Drift Stories/Hands Off the Merchandise: Difference between revisions

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“You look fine, OK?”

Ilyar side-eyed Bentley in response, slopping another handful of water onto the fur between his ears that refused to lie flat. ''Messy, always messy'', he thought, ''it knows when I need it to be tidy and gets even messier''.

The hare stood naked before the tall mirror in the captain’s quarters on the ''Stationary Traveller'', a cosy space of dark wood parquet and brass-panelled deep purple walls, much like the rest of the ship. He lifted his arms and twisted slightly to the left, examining the reflection of his lithe grey-brown form; ''mother always said I should eat more''. He sighed, patted down his unruly tuft again, and turned to Bentley, gesturing for his underclothes. The raccoon, already preened and dressed, was staring again. “Knock it off, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. Clothes, now.”

Bentley raised a hand and dramatically pushed their head aside, averting their gaze. “Oh, my dear captain, how ''frightfully obscene'' of me!” They passed Ilyar his bundle of fresh clothes, bowing as if presenting him with a crown. A grin spread across their face. “Not like I can see it when it’s in my mou—”

“Bentley!” Ilyar snatched the clothes off them, trying not to laugh, and sat to dress.

Bentley caught their reflection in the mirror and did a small twirl, their long brown coat fluttering gently as they went. They tweaked the fit of the waistcoat and shirt beneath, jiggled the waist of their trousers into place, stomped their boots gently, and finally adjusted the blue ribbon round their straw boater hat; with the tip of their umbrella they nudged their hat’s brim to a perfectly jaunty angle. ''Procyonid, perfected.''

There came two sharp knocks at the door, and Bentley hurried over to answer. Solivane stood there, the coati resplendent in fine fresh white robes covered in intricate, shimmering geometric patterns; their immaculately groomed fur rippled with bands of deep blue, lavender and grey, the subtly shifting stormlight tones that made an effortless statement. They fixed Bentley with a steely, unreadable gaze.

“Sol! You’re looking… severe,” Bentley said buoyantly; Solivane nodded curtly, accepting the compliment that anyone else would consider backhanded. “Where is Quartz?”

Solivane stepped aside. Behind them in the hallway stood a fennec fox, her golden brown ears rivalling Ilyar’s in scale; she was leaning idly on her hand against the wall, her leather jacket, covered in the patches of a dozen or more Drift crews, pulled high enough to reveal the holster strapped to the toolbelt around her cargo pants. Sandy brown flight boots and beat-up multispectral goggles perched between her ears completed the look. She nonchalantly dusted down her jacket and regarded Bentley with a smirk. “Scruff. Call yourself an engineer dressed like that, old man?”

Bentley put on a playful scowl and eyed her up and down. “Where’d you find this one, Sol? We don’t need our ductwork doing, thank you!” With a cackle they darted out into the corridor past Quartz before she could respond, verbally or physically.

Ilyar appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat. His great slate-blue coat sat neatly and for once uncreased atop a dark leather jerkin and shirt; he had even clipped a set of epaulettes on the shoulders, meaningless but adding a certain air of seniority that he leaned into. He adjusted his dark blue trousers, tucked into turned-down tall brown leather boots. Round his neck hung a shining silver crescent moon on a necklace, positioned perfectly in the centre of his chest. He smiled, an assured and confident smile. “Are we all ready?”

Quartz gave a thumbs up. Solivane nodded approvingly. Bentley gave a wolf-whistle, to which Ilyar shot them a glare. Together they made their way towards the dock.

“We clean up well, for a bunch of…” Bentley struck a pose with a giggle. “… ''Pirates!''”

Solivane sighed an amused sigh. “We are not pirates, Bentley, we are ''freelancers''.” Bentley rolled their eyes in dramatic contempt.

Quartz grinned at Bentley. “What’s the difference, anyway? Pirates probably get paid better.”

{{Sep}}<br />

The glass-walled elevator car made its way slowly up the side of the High Spire, the luxurious crown perched atop the ''Cloud Archipelago''’s expanse. Inside, the four members of the ''Stationary Traveller''’s crew stood waiting. Though they tried not to show it, the tension was palpable.