and determination. And he knew that together, they could make a difference, even in the face of the most entrenched prejudice. And he knew that maybe, just maybe, Home could learn to change.