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You toss skirt after shirt out of the closet. Is Yamir-Hysret setting you up again, sending an invitation this late? To what-is-it, molting ceremony, marking Pahan's maturation into a fighter. This opera dress, splendid but civilian, is a no-go then. Unfortunate, you could use a bit of Mother's luck to get through this in one piece.
You bite your lips. The hand-tailored uniform is still sitting unboxed in the company's Lighton office. You would never have dared delay the sortie's departure for something so inconsequential. No matter, not like these Mir can tell the difference between that and this shirt Moynihan touched up for you, right?
Your fingers lightly trace the seam of his cuts, the same way his fingers traced your skin when he took your measure. Never would you have expected that flat-nosed, sloppily-shaven man to love the needle and yarn, much less that he show not a hint of desire even as he got to feel up and down such a beautiful young lady. Yes, this would do quite fine.
Normally, there would be not a small feeling of envy and insecurity as you do up the buttons, your left breast was simply too plain, empty, exposed. Now, you are just relieved you don't have to waste any time pinning ribbons and medals. Your bare thighs tingle and quiver in rhythm with the wind's push and pull, a sensation you need to get used to again.
Your hand almost doodled a red line right across your chin. Moynihan should learn to be more patient, you don't just rush a woman putting on makeup like that. The camcorder sits dolefully atop a stack of books, where it shall remain. Barbara will just have to be content with a reaction paper.
As you make your way out, many a curious seaman's eyes nibble at your elegant stature, hungry for more but wary of latrine duty. Take that, Dornholm. Before stepping into the airlock, you quickly down the digestive pill from Tsu. You don't want to take part in any Feast, but better that than getting feasted on.
A ramshackle shuttle dispatched from the station picked you up. The interior has been entirely redone with tapestries, sculptures, and various other tidbits, but none of them can paper over this poor thing's mining origins. The guards say nothing throughout the whole journey, not that you are in the mood for chatting anyway. At least they are courteous enough to stop you from falling over from the clumsy docking with Granite-Vigil proper.
