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Van Halm had his own automobile, a convertible sport thing meticulously crafted with the curvature of a statue rather than the blocky look of other, more utilitarian cars, with bright indigo paint and red trim, chrome lining diligently polished, white walled tires that were practically a show of how much maintenance this machine required to look so pristine. It also only seated two, which gave implications, but so what? How often did you get to ride in a nice motorcar? Not like it was more cramped than some tanks you’d been in anyways, definitely cozier than a dispatch truck.
“You’d be surprised what some noble sons say about the <span class="mu-i">indignity</span> of a dispatch vehicle,” Van Halm said about that, “They’re in for a rude awakening if they see any actual service.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you rolled around in a tank with this paintjob,” you jabbed back at him.
“A time and place, Anya,” Van Halm said, not taking his eyes off from the road, “I can hardly put you in what you’re wearing in the field, now, can I?”
“Maybe not <span class="mu-i">this</span>,” you gave the ruffle at your shoulder a flip, “But <span class="mu-i">you’d</span> be surprised what some people in the dust’ll put on just for the show of it, no matter where they’re at.”
“Yourself included?”
“Yeah?” You put your hand on your chest, “Am I gonna be the one that looks like shit, or am I gonna look good, better, probably? Easy choice.”
“Hm,” Van Halm cocked his head and glanced at you- you looked back. “I haven’t seen you wearing those glasses often,” he said, “But I <span class="mu-i">have</span> seen you squinting in some rooms. Are you nearsighted?”
“Fuck off,” you scowled and turned your head away.
“Are those spectacles from your Magnus, then?” He kept probing, “Has he seen you in them?”
You took them off, testing to see how the world looked again without them. “Nah. Netillians use tear gas. When we were last around each other for a long time, they wouldn’t do good. He sent me them a month or so back.” You looked back again, sideways. “What do y’ think of ‘em?” Karel hesitated for a noticeable time. “Don’t blow smoke up my ass, I can take it.”
“They’re not to my taste, Miss Nowicki. But that doesn’t matter, does it?”
“…Yeah, I guess,” you said as you looked back out the car again.
Karel drove further into Strosstadt- the Silversmith district, home to the finer goods of the largely industrial capital, a hub of trade and tourism that supplied the comforts for the rest of the city.
